#still settling on a visual for her power...

[stellarxdeath]

[ JUST A CITY OF CORPSES ]

More Cain stuff! Got that brainworm bad.

[sillymommy6969]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𝕰YES ON THEM

Manon Bannerman x fem!reader

summary: a compilation of bannern/n moments eyekons have turned into a video, katseye’s two visuals as a power couple? who can keep their eyes off them?

warnings: none, just fluffy moments

pt.2, pt.3

HYBE PLEASE NEVER PR TRAIN MANON (KATZ CRACK)

*Loud technical difficulty transition* On Manon and Daniela’s Weverse livestream in their bedroom, Daniela was doing dance moves in the background of the video while Manon read the comments and chatted with fans in the front

Manon was the worst at PR training. The woman had lips looser than an unbuckled belt. She was much more tame when they were surrounded by crew members, but when it’s just her and her phone on Weverse, you can expect a lot of slips.

Especially when she’s paired alone with Daniela.

“‘Where are the others?’” Manon read aloud, looking back at Daniela, who was finally settling to sit behind her roommate. “What, you sick of us already?”

Daniela swatted her arm at the tone she used, as if a silent warning as to be careful what people could take out of context. She toyed with her hood, listing what the girls were occupied with. “Well, Sophia’s on a zoom call downstairs with her family. I think Yoonchae went to bed… Lara and Megan went out to get something at the convenience store and Y/N is probably online shopping or something in her room.”

“Yeah, she better be getting me my Christmas gift.”

“Didn’t she already give you like three ‘pre-game’ gifts?” Daniela turned to the camera, “Oh my God, Y/N does this thing where she gets Manon a million things for the week leading up to Christmas. She only does it for Manon and I always feel like choking her out ‘cuz she’s spoiling her rotten.”

Manon rolled her eyes, “They’re gonna know we’re—!”

Daniela widened her eyes, shooting Manon a knowing glare before the older pursed her lips together. The both of them went silent for a moment, scared to look at the influx of questions and comments they were getting for the sudden cutoff, curious to know what the end of Manon’s sentence was.

user01 WE WHAT MANON WE WHAT

user02 Manon almost exposed their relationship

user03 is this what getting edged feels like

user04 WE BEEN KNEW GIRL COME ON OUT

user05 Y/N knows how to spoil her girl

“Anyway,” Daniela said, ignoring the nosh comments. “Yeah, we have the weekend off, so everybody’s just chilling, y’know.”

Manon, with a cheeky smile on her face, tried retieing her hair in attempts to distract the fans from what she had just nearly revealed. But for the next couple minutes, despite Daniela’s efforts to pull everybody’s attention away from that topic, the audience always seemed to circle back to it.

“No, I have to say my favourite hoodie has to be the black Ferrari one.” Manon argued, staring at a suspicious Daniela. “It used to be the one you just said but it’s not anymore.”

“You’re just making stuff up, I swear. You still wear the other one so much more than the Ferrari one.” Daniela scoffed, “You wore the blue one like five times this week, like you literally wore it to dinner yesterday.”

user06 the blue hoodie Y/N just posted on insta in??

user07 They wear each other’s clothes I’m dead

user08 Dani have you seen Y/N’s new bracelet???

Daniela squinted to read the comment when she saw her name was mentioned, “‘Dani, have you seen Y/N’s new bracelet?’ No, I can’t say I have. What is it?”

“Oh, is it this one?” Manon flashed her wrist to the camera, where a couple cuffs and bracelets hung. Her other hand picked out a thin silver chain with a “K” strung at the end of it. “This is the one Megan got us for Katseye’s first birthday.”

She flaunted her hand, fingers waving around as she showed off her accessories.

user09 Y/N’s new necklace looks nice Manon!

user10 oh yeah that would look really good around her neck

Daniela skimmed the comments, suddenly bursting into a fit of high-pitched giggles. Manon, her arm still up, in the middle of her accessory tour, leant back. Surprised by the Latina’s sudden change in attitude, she glanced between the camera and her roommate as if she was an insane person.

“Oh my God, they’re saying your hands would make a really good necklace for Y/N.” Daniela explained, still laughing.

Manon’s eyes widened, heat immediately flushing to her cheeks. She thanked all the Gods her smooth skin tone hid any hint of fluster, or she would have been beer red at the comment. She placed a hand over her eyes, her lips quirking into a small smile as she groaned.

“That’s good, that’s a good one. I like that.” Daniela sighed.

Next door, you could hear the two of them screaming and squabbling on live. You opened a new tab, sick of scrolling through the same catalogues on different websites. You were feeling lazy, didn’t really feel like getting up to join the two nextdoor, so you pulled up Weverse, clicking onto Manon’s live. Right off the bat, you were met with the Ghanaian woman showing off her bracelets and such, and you couldn’t help but giggle at the comments that followed.

Sometimes, this was your favourite part about having fans.

When Daniela’s laugh on the live had synced with the one next door, you couldn’t help but also giggle at Manon’s reaction when she was told what eyekons thought of her tour.

It was enough of a motivator to go nextdoor; to tease her.

“—Anyway! Can we please talk about anything else.”

A knock sounded through the room, both their heads turned to the door, watching Y/N’s head pop through the doorway. Daniela pounced to her feet, jogging over to jump into the older’s arms as Y/N carried her back in front of the camera.

Manon rolled her eyes, her tongue sticking against her inner cheek as she stared at the two goofing around in the back.

user11 Oh someone’s jealous…

used12 if looks could kill they’d be dead by now

“Dani’s so light, I can probably squat heavier than you.” Y/N teased, her arms still wrapped around the Latina’s waist as Daniela clung onto her with her legs. “Anyways, you guys were being so loud, I wanted to see what was up.”

Y/N finally sets Daniela down, who found her spot behind Manon again.

Y/N slung an arm over Manon, poking her head between the roommates. “Heard you have a new necklace for me, Meret. You feeling like letting me try it out?”

user13 the way i’d just moan in response

user14 NOBODY TALK TO ME

user15 Manon I’ll take Y/N if you don’t want her

user16 SHE CALLS HER MERET???

The Ghanaian woman didn’t turn to greet the younger member, instead, with her lips pursed in envy, she deliberately made sure her efforts to ignore Y/N were evident.

Y/N smiled, biting her lip. “Manon, are you mad at me?”

“Why would I be mad at you?” Manon huffed, her eyes still trained on the phone. “I’m just tryna talk to eyekons.”

Daniela hissed, making an “Oh, shit” expression and backing away so the other member could slide into where she sat. She eyed the phone from over Y/N’s shoulder, as if telling them she was unaware of what was about to unfold as well.

Y/N chuckled, shaking her head at the eldest’s sulking.

She slid an arm under Manon’s legs, the other securely held over her back. Kneeling, Y/N sprung to her feet, lifting Manon from the ground. The Ghanaian woman let out a bloodcurdling shriek, hands clutching onto Y/N’s hoodie for dear life.

“Did you feel left out, Manon? I was just joking around.”

Daniela watched in terror at the younger member flung Manon around the room in her arms. She slid forward to mouth “help me” into the camera, scared Manon’s feet might hit her head by accident.

“Oh my God, you ass—you bully, put me down.”

*Loud technical difficulty transition* Cut to being interviewed as promotion for the release of Touch, Y/N seemed to be the interviewer’s main foci.

“—Yes, thank you. My next question is for Y/N, uh, so we heard you like a tall, dark and handsome type.” The interviewer read off his card, a mic held up to his lips. The question immediately raised some red flags for the group, Sophia and Manon—as the eldest and the leader—shared a knowing look. They were ready for whatever the man had to throw at them. “You’ve posted a couple of instagram photos and been seen out with a certain singer that’s been on Euphoria, is this a new potential partner, or what’s going on there?”

Y/N was slightly taken aback by how blunt the question came out. Usually management did a good job keeping questions about their personal lives out of interviews when they approve them for the video, but this one must’ve snuck past them.

The woman raised her mic, flashing the cameras her signature smile. The other members could only sit and admire how well her composure was, despite being asked such an intrusive query. She chuckled, eyeing Manon, who didn’t bother hiding what she was feeling. Her eyebrows were furrowed and she looked to be ready to pounce out of her chair whenever. Y/N gave her a subtle nod, as if telling her to stand down.

“Well, he and I met through mutual friends in the industry and we all get together to hang out on my day offs.” Y/N explained, “We’re just good buddies, nothing more.”

The interviewer chuckled, naive to the searing glares he was receiving from all the girls.

“Shame, a lot of people think you’d look like a power couple, the both of you being very talented singers and all,” he scanned his card, the only one laughing in the room full of dozens of people. “Is there anybody special in your life then? Or is this a chance for me to shoot my shot.”

Oh, six pairs of eyes glared daggers at him.

[ Love that they all stand up for their girl ]

None of them were smiling anymore, not even out of courtesy. Daniela and Lara in the front had their arms crossed, their legs spread as they sneered at the man. Megan and Yoonchae were the better ones at concealing just how aghast they were at the unprofessionalism, their expressions stoic, but the aura around them growing cold. Sophia sat upright, ready to jump in when the man stopped talking, but Manon—Manon was sitting beside Y/N, and it took one look at the woman’s uncomfortable expression for her to want to break the man’s neck.

“—Actually, we’re all really focused on our journey as Katseye right now, so we don’t really have time for other kinds of commitment just yet. Even then, we try and keep our personal and professional lives separated because a healthy work-life balance is very important.” Manon answered passively, her smile immediately fading when she finished talking.

But by the way the man gulped and stopped chuckling, it was obvious he finally noticed the elephant in the room.

“I understand how people are very intrigued by that aspect of our lives though, it can be hard to know where to draw the line sometimes.” Y/N added in a smoother tone, hoping to soften the blow of loathing this man was hit with. “But, respectfully, we love talking about and sharing our experience with making music more than we do discussing our lives.”

The interviewer nodded, “Of course. We can move on.”

Throughout the rest of the interview, Manon had a hand on the younger member’s thighs. Their fingers laced together as they answered the rest of the questions. Later, Y/N would tease the Ghanaian woman with edits people have made of the moment Manon stood up for her.

A screenshot of a very popular one of those edits would be the wallpaper for the girls’ group chat the next few weeks,

*Loud technical difficulty transition* In Y/N’s Weverse live with Megan for a dance session, the older between the two was obviously distracted by constant chimes coming from her phone. Fans get a nice surprise all on live.

Megan and Y/N swayed their hips to the beat, thrusting in and pulling away as the song played. The comments would flood with praises for their undeniably talented skills, and by the end of their choreography, they were both panting and sweating.

user01 omg omg omg omg my dinner menu

user02 The difference in outfits is taking me out

user03 BOOM SHAKALAKA YES GAWD

Y/N ran a hand through her hair, dapping Megan up before the two of them approached Megan’s phone. It was resting on a chair against the wall, so it would stream everything they did.

In a sports bra and baggy jeans, Y/N had her hair down. She was sporting thick glasses, ones fans pointed out Daniela liked wearing in the series of tiktok’s they filmed last month. Megan on the other hand, had a more Adam Sandler type fit going on. The two of them devoured their individual styles.

[ Oh my god, it’s all over the screen ]

“That’s the choreo Megan and I have done so far.”

Y/N’s phone buzzed. She reached into her pocket, pulling it out to see a text from Manon asking if she was in her room.

Megan’s infectious cackle interrupted before she could reply.

“Someone said we’re not pregnant but we always deliver,” she managed to read out in between gasping for air amidst her fit of amusement. “Oh my God, that’s so iconic.”

Opening her mouth to retaliate, another buzz sounds.

Y/N pulled her phone back out from her pocket, seeing another text from Manon, urging for an answer. She chuckled, shaking her head at the woman’s impatience.

Megan skimmed the comments, before turning back.

“Somebody said, ‘Only one thing could have Y/N smiling at her phone like that’.” The Chinese dancer read out, “Another person added, ‘Manon’s probably missing her boo thang’.”

Y/N shook her head, deciding keeping up appearances with their fans was more important than replying right away.

“It was just our manager, guys. A reminder for what we need to do tomorrow.” Y/N lied, “Anyway, if anybody was wondering, we are working really hard for MAMA. Especially Meggers here.” She grabbed the redhead, yanking her close to knock their heads together. “She’s carrying the dancing with Dani right now.”

peanutbutterlover02 Bad girl

peanutbutterlover02 Y/N’s ignoring my texts :(

peanutbutterlover02 Guysss stop hogging Y/N

Y/N and Megan both silenced at the sudden pop of a verified user commenting, but after reading the handle, both of them shared a moment of faux annoyance.

“Manon, get out of our comment section!” Megan yelled, “Go do something, man!”

The meme reference squeezed a laugh from Y/N, who shook her head. But, still, it’s Katseye. Of course she couldn’t resist joining in on the teasing herself. Her voice dropped low, “News flash, Dwayne’s forehead isn’t real. It’s a prosthetic.”

Both of them giggle at their own joke.

user04 Oop- Manon’s coming to collect fr

user05 can’t even defend them anymore

user06 so we were right Y/N was giggling cuz of manon

user07 BAD GIRL IS CRAZY

“Sorry, Meret, we’re just about to wrap this session up and I’ll text you back immediately after, okay?”

Manon could only suck it up, leaving a couple more disappointed comments on their livestream as Megan and Y/N show eyekons another part of choreography.

peanutbutterlover02 I’m so boreddddddd

peanutbutterlover02 I’m still waiting >:(

peanutbutterlover02 Guys I need my best friend back

[ BEST FRIEND—sure ]

*Loud technical difficulty transition* A KATSEYE HOLIDAY STORY | KATSEYE; Secret Santa Portion

Y/N’s wrapping a gift set, a Fenty beauty make-up kit she specially assembled for Manon. She knew the woman had been complaining about her makeup supply running low, so what better chance than to get her what she needed?

“I know, I know, I went a little over budget,” Y/N chuckled, taping the edges of the wrapping paper together. “But Manon’s been really needing new stuff, and I wanted it.”

[ Ofc Y/N would go above and beyond for Manon ]

“Also, let me tell you guys a secret.” Y/N walked offscreen, coming back with a tiny box.

She motioned for the camera to zoom into the box, before popping it open. Inside, there was a gold necklace, a crown charm at the end of it. Y/N tucked it back into the box, holding a finger up to her lips.

“I got Manon an extra gift, but that’s for after work.”

[ That’s so cute I need me a Y/N ]

“Anyway, I’m glad I got Manon. I think either Daniela or Yoonchae might be my secret santa, ‘cuz I’m sure Megan got Lara and Lara got Sophia.” Y/N shrugged, standing in her cream coloured silky pj set. “Guess we’re about to find out.”

Sat around a table on a very festive set, Y/N was instructed to slot in between Megan and Manon.

One by one, the girls presented their gifts to their designated person. When Yoonchae presented Daniela her gift, a neatly wrapped book, it was the Latina’s turn to pull out her gift bag.

“And my secret santa is…” Drumrolls against the table followed, “Y/N!”

Cheers erupted amongst the girls as Daniela slid the bag across the table to Y/N.

“Hope you like it, babe.”

The wrapping paper was still being pulled off as Y/N let out a surprised gasp. Underneath the vibrant wrapping was a vinyl—Rumours, by Fleetwood Mac. Y/N’s eyes lit up instantly. It was one of their favorite albums, something she had been looking for on vinyl forever.

“No way…! Dani, how’d you find this?” Y/N exclaimed, holding it up to the group, her voice practically sparkling.

Dan smiled proudly, her hands still resting on her own wrapped gift. “Well, I know you’re all about that rock life,” she said with a wink, knowing how much this record meant to Y/N. “I had my ways. As long as you’re happy, it was worth it.”

As everyone cheered and clapped, Manon side-eyed the gift.

She had noticed the way Y/N's eyes practically glowed when Daniela handed her the vinyl. It wasn’t just about the gift itself—it was the way Y/N was so genuinely excited. She loved seeing her happy, but Manon herself would have been happier if she had been the reason for such a smile. The way Y/N laughed and praised Daniela, even going as to get out of her chair to tackle the Latina in a hug. The little things that made Manon feel... well, a little left out. She quickly shifted her attention to the other girls, pretending to focus on the conversation, but her mind lingered on the discomfort.

Y/N notices Manon's mood; she smirked.

“Okay, so, it’s my turn.” Y/N turned, grabbing her bag from the floor. The bag had been topped with a cute silver ribbon, the gift itself wrapped with the same paper as the others’ gifts. “And, there’s two people left who hasn’t gotten their secret santa gift yet, so, drumroll, please!”

The table once again rocked as they drummed their hands.

“I have… my favourite drama queen, Manon.”

The Ghanaian woman widened her eyes, hands taking in the present Y/N shimmied over to her. The younger slung her arm over Manon’s shoulders, rubbing it as she watched her open and unwrap the present. A loud yelp rung through the studio, startling the others before Manon fully unwrapped it.

Her face softened when she saw what was inside: a Fenty beauty set—lip glosses, a highlighter, and a few items she had been eyeing for weeks but hadn’t splurged on herself.

“Okay, now I know for a fact this is out of budget.” Lara crossed her arms, her eyebrow raised in question.

“Bro, can we do secret santa without Y/N next year?” Sophia chimed, earning a couple teasing agreements. “You’re making all of us look bad now, N/N.”

“Y/N...” Manon whispered, her heart fluttering. “You really did this for me? This was probably so expensive.”

Y/N waved a hand dismissively. “Best way to spend my money. The holidays are all about love, right? This is how I show you guys I love you.” She pulled Megan and Manon into her arms, squeezing them both as the others joined in for a big hug. “I got you all things you want, don’t worry.”

Manon’s smile returned, brighter than before. She leaned in to hug Y/N individually after, her voice quiet but sincere. “You didn’t have to, but I’m so glad you did.”

Their hug lasted a little long, even their editing team seemed to tease them a bit with the excessive exaggeration of how long it was with a time ticking effect over the other girls’ reactions.

The rest of the group watched, their smiles growing as they witnessed the little moment between the two. It was clear, despite the playful teasing and occasional misunderstandings, that Y/N and Manon were closer than anyone could imagine.

Manon held the box up to her chest, beaming.

“Okay, so, Manon, you’re doing yours—!”

[ Y/N really loves spoiling her bandmates, especially Manon… ]

*Loud technical difficulty transition* Cut to Lara and Yoonchae’s live. The two were sat on the floor of their hotel room, singing and joking around as Sophia occasionally shushed them to be a bit quieter.

“No, Yoonchae, if we were in the Hunger Games, the order we’d go from dying to surviving would be Manon, Sophia, Me, You, Megan, Dani and then Y/N. I feel like Dani’s like so wild and freaky she’d be able to survive better than you.” Lara argued, earning a loud whine of protest from Sophia across the room. “And Megan would be the type to like survive off the stupidest reason, like she’ll accidentally kill someone.”

Yoonchae pouted, “No, no! It’s you, Dani, me, then Y/N.”

“Yoonchae, I swear to God, I’m telling you.” Lara held a hand up, “It’s me, you, Megan, Dani and then Y/N.”

The youngest huffed, unwilling to argue.

user01 Lara any advice on how to flirt w a girl

Yoonchae pointed at the phone. Lara leant forward to read the comment she was pointing out, her lips curving into a smile immediately. “Oh, wow. That’s a question you should ask Y/N. Or Manon… Only ‘cuz the two of them are such flirty people.”

Lara looked offscreen, a guilty smile on her face as she glanced at Sophia for help.

[ Nice save Lara, definitely super slick ]

“Yes, Manon is very…” Yoonchae does a winky face into the camera, “And Y/N gets flirted with a lot when we go to dinner.”

Lara hummed, drawing attention away from what she almost exposed. “Yes. Y/N has a very fluid appearance, she gets a lot of guys and girls coming up to her in public.”

Sophia, voice faint, chimed, “Yeah, it’s a real problem.”

“So, I feel like that’s a good question to ask Y/N. She has the most aura, most unspoken rizz among all of us.”

user02 does manon get jealous when Y/N’s hit on?

[ Took me a while to find this comment! ]

Lara laughed aloud at a comment, momentarily confusing Yoonchae before the younger caught the statement as well. They shared a knowing look, and when their laughter died down, they just remained silent and moved on.

user03 Who’s the most jealous/possessive as a gf?

“Oh, I’ve been waiting for somebody to ask this.” Lara rubbed her hands together, “Yoonchae and I actually talked about this at some point. Okay, it goes, from least to most, Yoonchae, Y/N, Megan, Sophia, Me, Dani and then Manon.”

user04 match made in heaven

user05 They’re so jealous x comforting duo my heart

“Because Yoonchae, Y/N and Megan are much more relaxed and I feel like Sophia’s jealous, but she can hide it well. Me, Dani and Manon are definitely more fighters, because ain’t nobody coming near my bae if we dating.” Lara squared up to the camera, eyeing it up and down. “Manon is just lowkey a psycho, so she was at the top of the list.”

Yoonchae nodded, “I’m scared of Manon when she’s angry.”

“I’ve seen Manon mad over something, guys. It’s not pretty and I do not recommend.” Sophia yelled.

[ Since Y/N gets flirted with a lot and Sophia’s seen Manon angry… it’s so obvious ya’ll ]

[trippinsorrows]

in your hands + four

authors note: i know. it's been forever and a day. i apologize and hope this massive ass chapter helps to make up for things. definitely a couple (or more) things sprinkled throughout.

you must read/view THIS and THIS set of text visuals, as they include information referred to in this chapter. also, the story kicked off in september. it's now mid-october. so, roman and solana have been dating essentially six weeks.

warnings: fluff, smut, and some angst

words: 14k (she is long)

masterlist

She doesn’t belong here. 

Solana knows it the minute she walks into the club, immediately hit with the uncomfortable aroma of alcohol, weed, and potentially untreated yeast infections. 

An understandable combination, however, for just where she stands. 

Secrets. 

The biggest and most popular strip club in the city. Attended and frequently occupied by everyone from truckers making a stop in town to suits who spend their nights throwing bills at naked women instead of at home with their wives and kids. 

A man’s playpen where any and all desires can be granted.

Solana’s nightmare, but one she must brave.

Swallowing and immediately dropping her gaze when she catches the eye of a patron, she nervously clears her throat and tightens her grip on the backpack she has slung over her shoulder. 

Focused, she reminds herself. Stay focused.

Pushing past the discomfort, she tries her best to focus not on the scantily clad women who walk past her, some holding trays of food and alcohol, others seeking out potential clients.

It feels like significantly longer than what is the actual time she took to reach the counter, but when she does, she finds herself coughing, overwhelmed with the smoke from a man smoking a cigar a few chairs down. 

So much for being smoke-free establishment.

“H–Hi,” she attempts to speak, a difficult task given the loud music. “H–Hello.” Ignored, lost among the loud crowd. Solana once again has to power through her anxiety. “Excuse me!”

An effective alert that earns her a glare from the woman with a Bombshell bra, way too much foundation, and a botched nose job. “What?”

“I–” Solana clears her throat. “I’m here to see about the open position for a bartender?” 

The woman rolls her eyes, turning away to finish mixing a drink. “Go to the back. First room on the left.”

Confused, Solana manages a quiet thank you and maneuvers her way through the crowd. For it to only be 3 in the afternoon, this place sure is busy. 

The directions prove effective, it seems, as Solana lands in front of one of the biggest men she’s ever seen. A bodyguard of some sort standing in front of a door that has MVP on it written in chromatic lettering. 

MVP?

“What do you want?” 

The bodyguard barks, his voice just as rude, if not ruder, than the bartender. 

Solana repeats herself, adjusting the backpack on her shoulder. “I’m–I’m here to see about the bartender position.”

He scoffs, looking her over, stepping back enough to knock on the door. “Boss.”

“What?” A male voice carries from the other side. Solana swallows. He sounds irritated. 

“Some bitch is here about that bartender opening.” 

Being called out of her name by a literal stranger most definitely makes her wince, but she says or does nothing else, recognizing how out of her element she is. 

“She pretty?” 

Solana frowns at the unexpected question from the man still concealed on the other side of the door. 

The bodyguard looks her over once more, his gaze unsettling, pushing her to look away. “Yeah. Lil’ redbone.” 

It takes a lot for Solana to not walk away and call this a bust. That colorism shit has never settled well with her at all, but the depressing reminder that this is literally her last hope, nothing else having panned out in the past few weeks, forces her to bite her tongue. To have to bypass her morals and values. 

She has to. 

“Let her in.” 

Solana jumps when the man opens the door and motions for her to enter. “Go on.” 

Nervously squeezing the strap of her backpack, she walks past him, hating the feel of his gaze on her ass as she does so. He makes a sound followed by the door being slammed shut, causing her to jump. 

“Well, you certainly are pretty.”

Solana looks over to the middle of the dark room with blood red drapings over the closed windows, an expensive looking rug sitting under an even more expensive looking desk. Sexual, graphic artwork hanging behind said desk, serving as a backdrop for the man in question.

This MVP person, she would guess. Most likely the club owner. 

He stands and rounds the desk, Solana taking in his tall, chubby frame. He’s about her complexion, hair cut short, hairline evened off perfectly. His suit is designer, along with the shoes on his feet and probably the watch on his wrist. His eyes are light, but everything about him is just dark. 

It’s hard for her to maintain eye contact. 

Still, she has to do this. 

“H–hi.” She clears her throat. “My name is Solana Miller, and I–I’m here to see about the bartender pos—”

“Did I say you could speak?” His harsh question and vicious glare catches her off-guard. Very much not the reaction she was expecting. “Clearly, you don’t know how the fuck this shit goes—”

“I’m—I’m sorry.” She truly is. “I didn’t mean—”

He scoffs, waving her off dismissively. “Just get outta here, man.”

Solana’s stomach drops. “Wait.” This can’t be happening. “Please. I’m sorry,” she both begs and apologizes. She’ll keep doing so for just a chance. Will get on her hands and knees if she has to. “I really—I really need a new job. I–I need the money.” 

He eyes her, disgust marring his face. “You using?”

“No,” she scoffs, shaking her head. Her eyes start to water. “I just—I’m desperate.” 

Extremely so. She has to be to be standing in a place she could never even ride or drive by with a blush lifting to her cheeks. A place, never in a million years, could she see herself seeking employment. 

But, with literally every other interview or inquiry ending with her being ghosted or a flat out no, and all the other open positions paying even less than what she’s making now, she’s 100% out of options.

Again, desperate. 

He says nothing, continuing to look at her, his gaze shifting from irritated to….something else. Something she can’t name. She just knows that unsettling feeling is returning. “Take off your sweatshirt.”

She freezes. “What?”

He continues talking like he didn’t just make the most outlandish request. “It’s chilly out. You’re bound to have some type of shirt on underneath. Or, a bra. Or, maybe nothing. Don’t really matter.” He shrugs. “Take it off.”

Solana is completely lost at this moment and doesn’t hesitate to express as such. “I don’t—”

“Bartender position was filled this morning.” Her stomach literally fucking drops at his casual announcement of her crushed hopes and dreams. “But, I am down a dancer.”

Her frown deepens. “A dancer?” 

The first word Solana has always used to describe herself. A dancer since she could walk, according to her mother. The biggest thing that’s always brought her the most joy in life, but in this instance, has never made her feel such disgust. 

This is not the kind of dancer she’s ever considered or envisioned herself being. And, it comes not from a place of judgment but from the innocent, naive perspective of the 18 year-old she is who still hasn't even had sex yet but is now being considered, potentially, for the position of an exotic dancer. A position she’s not even legally old enough to hold, regardless of what her fake ID says. 

It’s like MVP is reading her mind, suddenly asking, “how old are you, kid?” 

She hates how she hesitates. “21.”

“Bullshit.” Understandable detection. She’s always been a terrible liar. “But, it’s what your card says, and that’s all I can go off of, right?” He smirks, gaze darkening once more. “I said, take off your sweatshirt.” 

Solana heard him the first time. It was just the shock of it all that had her frozen. She wants to run out. Wants to leave and wipe this horrible memory from her recollection forever, but once again, the realty of her situation weighs on her. 

The reminder of the $18.00 in her bank account that has to somehow hold her over until the end of the week when she gets a paycheck that barely covers some of her mother’s prescriptions. 

Desperate.

It’s why Solana has to bypass the light trembling of her body as she drops her backpack onto the floor and pulls her mom’s old college hoodie over her head, dropping it atop her backpack. 

Naturally, her arms attempt to cover her body. He was right in that she’s wearing a thin undershirt, but it does nothing to hide her big breast and cleavage. 

One nervous look at him, and the wolfish grin on his face turns her stomach. “Well, damn. You a fine lil’ thing, ain’t you?” She says nothing. Has nothing to say. “A lil on the fat side, but that seems to be in these days.”

The jab at her weight doesn’t bother her. She’s heard as such before. Countless times. 

MVP approaches and rounds her, Solana shutting her eyes when he makes a sound while standing behind her. “Shit, you got it in the front and the back.” Standing back in front of her, Solana has to blink away the tears when he gently moves her arms down, forcing her breast to fall, leaving her exposed in front of him. “Hmm.” She could throw up. “Nice.” Solana jumps when he gropes her chest, squeezing her breast. “They real, too, huh?”

She can’t bring herself to say anything. 

Solana gasps and grabs for her sweatshirt, holding it in front of her body the minute he steps back. She’s never felt so disgusted. 

“All the new girls get two weeks to shadow and learn how to work the pole. You ain’t got it after then? You out,” he starts, back toward her as he walks to sit down at his desk. “You’d work nights. At least 4 days out of the week. You get 70% of what you make, I keep the rest.” That slimy gaze travels up and down her body once more. “As I said, big girls are in right now, so, assuming you got what it takes, you’d easily make 10k a night. Take home would be 7k.”

At that, Solana’s eyes widen. 

$7,000 a night? 

“You do what the fuck I say, when I say it, how I say it, and everything will be alright. I get the first and final say. No matter fucking what. Pissing me off won’t end well for you.” She swallows as his tone shifts yet again to something almost menacing before that sly smile returns. “What you say, Red? You in?”

It’s an overwhelmingly heavy, difficult question. Solana came in, ready and willing to learn how to bartend, the advertised base pay plus tips putting her well over what she’s making now. Pennies. She’s making pennies now, and pennies don’t pay the bills. 

Though this….the idea of coming in here, performing and dancing for men, for anyone, in this capacity….it has her fighting back nausea. Again, she would never and has never judged anyone for stripping. She understands everyone has to do what they have to do. She’s just never seen it for herself. 

Never wanted it for herself. 

Too much. It just feels like too much. She’s 18. She doesn’t want to be having to make these kinds of decisions. She wants to be preparing to head off to school in the fall. To spend her last summer before college with friends, having fun, indulging in all of the normal adolescent things. But, then she’s reminded of why she’s having to make this type of decision. 

She thinks about the building stack of bills she’s done her best to keep hidden from her mom, the countless calls she has to dodge from bill collectors. Recalls the emergency account as well her as college fund, both now completely emptied due to insurmountable medical bills. Is hit with the horrific memory of all those nights she’s had to watch her mom coughing up blood, herself and Yolanda stressed and fighting back tears as they try to ration medicine, unable to afford the copay to get her prescription refilled. 

Desperate. 

It’s why Solana has to shove aside her morals, values, and everything else that makes her….her and sign her name on the dotted line. 

A deal with the devil himself. 

“I’m in.” 

—------------

“Ready to go see Roman?”

The small pout on Raya’s face as Solana changes her out of her Doc McStuffins pajamas into her cute little outfit, courtesy of the man in question, is easily shifted into the biggest smile. There’s a bend in her knees followed by his limbs moving happily, as she exclaims with all the excitement, “Roman!”

Solana giggles, watching her baby girl reach for the shirt she seems to have made her new favorite item. 

Roman’s shirt. 

Something she snagged from his place weeks ago and hasn’t let go since. Sleeping with it. Holding it as Solana rocks and holds her. Nearby while she plays. It’s like….like a source of comfort to her. 

Thankful when her baby girl lays on her back, continuing to play with the shirt as Solana pulls on her tights, she finds herself thinking about the man who has her daughter smiling and clapping more than she’s ever seen before with anyone outside of her mom and sister.

Roman

Just thinking of him has Solana struggling with her own smile. 

Unreal.

Something about the man feels unreal. Like, he’s too good to be true. Because, he is. Because Solana can’t seem to wrap her head around the fact that she’s stumbled into what has to be one of the most perfect men to ever walk this earth. Kind, considerate, rich, sexy as fuck with a big ass dick and wicked tongue that he most definitely knows how to use.

She can talk to him, often texting him when she takes her lunch break at work. Calls that often result in her yawning, stubbornly denying her tiredness because she enjoys conversing with him way too much. She can spend time with him. No amount of in-person interaction ever seems enough. He always leaves her wanting more. 

She can fuck him in a way she’s never been intimate with anyone. There’s something exciting, exhilarating, and enthralling about every time he bends her over and makes his way in between her thighs. It’s also the most pleasurable experience that leaves her legs shaking and speech borderline incoherent. 

And, maybe the most important thing. Definitely the most important thing.

Soraya. 

Once. Not once has Roman given even the slightest indication that Raya presents any sort of problem for this dynamic, this relationship they have going. And, Solana would know because she’s been watching and waiting like a hawk. Almost for the other shoe to drop. Because as amazing as Roman is, perfect or not, when it comes to her daughter, Soraya gets picked every single time. 

There’s not a person on this earth that comes before her child. 

And certainly not a man. 

But, none of that has been an issue whatsoever. In fact, it sometimes feels like Roman expects Raya to accompany them anytime they’re together. Like the times where she gets her sister or mom to keep her baby girl so they can have one-on-one time, that there’s a brief hint of disappointment. Like, he was hoping to see her, too. 

Not to mention his financial contributions. 

It seems like Roman is incapable of going into any store that carries baby items and not picking up something for Raya. Whether it be a toy, several toys, really, or an outfit—like the one Solana has her wearing right now—his generosity seems to know no ends. 

Even his expensive ass Range Rover he’s been letting her use while her broken down car remains just as it’s been the last few months—broken down. 

Solana hasn’t been able to drop not even a single penny on anything when Roman is around. The car always seems to have a full tank, even when she makes a mental note to stop at the gas station when clocking out. There’s no need. It’s already filled. 

Not that he would admit to handling as such. 

Or, when they go out to dinner, not very often as they both prefer her and Raya coming over so she can cook dinner for everyone, and the bill is already paid before the food even arrives. 

Not to mention….the other things. 

The white Birkin that was waiting at her door when she got in late one night, a sleeping Raya in one hand, her baby bag and Solana’s TJ Maxx purchased bag on the other shoulder. The Tiffany necklace and bracelet set he had waiting for her when she came over one day, Raya at home with her mom, so they could fuck. 

He’s even dropped a comment or two about her moving into his place. Jokingly, of course.

Right? 

“Roman.”

Soraya repeating the name of the man that seems to have them both enchanted makes all the sense in the world. 

“I know, baby,” Solana murmurs, buckling her shoes before standing her up, holding her while kissing her cheek. Raya hugs Solana, burying her little head against her mama’s chest. Solana sighs, gently rubbing her back. “I wanna see him, too…”

Always. Solana feels like she always wants to see the man, which is a bit of an issue when she also has a shit ton of responsibilities that seem like they only keep piling up. 

Financial responsibilities. 

Shaking those stressful thoughts from her head, Solana gathers up her baby girl, grabbing her already packed diaper bag as well as her purse. She makes sure all the lights are off before heading out the door, locking it. 

The car ride to Roman’s place is pleasant, Solana playing a Disney playlist on low to soothe Raya who looks around the car, like she's looking for the man she repeats at least twice during said car ride.

Roman

It keeps a smile on Solana’s face as well. 

In less than twenty minutes, Solana has pulled up to Roman’s penthouse, something that Raya has clearly learned and memorized, given the wiggling of her little body and increased babbling. 

Raya’s excitement bubbles and topples over the minute Roman opens the door, revealing his big frame dressed in a plain white shirt, khaki shorts and matching Nike’s. His hair is pulled back into that immaculate bun, but it’s that pearly white smile on his face that captures Solana’s attention. 

“Hey, babe,” he greets, pulling her in for a brief kiss. It’s brief because his attention is instantly shifted to a smiling, elated Raya who’s already reaching for him. “There she is…”

Solana easily allows Roman to take both Raya and her diaper bag, leaving her to close the door as he walks further into his penthouse. Solana is right behind him, the three of them landing in Roman’s spacious kitchen. 

