geeksquade

[geeksquade]

terfs would lose their minds if they were exposed to 2000s-2010s "a girl can do anything a boy can do, including beating them at sports" messaging like why are you all acting like nobody has ever said this and that it's radical to think that women aren't inherently worse at things. open your mind. read some feminist theory. touch some grass. the most basic banal middle-class white woman feminism of the 2010s looks fucking radical and visionary compared to the misogynistic victimization complex y'all are peddling

[geeksquade]

❥ SILVERS RAYLEIGH X FEM!READER

❥ WORD COUNT: 1.3k

❥ WARNINGS/TAGS: daddy kink, age gap, established fuck-buddy relationship, Rayleigh is a dirty old man who calls you kid, inappropriate use of haki, did he once upon a time take your v card? of course he did, creampie

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The tide always brings you back, no matter how hard you push against it. An enrapturing, enigmatic pull into an embrace that smells like memories.

Rayleigh is too self-satisfied as his calloused fingertips trace over scars he remembers exactly the stories behind. Some he gave, some he saw etched by your naive bravery.

“Been too long, kid. Was startin’ to miss you.”

The bar is closed but your legs are open, spread wide across his lap with your knees sinking into the velvet couch.

“I told you I wasn’t coming back.” 

Yet your hands are in his hair, twisting silver locks into knots and pulling, tugging until he smirks and brushes his lips to yours. Heavy hands press your naked hips down against his cock, the thick heat of him smearing between your folds. 

“You always come back to Daddy.” 

Sinking down onto his cock makes film reels roll behind your eyes. The first time he took you was just like this, only slower, gentler, rocking your hips to the sway of a ship. Now he pushes into you with purpose, passion, like he knows just where he belongs. 

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groans into your neck, glasses glinting and slipping down his nose. 

Muscular arms do the work he wants, fisting the fat of your ass and bouncing you in his lap. 

Your head falls back at the warm pleasure, cunt stretching and squishing from every push into your heat.

“Sh-shit, Rayleigh,” you breathe out as your clit brushes against silver curls, the sensation making your eyesight glassy. You try to focus on the cracks in the ceiling, not the feel of him stretching inside of you, yet lose your concentration when his lips find the perfect spot on your neck to suck.

You feel small against his chest as he pulls you closer, tighter, thrusting deep enough to make you hiccup from bliss. 

Rolling your hips to match his pace, you sink yourself farther down his cock, bucking to chase your pleasure.

“Atta girl.” Rayleigh swipes his hot tongue up your arched neck. 

Your nails scrape down his shoulders, the smell of his skin filtering into the scent of sex.

You know his body like he knows yours; you know to press your tits to his chest, to wait for the grumble he gives at the feel of your hard nipples before leaning forward to kiss your way up the stitching scar that curls over his pectoral. 

His cock twitches in your depths and you feel his cockhead thump against your walls. He pushes and pulls, groaning when your nails find the defined muscles of his sides. 

Bodies fall into a comfortable rhythm, your head lolling against his shoulder as you take what he gives. It’s as if he fucks you to your quickening heartbeat, every thrust drumming into your guts with perfect tempo.

The scruff of Rayleigh’s beard rubs against your cheek, looking for your attention. 

“What’s on your mind?” He bounces you a bit harder in his lap, thumbs digging into the crease of your hips. “Tell Daddy.” 

His voice is like warm water dripping down carefully placed stones, so casual yet poignant. He won’t rest until you give him what he wants. 

Distracting yourself by kissing up his neck, you taste his sweat and move your fingers to his hair. 

You catch your breath between the shoves of his cock, “I…” you moan deep, “always end up here.” With him, in his arms, with his cock pressed so deeply you feel it days later. 

“You know why,” he smirks as he leans you back, gripping your ribcage between careful hands, thumbs brushing against the undersides of your breasts.

The change in angle on his lap has his cock smoothing against the back of your cunt, cockhead nudging your soft spots with every plunge. 

You shake your head in a bit of defiance, content to just feel him, not to think.

“Do I need to make you say it?” 

The lopsided grin that splits his face makes a thrill run down your spine. He looks devious, like the Dark King is ready to play. 

After a few beats of slick silence, Rayleigh moves forward, putting a big palm between your bouncing tits and pushing until your back hits the low table behind you.

He leaves your body only for a moment. He gets on his knees on the fraying rug before spearing his thick cock back into your cunt, the quick thrust making you slide against wood.

“Fuuuuck,” you hiss, hands flying above your head to grip the edge of the table for stability. 

Silver hair falls over your face as he kisses you, a little frenzied as he falls into the pleasure of being able to put more force into his thrusts. One hand grabs your breast while the other flattens over your stomach, pushing down until he can feel himself moving inside of you. 

“God, you feel so good, Daddy,” the title is always heavy in your mouth, like an admission of guilt, “make me feel so, so good.” 

“That’s right.” Rayleigh’s thighs slap against the table as he picks up his pace. “No one’s better than your first, hm?” 

Grunting, his massive body straightens, both hands finding a home on your hips. 

“I ruined you for anyone else,” he reminds you every time you come back. The gleam in his eyes, darkened by the shade of his glasses, makes you squeeze around his pounding cock. 

“Oh shush, old man.” 

Yet you’re panting, sweat dripping down the back of your neck, pooling under your tits. Pleasure is spreading every time he presses into your core, rippling like webs underneath your skin. Everything is hot—the spread of your thighs, the grip in your knuckles, your ears listening to every deep moan he releases as he finds gratification in your body.

“Oh come on, kid,” Rayleigh tuts, snapping his hips a little harder. 

Long fingers move over your hips, both of his thumbs coming to press against your clit that aches every time his taut stomach presses against it. He keeps his pressure light, just enough to make you whine and jolt to where your head nearly hangs off the coffee table. 

“Ain’t no other man can do this to you.” 

He swirls both thumbs over your clit as he thrusts deep, pinning your hips with his strong hands to keep you from squirming away. The onslaught is quick, sharp, lights flashing behind your eyes. The coil of orgasm strikes your tummy like lightning, making you bite a scream between your teeth. 

“Shit, fuck!” 

Rayleigh grins and mumbles to himself, something about how he shouldn’t have taught you to have such a dirty mouth. 

You know the rules, he doesn’t even have to say them. You know if you want to burst, you’ll have to beg. 

Your throat feels dry from all your gasping and moaning, it takes a few passes of his cock in your cunt before you’re able to try and find your voice. 

“Please, please, Daddy, please, I need…” 

You can hear the table creaking under your weight, the legs scraping against the floor, leaving marks you’ll look at the next time you end up back in this bar. 

“Yeah? You can do bett—”

“God fuck Daddy please, fortheloveoffucking god, Rayleigh, make me cum!” 

Your words bleed together over the sound of his skin slapping against yours, sinking into the smell of salt and sea on his skin. 

He pauses, pulling your hips down until you hurt from being spread around him. Grinding his cock into you, you feel the lick of his haki slicing over your body, your mind, searing straight between your legs until his power and the rub of his fingers over your clit make you forget to breathe. 

Your cunt sucks so tightly that you can feel him throbbing within you, pulses of his cum mixing with the shattering of your orgasm. You crest and fall for what feels like eternity in just a few seconds. 

Your nails take chunks out of the table, his knees slip against the rug.

It’s not until you feel Rayleigh’s long hair spread across your chest that you realize where you are, what you’ve done, again.

“Welcome home, kid.”

[geeksquade]

Beautiful wonderful amazing spectacular no notes

You Exist Behind My Eyelids

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Reader

Summary:

“Bob,” you hiss. “He’s always looking at me.” Yelena raises an eyebrow, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. “And?” “And smiling at me. Like I just saved a kitten from a burning building or something. He lingers. He watches me eat. He asks how I slept. He walks me to the damn kitchen.” “And is that a problem?” Yelena asks curiously, chewing on her granola bar but clearly hinting at something you can't pick up on. You stop to think. It felt like you had fallen into an alternate reality where Bob didn’t ignore your existence… where he smiled when you walked into the room, where he made you breakfast and stayed close without needing an excuse. Or After getting back your memory, you struggle to come to terms with the life you've returned to. It's one where Bob cooks for you, and smiles at you, and you have no idea why.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ Explicit Content, fluff, implied smut but no smut, sex dreams, angst, abandonment issues, self deprecation, jealousy, memories/flashbacks, acquaintances to friends, friends to lovers, Chekov's diary, the new avengers interfering (a little)

WC: 13.7k

A/N: Title from See You Again by Tyler, The Creator and Kali Uchis. I heard your cries for a part 2 to Loving You Is Easy and I hath delivered. Sorry that this took entirely too long to finish, I hope you like it!

Part 1

***

Losing your memory was a trip. Almost a month of your life where you’re drawing a complete blank. 

Not to mention, everyone is weird now, like more weird than usual.

Especially Bob. 

He’s been at it for ages. Making up all sorts of culinary creations and giving them to you like offerings. They taste good. Not just good, incredible.

The amount of effort and care he’s been putting into waffles, omelettes, pancakes, French toast… it was quite nice. And it was driving you crazy because every bite felt like more than just food. Like affection, like something familiar, like a feeling your brain was trying desperately to name.

One morning, after you’ve sufficiently stuffed yourself with the golden, cinnamon-sweet French toast Bob made for you, you set your plate down and lean over to Yelena.

“What’s going on?” you whisper urgently.

Yelena blinks at you, unfazed. “With what?”

“Bob,” you hiss. “He’s always looking at me.”

Yelena raises an eyebrow, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. “And?”

“And smiling at me. Like I just saved a kitten from a burning building or something. He cleans my dirty dishes. He asks how I slept. He walks me to the damn kitchen.”

“And is that a problem?” Yelena asks curiously, chewing on her granola bar but clearly hinting at something you can't pick up on.

You stop to think. It felt like you had fallen into an alternate reality where Bob didn’t ignore your existence… where he smiled when you walked into the room, where he made you breakfast and stayed close without needing an excuse.

You supposed it was better than the little tango you’d dance every day, trying to stay away from each other. This was something, at least. But still… it felt strange. Off. Like you’d wandered into the middle of a story you used to know by heart, only to find the pages had been torn out and rewritten in someone else’s handwriting.

Now he was bringing you breakfast, offering to walk you to med checks, lingering a second too long when your fingers touched over a cup of tea, and you didn’t know how to feel.

“Are you sure you can’t tell me what happened during those weeks?”

“The doctors said we can’t. If they come back, they’ll come back on their own, don’t worry,” She says, giving you a reassuring pat on the back. 

It’s a tough pill to swallow, but what else could be done? You settle down with a tired sigh, trying to quiet your thoughts, when Alexei strides in, boots thudding against the floor.

“We’re out of those little frozen pierogies. I need them. For strength,” he announces to the room. 

“Well, I’m sure we could get someone to—” you start, but Yelena cuts in smoothly.

“One of us should go get it, right?” she says, way too innocent to be trusted.

There’s a pause. Like an invisible signal has passed through the room, one that everyone seems to pick up on except you and Bob.

“Maybe…” John adds, barely suppressing a smirk, “You and Bob could do it?” He looks directly at you, voice casual, but his eyes are all mischief.

“Great idea, Walker…” you mutter, audibly sighing in annoyance, arms crossed as you shoot him a look.

Bob shrinks just a little at your tone, shoulders drawing in like he’s trying to disappear.

“For once,” Ava adds with a smirk, not missing a beat.

You glance at Bob, who’s very determinedly not looking at you but is definitely turning a little red.

“Fine, we’ll go. You all seem weirdly insistent on it.”

The rest of the team had been doing stuff like this since you got your memories back, like when you’d mysteriously end up on Bob babysitting duty more often than the rest of them or how you’d always seem to be sitting next to Bob for everything. 

You arrive at the grocery store, donned in caps and sunglasses as if they were good disguises.

“Let’s just get in and out as soon as possible.”

“Right,” Bob agrees. You nod, looking at the list of things that you need to get.

He drives the trolley slowly and carefully. You look at him, he’s calm, collected, and quite focused, even if it is just a grocery run. You feel a small smile creeping onto your face when suddenly he looks at you. It’s like being struck by lightning, throwing you into complete disarray.

You stumble, tripping over your own feet, but he catches you before you fall headfirst into the display of canned tomatoes.

Bob doesn’t usually get this close. Being near you, even touching you, was rare nowadays, but he loved to feel close to you. If it was just for a few seconds, then he’d have to cherish those few seconds. 

“Are you alright? You seem distracted,” Bob comments gently, concern flickering in his voice. And he’d know, he pays more attention to you than you even realise.

“I’m perfect. Just…testing your reflexes,” You lie, he looks sceptical, but for your sake chooses not to push on it.

“Let’s get fruit, I think we’ll be murdered if we get nothing but junk food.” You say, and you go towards the fruit and veg aisle. You look around, still acutely aware of Bob’s presence — the lingering sensation of his arm around you clinging to your skin like a phantom touch. Putting it out of your mind, or at least trying, you go to grab some apples. But of course, Bob reaches for it too, and when your fingers brush against his, everything goes white. 

Suddenly, you’re no longer in the grocery store but somewhere that feels familiar, even though you’re sure you’ve never been there before. 

The smell of fresh coffee and old books fills your senses, warm and nostalgic. Soft light filters in through high windows, dust motes dancing lazily in the air. The quiet hum of a memory presses in around you, gentle and comforting.

“This one’s one of my favourites. You should give it a read,” Bob says, stepping into view and handing you a slim, worn paperback.

You take it slowly, your fingers brushing against the creased spine. The cover is faded, the title barely legible—a collection of poetry, clearly well-loved. You turn it over in your hands, tracing the edge of a dog-eared page, deep in thought.

“What?” Bob grins at your expression. “A guy can’t enjoy poetry?”

You look up at him, surprised by the easy vulnerability in his tone, the way his eyes are both playful and sincere. “You just surprise me,” you reply with a small smile. “Didn’t take you for the type.”

He shrugs, leaning back against the worn wooden bookshelf. “Guess we’ve both got sides we don’t know about each other.”

You glance back down at the book, the scent of aged paper filling your lungs. “What’s your favourite poem in here?”

Bob doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he watches you for a moment, then nods toward the book. “Page 43.”

You flip to it, eyes scanning the lines. It’s quiet. Soft. Something about ache and longing and finding peace in someone else’s silence.

“I found home not in walls or cities, but in the stillness between your breaths.”

“...And in the way your eyes forgive before your words do,” Bob finishes from just behind you, his voice soft, like he knows every line by heart.

You glance over your shoulder at him, lips curved into a small, half-smitten smile. “This is as good as the pizza,” you tease gently.

But your voice falters because your gaze gets caught.

The way the late afternoon sun filters through the window behind him, bathing him in light.  All you could focus on was the hue of his eyes and how the sun made the grey flecks in his eyes dance. This little moment, in the back of this little bookshop—hidden away behind leaning stacks and dusty, time-softened shelves—was captured in your eyes like a photograph. A photograph you wanted to live inside.

The memory fades out as you come to standing holding a bag of apples after you went to god knows where.

“Are you okay?” Bob asks.

He’s tilted his head, that ever-steady presence beside you, and looking at you with that familiar concerned expression, the one you’ve become so accustomed to.

“Yeah, I just…” You trail off, not really knowing how to explain yourself. These little flashes had been happening more often. They were sweet, almost unbearably sweet, always unexpected and more often than not about Bob. You were told there’d be side effects when you woke up, but never in a million years did you think they’d involve Bob-related daydreams. Or memories. Or whatever they were.

You shake it off with a faint smile, eyes drifting to the apples in your cart. “I think I might make something with these apples.”

Bob lights up instantly. “Can I help?”

His enthusiasm is boyish, almost endearing, like he’s been waiting for you to let him in, even if it’s something small.  And in a rare moment of softness, maybe without overthinking it this time, you say, “Yes.”

His grin grows wide, and you swear he stands a little straighter, like your answer meant more than you even realised.

You turn the cart down the next aisle, rattling off the other things you needed to buy, and he walks beside you, a little closer than before.

***

This was hell. Since the grocery store incident, you’ve been going crazy. Bob has been on your mind, and he refused to leave. He’s seemingly dead set on helping you out, whether it was waiting by the elevator until you came back from a mission and walking you to your room without saying a word, or showing up with coffee before you even realised you needed it — Bob was there. 

And since he was always there, the accidental touches and sudden flashes became more frequent. One minute he was handing you a water bottle when you stepped off the treadmill, and the next you were in a haze, frozen in a daydream that made Bob look like the perfect boyfriend.

It was messing with your head.

It was messing with everything.

The lines were blurring, and the more he smiled at you, the more you never wanted him to stop. 

But having a crush on Bob? 

That was impossible, it’s just your mind playing tricks on you. You had to do something, and what else could you do but distract yourself? 

Later that night, you walk out of your room… You’re all dressed up and feeling a little out of place, like you're playing a role you’re not quite used to yet.

The team stops you in your tracks — they’re all looking at you like you’ve grown a new head.

“Where are you going? Hot date?” Ava asks, raising an eyebrow, trying to keep a straight face but clearly intrigued.

“Yes, actually,” you reply, and you’re not expecting their reaction.

The entire team lets out a big sigh of relief.

They're barely able to contain their excitement. These little, painful moments of watching Bob chase after you were over.

Finally, you and Bob had—

“You look incredible,” Bob says, stepping into the living room in very comfy attire — sweater, sweatpants, and socks that didn’t match.

“Where are you headed?”

His hair was a little tousled, like he had just woken up from a nap, but his eyes were locked onto you like you were the only thing in the room. He was definitely awake now.

The whole team freezes. If you weren’t going on a date with Bob, then who?

“On a date.”

“Oh.”

“Some guy asked me out when I was grabbing coffee down the street, so I said yes,” you say, voice light, but there's a nervous edge you can’t quite shake.

“Oh.”

The look on Bob’s face is downright painful; he looks like a kicked puppy, stunned and quietly devastated.

His jaw tenses, his eyes flicker down for a moment, and then he forces a smile onto his face, one that looks practised, perfect for situations like this.

“I hope you have fun.”

He’s trying to sound genuine, but you don’t miss the crack beneath his words, the emotion he’s holding back, just barely. And even though you’re standing right there, it suddenly feels like you’re a million miles away.

“Thanks…” you say softly, with a tight, uncertain smile, making your way past him.

Your perfume trails behind you like a memory he’s not ready to let go of, lingering in the air even after you disappear into the elevator.

No one says anything, but Bob can feel their eyes on him.

He doesn’t need to look to know what they’re thinking: the tension, the pity.

Bob felt deeply; he always had. He was sensitive in ways he rarely let anyone see. This… this was just another step closer to breaking. Ever since he lost you, he had been pretending it hurt to be without your love. That he didn’t miss holding you in his arms, falling asleep with you next to him. He didn’t have enough time with you, not nearly enough. He was filled with regret for not realising how he felt about you sooner, for every moment wasted. He’d give anything for just one more minute with you, just for you to look at him like you loved him, just one more time.

He missed you so much it hurt in places he couldn’t name.

But now? Now, with you going out with someone else and he was more jealous than he knew what to do with. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing you for good.

His eyes glowed an ominous gold, the power starting to pulse and flow through his body like a rising tide he couldn’t hold back. His jaw clenches as his eyes drop to the floor, lights flickering at the edges of his vision, energy straining to stay in check.

Maybe you and he would never get back to the place where things felt simple.Maybe he had just been fooling himself this whole time. 

He was tired and angry, and confused… but mostly just sad.

Empty, even.

The glasses on the table start shaking ever so slightly, getting ready to break. He can feel control slipping through his fingers like sand, like it always does when emotions win.

He keeps his eyes downcast, fists clenched tight.

By this point, he’s not even pretending to listen; he can hear muffled voices around him, but nothing’s going through.

Just static. Just you, walking away.

Maybe you were done with him.

Maybe you’d never want him again—not the way he still wanted you.

Yelena steps in, calm and grounding, taking him gently by the arm to stop him from spiralling.

“It’s okay…” she says softly, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder.

He’s surrounded by people who care, and it helps.

He’s still shaking, still unravelling inside, but he’s able to get it under control just enough.

The lights above flicker— once, then twice — before it steadies and stops.

He breathes out, slow and bitter. He had to get used to this, didn’t he?

You weren’t in love with him anymore.

“I-I’m sorry… I should just go to bed…” he mutters, voice low and tired.

“You shouldn’t be alone right now,” Yelena says, voice firmer now, no room for argument.

“Let’s just put it out of your mind, hm? Together,” she suggests, gently guiding him toward the group.

Bob nods, silent, and sits down on the couch beside her.

“Who knows, maybe the date will be a disaster,” John offers with a smirk, trying to lighten the mood.

“Thanks, Walker,” Bob replies dryly, managing a ghost of a smile.

***

The date is lacklustre, to say the least. The guy, Brandon, had taken you to some fancy restaurant, and you’re sitting across from him, trying to give things a chance, but it wasn’t looking good. He orders for you without asking, rattling off a dish you’re not sure you’ll even like. And he spends more time talking about the wine list than asking you questions. 

This is why you didn’t go on dates.

Reaching out to take your hand, he says something, but you’re not listening. You become lost in another world again, your vision fading to white.