Solana can only watch them.

Something warm and comforting fills her heart in seeing the way Raya looks up at Roman, reaching for his face with all the curiosity. Her smile is large and happy, complimented by his own smile that's slightly smaller but still….heartfelt almost. "I think it's safe to say she likes you." 

Solana could argue that Raya more than likes Roman, but that….that feels too much. Too soon. 

Way too soon. 

He chuckles, seemingly uncaring as Raya tries to pull on his beard. “She’s not so bad.”

“Not so bad?” Solana scoffs, laying her purse next to Raya’s baby bag on the island in his kitchen where Roman had deposited it. “You’ve seen how she is when she’s sleepy but too stubborn to actually go to sleep.” 

Roman makes a sound, continuing to hold Raya as she pulls at his beard. “She’s stubborn. Nothing wrong with that.”

Solana rolls her eyes. “Of course, you would say that. You’re stubborn, too.” Solana goes to reach for Raya’s little jacket out of her diaper bag only to realize it is absolutely not in the diaper bag but laying on the sofa back at her apartment. “Damnit.”

Roman looks over at her, Raya continuing to babble and “talk” to him. “What’s wrong?”

“I left her jacket back at my place,” she shares, blowing out a breath when remembering something. “Wait, I think I have one here with her change of clothes.”

Roman sighs, adjusting Raya from the left to the right. “Should just let me buy her—”

“Not happening, big guy,” Solana shuts that shit down as she moves to head to the back of his place. “I’ll be right back.” He says nothing, continuing to entertain Raya as they walk into the living room where he has a damn near mini play area set up for her. 

Solana hums to herself, walking into the extra bedroom where Roman has talked her into keeping a few extra items for Raya. As well as a couple of things he’s picked up for her. Except, the minute she hits the light switch, Solana is met with more than just a couple of things. 

“What the….” She steps into said room seeing medium to large boxes leaning against the walls. A closer inspection reveals that it’s furniture yet to be put together.

Baby furniture.

A quiet scoff tumbles out of her mouth as she ghosts her hand over the expensive brand he’d purchased. Top of the line. Easily has to be close to a thousand dollars for everything. 

If not more.

Solana can’t grab Raya’s little jean jacket and hit the light switch quick enough. 

Walking back into the living room, she’s momentarily distracted by the sight of Roman on his knees, carefully watching Raya who starts crawling in his direction, only to tire of the slowness as she moves to stand, little legs rushing over to him. 

“Roman!” She shouts happily, eventually reaching and tumbling into him. That small smile stays on his face as he chuckles, holding her, and saying something to her in what Solana would guess is Samoan. Or, maybe Italian. She’s not entirely sure, but it’s definitely not in English. 

Shaking her head, Solana steps into their space, gathering the attention of both. 

“Mama!” Raya shouts, wobbling over to Solana who also moves to her knees, welcoming her baby girl into her arms. 

She kisses the top of Soraya’s head and looks over at Roman. “You mind telling me what all that stuff is that’s in your guest bedroom?”

He shrugs, crossing his big arms over his equally big body. He’s just huge. “I picked up a couple of things for her. I told you that.”

“Roman, buying her darn near a whole furniture set is not a “couple” of things.” Not in the slightest. Clothes, toys definitely, maybe even some dishes but certainly not furniture. 

He continues to remain unbothered, not seeing the issue. “I told you it makes sense for her to have all the stuff she needs here.”

“I get that, Roman, but that….you keep spending all your money—”

“Solana, I could live to be 100, and I’d never spend all my money.”

Given the ease he has with pulling out his card, not needing to use his phone to pull up the banking app and check his balance, Solana wouldn’t deny that. She wouldn’t deny that one bit. 

“But—”

“You’re not gonna win this with me. I hope you know that.” She rolls her eyes, her traitorous little daughter crawling back over to Roman who welcomes her back with open arms as she fists his shirt. “We’re stubborn, remember?”

There’s something about the way he groups himself together with Raya that has Solana’s chest swelling again with that unnamed emotion. Heavy but….nice. In the best sort of way. 

It doesn’t take long for once again traveling to commence, except this time, it’s Roman driving both herself and Raya to his cousin Jimmy’s house. The host of this get-together they're attending. Conversation during the not even twenty minute drive mostly focused on Roman reassuring her that everything’s going to be fine, they’re going to love her and Raya, as well as indiscreet planning for how the night’s going to end. 

Preferably with him deep inside her guts, his face buried between her legs, or her mouth stuffed with his unforgivable dick. 

Any or all of those things would be great. It’s been a bit of a rough week, and nothing helps her more to decompress than by getting her back blown out by the rich, handsome, older man next to her.

It’s 10/10 every single time. 

“Damn,” Solana breathes as Roman parks his car in the cobblestone driveway of what has to be one of the nicest houses she’s ever seen. The type one sees and fawns over on HGTV. The type of luxury most can only dream about having one day. 

And, she’s sitting right in front of it. 

It’s a bit embarrassing for her when she realizes she's gawking at the house. She feels severely underdressed with her Shein purchased outfit, suddenly wishing she'd wore something maybe a bit....nicer.

Overthinking distracts her from getting Raya out of the car, something Roman has already as he stands holding her diaper bag over one arm, Raya in the other. 

Solana climbs out the car, her discomfort clearly plain and visible as Roman reassures her for the eighteenth time. “It’s gonna be fine, Sol.”

Sol.

A nickname used by others. Never feeling as special when it comes from him. 

She can only nod, reaching to take Soraya from him. Partially for her own comfort and ease. 

Focusing on her baby girl will help keep her from focusing on her growing anxiety. 

Roman simply sighs and kisses her temple, hand on the small of her back as he guides her. “Come on.” 

Solana adjusts her purse on her left shoulder while continuing to hold Raya who can only look around with all the amazement, her gaze every so often falling and landing on Roman. 

Meanwhile, Solana tries her best not to faceplant and focus on keeping one foot in front of the other as Roman bypasses the front door, leading them to the side of the house through the partially cracked gate. 

Immediately, she’s slammed with the scent of grilled, fried, and fresh food. Delicious, it smells delicious. Mouth watering, Solana’s stomach grumbling, she takes in the spacious backyard. A large pool with an attached slide and separate hot tub is smack dab in the middle, a patio hosting two grills, furniture, and coolers filled to the brim with soda, alcohol, and water bottles. 

The rest of the yard is beautiful, perfect green grass, kids play things set up in several areas with a host of folding chairs to match the host of attendees that are spread across the party space. Music plays from a booth that indicates a DJ was hired.

Damn.

Solana has attended her fair share of get-togethers, but nothing like this. 

“Naw……cause growth is realizing Ebony ain’t even did nothing wrong?”

“Ain’t did nothing wrong? Man, she fucked her cousin’s man while living in her house! Diamond should have shot her ass in the ass for that shit!”

“Hey!” Solana jumps ever so slightly, thankful for Raya’s simple giggle at the bark from Roman that effectively cuts through the sea of people, snagging countless sets of eyes. “Language.”

Out the corner of her eye, she sees him gesture to Raya who’s suddenly less smiley and has her face buried into Solana’s shoulder, shyness taking over.

Loud gasps and the almost squeal of a woman. “Finally!”

Solana stills a bit when the woman appears in front of her. Several. They all wear friendly expressions while moving in her direction, but that does little to settle the nerves bubbling in the base of her stomach.

It’s Roman’s hand on the small of her back, his fingers gently raking across that calms her just the slightest.

“You must be Solana.” The woman who spoke first greets. Solana has to take a second to catch herself. This lady is stunning. Deep complexion complimented by her colorful makeup and box braids with neon colors strung throughout. Her features seem almost too perfect. “I’m Naomi.” 

Solana opens her mouth to respond when Roman takes the lead for her.

“Solana.” She looks up at him, gently bouncing Raya who continues to keep her face buried, stranger danger on full-on display. “Naomi is my cousin Jimmy’s wife,” he shares, moving to point to the other women. “This is her best friend, Bayley.” A small wave from Bayley as he transitions to the last woman. “And, this is my cousin, Ava.”

“Alleged,” Ava snorts, faux whispering to Solana, using her hand to hide her mouth. “I’m way too good to be related to someone like him.”

Bayley makes a ‘ha’ sound. “Dude, I been saying the same thing since we were kids.”

Roman scowls, lowly growing, “fuck ya’ll.” It puts a small smile on Solana’s face, as she bites back her laughter. She also makes note and appreciates the way he works hard to keep profanity from hitting Raya’s ears, something Solana had previously shared with him. Explained how she tried not to cuss around Soraya, a boundary and rule he's continuously respected.

He’s been great with it, actually, now that Solana thinks about it. Especially since whenever Raya isn’t around, Roman curses like a sailor. 

“It’s nice to meet you all,” Solana greets, looking at her daughter. “This is—”

“Oh, we know exactly who this is,” Naomi interrupts with that same friendly smile, focusing on the little girl in Solana’s arms. “This must be the fabulous Soraya.”

A thought crosses Solana’s mind. Has Roman spoken with his friends and family about Raya?

About her?

“This is,” Solana giggles, talking to her baby girl. “Can you say hi, Raya?” Glancing at the women, she explains, “we mostly call her Raya.”

“She’s so cute,” Bayley makes a face and pouts, leaning down, hands on her knees, trying to capture Raya’s attention. “Hi, Raya.”

Ava and Naomi make similar attempts to interact with Soraya, Solana attempting to help by continuing to ask Raya to say hi.

And, finally, she does. 

“Hi.” The softest, cutest thing accompanied by Raya offering a quick wave before burying her face back into Solana’s shoulder, all the while looking over at Roman who winks, making her giggle. 

Gasps around, as Ava shares, “wait, because why are you so adorable?” Raya, as if understanding the compliment, wiggles against Solana who can’t stop smiling at the wholesome interaction. Ava then looks up, eyes pleading, “can we hold her?”

Solana can barely open her mouth when Roman steps forward. “Not without washing your hands.” Solana looks up at him, withholding her giggle. She was going to ask about as such, just not as….blunt. “And naw, hand sanitizer don’t count. Ya’ll not about to get her sick.”

Naomi sucks her teeth. “Okay, Dr. Reigns.” 

He ignores her smart comment, instead pointing towards the house. “Go on.” Bayley glares, subtly flipping him off. “Use your feet.” 

“Roman,” Solana lightly scolds, switching Soraya from one side to the other, her baby girl continuing to look between the people who’ve always seemingly become enraptured by her.

But, right when the women leave, rushing to cleanse their hands so they can hold Raya, a new group arrives. This time, a group of men, and judging by the nearly identical look of two of them, Solana has a good guess about the identification of ⅔ of them. 

“Jimmy and Jey?” She asks, hoping to God she’s not wrong. Roman has definitely mentioned them once or twice.

One of them throws his hands up. “You got it, Lil’ Bit!” She cracks a smile, relieved to not have embarrassed herself in front of Roman’s family. 

Not yet, anyway. 

The one with more of a pronounced, salt and pepper beard and freshly done braids slaps himself on his chest. “I’m Big Jim, and this is lil brother, Jey.” He points with one finger to the man slightly shorter than him with an…..interesting hairstyle. Much like the man on the end with a complexion similar to Naomi, different hairstyle, and piercings she’s not used to seeing in men around his age range. 

“And this Truth,” Jey introduces. “My brother-in-law.”

“Don’t worry,” Truth speaks with a little more volume than necessary considering the close proximity of everyone. “My sister ain’t here.”

“That’s cause she ain’t allowed at my house,” Jimmy says with a slight eye roll, offering. “Her ass crazy.”

Solana’s jaw drops once more as Roman chides his cousin for the profanity. “I–umm—”

“Awww,” Truth starts, jaw dropping, hand over his mouth. “Well, look at what we got here.” He leans over ever so slightly, trying to be at eye level with Raya. His voice is sugary sweet and coaxing, perfectly appropriate for a child. Much unlike what comes out of his mouth. 

“Hi there, lil’ light skin baby.”

“Truth!”

“Why would you even say that?”

“I don’t know we even keep trying with your slow ass.”

The chorus of protests and slaps from the twins are ended with Roman correcting him with all the baritone of his deep voice. “Her name is Soraya, Truth.”

“We call her Raya,” Solana offers, somehow knowing he means well. His delivery is….something, but he really does have a….gentle aura about him. 

They all do.

“What?” Truth appears genuinely offended and confused as to why everyone else around him is offended. He shakes his head, looking at a still smiling, seemingly amused Raya. “Why don’t you go on and tell Uncle Truth what you wanna eat?”

As Solana’s brows furrow with confusion from the ‘uncle’ comment, another round of aggravated sighs emanate around her. 

Roman closes his eyes. He looks like his patience is truly being tested in this moment. “Truth, don’t start with that.”

Solana frowns, looking between the men for some insight. “Wh–what?”

“Man.” Jey shakes his head, gesturing to his brother-in-law. “Truth think he can talk to and understand babies.” 

As Solana does her best to hide her confusion, this Truth person protests, “I can!” 

“No, you can’t, Truth.” Roman objects, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“You can barely understand your damn self,” Jimmy scoffs, earning an elbow in his side from Jey. “Oh! What was that for?”

Jey points to Raya. “Don’t be cussing in front of the baby.”

Solana can only laugh at the….interesting bunch.

“Okay!” Naomi’s voice sounds as the ladies return rushing over, Ava not hesitating to shove her way between the twins. However, Naomi is first, standing at the front of the line with a hopeful expression. “Hands are all washed.”

“For at least a minute?”

“What are you, the CDC?” Ava scoffs, fully ignoring Roman, as she looks and directs her statement to Solana. “Is it alright?”

Solana nods. “Sure.” Her lips linger for a second against Raya’s temple as she reaches her baby girl to Naomi who perfectly accepts the handover, awwing with her mouth open as Raya continues to look at them with all the intrigue.

“Hi, Raya,” Ava speaks, giving a little wave. “I’m Ava.” 

“I’m Bayley,” she greets, the group laughing when Raya starts babbling. 

“She’s saying it’s very nice to meet everyone.”

“Truth!”

Solana can’t hold in her laughter as she watches how naturally everyone takes to Raya and vice versa. Fiercely protective of her daughter, it’s a new experience being around people she just met less than half an hour ago only for them to naturally connect to not only herself but her little girl.

Far from what she was expecting but oh so appreciated.

“She’s such an adorable little girl.” Ava compliments as she’s now holding Raya who pulls at her necklace, clearly trying to snatch it off. 

“She looks just like you,” Jey points out, both him and Jimmy also trying to interact. 

Pride swells in Solana’s chest. “Thank you.” Given the non-existent relationship Raya has with Cruz and just how awful of a person he’s been since Solana disclosed her pregnancy, anything that her little girl can take from her and only her is so appreciated. 

“Babe.” Solana looks up at Roman, feeling him take her hand as he gestures over to the tables with food. “Come on.”

Her smile dims, that protectiveness rising to the surface as she looks back at Ava and Soraya. “It’s okay. We can watch her.”

Naomi shakes her head, sharing as she accepts Raya from Ava. “Can we keep her for a bit? It’s been so long since I’ve had a baby girl to love on.” She takes Raya’s hand, gently wiggling it, one again evoking laughter from Solana’s pride and joy. “My daughter is 8 going on 18 most days.”

There’s a bit of apprehension. Understandable, in Solana’s eyes. She literally just met these people. But, the open layout won’t allow Soraya to be anywhere Solana can’t see. She’ll have eyes on her the whole time. 

“Okay,” she relents, Bayley accepting the baby bag from her. “Just let me know if you need anything—”

“We’ll be fine!” Ava dismisses, the women all clearly in seven heaven with Raya who seems just as happy to be the center of attention.

“Told you.” Roman moves to take her hand, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. 

Solana playfully rolls her eyes, as he leads her over to the food so they can fix their plates.

But, near the tables where the delicious smelling food is laid out are two other individuals. Caucasian men who chat quietly among themselves, one on the thinner sider, the other a bit more stocky. 

The thin man with two-toned hair pulled back into a bun, similar to Roman’s, starts with a small grin, seeing the two of them head over.

“Big Dog,” he greets, him and Roman exchanging that man hug before Roman does the same with the other one. 

“Solana.” Roman looks down, moving to stand back beside her, hand resting on her back. “This is Seth and Dean. Two of my oldest friends.”

“We go way back,” Seth chuckles, offering his hand. “Nice to finally meet you, Solana. We’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Really?” For some reason, that’s surprising to her. It’s obvious Roman has talked about her. His family confirmed as such, but just how much has he talked about her? “Good things, I hope?”

“Totally,” Dean chimes, right before abruptly opening up a bag of chips, stuffing his mouth and offering a muffled, “Dean.”

Solana smiles. She can already tell he’s an….interesting soul. In the same way Truth is, but still….innocent. 

“Well, it’s really nice to meet both of you.”

“Same,” Seth agrees. He motions behind her. “And, I take it the star of the show over there is Soraya.”

Solana’s smile naturally grows. “You’d be correct.” She turns around, seeing that Raya is still very much enjoying all of the attention and interaction. “I’d introduce you, but….”

“I get it,” Seth chuckles. “I have a daughter, too. The gang here see a cute kid and lose their shit.”

“Word,” Dean says, Solana trying to hold back her laughter. A character for sure. 

But, as Roman and Solana prepare their food and chat with the other two men, another conversation transpires revolving primarily around a certain Soraya Miller.

“I’m not even being dramatic, dude.” Bayley starts, sitting Raya on her lap as the little girl plays with her necklace, clearly intrigued by the locket. “This has to be the cutest baby I’ve ever seen.”

“Isn’t she?” Ava is in awe, trying to capture Raya’s attention with peek-a-boo.

“She is a cute—”

“Psst.”

The way the group collectively cuts or rolls their eyes at what they all know is about to be some shit. 

Jey, however, is the brave soul. “What, Truth?”

He looks around, as if expecting someone to eavesdrop before pointing to Raya. “Ya’ll know this Roman baby, right?”

“Oh my God.”

“I knew it was gon’ be something with him.”

“Why do ya’ll even still hang out with him?”

“Truth.” Jimmy closes his eyes and shakes his head. “This is not Roman’s baby. This is Solana’s baby.” 

“Man,” Truth dismisses, clearly grounded and cemented in his baseless theory. “Look at her.” The group does, Raya clapping and giggling, completely oblivious to the conversation at hand. “She look just like him!”

Jey opens his mouth to protest when he takes another look at Soraya. “Hey….” Several sets of eyes land on him. “I’m not saying Truth right, but….she do kinda favor big Uce.”

“Lord, not you, too,” Naomi groans. 

“I’m just saying,” Jey defends, his hands up in an almost surrender motion. “I can kinda see it.” He then takes it a step further, asking his twin brother something that’s been on his mind since the two arrived. “Does Solana look familiar to you?” 

For the life of him, he can’t figure out why, but there is definitely something familiar about his cousin’s new girlfriend. Like, he’s seen her somewhere before. 

He just can’t figure out where.

But, as Jimmy goes to reply, offering a small level of agreement, Truth does what Truth does best.

“It’s cause they all light-skinneded’!”

“Truth, shut up!

—--------

Natural.

It all feels so natural. The way Solana and Soraya seem to blend in with Roman’s inner circle. Everyone is so nice and friendly. Hilarious as well. Jimmy and Truth are most definitely the comedians of the group. Dean is too, in a weird sort of way. He’s not necessarily trying. Just being himself.

The story she’s told about their meeting with Roman way back in middle school makes all the sense in the world. Three stubborn kids who couldn’t get along and landed a detention one day that made them realize they had more in common than they initially realized. 

Classic.

“She’s so beautiful!” Solana compliments, handing Naomi back her phone that shows a picture of her and Jimmy’s daughter, Aniyah. “Why isn’t she here?”

“Chile, she with Jimmy parents getting even more spoiled.” Naomi answers, placing her phone back in the pocket of her jean shorts. “Plus, this is an adults only get-together.”

At that, Solana stills. “It is?” Naturally, her gaze falls over to where Roman is talking with the rest of the men, holding Raya who hits at him, clearly wanting his attention and not liking having to share it. Roman takes her hand, letting her shake and play with it. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—Roman didn't—”

Because, he most definitely did not tell her Raya wasn’t technically allowed. And just like that, she feels bad.

“No,” Ava cuts in. “Raya is absolutely fine. We wanted you to bring her. Wanted to meet her and you.”

It’s helpful reassurance, for sure. Moving, too. They wanted to meet her. 

Meet Raya.

Solana hasn’t forgotten Roman’s not so great description of his twin sister, but so far, everyone else in his family more than makes up for it. Bayley then adds, “Absolutely. It’s really just Jey’s bad ass children no one wanted to deal with.”

That being the second or third time someone has alluded to Jey’s children, Solana has to ask, “are….are Jey’s children really that bad?”

Naomi blows out a breath, asking, “you know the show Beyond Scared Straight?”

Solana nods. “Yeah.”

“They got rejected for being too horrible.” Solana’s eyes widen. What the hell? “That should tell you everything you need to know.”

“Doesn’t one of them have a court date coming up soon?”

“Hell, probably.” Naomi shakes her head at Bayley’s question as Solana continues to sit partially floored. Jey seems so nice and friendly. It’s hard to imagine him with such…..difficult offspring. “Man, they keep hogging her.”

Solana refocuses to see Naomi scowling, watching Raya, still being held by Roman, interact with Jey who makes some sort of up and down hand motion. Like, he’s trying to show her how to do something. 

“She really is such a sweet baby. You can tell she takes after you.”

Ava’s complement makes Solana’s stomach flutter in the best way. “Thank you so much.”

“How old is she again?” 

Solana smiles with all the pride of a mother. “She’ll be one in two weeks.”

Naomi gasps. “Her birthday is coming up?” Solana nods, watching Naomi pull her phone back out as she unlocks, does some tapping and hands it to Solana. “Give me your number, and text me what size she wears so I can get her something.”

Solana barely has time to protest when Ava and Bayley express the same, also asking for Solana’s number so they too can buy Raya something. 

“No, you really don’t have to—”

She’s cut off by Bayley sucking her teeth. “Way too late for that, dude.” Biting down on her bottom lip, Solana programs her number, as Bayley asks, “are you throwing her a birthday party?”

A bit of embarrassment fills the young mother as she gives Naomi her phone. “No. Umm….just a little get-together with my mom, big sister, and her family.” 

Her explanation isn’t met with any looks of judgment or confusion, which is partially what Solana was expecting. What mother doesn’t throw a birthday party for her daughter’s first birthday?

A broke one.

That’s who.

It’s a depressing thought. Solana would love to celebrate Soraya the way she deserves, but financially, she just can’t cut it. 

And, it sucks. It sucks a lot. 

“Well, you can bet baby girl will be getting a bunch of gifts from her new aunties,” Naomi announces, smiling with excitement. “I love shopping. Especially for babies.”

“Thank you, but you—you really don’t have to.” You don’t even know me, is what Solana really wants to say.

“Too late,” Bayley cuts her off, however, clearly uninterested in anything that doesn’t revolve around trying to land on what gifts to get for Raya. “Okay, they’ve had her long enough.” 

“Agreed,” Naomi sounds as she and Bayley make their way across the yard, fed up with having to wait their turn to play with and hold Soraya. 

Solana can only chuckle. 

One thing for certain, her baby is sure to sleep good tonight.

“He’s good with her,” Ava’s voice pulls Solana from her thoughts, as she one again looks over to the group. Roman stands arguing with Naomi and Bayley, clearly not wanting to hand over Raya who seems more than content being held by the man.

“He is.” Solana agrees. The way Roman has been so patient, understanding, and kind to her daughter is one of the biggest reasons she adores him as much as he does. The sex is amazing, but him being good to her daughter?

Priceless.

“Gotta admit, it’s a little surprising. Never really took Roman for the family man, but now that I think about it, it makes sense.”

Solana frowns, angling her body towards his cousin. “What—what do you mean?”

Ava sighs. “Roman’s parents…..they’re not the best. Actually, if I’m being honest, they're pieces of shit. Always have been. It’s why he has a poor relationship with them to this day.” Solana recalls Roman hinting as such but has never really pushed as to why. She wanted to respect his boundaries and privacy. “His twin sister, Rosalia? Total fucking bitch, but it’s not exactly unwarranted. Their parents only ever wanted a son, and they never tried to hide that from her. Shipping her off to fancy private all-girls schools every chance they got.”

Solana also recalls him describing his sister as not being the easiest, but if what Ava says is true, and Solana has no reason to believe otherwise, it definitely does make sense. 

And, in a weird way, Solana can relate.

Can relate to Rosalia. 

She, too, knows what it’s like to feel unwanted and unloved by a parent. 

To be abandoned.

Needing to pull from her own unresolved issues, Solana inquires, “and Roman?”

Ava scoffs. “It’s hard to say if he had it worse. He was mostly kept here, and while his parents never hesitated to dump him on nannies, they made it clear when they were around that nothing less than perfection would be accepted. His dad traveled a lot, his mom doing anything she could to never be home. He spent most of his childhood by himself. Would go over to uncle Kish’ house a lot, the twins' dad, because his parents would literally leave him home alone all the time with just the help and security.” Solana’s heart practically breaks at that. Imagining Roman as a child, even a teen, in what was probably a big ass house. An empty house. “Majority of the time they spent with him was largely focused on his tra—” Ava stops herself, and Solana finds herself wondering why. Wanting to know more, even if it is all just heartbreaking to hear. “He just really got the short end of the stick the first 18 years of his life.”

Solana doesn’t deny that. Just listening to it is….heartbreaking almost. “That’s….that’s terrible.”

Ava nods, tucking a piece of her hair behind her pierced ears. “Anytime he could be at the twins house or even mine, he would. I think he just didn’t want to be alone. He was just a kid.” She stops, a small frown appearing on her pretty face. “Just wanted a family who wanted and loved him.”

As does any kid. Roman didn’t want or desire anything that any other child wouldn't want. Should have.

Deserves.

“Obviously, he’s a man now, so things have changed, but…” As she trails off, her sight sets on the other side of the yard, as does Solana. The two of them watching how Roman, even while not holding Raya anymore, seems to be instructing Naomi, who does hold her baby girl. Most likely trying to tell her the do’s and don’ts, all the while Raya continues to beam up happily at him. Content. “Maybe not everything.”

—-------

A little while later, the group is more mixed up, primarily because of Candy by Cameo that plays as the bulk of them dance. 

A determined Jimmy and Truth trying to show a rhythmless Dean the unofficial/official choreography. However, Roman’s focus is more on Solana who holds Raya while laughing and dancing along with everyone.

There’s something that fills him seeing how natural she blends in with his close friends and family.

Like….like she belongs.

They both do. 

“I like her.” Roman looks to his left where Ava comes to stand beside him. She, too, like himself, is not the biggest on dancing. “She’s a sweet girl. They both are.”

Roman looks back over to the mother-daughter duo. “I know.”

Silence befalls them for a good minute, but it doesn’t last long. And, Roman is unsurprised. He knows her well. Knows she has something she wants to say to him.

And, she does.

Ava turns towards her cousin, more like a brother than anything. “Roman, what the hell are you doing?” He sighs. “You’ve been seeing this girl for what, almost two months now and you still haven’t told her the truth about who you really are?”

Roman says nothing at first, because there’s nothing to say. He knows it’s wrong and won’t try to deny it. “I know.”

“Do you?” She challenges, crossing her arms. “Because you yourself have said you see her at least twice a week, and in all those interactions, you haven’t found the time to tell her the truth?”

His jaw clenches as he angles his body away from the group, not wanting Solana to detect the tense exchange occurring. “It’s not that easy.”

“No, it certainly isn’t. Not with how long you’re stringing this out.” She scoffs. “I’d understand if it was still only a week in. Hell, maybe two, but it’s going on six weeks, Roman.” She shakes her head. “You should have told her by now. She doesn’t deserve to be lied to.”

“I know that, Ava. I’m not fucking stupid.” He isn’t. Roman knows the longer he goes without telling Solana the truth, the harder it will be. But, it’s also pretty fucking difficult to find the right time to tell her that he’s a fucking mafia boss and heads two of the biggest crime syndicates in this hemisphere.

“I don’t know, cause right about now, I’d say that’s debatable.” Ava’s expression and voice soften just a bit. “It’s not even just that, Roman. Not even just who you are. It’s about what you’re supposed to be doing right now.”

His eyes narrow, defensiveness and a sense of protectiveness building. “That’s not what this—”

She cuts him off, motioning between the two of them. “I know that, and you know that, but what about Solana? What about when she finds out?” An important, valid question he probably hasn’t thought about a ton, if he’s being totally honest. “Cause I can tell you from a woman’s perspective what it’s gonna look and feel like.” She moves right into sharing. “It’s gonna look and feel like you found a younger, naive woman to give you exactly what you need. And you know she can do it, because she already has one child.” More softening, her voice also lowering. “And what about Raya? Have you thought about her in all of this?”

That defensiveness jumps to level fucking ten. “Of course, I have.”

Ava’s shoulders slump ever so slightly. “She’s just a baby, Roman. And, it’s obvious she already has an attachment to you.” And you to her. But, Ava opts to keep that assessment to herself. “If this goes south, it’s gonna be hard on her—”

“It won’t,” Roman’s voice cuts like steel. “I won’t let it.”

Ava just looks at him, fully recognizing the switch. The clench of his jaw, the squaring of his shoulders, the hardening of his gaze. It’s less her cousin, the one she grew up with and knows like the back of her hand, and more the ruthless, stoic, mafia kingpin that many are wise to fear.

His determination is unshakable.

“I know what I’m doing, Ava.” And that tone, one of finality, tells her without telling her that this conversation is over. He’s done talking.

She sighs, watching him walk back over to the group, as the song has ended and most are just conversing. 

“I certainly hope so….”

Roman is close enough proximity to reach for Solana who kisses Raya’s temple as she holds onto and hugs her mother. Something tells him baby girl is getting closer and closer to nap or bedtime. Her energy noticeably lessening as the hours past.

Naomi is looking down at her phone, smiling. “Oh, that was good.” She’s most likely looking at some clip of the group of them dancing. “I should post—”

“What?” Solana’s voice cuts through the low chatter, Roman looking at her. He sees it the moment it happens. The moment her smile drops, replaced with something indistinguishable. 

Fear.

“Post?” She asks, fidgeting a bit, her grip on Soraya lightly tightening. “Like…like on social media?” Naomi can’t even open her mouth to answer. “Please don’t.” Roman watches the interaction with a mixture of confusion and slight intrigue. Same as everyone else. “I—I just don’t….I don’t like her face being online.”

Naomi once again goes to respond, this time successful in her response. “Oh. Of course. I get it.” She points to Jimmy. “We’re the same way with Aniya.” She offers a small smile. “I’ll just share the clips that don’t have you and Raya in them.”

And just like that, relief appears, Solana’s entire body relaxing. Relieved. She’s relieved.  “Thank you.”

Naomi says nothing, and neither does anyone else, but Roman is certain they’re all wondering the same thing he is.

What was that about?

—-----------

Roman’s assessment proved accurate. 

Less than an hour after the social media thing, Raya started to get fussy, giggles turning into crying, wanting only to be held by her mama.

Tired. 

She was tired and reached her max for the day, hence Solana and Roman having to head out. Solana doesn’t leave without damn near everyone’s numbers and a mandatory promise to come visit sooner rather than later. 

Naomi mentioned something about a girls spa day.

Solana didn’t have it in her to explain she can’t afford anything like that right now, deciding to tackle it when that conversation arises. 

Overall, Solana would 100% consider the evening a win. Roman holds her hand almost the entire drive back to his place, the other expertly handling the steering wheel, talking and conversing about the kickback. His eyes, as well as Solana’s, frequently use the rearview mirror to check on Soraya who sits mostly quiet and exhausted in her car seat. 

By the time they arrive to his place, Roman is partially expecting Solana to come up, at least for a couple minutes. But, that doesn’t happen. 

She instead walks over to her (his) car, unlocking and opening the passenger door, strapping Raya in before turning to look up at him. “Give me like two hours.”

He looks at her, curious. “Why?”

Solana offers a small smile, gesturing to Raya who’s gradually succumbing to the sleep that calls to her. “Gives me time to get her settled and put down for bed.” A gentle kiss to Raya’s forehead prevents Solana from seeing the fleeting look of disappointment that appears in his warm eyes. 

“Oh.” He clears his throat. “You sure….you sure you don’t need….like help or something?”

She shakes her head. “I’m good.” Her smile remains the same, slipping into something teasing. “I’m sure another two hours won’t kill you, big dog.” 

The scowl on his face makes her giggle. “Don’t ever call me that crap again.”

“Noted,” she chuckles. Unsurprisingly, Roman helps Solana get loaded up in the car, placing her purse and Raya's baby bag in the passenger seat. There’s an intentional slowness and caution he uses to close the door, not wanting to startle an exhausted Soraya. 

Soraya, whose little mouth and face scrunches up as she yawns, grasping at her mother while murmuring, “Roman…”

Solana’s chuckle is soft. “Roman has to stay here, mija. It’s time for you to go night night.” Raya’s response is to pout, indecipherable sounds indicating a potential tantrum is on the horizon.

“Wait.” Solana looks back to see Roman turning to head back the elevator that leads up to his penthouse. Confused, Solana does as he asks, entertaining Raya, rubbing her lil tummy with one finger, trying to hold off that pending fussy fit. 

The sound of rushed footsteps prompts her to turn around to see Roman, something black folded over his shoulder.

She continues to look confused as he moves his hand to the small of her back, gently pushing, indicating he needs her to move. She does as such, watching his big body move to where she previously stood. 

Roman says something in Samoan, or Italian, reaching the black item to Raya. The way she continues to pout, fisting and playing with Solana now realizes is a shirt, easily morphs into a smile as she happily kicks her legs, giggling. 

A shirt.

It’s his shirt. 

“There you go….” He says, index finger moving in an almost circle on her stomach as she happily babbles, holding and hugging the shirt. 

Solana scoffs, that damn familiar feeling returning. “Wow….” Roman steps back and glances at her. “Keep this up, and you’re gonna need to subscribe and save.”

He shakes his head, moving closer and kissing her forehead. “Two hours?”

She nods, biting down on her bottom lip. “Don’t be late.”

“Oh, trust me….” His eyes rake over her with undeniable lust. It has Solana pressing her thighs together. “I won’t be.”

“Good,” she murmurs, as he backs away, hand on the back passenger door. She sees the way his expression softens as he looks back over at Raya. “Night, Soraya.”

Her response is a happy shout of his name. “Roman!”

He smiles, gently closing the door before looking back over at Solana. “I’ll see you in a lil’ bit.”

Solana nods in response, silently walking over to the driver's side, climbing in and starting the SUV.

The car ride is mostly silent, sans Raya babbling occasionally, calling for Solana, never once letting go of the shirt she continues to play with and hold close to her.

It keeps a small smile on Solana’s face for certain.

True to her guesstimate, it takes about a total of two hours for Solana to get Soraya bathed, changed, and fast asleep in bed followed up with Solana hopping in the shower and preparing for Roman’s arrival. 

A quick little shave, the spray of that body spray he seems to always compliment her on when she wears it, grabbing that beach towel that’s sure to earn its keep before morning hits. 

She bypasses anything lacy or sexy, simply settling for an oversized shirt that covers her nude body. It truly makes no sense to her to get all done up in anything when he’s going to rip it off her in a matter of minutes. 

Besides, too many items separating him from her. It’s been a long ass day. Good, but long, and she wants to end it in the best way she knows how. How to decompress, that is. 

By riding the shit out of his big ass dick. 

Solana feels a bit embarrassed by how quickly she hops off her sofa at the sound of three light knocks. A quick glance through her peep hole is probably unnecessary, but she’s always leaned on the side of safe than sorry. 

Tried to, at least.

Smiling all giddy and elated, she unlocks and swings open that door with way too much enthusiasm that only grows when she sees him. He’s also clearly showered and changed, bun not as neat, slightly messy. She loves it. 

Dark gray sweats hang low accompanied by a plain black shirt as well as Jordans. His gaze sweeps her over, settling on her breast that press against her tee, offering a nice outline of her nipples.

Roman welcomes himself inside, grabbing her by her ass and pulling her into him. Solana inhales deeply, taking in the scent of his cologne. Masculine and woodsy. It’s so him. “What took you so damn long?”

She smiles as he leans down to kiss her. Solana’s hands move up his shirt, grasping onto his shoulders as she smiles into said kiss. “Patience.” 

He scowls, kicking the door closed behind them. One hand stays palming her ass cheek while the other moves to lock the door without even needing to look. “For you? That shit’s impossible.”

He kisses her once more before his eyes lift above and behind her. “She sleep?”

Solana nods. “Didn’t take very long. She was tired.” She drops her hands, scrunching the bottom of his shirt. “Though the two shirts she’s now sleeping with in her crib could also be factors.”

His eyes seem to light up at that. “Yeah?”

She shakes her head. “I couldn’t get them away from her.” At some point, Solana might have to talk to Roman about the non-existent sustainability of this shirt thing. Keep it up, and her baby girl’s crib will be filled with nothing but men’s shirts. It’s fine now, especially since, for whatever reason, Soraya seems to find comfort with them. 

But, eventually, they’ll have to figure something out. 

“Hey.” Her voice lowers, Roman’s hands shifting to her hips, continuing to hold her close to him. “I really enjoyed myself today.”

His lips lift into a small grin. “Really?”

“Yeah.” She nods, unable to not mimic his grin. “Your family and friends are amazing. You were right. I….I really didn’t have anything to worry about.” It feels like night and day. The anxiety that filled her when he first mentioned/invited her to meet them all. Now, she finds herself wondering about when the next get-together will be. “And more importantly, they….they took to Raya so well.”

“Of course, they did.” He sounds like he can’t understand why she would think or anticipate anything different. “Like mother, like daughter.” The back of his hand brushes against her cheek. “What’s not to love?” Fluttering in her stomach is accompanied by the blush on her face when he leans over and kisses her forehead. “I’m glad you had a good time.”

“I did,” she reassures, holding onto him. “Learned a lot about you as well.”

His brow lifts. “Oh?” She nods, giggling when he starts to scowl. “What the fuck did Ava tell you?”

Her giggling deepens. They have such an adorable relationship to her. “Nothing bad.” Nothing serious anyway. “I just….why didn’t you tell me you’re a fighter?”

There’s a shift in Roman’s disposition. It’s felt in the way he almost tenses against her. “What?”

“At the Warehouse?” He relaxes just a bit, though the initial reaction slightly confuses her. “I mean, it makes sense….” Solana drinks him in, imagining the clothes were non-existent, leaving him in the buff. Nothing but thick, strong muscles accentuating his big body. God, she needs him, and she needs him now. “But, I don’t know….maybe I could come see you fight sometime.” Her daughter too young to be exposed to that sort of thing, so Solana would definitely have to have either her mom, sister, or Kayden keep Raya, but with enough time given in advance, that could be arranged. 

Except, that doesn’t seem to be anything on Roman’s radar. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Solana scoffs quietly. “Why?” Wiggling her brows, she dances her finger down his solid chest. “Might be kinda sexy to see you kicking ass.”

Far from a violent person, there’s something appealing and alluring about imagining Roman in the ring fighting. Dominant. Leading. 

Sexy.

His scowl remains as he shakes his head. “That’s….that’s a different part of my life.” At that, her smile dims. “I want to keep that separate from you. Separate from Raya.”

By the end, she’s frowning. Everyone is allowed to have their thing, but she’s not fully understanding just what about this would make him want to keep it away from her and Raya.

“Roman—”

“Baby.” It’s disgusting how her thighs clamp together just from a single word. “You know I could talk to you all night, but that’s not what I came over here to do.”

It’s redirection, or maybe just avoidance. Regardless, it’s effective, nonetheless. 

Solana lowers her gaze and eyes, licking her lips. “So….” Slipping her hand past the waistband of his sweats and boxers. Solana gasps at the same time his jaw clenches when she attempts to wrap her hand around him, fingers unable to touch from his girth. “What did you come to do?”

—---------

“Oh, shit.”

The minute it leaves her mouth, she knows she’s fucked up. 

And, it’s less what was said and more how loud it was. 

He’d already warned her twice before about her volume, something she already knows needs to be monitored given her daughter who sleeps peacefully in the room over. The last thing anyone wants is for Raya's sleep to be disturbed, but none more than Solana and the man both behind and under her.

“Hmm,” he hums. Solana pants, doing her best to prepare for whatever awaits but never once stopping the gyrating of her hips. It’s addictive and sinfully delicious the stretch of his massive dick inside of her. How overwhelmingly good it feels to have him so deep, touching and hitting against her G-spot. His lap is nothing but a resting place for her juices that have to have that beach towel soaked. Understandable given this has to be the third round. Maybe fourth. 

Truth be told, she always loses count after the first. Its strength always too discombobulating for her to be tracking anything. 

“Didn’t I tell you to be quiet?” He asks in a dangerously calm voice as she transitions to bouncing on top of that God-tier dick. Roman trails his lips against her temple, one hand going to and squeezing her left breast. “Answer the question, Solana.”

Her “answer” is a moan and a ‘fuck’ she has to bite back and keep within as he presses the rose even closer to her clit. How she’s not screaming is a mystery to her, because he must have adjusted the setting. 

It’s never felt like this.

“I’m sorry,” she cries, trying to push the rose away, the overstimulation becoming too much. “Please, Ro—”

“But, you weren’t a good girl, were you?” His deep voice is both irritating and alluring and has her juices continuing to leak out of her stuffed pussy. "You didn't listen." His dick is suffocating and unforgiving, completely consuming and squeezing every inch out of her tight hole. “So, why should I help you?”

“You’re—fuck you.”

His chuckle reverberates against her as he moves to play with her nipple. “But, that’s what I’m doing, sweetheart.”

A truth she can’t deny unlike the burning of her thighs from having been in this position far too long. 

He’s sitting and propped up against her headboard. She’s straddling him, her back into his front, her legs spread on either side of him as she leans back, continuing to ride him. But, that’s not enough for Roman. The basics are never enough for him. He has to take it a step further, and this time, it comes in the form of using her rose on her clit while she bounces atop his lap. 

Again, too much.

He starts kissing along her shoulder, praising her endurance that comes from fuck knows where. She should be completely immobilized at this point. “And, you do such a good job for me.” Her eyes flutter shut, Solana suppressing another scream as he once again moves that damn rose even closer into her clit, deepening its impact, all while he continues to play with her titties. “Perfect lil’ thing….”

“Roman, I can’t—” She stops, her movements slowing, the sensations too immense. “I’m gonna–ahh!” She reaches for his wrist, trying to pull that damn rose away from her. Solana feels like she’s seconds away from borderline sobbing. “Roman, stop.”

“Is that really what you want?” No. It’s not what she wants, and he knows it. He knows her, knows her body, her limitations, when she’s at her breaking point. Has learned her all too well. “Naw….that’s not what you want.” She can practically see the smug ass grin on his handsome face as he continues to use that evil ass toy to torture her. “You love when I do this shit. Stretch this pussy until you can’t take it anymore. Make you all dumb, fucked out, and crying over my dick.”

The strangest, most non-existent sex sound leaves her mouth when he uses one of those big ass hands of his to cup both her breasts together in a way that has her head craned back, laid on his shoulder. 

Mouth ajar from the erotic of it all, he steals a kiss, dropping her heavy breast to angle her head so he can claim her mouth the same way he’s claimed her body. It’s uncomfortable in a sense, the contortionist approved position he’s finessed her into, but it’s a position that has her feeling pleasure in every inch and orifice of her body. 

It’s a nasty, spit swapping, tongue dancing kiss that has her body on fire, her orgasm pushing closer and closer to the surface. And, he knows it. It’s why he, in what feels like mere seconds, has ditched the rose and their current position for something else. 

His favorite.

“Shit, Roman.” It takes a godly amount of self-control for her to be mindful of her volume as he rocks into her with his massive dick. “Yes, baby, fuck me. Just like that. Oh.” On all fours, her ass tooted up and back arched perfectly—just how he likes—she struggles to keep from screaming, alerting the whole damn building just how good he’s fucking her. 

Roman’s hands dig into her hips, likely to leave some sort of marking or bruise come morning. Not that she cares. It won’t be the first time. 

She bites down hard on her bottom lip when his hand comes down on her ass. “Like that, sweetheart?”

All she can do is nod furiously, tears spilling over from how he drives into her, heavy balls slapping against her ass, her wetness smeared and leaking all over him and her. It’s almost concerning how wet he makes her pussy. Sometimes without even having to touch her. 

The man is dangerous. 

She gasps when he fists her hair, yanking her head back to smash his lips onto her while his hips grind that equally dangerous dick into her tight ass cunt.

“Could play in this pussy all day,” he murmurs, Solana’s mouth dropping open against him, her will crumbling and body failing on her. It’s all too much. 

“Please,” she sobs. 

His scoff is cruel. So cruel. “Please what?”

Fuck him. “I–I need to—fuck—please let me come.” Solana is seeing white, blue, red, and every fucking color of the rainbow at this point. Any attempts to pry his hand off her hip, to slow down the almost animalistic way he’s fucking her is null and void. 

His hips continue to snap into her, furthering her descent into insanity. “You wanna come?”

“Yes,” she cries, feeling it coming, feeling that overwhelming, inescapable sensation he wants to prolong. Wants to play God with, and in this moment, he might as well be God. Playing with her livelihood like the deity he looks like. 

Roman makes a tsk tsk tsk sound, pulling her up so her back is pressed against his front as he continues to fuck up and into her. “You think you deserve it?” Yes. No. Maybe. Shit, she doesn’t know. She just knows she needs it. “You didn’t listen to me.”

“I’m sorry.” Begs. She begs, because at this point, she’ll do whatever it takes to end this. It’s perfect and wonderful and every other great adjective, but she needs this release. “I’m sorry—”

Solana groans quietly when he moves one hand to her breast, squeezing. “Sorry, what?”

He slams into her with a brutally delicious thrust, perfectly hitting her G-spot. “Shit,” she pants, desperately grasping at his muscled forearm. “I’m sorry, papi.”

Roman’s hum of approval is the best thing she’s heard in some time. If ever. “Good girl.” Her cunt flutters around his impossible girth. “Now come for papi.”

Solana groans, hating and loving the way he controls her. Controls her body. Controls her orgasm as she comes, almost on command. It arrives, smashing and crashing into her, her entire body is shaking, trembling, damn near convulsing.

Roman kisses her, tongue and all, only breaking said kiss to continue to talk his shit, continuing to taunt and mock her as his dick drives her to sexual delirium. 

All the while he just praises her.

It’s enough to make her come all over again. 

He comes shortly after, shooting and emptying every drop of his load into her puffy, swollen pussy. 

It doesn’t bother her. Not the first time, and it most likely won’t be the last. 

Solana is studious and borderline anal with tracking her cycle and ovulation dates. She’s all but mastered the art of having this fine ass man come inside of during “safe” periods and pulling out during those “risky” periods. 

Shortly after both of them find orgasmic relief, she lays on top of him, completely spent, unable to move. The feel of him softening inside of her conjoined with lingering tremors from the aftermath of her unholy experience soothing almost. 

Eventually, Roman does all the work, carefully untangling her body from his while expertly removing the soaked towel so she’s laying on the sheets that are only partially damp from their…..activities. 

I need to just subscribe and save sheets at this point. 

Still trying to reel her senses back in after all five being fucked out of her, she’s somewhat paying attention when he gets up from the bed and walks into her bathroom. Solana partially blocks out the next few minutes, already knowing what to expect. Roman, ever the gentleman after spewing absolute filth and flipping her every which way, returns with a towel to clean her up after cleaning himself first. He tosses said towels into the hamper in her bathroom before climbing back into her bed that’s much too small for the monolithic man that he is. But, they make it work.

And, then there comes one of her favorite parts. The way he pulls her body into his, kissing her forehead, his finger trailing down her bare arm. 

Solana snuggles close to him. For a man made of nothing but hard, rippling muscles, he’s so comfortable. 

“If I’m late for work tomorrow, I’m blaming you.”

It wouldn’t be the first time late night, bomb ass, life-changing sex/dick would have her pushing for time. To be fair, she’s never actually been late for work, just right around the corner from it. Still, much too close for her liking. 

Roman chuckles. “I’ll compensate you.”

Solana snorts, her hand to his chest, tracing his tattoos. “That’s the problem. You compensate me too much.”

Honestly. For someone who’s never been a very sexual person, this man and his girthy nine inches have changed all that in a matter of a little over a month.

Magic. 

He’s fucking magic.

He’s also raw. Roman’s hand behind her back slips to her ass, giving a light squeeze. “Can’t help it. That pussy is fucking addictive.”

Slapping his arm, Solana hides her smile and blush in the safe confines of his strong chest. “Shut up.” His quiet laughter fills the room, dark, only illuminated by the dim lamp she has sitting on her nightstand. 

Her eyes shut, exhaustion from all that fucking catching up to her. 

“You almost woke her up again.” 

Solana peers up at him. That’s certainly the last thing she expected to hear him say, though it’s fair given the ‘again.’

“I’m not trying to,” she murmurs. “It’s….hard.”

Very much so. Hence why he’s right for using the word again to end his sentence. Soraya has already woken up once during her mother’s…..adult time, though a part of Solana wonders just how much it was the noise that disturbed her baby girl and more Raya just being a baby who randomly woke up in the middle of the night.

But, then there’s also the noise complaint she got from one of her neighbors, and that…..that Solana can’t justify. 

“I’ll try to be more quiet,” she agrees. A difficult task, for sure, but an important one, nonetheless.

He’s quiet at first. “Her room is so close to yours here,” he says, Solana partially unsure how to respond to that. It’s not like she can change the size of her apartment. “The guest room at my place is down the hall from my room….”

She looks up, still unsure just where he’s going. “Okay….”

He shrugs, continuing to trail his finger down her arm. “I already have the furniture….”

Solana stills. 

Oh.

A nervous bundle settles in her stomach. “Roman—”

“I’m not asking you to move in.” This time. He’s not asking this time. “I’m just saying it’d probably be easier for us to have sex at my place, because it’s bigger, and we don’t have to worry about the noise disturbing her or your annoying ass neighbors.”

She starts to protest the description of her neighbors as annoying but ultimately decides against it. Not relevant. Not relevant at all.

“Roman, we mostly have sex at night….”

“Exactly,” he agrees, moving his hand to her face, thumb brushing against her bottom lip. “And, if you let me set up the room for her, then you can just spend the night.”

“Roman—”

“Just think about it,” he interrupts, already knowing her initial answer is no.

Maybe.

Because Solana can acknowledge that there’s most definitely a difference between moving in together and the occasional sleepover. One is commitment. One is ease. 

Still, thinking about it feels like the best option in this moment. “Okay,” she agrees, laying back down against his chest. “I will.” 

“Good,” he sounds, hand over hers. Solana closes her eyes once more, ready and willing to come succumb to any sleep she can get in the few hours before she has to be up and ready to tackle yet another long ass day. “Can I ask you something?” 

Solana sighs. She’s so tired. Normally, pillow talk is great, but given she works both jobs and has school tomorrow, she’d much prefer to try to get some sleep. Still, talking with Roman is never something she regrets, so….small sacrifices. 

“Sure,” she finally answers.

More hesitation as he grabs her hand, thumb tracing the scar on her palm. “At the get-together earlier, the whole social media thing….what was that about?”

Solana stills, and she hates that her body is pressed against his, because he has to feel it. Has to know what it means. Regardless, she does her best to play it off. 

“I just….I’m very protective of Raya. I don’t want my or her face online. Too many weirdos out there.”

One in particular.

“I get that,” he responds, his voice on the edge of something else. Suspicion. “But, your reaction was…..you seemed nervous.” 

“I mean, I was nervous. I was meeting your friends and family—”

He sighs. “Solana—”

“I want you to come to Raya’s birthday party.”

It’s not exactly how she planned to ask, well, tell him now, nor can she deny it’s an intentional detour for avoidance. But, a truthful thing nonetheless. 

They’re both looking at each other, so she can see the surprise shift into his pretty brown eyes. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she replies. Solana moves her hand up his chest. “I mean, I’ve met your close friends and family. Feels like it’s only right and time you meet mine.” A truthful thing. Only a little over a month into meeting and knowing, dating, Solana feels ready to take that next step of having him at least meet the people closest to her. 

Adding with a small smile, she points out, “plus, I feel like Raya would want you there anyway.”

That’s a given. If there’s one thing Solana knows for certain and can’t deny, it’s that Raya adores her some Roman.

And, if she allows herself to be really honest…..it sometimes feels like Roman feels the same way about Raya. 

“If you can, of course.” Because Solana knows despite how flexible he can be with their meet-ups and dates, he’s still a businessman. A busy businessman. “If you can’t, that’s fi—”

“I’ll be there,” he interrupts, his voice firm. Something tells her come hell or high water, he’ll make it.

“Good,” she murmurs. Solana leans up to kiss him, smiling into said kiss, their lips lingering on each other before she lays her head back down on top of him. “Goodnight, Roman.”

There’s no hesitation this time as he kisses the top of her head. “Goodnight, Solana.” 

Solana releases a sigh of content, pleased to allow sleep to capture her, but while she rests peacefully on top of the man who comes to mean more and more to her as the days past, Roman is restless.

He’s not stupid. 

He knows damn well Solana was trying to change the subject.

Just like he knows she’s hiding something. Roman takes her hand, gently brushing over the scar that mars her palm. He thinks back to the background check he had Paul run on her. Nothing came out of it. Girl’s record was as clean as could be. 

The only thing, however, he now wonders about was her brief move to California a few years back. She was only there for a couple of months before moving back to Florida. He’d always figured it was because she was homesick or just found it to not be what she was hoping or expecting. 

Now….

Now, he’s wondering if it was more. 

If there’s a story there. A story she seems determined to keep to herself. 

It has him torn. Roman is a man who likes to know things. All the things. He hates being out of the loop with shit, but even more, he hates being lied to. 

Period.

Granted, it’s hard for him to be upset with her, and he’s not, but he does wish she would feel comfortable enough to tell him whatever it is she’s hiding. 

And, then he’s reminded that if he wants her to be honest with him, then he needs to be honest with her, and truth be told, Roman isn’t ready for that.

He’s not ready for that fallout. 

Not ready to lose her.

Or Raya.

He’ll tell her. He knows he has to, but in due time. When he can explain the why to her in a way that won’t feel as jarring. 

As unforgiveable.

Until then, he’ll enjoy the now. 

--------

welp. this is bound to end well, right?

[fleurvi]

Strap Worship | Mikasa Ackerman

genre: smut (mdni)

pairing: mikasa ackerman x fem!reader

cw: sub!mikasa, strap-on sex, strap-sucking, deepthroating, reader refers to the strap as their cock once.

wc: 700+

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There's something addictive about having a woman as powerful as Mikasa Ackerman on her knees in front of you. At first, she let you take charge in the bedroom because you were more experienced, but over time, she learned that she likes giving up control to you. She has to be precise to a worrying degree everywhere else in her life, and it's freeing to relax a little bit and let someone else take care of her. Sometimes, Mikasa wants to please you; you always take care of her, and she wants to help you now.

She knees in front of you, completely naked, helping fasten your strap-on harness. When she's done she places open-mouthed kisses on your hip until you thread your fingers through her short hair and tug her away.

“You wanna help me out, pretty girl? You wanna do something for me?” you ask, holding her head in place near the tip of your strap, which you tap against her lips when she mutters out a ‘yes.’ The verbal response makes you smile; she was too shy to do anything other than nod the first time you had sex, and you had to prompt the words out of her. “How about you get this cock nice and slick so I can fuck you?”

You lose your grip but don't pull your fingers free as she leans forward and wraps her lips around the tip. Some people may be confused as to why you would ask her to do something when you can't physically feel it. The answer is simply that it looks fucking hot. The obvious power dynamic at play sends chills down your spine, and the visual of Mikasa wrapping her pretty pink lips around your strap is enough to have you moaning out loud. Mikasa isn't faring much better, whimpering around your cock as she takes it further and further into her mouth.

“Yeah, just like that, you look so fucking good down on your knees for me,” you say, encouraging her as she begins to bob her head. She's enthusiastic as she sucks, drool pools at the corners of her mouth. She makes it sloppy for you, a perfect picture to get you off to. If she stayed down there for long enough, you may be able to cum just from watching her. The noises she makes are sinful, gagging slightly as the tip hits the back of her throat. She braces one hand on your thigh and reaches the other up to interlock it with your hand that isn't still in her hair. She takes the strap all the way to the base, keeping eye contact with you. “Atta girl,” you praise, holding her in place until she pushes off of you.

Your breath hitches in your throat as Mikasa tilts her head up, and you get a good look at her. Her eyes look desperate and hazy, and her mouth hangs open, panting for air. There's a line of saliva connecting her lips to the toy, joined by drool settling over her bottom lip. Her hair is messed up, clenched tightly in your fist. She looks completely ruined, and you haven't even touched her pussy yet.

“Fuck my face,” she begs, voice hoarse. “Please, I need it.”

You listen, holding her head in place as you slip your cock back between her lips. You start your thrusts gently, careful not to hurt her, but she grabs hold of your thigh and whines for you to go faster. You keep at your current pace, making a gradual increase in roughness. The filthy gagging noises and moans that force their way past the toy when you rock your hips into her waiting mouth are like fuel to you, driving your cock to the back of her throat.

The strap is soaked, and her pretty pussy is dripping for you. You pull your strap-on out of her mouth, grinning at the way her mouth stays open. You lean down, looking her in the eyes as you spit into her open mouth. She swallows like a good girl as she awaits her next instructions.

“Get on the bed, hands and knees. I'm gonna fuck this pussy so good”

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thanks for reading!!

timeskip mikasa with her short hair is soooo fine like I picture her as a mask in my head bc I think she'd dress masc too and oooooh masc mikasa is so hot 🤤💦

[rxqueenotd]

PART V

In the Roman world, damnatio memoriae was used to describe a range of actions taken against former leaders and their reputations. These actions included: defacing visual depictions, removing heads from public statues, chiseling names off inscriptions, and destroying coins.

summary: reader, who goes by 'Prima', was raised by a powerful Roman consul, under the reign of Imperator Septimius Severus. When it comes time for his eldest son, Caracalla, to marry again, a chain of events is set off, changing the course of Prima's life and the lives around her.

warnings: blood, knife play (?), foul language, pnv penetration, BDSM-ish situations, bloodletting, wlw, drug use, digital penetration, Ancient Rome as a warning within itself.

notes: there are 12,437 words in this chapter alone. I would apologize for not posting for a month, but as you can see, I have been cooking. Made it through Christmas, Hanukkah, my birthday, new years, the fucking dystopian US election, got accepted back to college to try for my bachelors in a totally different sphere than the degree I already hold and let a Leo man take me for a ride all within thirty days so if this chapter is not to your liking, lie to me and tell you love it anyways. As always, thanks to @trashmouth-richie for listening to my ramblings and feeding me words of encouragement. You are my brotha for life. And to @londonfog-chan for putting up with my perpetual absence as I’ve been riding the rollercoaster that has been January. This chapter has been a labor of love but I think it might be my favorite so far. Enjoy!

Caracalla departed hastily, leaving you alone after taking you against the wall, his voice ringing with authority as he barked commands to his guards as he exited your chambers. He was intent on visiting a local taberna, and you felt a twinge of sympathy for the patrons and the staff of the venue of his choosing. The thought of anyone crossing his path in such a foul mood stirred a sense of unease within you, for you knew the trouble that often accompanied him in such a state.

Sleep found you swiftly, even after the events you had endured. You weren’t sure how long you had slept when your chamber door creaked open, revealing Caracalla’s silhouette in the doorway. He lurched inside, bracing himself against the wall as he swayed, then marched toward the bed with determination.

Hastily, he tore his tunic over his head, tossing it aside with little care, followed by his jewels, which he flung onto the chaise beside the bed. Once fully undressed, he climbed in beside you, rolling onto his side to mirror your position. The scent of wine clung to him as he pulled you closer, clumsily reaching for the hem of your sleeping gown to lift it from your body. You arched and moved as needed, assisting him in his endeavor. When you were laid bare before him, he drew you closer into his embrace, his hand grasped your thigh to drape it over his own. You inhaled sharply as his lips brushed over the tender bite mark he had left upon you, remaining still, wary that such a simple gesture might provoke him or send him into a fit of rage.

He nestled his head beneath your chin, pressing your body as close to his as possible, his breath settled into a steady rhythm as he relaxed.

“Tell me you love me.” His hoarse voice spoke softly against the column of your throat.

You sighed, thinking of a million things you would rather say.

“Tell me, Prima,” he leaned up, untucking his head, blue eyes piercing yours, “tell me you love me.”

“Lucius-,” you started, but stopped when a small smile cracked across his lips, a light chuckle falling out from behind them.

“Lucius,’” he parroted back to you, followed by his signature giggle, “it has been ages since I have been called that.”

You let a silence descend around the two of you, hoping he would drop the matter entirely, but he continued to stare at you expectantly.

“I love you. Now please go to sleep.”

With that he was content to reposition himself, breath reaching a steady rhythm against the tender flesh of your neck.

You found yourself thinking that perhaps this was why he surrounded himself with courtesans, like a collection of soothing melodies for his restless soul. Each woman a different remedy for his erratic moods. Then you realized that it mattered not, that they were gone, and the only thing left in their wake was you. A blessing and a curse. A heavy feeling swept over you, followed by a bout of light sleep.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

You awakened on your back, entirely naked, a thin linen sheet barely covering your form. Sunlight streamed in from the balcony, and you swiftly shielded your eyes, groaning at the brightness that pierced your sleepy vision. Heavy footfalls approached, and the sheet was suddenly yanked away.

“My father summoned you an hour past,” Caracalla declared bluntly. “Yet you lie here, sprawled out like a weary whore.”

You groaned, burying your face deeper into the pillow.

“Leave me be to awaken properly,” you murmured, your voice muffled against the fabric.

“That is not possible,” he replied, reaching down to roll you over, pinching your nipple as he dragged you upright.

You yelped, swatting his hand away. He chuckled, a sound both throaty and high-pitched, echoing through your bedchamber as he backed away, holding the sheet with both hands.

You sat upright, narrowing your eyes at him. “Give me that,” you snapped, lunging forward to grab the sheet.

He sidestepped, holding it just out of reach with a smirk. “And here I thought you would be more gracious this morning.”

Ignoring his teasing, you reached again, this time managing to snag the edge of the fabric. With one sharp tug, you pulled it free from his grip, wrapping it around yourself as you stood.

“Out,” you commanded, pointing toward the door.

“Such gratitude for waking you,” he replied mockingly, backing away to give you space to get yourself together, ignoring your command.

You secured the sheet around your body and moved quickly to your wardrobe. You grabbed a plain linen robe, slipping it over your shoulders and tying it at the waist. The soft material was a stark contrast to the silk you often wore, but it would suffice.

The early morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains, casting golden streaks across the marble floor. You quickly fastened your hair into a loose knot, pinning it in place with a bronze pin. You were out of time to indulge in the laziness the morning had offered.

The hallway was cool and quiet as you stepped out, the air brushing against your skin. Caracalla joined you without a word, falling into step as you navigated the twists and turns of the private residence. The faint scent of figs and incense lingered, mingling with the distant hum of servants going about their tasks.

Inside the Imperator’s quarters, the scene was surprisingly casual. Septimius lounged on a lectus, his feet wrapped in steaming cloths, hands resting across his chest as though he didn’t have a care in the world.

Geta stood near the terrace, wrapped in a silk robe, his back to the room. Sunlight spilled in through the open curtains, highlighting the slight tilt of his head as he gazed outside. At the sound of your entrance, he turned, his eyes sliding over you and Caracalla before landing on Septimius with an indifferent look.

“Ah, there you are,” Septimius said, waving you over. His tone was light, though his eyes had a way of lingering a little too long.

You moved to the lectus across from him, sitting carefully on the edge. Caracalla stayed behind it, silent but looming, his presence as steady as a beating heart.

Geta didn’t move from his spot by the terrace. His expression gave nothing away, but the weight of his gaze lingered a moment too long before he turned back toward the sunlight. The air in the room wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t exactly friendly either- tension you’d come to expect in their presence.

Septimius leaned forward, crossing his arms with a casual air. “You know, it’s remarkable how you manage to navigate such stormy weather,” he said, his voice dripping with feigned admiration. “Not everyone can handle the complexities of family... or the occasional stormy temperament.” He chuckled lightly, but the glint in his eyes suggested he was enjoying the game.

“I am no stranger to stormy temperament,” you stated, your expression steady as you reached for a cup of wine sitting among a tray of fruits and cheese.

Septimius raised an eyebrow, his smile shifting slightly as he leaned in, clearly intrigued. “Ah, but rain can be quite the tempest, can’t it? I admire your confidence. It takes a certain... resilience to weather it.” His tone was playful, but the underlying challenge was unmistakable.

You took a sip of the wine, letting it settle before responding. “Resilience is a necessity in a world like this. One must learn to enjoy the rain, or risk being swept away.” You glanced at Geta, who seemed to be absorbing the conversation from his spot by the terrace, his expression still unreadable.

“Wise words,” Septimius replied, his voice smooth as silk. “But I must wonder—what happens when the storm grows too fierce? Do you still enjoy it, or do you seek shelter?” He leaned back slightly, his gaze intense, as if he were gauging your every reaction.

You could feel the tension in the air, but you were determined to hold your ground. “Sometimes, shelter is just an illusion. It’s better to face the storm head-on than to hide away and hope it passes.”

Septimius chuckled softly, clearly enjoying the exchange. “A bold stance, indeed. I do appreciate your spirit. It makes for quite the captivating conversation.”

“Get on with it,” Caracalla huffed from behind you, impatience dripping from his words. “What business brings us here?”

Geta turned, arms crossed tightly over his chest, glancing between Caracalla and Septimius with a look of expectation.

“You have acted like children, reckless and foolish,” Septimius began, his tone shifting as he sat up, the gravity of his words settling in the room. He fixed his gaze on Caracalla, speaking over your head, “You cavort with whores right under our noses, and the whole of Rome bears witness to your folly. The taberna you visited last night was paranoid by your presence, and this morning, the staff and patrons are buzzing with tales of your indiscretions.”

“And let me guess,” Caracalla interjected, a smirk creeping onto his face, “Your faithful hound, Macrinus, has kept you well informed of the situation.”

Macrinus appeared at the terrace, a shadowy figure emerging into the room. You realized then what had drawn Geta’s gaze.

“It seems that by merely uttering his name, I have conjured him,” Caracalla remarked with a sarcastic laugh, clearly enjoying the unfolding drama.

Macrinus raised his hands, palms outward, a sign of mock surrender. He stepped forward with careful deliberation, stopping beside the lectus where Septimius lounged. Folding his hands in front of him, he inclined his head slightly.

“I am here by request,” Macrinus said, his tone calm but firm, “not to meddle in the quarrels of the Imperial household.” He tugged the edge of his toga across his shoulder, smoothing the fabric around him.

“And yet,” Caracalla cut in, moving closer to you, his voice sharper than a soldier’s blade, “here you are.”

Geta cocked his head to one side, studying Macrinus with a faint smirk. The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the rustle of fabric as Geta moved closer.

“It is at my order that he is here, brother,” Geta said, spitting the word brother like it left a bad taste in his mouth.

You turned, casting a glance over your shoulder at Caracalla. Confusion flickered across your face as your gaze darted to meet his, searching for answers in his eyes.

“What is this about?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady, though suspicion tugged at your tone.

“The empire needs an heir,” Septimius said sharply, his words cutting through the air like the crack of a whip. “It is your one duty—to give Rome a future. Yet here we are, without a successor, or any sign that one is to come. Is it your husband’s endless whoring that is to blame, or your taste for plotting with your maids to carry out your schemes? I know not, and frankly, I do not care. What I do know is that this cannot continue.”

His accusation hit like a slap, the air thickening around you. He had seen more than he let on, unraveling the plan you thought he had believed so easily.

“And now,” Caracalla murmured, his hand tightening on your shoulder, “you understand. He will extend the hand of favor even as he holds a dagger to your throat.”

Your jaw tightened, your gaze snapping back to Septimius. The weight of his scrutiny weighed down on you, but you met it with steel in your eyes. Whatever game he thought he played, you would not yield so easily.

“And yet, despite your shared transgressions, you two would make a match worthy of the gods themselves—if only you could cease your scheming against one another long enough to see it,” Septimius declared, his tone edged with amusement. “But because of those very transgressions, you shall both spend the remainder of the season in Baiae.”

His words hung heavy in the air, and you turned your gaze to Caracalla, whose face was a storm of fury.

“Exile?” Caracalla spat through gritted teeth. “You would exile the Augustus? The emperor of Rome?”

“How many times must I remind you,” Septimius said as he rose, his movements slow but deliberate. Geta stepped forward to steady him, while Macrinus bowed and retreated. “You are Augustus and emperor only by my will, Marcus.”

The lectus creaked as Caracalla lunged forward, but Geta steadied himself between Septimius and Caracalla, while Macrinus seized Caracalla by the shoulder, hauling him back. Amidst the sudden chaos, you realized your hand had found Caracalla’s, and his grip tightened with such ferocity that you feared your bones might snap.

Even in his weakened state, his feet swollen and discolored like a venomous wound, Septimius’s grin was sharp and unyielding.

“Perhaps a new line of succession is what Rome truly needs.” This time, his gaze did not fall on you, but on Geta, as though he had plucked the very stars from the heavens.

“You serpent!” Caracalla roared at his brother, struggling against Macrinus’s newfound hold, his voice raw with betrayal. His grip on your hand grew tighter, a reflection of his seething rage.

Geta, unmoved, merely smiled as he returned to Septimius’s side, tending to the aging emperor with practiced ease.

“Leave me,” Septimius commanded with a languid wave of his hand, his voice cold and final.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

“What ails him, exactly?” you asked at last, breaking the heavy silence that had settled over the carriage. The rhythmic creaking and jolting of the wheels, each bump in the road, seemed a constant reminder of your shared exile to Baiae.

Caracalla turned his gaze to you for the first time since the journey began, his expression shadowed. “His feet swell,” he said, his tone flat. “To sizes unimaginable. They blacken, as you saw—purple and crude.” He grimaced, as if the very memory sickened him, before turning his eyes back to the window. “And then there is the plague. The dregs of it, lingering from the last campaign. The bloodletting, the vomiting. It comes and goes, but when it comes...” He trailed off, his lip curling slightly.

You grimaced at the image he painted, wondering how the truth about the Imperator had been kept so carefully concealed.

“This is your doing, you know,” Caracalla said suddenly, his voice devoid of inflection, raspy and light, as though he were stating some mundane fact.

“How do you reason that?” you asked, genuinely curious despite the sting of the accusation.

“Your very presence disturbs the balance,” he replied, his gaze fixed on the passing countryside. “And that little scheme of yours—” He turned his head slightly, though his eyes did not meet yours. “Amateur. Endearing, almost, the way you thought you had fooled us all.”

“I believe,” you said, your voice calm but firm, “that regardless of my presence, this house would have toppled under the weight of its own mistakes.”

“Do you?” he asked, tilting his head, studying you now with a glint of something between skepticism and intrigue.

“I tire of this,” you continued, your voice steady but carrying an edge of frustration. When he turned to look at you, you continued, “The endless back and forth. I wish you would decide whether you like me or loathe me.”

He laughed, his signature cackle, the corners of his lips curling into a knowing smirk. “Ah, but you will come to learn, dear wife,” he said, his tone laced with sardonic amusement, “that those two are often one and the same.”

“Macrinus,” you let his name roll off your tongue as you searched your memory. “I cannot say he is familiar to me.”

“He wouldn’t be,” Caracalla replied, his voice carrying a tone of indifference. “He was a slave in the reign of Marcus Aurelius, earned his freedom in the arena.”

“An extraordinary feat,” you remarked, glancing at him. “And his influence upon your father? What of that?”

Caracalla shrugged, shifting lower against the cushioned bench, his gaze wandering to the hills rolling past the window. The faint scent of cypress filtered into the carriage through the open slits. Outside, the road stretched ahead, bordered by rows of olive trees.

“The Garmantian campaign,” he began, his voice heavy with recollection. “A few years ago. Macrinus advised my father then. His blood ties him to that land, or so he claims—descended from those desert tribes.”