You’re not in a restaurant but standing beside Bob at the kitchen counter, the two of you surrounded by ingredients as you make milkshakes together. The soft hum of an old record plays in the background, and the air smells like vanilla and chocolate syrup.

“Are you sure we need this much caramel?” you ask, eyeing the generous scoop he’s just dropped into the blender.

Bob nods, he’s in the zone, completely focused, like a master at work. His expression is dead serious, like crafting the perfect milkshake is a mission worthy of national security clearance.

You smirk. “What about this?” you say, dipping a spoon into the ice cream and smearing a stripe across his cheek.

His head jerks toward you, eyes wide with mock outrage. “Oh, it’s like that?”

Before you can react, he lunges, scooping you up effortlessly and lifting you off the ground as you laugh, flailing gently in his arms.

“I surrender! I surrender!” you cry between breathless giggles.

“I’ll let you go… for now,” he says, setting you back down carefully, his hands lingering around your waist just a moment longer than necessary. It sends your heart into a full pitter-patter rhythm you swear he must hear.

He grins at you, eyes sparkling. “You ready for the best milkshake of your life?”

You nod eagerly.

Then he hits the blender.

And instantly regrets it.

A violent whir erupts, followed by a flurry of milk, caramel, and ice cream erupting like a dairy volcano, splattering both of you as you recoil in shock. You both fumble to turn it off, and the whirring stops. 

“You forgot the lid?” you ask, wide-eyed and dripping.

“I forgot the lid,” Bob admits, blinking through specks of ice cream, then bursting into laughter.

He grabs a towel, cupping your face and gently wiping you down.

“I’m sorry, I messed up.” He’s smiling, but it’s faint; you can tell it’s starting to weigh on him. “Don’t be sorry. It’ll make for a good story,” You say before swiping a bit of the milkshake off his nose and licking it off your finger. “Plus, this is delicious. It’s the perfect milkshake, I meant it!”

Bob chuckles, his nose crinkling a little as he tries to hide it behind his hand, but you see it. That unguarded laugh, the way his eyes soften, the corners of his mouth lifting just a bit too wide.

It’s one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen.

“Hello? Are you listening?” your date asks, sounding increasingly more frustrated.

“Yeah, I uh…I’m listening…” You lie, nodding just enough to seem polite.

The next few minutes are a blur—you see his mouth moving, but not a single word registers. All you can think about is Bob.

There’s a story being told, something painfully dull about his job overseas and him bragging about how many people report to him. But it all fades to white noise the second Bob slips into your thoughts. His laugh, the way he wrinkles his nose when he smiles, the milkshake incident… everything else pales in comparison.

“I’m so sorry, but I… I can’t do this,” you say suddenly, standing up and grabbing your coat.

Your date calls after you, confused and annoyed, but you don’t look back. You don’t owe him an explanation.

You just have to get home and figure out what all these strange and not-so-strange feelings about Bob really mean, or at least push them down so far you never have to deal with them. 

***

The elevator beeps, signalling you’ve arrived at the top floor, and you’ve never been more glad to be back at the tower.

As the doors slide open, you kick off your shoes and step into the dim hallway, moving carefully through the darkness. But before you can reach for the light switch, you spot Bob on the couch.

He’s curled up, completely at peace, eyes closed as if the weight of the day finally caught up with him. Peeking into the kitchen, you see a plate of your favourite food sitting untouched, cooling on the counter.

You wonder if he’s been waiting up for you.

You walk over quietly, heart softening at the sight. But then you notice him shivering slightly in his sleep. You can’t believe he fell asleep here, nowhere near as comfortable as his own bed must be. You don’t want him to wake up with a crick in his neck.

You can’t exactly lift him to bed, so instead, you rush to your room and grab your softest, warmest blanket. Returning, you gently lay it over him.

“Much better,” you whisper, feeling a little proud, like you’re doing something right for once.

Just as you’re about to head back to check if he’s fully covered, disaster strikes.

In his sleep, Bob shifts suddenly, pulling you down with him. You find yourself trapped between him and the blanket, heart pounding as you try not to wake him.

“Bob, hey, you have to…” You start softly, your voice barely above a whisper as you look up at him.

You’ve never seen him this close before, only in your daydreams. His eyelashes are longer than you ever imagined, casting delicate shadows on his cheeks. His lips look soft, inviting even in sleep. Each breath he takes now feels impossibly fascinating, like you’re discovering something new about him with every rise and fall of his chest.

“Fine… I’ll sneak out later,” you mumble to yourself, barely audible.

Your body, surprisingly, begins to relax. You stop fighting the closeness and instead lean into his touch, the warmth and quiet presence settling over you like a balm.

It feels right—comforting in a way you didn’t expect—but underneath it all, there’s that familiar, quiet ache. That sense of something unresolved, poking at the edges of your mind.

But that’s a mystery for another day.

And bit by bit, you give in to the comfort and end up falling asleep while breathing in the scent of his shampoo. 

You blink awake, the feeling of kisses peppering your skin holding all of your immediate attention.

It’s soft and light, gentle enough to make you giggle.

There’s warmth, tufts of messy brown hair tickling your collarbone, and the feeling of strong arms wrapped tightly around you…

Realising those arms belong to a certain Bob Reynolds — not just any Bob, a shirtless Bob — your eyes widen as you shoot upright. “What are you…?” you start, glancing around in disbelief. You’re in a bed. His bed.

“What a hyperactive girlfriend I have,” he chuckles, easily laying you back down against the pillows with maddening tenderness.

Your brain can barely compute the fact that he said girlfriend. He smiles down at you like the sun just rose in your eyes, and you’re so easily disarmed, like you’ve been here a thousand times before.

“I don’t think you realise just how beautiful you are,” he coos, brushing his fingers softly across your bottom lip.

Those words…They feel like déjà vu.

They settle somewhere deep in your chest. Familiar. Comforting. Dangerous. It was so easy for him to say, and you didn’t know how to feel.

“Want me to help you relax?” He says, his voice suddenly like music to your ears.

You nod, your body moving on its own like you’ve been possessed, and he starts slowly slipping your clothes off, all the while looking at you like you’re a wonder of the world. His touch is light but teasing. Like he knows exactly how to leave you desperate, on the edge and needing more. 

He kisses his way around your body, treating it like a temple. Every inch of you is on fire with even the smallest of touches. 

His fingers curl in the strands of your hair, anchoring you to him as his lips press gently to your wrist, then trail upward with slow, deliberate care.

His legs are tangled with yours beneath the sheets, warm skin against skin, every brush of contact pulling you deeper into him.

Overtaken by the sensations, you find yourself pulling him in for a kiss you never wanted to end. His mouth meets yours like he’s been waiting for it, like he knows it — his tongue slipping past your lips like it’s second nature, like it’s always belonged there.

“Can I?” He asks, catching his breath, his fingers at the bottom of your shirt, so eager to just rip it off of you. “Yeah,” You reply breathlessly, needing his touch. 

He pulls back slightly, his fingers gently caressing your cheek, and before you know it, you’re naturally leaning into his touch, the warmth of his hand soothing you. There’s a sweet look in his eyes, full of tenderness, and somehow you feel like you can read his mind. An unspoken connection that almost scares you. He opens his mouth to speak, “I love—”

You wake up with a loud gasp. What in the ever living fuck was that? You were convinced that whatever it was couldn’t be real, but the alternative, that you were having sex dreams about Bob, wasn’t that much better. Morning has come, and you’re still in Bob’s arms (a fully clothed Bob thankfully) on the couch; he’s fast asleep. You scramble to get away from him before he wakes up; you don’t feel like explaining anything. But in your attempts, you unintentionally punch him in the stomach.  

“What the—?” Bob groans as he rolls on top of you. Being woken up with a punch couldn’t be pleasant. 

The two of you tumble off the couch in a mess of limbs, and he lands squarely on top of you.

The blanket twists around you both, tangling you in a heap on the floor.

Feeling his body pressed against yours sends your heart into a frenzy. His hands are on either side of you, caging you in as he hovers above, clearly trying not to crush you.

“I’m so sorry, how did we even…?” he stammers, brain still trying to wake up. 

“I–I came home last night and saw you on the couch. You trapped me and I just wanted to give you a blanket and—and…” You stutter, tripping over the words like they’ll somehow save you from the burning embarrassment.

“I’m so sorry,” Bob blurts out again, his cheeks flushed and his voice cracking slightly.

It seems the embarrassment wasn’t one-sided; he’s just as flustered, maybe more.

And yet, neither of you is making a move to get up.

Sure, you were mortified beyond belief, but being this close to Bob reminded you of your dream. His warmth came off him in waves, making you feel comfortable despite your racing heart. The soft, stormy blue of his eyes looked down at you with something that made your chest ache.

It felt too good.

You wanted to give in, to dive into this feeling even though you knew you shouldn’t, because if you did, there might be no going back.

Your eyes snap up just in time to see Ava standing a few feet away, one brow raised and a sly smile tugging at her lips.

“I didn’t want to interrupt.”

***

You were avoiding him again. It had been three days, and you hadn’t eaten a single one of his pancakes, and you only responded to him with short one-word answers where possible.

Bob knew it wasn’t because of the date. He’d overheard you complaining to Yelena about it in the training room. 

So it was him.

He doesn’t know what he did.

And nothing he tries seems to get through, it’s like the walls he’d started to gently tear down were rebuilt overnight… only now, they had defence systems he couldn’t even begin to navigate.

He’s alone in the Tower now. The silence presses in. And it’s on his mind. Your diary.

He knows that the memory-wiped version of you once told him he could read it. But it still feels iffy. Like he’s crossing a line. Still… it feels like he’s out of options.

You won’t talk to him anymore. You barely look at him. And the ache of not knowing why is driving him insane.

So he finds himself at your door.

The rest of the team is out on a mission, so it’s all quiet, just the sound of his own beating heart ringing in his ears. 

Opening the door quietly, he steps inside.

It smells like you. Feels like you.

He walks over to the drawer where you once said you kept it, hesitates for just a second… and takes it quickly. 

His chest tightened with frustration as he flipped through the pages of your diary, still unsure if he even should be reading it. But maybe it held something that could explain everything. Maybe it held what your issue was with him and why you were always avoiding him like the plague.

“Bob is avoiding me in the kitchen again. I don’t get why it’s so easy for everyone else but not me… I want to talk to him, but trying too hard is never safe. Why get attached?” he reads aloud softly, the words catching in his throat.

He swallows hard, guilt curling in his stomach. That wasn’t how it was supposed to feel for you. He thought he was giving you space. He thought maybe you needed it. That his presence might be too much.

Bob flips through more pages, the paper whispering as he searches for clarity, for a lifeline, until his eyes land on another entry.

“I can’t be around Bob… We’re too similar. If anyone could see through me, it’d be him. That’s why I avoid him specifically. If he saw me then and I mean really saw me, I don’t know what I’d do.”

He flicks to the next page, and your voice echoes softly in his mind.

“He’s gentle and complex, and sometimes he looks like he’s carrying the weight of the world alone. I just can’t seem to get through. I catch myself staring when he doesn’t notice, and wonder if I’ll ever be able to connect to him. It’s useless anyway, but I can’t help but wonder.”

And then the line that crushes him:

“Everyone leaves, so why give them the opportunity?”

The air feels heavier now.

It hits him, this wasn’t about him being cold or distant. This was you trying to protect yourself. You were trying not to hope, because hoping meant giving someone the power to hurt you. And all this time, he’d been holding back, afraid of messing it up, of overwhelming you… never realising you already cared. Deeply but quietly. 

He shuts the diary slowly, holding it to his chest for a moment like maybe it could absorb some of the emotion threatening to spill out of him.

And now he knows.

Now he understands why you flinched at closeness, why you left before anyone could ask you to stay.

He just had to show you that he’s not going anywhere.

***

Bob couldn’t push — he didn’t want to come on too strong.

He just wanted to spend time with you, to get you to let him in again, even if it was just in small, quiet moments.

Bob pauses in the doorway and sees you sitting in the lounge, your feet curled under you and your attention half-lost in a book. “I don’t mean to bother you, but can you help me with something?” he asks, voice hopeful. 

“Me?” You blink up at him, startled. “I’m sure Yelena could help you instead,” you immediately deflect, the words coming out sharper than you intended. He stiffens slightly, withdrawing into himself almost instantly.

“Oh. Yeah, yeah, that’s okay. Forget I asked,” he mumbles with a sad smile that barely reaches his eyes. He turns, slinking away like he’s used to retreating when he feels unwelcome.

But the moment he’s out of sight, guilt claws its way up your throat. You didn’t mean to make him feel small or dismissed. That wasn’t fair. You slam your book shut and jump up from the couch.

“Wait… I’ll help you,” you call out, your voice apologetic.

He stops in his tracks and turns back to you, surprised. “Really?”

You nod, walking up to him. “Yeah. Sorry… I didn’t mean to sound so cold. What do you need?”

“I know this is weird, but could you help me brush my hair?” He asks quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, before he quickly backs up, almost tripping over his own feet. “Actually, you don’t have to. It’s—”

“I’ll do it.”

Next thing you know, he’s sitting on the floor between your legs and you’re on the couch, brushing his hair gently with a hairbrush, with the TV on. 

“Your hair is really soft,” you murmur absentmindedly, almost as if forgetting who you were talking to.

“You think so?” he replies, tilting his head slightly back to look up at you.

You smile faintly, sorting through any small tangles with your fingers. “Yeah, it’s nice.”

“Oh shit, does that tingle?” you ask suddenly, catching the way he shivered when you touched a certain spot behind his ear.

“Yeah,” he says with a sheepish chuckle, “but it’s not a bad tingle.”

For once, not overthinking it too much, you just sit there, both of you watching TV, catching up on the episode of your favourite show that you’d missed.

“Remind me what’s happening again?” Bob asks, brow furrowing as he points at the screen.

“So basically, earlier on in the season, the girl found out that her real father isn’t the janitor, but actually—”

“The guy who kidnapped her dog,” he interrupts, already confused.

“No, no, sweet innocent Bob. That’s his evil twin,” you say, completely dead serious, grinning as you catch his wide-eyed reaction.

He smiles up at you, charmed by how engrossed you are in this ridiculous show. It was a small thing, but a glimpse into what could be, if you just let go. You were like the sun, and he was content just basking under your light for as long as he could.

“What? Is there something on my face?” you ask, suddenly self-conscious under his gaze.

“No, I, um…” He hesitates, eyes dipping away before flicking back up to you. 

“I’m talking too much, aren’t I?” you mumble, looking even more sheepish as you fidget with the corner of your sleeve.

“No, no… I could listen to you talk for hours,” Bob replies genuinely, with a soft smile. It makes your heart stutter, your breath catch. No words can form; you’re completely lost in him. He clears his throat, feeling his cheeks starting to heat up. 

“Who’s in the love triangle again?” he asks suddenly, tilting his head, saving you from gawking at him like an idiot.

You perk up immediately with a gleam in your eye, ready to unload a full essay’s worth of information. “It’s actually a love pentagon…”

And just like that, you’re talking and laughing and massaging his scalp as you comb through his hair, both of you caught in a rhythm that felt unexpectedly natural. Maybe actually talking to Bob wasn’t so bad.

***

The next day, you traipse back into your room after a gruelling mission. Getting back into the swing of things is harder than it looks, especially with the exhaustion weighing on your shoulders and flashes of Bob being unexpectedly cute popping into your head every time you try to focus on fighting. Not to mention, you actually enjoyed brushing Bob’s hair, feeling his hair beneath your fingertips, watching him react when you’d graze a sensitive spot. This was insanity, and you needed to document it. 

Looking around the dim room, your eyes settle on your dresser. You move over and reach for your diary, something you haven’t written in for far too long.

You yank open your drawer, grabbing your diary with the full intent to emotionally unload every irrational (but valid) feeling bubbling in your chest.

But you notice your diary is sitting on a stack of paper. You take them out and freeze them. 

Pictures.

Your brows knit as you start looking through them. 

They’re all of Bob.

Photo after photo, in different lighting, from different angles, in different places. Him laughing, him holding coffee, him at the bookstore you dreamt of. One of him eating a sandwich with ridiculous focus. In every single one, he looks… happy. Radiant, even. Just Bob, but lighter.

You stare at them, a hollow kind of confusion forming in your chest. You don’t remember taking these. You don’t remember any of this.

Which only means one thing… these were from the weeks you lost your memory.

You rack your brain for a possible explanation. Were you stalking him? 

But then something shifts. You look closer. The angles aren’t distant or hidden. They're up close. Comfortable. Personal.

These were moments. You flip to the next photo, Bob looking right at the camera, smiling, soft and warm like whoever was behind it was someone he cared about. Like he was on a date.

And then more photos, but they were of you.

Walking through New York, holding an ice cream, grinning ear to ear. At a crosswalk, arms thrown out like you were catching the wind. Hair wild. Laughing like you hadn’t felt a single burden in your life.

You hadn’t smiled like that in so long. You were practically glowing. Something inside you cracks wide open. What the hell happened in those missing weeks? And why does it feel like…you were happy?

Like really happy.

With him.

You spring up, heart pounding, knowing you need to get to the bottom of this. Grabbing the pictures, you dash over to his room. Your hand hovers over the door, ready to knock, but then you freeze. What would you even say? What if the answer isn’t what you want to hear? What if it changes everything?

The doubt claws at you, but the questions won’t let you turn away.

But before you could think of what to say, Bob called your name. You turn your head to the side, he’s on his way back to his room. He notices the expression on your face and knows it’s something serious. 

“I… we need to talk,” you say, your voice shaky but determined.

Bob nods silently and walks over, letting you into his room. The moment you enter, you’re hit with a wave of familiarity, like you’ve been here before, like this conversation has already started somewhere deep in your memory.

You take a deep breath and sit down next to each other on the bed.

“I know why you’ve been really friendly recently. In the weeks I lost my memory…” You begin, watching his expression closely.

Bob’s eyes soften, like you’ve finally understood something important. “We became friends, didn’t we?”

He pauses, looking a little sad at the word “friends,” but when you pull out the pictures, his face changes.

“I… I remember,” he says quietly. “But these pictures… I’ve never actually seen them before. I only remember you taking them.”

His mind drifts back, replaying memories of the two of you inseparable, back when love was the only thing on both of your minds.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve looked happy like that,” you admit, flicking through the photos. You notice a flicker of quiet sadness cross his face as he looks at them. He must miss who you were, the version of you that these pictures captured.

“If you’re willing, I’d like to try again. Get to a place where things aren’t so uncomfortable. If you were able to do it with me then, maybe you could do it with me now.”

Bob recognised this was a huge step forward. He knew it wasn’t easy, maybe it never would be, but being your friend sounded like a gift he didn’t want to take for granted.

“I’d love to try,” he said softly, hope shining in his eyes.

***

Being friends is hard. It takes effort, and you don’t quite know what you’re doing, so it’s hard, but good.

It feels good to connect, even if it still scares you to try. There’s a quiet exhilaration in the small moments, like watching a movie together or just sitting side by side without any pressure.

You even made him an omelette the other day, and you swear he almost cried.

“It can’t be that good,” You protested.

“No, no, it really is,” he said, the quiet part he kept in his head being, “Because you made it for me.”

Now, you’re sitting with him again, the comfortable silence wrapping around you. He’s quiet, and you can tell he’s thinking about telling you something. Since this whole “friend thing” began a few days ago, you’ve become something of an expert in Bob’s body language—the way he fiddles with his hands when he’s deep in thought, how his eyes light up when he’s interested in something.

“What do you want to ask?” you interrupt his mid-thought.

He looks at you with a meek smile. “I was just wondering if you wanted to go get coffee? Kinda craving one.”

You pause for a moment, then reply, “Sure, that sounds… fun,” a shy smile working its way onto your face.

You both step out of the tower and onto the street. It’s a grey, overcast day, clouds hanging low, but after everything, just walking beside him, step in step, feels like a kind of quiet relief.

You don’t talk much, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it’s peaceful. Bob seems more at ease now, no longer walking on eggshells around you. It’s subtle, but it means everything.

You watch his back as he walks ahead, the strands of his hair being tousled gently by the wind. Your footsteps slow, then stop entirely as the now-familiar sensation creeps in like a thread tugging at your consciousness. Just like that, you’re being pulled away again. 

You open your eyes to the soft glow of fairy lights and the sight of Bob with his back to you, working meticulously to finish what looks like a little surprise just for you. There are cushions, blankets, and pillows all arranged into a comfy blanket fort in the living room. He’s focused, tongue tucked slightly into his cheek as he ties the last bit of fabric to the back of a chair, glancing over his shoulder.

“Are your eyes still closed?” he calls out.

You quickly squeeze them shut again. “Yeah, still shut.”

You can’t help the smile tugging at your lips as you listen, hear the faint shuffle of him putting on music, the soft groan when he stubs his toe against the coffee table, and the patter of his footsteps approaching until he’s standing right in front of you. You can’t see him, but his presence is warm and unmistakable.

“Take my hand,” he says gently.

“I can’t see your hand,” you reply, trying not to laugh.

“Oh. Right.” You hear the smile in his voice as he reaches for you, carefully guiding your hand into his. His fingers wrap around yours, steady and warm, and he helps you to your feet.