You nodded, studying him as the sunlight flickered over his pallid features. He turned back to you, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if wondering whether you deserved to know more.

“I led my first unit there,” he continued, almost reluctantly. “Macrinus was at my side. Geta—useless as ever—remained with father, an onlooker on a high ridge above the battle. A coward in all but name.” His lips curled into a sardonic smile. “He spent the rest of his time hidden away with the other scribes and so-called strategists, poring over scrolls instead of wielding a sword. A fitting place for him—among the weak and the overcautious.”

“He—” You shook your head, the words catching in your throat. You tried to push the thought away, to banish it to the shadows of your mind. But Caracalla was not one to let things lie.

“Say it,” he demanded, his voice low and sharp, like the scrape of a blade against stone. He leaned forward, his piercing gaze locking onto you as he reached out, fingers closing around your wrist with an iron grip. You reflexively tried to pull away, but his strength overpowered yours, dragging your hand back into his grasp.

“He is the one who told me about your courtesans,” you confessed, the words spilling out before you could reconsider. Your eyes darted anywhere but to his face, tracing the fine carvings on the wooden frame of the carriage, the dusty light filtering through its windows. “He showed me where you were that night—the last night you spent with them. I... I watched for a while, but I left when I had seen enough.”

For a moment, silence hung heavy between you. Then, with a snarl of disgust, he flung your hand aside, as if the very touch of you burned. His fist slammed into the roof of the carriage with such force that the wood creaked in protest, the sound echoing around you like a thunderclap.

“Stop!” he barked, his voice cut through the air. The driver obeyed instantly, pulling the horses to an abrupt halt. The jolt threw you forward, your palms bracing against the edge of the seat as the wheels ground to a halt on the gravel road.

You watched as Caracalla flung the carriage door open with a force that made the hinges groan. In a single, fluid motion, he bounded down the steps and onto the packed gravel. Two guards immediately stepped forward, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords, their faces unreadable but watchful.

Alarmed, you slid closer to the window, gripping its edge. “What are you doing? What madness is this?”

“Horse!” he roared, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of the countryside like a war cry. Moments later, a white stallion was led into view by a nervous stablehand, its mane gleaming like ivory under the midday sun.

You leaned farther out, your voice urgent. “Have you lost your senses? What has gotten into you?”

He ignored you, mounting the stallion with the practiced ease. From atop the horse, he turned his gaze back to you—a look of pure disdain etched into his face.

“I will see you in Baiae,” he spat, his tone laced with venom. Without waiting for a reply, he spurred the stallion into motion.

You could only watch as the beast surged forward, its hooves pounding against the earth, kicking up a cloud of dust that swirled in the air long after it had gone. The guards scrambled to follow, their own horses hurriedly prepared, but Caracalla was already disappearing into the horizon, leaving behind the echo of his fury.

Inside the now-emptied carriage, the silence pressed down on you, broken only by the distant cries of cicadas and the soft rustle of the olive trees.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Caracalla stayed gone for three days. On the third night, he finally returned, stumbling into the villa, drunker than a deckhand. His tunic was crooked, his hair disheveled, and he reeked of wine.

“Did you have fun while I sat alone?” you asked, not bothering to glance up from the scroll in your hands.

He stopped mid-stride, squinting at you with furrowed brows. His eyes landed on you, stretched out on the lectus, one foot dangling off the edge, your toes curling lazily as if you hadn’t a care in the world.

“You’re never alone,” he said flatly, his voice slurred, the sour tang of wine thick in the air around him.

“True,” you replied with a shrug, “but that is not the point.”

You rolled up the scroll with a sharp snap, the sound echoing through the atrium like a whip crack.

“Where have you been?” you demanded, your voice cutting through the quiet. “We were sent here for one reason: for me to conceive. Not for you to run around town acting like a whoring drunkard.”

You knew full well where he had been. Metella had been your eyes for the first two days, tailing him to the seedier corners of the city—brothels, taverns, gambling dens. By the third day, her reports were unnecessary. The smell of him now told you enough. Meanwhile, Cassia had stayed behind to tend to you, watching as you fumed, pacing the villa with balled fists.

Caracalla’s mouth twisted into a smirk, his flushed face shining in the lamplight. “You’ve grown bold, haven’t you?” he said, his tone mocking as he leaned against a marble column for balance. “What is it, cara mea? Have you grown bored of the luxury and servants here that you now pass the time by scolding me?”

You stood from the lectus, smoothing your stola with deliberate calm, the sound of the fabric brushing against the mosaic floor louder than it should have been.

“Luxury?” you snapped, stepping closer until you could see the hazy glaze in his eyes. “Do not mistake my patience for contentment. While you waste our time and fortune, the empire waits. Rome waits. You were sent here to do your duty, not to disgrace yourself in taverns and brothels. Or would you prefer I send word to Rome that Caracalla has no interest in producing heirs? That he remains flaccid?”

His smirk faded, and his hand shot out, gripping your wrist. It wasn’t rough, but it was firm enough to send a message. “You tread dangerous ground,” he growled, his voice low and menacing.

“And so do you,” you shot back, refusing to flinch. “But unlike you, I know how to keep my balance.”

For a long moment, the two of you stared at each other, the tension stretching thin. Then, his grip loosened, and he let your wrist fall.

“Fine,” he muttered, brushing past you, his steps uneven as he headed toward his quarters. “I’ll do what is required. But do not think for a moment you control me.”

You stood there in the silence, your wrist tingling where his hand had been. When his footsteps faded, you let out a slow breath, your face hardening.

It was only a moment later that you heard the sharp whinny of a horse and the steady thud of hooves on sand. With a grunt, you hauled yourself to the balcony, gripping the iron railing as you leaned out. Your eyes widened in disbelief as you spotted Caracalla, riding off into the darkening horizon. He was headed straight for the heart of the night’s chaos—the very center of hedonism and excess.

Hurling yourself from the railing, your bare feet slipping across the cool floor, you swiftly secured your sandals, the straps biting into your skin as you hurried down to the atrium. At the grand doorway, two guards stood at attention.

“Ready my horse,” you commanded, your voice firm as you draped the light folds of your palla loosely around your neck, a gesture that spoke of both urgency and authority.

One of the guards faltered, his eyes widening as though struck dumb by your words. “Do your ears fail you?” you snapped, your tone sharpened with impatience. “I said, ready my horse!”

“My lady, you cannot ride into the city,” the elder of the two guards replied, his voice steady though his posture betrayed hesitation. The younger guard straightened, his eyes darting nervously around, as if afraid to meet your gaze for long. “It is unseemly for one of your rank to travel without accompaniment, let alone on horseback.”

You closed your eyes, drawing a measured breath before exhaling sharply, a brisk sigh of exasperation.

“If you wish for the household slaves to find your corpse in the ocean and your head upon the beach come dawn, then by all means, ignore my command.”

The elder guard hesitated, his jaw tightening briefly before he turned on his heel, striding with purpose through the atrium and vanishing through the side passage that led to the stables.

The younger guard remained rooted in place, attempting to maintain composure. You began pacing the mosaic-tiled floor, your sandals echoing softly in the vast space as your hands twisted together. Frustration burned within you, like a wildfire sweeping through dry plains, all encompassing, devastating.

When the elder guard reappeared in the doorway, you strode past him without a word. Outside, the pale horse stood waiting. With practiced grace, you swung onto its back, dismissing the guard's offered hand as though it were an insult.

“I never intended to ride into the city alone, Praetorian,” you said, casting a sharp glance down the bridge of your nose at him. “The two of you will accompany me—if you can keep up.”

Without waiting for a reply, you tightened your grip on the reins and urged the horse forward. The stallion responded instantly, surging into motion as the dull nudge of your sandal found its mark against its flank.

The night wind tore at your palla as the world became a blur of shadow and moonlit sand. The rhythmic thud of hooves against the earth echoed like a battle drum. The roar of the distant sea mingled with the hiss of sand kicked up in your wake, but you paid it no mind.

Glancing back, you caught sight of the two Praetorians scrambling to mount their own steeds. Their movements seemed clumsy compared to your own, and you allowed yourself a fleeting smirk of satisfaction. If they meant to follow, they would have to earn their place at your side.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Baiae stretched out before you as the horse’s hooves hit cobblestone. The city shimmered even in the moonlight, its white marble villas gleaming like polished pearls, their red-tiled roofs descending toward the sea. Steam rose in ghostly plumes from the famed baths, filling the air with the smell of sulfur and salt.

As you rode deeper, the streets grew narrower, lined with colonnades that framed courtyards filled with flickering oil lamps. Laughter spilled out from wine-soaked feasts, the hymns of a lyre mingling with the rhythmic clapping of dancers. Even at this late hour, Baiae did not sleep.

To your right, the black expanse of the sea was alive with reflected light, where torch-lit barges and private vessels floated lazily. Beyond them, the looming shadow of Mount Vesuvius stood silent. The Praetorians, ever watchful, followed your lead as you turned down a quieter street, away from the bustle of the forums and toward the private quarter. The hum of activity dimmed, replaced by the presence of towering gates and high walls.

You slowed your horse as the entrance to your destination came into view—a grand domus perched high on a hill. The vast bronze gates were adorned with intricate mouldings of Neptune and his trident, and from beyond them came the faint sound of water cascading into a central atrium fountain. You had been here before, as a child, remembering its purpose and what you had witnessed of its opulence.

This was not the domain of commoners but of those whose power carried the fortunes of Rome itself.

“Guard the gate,” you instructed, your tone leaving no room for argument. You handed the reins to a waiting slave and stepped forward, the weight of the night’s purpose settling on your shoulders.

You paused at the gates of the grand domus, but before you could step forward, the elder Praetorian dismounted and approached, his expression unreadable.

“My lady,” he began cautiously, his voice low to avoid drawing the attention of the slaves nearby. “This is not where you will find him.”

Your gaze snapped to his, sharp and questioning. “Explain yourself.”

The Praetorian’s jaw tightened. “He…” The words hung uneasily in the air, “He resides elsewhere in Baiae—at an establishment by the lower harbor.”

You studied him for a moment, noting the flicker of discomfort in his demeanor. Finally, you gave a nod. “Then you will lead me there. Now.”

“As you command, Domina,” he said, bowing slightly before striding back to his horse. The younger Praetorian exchanged a nervous glance with you before following suit.

Once mounted, the elder guard took the lead, guiding you down winding streets that grew increasingly narrow and shadowed. The splendor of Baiae began to give way to a more primal energy. The laughter was harsher, the music seductive. The lower harbor stretched out before you. Tabernas and brothels clustered together, their facades painted in deep colors, their entrances crowded with figures cloaked in secrecy and sex. Men bellowed drunkenly, women beckoned from balconies draped in rich silks, and shadows moved between doorways.

The Praetorian pulled his horse to a stop before a particular building—modest compared to the grand villas of the upper city, yet unmistakably high class for its kind. Its doorway was framed by carved columns, and a faint, seductive melody drifted out.

“This is the place,” the elder guard said, dismounting and stepping aside. His expression was carefully neutral, though his clenched fists showed his discomfort.

You slid off your horse, handing the reins to the younger guard. The flickering light from a brazier near the entrance cast golden hues across your face as you stepped toward the door, the faint hum of voices and laughter growing louder with each step.

“Wait here,” you ordered, your voice firm. The Praetorians hesitated, exchanging a glance, but obeyed, remaining by the doorway.

Pushing aside the heavy curtain that covered the entrance, you stepped into the warmth and haze of the brothel. The air was thick with incense and wine, the light dim but gilded, as though the entire room were lost in a fog. Figures reclined on cushions and couches, their forms draped in flowing fabrics, their laughter rich and unrestrained.

Laughter rippled through the air, sharp and boisterous, as men gambled at low tables, surrounded by women who hung on their every word. You kept your face neutral, though anger simmered in your chest. As you stepped deeper into the room, making your way through clusters of loungers and revelers, your gaze caught on a scene at the far end of the chamber.

There he was.

Caracalla lounged at a table, his tunic loosely belted, his posture relaxed. His profile was illuminated by the golden light, the faint glint of rings on his fingers catching your eye as he threw dice onto the table with a triumphant laugh. The men around him roared with approval—or fear—it was difficult to tell.

What caught your attention more was the woman draped across his lap, her arm lazily curled around his neck. Her hair, pinned in loose waves, framed a face disturbingly familiar. Her features bore an uncanny resemblance to your own—enough to make your breath catch in your throat. She leaned into him, laughing softly as she whispered something in his ear.

Your stomach twisted, rage and disbelief stirring within you. For a moment, you stood stuck to the spot, your veil slipping further down your neck as you struggled to maintain your composure.

“My lady, are you lost?”

The voice startled you. A woman with a painted face and a sheer stola approached, her expression one of concern. Her kohl-lined eyes searched yours, and her hand reached out to gently touch your arm. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said softly, her tone maternal despite her surroundings. “It is dangerous to wander too close to him.”

You blinked, your focus shifting to her. “Dangerous?” you repeated, your voice calm but cold.

Her grip on your arm tightened ever so slightly as she leaned in, lowering her voice. “He’s not a man to trifle with. Especially not for a lady like you.” She glanced over her shoulder toward Caracalla, as if fearful he might see her speaking to you. “Come, I’ll take you somewhere safe before he notices you.”

You stiffened, pulling your arm free. “Do you know who I am?” you asked, your words sharp.

The woman hesitated, her brows furrowing slightly. “No, my lady, but it doesn’t matter. You’re too fine to be here.” Her gaze flicked to your attire, the richness of your fabric setting you apart from everyone else in the room. “You don’t want his attention, believe me. It will ruin you.”

Her words only fanned the flames of your fury. Your eyes drifted back toward Caracalla, who was oblivious to your presence, his focus entirely on the woman perched in his lap.

Your jaw tightened, and your hands clenched into fists at your sides.

The woman hesitated, her painted lips parting as though to protest. Taking pause, she stepped closer, her expression softening with concern.

“Caracalla is not the kind of man a woman like you should ever let too close. He... plays games. Dangerous ones.”

You frowned as her words sent a chill through you. “What do you mean by that?”

She tilted her head, her dark hair spilling over her shoulder like silk. She seemed to hesitate, wondering how much to reveal. Then she leaned back slightly, her expression grave, yet seductive.

“He has... peculiar appetites,” she said carefully, her voice almost teasing, her eyes betraying the seriousness of her words. “He likes to test people. Push them to their limits. He likes to play with swords—not just on the battlefield. He enjoys seeing how far he can go before someone breaks.”

You stiffened, the insinuation settling in your stomach. “What are you saying?”

Her lips curved into a slow, almost feline smile. “He enjoys pain. Giving it, taking it. There are whispers, my lady. Whispers of him bleeding women just to see how much they can endure. For his amusement. For his... pleasure.”

The air between you seemed to grow colder despite the warmth of the room. Your breath caught in your throat, a thousand questions circling your mind, but you couldn’t find the words.

“Wait,” she said, her voice quieter now, almost pleading. “You look unwell, Domina. Come with me—just for a moment. Some fresh air will do you good.”

You opened your mouth to dismiss her, but she took your arm again, this time more gently, and began guiding you back through the crowded room.

The din of laughter and gambling faded behind you as she led you through a side door, out into the cool night.

You found yourself standing in a small courtyard, enclosed by ivy-covered walls. A single olive tree stood at its center, its leaves shimmering faintly in the moonlight. The sounds of the brothel were distant now, muffled by the stone walls, leaving only the soft rustle of leaves and the distant crash of waves to fill the silence.

“Wait here,” the woman said, releasing your arm and disappearing briefly through another doorway. When she returned, she held a small clay cup of wine, the dark liquid sloshing slightly as she walked.

Her movements were fluid, as though she belonged more to the shadows than the smoky room she had found you in. Her piercing eyes studied you as she handed you the cup of wine, her expression a mix of concern and curiosity.

You accepted the cup, though you did not drink immediately. “You haven’t told me your name,” you said, your voice steadier.

She blinked, surprised, then gave a small smile. “Prosperina,” she said. “It’s what they call me here.”

Her eyes, sheer and piercing, were an unearthly shade of blue, a stark contrast against her tanned complexion.

“Why do you care if I am well?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

Prosperina hesitated, then shrugged. “Because I have seen what happens to women who cross his path.” She gestured vaguely to the brothel. “They’re drawn in, thinking they’ll find something—power, protection, even love. But he’s not a man who gives. He takes.” Her voice softened. “And you don’t belong here. Anyone can see that.”

You glanced down at the cup in your hands, the wine’s surface rippling faintly in the breeze.

“Do you have anything stronger?” you asked, your tone cool but deliberate.

Her painted lips parted in surprise, then curved into a faint smile, a flicker of amusement dancing in her gaze. “You don’t strike me as the type to indulge, my lady,” she said softly.

You raised an eyebrow, meeting her eyes with a look that left no room for argument. “Tonight is an exception.”

Prosperina studied you for a long moment, her gaze calculating, as though weighing whether she should agree. Finally, she nodded, the golden bracelets on her wrists clinking softly as she turned. “Come with me,” she said, her voice low and inviting.

She led you through a narrow passage on the side of the courtyard. A small doorway opened into her quarters. The walls were painted with faded frescoes of nymphs and satyrs, the colors dulled by time. A low couch covered in silken throws occupied the center, while an assortment of small, clay jars and glass vials lined a wooden table nearby.

Her sheer gown clung to her curves like a second skin as she leaned against the edge of the table in her quarters, the lamplight highlighting the rich tan of her skin and the piercing ice-blue of her eyes. She studied you with a gaze that seemed to see more than it should, her lips curving into a faint, knowing smile.

She held up a pipe delicately, her fingers adorned with gold rings that caught the light. The gesture was casual and playful, but there was confidence in her tone, as though she already knew your answer.

When you hesitated, her smile deepened, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. “Don’t look at me like that,” she teased, moving closer. “I don’t bite—unless you would like me to.”

She moved like a cat, her steps deliberate and silent, her gaze never leaving yours. When she extended the pipe toward you, her fingers brushed yours, lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.

“Go on,” she urged, her voice dropping to a whisper. “It will help you forget, just for a little while.”

Prosperina tilted her head, her lips curving into a sly smile as she held the pipe closer. “A bold woman deserves bold choices,” she murmured, her voice low and inviting. “Breathe in. Let go of everything else.”

Without a word, you lifted the pipe to your lips and inhaled deeply, the smoke burning slightly as it filled your lungs.

The effect was instant. Your chest tightened for a heartbeat before a rush of warmth spread throughout your body, followed by a dizzying sensation that sent you sprawling backward onto the plush couch. The room seemed to tilt and spin, the dim lamp light splitting into ribbons of gold that danced across the walls.

Shapes and colors began to swirl, cascading like liquid through your vision, while Prosperina’s voice became an echo, far away yet hauntingly close. “There it is,” she purred, leaning over you, her dark hair cascading like a curtain around her face. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

You blinked, but the world refused to focus. Shadows danced and shifted, morphing into figures that were familiar and strange. You saw flashes of faces—some from memory, others from dreams. The air felt electric against your skin.

Prosperina knelt beside you, her fingers brushing your temple as she studied you with fascination. “You’re caught between worlds now,” she whispered, her voice velvety and hypnotic. “Do you feel it?”

Your lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, a strange, breathless laugh escaped, the sound foreign even to your own ears. Your body felt weightless, as though the couch beneath you had disappeared.

“Relax,” Prosperina cooed, her touch sliding down your arm in a slow motion. “Let it take you. There’s no need to fight.”

The room twisted and blurred, melting into something unfamiliar, but familiar at the same time. Prosperina’s face hovered above you briefly, her sharp features smearing like wet paint before disappearing into the shadows. In their place, a figure emerged—a face both familiar and haunting. Geta.

His expression was soft, kind, the way you remembered it when you were children, before the weight of politics and betrayal had driven a wedge between everyone you had once cared for. His lips moved, though no sound came, his words carried away by the same wind that seemed to swirl through your mind.

“Geta,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, thick with longing and confusion. You reached for him, but your hand passed through his form like smoke, the edges of his figure distorting before re-forming. His eyes—so familiar, so painfully warm—locked with yours. For a moment, you thought he might speak, but the image shifted violently.

Suddenly, Caracalla’s face loomed in front of you, his blue eyes filled with anger and frustration. “What are you doing, Prima?” his voice boomed, though you couldn’t tell if it was real or imagined. “You think you can escape this? Escape me?”

The world around you shattered like glass, fragments of Caracalla’s image reforming. Now he was standing over you, his hand gripping your chin, forcing you to look at him. “You’re mine,” he said, his voice a growl, filled with something dangerous. “No matter what you tell yourself. No matter who you try to run to.”

You flinched, but the vision changed again. Geta reappeared, his expression now filled with sorrow as though he could see what you had become. He extended his hand, his mouth forming the words Come back to me, though you couldn’t hear him. The image of Caracalla stood behind him, watching with a mixture of rage and jealousy.

The two brothers began to blur together, their features morphing and overlapping until you couldn’t tell them apart. The figures around you spun faster, their voices rising in a symphony of anger, sorrow, and something else—something deeper and more primal, echoing through your bones.

Your chest tightened, the sensations pulsing through your body becoming almost unbearable. You gasped for air, your vision blurred, as a shadow loomed over you again. This time, it was Prosperina, her voice cutting through the confusion.

“Easy, Domina,” she murmured, her tone soothing yet laced with amusement. “You’re seeing the truth you’ve buried deep. Let it come. Let it free you.”

Prosperina’s piercing blue eyes locked onto yours as the swirling haze of the hallucinations ebbed and flowed like the Tiber. Her touch became firmer, her hand trailing from your arm to your shoulder, her fingers brushing the curve of your neck. The room felt distant, the visions melting into shadows as her presence anchored you back in the present.

“The gods have chosen you,” she whispered, her lips so close to your ear that her breath sent shivers down your spine. “And I can see why. You are a force.”

Prosperina’s hands moved along the length of your body, her touch tracing the curve of your waist. Her fingers slipped beneath the fabric of your stola, their warmth igniting a fire that burned through you. You gasped as her touch grew bolder, her hands exploring your skin with an intensity that made your breath hitch.

Your body arched instinctively into her as her pointer finger stroked your weeping slit, prying you open gently, her name escaping your lips in a whisper as your fingers tangled in her dark hair. Her touch was intoxicating, sending waves of pleasure through you, dull and aching.

She leaned closer, her breath hot against your ear. “Domina,” she murmured, her voice low, “you are divine.”

She worked you expertly, finding the spot within you that you had never known existed. Your cunt pulsated around her slender digits, eyes rolling closed, legs trembling. The pleasure was overwhelming, a pressure building within you that left you trembling, on the edge of something you had never experienced before.

Then, without warning, a cry escaped your lips. It echoed softly in the room, but it felt foreign, as if it belonged to someone else. But before you could experience the sensation– give it a name and truly define it– the door slammed open.

The sound shattered the moment like a roll of thunder. Your head snapped toward the doorway, your body stiffening as a wave of cold panic washed over you.

There, silhouetted in the flickering lamplight, stood Caracalla. His piercing eyes blazed with fury, his face twisted in an expression that was equal parts shock and rage.

“What is this?” he roared, his voice cutting through the room.

Prosperina froze, her hands still on you, though the warmth of her touch now felt like fire against your skin. She quickly withdrew, her movements sharp, as she turned to face him.

You sat up, your breathing ragged, your mind racing to catch up with what had just happened. The haze of the devil’s breath made it hard to think clearly, but the sight of Caracalla’s seething form brought you into the present.

“Answer me, Prima!” he snarled, his voice dripping with venom as he stepped into the room, his gaze darting between you and Prosperina.

Prosperina’s eyes flickered to you, a silent question flashed behind them, but she said nothing, her lips pressed into a tight line.

Caracalla’s fury filled the room, oppressive and suffocating. “My empress,” he spat, the word laced with mockery, “consorting with a whore? Do you have no shame?”

“Leave her out of this,” you said, your voice cold and commanding despite the tremors running through you.

Caracalla let out a harsh laugh, stepping closer, his expression that of twisted rage and cruel satisfaction. “Out of this? She was in you, Prima. Or were you going to pretend she wasn’t just defiling what belongs to me?”

The words hung in the air, cutting through the thick tension. Prosperina’s piercing blue eyes widened, flicking between you and the emperor.

“Empress?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. The color drained from her face as the full weight of what had just transpired crashed down on her. “You’re the empress?”

You turned your gaze to her, an unspoken apology crossed your features for the secret you’d let her unknowingly cross.

But the moment was short lived, shattered as Caracalla’s harsh laugh filled the room again. He gestured toward Prosperina with a flick of his hand. “Yes, Prosperina. Behold your empress—on her knees for you like a common slave.”

“Stop,” you said sharply, your voice cutting through his mocking tone.

As he reached out to grab you, the world around you seemed to tilt, and the ground beneath your feet felt unstable. The effects of the drug were too strong, and your head spun. You reached out to steady yourself but couldn’t find anything solid to hold on to.

“Stop,” you gasped, your legs buckling beneath you.

But Caracalla wasn’t interested in mercy. In one swift motion, he gripped you by the arm, his fingers tightening around your wrist with an iron grip. “You are coming with me,” he growled, dragging you out of the room with no consideration for your protests.

Your mind was a whirl of incoherent thoughts, and you stumbled as he pulled you through the corridors, your vision growing darker at the edges. The air felt thick, and you couldn’t focus—couldn’t think.

“Stop,” you tried again, but your voice was little more than a rasp.

Caracalla wasn’t listening. He half-carried, half-dragged you through the back entrance of the brothel and out into the courtyard. The cool night air bit at your skin, but it did nothing to clear the fog in your mind.

“Up,” Caracalla ordered, his voice harsh, commanding. He threw you onto a horse, and before you could protest or struggle, he was behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist with a grip like iron, holding you steady against him.

The world around you seemed to collapse as the horse jolted into motion. You could barely keep your eyes open, every movement sending another wave of dizziness through you. The drugs had taken hold fully now, and you felt detached from your own body, like you were watching yourself from far away.

Your body felt heavy, your head lolling against Caracalla’s chest.

“Don’t you dare pass out on me,” his voice snapped, sharp and commanding in your ear. His arm tightened around your waist, holding you firmly in place against him. “Stay awake, Prima. You wouldn’t want to miss this, would you?”

A weak sound escaped your lips, somewhere between a groan and a whimper. “Can’t...too much,” you murmured.

“Oh no, you don’t get to escape this,” he hissed, his tone low and cruel. “You’re not going to float away into whatever little fantasy that woman put into your head. You stay here—with me.”

You felt his lips brush the shell of your ear, not tenderly but deliberately, his words dripping with venom. “Do you think she could give you what I can? Hmm? Is that what you were dreaming about, Prima? Another woman’s touch? Or maybe it’s Geta, whispering sweet nothings to you while you drift away.”

You stirred weakly, your fingers curling against the reins.

“That’s it,” he continued, his voice a mix of mockery and seduction. “Stay awake. Don’t disappoint me now. Tell me, Prima—did you like it? Did you like the way she touched you? Or was it the thought of me finding you like that thrilled you?”

Your breath hitched, your head turning slightly as though to respond, but your thoughts were too scattered to form words. He laughed softly, a bitter, dark sound. “No clever reply? No self righteous fury? Maybe you’re finally realizing how easily you can be undone.”

His hand, steady on the reins, pressed against your thigh, his grip firm and possessive. “You don’t get to slip away, Prima. Not now, not ever. Whatever you felt back there, whatever fantasies she gave you, they’re nothing compared to what I can make you feel.”

The words were both a taunt and a promise. You shivered, your body betraying you as his breath brushed against your neck, sending a cold shiver down your spine.

“Good,” he murmured, his voice softer but no less dangerous. “Stay with me. You belong to me, Prima, whether you want to admit it or not.”

“Why?” The word slipped from your lips, barely a whisper.

Caracalla’s grip on your waist tightened slightly. “Why what?” he demanded, his tone sharp and impatient.

You took a shuddering breath, your voice trembling as you managed to form the words. “Why have you never made me feel like that before?”

He stiffened behind you, the tension in his body palpable. For a moment, the only sound was the rhythmic beat of the horse’s hooves against the ground, the weight of your question hanging heavily between you.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and edged with frustration. “What are you asking me, Prima? Why I haven’t coddled you? Why I haven’t wasted time on fantasies and false promises?”

You turned your head slightly, your cheek brushing against his chest. “That’s not what I mean,” you murmured, your voice raw with vulnerability. “I mean... why have you never touched me like I mattered? Like you wanted me?”

His breath hitched, and for a brief moment, you thought you felt him falter. But when he answered, his tone was bitter, almost defensive. “Wanting you isn’t the issue,” he said harshly. “Feelings, tenderness—that’s not what matters. An heir is what matters. Duty is what matters. You think this is a game, Prima? That this empire is built on emotions?”

You swallowed hard, his words cutting through you like a blade. “So that’s it?” you whispered. “I’m just a vessel to you? Nothing more?”

He didn’t respond immediately, his silence deafening. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, almost grudging. “Wanting you, needing you—that doesn’t change what I am. What we are.”

"What are we?" you asked, feeling a mix of confusion and disbelief.

"Nothing but a fleeting thought until that cursed cunt of yours does what it’s meant to—until your womb carries my heir," he shot back, kicking the horse into a faster stride.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Dismounting the horse proved more challenging than anticipated. With Caracalla already on the ground, his gaze burning into you, you shook your head and released the reins. Your feet met the sand, sinking deep into its grains, and you stumbled. As you fumbled, he stepped forward, his hand outstretched to steady you, but you pushed it away, catching yourself just before falling.

“Don’t touch me,” you hissed, brushing your windswept hair out of your face.

He loomed closer, his brow furrowing in frustration. “You’ve done enough tonight, Prima. Enough of this madness.”

“Madness?” You whirled to face him, your voice ringing out in the silence of the night. “The only madness here is yours!”

Before he could respond, you lunged forward and snatched the dagger from his belt. The two guards stationed at the villa’s entrance stiffened instantly, their hands flying to the hilt of their swords.

“Prima,” Caracalla growled,“Put it down.”

You ignored him, your grip tightening on the blade. “Must I bleed for you, Caracalla? Would that finally make me real to you? Would that amuse you?”

“Enough of this nonsense,” he snapped. He took a step closer, his hands clenched into fists.

You backed away as you held the blade out between you. “Isn’t that what you like?” you demanded, your voice rising, trembling with anger. “I’ve heard the whispers, Caracalla. You like to bleed women for fun. You like to push them until they break, to see how far they can go before they shatter.”

His expression darkened, jaw tightening. The guards glanced at one another, uncertain whether to intervene.

“And tonight—tonight, you sat there with a woman who looked just like me.” Your voice broke, your eyes stinging with tears you refused to shed. “She had my face, my hair... Did you think I wouldn’t notice? That I wouldn’t care? You sat there with her on your lap, touching her, gambling with her like she was some pale imitation of what you already have!”

He froze for a moment, your words seeming to hit a nerve, but then his expression twisted into something dark and unreadable.

“You know nothing,” he said coldly.

“Don’t I?” you shot back, your voice trembling with fury. “You think I don’t hear the rumors? About the swords, the games, the bleeding?” You took a step closer, your eyes locking with his, refusing to back down. “Well, here I am, Caracalla. Bleed me, if that’s what you want. Push me to the edge like you do to all the others.”

Without waiting for his reaction, you pressed the blade against your palm, the sharp edge biting into your skin. You flinched as blood welled and trickled down your wrist, pooling onto the marble floor.

His hand shot out faster than you could react, gripping your wrist and forcing the dagger from your grasp. It clattered to the ground, the sound echoing through the villa. He yanked you toward him, his grip bruising as his face hovered inches from yours, his breath hot against your skin.

Before he could speak, you wrenched your hand free and swung it hard against his face. The sound of the slap echoed through the space, your blood smearing across his cheek like a brand.

He froze, his head snapping to the side from the force of your blow. Slowly, he turned back to face you, his dark eyes blazing with fury. He drug you to a chaise, twisting your body around to lay across his lap.

Caracalla’s grip on you tightened, his fingers digging into your waist as he leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear. “You don’t learn through words, Prima. Perhaps pain will remind you of who you’re speaking to.”

You froze, your breath hitching at his words, the threat lingering in the air like smoke. Before you could summon a retort, his voice cut through the silence, cold and commanding.

“Fetch me a whip,” he barked, his head turning slightly toward the guards who still stood by the entrance, their eyes wide with apprehension.

For a moment, neither guard moved, exchanging uneasy glances.

“Now,” Caracalla snapped, his tone sharp enough to make both men flinch. One of them nodded and stepped away, his footsteps echoing in the atrium as he disappeared into an adjoining room.

Your heart pounded, each beat loud in your ears as you twisted against his hold, desperate to break free. “Caracalla, don’t you dare,” you hissed, your voice dripping with venom even as your stomach knotted with a mixture of anger and dread. Perhaps, something else. Something you had never experienced under the circumstances you found yourself in.

“Quiet,” he commanded, his hand pressing more firmly against your back. “You wanted my attention, didn’t you? Now you have it. Let’s see if you still crave it when I’m finished with you.”

Moments later, the guard returned, his face pale as he held out the braided leather flogger with trembling hands. Caracalla took it without a word, dismissing the man with a wave. The guard quickly retreated, leaving you alone with your husband and the weight of what was about to unfold.

He held the flogger in his hand, letting the strands sway lightly, almost thoughtfully, as he regarded you with a dark, calculating gaze.

“Caracalla,” you said, your voice low and sharp as you craned your neck to glare at him. “You’re not doing this.”

“Oh, I am,” he replied, his tone cold and resolute. “Because this is what you want, isn’t it? You want to push me, to test me. Well, here I am, Prima. Let’s see how far you’re willing to go.”

He let the flogger brush lightly against the back of your thighs, dragging the fabric of your stola with it, the sensation sending a shiver up your spine. The teasing motion wasn’t meant to hurt—not yet—but it was a warning of what was to come.

“You bleed for me,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You slap me like you’re my equal. And now, you’ll learn what it means to be mine.”

The leather strands trailed over your skin, their touch deceptively gentle as Caracalla hovered in silence. You could feel his gaze boring into you, and despite the fury burning in your chest, your body trembled under his hold.

“You’ve always wanted to test me,” he said, his voice low and dangerous, cutting through the tense air. “So tell me, Prima, are you ready for the lesson you asked for?”

“Let me go,” you snapped, twisting against him, but his iron grip on your waist didn’t falter.

“You think I don’t see it?” he continued, ignoring your protests, the flogger now coiled loosely in his hand. “You thrive on this—on defiance, on rebellion. You provoke me, hoping I’ll break, hoping I’ll lose control.”

The strands of leather flicked against the back of your thighs, sharp enough to sting but not yet hard enough to leave a mark. Your breath hitched involuntarily, and Caracalla’s lips curled into a grim, humorless smile.

“But that’s the thing about me, Prima,” he said darkly, his voice dropping lower. “I don’t break. I’m the one who does the breaking.”

The next strike came without warning against the bare flesh of your ass, the flogger snapping against your skin with enough force to make you gasp. The sting bloomed instantly, hot and sharp, radiating.

“Caracalla!” you cried out, your voice a mixture of fury and disbelief.

“Don’t call me that,” he growled, his tone cutting through the room like a blade. “When you speak to me, you will remember who I am to you. Say it.”

You clenched your jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction. Another strike followed, harder this time, and you bit down on your lip to stifle the sound that threatened to escape.

“Say it,” he repeated, his hand pressing down against the reddened flesh of your ass to hold you steady.

The heat of the blows, the tension in his voice, and the humiliation of your position all made your head spin. The drugs still lingered in your system, dulling some of the pain but amplifying the intensity of the moment.

“You are my emperor,” you spat finally, your voice trembling but laced with venom.

“That’s right,” he said, his voice dark with satisfaction. “And you will remember that.”

He let the flogger fall again, a calculated punishment meant to remind you of his dominance. Each strike sent a jolt through you, but it was the weight of his dominating presence, the control he exerted, that stung more than the blows.

Caracalla’s strikes came slower now, deliberate, as if he wanted you to feel every ounce of control he wielded. The leather strands snapped against the soft flesh of your ass, leaving a burning heat that spread through your skin, through your core. Your breath came in shallow gasps, and you bit down on your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a cry, though the pain blurred into a strange, disorienting feeling, manifesting an ache between your thighs, and warmth wetness as you squeezed them together.

"Still defiant," he murmured, his tone laced with amusement. His hand settled on your lower back, holding you firmly against his lap, and you could feel the tension radiating from him, like a predator toying with its prey. "You think I don't know what you're doing? Pushing me like this, daring me to lose control?"

"You already have," you spat, your voice shaky but sharp, though you could even hear the vulnerability beneath it. "Look at yourself, Caracalla. Do you think this proves your strength? That this—" You twisted beneath his grip, trying to pull free. "—makes you a ruler? It only makes you cruel."

His grip tightened, and he leaned down, his breath warm against the back of your neck. "You call me cruel, Prima, but you're the one who brought us here." The flogger trailed across your skin now, the sting replaced by a soft drag that only heightened the tension in the air. "You taunt me. Defy me. Challenge me in front of my guards like you're untouchable. And yet, here you are, over my knee, bleeding for my attention."

"You make me hate you," you hissed, though the venom in your words was laced with something deeper, something even you couldn't quite name.

"Do I?" he asked, his voice a low growl. The flogger fell again, harder this time, and the sharp snap against your thigh drew a gasp from your lips before you could stop it. "Or do I make you feel something you can't control?"

The question struck a nerve, and your body tensed against him, though your mind was too clouded—by anger, by the lingering effects of the drugs, by the intensity of him—to form a coherent reply. His free hand slid up your back, the touch firm but not cruel sending a shiver through you.

"Say it," he demanded, his voice quiet but seething with authority. "Admit what we both know, Prima."

Your silence was the only defiance you had left, and it only seemed to fuel his frustration. He tossed the flogger aside, and the sharp clatter against the marble floor echoed in the atrium. Both of his hands gripped your waist now, pulling you upright and turning you to face him. His expression was a storm—anger, desire, and something unspoken all in the depths of his ocean eyes.

"You want to hate me," he said, his voice low and steady, though there was a rawness to it that made your breath hitch. "But hate is still a feeling, isn't it, Prima? It's still mine to take from you."

You were a mess, your breathing shallow and uneven, tears pooling in your eyes though you refused to let them fall. Your hair clung to your damp skin, and your body trembled—not just from the pain but from the weight of everything you were feeling, everything that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long. Your cut palm, still slick with blood, trembled as you tried to keep it from view, as if that small act could give you back some semblance of control.

"Look at you," he said, his voice low and rough, his hands tightening their hold on you as if he were afraid you might collapse. "You think you can sit here, defiant and proud, but you're barely holding yourself together. You're trembling, Prima."

Your eyes narrowed, though the tears made it hard to focus. "And whose fault is that?" you spat, your voice shaking. "You—you make me feel like I'm nothing. You take every piece of me and break it, twist it until I don’t even recognize myself."

His expression flickered for the briefest moment—something like guilt passing over his face before it hardened again. "I break you?" he said, his voice quiet but cutting. "Do you think I don’t feel the same? You think I don’t see how you look at me like I’m a monster, like every choice I make is a crime against you?"

"Because it is!" you cried, your voice cracking as the tears finally spilled over, hot and unrelenting. "You tell me I belong to you, but you push me away, humiliate me, treat me like I’m nothing more than a tool for your empire! How can you expect me to feel anything but hatred for you when you don’t even try to understand me?"

His hands moved to your shoulders, and for a moment, his grip softened. "You think I don’t understand?" he murmured, his voice quieter now, though no less intense. "You think I don’t see you, Prima? I see you more clearly than anyone else ever has.”

The admission stunned you into silence. For a moment, the room seemed to close in around you, the world narrowing to just the two of you. His words hung in the air, and you could feel the sincerity in them, even if you didn’t want to. Being understood by Caracalla meant, by some measure, you could possibly be like him.

"If you see me so clearly," you finally said, your voice barely above a whisper, "then why do you treat me like this? Why do you make it so impossible for us to be anything but enemies?"

He closed his eyes briefly, as though steadying himself, before looking at you again. "Because it’s easier to push you away than to let you see how much I want you," he said, his voice breaking just slightly on the last word.

You felt your knees buckle, and this time, you didn’t pull away when he steadied you, his arms wrapping around you almost protectively as he laid you back against the plush cushioned chaise.

"I hate you," you whispered against his chest, though the words lacked the fire they once had.

"I know," he replied softly, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head. "But that doesn’t make any of this less true."

He tilted your face up to meet his gaze. “I don’t need to remind you that you belong to me,” Caracalla said softly, his voice smooth with an edge of menace. “But I will... just to make sure you’re never in doubt. Everything you are, every breath you take... it's mine to command.” His eyes darkened, “And when I’m finished with you, you’ll know it, deep down in your bones.”

It wasn’t long before he traced a path of bites and kisses along your neck and chest, relishing the softness of your belly, his warm hand resting possessively over your mound. A groan escaped his lips as a finger slipped between your folds, the wetness glistening on his finger.

Your response was hushed, tired from the hours of emotionality, from the ecstasy, from the devil’s breath; all you could manage was a soft moan, your head falling to the side in surrender.

“No,” he insisted, shaking his head, his hand tilting your chin to meet his gaze, your own wetness marking the curve of your cheek, “You shall not drift away from me again.”

He knelt on the chaise, pulling you gently by the back of your knees until your thighs rested on either side of his head. You inhaled a shaky breath as his fingers dug into your wounded backside, descending upon you like a man starved for your flesh. In just moments, the coil within you tightened, reminiscent of the pleasure Prosperina had given you earlier that night but even more intense. You tangled your bloodied fingers in his hair, urging him closer to your core, and finally, your voice returned, a wail escaping your lips as you released around his eager tongue.

Your vision blurred as you arched into his mouth, and when you came to, you looked down to find him sucking at the gash on your palm, as if your very essence was the only thing that could nourish him.

He quickly pulled away, his hand gliding across the marble floor until it found what he was searching for. The dagger sparkled in the candlelight, and a knot tightened in your stomach as you wondered what he was about to do. With a quick slash, he cut into his own palm, and you shuddered at the sound of his flesh parting.

When he pressed your wounded hands together, you couldn’t help but groan.

For two nights, you remained entwined with him in bloodied sheets, surrendering to him in every way. His seed marked your skin, streaking your thighs, mingling with the blood from kisses pressed too hard and bites that left their imprints upon taut flesh. He commanded you to learn his desires—to ride him with purpose, to take him deeply enough for your own pleasure, to find ecstasy in his dominance. In turn, he pushed you to your limits, coaxing cries from your lips that echoed through the chamber like prayers to the gods. By the end, your body wore the evidence of him—smudged, crimson handprints and bruises scattered like spoils of war. Exhaustion claimed you, pulling you into the softness of the bed, your heavy-lidded gaze stayed on him as he laid beside you.

Servants had come and gone during the two days, dismissed by his growled commands before they could enter. You caught the sound of his voice—low and steady, discussing affairs of the empire. Peeking through half-lidded eyes, you saw him framed in the doorway, a sheet draped loosely around his waist as he murmured to messengers. Without fail, he returned to you each time, sinking back into the bed to linger at your side, his gaze fixed upon you as you slipped once more to sleep.

The door flew open without warning, slamming against the wall with a force that shook the bed. You laid on your stomach, your battered body half-draped in the stained sheets, your wounded hand dangling limply from the edge of the bed. The cool breeze drifting in from the balcony made your exposed skin prickle, and the intrusion startled Caracalla from his place beside you.

“By the gods, you’ve nearly killed her.” Geta’s accusatory voice broke through the silence.

Caracalla jerked upright, his hand shot out to grab the sheet, draping it over your body before he swung his legs to the floor. “What in all the hells are you doing here, brother?” he growled.

“You’ve ignored every messenger I’ve sent,” Geta snapped, stepping into the room with no regard for the scene surrounding him. His eyes flicked briefly to you, his expression unreadable, before returning to his brother.

“As you can see, I’ve been busy,” Caracalla bit back, the sarcasm dripping from his words as he gestured dismissively toward you.

“And yet Rome burns in your absence,” Geta countered sharply. “But this isn’t about me, nor the senate’s growing distaste for your escapades.”

Caracalla leaned forward, his jaw tightening as he spat, “Then get to the point, unless you came to gawk.”

Geta’s eyes narrowed, his temper held in check by a thread. “It’s Father,” he finally said, his voice breaking faintly on the word. “He is not well.”

Caracalla froze for a beat, “How do you mean?” he demanded, his voice quieter now.

You stirred beneath the sheet, the ache in your body throbbing as you rolled onto your back, pulling the sheet around you. Squinting against the sunlight streaming in, you took in the two brothers.

Geta hesitated, “His condition has worsened,” he admitted, his voice hoarse. “He has been unconscious for days.”

For the first time, Caracalla’s composure seemed to crack. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, his eyes darkening. “And you waited until now to tell me?” he snapped, though the anger in his tone seemed to mask something else.

“I’ve sent word,” Geta replied sharply, his frustration palpable. “You ignored it. You locked yourself away with her—” his gaze flicked to you briefly before returning to his brother “—and the empire be damned.”

Caracalla stood, his movements abrupt and dominating. “I will decide what damns the empire,” he said coldly, stepping toward Geta. “But if what you say is true, I will not be kept from Rome.” He turned to you, his gaze lingering on your exhausted form, his expression unreadable. “Get dressed. We leave at once.”

Taglist:

@alwaysahiccupandastrid

@justnobodynothingmore

@miamariposita

@niungguang

Dividers: @ghoulbloggerrr

[perseidlion]

The Interview With the Vampire TV show is a perfect example of how adaptations do not have to follow the source material closely to be an excellent adaptation.

(This is a spoiler-free commentary, but it does discuss the dynamics of the characters in general.)

I read the books back in the day, and of course, saw the original movie. Despite a laundry list of big changes, the series still feels extremely true to the books because it captures the spirit. It gets the characters and their fucked-up dynamics right. It doesn't shy away from them being melodramatic monsters. It keeps to the rules established in the source material. The show also makes sure to preserve key moments and key scenes, but always with a twist.

Since they did that, they were free to shift things in time, amp up and adapt certain dynamics, and change the race of characters in a way that deepens the story and complicates already extremely complicated power dynamics.

The original movie stuck more closely to the era and the appearance of the characters as described by Anne Rice, but I don't think the story loses anything by changing those two elements. In fact, it gives it modern relevance and room for political and social commentary.

I have never ascribed to the idea that an adaptation has to be slavishly accurate to the source material to be a good adaptation. It just has to be smart enough to identify what to keep and what can change. An adaptation adapts. Honestly, I find it boring when I see exactly what was in a book up on screen with no surprises. Where's the fun in that?

The difference between a good adaptation and a bad one is not how accurate it is to the source material, but how well the adaptation respects what made the story compelling to begin with.

What's important here?

Lestat is dramatic and powerful and a monster who is deeply charismatic, but also manipulative.

Louis is overdramatic and self-hating, but oddly drawn to Lestat.

Claudia is fierce, but bitter about her eternal childhood.

Their relationship is deeply toxic but with true affection. They are monsters, but monsters capable of intense love and devotion - to the point where it has the power to destroy them.

THAT is at the core of this story. THAT is what they keep intact. This frees up all sorts of avenues for play around a few key plot beats.

This room for play also gives opportunities to expand on thinner characters or rewrite them entirely. It's been a long time since I read the books, but I don't recall Daniel standing out as more than a framing device, especially in earlier books. But in the show, he's one of the best parts. Not only does he take a much more active role in the story, he delivers some of the most hilarious and cutting lines of the entire series. If the show had stuck closely to the source material, we wouldn't have this Daniel.

It was also smart of them to make Claudia a few years older. The eternal child element is preserved, but the layer of arrested teenaged hormones and womanhood that will never blossom adds an extra layer of angst and sadness. She is stuck forever in a state of rebellion, never allowed to settle and come into her own.

Having her be a young Black woman also deepens her attachment to Louis, visually, socially and symbolically. They are different from Lestat and they understand each other in a way he never can. She's still very much the Claudia from the book but with layers added to deepen her character and add new, fresh dynamics and complications.

It's also delightful to see the show take the homoeroticism that was subtextual in the early books with Louis and Lestat (and in the original film) and making it unapologetically text. Anne Rice's Vampire Chronicles have always been incredibly queer and subversive, but it's amazing to see that side of it fully embraced and stated plainly with no ambiguity or qualifiers or hints. It's queer and that queerness is woven into the fabric of the entire narrative. Louis and Lestat are the toxic beating heart of the Vampire Chronicles.

It's also important because we need messy, dark, fucked-up queer narratives. Sweet, coming-of-age stories and romances are of course, important - especially for younger queer people. But us older queer folk not only want to see ourselves in multiple genres, we want permission to see imperfect, messy, and yes, even evil characters. It's a way of reclaiming the monstrous queer that was villainized for so long and making it our own. We want to find something beautiful in the dark.

If we all thought about it, we could probably think of dozens of examples where a show or movie went far off-script from the source material and was still an excellent adaptation.

Interview With the Vampire is just the most recent and one of the best examples of a stellar adaptation that respects the source material but also builds and expands on it.

I look forward to seeing how they surprise me next season.

[lvrgrls-wrld]

Bliss

WC: 2k

Summary: You meet an annoyingly hot stoner at your favorite smoke spot.

Warning: smoking and language

Authors note: I can only hope that this is better than the original. But, I do have an end goal to this fan fiction. I’m open to any constructive criticism !! Enjoy <3

You felt the flashing lights on your skin and named the colors with every flash. Blue. Green. Red. Purple. Why do disco ball lights never have warm colors? They're always so harsh.

An elbow gently nudged your ribs, Kiyoko sat next to you with her eyes low and eyebrow raised. “Are you ok?”

Yes, maybe? No. You settled with a shrug.

You and your best friend, Kiyoko, decided it was a good idea to go to one of Atsumu’s infamous parties after eating an edible. Spring break has begun, and the best way to distract yourself from your steady fall of your grades was a good high, mediocre music, and junk food. Unbeknownst to Kiyoko, you had two of the multi-colored gummies instead of the recommended dosage. It was a stupid move even if one gummy didn’t get you high enough.

“Hey, do we need to go,” Kiyoko’s voice sobers you briefly. She still managed to act like the more responsible one even while under the influence. She’s such a good friend. You sit up, “No, I just need some water I’ll be fine,” You move to get up, and she raises her brow, noticing your struggle to regain your balance. “I’ll come with you,” she starts to stand, but you stop her with your hand to her shoulder. “Stay, I can handle myself. If anything happens, I know where to find you.” She shrugs her shoulders, knowing that you can hold your own. She’s seen you cuss out your fair share of men that tend to get too… touchy.

You walk across the room and give her a thumbs up to ease her nervousness before making your way out of the living room. There was a significant number of fewer people in the kitchen, causing you to take a sigh of relief. Everyone seemed to be drinking in the garage or loitering in the living room. Some people even made their way to the bedrooms even though on the flyers it said anyone caught in the bedrooms would ‘suffer public humiliation.’ It sounds stupid, but with Atsumu as a host, you don’t doubt his power to actually do so. Making your way to the fridge for a drink, you get lost in your thoughts.

College classes were kicking your butt. Luckily, spring break provided a buffer before the stress began to really get to you. You went to sit on top of the counter but stopped yourself, knowing Osamu would have a fit. So you decided to make your way to the back porch. At the beginning of the school year, this was your go-to spot when coming to Atsumu’s parties. The perfect place to smoke without worrying about strangers that would ask for a hit. You weren’t looking for a smoking spot this time, but the visuals out there were pretty good.

“It’s rude to stare,” a deep voice rumbled, you could hear the rasp from him inhaling. “It's also rude to blow smoke in strangers' faces,” you retort, rolling your eyes.

However, you weren’t welcomed with the smell of clean-cut grass but with a large cloud of smoke. Flinching away, you turned to glare at whoever blew it. All you saw was the glowing red end of a… blunt? You squinted at the dark stranger. Who are you?

He chuckled, “It’s not rude if I didn’t know you were going to come out here,”

“But, why would you blow smoke in front of a door,” you blinked into the darkness.

Silence. You smirked knowing you had him, “Exactly.”

“Listen, I came out here to be alone, not talk to more people. Now, if you’d kindly leave, and close the door on your way in.” he huffed, displeasure evident in his tone. You stared at the shadow of a person with a scrunched up face. Who does he think he is?

Crossing your arms, you scowl at the arrogant prick. “Why are you at a party if you don’t want to talk to people? As a matter of fact, don't answer that, I don’t care.” You quickly turned to face the large backyard, choosing to save your high, before he really got you mad. The moonlight shone on a patch of grass, almost beckoning you to sit on it. So, you popped your earbuds in and walked over, plopping on the grass.

After you had your fill of creativity, you decided to check your socials, you had an instagram and tiktok account that had short stories of characters you’ve drawn. Slowly you’ve been gaining followers by the hundreds this past month and even got a little money from it. Whenever you saw the comments that would share their love and sometimes criticism, your heart would swell. You appreciated your followers, especially the ones that have stuck with you since your first post.

You wanted to completely ignore the person in the corner, so you chose a song from your favorite playlist, then looked up at the starry sky. It was beautiful, unsurprisingly. Your imagination ran free, letting yourself come up with stories of intergalactic princesses and badass warriors. If I knew I was going to have a creative surge, I would've brought my sketchbook. Drawing was your passion, but you never went to art school because you knew the love for it would've been lost. Luckily, you first realized it when you took art classes in middle school. However, you took creative writing now, which fed into your interest.

The feeling of cold water droplets fell onto your skin, momentarily pausing your movements. You whipped your head to the forgotten stranger. But, this time, he wasn’t in the dark corner. This time, you saw him fully. Your eyes dragged from his jordans, to the dark grey jeans, and up to his compressed t-shirt. Was it supposed to fit like that? His lean muscle was glaringly obvious, through it. A sleeve tattoo wrapped around his arm and peaked through his collar, but it didn’t compare to his eyes. They were low and red and hot.

Fuck me, why is he so fine? You glanced down at his lips and noticed his smirk.

You sighed, “Did you- Did you throw water at me?”

“It's rude to stare,” that dried you up real quick. Once again, with the displaced manners.

“Yes,” he said, “I was trying to get your attention, but you were stuck in your phone.”

Yep, It was time to go. You texted Kiyoko to ask her man to take you guys home.

You saw water droplets that fell onto your phone. He threw water at you again. You flicked your eyes up at his stupid face with his stupid smile. “Are you kidding me right now?” you asked, a scowl on your face.

Plopping next to you on the grass, he stretched his legs out and leaned onto his hands. The smell of his cologne hit you, kind of a deep cedar, with a hint of sweetness to it. “Whatever,” he said chuckling, “I didn’t want to talk, and now I do, I can’t change my mind?” You gave him a dumbfounded look.

“I’m bored, let's talk,” he responded. Flicking the blunt onto the floor, he makes his way to your moonlit patch of grass. “What happened to wanting to be ‘alone’, and ‘not talk to more people?’” you mocked him. He might be handsome, but his personality was pretty fucking ugly.

He sighs, “You're right I was being rude, let's start over” he stuck his hand out to you. You looked at his hand then his eyes, then back again. You didn’t trust that glint in his eye.

Fortunately, your phone dinged, meaning you got a text, but before you could unlock it, it was yanked from your hands. You watched him put his hand behind his back, and stick his other hand out to you. “My name is Suna Rintaro, a close friend of Atsumu Miya, and I major in photography. Tell me about yourself.”

“I sat here and introduced myself, and you still decided to look at your phone for the third time tonight. I’m just trying to help your addiction,” Shrugging, he put his stretched out hand down.

Your jaw dropped. Is this his way of flirting? Ew. “Um, you can’t just take my phone.”

“Firstly, I don’t have an addiction, I just don’t want to talk to you. Second, I need to see if my ride's here. So, if you could hand me back my phone I would greatly appreciate it.” This time you held your hand out but, for your phone, not to shake.

“Introduce yourself, and you’ll get your phone,” he gave you a bored look.

Grimacing at his reply, you finally responded, you told him your name, your friendship with the brothers and your love for creative writing. There was a pause after you spoke.

Then he shook your hand, grinned, “see it’s not that hard,” and handed your phone to you.

You quickly took it back, and looked at the message on the phone:

He’ll be 20 minutes

You good?

you never came back

I’m in the backyard

Mb i forgot to let you know

You’re good

Should I come back

Unless you wanna talk to people besides me, no

You looked up at him and caught his gaze. With a quirked brow, he tilted his head “Problem?”

At least five minutes pass, and you take a peek up at him, only to see him staring back at you. “You tried and failed,” he mumbled, then looked at the sky. “Excuse me?” you asked

“No, just that I’m not leaving as soon as I would like,” you huffed and fell back onto the grass. Maybe he’ll leave me alone if I pretend to take a nap. You close your eyes and wait. Then softly snored, to really sell the nap taking place.

“Nothing, just noticing your stupidity.”

I wonder if his ass ever gets jealous of all the shit that comes out of his mouth.

“Wait for real? You heard everything I said, in my head,” you sat up, eyes blown wide. He leans down to your height and grins, “Everything,”

He laughs. Hard. Like a lean back and giggle from your gut, laugh. “I said that out loud,” you sighed. As he wipes tears from his eyes, he tries to speak, “ye-” then he bursts out laughing again. Is my inner monologue outering? “Yes,” he responds.

“Yeah right,” you say scoffing, “then tell me this ‘everything’ you're referring to.”

“Nothing, just a bunch of questions, and then how you think I’m-” he tilts his head, and taps his chin, as if he’s trying to remember something,”what was it…Fine?”

You sit there and stare at each other, tension creeping between the two of you. The seconds seem too slow, and you didn’t mind it.

“Yeah you're fine,” admitting to your previous thought, “personality’s shit though.”

His breath hit your face as he sighed, then looked back up at the sky. You let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding. Those 30 seconds felt like an hour, and you couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or a bad thing yet.

You lay back, and he follows. He didn’t speak, and neither did you, nothing but the distant sounds of clattering cups and boisterous laughter was heard. This lasted for five minutes until he broke the silence, “hey,” he waited.

“Yes?” you ask.

“Tell me about yourself.”

This time you do. You tell him about your love for drawing, and creating stories. Even about your growing popularity on your social media accounts, to that he nudged your soldier and asked if he was ‘meeting a celebrity.’ You both laughed, and then you told him more, it was simple things like your favorite color, food, song, and a whole bunch of nothing. But, he listened like it was everything.

Cross-legged and upright, you told him your life story, how you got to where you are now. With your knees touching his side, you two seemed, almost, intimate. He felt it, the gentle sparks, igniting on his side. But, you were too busy telling him when you first got high. As he watched you speak so animatedly, he realized he actually enjoyed your company, which was a first.

The ding on your phone came faster than you thought, your enthusiasm slowly faded as you finished talking. Then you glanced at your phone, not wanting to check the message.

“Time to go?” he asked, noticing your shift in mood. “Probably,” mumbling, while picking up your phone.

TANAKA’S HERE!!

Finally i’m ready to get out of these clothes.

omw

Feeling his gaze on you, you slowly lift your head, giving him a sad smile. “Yeah, I got to go,” you huff as you get up, and then watch him get up as well. You didn’t realize he was so tall. Sitting down, he looked tall, but it was completely different when you actually stood up. You stared into his eyes and then glanced down to his lips, the wry smile he had curved at the end of his mouth.

“Well it was nice talking to you,” you say, taking a step back. You waited for his response, but none came. Instead of embarrassing yourself even further, you turned to leave. But, his hand shot out and gently gripped your wrist, “It was nice listening.” The heat from his compliment blossomed all over your face and tickled the top of your ears. With that, you made your way inside the house.

I plan to post every Sunday, including this upcoming one!

[magnagaruzenmon]

Action II

Well I got him to write more Chowon.

The polished doors to the psychic training lab eased open again, and Chowon stepped out with a light bounce in her stride, eyes bright and cheeks flushed with confidence. Adachi trailed behind her, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hands tucked in his pockets, his expression unreadable but calm — the kind of stillness that had settled over him more and more lately, like deep water after a storm.

Her arm hooked through his with an almost lazy ease, the two of them walking in rhythm, warmth radiating between them in a subtle, silent current.

From the far hall, Magnolia rounded the corner and spotted them. She gave them both a casual nod, but her gaze lingered a bit longer on Chowon — a mix of affection and knowing in her half-smile — before watching them disappear around the bend.

As soon as they were out of sight, a voice sighed, crisp and exasperated.

“While I don’t particularly enjoy the current Adachi… I’ll admit, that man has one hell of a psionic stabilizer field. Telepathy feels like meditating in a heated spring when he’s in the room.”

Magnolia blinked, turning toward the familiar voice. “Is that why it felt like a spa in here? And wait — current Adachi? I thought that was his name.”

Emma Frost stood already waiting just inside the training lab, pristine as ever in her white ensemble, her platinum hair smooth and sharp as her tone. A single perfectly arched brow lifted.

“You’re late.”

“I’m five seconds early.”

“Which is five seconds less you could be spending learning how to make machines beg for mercy,” Emma countered, waving her in with a gloved flick of the hand.

Magnolia groaned as she stepped forward. “I was waiting for the lovebirds to fly off. PDA’s a psychic hazard, you know.”

Emma rolled her eyes in practiced annoyance. “I can see you’ve been spending too much time with Karina. Not that I care who you court — just don’t let your priorities get muddled. You’re one of the strongest technopaths we’ve seen in years, and your training will begin to reflect that so we can Keep it that way.”

Magnolia smirked. “Noted, Frost.”

The training room hummed with quiet energy — glowing screens and hard-light constructs hovered like obedient spirits, waiting to be shaped by willpower and code. Psychic insulation dulled the edges of thought, a quiet sanctuary against the rush of stray minds.

Emma gestured toward a neural-interface chair. “Sit. We’re starting with mental scaffolding for adaptive tech manipulation.”

Magnolia settled in smoothly, eyes already scanning the floating nodes. “But first—” she grinned. “Spill. What did you mean by current Adachi?”

Emma’s hands swept through the interface beside her, forming a visual projection of a neural web. Her voice dropped just a fraction, enough to mark the shift.

“His real name is Atticus.”

Magnolia blinked. “Wait. Seriously?”

Emma nodded once, gaze flicking briefly toward the door they’d exited through. “Atticus Robinson Jr. When he first arrived here… he was quiet. Gentle. Reserved, but not out of shyness — out of care. He was terrified of hurting someone. His psionic signature was already powerful, even before full mutation. He moved through rooms like a ghost — always asking if it was okay to speak, if he was taking up too much space.”

She plucked a strand of digital energy from the console and offered it. Magnolia took it and, almost without thinking, shaped it into a silver lily.

Emma’s eyes flicked to the construct. Approval flashed across her face for just a heartbeat.

“He once spent three days psychically coaxing a plant to bloom so he could give it to Jean for her birthday. Said it was the only thing he could grow without breaking it.”

Magnolia let out a soft, surprised laugh. “He really was a sweetheart, huh?”

Emma’s voice softened in turn, the steel beneath it still present but tempered. “He was. A deeply wounded, brilliant sweetheart. We all saw it — the softest soul wrapped in one of the most volatile psionic fields I’ve ever encountered.”

Then, her eyes sharpened, voice dropping like a weight. “And then Apocalypse and Sinister took him.”

The lights dimmed slightly, flickering along the edge of the consoles. Emma quelled it with a blink of thought, but her posture stilled — cold, composed.

“He was gone for weeks. When we got him back, his X-gene had been forcibly ruptured — mutated beyond what even Cerebro could trace in the moment. They were trying to forge him into one of the Horsemen. We still don’t know which aspect he was meant to embody.”

Magnolia’s brows furrowed. “But he fought it off?”

“With everything he had,” Emma said quietly. “But it cost him. Something in him changed. His powers changed. His mind… sealed itself off. Before, he was like a meadow — open, nourishing, amplifying the gifts of those around him. Telepaths, telekinetics, even energy types like Cyclops or Armor — their control improved just by being near him.”

She paused. “Now? His mind is a labyrinth. Twisting, armored, nearly impenetrable. He doesn’t just amplify anymore — he shields. And guards. It’s like speaking to someone through mirrors wrapped in fog.”

Magnolia stared at her interface, the silver lily dissolving back into raw data. “So what changed today?”

Emma’s voice lost some of its usual icy precision. “Today, in that lab, for just a flicker of a moment… I saw Atticus again. Not the storm. Not the weapon. Just the kid who once apologized to the Danger Room after punching through a reinforced wall.”

Magnolia gave a slow, half-shaken breath. “Damn.”

Emma met her gaze, no pity in her eyes — only quiet clarity. “Some traumas don’t just leave marks. They forge masks. But those masks aren’t fixed forever. And sometimes, love — or peace, or just presence — can loosen them.”

Then, without missing a beat, she gestured toward the node interface. “Now. Mold that code cluster into a lockpick algorithm. No hands. Just mind. You’re not here to psychoanalyze your teammates — you’re here to become the architect of machines.”

Magnolia’s lips tugged upward in a faint smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

But even as her mind flexed and the circuits obeyed, she couldn’t shake the thought of the boy who gave flowers to telepaths… and the soft horns hiding beneath the weapon.

After her session with Emma Magnolia was exhausted

The psychic lab doors slid open with a faint hiss as Magnolia stepped out, shaking residual sparks of code from her fingers. Her mind hummed — half from the workout Emma had just put her through, half from everything she’d just learned. About Atticus. About Adachi. About the space between them.

She took a slow breath and leaned against the cool wall of the corridor, letting the quiet settle before she made her way back to the dorms.

Voices echoed softly from around the corner.

Curious, Magnolia moved carefully down the hall, her steps soundless. The voices grew clearer — low and familiar.

Magik.

And Rogue.

They hadn’t noticed her — or if they had, they didn’t care.

“I’m telling you,” Magik said, voice laced with something between concern and fascination, “it wasn’t just a soul weapon. I’ve seen what Limbo makes — but those runes… they weren’t from there.”

Rogue crossed her arms. “Then where the hell were they from? Some other infernal plane?”

Magik shook her head, her blonde hair gleaming silver in the soft corridor light. “No. Not Hell. Not even one of the Nine Realms. Something older. Something deeper.”

There was a pause. Magnolia ducked behind a column, holding her breath.

“The moment Adachi pulled that weapon into being,” Magik continued, “I felt something stir in the ground. The kind of thing that doesn’t belong to just our magic. It wasn’t demonic. It wasn’t celestial. It was… directional. Like it pointed somewhere.”

Rogue frowned. “That ain’t exactly comforting.”

Magik reached into her coat and pulled out a sketch — rough, but unmistakable. The etching of the revolver Adachi had summoned, glowing with spiraled runes along the barrel and frame.

“I tried to trace the markings,” she said, voice lower now, almost reverent. “And I managed to translate one phrase. Just one.”

She looked Rogue in the eyes.

“‘Your path to the sun begins here.’”

Silence settled like fog.

Rogue let out a slow breath. “You think it’s a prophecy?”

“I think it’s a warning,” Magik said flatly. “Or maybe an invitation. Either way… something’s waking up in him. And it isn’t just mutant evolution. His soul is moving toward something — some kind of ascension, maybe.”

She folded the sketch and tucked it back into her coat.

“And if we’re not careful,” she added, almost to herself, “we won’t just be dealing with Adachi the mutant. We’ll be dealing with whatever’s watching him from the other side of that gun.”

Magnolia’s heart thudded once, hard.

She stepped away from the wall quietly, her breath slower now, her mind turning over the phrase again.

Your path to the sun begins here.

She wasn’t sure what it meant yet — for Adachi, for any of them — but she knew enough to recognize a turning point.

And something deep in her gut told her they were closer to it than anyone realized.

The sun dipped low over the treetops, casting warm gold across the quiet rooftop garden. The wind was soft, carrying the scent of mint and lavender from the planter boxes that lined the railing. Magnolia sat cross-legged on the wooden bench, staring out at the sprawling grounds below, the evening shadows slowly stretching.

Karina sat beside her, her jacket folded neatly over her lap, her fingers lightly braiding a lock of her own hair. They didn’t speak at first — didn’t need to. The kind of silence that settles between people who’ve fought through things and come out changed.

Finally, Magnolia broke it, voice hushed.

“Karina… how’d you meet Adachi?”

Karina blinked, the question clearly pulling her somewhere else. Somewhere older.

“It was right in the middle of the Sinister-Apocalypse War,” she said softly. “Me and Winter… we were just kids, barely older than students now. We’d just arrived at the X-Mansion — refugees, really. We were being evaluated for potential enrollment.”

Magnolia turned to look at her, surprised. “You weren’t students yet?”

Karina shook her head. “No. We were… being watched. Me for my powers, Winter for her combat instincts. But neither of us knew anyone. We were just scared, overwhelmed.”

She smiled faintly, the memory blooming behind her eyes.

“And then there was him. Adachi — though, back then, he went by Atticus. He found us sitting outside the rec wing, both of us completely lost. He didn’t say much. Just offered us snacks and asked if we liked fighting games.”

Magnolia raised an eyebrow. “That sounds very… him.”

Karina gave a dry chuckle. “He whooped us both, then apologized like five times. Said he liked that we reminded him of his little sister.”

Magnolia tilted her head. “He has a sister?”

“Yeah but he doesn’t really see her anymore ,” Karina said gently. “He’s very stif with his family.”

Magnolia fell silent.

Karina continued, more serious now. “When Apocalypse and Sinister came to the school… it was chaos. They stormed the gates. The alarms, the wards — everything fell apart. And Atticus… he told us to hide. Said nothing else. And then he stood in front of the library and fought back alone while everyone scrambled to respond.”

A beat passed. Magnolia could feel the weight behind the words.

“He held them off. For minutes that felt like hours. And I remember… Apocalypse looked interested. Not angry, not bored — interested. Like he could feel something from Adachi that he wanted.”

Magnolia murmured, “His power.”

Karina nodded. “More than that. I think it was how he felt. Being near Adachi back then… it was like being under a protective umbrella. Calming, solid. Apocalypse wasn’t just drawn to his strength — it was the way Adachi anchored everything around him.”

She looked away, hands folding over her lap.

“And then he was gone. Just like that. Taken.”

The wind stirred again, brushing strands of Karina’s hair across her cheek. Magnolia didn’t speak, letting the silence sit for a long moment.

“You miss the old him?” she finally asked.

Karina shook her head.

“We all do. Leon, Momo, me, Winter. We all miss Atticus. I see the old him. In flashes. In how he looks at Chowon. In the way he holds himself when he thinks no one’s watching. He’s different now — harder, heavier. But he’s still fighting. Still protecting.”

She looked at Magnolia, gaze steady.

“It’s Just… now he’s someone no something. And we need to be ready — whether it saves him or burns him from the inside out.”

Magnolia nodded slowly.

“I think whatever he’s becoming… it started long before Mr Sinister stole him.”

“Yeah,” Karina murmured. “Long before.”

They sat together until the sun vanished behind the trees, quiet again, letting the dark come in its own time.

The apartment was quiet, bathed in the soft gold of lamplight and the gentle hum of the ceiling fan above. The day had been long — training, meetings, strange runes still burning faintly in memory. But now, everything was slow and still.

Chowon was curled up beside Adachi on their couch, her legs draped over his lap as her head rested lazily against his shoulder. A bowl of half-eaten popcorn sat forgotten on the coffee table, some old K-drama murmuring in the background.

She tilted her face up toward him, her smile mischievous.

“Summon it.”

Adachi blinked, a little bleary from the peace of the moment. “Summon what?”

She gave his chest a gentle poke. “Your soul weapon. I want to see them again.”

He gave her a long-suffering sigh, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “You mean my horns. You don’t care about the weapon.”

“Guilty,” she said brightly. “They’re cute. And weirdly soft. Like velvet armor. I like them.”

With a small smirk, he leaned back against the couch cushions, drawing in a breath. The lights in the room dimmed slightly as pastel psionic energy shimmered faintly around him. There was no dramatic flare — not in their home, not for this — but the shift was immediate.

The revolver-like soul weapon flickered into his hand, glowing faintly with strange runes. And with it, as always, came the horns — beautiful and curved, obsidian-black with lavender and pastel-blue coloration pulsing from the tips, curling gently from his temples.

Chowon’s eyes lit up.

“There they are,” she whispered with delight, reaching up with both hands.

Adachi tensed slightly as her fingers traced along one horn — and then another — and he shivered.