“Eyes still closed?” he checks.

You hum in agreement.

“Open them.”

You blink your eyes open and are immediately greeted by the sight of the blanket fort in all its cosy glory. It’s strung with twinkle lights and layered with soft throws and fluffy pillows. Inside, there are even two mugs of something warm and a plate of pancakes waiting.

“After you,” he says with a quiet pride.

You both crawl inside, and it's everything. A little safe haven carved out of nothing. You settle down next to him, your shoulders brushing.

“This is perfect,” you whisper.

“I’m glad you like it,” he replies, sheepish but glowing with quiet pride. He takes a breath, hesitating just a beat. “I know it must be scary… not knowing who you are. I just wanted to do something to make it a little easier. Is that dumb? It’s dumb, right?”

You reach for his hand, laying yours over his, gently tracing your fingers across his knuckles. “It’s not dumb at all.”

Your eyes meet, and something clicks into place. It’s like exhaling after holding your breath all day, like sinking into a familiar rhythm, like… coming home.

Not to a place, but to a person.

You’re barely out of your daze when you hear the sudden ringing of a bike bell heading straight for you. 

Before you can react, Bob’s arm wraps around you, pulling you out of the way just in time as a bike messenger speeds past. You stumble slightly, but he steadies you, and suddenly your head is resting against his chest.

His shirt is soft beneath your cheek, and the scent of him fills your senses—it’s faint, clean… something warm like vanilla and cinnamon. 

You pull back slightly, just enough to look up at him, and for a moment, you're looking at him the way you do in your daydreams. The world slows. His hand lingers on your arm, his touch reassuring, grounding.

You feel safe. And maybe, for the first time in a long while… hopeful.

“Thank you… You saved me,” you say, the words almost teasing but laced with something softer underneath.

“I’ll always be around to protect you from bikes,” Bob replies gently, smiling like he knows something you don’t. 

You nod, and just as he’s about to start walking again, you reach out and take his hand. You don’t know why you did it. It’s like your body moves on its own. His fingers twitch slightly in surprise, and when he looks over at you, his eyes are wide.

“Just in case,” you murmur, trying to explain it away. 

“Just in case,” he echoes, quieter this time, like the words mean something more to him than he lets on. He smiles, that soft, rare kind of smile he saves for you, and keeps walking, your hands still clasped.

Walking inside, you’re immediately hit with the comforting smell of fresh pastries and ground coffee beans. It’s like a hug for your nose.

You step up to the counter and order your go-to, adding with a smile, “Oh, and can I get extra whipped cream?”

The barista nods. “Yeah, it’s just two dollars more.”

You nod again, already fishing out your card and tapping it without hesitation. Bob steps up behind you in line, casually scanning the pastry case while you wait for your receipt.

Then you see it.

The barista perks way up when it’s Bob’s turn, her voice turning a shade sweeter. “And what can I get started for you?”

He rattles off his order, and before he can finish, she cuts in, eyes shining. “And do you want that with extra whipped cream?”

Bob blinks, caught off guard. “Uh…”

“On the house,” she adds, flashing him a smile that practically sparkles.

“Sure, why not?” he says, still half-confused, then turns to you with a helpless shrug and a smile. You narrow your eyes, watching the barista giggle to herself as she starts prepping the drink. She was so obvious.

“Thanks,” He says before going over to meet you at the side where you’re loading your coffee a little aggressively, your mind still occupied by Bob and that girl.

“Almost ready to go?” Bob asks, ever casual, sipping from his coffee like nothing in the world could possibly be complicated.

But your eyes land on his cup, and immediately, something’s off. There’s too much black ink scrawled across it for it to just be his name. It’s only three letters for goodness' sake.

You lean in slightly, narrowing your eyes.

Numbers.

Your stomach twists. Your jaw tightens. And before you can think twice, the words are out of your mouth.

“She gave you her number,” you say flatly, ignoring his question entirely.

He glances at the cup, like he hadn't even noticed. “Oh… huh.”

That’s it? Huh?

The annoyance rolls off you in waves, and you hate that you can’t fully explain why. You cross your arms, shifting your weight, suddenly far too aware of how tight your chest feels.

You catch yourself and try to shake it off, but there’s a weight pressing down on your ribcage, a sharp little ache like something is stepping right on your heart.

Why did you feel so... jealous?

Bob wasn’t yours, there was no reason to be mad at a girl flirting with him, you should be happy for him, even. 

But all that was true, why did this feel like a sucker punch you weren’t prepared for?

Bob’s still looking at the cup, then back at you, head tilted. “You okay?”

You force a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah. Totally. Let’s go.”

***

Since that day, something in you had shifted. You learned you may or may not have a jealous streak, and you had finally started to settle into being friends with Bob. It was nice, and makes you regret the time you spent avoiding him. 

And you had really started to realise just how much effort Bob had been putting into just being your friend, even when you were cold, unreceptive, and distant.

It wasn’t fair.

You wanted to make it up to him.

And what better way than with a milkshake?

You thought back to that daydream you had, or maybe it was a memory.

If the whole milkshake-making thing was real, then he should love this.

If it wasn’t… well, hopefully he still did.

Bob’s up early, being knocked out of sleep by the summer heat. He gets up to get water and hears something unexpected. The sound of a blender whirring at 6 am.

He walks into the kitchen, rubbing the back of his neck, only to see you standing at the counter, fiddling with the blender.

There are a few unsuccessful batches of whatever you’re making scattered around, splashes on the counter, a sticky trail leading to the sink. You bite your lip in concentration, brow furrowed, completely absorbed in the task. He thinks you look so cute like this.

Bob says your name, and you freeze like a deer caught in headlights, like you’ve been caught red-handed.

“Bob. You’re here.” You say it like it’s a surprise, like you weren’t hoping he'd find you.

He furrows his brow slightly, a curious smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “What are you doing?”

There’s no point in hiding it now. You sigh and admit, “Making you a milkshake?”

He blinks, surprised, and then he’s smiling. Really smiling.

It’s that slow-building kind of joy that lights up his whole face, the kind that makes your heart clench.

“For me?” he asks, almost in disbelief.

You nod, a little sheepish. “I wanted to do a trial run this morning. Just in case it sucks.”

Bob chuckles, stepping closer and leaning on the kitchen island, his eyes warm and fixed on you.

“I doubt it would,” he says softly, and he means it.

“Can I have a taste?”

You answer, “Knock yourself out,” feigning an air of nonchalance when in reality you’re nervous as hell.

You didn’t want him to hate it, especially after you’d loved and eaten your weight in pancakes these past few weeks.

You just wanted to do something nice, to let him know how much you appreciate him.

He grabs a spoonful and lets it dance on his taste buds. At first, his eyebrows furrowed. That couldn’t be good, right?

Then he looks up at you, a slow smile spreading across his face. “How did you know I like salted caramel milkshakes?” he asks, genuinely surprised.

You hesitate, unsure how to explain.

“I…” you start, then take a deep breath. What were you supposed to say? 'I saw it in a daydream, which may actually be a memory, but I’m not sure?'

So instead you say, “Just a feeling.”

“It’s the perfect milkshake,” he says, eyes shining with genuine delight.

“Not quite,” you answer with a playful smile, crossing your arms.

He grins mischievously, taking a little scoop and smudging it gently on his cheek. “Now, it’s perfect.”

You laugh, reaching up to wipe it off, and for a moment, everything feels light and easy.

You spend the rest of the morning together, sharing the milkshake — one glass, two straws, since you’d only made enough for one.

Between sips and smiles, the distance between you shrinks, and for once, you don’t want to push anyone away. 

Later that night, you stand quietly by the window, staring out at the living room. Your eyes land on the now-empty space where the blanket fort from your daydreams had been, still vivid in your mind.

“You’re deep in thought,” Bucky’s voice cuts through the quiet, calm, but knowing, as he settles on the couch across from you.

“I’m deep in thought a lot these days,” you sigh, not bothering to mask the exhaustion in your voice.

You take a deep breath, eyes still fixed on the ghost of that memory. “I know you can’t tell me what happened in those weeks I lost… but ever since then, I’ve been seeing things. Glimpses. I don’t know what’s real and what’s not, but they all revolve around one thing.”

You don’t say it, but you don’t have to. The look Bucky gives you says it all—he knows you’re talking about Bob.

“How does it feel?” he asks gently.

“Hm?”

“The memories. How do they feel?”

You open your mouth, then close it again. How do you explain something like that? It’s more than just an emotion, it’s a moment. Like wrapping your hands around a mug of hot chocolate on a cold day or finding one last cookie you didn’t know you had.

“It feels… good,” you say at last. “It feels right.”

Bucky watches you for a moment, then leans forward slightly, thoughtful. “If it feels right, maybe your subconscious is trying to tell you something.”

You turn to him, your voice quieter now, more unsure. “Should I listen to it?”

Bucky offers the faintest smile, the kind of smile born from experience, from hard lessons learned. “The head lies a lot more than the heart does. If something in you feels at peace when you’re around him… maybe that’s your answer.”

You nod in as you watch him walk away, before something occurs to you, “...wait, I didn’t say anything about any him.”

“You’re not too hard to read, especially when it comes to him.”

You lay your head down on the counter, your skin too hot, your heart twisting in ways you couldn’t explain. Embarrassment flooded through you—whatever this was, this feeling that had been unravelling you from the inside out, it was getting harder to ignore.

But then there was the smile tugging at your lips, soft and involuntary. And that strange flutter in your chest.

You knew.

Even if you weren’t ready to say it out loud, you knew.

The floor creaked softly behind you, and you lifted your head to see Bob standing there, that same poetry book you’d seen him with before held carefully in his hands.

“Bob,” you breathe.

Just seeing him makes your heart skip. Was that normal? Or were you sick? Emotionally compromised? Both?

“That book…” You murmur. “Will you read me something from it?”

He’s a little surprised, but he nods. “Of course.”

And then, before you can second-guess yourself, you’re reaching for his hand, guiding him to the couch with you. It’s easy in a way it never used to be, natural like you’ve done it a hundred times before.

You sit next to him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his side. He flips through the pages, reading from one page and then another.

“I have no idea what this means,” he admits, pointing to one of the lines with a soft chuckle, “but I like the way it sounds.”

“I like the way it sounds too.”

But it wasn’t just the poem. You liked the sound of his voice—smooth and warm, like chocolate on your tongue or honey in tea. Every word he spoke wrapped around you like a spell, one you weren’t sure you ever wanted to break free from.

You slowly, carefully, lean your head onto his shoulder.

“Is this okay?” you ask, voice small and scared of his rejection. 

He freezes for a moment, then nods. His face doesn’t flush, but his ears—bright red. The reaction makes your chest ache most softly.