“Sensitive?” she teased, voice warm and sweet.

“It’s Like they’re wired into my nervous system now. I can feel you touching them,” he muttered, breath hitching slightly as her touch lingered. “It’s like… pressure and light and warmth all at once. I feel them more than I should.”

Her touch softened, fingertips barely brushing over the smooth surface. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” he said, voice low, eyes fluttering shut. “It’s… intense. But not in a bad way.”

She leaned in closer, gently running her fingers along the base where the horn met his temple. A sharp breath escaped him, and his hand clenched around the soul weapon before he let it fade into light, the horns still pulsing with psionic glow.

“It’s like they’re becoming more real every time,” he murmured. “Not just part of Limbo — part of me.”

Chowon pressed a soft kiss just beneath one of the glowing stripes that had reappeared along his cheek. “They’re beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

Adachi opened his eyes slowly, looking at her like she was the only thing tethering him to this world.

“You’re not afraid?” he asked, voice quieter now. “That I’m changing?”

Chowon brushed his bangs back and smiled at him, tender and fierce all at once. “I’ve seen every version of you — scared, angry, calm, wild. This? This is just another piece I get to love.”

He pulled her into his arms, holding her tight, his forehead resting against hers, horns curling just past her brow. For the first time in days, he felt like he wasn’t being pulled in a thousand directions — just here, with her, on a couch that smelled like their shared life, grounded in something real.

And as her fingers returned to tracing those velvet-soft horns, he swore he felt them pulse — like they knew they were safe. Curled together on the couch, Chowon nestled closer as the melody of Adachi’s memories bled gently into her mind — not invasive, just present. Familiar warmth, sweet fragments of music that fluttered through her subconscious like wind chimes on a summer porch. He was calm here. Safe. Her fingers brushed idly along his horns again and again, tracing their velvet ridges like a cherished pattern, grounding him — and maybe herself too.

Then his phone buzzed, and the spell shattered.

Adachi answered without moving, his voice low. “Yeah?”

Leon’s voice came through, tight and shaken:

“Dude. You gotta get here now.”

Adachi didn’t speak. He stood, every movement precise, as if his body had made the decision before his brain could catch up. His soul revolver shimmered to life in one hand while his free one reached for his uniform — blues and golds, pulled on with swift, surgical calm.

Chowon scrambled up after him. “Wait—what’s going on?”

But he was already slipping into his jacket, eyes unreadable. “I don’t know. But Leon’s scared.”

She didn’t argue. She suited up in silence, her breath quick and shallow, and watched as Adachi raised his glowing revolver and fired a single shot into space — splitting the air into a shimmering portal.

“…Didn’t know if that would work,” he murmured.

He stepped through without hesitation.

Chowon followed a heartbeat later.

The moment Adachi crossed back into mansion territory, something shifted. The ground didn’t tremble, but it felt like it should have. The air thickened — slow, deliberate, too quiet. The kind of silence that made the birds stop singing. The kind of silence before something ancient woke up.

Leon stood near the entry, pale and stiff as a shadow. He felt it before he saw it — a psychic rumble like distant thunder and velvet chains dragging through the back of his mind. Something primal. Something wrong.

He turned.

Adachi and Chowon emerged from the portal behind him, cloaked in rippling light. The edges of Adachi’s body shimmered faintly, like heat rising off scorched metal.

“That was… frighteningly fast,” Leon said, voice cracking as his eyes adjusted to the pressure Adachi exuded.

“You called,” Adachi replied, quiet and cold. “I answered. What’s going on?”

Leon could barely form the words. He just pointed to the courtyard window.

Shaw. Sinister. And… Apocalypse.

Adachi didn’t hesitate.

The second he laid eyes on them, his aura detonated in absolute silence. Not a roar, not a scream — just a sudden vacuum of energy, as if all color and sound had been sucked inward toward him.

He raised the soul revolver and whispered,

“Vile Rampage.”

The gun roared.

Hundreds of beams of pale rainbow light burst from the muzzle in elegant, devastating arcs — an aurora of annihilation. Shaw and Sinister had no chance. The blasts struck them squarely in the chest, cratering the ground beneath them and knocking them backwards like rag dolls.

Apocalypse dodged — barely.

But it didn’t matter.

Adachi was already behind him.

The shift was so fast Leon’s mind stuttered. One second Apocalypse stood poised to counterattack. The next, Adachi’s arms were around him, crushing. His horns had fully manifested now — glowing, arched, streaked in aggressive baby blue and violent lavender — and he slammed his forehead into Apocalypse’s chest with a thunderous, psionically-augmented blow that cracked armor.

Apocalypse reeled back — only to be hurled 15 feet into the air as Adachi’s psionic aura flared into an eruption of spiraling, unfamiliar colors. The revolver in his hand shifted, elongating and thickening into a gleaming lever-action rifle — runes along the barrel writhing like living script.

Leon stood frozen. Something was wrong.

The psionic pressure became unbearable. Adachi raised the rifle, but before he could fire—

He froze.

Not by choice.

Across the courtyard, Jean Grey, Rachel Summers, Emma Frost, and two other Omega-level telepaths had locked onto him. Their psychic force hit him like an avalanche — and still, he resisted.

Leon could see it.

Blood vessels burst along Adachi’s arms. His eyes glowed like overcharged reactor cores. His teeth gritted as the ground split beneath his feet, energy writhing around him like a technicolor storm.

“Damn it!” Adachi roared, voice cracking with fury.

“Please—just let me have this!”

But the telepaths held firm.

And finally, with a sound like collapsing stone, Adachi dropped to his knees. The rifle vanished. His horns flickered out. And the psionic weight evaporated — leaving behind only cold sweat and silence.

The grass around him had turned gray — bleached of life by the sheer pressure of his fury. A crater had formed in the courtyard. And everyone present stood slack-jawed, shaken by the quiet of it all.

Leon took a step back, his voice a whisper.

“…What the hell was that?”

The battlefield was quiet now, except for the low crackle of displaced energy and the heavy breaths of those still standing. The grass beneath Adachi’s collapsed body was scorched and faded, drained of all vibrance. Even the light felt off — like the sun didn’t quite want to shine here anymore.

Two figures pushed through the stunned crowd.

Wolverine knelt without a word and hoisted Adachi’s upper body over one shoulder with practiced ease. Beast came in from the other side, securing his legs. The two men exchanged a grim glance.

“He’s burnin’ up,” Logan muttered, sniffing the air. “But it ain’t fever — it’s somethin’ else.”

Beast adjusted his grip, the fur on his arms bristling. “His vitals are erratic. His brain activity’s through the roof — psionic overload, possible physiological transmutation. We need to stabilize him now.”

Chowon stepped forward, eyes wide, panic barely held back. “I’m coming with you.”

“Chowon—” Emma began.

“No,” she said, sharper than usual. “I’m not leaving him alone. Not like this.”

Logan paused, then gave a short nod. “Fine. Stay outta the way..”

With a ripple of golden energy, they vanished through the teleport pad toward the Med Bay.

The silence that followed was oppressive. Wind stirred the trees. Somewhere in the distance, a bird gave a startled cry and then fell silent again.

Leon stood at the edge of the scorched patch of earth, arms folded tightly over his chest. “…He wasn’t just trying to hurt them. He was trying to erase them.”

Jean placed a steadying hand on her temple, still recovering from the psionic strain. “He almost broke through a full telepathic and telekinetic lockdown. He should’ve collapsed the moment we touched his mind, and yet…”

Emma, arms crossed, heels clicking lightly as she paced, added, “The runes on the rifle weren’t from any realm I’m familiar with — not Limbo, not Avalon, not the Astral Plane. They were pulling on something deeper. Something older. A sun buried in the dark.”

Rogue shook her head. “Ah ain’t never seen him like that. Not even when he came back from the war with Sinister and Apocalypse.”

Magik, leaning on her soulsword, eyes narrowed to slits. “He was a conduit. For something else. Something that wants to fight.”

Jean nodded, voice quiet. “And something that’s waking up inside him.”

A beat.

Then Leon spoke, voice cracking slightly. “Why didn’t the rest of us feel it sooner?”

Emma turned to him. “Because it’s not just his mutation anymore.”

“Then what is it?” Leon asked.

Emma’s eyes flicked toward the Med Bay building, where Adachi had been taken.

“…A soul weapon like his doesn’t just manifest from willpower or training,” she said. “It comes from purpose. It’s chosen. And the runes on that weapon? I caught a fragment when the rifle expanded.” Magik explained

Rogue glanced at her. “What did it say?”

Emma looked at the others. Then, with a strange, quiet dread, she spoke.

“Your path to the sun begins here.”

Everyone was silent again.

Magik glanced toward the horizon, a muscle twitching in her jaw.

“That ain’t a prophecy,” she murmured. “That’s a warning.”

The energy had barely settled, the last arcs of Adachi’s psionic assault still sizzling against the edges of cracked stone and bent metal.

Sebastian Shaw groaned from where he’d been thrown, one arm bent at an unnatural angle, spitting blood onto the grass as he tried — and failed — to rise with dignity.

Sinister coughed, smoke trailing from his ruptured chestplate, his body regenerating in twitching, uneven pulses. “That—wasn’t—typical,” he choked out. “That wasn’t just mutant power. That was ritualized rage.”

Apocalypse stood amidst the wreckage, largely untouched, save for scorch marks trailing across his armor. A long split had formed down the center of his chestplate where Adachi had driven him back with pure psionic force.

He brushed dust from his shoulder, lips curled into a smirk.

The ancient mutant said nothing — not at first.

Only after several heartbeats did he look skyward briefly, as though searching for the echo of something… distant. Watching.

Then he turned.

Emma, Jean, and Rogue walked in tense silence, leading the path toward the council chamber where Magneto and Charles were waiting. Their pace was clipped, each woman with her own version of poise — Jean focused, Emma stone-faced, Rogue burning with quiet nerves.

Behind them, footsteps like distant thunder marked the approach of Apocalypse.

“You didn’t need to come,” Emma said without turning.

“I did,” Apocalypse replied simply. “A treaty should be sealed in the presence of those who remember the cost of war.”

Jean slowed slightly, glancing over her shoulder. “We weren’t expecting retaliation. This wasn’t supposed to be—”

“—An ambush?” Apocalypse finished for her, his tone calm. “It wasn’t.”

Emma turned, halting them just short of the chamber doors. “Then what would you call it?”

Apocalypse stepped forward, his gaze never wavering, his voice as steady as the earth. “An inevitable collision. You do not raise a blade and expect it not to gleam in the sun.”

Rogue folded her arms. “You’re talkin’ about Adachi.”

Apocalypse’s eyes flickered — not with anger, but with interest. With remembrance. With calculation.

“I chose him for a reason,” he said, as if it were a secret they’d all forgotten. “Among the students, his psionic field was already woven with something older than mutation. He walks with power not entirely his own — and yet completely of him.”

Jean frowned. “That doesn’t explain the runes. The soul weapon. The shift in color, time, light…”

“No,” Apocalypse agreed. “It doesn’t. Because it is no longer my place to explain it.”

Emma’s voice dropped low. “Then whose place is it?”

Apocalypse finally turned to her, the barest hint of approval in his tone. “Perhaps the entity that etched those runes into his weapon. Or the one that granted him horns not born of Limbo. Or the force that stirred when he stood between us today.”

They stared at him in still silence.

He looked ahead once more, the doors to the chamber looming large.

Emma, Jean, and Rogue stood still beneath the heavy lights, the corridor thick with tension. Just before the council chamber doors, Apocalypse paused beside them.

“You need not apologize for your restraint,” he said, almost gently. “I have harmed many in my time. You cannot account for all of them.”

He looked ahead, eyes focused on the gilded doors. But then his voice dropped—lower, colder. Weighted with a knowing that cut deeper than accusation.

“But do be careful.”

He turned his head just slightly, enough to cast a shadow over his expression.

“Death… I mean Adachi, as you call him… has found himself in the gaze of something none of you understand.”

The words hung in the air like falling ash.

Emma’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly. Jean’s brows furrowed, mind already running through a thousand possibilities. Rogue looked toward the floor, jaw tense, saying nothing.

Apocalypse offered no more.

He simply turned and walked toward the council room with the measured calm of someone who had once named that boy a Horseman — and perhaps, in some corner of his mind, still did.

Behind him, the women stood frozen in place, the echo of his words drumming louder than footsteps ever could.

The room was quiet but charged, its vaulted ceiling catching the murmured tension like static on the air. The members of the council sat around the obsidian circle, the muted glow of data-screens casting shadows across their faces.

Apocalypse stood near one end, flanked by Emma, Jean, and Rogue. Magneto sat with his fingers steepled before his mouth. Charles Xavier sat across from him, hands folded over the rim of his hoverchair, his expression tight with conflict.

“I want to begin by extending an apology,” Charles said, voice calm but heavy. “To you, En Sabah Nur. You were here under terms of peace. What happened in the courtyard… should not have occurred.”

Apocalypse inclined his head, unreadable. “It was expected. Rage rarely sleeps long in those touched by the crucible.”

Charles’s mouth twitched at the corners, and he continued. “That said… Adachi’s actions endangered lives. He escalated to lethal force without authorization. We must hold our own accountable, no matter their trauma or past manipulation.”

Emma opened her mouth, but before she could speak—

“Wait, hold up.”

All eyes turned to Forge, who had been standing at the perimeter beside Magik and Kurt , arms crossed. He stepped forward, voice tight with disbelief.

“We didn’t tell Adachi a damn thing about this meeting. We brought three of his worst abusers and actual war criminals to the school where he sleeps, and then act surprised when he reacts like a weapon being cornered. It’s no wonder the phoenix force took him for a joyride.”

His voice rose slightly. “We threw him under the bus, and now we’re ready to run him over again because he didn’t play nice?”

Apocalypse chuckled low under his breath, but said nothing.

Jean leaned forward, face drawn with quiet gravity. “It wasn’t the Phoenix,” she said, interrupting the rising tide in the room.

A cold silence followed.

Magneto’s eyes narrowed. “You’re certain?”

Jean nodded. “I know the Phoenix. I’ve lived it. What stirred inside Adachi wasn’t a cosmic force of rebirth and destruction. It was something deeper. Older.”

Rogue’s voice was low. “Felt like it had teeth.”

Emma, lips pursed, added, “It resisted five Omega-level telepaths and almost powered through. In fact He didn’t just power through us — he almost fed on the confrontation.”

Caliban who was with Shaw glanced down, muttering, “That’s not a mutant signature I’ve seen before… not one tied to Earth.”

Apocalypse finally broke his silence, stepping forward into the dim center of the chamber.

“I chose him for Death because I saw the shape of his soul. He was never meant to remain in your small fields and safe rooms. Adachi’s power has only grown since he fled my lab.”

He turned his head to the east slightly, his crimson gaze catching the glint of low light.

“And now… something else sees him too.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Heavy. Alive.

Charles closed his eyes, as if already grappling with a weight he could barely hold.

Jean added quietly, “And if we don’t understand it… we’d better start trying.”

The sterile scent of antiseptics clung to the walls of the med bay, the hum of bio-monitors barely audible under the thread of music — angry, fierce fiddle music that sliced through the quiet like a blade. It wasn’t coming from any speaker. It poured from the air itself, summoned from nowhere by the psychic field between Adachi and Chowon, her unconscious form in the bed beside him. The melody bent and warped with his fury, dancing with an old-world folk cadence laced with notes that whispered of deserts and temples, of something older than any of them.

Adachi sat restrained in reinforced bands of psionic-threaded alloy, his jaw clenched, chest heaving. Horns shimmered in and out of focus, never fully manifesting — his weapon wasn’t summoned, but his soul was clearly fighting to be heard.

The med bay doors opened with a hiss.

Illyana Rasputin entered first, arms crossed, her Soulsword flickering faintly behind her as a reminder she didn’t need to draw it to be dangerous. Beside her, Nightcrawler walked quietly, tail swaying behind him, rosary wrapped gently in one hand.

“I still don’t know how you keep faith in all of this,” Illyana murmured as they approached the containment field.

Kurt’s smile was faint but full of conviction. “God works in mysterious ways, mein Schwester. Even in Limbo… even here.”

Adachi looked up, teeth gritted, as the fiddle music took on a harsh screech before softening at the sight of the two mutants. “If you’re here to tell me I overreacted, don’t waste your breath.”

“No,” Illyana said simply. “We’re here because we care. And because the others are too scared to look you in the eye right now.”

Kurt stepped closer, his voice soft and measured. “What you did… was dangerous. But what they did? That was betrayal, and you have my apologies for it,”

Adachi exhaled sharply through his nose, head falling back against the wall. “Thanks Kurt I appreciate it. Also What the fuck were Apocalypse and Sinister doing here?”

Illyana sat on the edge of the bed, gaze hard. “Charles and Magneto are trying to unify all mutant factions. Even the worst ones. Peace talks.”

Adachi laughed — bitter and hollow. “Peace talks? With two no three mass murderers? Nah. Fuck that. They’re evil. They deserve to die.”

“I agree,” Illyana said bluntly. “I’ve killed for less. But…”

“But,” Kurt interjected, “what happens to the people who follow them if we don’t offer another path? What happens when vengeance becomes a cycle, and every child raised in their shadow becomes another enemy? Also consider Mrs Frost she was once an enemy but no more or Erik, do they deserve redemption more than Apocalypse or Shaw or Mr Sinister”

Adachi stared at the ceiling. The music in the room softened into a slow, weeping refrain, the Egyptian undertones like ancient breath over sand. “No maybe… I don’t know Shaw maybe but Apocalypse and Sinister they don’t compare to the Emma and Magneto,” Kurt shrugged in understanding knowing that Adachi was drowning in anger

As if sensing Kurt’s concern “I wasn’t just angry, I was calm. Like the only thought in my mind was I don’t care what happens to me here they die.” he said. “I was gone. I could feel it — something else wanted in. Through me. It wasn’t the Phoenix. I don’t need Jean to confirm that. It was… hungry. And it was waiting for a long time.”

Illyana’s gaze darkened. “I know. The runes on your weapon? They’re not from Limbo. They say: Your path to the sun begins here. That’s not our realm’s language. We don’t have a sun”

Adachi let the words settle. Then, slowly, he turned his head toward Kurt.

“Do you think someone like me can forgive?”

Kurt’s expression didn’t falter. He stepped forward, reached into his coat, and handed Adachi the rosary.

“I think forgiveness is a choice. And sometimes we can’t give it to others until someone else shows us how.”

Adachi stared at the beads in his hand. Then, almost without realizing, he nodded.

Kurt knelt beside the bed. Illyana stepped back, giving them space.

“Let’s pray,” Kurt said gently. “Not because it fixes everything. But because it reminds us we’re still human.”

The fiddle faded. A stillness settled over the room — warm, tentative, healing.

And in that moment, the horns disappeared. Not forced away. Just… at rest.

As Adachi held the rosary in his palm, thumb slowly tracing over the worn wooden beads, something else was shifting beneath the surface — something visceral and visible.

Illyana noticed it first: the faint shimmer of light dancing just under Adachi’s skin, not unlike heat distortion on pavement. It pulsed along his arms, then his ribs, then his jaw — all areas that had been cracked or shattered only hours before. The faintest pops could be heard in the silence, followed by a low hum of tightening muscle and mending sinew. He winced once, but didn’t cry out.

Kurt watched calmly, reverent even as the supernatural weight in the air increased.

“Your healing…” Illyana murmured, watching his arm shift subtly, realigning with a clean snap beneath the skin. “That’s not just natural recovery.”

“It’s not,” Adachi muttered. “It’s… responding. Like my body’s evolving to survive whatever that was trying to break through.”

A faint pastel thread of psionic energy unspooled from his shoulders like steam, lifting and curling into the air before vanishing. The signature didn’t feel like his usual aura. This was primal. Ancient. Growing.

The restraints creaked slightly, and Kurt gently placed a hand on Adachi’s wrist. “Peace. You’re safe.”

Adachi closed his eyes, focusing on the feel of the rosary, the smooth edges worn down by prayer. With every breath, the storm within him quieted just enough. But even as it settled, the changes remained.

His skin had a faint lavender-blue sheen to it now, almost metallic in places. The glow in his irises hadn’t faded since the attack — a quiet, predatory glint flickering like candlelight behind his pupils. His horns, though gone for now, left faint ghost-marks where they used to be — luminous impressions beneath the skin.

“I can feel everything,” he whispered. “Not just pain. Not just anger. I can feel Chowon’s heartbeat. Kurt’s calm. Illyana’s sword, like a memory waiting to cut. The whole damn building.”

Kurt looked to Ilyana, worried. “Is this what happened when Apocalypse turned him into a Horseman?”

“No,” Ilyana said, shaking his head solemnly. “This feels older than that. Like something is… awakening because of it.”

Adachi leaned back, exhaustion catching up with him. “When I broke in that fight… something else picked up the pieces.”

Kurt stepped forward, kneeling again, voice soft. “Then the question becomes: do you let it define you… or do you teach it who you are?”

Adachi didn’t answer right away. The rosary in his hand flared once with psionic heat, the beads glowing briefly in pale pastel hues — a mix of his energy and something borrowed from Chowon. It hummed like a string plucked in a forgotten key.

Finally, he nodded. “Then I need to get stronger. Not angrier. Just… stronger.”

Illyana raised a brow. “Careful. That’s how I started before I built a throne in Hell.”

He cracked a tired smile. “No throne. Just… enough strength to make sure no one ever turns me into a weapon again.”

Kurt clasped his shoulder gently. “Then we’ll walk that path with you. You’re not alone, Adachi.”

The lights in the med bay dimmed slightly as his body relaxed again. More bones aligned and hardened beneath his skin. His pulse evened out. His psionic field, once erratic, now pulsed in a steady rhythm — broader, deeper, quieter, like the slow churn of a forming star.

Whatever had nearly consumed him had not succeeded.

But it had left a mark.

After a few more hours he was allowed to go granted he didn’t go to the summit location. So he took the still sleeping Chowon home

The world around Chowon shimmered—soft and golden, like dawn filtered through gauze. She wasn’t quite awake, but not fully asleep either. She floated in that quiet space between breath and memory, warmth pooling in her limbs like she was submerged in honeyed light.

She felt motion.

Not hurried. Not jostling.

Steady.

Strong arms wrapped around her, cradling her like something precious. She recognized the scent before she saw his face—sun-warmed cedar.

Adachi.

But he was different here.

The shadows that often clung to his aura, the coiled fury he wore like armor—gone. In their place was something ancient, radiant. His hair shimmered with threads of gold, and a soft light spilled from his chest like an inner sun. His horns—fully present—glowed faintly with sigils that pulsed like a heartbeat. He was calm, at ease as he carried her.

She lifted her head slightly, though her body felt weightless. “Are we… flying?” she whispered, her voice drowsy and dreamlike.

“No,” he said softly, eyes locked ahead. “I’m just walking you home.”

The world around them didn’t resemble the X-Mansion. The hallway stretched into an open sky streaked with glowing constellations and carvings etched in sunstone—faint images of bulls, lotus blossoms, and curved hieroglyphics that rearranged themselves like a language being learned anew.

Light danced off his skin—not from any external source, but from within. His psionic field had grown so large it reached outward in glimmering waves, brushing against her and making her feel… full. Protected. Reverent.

“Why do you shine like that?” she murmured, nestling into his chest.

He didn’t answer.

But the golden light flared just a bit brighter.

Then a voice—not his, not hers, but something far older—echoed faintly in the glow:

“He carries the sun because one must bear the burden. And in his fury, I found my vessel.”

Chowon stirred in her dream, brow furrowing as a glowing bull’s head formed in the sky above them—its eyes ancient and serene, its body composed of fire and starlight.

The dream began to dim around the edges, the warmth fading as the pull of waking grew stronger.

“Don’t go,” she whispered.

Adachi glanced down at her, and for just a heartbeat—his eyes were golden, ringed in white, like a solar eclipse seen through a sacred lens.

“I’ll always bring you home.”

She woke slowly, curled in their apartment bed, the sun barely cresting the horizon outside. Her heart was beating too fast. Adachi was there beside her, asleep but stirring—his brow furrowed like he’d been dreaming too.

And faintly, just beneath her fingertips as she brushed his cheek, she could feel it again.

That radiant warmth.

Still there.

In the six weeks that followed, the mansion slowly began to hum with something like normalcy again.

Adachi and Leon had returned to their work—covert field missions, mutant protection efforts, the occasional late-night stakeout. But while Leon laughed and grumbled like usual, Adachi moved like a man caught between worlds. He was efficient, precise, terrifying when necessary… but quiet. So, so quiet.

He hadn’t spoken more than eight words to anyone besides Chowon. Not even to Kurt, or Forge, or the students who used to idolize him.

Only Chowon felt the full weight of his silence. Every night, he wrapped his arms around her like he was afraid she’d disappear. His grip was firm, almost desperate. She would rest her head against his chest, feel the thrum of his overactive psionic field vibrating beneath his skin like a distant sun, and worry.

Late afternoon light spilled into the girls’ lounge, soft and golden. It caught in half-drunk mugs of tea, reflected on Magnolia’s headphones, glinted off Karina’s rhinestoned nail art. Laughter buzzed under it all—fizzy, comforting. The warm chaos of mutant girlhood in full swing.

The door creaked open.

Momo stepped in, hoodie loose over her comeback tour outfit, sunglasses pushed into her hair. Her suitcase thunked behind her, wheels clicking against the threshold.

She blinked at the scene before her: Winter sprawled on the floor with a tub of ice cream, Karina painting tiny moons on her nails, Magnolia flipping through a coursebook and making skeptical noises. Chowon lay curled into a sun-dappled corner, her phone face-down, eyes faraway.

Momo smirked. “Did y’all start the party without me?”

Karina shrieked. “MOMO-Unnie!”

She launched herself into Momo’s arms.

Winter joined, wrapping her in a bear hug. “You missed two world-ending incidents. We almost had Jean send you a psychic voicemail.”

Momo laughed, letting herself be smothered in affection. “Okay, you’re kidding, right?”

Chowon looked up slowly. “No.”

Magnolia sipped her tea like it was whiskey. “She’s not.”

Momo sank into the cushions beside them, stretching out her limbs with a dramatic sigh. “Alright. I’ve got a callus on every toe and haven’t slept more than four hours in a month. What the hell happened while I was becoming K-pop’s exhausted goddess?”

Karina leaned in, eyes wide. “Adachi almost killed Apocalypse.”

Momo blinked. “…Say that again?”

“Adachi. Almost. Killed. Apocalypse.” Magnolia repeated, tapping her mug in time with each word.

Chowon’s voice was softer. “And Sinister. And Shaw. He didn’t flinch. He just… unleashed.”

Momo’s jaw dropped. “Hold on. Adachi? I mean—yeah, he’s intense, but he wouldn’t just—”

“He would,” Chowon interrupted gently. “This wasn’t rage. It was… execution. Like something sacred and ancient had woken up inside him. And his soul weapon—it changed again. Bigger. Brighter. Not just a gun anymore. And then the horns—”

“Horns?” Momo sat bolt upright. “He has horns now?”

Chowon nodded, her voice steady, but with that same flicker of awe she’d carried since that day. “They come out when he summons the weapon. Black, like obsidian, but shot through with these glowing veins of color—pastels, almost like stained glass. At first, they were faint. But now? They’re undeniable.”

“And,” Magnolia added with a smirk, “sensitive.”

Winter giggled.

Momo’s eyes darted between them. “Sensitive… how?”

Chowon flushed but didn’t look away. “Touching them… grounds him. He says they feel like part of his nervous system now. When I run my hands over them, it’s like his whole body tunes to the frequency. Sometimes he shivers so hard I think he might break.”

Karina fake-swooned. “Emotional support minotaur boyfriend.”

Chowon rolled her eyes, but a soft smile curved her lips. “I think they’re a manifestation of whatever’s chosen him. Not just power… something older. Mythic. Sacred.”

Magnolia’s gaze drifted toward the window. “Apocalypse said he saw something in Adachi—chose him for a reason. And now, he said something else is watching him.”

Momo slowly exhaled, rubbing her hands down her face. “So I miss two months and come back to glowing horns, soul rifles, eldritch possession, and cosmic prophecy. That’s great. Love that for us.”

A beat of silence.

Then Karina grinned and nudged her. “Sooo… comeback choreo?”

Momo gave her a disbelieving look. “You want me to dance after all that?”

Chowon leaned her head against Momo’s shoulder, eyes still distant but voice tender. “We need something light.”

Momo melted a little, tugging her phone from her bag. “Alright. But if Apocalypse shows up again, someone better teach me how to punch like Adachi.”

“Deal,” Magnolia said, pinky raised.

The music played. Something fast, full of swagger. Momo moved like water. And for a little while, laughter and the thud of feet drowned out prophecy and worry.

But even in the brightness, Chowon’s eyes occasionally drifted to the hallway—where the man with the horns would return later. Quiet. Haunted. Still holding something sacred and volatile behind his silence.

The apartment was quiet, soft jazz humming low from the speakers. Momo and Chowon were curled up on opposite sides of the couch, a cozy blanket shared between them, cups of hot barley tea cradled in their hands. Momo had changed into oversized sweats, hair in a messy top bun, and face clean of makeup.

“I still can’t believe you’ve been living with Final Boss Adachi this whole time,” she said, nudging Chowon with a grin.

Chowon chuckled softly. “He’s only a boss when he’s protecting someone. The rest of the time he forgets where he left his socks.”

Just then, the front door clicked.

Adachi stepped in quietly, hoodie unzipped and golden-blue undersuit just barely visible beneath. He looked tired but calm, the kind of calm that came from carefully holding every emotion in check.

“Hey,” he said simply.

“Hey yourself,” Momo called. “You look like a haunted saint.”

He gave her a dry smirk and kicked off his boots. “Been a long day.”

Momo’s gaze flicked up and down. “Sooo… is it true?”

He raised a brow. “What?”

Chowon answered for her. “She wants to see the horns.”

Adachi hesitated. He looked away, jaw tightening. “They’ve been… weird lately.”

Chowon sat up a little straighter. “Weird how?”

“Like… when they come out, my skin heats up. My thoughts get cloudy. It’s not just fight or flight anymore. It’s…” He faltered, running a hand through his hair. “It’s like the adrenaline of a battle and the… pull of something else. Intense. It’s hard to focus. I only let them out when I’m in combat.”

Momo blinked, expression caught between surprise and amusement. “Wait—are you saying your horns give you a battle high and a sex drive?”

Adachi sighed. “I’m saying they make me feel… primal. Like something’s watching through me. Like I’m not just me anymore. I’m something older. And it wants.”

Chowon slid off the couch and crossed the room to him, resting a hand gently against his chest. “It’s okay. You’re not alone with it. You don’t have to be afraid of what’s changing.”

He met her eyes, hesitant. “You sure?”

“Always,” she said softly. “I’ll take care of you.”

That did it. With a slow breath, he let go of the restraint.

The horns unfurled from his temples in a pulse of golden psionic light, curving out like polished obsidian threaded with glowing pastel veins. They were beautiful, strange, and humming faintly with energy. The temperature in the room seemed to rise slightly.

Adachi exhaled, voice lower, thicker. “Shit…”

His eyes flicked to Chowon and then to Momo, and he smirked, something sly and ancient curling at the edges of his expression. “So… still want to see what they do?”

Momo raised her hands with a wide grin. “Okay. Whoa. Yeah, this is a lot. I feel like I just summoned an RPG final form by accident.”

Adachi stepped closer, his presence heavy like a storm rolling in. “You two asked for this.”

Chowon giggled, then slipped behind him, fingers lightly brushing the base of one horn. He shivered.

“They’re really sensitive,” she whispered to Momo. “Like, dangerously.”

Momo’s eyes widened. “You weren’t kidding.”

Adachi’s hands clenched at his sides, a ripple of psionic light trailing up his arms. “Touching them is like… kissing my soul with lightning.”

“Oh my God,” Momo laughed, half-flustered, half-fascinated. “You’re like a cosmic bull prince. Someone stop me before I write fanfic.”

Chowon leaned up to kiss his cheek. “No one’s stopping anything.”

Adachi hummed low in his throat, not quite a growl but close. “You sure know how to handle your minotaur.”

The air thickened with heat and laughter and something unspoken. Not quite lust, not quite reverence—something intimate and tangled and mythic.

As Adachi’s mind hazed over, it felt like stepping into sunlight after years of shadow—warm, quiet, and impossibly soft. A breeze stirred somewhere behind his thoughts, like wind through tall grass on a spring afternoon. The tension that had coiled inside him for weeks—months, maybe years—unwound in an instant, and he couldn’t quite remember why he’d been so guarded, so angry.

And then there were the girls.

Two very pretty girls with big, soft eyes who looked at him like he was something sacred—not broken, not dangerous. Just… worthy.

Chowon watched closely as Adachi—no, Atticus—slowed, blinked, and dropped gently onto their oversized beanbag with a quiet grunt of surprise. Then his body started to change again.

It was subtle at first—a roll of muscle under his skin, a quiet hum in the air—but then came the swell. The feedback loop between the strange force that had chosen him and his own unchecked mutation kicked in with startling clarity, and suddenly his form surged upward. Muscles broadened, limbs lengthened, and his aura flared like starlight refracted through water. In less than a minute, the man once known as Adachi now loomed eight feet tall, his body dense with primal power and gentle magic that pulsed just beneath his skin.

The girls sat in silence as his whole demeanor shifted. His eyes went soft and unfocused, glowing faintly. His usual guardedness melted into a blank, blissful calm. When he turned to them, his expression was boyish—pure wonder.

“Wow,” he said, blinking slowly. “You two are really pretty.”

Chowon and Momo both flushed, glancing at each other with stunned amusement.

“Are you okay, Adachi?” Chowon asked carefully, easing closer.

He tilted his head. “Adachi? My name’s Atticus. Atticus Robinson Jr.,” he said with a quiet whine, like it was obvious but also like he was a little embarrassed to admit it.

The girls’ hearts melted instantly.

Chowon gave a little coo and crawled to his side as Momo covered her mouth to hide her grin.

Atticus relaxed further in their presence, letting out a long breath. His horns glowed a little brighter—soft pastels pulsing with each heartbeat—as his massive form slumped contentedly. There was no tension in his shoulders. No fury buzzing beneath his skin. Just peace.

And maybe a bit of awe.

“Everything okay, Atticus?” Chowon asked, nuzzling against him, dwarfed now by his sheer size. Her voice was gentle, reverent, like she was speaking to something holy.

“Yeah,” he said dreamily. “Two pretty girls are talking to me, and I didn’t have to do anything special.”

Momo let out a laugh and leaned over to press a kiss to his cheek. “It’s good to see you like this, big guy.”

“You too, Momo-noona,” he murmured, the honorific sliding out with the softest smile.

Her breath caught. A single tear slipped down her cheek—not out of sadness, but gratitude. Relief.

“Anytime, big guy,” she whispered, brushing a hand over his glowing horn before standing. “I’ll give you two some space.”

Momo blinked back a tear at the tenderness in his tone, then gave Chowon a knowing look. “Take care of him, yeah?” she said softly before excusing herself to her room.

She left for her room, but the door barely clicked shut before Atticus turned toward Chowon again, blinking like he was seeing her for the first time.

“You smell like honey and flowers,” he said softly.

Chowon smiled, eyes bright. “That’s because you make me bloom.”

He giggled—an actual giggle—as she curled closer into his side, safe in the arms of something ancient, beautiful, and finally at peace. Chowon stayed, curling into Atticus’s side, the heat of his expanded form radiating into her bones like sun-drenched stone. She reached up without thinking and brushed her fingertips over one of his horns—warm, smooth at the base like polished obsidian, veined with faint pulses of pastel energy.

Atticus shivered.

"Sorry," Chowon whispered. "Too much?"

"No, it just…" He blushed. "Feels really nice when you do it."

She giggled and continued tracing gentle, circular motions along the spiraled curve. His eyelids fluttered, lips parting slightly in a dreamy sigh.

"You always get like this when they come in?"

He hummed. "Sorta. It’s like… being pulled between wanting to fight and wanting to just melt. But with you, I don’t feel pulled. I just feel… safe."

Chowon’s hand slowed to a loving stroke, her fingers curling behind his horn like tucking hair behind an ear. "That’s because you are safe, Atticus. No one’s asking you to fight right now. You’re home. With me."

His glowing eyes fluttered open to look down at her, utterly soft and full of warmth. "You always make me feel like I can be myself. Even when I don’t know who that is."

Chowon leaned up, kissed the spot between his glowing horns, and whispered, "That’s the real you. Sweet, strong, and a little bit shy."

Atticus chuckled bashfully and pulled her closer with one arm, holding her like a teddy bear. His body radiated peace now—not dominance or rage—but comfort, trust, and a quiet kind of joy.

And when she teasingly murmured, ��You really are my big, sweet bull,” he didn’t even flinch.

He just smiled, horns pulsing a little brighter as he relaxed into the name.

The apartment was quiet.

The soft hum of city night filtered through the curtains, brushing against the moonlit bed where Chowon and Atticus lay curled together, her body tucked safely into the crook of his massive arm. His breathing was deep and even, horns faintly aglow—soft pastel pulses timed to the rhythm of his dreams.

And in those dreams… something stirred.

Atticus stood barefoot on an endless plain, golden light washing over tall grass that rippled like waves. The sky above was twilight, stars swirling in slow, deliberate patterns—constellations forming ancient symbols he couldn’t name but somehow understood.

Ahead of him, a great figure emerged from the mist—a massive creature that moved with the grace of a priest and the weight of a god.

A bull with the musculature of a jungle cat, fur dappled like sunlight through leaves. Its horns curved with impossible symmetry, eyes burning not with flame but with memory.

The creature stopped before him and lowered its great head, studying him in absolute silence.

Atticus took a breath. “You again.”

Its voice didn’t speak in words—it arrived in his bones, in his chest.

“You have called upon me more than once, Atticus Robinson. I would know you. Truly.”

Atticus frowned but nodded. “Okay.”

“You are split. Between the fighter and the protector. Between vengeance and gentleness. So tell me… who would you rather be? Adachi? Or Atticus?”

He blinked. “I don’t know if I get to choose.”

“You do. Right now. In this place, no masks. No names others gave you. Only the one you give yourself.”

Atticus stared at the stars above. Thought of fire, steel, the smell of blood. Then thought of Chowon’s breath against his chest. Of Leon’s quiet nods. Magnolia’s laughter. Momo’s tears.

“I want to be Atticus,” he said quietly. “I… don’t want to be angry anymore. But I know that Adachi’s still needed in this world. It’s violent. It’s loud. People like us—people like me—don’t always get to choose peace.”

“Then why pursue strength at all?”

The question lingered.

Atticus looked at his hands—both brutal and tender. The kind that could hold someone or break the world.

“To protect the people I care about. Maybe do some cool stuff along the way,” he admitted with a sheepish smile. “But mostly… I just want them safe. Even if I’m the one who has to get hurt for it.”

There was a stillness in the dream. A hum like a temple bell vibrating across dimensions.

The creature's burning eyes narrowed softly—not with threat, but something gentler. Pride, maybe. Understanding.

“A simple answer. But one that rings true.”

“Then let it be so.”

The air shifted.

The creature stepped forward, touching its forehead—horn to horn—with Atticus, light arcing between them like golden lightning.

“The contract is made.”

“You will have the strength of Adachi… and the heart of Atticus. You will be the storm and the shelter. A son of power. A man of peace.”

The dream began to fade.

But before it fully vanished, the being smiled in a way that echoed across time and memory.

“We are not so different, you and I. I, too, was once worshipped as strength incarnate. But I only ever wanted to carry the ones I loved.”

Atticus stirred just before dawn, the light of his horns dimming back into stillness. Chowon’s hand was still resting gently on his chest. A smile ghosted across his lips.

He didn’t say anything.

But for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel torn in half.

Morning sunlight poured through the sheer curtains, casting a soft golden haze across the bedroom. Chowon stirred first, her cheek still resting on Atticus’s chest. He was warm beneath her, rising and falling with deep, steady breaths—no tension in his muscles, no sudden flinches like she was used to feeling in the middle of the night.

She blinked slowly, letting herself listen.

And what she heard made her still completely.

For the first time since she met him, Atticus’s melody was clear.

Not dulled. Not masked beneath layers of psychic static and barely restrained fury. No distorted echoes of grief or the metallic undertone of always preparing for war. Just… music. Smooth. Lush. Like a cello gliding through a soft jazz arrangement, underlaid by rich horns and brushed drums. Full-bodied and warm. Steady.

It sounded like him.

Like who he was before he was hurt. Before the world told him to snarl first and trust second.

She sat up slowly, eyes moving over his face. His brow wasn’t furrowed. His jaw wasn’t clenched. And when her fingers grazed along the curve of his jaw, his eyes fluttered open—not wild or wary, but calm. Grounded.

“Morning,” he rasped, voice thick with sleep.

“Morning,” she whispered back. Then smiled softly. “You’re… quiet.”

Atticus blinked. “In a bad way?”

Chowon shook her head, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “No. In the right way.”

He looked at her for a long moment, then reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

She tilted her head, listening again as his soul gently resonated around her. Her mutant gift caught every note—the harmonic pulse of him. It was no longer an argument within itself. No longer switching violently between rage and restraint.

“Your melody used to fight itself,” she said, fingers brushing the ridges of his collarbone. “Now it’s singing.”

Atticus looked faintly bashful, eyes turning toward the ceiling for a moment before returning to hers. “Guess I slept well.”

She chuckled, leaning her forehead against his. “No. You dreamed well.”

They stayed like that for a while—no need to fill the silence.

Eventually, he spoke, softer than before. “I think I’m gonna try being me again.”

Chowon kissed the corner of his mouth. “Good. I missed you.”

“Missed me?” he teased. “I’ve been here the whole time.”

Chowon smirked. “Not really. I was hanging out with the big, angry Outlaw. Sweet guy, but a little high-strung.”

Atticus laughed—light and low. And her whole body warmed at the sound.

Because it wasn’t a guarded chuckle. It wasn’t the grin he wore when trying to defuse his own tension.

It was real.

The music of it folded gently into hers. Two melodies, finally in harmony.

Chowon smiled then said, "Before I forget though, The outlaw did owe me a favor he kept putting off but maybe my sweet bull can fufill it for me." Chowon cooed as she played with Atticus's horns. Atticus moaned before saying "that can be arranged."

Chowon smiled as he body glistened with a thin sheen of sweat as Atticus got up, but Chowon pushed him down. "No I wanna ride you," Chowon said as she got on top. Atticus smiled and let her do what she pleased.

she took off her brown nightgown revealing her marvelous curves to him. she legit had him salivating at the sight of her sexy seductive figure.

"Like what you see?" she cooed and Atticus nodded. Chowon smiled as she opened Atticus's pants and lowered herself onto him.

"ooh" she cooed gently as she adjusted to his size, before riding him.

her walls were almost unbearable tight as she clenched his manhood with her pussy.

"So how do I feel?" Chowon asked knowing he'd barely be able to make a coherent statement

"Fkin amazing," Atticus replied as Chowon smiled sweetly while riding him. she moaned as she took him deeper. she chuckled watching him loose his wits before offering one of her bountiful breasts to him.

Atticus happily took it as he sucked on her nipple with rapacious grattitude. Chowon smiled and said, "Greedy boy," before giving him the other as she picked up the pace.

Atticus moaned as Chowon took him deeper and deeper before saying, "Fuck I could fuck you all day and night. Would you like that?"

Atticus nodded but answered, "I love you Chowon, you are the best,"

Chowon smiled and said, "I know" before slamming down on his cock with such force he came on the spot, making her smile as she came around him. After her orgasm she got up slowly, letting him drip out of her. she smiled and said

"you must really want to baby-trap me huh?"

Atticus laughed and said, "Yeah who wouldn't want to be married to you?"

Chowon smiled and said, "Oh you charmer!"

[reveryfics]

Undercover

Pairings: T'Challa x Male reader

Summary: After learning about a international deal set to go down that could potentially cause a risk to Wakanda, T'Challa is surprised to see someone else has taken an interest in the deal.

A/n: I should mention the reader is hispanic and a international agent working for S.H.I.E.L.D, also men in dresses <3 (I suck at fight scenes)

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The air in the Monte Carlo casino hung heavy with the scent of expensive perfume and desperation. T'Challa, a solitary figure amidst the throng of humanity, navigated the labyrinthine corridors, the cacophony of sounds – the clinking of dice, the raucous laughter, the mournful sighs of defeated gamblers – assaulting his senses. Slot machines blinked and whirred, their garish lights a stark contrast to the subdued elegance he was accustomed to.

He adjusted the cuffs of his impeccably tailored suit, a subtle movement that spoke volumes about his composure amidst the chaos. His gaze swept across the room, searching for his target, a man involved in a deal that could potentially destabilize Wakanda. Intelligence reports had indicated the buyer was a man, but the world was full of unexpected twists.

Shuri's voice, a lifeline through the static, crackled in his earpiece. "Any luck on the buyer, T'Challa?"

"Still no luck on a visual, Shuri," he replied, his voice a low growl against the deafening bass of the house music. "Just remember, the source emphasized a male buyer. And be careful."

T'Challa nodded, his senses on high alert. He moved with a silent grace, a panther stalking its prey. The air crackled with anticipation, a palpable sense of greed and desperation hanging heavy. This wasn't his usual stomping ground, but the stakes were high. Vibranium, in the wrong hands, could unleash a wave of destruction the world was ill-prepared to face. He had to stop this deal.

His eyes finally settled on a figure seated at a high-stakes poker table. A man, flanked by a woman whose beauty was almost distracting. The woman, draped in a crimson gown that clung to her curves like a second skin, was a vision of predatory elegance. Her gaze, however, was fixed on T'Challa, a predatory glint in her emerald eyes.

"Enjoying the view, mi príncipe?" she purred, her voice a silken caress that sent a shiver down his spine.

T'Challa, momentarily thrown, managed a charming smile. "I must confess, I find myself quite captivated," he replied, his gaze lingering on her.

He played a calculated game, observing the man, the woman, the flow of the game. The source had been adamant: a male buyer. But this woman… she exuded an aura of power, a dangerous allure that belied her appearance.

He subtly excused himself, following the man through the labyrinthine corridors of the casino. As he closed in, a hand clamped down on his arm, pulling him into a darkened alcove. He reacted instinctively, a blur of motion as he attempted to subdue his assailant.

His eyes widened in disbelief. It was the woman.

"Honestamente, pensé que un princr sería más inteligente.” she hissed, yanking off her wig to reveal a face that was decidedly masculine. "Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D and that pendejo was none the wiser until you showed up.”

T'challa, still reeling from the revelation, demanded, "What does S.H.I.E.L.D want with this?"

"Vibranium is a threat, not just to Wakanda, but to the entire world," he explained, his voice low and urgent. "My mission was to recover the case and return it to you."

A tense silence followed. Cooperation seemed unlikely.

"Let's just say… our methods differ," he said, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

He snatched a pair of VIP cards from an unsuspecting patron, handing one to T'challa. "Impressive," T'challa conceded. "Just you wait."

They navigated the VIP section, their presence unnoticed amidst the haze of cigar smoke and expensive champagne. They reached the private room, the air thick with anticipation.

The two targets, oblivious to the danger, exchanged smug glances. "Well played, gentlemen," one of them sneered. "But you've walked into a trap."

Suddenly, the room erupted in chaos. Guns materialized from nowhere, trained on the two intruders. But T'challa and him were ready. T'challa activated his suit, the fabric surging around him like a second skin, transforming him into the Black Panther.

Guards, hired muscle, and even a few disgruntled gamblers joined the fray. Unlike T'Challa even without a suit the other man was a whirlwind of motion in the red dress,he moved with a predatory grace. His movements were fluid, almost feline, a mesmerizing blend of dance and deadly intent. He dispatched opponents with a brutal efficiency, each strike swift and precise.

T'Challa, watching from the periphery, felt a strange thrill course through him. That man, in that dress, was a vision of raw power and captivating danger. There was an undeniable seduction in witnessing this man, so utterly masculine, move with such grace and lethal intent. It was a primal display, a reminder of the wildness that still lurked beneath the veneer of civilization.

Sensing T'Challa's gaze, he met his eyes with a feral glint. A silent message passed between them: This is what I am.

The fight raged on ,the man human weapon, neutralized threats with a chilling efficiency. He used the environment to his advantage, utilizing the slick marble floors to his benefit, sending opponents sprawling with expertly placed kicks. T'Challa, meanwhile, moved like a panther, his movements silent and deadly. He dispatched his foes with a quiet efficiency, his vibranium claws flashing in the dim light.

Together, they fought their way towards the targets,T'Challa secured the case while the other subdued the targets. They made their way back through the casino, the sounds of sirens growing louder in the distance.

As they slipped out of the casino, unnoticed by the arriving police, T'Challa turned to him. "You... you are unlike anyone I have ever encountered," he breathed, his voice husky with a mixture of admiration and something akin to awe.

His breath coming in ragged gasps, merely smiled. "Just trying to survive, Your Majesty."

They stood near the street, watching as police stormed the casino. "If you're ever looking for work, I'm sure we could always use a man with… your talents," T'challa paused.

He smiled, turning towards T'challa and stepping closer. "Just ask me on a date next time, mi príncipe," he purred.

T'challa couldn't even form words before the case was shoved in his hands, and the man turned towards a car that'd just parked. He waved, blowing T'challa a kiss as he got into the passenger seat.

"He's a keeper," Shuri laughed, causing T'challa's cheeks to heat up. "Most definitely.”

[discordiansamba]

still! thinking about the noctis au, as one does.

noctis' official story is that he's a first generation nephilim with an unknown demonic parent that was sheltered by asylum. because he had special circumstances, he wasn't raised with the other orphans. he has no special powers, but he's extremely strong and has strong regenerative abilities.

noctis' unofficial story is that he's a misfit azazel clone, and as a result was separated from the rest of the test subjects to be raised as an exorcist by a unknown mentor whose name was lost in the chaos of the blue night.

(both versions list him as rin and yukio's biological father. how do you hide the children of satan? easy. claim they're the children of a nephilim instead. suddenly things like rin's initial hair color and his violent tendencies stand out less.)

noctis never finishes high school, ultimately- but shiro does help him study in order to obtain a GED. the compelling visual of shiro sitting across from a 20 year old noctis at the kitchen table, tutoring him for the test while 5 year old rin and yukio play with kuro.

noctis has a motorcycle license, but not a standard driver's license.

his horns grow out long and thin, making them nearly impossible to hide with regular methods, so mephisto gives him decorative cuffs to put on them that makes them invisible to people without a mashou.

he goes through like. six dozen different image changes. he cannot settle on a look. he grows out his hair and then cuts it off. he experiments with facial hair but always shaves it off in the end.

he definitely gets a few tattoos. love the idea that they're all designs he associates with his friends, as if he's getting his memories of them engraved on his body so he never forgets.

(shiemi's four leaf clovers are tattooed right over his heart. he gets a firebird for suguro, prayer beads for konekomaru, foxes for izumo and a design like yamantaka's eye for shima all entwined on his back. shura's white snakes and yukio's caduceus are tattooed on his arms, so he can never forget how hard he fought to save them, only to lose them in the end.)

noctis does NOT get any taller. he looks at rin bickering with yukio when the latter starts getting his growth spurt and declaring he'll catch up to and surpass him one day like. i've got some bad news, kid. we are fucking cursed.

this timeline's version of rin 100% has piercings lol- several on his ears, but also a pierced tongue. noctis is just like yeah go for it, and so he does.

rin cares a lot less about people who call him a demon this go around- after all, his dad's a half-demon and he's cool as hell! what he does care about, ironically, is people talking shit about noctis. and people talk shit about noctis a lot.

rin, when he and shiemi have kids years down the line just looking shiro dead in the eye and being like: and here's your great-grandpa!

(noctis is cracking up in the background- at least until rin smiles at him and introduces him as grandpa noctis.)

nine year old rin, rolling up his sleeves: i'm gonna make dad breakfast in bed for father's day. :)

(noctis, overcome with emotion. he has such good kids!!

mephisto: didn't you say you weren't going to be their father?

noctis: shut uppppppp.)

rin & yukio like: our dad is rin from the future so if you think about our family dynamics for longer than five seconds they start to get really messed up. so we don't do that.

rin: -unless it's funny!

yukio, nodding: unless it's funny.

rin, yukio, tsukumo, and shura have been trying to get noctis and monaka together for years. as soon as the exwires learn of her existence they join in. they truly don't understand how noctis is not married yet.

(upon learning that noctis is a guilt-ridden rin from a bad future: ohhhh. yeah. that makes sense. but also he needs to cut that the fuck out. matchmaking time.)

noctis, meeting teenage lewin for the first time: ...who's that hanging around osceola?

mephisto: his name is lewin light, i believe!

noctis, recalling the lewin he knows from the future like ????? HUH????

once his life settles down a little, noctis does eventually poke his head into osceola's talismanic cooking workshops.

the Illuminati, ironically, have their eyes on noctis even without knowing his true identity- his unparalleled regenerative abilities are what catch their eye, but they don't attempt to recruit him because it's clear he's mephisto's creature.

[prettypumpum]

Title: Crossed Dimensions | Logan Howlett x Reader

Summary: You were living an ordinary life until the day a portal throws you into the Marvel universe. Trapped between an unbearable Deadpool and a Wolverine as troubling as he is charming, you discover powers you didn’t know you had and an unknown past with certain heroes. As your anxiety grows in the face of this new reality, will you be able to find your place and perhaps become the hero they need?

Warnings: strong language, references to anxiety and panic attacks, mentions of violence.

Word count: ~2.7k

Masterlist

chapter 1

“You know, I’ve always wanted kids,” Wade whispered in my ear, making me jump and pulling my attention away from Logan and Laura, who were deep in conversation on the other side of the room. “I’m so disappointed; I thought you’d teleport this time.”

“Mutants don’t exist in my dimension, Wade. So let me forget that I can do that, or I’m going to have a panic attack,” I replied, my eyes still locked on the scene in front of me.

“Do you think the government would use my sperm to impregnate one of my old sexy acquaintances, aiming to create a deadly weapon?” Wade asked, mouth full, making obscene gestures to illustrate his point.

All I could do was grimace in disgust. I hadn’t known Wade long, but I had to admit the movies had really toned him down. He was unbearable, vulgar, and absolutely everything was a joke to him. Which, admittedly, was pretty funny—as long as you weren’t the target of his humor.

“No, forget it. I prefer the good old-fashioned way, balls to lady parts. I can’t do it with scientists staring at me; it throws me off,” continued the mercenary, muttering the last sentence. “Plus, honestly, you missed the fun part where we cuddle, and Logan growls in your ear.”

This whole situation was insane. Just this morning, I had been leaving my coffee shop, pumpkin spice latte in hand, when some weird guys surrounded me, threw me into a portal, and explained that Marvel actually existed and that, on top of it, I had a past with Ryan Reynolds and Hugh Jackman. Well, not them, but their variants, Deadpool and Wolverine.

“I think I need a drink,” I said, squeezing my eyes shut as tightly as I could, praying to wake up from what felt increasingly like a nightmare.

"Logan drank everything, but I think he left that nail polish remover Al uses if you want it," Wade replied, grabbing Dogpool.

“I’m going to get some fresh air, then.” Without giving him a chance to say anything else, I grabbed my coat—which had been new before being thrown into the TVA trash—and headed out, slamming the door behind me. I had no idea where to go; I didn’t have money or friends in this universe. Or any other, for that matter.

When I finally stopped, the adrenaline began to wear off, and the reality of my situation was making me seriously anxious. My meditation app advised me to close my eyes, focus on my breathing, and visualize my intrusive thoughts like cars passing on a road. But I mostly felt like those cars had run me over.

No matter how hard I tried to calm down, my heart beat faster, and I felt like the walls were closing in. When I felt a hand on my shoulder, I couldn’t help but scream, jumping in shock, which didn’t just make me leap—it teleported me to the end of the hallway.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Laura apologized. “You left kind of abruptly, and I was hoping we could talk.”

I didn’t really know what to say. The situation was completely crazy. She was the daughter of my variant… well, no, officially, she was the product of Logan’s genetic material.

“I just needed some quiet, you know how Wade is,” I said, laughing nervously and sitting down on the building’s staircase. Laura nodded in understanding and sat beside me in silence.

“You know, he once told me I have his powers but that I look more like my mother,” Laura said, breaking the awkward silence that had started to settle. “My Logan, I mean.”

Her Logan and his Lydia had been true heroes, both killed trying to protect her. Wade had explained that his Lydia had tried to escape with the children from the facility where they were held when Laura was still a baby but had died before she could make it through the gates.

“I was told she was a good woman,” I said, not really knowing what else to add.

“I got to meet Logan, but I don’t remember her. Charles showed me pictures and told me a lot about her.”

“I don’t want to shatter your dream, sweetheart, but I’m not her. Your mom was a hero. Me, I’m just a miserable girl with depression who doesn’t know what to do with her life,” I said, fidgeting with my coat sleeves.

“You helped save this world. If that’s not being a hero, I don’t know what is,” the young girl said softly, a smile playing on her lips. “I know that Logan and you aren’t them, but… you’re the closest thing I have. So I was thinking maybe we could go get coffee or grab a bite together someday.”

If her Lydia was anything like me, her Logan might have been right. When I saw the poor girl, playing nervously with her hands, lacking confidence, I couldn’t help but think that maybe we shared some personality traits—unfortunately, not the best ones.

“You’re probably the first teenager who actually wants to hang out with their parents,” I said, laughing wholeheartedly this time, which made her smile. “If you need someone to talk to or if you’re bored, don’t hesitate—I’ll be here for you.”

“Logan said the same thing. You’re just like my real parents,” she said, standing up. “You’re a bit lost, but you’re there when it counts.”

“Do you have somewhere to go?” I asked, a bit concerned and trying to change the subject.

“Colossus should be here soon. He’s picking me up to take me to the institute,” she replied, helping me to my feet. “I’m really glad I met you, Lydia,” she said. Before I could respond, she hugged me—a hug that, if I hadn’t had a healing factor, probably would have left me with a few bruises.

“You’re young and a mutant, so of course you’re going there,” I said, feeling a bit embarrassed when she let go. “Wait, I’ll stay with you until he gets here.”

“No, it’s okay; you can head back up.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, worried about leaving her alone on the street at this hour.

“Yes. Don’t worry, I can handle myself. I’m a big girl,” she said, extending the two metal claws from her knuckles before leaving the building, leaving me alone in the dimly lit hallway.

I still waited a few minutes until I heard a car and Colossus’s familiar voice, then I went back up to the apartment.

Wade and Al were nowhere to be found when I returned. Logan and I shared the living room; he was just coming out of the bathroom, pulling on a white T-shirt as I came in. And, as always, it took all the willpower I had to keep breathing. I averted my gaze, blushing, and rushed to the bathroom. I really needed to splash some cold water on my face.

[alicelufenia]

From Long Prices to Long Odds - yep, I'm starting Pale Lights

While chipping away at my re-read of A Practical Guide to Evil, and with patch 8 of Baldur's Gate 3 STILL a ways out, I've started reading ErraticErrata's next big project - Pale Lights.

Right away I can tell how much the author's improved since book 1 of the Guide. We've got two point of view characters for our journey through the subterranean, post-apocalypse world of Vesper. Tristan Abrascal - orphan, street rat, and thief, with a vendetta to settle against the nobles who've wronged him; and Lady Angharad Tredegar, a noble in exile with nothing to her name save her sword arm and unshakable sense of honor, who has sworn vengeance against her family's killers, even as she's dogged by assassins at every step.

Both from worlds like night and day (or I guess that would be Gloam and Glare in this world), they could not be more different, but fate has set them on the same path; to survive to see their enemies punished, they must first survive the trials on the island - the Dominion of Lost Things - alongside other competitors from all walks of life, in order to escape their past and join the Watch, that special band of elite god-killers that toe the line between civilization and the monsters who lurk in the endless dark beyond the points of light.

And it really isn't any big spoiler or anything to mention contracts, basically pacts with supernatural beings for power and guidance. Both our main characters have them—Tristan with a minor god of luck (he's literally her only follower) called Fortuna, the Lady of Long Odds, who only he can interact with, and is constantly snarking at him; while Angharad's contract is with a mysterious entity of few words known only as the Fisher. Many other characters possess contracts that are detailed to varying degrees, but we get the closest look at them through our main characters, both patrons being just as different from each other as their human charges.

It's only a few chapters in that the supporting cast expands immensely, with over a dozen other competitors shipped off to the same destination. Some are paid for by a sponsor, like our protagonist duo, others are here by their own expense, mainly a group of Sacromontan nobles for whom getting even partway through the trials will gain them status with their families. And some are here because they have no other choice, forced in by debtors and legbreakers to pay with their lives or their eventual service in the Watch. Think Man in the Iron Mask meets And Then There Were None.

Keeping track of so many characters early on has been a challenge, but luckily the extremely prolific @gwennafran has created visual guides per chapter of the entire cast, their origins, abilities, affiliations, and status of living or dead or mia. It also serves as a handy reference to visualize what everyone looks like, the cast being just as diverse and multicultural as in the Guide, except everyone's human this time around.

Where the Guide draws from Mediterranean Europe and North Africa for its naming conventions and cultural touchstones, Pale Lights starts us off with a very Central and South America-inspired setting. Place names like Izcalli and Sacromonte, the nobles of the latter being referred to constantly as infanzones (literally minor nobles in Spanish), are just a few early examples. Right now the scope is very limited, starting in one city before moving to a "deserted" island, which is actually totally occupied by hollows, or "darklings", the extremely indigenous-coded pale-skinned people who have completely adapted to living in the total dark of Vesper, away from any pits of Glare (the perpetual light shining through cracks in firmament above, where most civilization gathers). Especially given we're already exploring class dynamics of nobles and non-nobles, I expect we'll also find the "Red Eye cultists" to be more than they appear at first.

I'm only 16 chapters in, and already am very much hooked. Both Tristan and Angharad serve as excellent foils for each other; pragmatist vs idealist, street smarts vs noble scion, untrusting to a fault vs too honorable for her own good. It's all very delicious, and I have reasons to root for both of them even as their beliefs and methods remain anathema to each other. One of the coolest things about a primarily single-perspective narrative are those times when you can see that character from an outsider's view, and because each chapter or two flips between protagonists, we get an impression of how both of them come across to other people, giving us a chance to be out of their heads for a bit.

Dunno how often I'll post live reading thoughts on this one, but I'll certainly try, including anytime I finish a book; which right now is just the two. But hey, at least with this one I'll be catching up to current releases, which is a nice change of pace.

[alicewav]

WOAHHHH HERE ARE THE RESULTS!

I want to begin by saying how blown away I was by the number of people who joined and just how much talent showed up for this! I hope you all had fun, and thank you so much for being part of it 🩵

🥇 1st Place

I’m absolutely mesmerized by this piece. It feels like something you’d see hanging in a museum, from the composition to the angle and the incredible attention to detail, especially the mastered expressions, everything about it is just stunning.

🥈 2nd Place

I’m still shocked every time I look at this. It tells a whole story all on its own, every detail feels intentional and purposeful, the rawness and emotion are incredible, you should be so proud of creating something this powerful

🥉 3rd Places (shared)

@ I adore the colors you used! The way you play with them makes for something so visually pleasing, it’s a joy to look at

@northamericanfallow What a sweet piece! The pose, her innocent smile, and the setting come together beautifully, I loved spotting the little details, from the bed to the creatively placed three symbols

@ This one is so fun and creative! The texture is wild, and the shapes are so engaging, I loved spending time looking at it, especially spotting Benny on the checkered floor and the cards representing the Queen and King—how clever!

🏅 4th Places (added because… too much talent to ignore!)

@scythiesscienceshoe I fell in love with this one, the background is super fun, and the style you used is so delightful.

@doodledeart Your style is so distinctive, it’s cute and pretty but adds a fascinating contrast to the scene, the pose is just divine.

@iknowwhereiare I’m a huge fan of this kind of style—packed with details, which I love! The flies were such a cool touch too, absolutely amazing!

Thank you again so so much to everyone who participated, you all created wonderful works

Truly much love

(All winners can reach me out for their prizes anytime!) (fourth places we will settle what the new prize is)

[rxqueenotd]

PART VI

In the Roman world, damnatio memoriae was used to describe a range of actions taken against former leaders and their reputations. These actions included: defacing visual depictions, removing heads from public statues, chiseling names off inscriptions, and destroying coins.

summary: reader, who goes by 'Prima', was raised by a powerful Roman consul, under the reign of Imperator Septimius Severus. When it comes time for his eldest son, Caracalla, to marry again, a chain of events is set off, changing the course of Prima's life and the lives around her.

warnings: major character death, crucifixion, rough sex, swearing, mentions of menstruation, ancient Rome as a warning in itself, read previous warnings.

notes: I am posting this at 2:57 AM EST. I had no intention of posting this today or touching this fic, but I have written 6 different variations of this chapter alone and finally weaved them all together the way I liked. This has not been beta'd at all so please forgive any mistakes. I argued with myself about making this chapter smuttier just for my reader's pleasure and what not, but the plot outweighed the horny this time. Once again, this fic is a labor of love and really has pushed me to become a stronger writer. I can tell that my style is changing and evolving, so thanks to everyone who has pushed me to keep going. This has almost been like therapy.

The road to Rome stretched before you like a serpent, winding through the countryside and coiling as the company rode without slowing. The rhythmic pounding of hooves against the packed dirt was the only sound filling the tense silence between you, Caracalla, and Geta. The heat of Caracalla’s body behind you was grounding, his arm wrapped around your waist in a firm grip, as if he sensed you might slip away into your thoughts if he let go.

Geta rode beside you, his posture rigid, his face unreadable. The tension between the brothers was palpable, taut like a bowstring ready to snap. You felt the weight of their unspoken words pressing down on you, suffocating in its heaviness. But you were not thinking of them. Your mind was elsewhere—on what you had left behind in Baiae, on what waited for you in Rome, and on the bitter taste of something you had not yet named.

Surrounding you were the Praetorians, their polished armor gleaming under the midday sun, their silent presence a constant reminder of the power that enclosed you on all sides. Their formation was tight, disciplined, ensuring that no one, whether from ahead or within your own group, could act without consequence.

It wasn’t until the outskirts of Baiae came into view that unease settled deep in your bones. You had not expected such a crowd as you passed through. The streets were unusually dense, the hum of voices growing louder as you entered. A slow dread curled in your stomach as you took in the gathered masses, their eyes fixed on something ahead. The murmurs were thick with cruel delight and hushed horror.

The horse beneath you slowed as Caracalla pulled on the reins, a low chuckle vibrating from his chest. “Ah,” he murmured, amusement lacing his tone, “Baiae always loves a spectacle.”

At first, it was just a shape against the sky, something out of place in the sea of bodies. Then the sun glinted off gold—bracelets, delicate and familiar, still clinging to limp wrists. Dread rooted itself deep in your stomach as realization struck.

There, raised high above the crowd, was a cross. And nailed to it, her body battered, her golden bracelets still glinting in the harsh daylight, was Prosperina.

The world constricted, narrowing to that single point of horror. The delicate curve of her throat now bore the grotesque bruises of strangulation. Her lips were parted in eternal silence. The silk of her stola was torn, stained with blood that had long dried in the heat of the sun.

You barely registered the way Caracalla’s fingers tightened against your waist, or the low murmur of the crowd. The only thing you could hear was the rushing in your ears, the sharp thrum of blood pounding against your temples.

Geta’s voice, quiet yet sharp, cut through the haze. “You look pale, Prima.”

You swallowed hard, your nails digging into your palms to ground yourself. “I did not expect such a… crowd.” Your voice was steadier than you felt, but even that small victory felt hollow.

Caracalla’s lips brushed the shell of your ear, his breath warm and thick with something unreadable. “Fitting, isn’t it?” he murmured. “She should have known better. You do now, don’t you?”

A tremor ran through you, though you masked it well. The weight of his words was heavier than the bodies they strung up for sport. You forced yourself to turn, to meet his gaze with something softer than defiance, though the battle within you raged hotter than ever.

“I do,” you said, voice quiet but firm.

His smirk softened, but he said nothing more.

The horse continued forward, but your mind remained rooted to that cross, to the woman who had, for a brief moment, shown you something outside the prison of power and control.

As the procession moved through the streets, as Baiae faded behind you on the road to Rome, you knew something had shifted, something within you now lost—dead, like the woman left hanging in the sun.

____________________________________________________________________________

The gates of the imperial palace groaned open just before sunrise. The courtyard stood empty, silent, and dark, the usual watchful presence of stewards and servants absent. No warm towels, no priestly incense, no wine. Just shadow and the faint scent of oil burned low in the sconces.

You dismounted without assistance, your hands steady as they gripped the saddle though every movement pulled at the flesh along your spine. The bandage there had begun to stiffen, tugging each time you shifted, a constant reminder of what had happened—what had been taken, and what had been allowed. Your sandals struck the ground with more weight than grace, and you straightened slowly, letting the pain sharpen your focus as you adjusted your cloak around your shoulders.

Caracalla said nothing as he passed beneath the archway ahead, his stride even, his guards flanking him in tight formation. He did not glance back. He hadn’t looked at you since Prosperina. Geta lingered behind the procession, his mount moving at a slower pace, his posture upright but not tense. His eyes moved across the palace walls, the dark windows, the empty balconies, watching, calculating, but not speaking. When his gaze fell on you, it stayed there.

You crossed the threshold last, stepping beneath the arch into the quiet weight of the palace. Once, this place had felt like a stage—alive with light and movement, voices echoing through marble corridors, laughter tucked into every shadow. Now it held the stillness of something recently abandoned. The torches flickered low and uneven, their flames too faint to chase away the gloom. You could smell old smoke, dust, and the faint rot of laurel leaves gone brittle.

Nothing had changed. But something in the air whispered that everything had.

Your footsteps echoed in the silence, a sound too loud in a space that used to absorb it. You felt eyes on you—servants tucked into doorways, guards watching from behind columns, the unseen murmur of slaves pressing themselves into corners, all of them waiting for the measure of what had returned. You said nothing. You met no gaze. You walked slowly, each step purposeful, letting your silence speak for you.

When you reached your chambers, the guards stationed there snapped upright, too quickly, as if your presence had startled them. Neither spoke. One inhaled sharply and didn’t release the breath until you dismissed them with a single word. They bowed—not deeply, not confidently—and stepped back into the shadows, grateful not to be summoned further.

The door closed behind you with a soft thud that felt heavier than it should have, sealing you inside a room untouched since you left it. Everything was as it had been. Your robe hung neatly behind the changing screen. A scroll lay open beside the chaise, its parchment curled at the edges. For a moment, you simply stood there, letting your eyes move across the space, cataloguing the unchanged. A strange stillness settled in your bones, as if you were no longer sure whether this room belonged to you, or if you had returned to it too changed to belong anywhere at all. You didn’t reach for the lamp. You didn’t undress. You only peeled back the poorly wrapped bandage and studied your palm.

The wound had stopped bleeding, but it was far from closed. The gash ran diagonally across the softest part of your hand, shallow but angry, pulsing faintly with each beat of your heart. It had been carved clean, and though you had bound it tightly with linen, the wrap had grown damp with sweat and the faint trace of blood that still seeped through.

You flexed your fingers slowly, testing the skin. The pain was sharp, but not unfamiliar. It wasn’t the first time you had bled for someone else’s power, but this time, you had drawn the blade.

You moved to the chaise, lowering yourself with more care than grace. Each shift in weight pulled at your back. The bandage you’d wrapped there before leaving Baiae had begun to tear away from the wound. You could feel it loosening beneath the fabric of your shift, the blood that had dried into the cloth threatening to pull again with every breath.

You didn’t call for assistance. You hadn’t since you returned. There would be no one to see you undress, no one to lay out clean robes, no one to scrub your fingernails. That, too, had been intentional.

The knock came only once before the door opened.

The healer entered without ceremony, without hesitation. She was older, her skin darkened by years of sun and work, her frame lean and steady. A long scar crossed her jaw, but her hands were clean and bare. She carried a basin of water, steam curling upward, and a folded cloth tucked under one arm. She did not speak. She did not bow.

You said nothing as she crossed the room and set her things beside you. She did not ask where the wound was. She simply moved behind you, lifting the hem of your cloak, then your shift, and found the bandage.