There’s a quiet, almost shy joy in his expression at how close you are. He clears his throat, trying to regain composure, and begins to read again. Each line, an ode to you. 

***

There’s a soft knock on your door. You get up, waddle out of bed, and suddenly face to face with Bob.

“I missed you,” He breathes out, you don’t even get to respond before he’s lifting you off the floor and carrying you back to your bed.

The entire time, he’s whispering sweet nothings into your ear between his kisses—soft murmurs like, “All mine…” and “Need you so bad.”

His breath warm against your skin, his voice low and urgent, making your heart race.

Then, with a playful grin, he gently tosses you back onto your bed, his eyes locked onto yours.

“Can’t spend another second away from you,” He whines, as he places himself between your thighs.

“So…” You’re forced to pause, distracted by his lips and teeth, marking your neck in desperation, “Insatiable.”

He gets down on his knees suddenly and pulls you to the edge of the bed. Immediately, he pulls off your shorts, or rather tears them off, his strength getting the better of him. But he leaves your panties on, happy to see that you’re already soaking through the fabric. 

“I liked those shorts.”

“Trust me, you’ll like what I do to you a lot more.”

He lays a kiss against your clothed pussy, making you squirm. “Don’t tease me,” You beg, and all he does is smile up at you, as if he’s innocent. He rubs your clit through your panties, working you up then moving away, over and over again. 

“If you want me to do something,” He drawls as he leans in, his breath now against your ear, “You’re gonna have to scream my name.”

“Bob!”

You jolt upright in bed, heart racing, breath uneven. You’re still half-lost in the throes of the dream. You can almost imagine Bob’s lips on your legs, travelling upwards until—No. You wouldn’t finish that thought. 

Thankfully, you're in your own bed. Not curled up against Bob. Not still on the couch where you fell asleep.

You press a hand to your chest, trying to steady the frantic rhythm of your heart. It’s hammering, wild and traitorous.

Okay. Deep breath.

The sun's already crept past the blinds, washing your room in soft morning light. Somewhere down the hall, Bob is probably making breakfast. Casual. Unbothered. Probably completely unaware that you just had a dream that could get you both kicked out of the Avengers’ group chat.

You groan and flop back onto your pillows, covering your face with both hands.

You just hoped he carried you to bed before the dream started. Because if he did it afterwards and there was any talking in your sleep involved, then you might actually have to fake your own death and move to a remote cave in the mountains. 

You try to reason with yourself.

Telling yourself that it was just a dream. Probably because his voice was the last thing you heard before drifting off. That’s all. A subconscious reaction. Harmless. Totally harmless.

After a shower, you toddle out of your room, hair still damp and wearing the comfiest clothes you own. You peek out from behind a wall—and lo and behold, there he is.

Bob. In the kitchen. Making something that definitely smells like your favourite breakfast.

You pause, eyes locked on him.

His back is to you, sleeves pushed up, hands moving with an ease and purpose that feels borderline unfair. You watch the muscles in his forearms flex slightly as he flips something in the pan, and your brain betrays you. You can only imagine how those hands would look even better wrapped around your thighs—

No. No. Nope.

You slap that thought out of your head like it's a mosquito. Not going there again. Not right now. You keep watching, borderline creeping, when suddenly a voice nearly kills you on the spot.

“Spying?”

John.

You jump about a foot in the air, clutching your chest like an old Victorian lady. “For fuck’s sake, Walker!”

John leans against the wall next to you, smug and sipping coffee like he didn’t just give you a heart attack. You swear, if you weren’t so mortified, you might’ve actually punched him.

“No. Just… observing,” you breathe out, barely.

“You were definitely spying,” he says, far too amused. “If you drooled any harder, there’d be a puddle at your feet.”

You glare at him, cheeks heating. “I wasn’t– shut up. I wasn’t drooling.”

He lifts an eyebrow and sips again, like he doesn’t believe you for a second. “Sure. Just saying... if you actually talked to him, it might be more effective than… whatever this is.”

You grumble something under your breath and peek back around the corner.

Bob is still there. Still cooking. Still completely unaware of the internal crisis he’s causing.

Maybe John had a point.

Unfortunately.

You could watch him all day—had been, actually. Bob’s presence drew your attention like gravity, and the longer you kept your feelings bottled up, the crazier you felt. 

The best way to go about it was the scariest. You had to confront him directly.

You bide your time, waiting until late evening, when most of the tower was quiet and the others were off doing their own thing. Your heart was thudding like it knew what you were about to do.

You found Bob alone in the common area, and you cornered him, explaining your plight to him.

“And basically, I’ve been having these daydreams and actual dreams, which I think are actually memories or something. So I have to ask, or rather confirm, during those weeks when I lost my memory…”

You gulp.

“We had sex, right?” You mumble, looking around the room.

Bob’s eyes widen. His mouth opens and closes once before he finally manages to speak. It feels like it takes forever.

“…No,” he says, gently. “We didn’t.”

Your stomach drops. “Oh. So that was just…?”

Your voice trails off, and all you want is for the Earth to open up and swallow you whole.

Someone should pack you in a crate, slap a “fragile” sticker on you, and ship you to a remote island. You’d just admitted to having sex dreams about the man to his face.

Bob shifts, suddenly flustered himself. “Wait, no—I mean—not that I wouldn’t have… I mean, we just didn’t want to rush anything, especially while you were still trying to figure things out. We were… really close. I cared a lot. I still do.”

The twinkle in his eyes when he saw the photos, the way he pulled you out of the way when the bike almost hit you, him smiling at you when you brushed his hair… It all clicked.

“We were…” You clear your throat, willing yourself to speak clearly, “In love?”

“We were in love,” Bob admits softly. 

“That’s why the daydreams I’ve been getting… they’ve felt so real. Because they were real, once. They’re pieces of us,” you say softly, your voice trembling with the weight of the truth.

Then, gathering every bit of courage you have, you ask the question that’s been haunting your mind.

“Do you still love me?”

This felt like the edge of something, like one wrong word would break your heart forever. You told yourself you’d accept it if he didn’t. If he only loved the girl who took pictures of him eating sandwiches, and made milkshakes with him and not the girl who had shut him out and avoided him for weeks. But three words from him shut your thoughts up. 

“I never stopped.”

It all goes quiet. He said exactly what you wanted to hear, what you needed to hear. 

You collect your thoughts, standing in front of a man who loved you so deeply.

You’re scared, giving your heart away is no easy thing.

But looking at him, seeing the warmth and honesty in his eyes, you know it’ll be safe with him.

“I think…” You pause, shaking your head slowly as if the words might fall into place with movement alone. “No, I—I know that I love you now.”

His eyes soften, but you can still see the flicker of uncertainty dancing just behind them.

Then, quietly, he asks the question that matters most:

“How do you know that you love me?”

You know what he’s really asking.

You step closer so he sees it in your eyes as well as your words.

“When I tried to imagine a life without you, I felt sad. Actually, that’s not quite right. I felt… empty. Like if you left, you’d be taking a piece of me with you.”

You reach for his hand, lacing your fingers together.

“When I’m with you, it’s like a world that I never used to understand finally makes sense. Like everything’s… aligned. But when you’re not around?” You breathe in shakily, then smile softly.

“I still imagine what it’d be like if you were.”

You pause, smiling just thinking about it.

“I just… I love you with everything I have, and I don’t know if I’ll ever remember falling in love with you the first time, but I’ll never forget falling in love with you this time.”

As soon as you say that, Bob wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you close, and kisses you. A kiss full of all the weeks he’s waited for this moment. To hold you, to know that you love him as much as he loves you.

He kisses you again and again, whispering, “I love you,” with every touch of his lips, each word a promise.

***

For the next week, life is all pancakes and stolen kisses. You were buzzing with joy, glowing in a way that made it impossible to hide how happy you were. The team was happy, too, that you and Bob were finally happy. Even if you were nauseatingly cute with the forehead kisses and shared hoodies.

He read to you most nights until you fell asleep, sometimes with the book still in his hand. You’d basically made Bob’s bed your own by now—memorising the dips in his mattress, the way he mumbled in his sleep, the exact rhythm of his heartbeat.

The kitchen had become one of your favourite make-out spots. Something about the early mornings, soft lighting, and the smell of coffee just made it impossible to keep your hands off each other. One day, all he was doing was trying to get his coffee, and next thing you knew, you were grabbing him by the shirt and kissing him like it was the last time.

“Can’t keep my hands off you,” you gasped, breathless between kisses.

Bob turned slightly red, eyes twinkling. “I can tell.”

Then he was lifting you onto the kitchen island with zero hesitation, his hands running over your hips, mouth finding your neck like he’d done it a thousand times before. You were both so wrapped up in each other that you didn’t hear the door until—

“Ahem.”

You froze.

Alexei stood there, arms crossed, and a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t let me stop you,” he said dryly. “It’s… cute.”

You buried your face in Bob’s chest, mortified. “I’m going to die of embarrassment.”

Bob just chuckled, one arm wrapped protectively around you. “Not before I do.”

That night, as you fall asleep next to Bob, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, your head resting on his chest and his fingers lazily drawing patterns along your back… all you could think was: How could this possibly go wrong?

It felt too good, too right, like everything in your life had finally clicked into place. The way he held you, how safe and warm it felt to just exist beside him. The world outside could fall apart, and you’d still feel like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

But somewhere deep in your chest was the smallest flicker of fear. Not loud enough to ruin the moment, but enough to make your fingers clutch his shirt just a little tighter in your sleep.

Because sometimes, when something feels this perfect… it almost doesn’t feel real.

You sit up in your bed, disoriented… but something feels off. It’s cold. Bob’s not there.

“Bob?” you call out softly, but there’s no answer. Just silence.

You scramble off the bed and start searching the Tower, calling out his name as you move through hallway after hallway. But everything feels… off. No trace of leftovers on the kitchen counter, or jackets draped over the back of the couch. No clutter, no noise. It’s been completely scrubbed clean.

Like the team was gone.

Or like they were never even here at all.

Your heart thuds in your chest as you open Bob’s door and finally come face to face with him.

“Bob, where did you—?” You stop dead. Everything in his room is packed up. Boxes. Bags. Drawers empty.

“You’re leaving?” You barely even get out the words.

“No… you’re leaving me,” You say, your voice shaking but resolute. “Please say something. What did I do wrong?”

He doesn’t speak. He looks distant, vacant, like he’s looking right through you.

“Bob, say something!” You cry out.

You step forward, trying to reach out for him… but suddenly, it’s like he’s stretching farther and farther away. Each step feels heavier, your legs like lead, like you’re being dragged through thick marsh. No matter how hard you try, you just can’t get to him. 

“Please just…” your voice cracks, eyes burning, “Please wait for me.”

But he doesn’t turn. He keeps packing, his back to you like a wall.

“Bob, please!” You plead again, desperation flooding your voice. “Please tell me what I did, tell me how I can fix this. Just don’t…”

You fall to your knees, the weight of it all crashing down on you like a tidal wave. Your voice is barely a whisper now.

“Don’t leave.”

But it’s no use. 

It’s like you don’t even exist to him anymore.

When you wake up, it’s still dark out, just the blue-grey blur of dawn slipping through the blinds. Bob is beside you, still asleep, his arm loosely draped across your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

You know—you know he loves you. But you’re scared. That at the drop of a dime, he’s going to leave, and you won’t see it coming. It won’t be loud or dramatic. It’ll be soft. Quiet. The way people drift away when you’re not looking. Every time you look at him, it’s like you’re already preparing to lose him.

The walls went straight up, and Bob noticed immediately. From waking up alone to not seeing you all day. You weren’t gone, but you barely looked at him. Every glance was half-hearted, every smile short-lived. You were slipping. He felt it.

He finds you in your room, sitting on the floor with an old shoebox of memories cracked open. You're looking over pictures of the two of you—early days, sunlight and laughter in your eyes. Your fingers linger on the edges like they burn.

When you see him enter, you pack them away fast, like he’s caught you doing something shameful.

“You’re avoiding me,” Bob says, standing in the doorway.

“I’m not. I’m just busy. Is it a crime to be busy?” you snap, sharper than you meant to. But it’s easier this way. Back to the same old routine of building distance, of pushing before you can be pulled. This felt easier. Safer. Who were you kidding?

Bob doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t step back. He walks in and sits down beside you, close but not crowding.

“I know why you’re pushing me away,” he says, voice low but steady. “I’m not going to leave you.”

You want to believe him. God, you do. But your chest tightens like it’s been waiting for the moment to crack.

“People always say that,” you whisper, not meeting his eyes. “Right before they do. And how do you even know that’s what I was thinking about?”

“I…read your diary—”

“You read my diary?” you in, your breath catching. That was a line—a clear invasion of privacy.

“I know I crossed a line,” he nods, guilt flickering across his face. “But you told me to. Before you lost your memories, you said it might help me understand you, and I feel like I do.”

You teeter on your heels, looking around the room like you might bolt at any second. Your heart is pounding too loudly to think clearly. Bob steps forward, into your space, grounding you.

“You’re not going to lose me,” he says, steady and soft. “I see you. And I love who I see.”

You shake your head, almost laughing, but a step away from crying at the same time.

“Bob, you don’t mean that. You can’t mean that,” you say, voice cracking under the weight of everything spilling out of you.

“I do,” he says firmly. “Every part of you. Every little quirk. I see it, and I love it.”

“You…” Your throat closes. “I’m broken, Bob. People always leave. My own mother left. You don’t understand—I'm a mess. I fall apart, I shut people out, I push them away. It’s why no one sticks around. I’m a complete wreck.”

You suck in a breath, trying to swallow your panic. “Let’s just… cut this off before you see the worst parts of me and realise I’m not worth it.”

He gently turns your face back toward his, fingers warm and sure under your chin. His eyes, those kind ones, are locked on you.

“Loving someone, truly loving someone, isn’t conditional,” he says quietly. “It’s not about perfection. It’s messy and complicated and terrifying sometimes. But when I fell in love with you the first time, I felt something I’ve never felt before. It’s like my whole world opened up,”

He pauses, swallowing hard.

“And then… I got to fall in love with you all over again. It’s been beautiful, every single moment spent with you has been a gift.”

He cups your face in his hands now, and you relax into his touch.

“I’m not going anywhere when things get tough. I won’t run when you break down, or when it gets ugly. I choose you. I love you. And nothing is going to change that.”

The dam breaks.

Tears spill down your face like a waterfall. All the things you’d held in for so long crash out of you like a wave you couldn’t hold back anymore.

“I… I love you too,” you choke out, voice trembling. The words taste like surrender and relief all at once.

He cradles you in his arms, holding you like he means it, like he’s anchoring you to something steady. Something real.

You bury your face in his chest, letting yourself be vulnerable for once, 

You’re safe.

No more pretending. No more running. For the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel like a ticking bomb. It feels like something you can face together.

And maybe that’s what being in love really is. Not the absence of fear, but choosing to stay in spite of it.

“Can we get ice cream or something?” You ask.

“Of course.”

***

Now that you were done dealing with your issues alone, both of you felt lighter… like breathing came easier. It’s like the weight of silence had lifted, and suddenly, you couldn’t be away from Bob—not for long. His presence had become your anchor, your gravity.

Your phone didn’t charge, but that’s irrelevant, not when you get to wake up next to Bob, his hair messy and arms around you like the night hadn’t ended.

You stubbed your toe on the edge of the nightstand, but that also doesn’t matter, because Bob loves you, and nothing can ruin your day.

You hear a commotion in the kitchen—raised voices, something clattering—but that shit doesn’t matter either. Not while you’re in love. Not while you're wrapped in this hazy, glowing calm that makes the world feel muted and far away.

You wander into the kitchen, still in a dream, still floating like you have wings... There’s an argument going on. John and Ava’s sharp voices are now muffled, like static through so you barely register it.

The argument only becomes real when you notice something flying toward your face.

A frying pan.

It soars across the room in an elegant, absurd arc—spinning once, twice—and hits you smack dab in the face.

You’re still happy though; you were thinking about Bob as you hit the ground. 

A while later, you wake up in the medbay, which you had become very accustomed to. But this time… this time it was different. It was like everything came rushing back in full colour, flooding your brain all at once.

You look at the empty chair beside your bed, and you remember exactly how Bob looked when you first woke up with amnesia. His messy hair was in front of his eyes as he slept. 

You remember trying to make him pancakes and failing miserably. You remember pretending to be a couple on the subway. You remember your first kiss. You remember everything. 

It’s like your heart snapped back into place.

You tumble out of bed, heart racing. You need to see him. Now.

“Should you be up already? And I’m so sorry about the frying pan—it was all Walker’s fault—” Ava stammers, rushing toward you.

“It’s okay, it happens,” you say, brushing it off with a dazed grin. “Where’s Bob?”

“In the kitchen?” she says, still concerned, watching you wobble toward the door like a drunk moth.

You run—well, hobble—off in search of your Bob, adrenaline and longing pulling you down the hall. Until you find him.

He’s in the kitchen, putting together snacks like a man on a mission. Quiet, focused, gentle.

“Bob!” you call, your voice cracking from emotion and recent concussion.

He looks up instantly, eyes widening in relief. “What are you doing out of bed—?”

You jump into his arms, surprising him — he catches you, confused by the sudden burst of excitement.

“Pancakes.”

“Oh. Do you want me to make some or—?”

“No, pancakes!” you exclaim, unable to contain your joy.

His eyes widen as the realisation hits him. “You remember?”

“Everything,” you say, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, stealing the breath from his lungs.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, and in that moment, you never want to let him go again.

“Really?” he asks, voice full of wonder.

“From our first pancake to our first kiss on the rooftop. I remember it all,” you whisper, your heart full. “You really didn’t give up on me.”

“And I never will,” Bob replies, pulling you back into a tight hug.

Your hearts beat in sync as you hold each other close, and in that moment, you both feel completely whole, finally, together.

“Remember when we said that we’d… y’know, when my memories came back?”

“Right now?” He blinks at you. 

“Now. Take me to your room, or we can do it right here, I don’t care.”

Bob blinked once—just once—before everything in his expression changed. His eyes darkened with intensity, lips twitching up into the beginnings of a grin. He wasn’t complaining one bit.

Bucky, however, was.

From somewhere behind you, Bucky let out a string of protests. “Guys, this is a shared space! Kitchen! Food prep happens here!”

“Fine, we’ll take it elsewhere for your sake.”

You jump and wrap your legs around his waist, arms around his neck, clinging to him like a koala. 

He catches you easily and carries you through the hallway, past the curious eyes of the rest of the team, who were all internally celebrating like their favourite slow-burn finally paid off.

He doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t stop, just keeps walking with a purpose only you can give him.

He pushes open his door, kicking it shut behind him, and lays you down gently on the bed like you’re something rare and delicate. He hovers above you, eyes searching yours with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice low and steady, though you can see the hope flickering behind his gaze.

You cup his cheek with your hand, thumb brushing lightly under his eye. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

He kisses you, slowly at first, like he’s afraid to break you, but then with more certainty. His hands slide to your waist, pulling you closer, grounding you even as the world starts to tilt.

Except it’s not the world that’s tilting.

It’s you.

You lift your head just enough to meet his eyes, your fingers curled lightly at the nape of his neck. “Is this going to happen every time we kiss?”

He raises an eyebrow, his smile smug but affectionate. “Is that a problem?”

You laugh, a real laugh that bubbles up from somewhere deep in your chest, and press your face into his neck, nose brushing the warm skin there. “No… but it does give me a few ideas.”

Masterlist

[geeksquade]

*RARE* John Denver & Johnny Cash - Take Me Home Country Roads

Found this while going through my granddad’s VHS tapes and couldn’t find it anywhere online, so here it is.

[geeksquade]

tower fics are so back baby

[geeksquade]

0.2 we are all sinners (cont'd imagine)

starring: you, remmick, and bo

pairing: bo chow/reader and remmick/reader/bo

warnings: nsfw, more smut, open-at-your-own-risk, dark romance, vampirism, corruption, moral and literal seduction, temptation, sharing is caring(?), reverse harem(ish), hive-mind, manipulation, vampire dreams. THIS IS A SEQUEL, PLEASE REFER TO LIST BELOW.

summary: in this world, there is no grace chow. only y/n chow. and boy, does that have consequences. concept ver: 0.1 0.2 story ver: 1.0

Continues right after where 1.0 left off.

You're hyperventilating as Smoke and Sammie try to block the way so that the vampires outside don't see you anymore.

“Well, ain’t that just rude,” Remmick snarks. “You get away from her, you monster.” “What’s wrong? Can’t a man just talk to his wife?” Bo smirks.

Before you can collapse onto the floor, a familiar pair of hands grab you. Annie’s. 

“Don’t let him get to you, Y/N. That ain’t Bo anymore.” “You can’t trust him, you hear me?”

But despite what the rest of the group might think, trust is the very last thing racing in your mind as Remmick and Bo stare you down like you’re their next meal.  