You had done your best with it, but it had slipped out of place during the journey. Her fingers worked quickly, unwinding the fabric, peeling it free from the broken skin beneath. The salve you had used was nearly gone, the cut reopened from the motion of riding. You inhaled through your nose and held still. The cloth pressed against your back, soaked in vinegar and lavender, stung sharply. You didn’t flinch. Her touch was practiced and methodical.

You remained seated for what could have been minutes or hours. Time stretched strangely in the hush that followed. The cloth beneath you had begun to cool, clinging faintly to your skin, when the healer, who had not yet left, cleared her throat softly.

Without waiting for your response, she moved toward the adjoining room, gesturing with a subtle flick of her fingers.

“Come,” she said, not unkindly.

You rose without speaking.

The air in the balneum was warm and heavy, scented with steam and oil. The water in the sunken bath shimmered faintly, moving only by the slow, steady trickle of a fountain built into the far wall. Steam curled from the surface, catching in your throat with the faint sting of rosemary and crushed mint.

The healer moved without commentary, setting down her basin and cloth on a low bench before stepping to the edge of the water. She reached for a slender bottle of warmed oil and poured it slowly into the bath, the surface blooming with a slick sheen.

You untied the sash at your waist and let your shift slip from your shoulders, allowing it to fall to the floor without ceremony. She did not avert her gaze. She had seen bodies broken before—this was simply another kind of ruin.

As you stepped down into the balneum, the warmth enveloped you immediately, rising to your thighs, then to your waist. The ache in your muscles softened, only slightly dulled by the heat. You sank into the water until it covered you up to your chest, your elbows resting on the smooth ledge at either side.

The healer knelt beside the bath, wetting a cloth with the steaming water. She didn’t ask permission. She began with your shoulders, then your neck, dipping the cloth again and again, scrubbing the remnants of dried sweat, blood, and travel from your skin.

When she lifted your arm, her breath caught for only a second.

The bite mark there had darkened overnight. Bruises ran in parallel lines down the inside of your arm—grip marks, unmistakable in shape and intent. She did not ask questions. She dipped the cloth again and moved to your side, where the worst of it lay.

Your skin told the story: across your ribs and hips bloomed the handprints of possession, bruises deep and uneven, the imprint of knees, knuckles, teeth. The lash mark on your back-- a gift from Caracalla’s whip– ran like a line of red ink beneath all of it, angry and swollen, and had barely been held together by the fresh bandage.

She traced a cloth along the curve of your spine, carefully avoiding the wound. Then she tilted your chin gently upward to wash your face, the only moment of softness in the entire exchange.

“Tell me,” she said, not sharply, but with the steadiness of someone accustomed to damage.

You opened your eyes and met hers.

“What would you have me say?”

Her expression didn’t change. She dipped the cloth again and began to clean your hand, the diagonal gash now swollen, the edges faintly pink.

“This one was your doing,” she said quietly, wrapping her hand lightly around your wrist.

You didn’t answer.

Her thumb brushed a smear of dried blood from your palm. The heat from the water brought the sting back to the surface. You held still, letting her work.

Once she finished, she poured a ladle of warm water over your shoulders, letting it run down your back, over your thighs, between your legs. She did not look away. She was not here to pretend. Her fingers found a spot at your side, near your hip bone, where the bruises had layered over each other in a wash of purple and yellow. Her touch paused there.

She didn’t speak.

Neither did you.

When she finished washing you, she retrieved a soft cloth and motioned for you to stand. You did, slowly, water cascading from your skin in thin rivulets. She dried you without comment, beginning with your arms, then your legs, moving around your body like a ritual performed too many times to need instruction.

At last, she said, “There are places they strike where the bruises fade quickly. Yours will not.”

You nodded, the ache behind your eyes sharp and steady, but no tears came.

“I know.”

She took one final look at you—naked, marked, upright—and then turned from the bath, speaking only once more as she reached the door.

“Someone should see what Rome does to its daughters.”

The door shut behind her, and this time you truly were alone.

The warmth from the bath clung to your skin, but it couldn’t reach the cold settling in your chest. You moved slowly to the marble bench, wrapped the drying cloth tightly around your shoulders, and sat. Your eyes flicked to your reflection in the dark water—distorted, distant, but yours.

You weren’t thinking about shame.

You were thinking about how blood keeps score.

And how long it might take for the empire to answer for yours.

____________________________________________________________________________

Rome did not welcome you back. It endured you.

By midday, the palace had resumed its rhythms—or appeared to. Bread was baked. Bronze was polished. Scribes whispered over scrolls. But something vital had gone missing in your absence, and whatever remained behind smelled faintly of rot masked with perfume.

The silence was heavier here. It did not serve as awe but as insulation—thick, padded, suffocating. And those who moved within it did so carefully, as if afraid to wake something sleeping beneath the marble.

Your footsteps echoed where once they would have been muffled by murmuring courtiers. You passed no one in the colonnades, no senators trading favors in shaded alcoves. Even the priests walked lighter than usual, their vestments trailing behind them like funeral cloth.

Word had traveled faster than your horses. You saw it in the way the servants looked away when you passed, in the way the guards stiffened—shoulders too tight, hands a breath too close to their swords. You heard it in fragments from behind curtains and in the dry coughs of those who pretended not to see you.

They didn’t know what had happened in Baiae. But they knew something had.

And more than that, they were watching to see how you’d carry it.

You were dressed in dark linen bound with a thin gold sash at the waist, the fabric carefully chosen to obscure the worst of the bruising along your hips and arms. Cassia had helped you braid your hair back from your face in a style too severe for mourning but far too austere for court. It sent a message. You hadn’t come back soft.

The hall leading to Septimius’s quarters had once been a place steeped in lore and legacy—lined with oil lamps and veiled attendants, always humming with the quiet urgency of those who waited for the voice of a god. Today, it felt like a tomb.

No guards stood outside the door. Only a single servant boy sat on the floor beside the arch, nodding off in the warmth, his tunic wrinkled and damp at the collar. When you approached, he startled upright and scurried away without speaking.

You entered without being summoned.

The air inside was thick with incense and decay. The curtains had been drawn back slightly to allow the afternoon light to filter in, but it did little to soften the room. A copper basin sat unused beside the bed, the cloths inside it already stained. Flies hummed near a bowl of half-eaten dates on a table that had once held treaties and letters from distant provinces.

And there, in the center of it all, lay Septimius.

The emperor. The imperator. The father of Rome.

His body had shrunken beneath the linen blankets, the shape of his frame no longer divine but withered, as if some greedy thing had already begun to feed on him from within. His skin was the color of parchment left too long in the sun. His lips were cracked. A faint wheeze rattled in his throat with each shallow breath.

He did not notice your entrance. Or if he did, he gave no sign.

You stood at the foot of the bed for a long moment, unsure whether to speak. There was no court here. No audience. Just you and the dying breath of a god who had once moved nations with a glance.

Then, without opening his eyes, he spoke.

“I know that walk.”

His voice was paper-thin, barely audible, but it scratched through the stillness.

“I heard it once… in my mother’s house, just before the storm hit Antioch.”

You said nothing.

He turned his face slightly toward the sound of your breath, his eyelids fluttering open just enough to expose the bloodshot blue beneath.

“I thought you were her,” he whispered. “Or the other one. The dead one.”

You stepped closer.

“I’m none of them,” you said.

“No,” he rasped. “You’re what’s left.”

A long pause. Then, with startling clarity, his voice sharpened—not in strength, but in tone.

“They were my balance. And now they tilt the world.”

He blinked slowly, his gaze going glassy again. His hand moved under the blanket, weakly fumbling for something—perhaps for the past, or for a name he couldn’t quite recall.

“One sun rises…” he murmured. “One must fall.”

You stood still, your arms at your sides, the cloth of your robe suddenly too heavy across your shoulders.

“The gods mock me,” he said softly, almost dreamlike. “I made them emperors… and they make war within their own walls.”

His head turned toward the window, the faintest trace of light gilding his temple. For a moment, it was possible to see the man he had once been—the marble-cut silhouette, the fury, the mind. And then it passed.

His eyes found yours again, focused for the first time.

“You… you are my weapon The clever girl they say will outlive us all.”

Then he blinked once more, and the recognition faded.

He drifted back into silence, the breath in his chest shallow, the sound of it barely distinguishable from the rest of the still room. You stood there longer than you meant to, watching the rise and fall of the blanket over his chest, wondering how long it would continue. Wondering who would be the first to stop pretending that Rome was still being ruled at all.

____________________________________________________________________________

You didn’t return to your chambers after leaving Septimius.

Instead, you walked the eastern colonnade, where the light was thinner and the arches opened onto the inner garden. The breeze moved through the cypress leaves in slow spirals, rustling the ivy along the carved stone pillars. It had once been a place for midday gatherings, performances, quiet conversations about music and law. Today, it was empty.

Or so you thought.

You had just rounded the corner, the hem of your stola brushing against cool marble, when you heard voices ahead—quiet, controlled, just beyond the curve of the wall. You slowed.

One voice—measured, low, unmistakable.

Macrinus.

“I do not believe in omens,” he said, his words carrying in the stillness. “But I do believe in patterns. And Rome follows them as surely as blood follows the blade.”

There was a pause, then the quiet rustle of someone shifting their weight.

Geta’s voice followed, cooler, more restrained. “And what pattern do you see now?”

You stepped back into the shadow of an arch, letting the folds of the stone wall swallow your form. The corridor ahead twisted gently, a sculpted bust of Juno obscuring you from view. From where you stood, you could see neither man—but you could hear them clearly.

Macrinus spoke again, his tone almost casual.

“Two emperors. One fading. One fracturing. The court divides itself like a carcass under knives. And the lady? She returns cloaked in silence, and everyone steps back as if she carries fire.”

“She carries something,” Geta replied. “Though I haven’t yet decided what.”

A soft laugh from Macrinus.

“She carries the memory of Baiae. That is enough.”

There was a stretch of quiet between them, broken only by the sound of water trickling in the distance.

“You think her dangerous?” Geta asked.

“I think she is still breathing,” Macrinus said. “And in this palace, that makes her dangerous enough.”

More silence.

Then Macrinus added, “He’s unraveling, you know. Our beloved Augustus. Rome sees it. The senators see it. Even the gods must be tired of watching him clutch the empire like a spoiled child refusing to share.”

Geta didn’t respond.

“You could have it,” Macrinus said softly, not a whisper, but something close. “With the right voices behind you. The right faces at your side. Even the right silences.”

There was a long pause before Geta finally spoke again.

“I’m not in the habit of collecting poison in exchange for power.”

“No,” Macrinus said. “But sometimes, poison is the only thing sharp enough to cut through rot.”

You felt something tighten in your chest—not fear, not quite. Something sharper.

There was movement then—footsteps shifting, the echo of a sandal against stone.

“You’ve said enough,” Geta murmured.

Macrinus replied, “Only because you let me.”

The sound of their footsteps retreated in opposite directions, and the space between them stretched once more into silence.

You waited until you could no longer hear them before you stepped from the shadows.

The garden beyond the colonnade was still, the breeze faint. In the space between one heartbeat and the next, the empire tilted just slightly off its axis, and you, tucked inside its heart, stood still as marble, listening to the silence where power had just passed.

_________________________________________________________________________

You had not summoned him. You hadn’t seen him all day. But the moment the doors slammed open, you knew who it was.

Caracalla stormed into your chambers with the force of a man who had not slept. His cloak was half-undone, one fastening swinging loose at his shoulder. His jaw was tight, his eyes wild, a flush rising under the skin of his neck. 

You did not rise. You did not greet him.

He stopped only once the distance between you had disappeared, standing over where you sat, his breath sharp and uneven. His hands were clenched at his sides, his fingers twitching.

“They’ve begun invoking it,” he said, barely above a whisper, as if saying it too loud would make it more real. “The edict.”

You looked up at him slowly.

“The one my father signed,” he continued, voice cracking, “naming me and Geta as co-emperors.”

He let out a sharp, humorless laugh, too short to be real.

“A senator quoted it to me this morning. Quoted it, as if I needed reminding. ‘It is the will of the Imperator that his sons rule together.’ As if his will matters more than mine. As if I’ve already been replaced.”

You didn’t answer. There was nothing in your voice that would have softened this. Nothing in your silence that could have made it worse than it already was.

“They’re not even pretending anymore,” he snapped. “They speak Geta’s name in the baths, in the temples. They look to him in the council chambers. And they look at me like I’m the rabid dog my father failed to leash.”

He began pacing, his sandals scuffing softly against the marble, the weight of him heavy in the silence. He dragged a hand through his hair, fingers trembling slightly.

“And you,” he muttered. “You say nothing. You do nothing. You walk these halls like you don’t belong to me.”

You kept your voice level. “Perhaps because I belong to myself.”

He turned.

He was on you in an instant, crossing the space in three furious strides. His hand gripped your wrist, the one still wrapped, and then released it just as quickly to shove you back into the chaise. The cushions caught you, but it knocked the air from your lungs.

He followed, pressing down, his knee between your thighs, his weight sudden and possessive.

“Have you bled this month?” he demanded.

The words landed with more force than the shove.

“What?”

“Have you bled at all? Since we were married?”

You stared at him. “I don’t know.”

He didn’t believe you.

His hands were already at your waist, pulling at the sash, yanking the fabric aside. You didn’t stop him. You didn’t help him either.

“You don’t know if you’re carrying my heir,” he muttered. “You don’t know.”

He looked down at you, his breath ragged, the fear behind his anger beginning to rise to the surface.

“If you are—if you are—then I win. If you're not…”

He trailed off, hands trembling against your thighs.

“… then there’s nothing left.”

He pushed inside you with the desperation of a drowning man, his pace brutal, rhythm unforgiving. You felt the sting of it immediately—the pain layered over bruises not yet healed, the pressure where your body hadn’t recovered from the last time he’d taken you like this.

“Mine,” he said against your throat, voice harsh, fractured. “You’re mine. They can doubt me, they can whisper about Geta, they can quote edicts like scripture—but you, you will not be theirs.”

You didn’t cry out. You didn’t speak. You lay beneath him like stone.

“One empire,” he spat, hips slamming into yours. “Two heads. That’s what they say now. Like it's a prophecy. Like I’m already dead and he’s already ascended.”

He bit down hard on the curve of your shoulder. You turned your face away.

“Do you know what they'll do if I let them?” he growled. “They'll raise Geta on a dais and drag me behind him in chains. They'll offer him Rome with one hand and hand me the dagger with the other.”

He came with a strangled sound, half growl, half sob, collapsing over you. His weight crushed your ribs. His hand found your face, but you pulled away.

Stillness followed.

His breathing slowed. He didn't speak. You felt the heat of him slowly drain, the tension in his limbs unraveling inch by inch.

When he finally rose, he didn’t look at you. He pulled his cloak over his shoulders, fastened it without care, and walked toward the door.

He paused there, one hand resting on the frame, his back to you.

“I will not be erased,” he said quietly. “Not by the Senate. Not by my brother. And not by you.”

Then he was gone.

You lay still, every part of you aching, your breath shallow, your skin sticky with sweat and something else. You reached between your thighs and felt the wetness there. Not blood. Not yet.

But your stomach turned all the same.

____________________________________________________________________

The Temple of Fortuna stood quiet on the western slope of the Palatine, half-sheltered by cypress and laurel. You hadn’t set foot there since your return—not because you lacked faith, but because you had long since learned that gods, like men, only answered when it suited them.

Today, though, appearance required more than silence.

You brought a guard, just one. He remained at the base of the temple steps, far enough not to hear your thoughts, close enough for others to see. The act was carefully measured. A lone woman making a public offering for her dying Emperor would be theater. A lone woman without a guard would be weakness.

You carried only a small oil lamp and a sprig of laurel, cut fresh that morning from the edge of the garden near Septimius’s quarters—where no one spoke above a whisper now, where the lamps were kept burning long after dawn.

The steps of the temple were warm beneath your sandals, heat rising through the pale stone. The outer columns rose tall and pristine, casting long blades of shadow across the marble floor. At the center of the inner sanctum stood Fortuna herself—unchanged, unmoved, her face carved in calm repose. One hand cradled the horn of plenty. The other held the rudder, steady and silent, as if fate itself were a thing she guided with one finger and no effort at all.

There was no congregation inside. Only a priest, old and silent, who tended the nearest brazier and then faded into the dark.

You crossed the threshold alone, your sandals whispering against the polished floor. The air inside was heavy with resin and something metallic—old offerings, old prayers, old failure.

You knelt—not for spectacle, but for the act of it. Because once, long ago, you had believed in the weight of kneeling. You laid the laurel at her feet, then lit the oil with a deliberate tilt of the wick. The flame caught slowly, a small blue tongue of fire curling upward, flickering but unafraid.

You didn’t pray aloud. You didn’t believe she would hear you differently if you did. But you let the thoughts sit there, between the offering and the heat.

Let him go. Let him go before he witnesses the demise of Rome at the hands of his sons.

You rose carefully. The stone had left its pattern in your knees. The air no longer smelled only of incense. You could feel the sun reaching through the archways again, drawing long shadows across the floor.

It wasn’t until you turned to leave that you heard the footsteps behind you.

You didn’t reach for the guard at the base of the steps. If the gods wanted to test you here, they’d chosen a familiar instrument.

“I thought it might be a soldier,” you said without turning, your voice quiet and dry. “But soldiers don’t move so carefully when they think no one’s watching.”

The sound of the steps paused, then resumed—closer this time. You stepped out onto the marble platform at the top of the steps and turned just as he reached the base.

Macrinus looked exactly as he always did—well-dressed, expressionless, and vaguely unimpressed by anything that had not been crafted by his own hands. He wore a dark cloak pinned with a brooch you recognized as provincial. Subtle. Intentional. A reminder that his power came from places the court forgot to look.

“I didn’t think you were the praying type,” you said.

“I’m not,” he replied easily. “But I know when others are trying to be seen praying. That’s worth observing.”

You tilted your head slightly. “And what did you observe?”

“That your offering was small,” he said. “Which means you still believe in economy, if not mercy.”

He ascended the steps slowly, two at a time, until he stood just below you—close enough to speak without raising his voice.

“There are men,” he continued, “who pray in temples like this asking for favor. For victory. For sons. You come for none of that.”

You didn’t answer.

He smiled faintly, though it did not reach his eyes.

“You’re not here to ask Fortuna for anything. You’re here to remind her that you’re still watching.”

There was no reason to confirm it.

He looked past you, through the arch of columns, toward the altar where your lamp still burned in its dish.

“She’s a strange one, Fortuna. She gives generously and then takes with both hands. But she rewards steadiness. And patience.”

You narrowed your eyes. “If you’ve come to deliver a proverb, you can leave.”

“I’ve come to deliver a reminder,” he said.

“Then do it quickly.”

He looked back at you.

“You’re not sentimental. That’s why I trust you to understand what others will pretend not to see.”

A pause.

“Septimius is dying. Rome is tilting. The Senate is restless, and the gods are quiet. That leaves men like me.”

“And what do men like you want?” you asked, voice calm.

“Survival,” he said. “Preferably the kind that leaves us in power.”

He stepped closer.

“One of them will fall. Your husband, or your brother-in-law. It won’t be both. It never is.”

You remained still.

“Back the right brother,” he said.

“And if I don’t choose?”

His gaze flicked once to the flame behind you, then back to your face.

“Then I imagine I’ll see you here again soon. But the offering will be blood.”

You studied him, searching for something behind the mask of diplomacy.

“Will you be the one to spill it?” you asked.

He tilted his head, almost amused.

“Domina,” he said gently, “I’ve never needed to spill it myself. I only need to know where it will fall.”

Then he gave a slight bow—precise, rehearsed, not quite mocking—and stepped back down the steps.

You watched him walk away, his cloak lifting faintly in the wind as he disappeared along the garden path.

Behind you, the lamp on Fortuna’s altar blew wildly in the breeze but did not go out.

___________________________________________________________________________

The walk back from the temple was longer than the one to it.

The air had thickened with heat, and the garden paths were quiet, too quiet, as if the city itself had drawn a breath and forgotten how to let it go. You took the northern colonnade back to your chambers, avoiding the inner halls where the servants clustered. You didn’t want more eyes today—not curious ones, not sympathetic ones, and certainly not ones that flinched.

Your guard peeled away once you reached the door, and you stepped inside expecting silence.

Instead, you found Geta.

He was seated in the corner of your chamber, half-draped in the long afternoon light spilling from the window. His back was straight, one leg crossed at the knee, hands resting loosely on the arms of the carved chair. He didn’t rise. He didn’t look startled. He had been waiting.

You shut the door behind you and let the stillness stretch.

“I sent no summons,” you said.

“I know,” he replied.

You crossed the room slowly, each step deliberate. You passed the table where Cassia had left a half-filled cup of wine. You didn’t drink from it. You let your fingers rest lightly on its rim.

“How long have you been here?”

“Long enough.”

You turned.

“If you're here to speak of your brother, I suggest you do it quickly.”

He said nothing for a long moment. Then, with that same quiet control he always carried like armor, he answered:

“I’m not here to speak of him. I’m here to speak of you.”

That, more than anything, made you pause.

He rose from the chair, not aggressively, not with ceremony, but with the intention of a man who’d decided the conversation would now happen on equal ground. He stepped closer—not close enough to touch, but enough that you could feel the air between your bodies shift.

“You haven’t changed,” he said.

“Neither have you,” you replied. “Still slipping through shadows pretending they don’t belong to you.”

“You’re wrong,” he said calmly. “They belong to me now more than ever.”

You studied him, the elegant cruelty of his restraint, the way he wore silence like a weapon. It was what separated him from his brother—the refusal to waste blood when silence could do the same work.

“Do you know what they’re saying in the senate halls?” he asked.

“I know what they whisper.”

“They whisper more loudly now.”

You moved past him toward the window, your hand trailing along the edge of the stone sill.

“They’ve started invoking the edict,” he continued. “Quoting my father like he still belongs to this realm.”

“Perhaps because his is the only voice left that isn’t shouting.”

His lips twitched. “Or because it’s the only one that still scares them.”

You turned back to him. “And what scares you, Geta?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

He stepped forward again.

“I saw what he left you with,” he said, quieter now. “In Baiae.”

You held his gaze. “I walked out of Baiae under my own power.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No. But it’s enough.”

The pause that followed was sharp.

“You cannot change him,” Geta said. “But you can help end him.”

You said nothing.

“So that’s why you came,” you murmured. “To recruit me. To turn the ruin of my body into leverage.”

“To offer you what he never could,” he said.

You stepped toward him, closing the space entirely, your voice like silk drawn tight.

“Tell me, Geta… if I am with child, will you have it slain at birth? Or will you simply cut me down before I am able to deliver your brother's heir?”

His face didn’t move, but something in his eyes flickered—cold, calculating.

“No one would need to lay a hand on the child,” he said. “Not if its father dies disgraced.”

You studied him.

“So you’d let it live. Not out of mercy. Out of strategy.”

He didn’t deny it.

“I’d let it live,” he said, “because sometimes a child is more dangerous than a sword. A child is a memory. A mirror. A threat without ever having to lift a hand.”

You gave a soft, almost soundless laugh. “How generous.”

“I’m not generous,” he replied. “I’m smart.”

You moved past him, pouring the wine you hadn’t touched into a basin. When you turned, he was watching you again—this time with something harder to name.

“You’re not afraid,” he said.

“I was. Once.”

“You’re wasted on him.”

You didn’t speak.

He turned toward the door, hand on the frame, and paused.

“You came into my chambers uninvited,” you said.

“I know.”

“To ask for an alliance.”

“To offer one.”

“How would you have me show loyalty?” you asked. “With silence? With blood? With the body that’s already been spent like coin?”

He didn’t turn around.

“With a choice,” he said.

And then he left.

The door closed softly behind him—not with violence, but with finality.

________________________________________________________________________

Sleep would not come.

You had tried, lying still beneath the soft linen canopy with your back to the door, the flickering, but rest remained just out of reach. The silence pressed too tightly, not a comforting hush, but a heavy, listening sort of quiet that settled between your ribs and stretched into the spaces behind your eyes. 

You rose without dressing further, tying your robe at the waist and leaving your feet bare on the cold floor. You did not call for Cassia. There was no need. The palace was not asleep; it merely played at sleep. It was a thing that breathed shallowly in the dark, hoping not to be touched.

You moved through the corridor like mist, your steps quiet, your breath even. The sconces had burned low, their flames little more than embers behind their glass. The palace, always grand in daylight, shrank at night—its arches heavier, its halls longer, its grandeur reduced to echo and stone. You passed under painted ceilings you’d stopped noticing months ago, past statues that had once looked majestic and now seemed to watch as you passed. There was no clear purpose to your wandering, and yet your feet carried you with certainty, as though they had chosen a path your conscious mind had not yet accepted.

You passed the west gallery where poets once read aloud from scrolls, their voices full of measured elegance; you passed the old fountain court, where Septimius had once received an envoy from Alexandria beneath a canopy of hanging roses; and then, finally, the cracked mosaic of Minerva—a favorite of his, once, before it had fallen into disrepair. He’d claimed the flaw made it real, that even gods deserved a fault. You remembered that, the way he’d said it like he believed it, like he thought he was being generous.

And then you were there.

The corridor narrowed and quieted, the torches fewer, the air warmer with the scent of fading incense and thick, sour sickness. You moved slowly, your shadow stretching ahead of you in soft, flickering lines. There were no guards. No stewards. No attendants. The doors to the emperor’s private chambers stood half-open, and the silence beyond them was not peaceful, but final.

You stepped lightly, one palm resting against the frame.

The fire inside had burned low. The embers pulsed a dull orange in the hearth, casting thin slats of light across the bed, the drapes, the room that once held more power than the entire Senate combined. Septimius lay beneath the covers, his body diminished, his chest barely rising. His mouth was open, his skin slack and yellowed, his breath so shallow it barely moved the air.

You might have thought he was already dead.

But he was not alone.

Macrinus sat at the edge of the bed, facing the emperor. He was dressed simply—dark tunic, sleeves rolled to the elbows, no insignia to mark his station, no ring, no blade. He looked like a man preparing to smooth out an old account, not a conspirator, not a killer, just... a man with a task.

You stood still.

He leaned forward, adjusting something at the head of the bed—quiet, practiced, not rushing. And then you saw it: his hands closing around the pillow, lifting it gently, and bringing it to rest atop Septimius’s face.

There was no sharp movement, no dramatic shift of weight. Just pressure.

Septimius twitched once, a weak, animal reflex beneath the linen, more instinct than resistance. His hands, thin and spotted, didn’t even lift from the blankets. His feet pushed faintly against the mattress, but Macrinus didn’t budge.

The emperor made no sound. Not even a gasp.

Only the rustle of fabric, the faint strain of dying breath, and then nothing.

Macrinus held the pillow down longer than he needed to, his back straight, his arms locked in position. His face remained neutral. There was no satisfaction, no hesitation—just the calm resolve of a man who had waited too long to act and had finally chosen his moment.

When he lifted the pillow, the emperor’s head lolled slightly to the side, his mouth falling open farther, his eyes glassed over and staring somewhere no one else could follow. Macrinus did not reach to close them. He only reached to smooth the sheets over the man’s chest, tucking the fabric gently, almost tenderly, as though he were sealing something away.

You had not moved.

He never looked up. He never turned. You remained still, just outside the door, the column at your back like a second spine, and watched in complete silence as a god was undone by human hands.

When he stepped away from the bed, he paused to adjust his tunic, glanced once at the fire, and then turned toward the door—not yours, but the other, the inner one, the one that would lead him out unseen.

You slipped into shadow before his footsteps began.

You walked away slowly, your hands loose at your sides, the hem of your robe catching faintly at the corners of worn stone. You passed the same mosaic, the same court, the same doors—but they felt different now, less like places and more like ruins. There were no tears. No curse. Only the faint knowledge settling behind your eyes that history had shifted while no one watched, that the seat of empire had emptied with no witnesses save you.

No trumpets. No declarations. No blade. Only a breath. And then nothing.

And somewhere in the quiet that followed, Rome exhaled—and turned toward its next act.

Taglist:

@alwaysahiccupandastrid

@justnobodynothingmore

@miamariposita

@niungguang

Dividers: @ghoulbloggerrr

(If you have requested to be tagged and I haven't tagged you, please remind me because I am old and forgetful)

[akpaley]

Oh Sensation Sharp and snapping Long companion Hold me close Tell me I am bleeding slowly Torn to pieces Broken bones For all of that is just Sensation To hold, to love To live, to know

So the above artwork is a visualization of the above poem, but this whole thing is also... more than that?

Kaijja as a character in her current form draws a lot from my experiences with pain therapy and managing a chronic pain disorder. Half the prompt for her magic was this set of gifs and the other half was my experience of the psychological element of pain. Which is to say that pain is a response to a certain kind of nervous system activation and how manageable it is often depends on whether your brain thinks there's actually something wrong that needs fixing. Pain in erotic circumstances (not a thing I'm into, but) is often converted to pleasure because brain perceiving strong sensation as pleasurable and pain is strong sensation. I have dealt on and off with a chronic pain disorder for years now, and it is never so bad as when my nervous system is highly activated and I am afraid.

When you are thinking about pain all the time and experiencing sometimes very severe pain all the time and you are aware of that psychological piece but your thinking self still can't quite internalize that nothing is actually physically wrong with you, the concept of erotic pain becomes something of a power fantasy. Imagine you could feel this way, register all the sensations, and be able to treat the whole thing with the kind of joyous curiosity or even pleasure that would make this experience empowering instead of scary. Imagine that instead of making your world smaller this kind of sensation could expand it.

Kaijja was always going to be some kind of flesh paladin, but a lot of what is very core to her comes from that power fantasy, the pain that makes me visualize things moving under my skin or my flesh peeling away being both true and also beautiful. Kaijja isn't someone who doesn't experience pain, but the type of neutrality I have spent the last couple years learning and still don't have all the way down is her default. The bodily warning systems are sometimes informative, the texture of the sensations is interesting, and through the last decade or so she has been conditioned to find the extremes of both erotic. When Kaijja is in too much pain to function well it's because the experience is overwhelming and distracting, not excruciating.

Which presents a problem when the cause of that kind of overwhelm is suddenly actual bodily harm instead of being safely taken apart and reassembled by someone who loves you, and all of your instincts still say this is interesting and lovely and you should settle in and ride it out. When you are aware that there is a difference between your body signals and actual reality and on an emotional lizard brain level you can't tell the difference.

This poem is about not being able to tell the difference.

It is also about me. Not being able to tell the difference.

I don't think it would be so gentle as it is if it weren't also a kind of soft, self-soothing reflection. For her, it's the quiet acknowledgement that this is real. For me, it is the gentle reminder that it is not. A statement that I am in love with the wondrous thing of living, even when the hard parts speak to me from underneath my skin.

[streets-in-paradise]

Stained - Thor x (Fem)Servant!Reader

Requested by @thorsslxve

" 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐥����𝐥𝐥, 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐬𝐨 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧 𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐥!!! 𝐈 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤-𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐫 (𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐩𝐫𝐞-𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟) 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐫: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 (𝐥𝐞𝐭'𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐉𝐚𝐧𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐞𝐱𝐢𝐬𝐭) 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐭! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐡....𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 (𝐢𝐟 𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐭) 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐚 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭. 𝐓𝐲𝐲𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐰𝐚𝐡 𝐦𝐰𝐚𝐡𝐡♥️♥️"

Sure, dear! It's kinda out of my comfort zone, but I tried my best. I used this as a prompt inspiring the whole thing. Hope you will enjoy this 😊

Warnings: Dark(ish) Thor expressing enjoyment on corrupting the reader, sexual harassment. His advances are not absolutely unwanted, but the power imbalance between servant and master puts the reader in a hard situation regarding her agency on how things play out.

Summary: Another triumph of Asgard leaves the servants overworked in the preparation of a feast. While most of your kind is occupied in the preparatives, your are send to attend the prince in his post battle bath.

Despite you intend to simply fullfill your task, he seems to have other plans in mind.

Note: Since the requester asked for a dark version of tdw thor, this differs from his canon characterzation in that movie, resembling a bit more to his pre 2011 self.

Thor had returned victorious from one more battle, bringing order to the Nine Realms inmersed into chaos since the destruction of the Bifrost. Asgard was preparing for celebrations and the feasts in the palace required an insane amount of work given the usual magnitude. Even without the macabre jokes of Loki, servants still had to stand a lot from the demmanding nobility attending the gathering.Smashed cups, countless refills and their arrogant attitudes boosted by the effect of their drinking was the easiest of it.

Sometimes, asisting them in their personal preparatives was a hassle. The freshly arrived champion stained of war needed his bath to be prepared and a small court of servant maidens were required for the task. Not always he needed so for practical reasons, but Prince Thor enjoyed himself with the reactions obtained from the sight of him among them. The shyer, the better, his glory increasing with their timid admiration.

In that oportunity, he found you the loveliest. His attention was fixated on you from your very first shy smile, and his provocations escalated at any given chance.

Once the trully needed arrangements were completed, he asked everyone else to leave and you were left alone with him. He didn't recalled to have the pleasure before, so he guessed you were one of the maids of his mother sent in auxilie because everyone else was preparing the feast.

You had been shying away from the visual of your naked master and that made him suspect you were probably used to be in the service of ladies.

" Something troubles you?" He asked you in a mock, cocky smile on his face before finishing the statement. " First time serving a man in such íntimate settling, peraphs?"

You swallowed hard, eyes on the ground to avoid an accidental peek.

" I had only asisted Loki, by expressed command of the Queen during a brief occasion. " You admited in the same ceremonial tone you would use if there would be more people there. " Your brother doesn't rejoice in conversation with my kind, neither I would seek to change that given the horror tales I have heard from the servant folk. He didn't want company, so I fulfilled my task in silence and left, hoping to remain ignored for as long as possible. "

" I believe you may have succeeded for too long, or never fallen in the ríght hands. " Thor commented, dissapointed of hearing that you have been alone with his brother before despite you told him he didn't show you any interest. " You are too lovely to be easily ignored. Can you acknowledge that? I hope you do, all that beauty can get you in trouble. "

There was no answer and that frustrated him.

" Are you always so shy, little flower, or is it only arround me? "

The lustfull sound of that teasing remark blocked your mind for an instant.

" You have an overwhelming presence, my prince. " Was the fastest, partially true, excuse you could come up with. " If Giants tremble in front of you, … How can you expect a palace maid not to react according with this glorious fame of yours?"

" My hands give death with expertice and ease, as they can also give caresses. " He clarified in return. " Beautifull, innocent girls like you shall only tremble of delight from my touch, never of fear. "

The provocation was once more ignored, or at least you pretended to do so, but he splashed you with the warm water as a cheerfull method to force you to look at him.

On that partial victory he had obtained, the image that your eyes found spoke for itself.

Thor was spreaded comfortably in the tub, his strong arms extended at the sides, water dripping from his muscled torso and his gaze finding yours in an inviting way. Everything in his corporal language tempted you to roam him with your eyes and you did, because the spectacle wasn't easy to avoid.

To say that it was pleasant would have been an oversimplification. He was the most handsome man you had ever seen, yet that didn't make the situation less unconfortable. You were his servant, not a wife contemplating the husband on a wedding night.

He could do with you whatever he wanted, and your were confused over if you would trully object to that, even if you could.

" Is there anything else you may need of me, Prince Thor? " You timidly asked. " If not, I shall … "

" I need you" He cutted you off. " Come closer, and do as I tell you. "

You nodded affirmatively and approached hesitantly, waiting for his command.

" We can start having you cleaning my back. I bet your touch must be so soft, … exactly what i'm needing. "

As you walked by intending to reach his back, he didn't miss the chance to extend his arm in order to give your bottom an encouraging squeeze. The surprise made you yelp, but he smiled as if he intended to reassure you.

As soon as your hands were on him, it only got worse. Thor wasn't shying away from groaning his relax out as your touch worked on his sore muscles while cleaning him up, loving the feeling but only regretting he couldn't see you.

" Enjoy yourself, let your hands feast on my body. " He commanded you, inciting you to go further. " I can tell you long for it as much as me, there is no use on denying it anymore."

Confused as you were, he still managed to send shivers down your spine and heat to your core.

Wordless approval of his instruction happened when your hands reached his chest, cleaneasing the dirt off his skin and caressing it on equal amounts.

Thor released a dark chuckle before proclaiming his triumph.

" You are stained of lust for me … and by the time this will be over you will be begging me to ravish you. "