“You’re the devil,” you hear Sammie say. “And you’re the one who called me,” Remmick replies eagerly. “I sensed you, you know. You and your music.” Remmick takes a step forward, quick to put his hands up when Smoke aims the gun at him. “I want to see my people again. Regain the community that was taken from me. I might be trapped here, but with your gifts, you can bring them back.”  “Don’t listen to him, Sammie. He’s evil,” Annie warns. She’s still holding onto you, her grip the only thing keeping you grounded at this point. “Am I? I’m just trying to bring everyone together. To create the family this world never let you have. And look!” Remmick rests his hand on Bo’s shoulder. “I’m already halfway there.”  Bo winks at you once more, and you can see a slight trail of drool on the corner of his mouth. You flinch, but you can’t tear your eyes away, even as Remmick licks his lips at you hungrily. “Isn't that right, darling?” “You can’t keep us apart forever,” Bo hums, staring at you like he already knows what you’re thinking. “Sammie belongs with us...Y/N belongs to us.”  “No. You can’t have ‘em. Either of them.”  “That’s a shame. Because we ain’t leaving until we do."

You don’t hear the rest of the conversation, ears ringing. You barely make out bits and pieces. Of the clan and their plans for all of you. Of Mary trying to convince Annie, too. It’s not until Stack joins in that Delta and Sammie move to close the door. But by then, there was no unhearing the tempting words of the devil. 

“Because we’re not leaving without y’all. We family. Ain’t that right?” “This is the way. Together. Forever. And I ain’t doing this shit without you. There is no me without you.”

In another world, it would’ve been you who let the vampires in. You, who fell to your desperation to protect the only family you had left. But in this world, you don’t have any other family to protect. Not anymore. 

But every part of you is desperately wishing otherwise. You want to pretend it’s still Bo waiting outside the window. That it’s your Bo out there sending you that slow flying kiss.

But that thought immediately disappears when you see Remmick take your husband’s side, staring after you, too.

“She’s scared of us now. Scared of me.” “She won’t be. Not for long.”

Everyone decides to gameplan and just try to survive until sunrise.

“At least one of us stays awake at all times. If anything happens, if anything so much as flinches, you alert everyone. Got it?”

You don’t know how it happens, but you end up dozing off by the bar. Annie hushes Sammie, telling him to let you rest. In the hopes that your dreams might offer you some comfort. What none of them know is that…you dream…weird.

“You still with me, baby?" You groan as you feel a familiar pair of shoulders between your legs, and your hands raised above your head. Bo chuckles, tells you to keep ‘em there unless you want him to stop. You can barely see him past your bunched up skirt as he digs into you like it's his last meal. "You taste divine." "I could just die between these thighs, if you'd let me." "Louder. Let the whole world hear how good I make you feel." You nearly break after he teases you for too long, hands climbing down to grip his hair. Only, the memory suddenly shifts and you suddenly feel hands forcing your wrists above your head. Your eyes open and leaning over you is…Bo?  “Just like that, baby. You’re doing so good. Such a good girl for us.” You cry out in fear and pleasure when you finally feel the one eating you out rise from beneath your skirts. Chin slick, eyes red, and grinning at you like he just found heaven in your taste. Nothing scares you more than seeing those damn familiar teeth.  “No one can escape me, darling. Not even you."

You’re suddenly woken up by Sammie’s shaking and someone’s screaming. It’s only when you fully get up you realize, the screaming is yours.

a/n: i tried my best and i wasnt sure how to feel abt this addition. ill see what people think before turning it into something more. anyway, notes or ideas on how to proceed would be much appreciated. that, and the gif of bo blowing a kiss...

[geeksquade]

[geeksquade]

trans women, i love you.

you were a woman yesterday. you're a woman today. you're a woman tomorrow. you're a woman forever.

trans women have existed long before those stuffy bigots sitting in a court room have. trans women will continue to exist long after they're dead and rotting in the earth.

[geeksquade]

Yandere Wild West Gang - Noncon

Your life is all planned out for you. Marriage. Children. Settling down in your little town and growing old. But a gang of outlaws and their wicked desires change everything.

Tags: (6) yandere males x fem reader, noncon, loss of virginity, choking, spitroast (hell yeah), oral fixation, 12.3k words

I blame the ridiculously talented @fangdokja and The Red Ledger for inspiring this btw.

They came for you in the middle of the day.

Shameless. Better men would at least wait for nightfall, would at least try and hide their intentions behind the cloak of darkness. Not them though.

They kicked the door in when your family was just about ready to eat lunch, the food still steaming and your ma still in her apron.

You didn't even have time to scream.

One outlaw smashed his rifle butt into your pa's temple and the old man was out like a light, still clutching the knife he'd grabbed to defend you. Two others grabbed your mother and shoved her into the pantry, blocked the door with a tipped over cupboard.

You ran. Or tried to at least. They were crowded into your kitchen, laughing as you turned from one to the other.

"No way out, beauty."

"Too late to run now, darlin'. Shoulda started before we even got here if you wanted to get away."

"Look at her all scared. Ain't it just adorable?"

With near identical duster coats and bandanas tied across their faces, you couldn't tell them apart.

They were closing in on you, a little at a time. You tried to fight, to pull away when one of them grabbed you. But they were dust bitten outlaws and you were just a rancher's daughter. It wasn't even a struggle.

The tallest one slammed you down on the kitchen table, his fingers digging into your shoulders and his belt buckle grinding against your ass.

Your mama's good milk jug tumbled off and shattered on the floor. That was what you focused on as they tied your hands behind your back and gagged you. The shards of blue and white ceramic in the puddle of milk.

Not their hands running over your hips, not their laughter. Just the milk and your ma's favourite jug all in pieces.

You could still hear your mother screaming for you when they pulled you outside. That was what hurt the most about that entire awful day. Your mama, pleading and begging and panicking and unable to save you.

Their horses were waiting, another outlaw standing guard with his rifle out.

"Boss, let her ride with me."

"With you? Ain't no way in hell my girl is riding with you."

"Your girl? She ain't yours. Boss, tell 'em she ain't his."

"Runnin' to the boss again? Yellow belly."

It was the tall one who settled the argument. His voice wasn't as rough as the others, but that didn't put you at ease in the slightest.

"She's riding with me."

He still had one hand curled around your upper arm and he pulled you towards his mustang. You dug your heels in as hard as you could, pulled back with all your weight. It just made him sigh.

"Ain't even started yet, and she's already being difficult?"

The outlaw that spoke was already on his stallion. All you could see of his face above the bandana was a pair of blue eyes, lined at the corners. The boss maybe?

"Just some...growing pains. She'll settle down soon enough."

The tall one leaned down and hoisted you over his shoulder. You squirmed and tried to kick your way free, but he kept one arm tight around your knees.

You thought all your panicking would frighten the horses, but no such luck. He tossed you across his saddle and climbed up behind you. The saddle horn dug into your belly until he pulled you into a proper seat, one arm curling around your waist. You could feel his chest against your back, every inch of it firm, hard earned muscle.

He dropped his head and spoke directly into your ear.

"No trying to jump off the horse. No trying to run away. I'm in charge of you until we get back and I won't have you hurt on my watch."

Your only response was to try and smash your head back into his nose. He straightened up just in time and all you managed to do was hurt your own neck.

He sighed again, and spurred his horse forward.

"Well, I suppose it this was easy, it wouldn't be nearly as fun."

The outlaws formed a loose ring around you as you rode. You tried to twist and look back, but your captor was holding you too tight. You didn't even get to see your home shrink into the horizon. Didn't even get that one small goodbye.

They rode for at least two hours, the sun climbing down from its zenith as they took you across rivers and down secret little paths. You knew your ranch and the area around it like the back of your hand, but even you were well and truly lost when you finally arrived.

It was a ranch, but there weren't any cows in the fields or corn growing in neat rows. The house was a big, whitewashed thing. Pretty once, but fallen into disrepair. Just a hideout. Not a place they stayed at for more than a few months.

The blue eyed one pulled you off the horse without breaking a sweat.

You could feel their eyes on you again. God, how many were there? Five? Six?

"You goin' first boss?"

The man looked down at you. He had a hand around your upper arm, but his grip was more firm than rough.

"I reckon I should. Can't trust you lot to be gentle or slow enough."

That made some of them jeer and complain.

"I'll be real sweet, boss. I promise!"

"We can be nice too. Really."

The man snorted. "Nice? I ain't never seen you dogs be nice 'bout nothing. I'll break our filly in. You lot just be patient and don't bother us none."

What were they talking about? You didn't have time to puzzle it out before the boss started pulling you toward the house. Seeing that building looming closer made you start fighting all over again, biting down on your gag and pulling back as much as you could. Like a mustang digging it's feet in.

It didn't last long. The boss leveled a look at you, met your eyes straight on.

"You really gonna be difficult with me, girl?"

Oh, what frightening eyes he had. Bright and clever, a blue so striking you could feel it right through your soul. A mountain lion would have eyes softer than his.

You stopped resisting him. Let him pull you along besides him. What else could you do? He had a gun on his back and a knife in his boot and years of experience wrangling stubborn animals. And you were just a girl out of her depth and far from home.

You didn't see it, but the outlaws looked at each other, impressed. Only the boss could tame a filly with a single look.

The house was much cooler than outside, but the boss didn't give you any time to examine it. Just guided you up the stairs and into a large bedroom. White curtains stirred in the breeze, the bedding neat and clean.

He locked the door behind you. A quiet click that made your heart race.

You jumped when his hands came to rest on your shoulders. You could hear the other outlaws outside, the clink of harnesses and buckles as they let the horses out to pasture.

His hands moved from your shoulders to your upper arms, squeezed.

"Do you know why we took you?"

You shook your head. Ransom, maybe? But your pa was just a run of the mill rancher. Surely there were better targets for quick cash than you.

The outlaw laughed quietly, just a soft breath of amusement.

"Not the faintest clue, huh?"

He let go of you and you heard the soft rustle of material as he shrugged out of his duster.

He turned you around and you finally got to see his face. He'd taken off his Stetson and bandana too, and the man looking back at you was a hardened outlaw in every way. He was a lot older than you, with thick blonde hair going to grey at the edges. Handsome, with a strong jaw covered in light stubble. Grizzled, but muscular and lean for his age.

There was a small, amused smile on his lips.

He kept his hands on your arms and guided you backwards, until your back hit the wall.

"You wanna take a guess? Why'd we ride all the way out to town to steal you?"

Whatever you said was muffled by your gag. He clicked his tongue.

"You're gonna have to use your worlds, darlin'."

He ran his thumb across your cheek, across the gag. "Or maybe not. I like you just like this too."

He was close. Closer than any man had ever been. It was terrifying. Tears spilled down your cheeks, running across your gag and soaking in.

He sighed, caught one on his thumb.

"None of that now girl. I ain't gonna be rough with you. And in time, I reckon you'll come to like it."

Your dress was buttoned at the front, all the way to your neck. He grabbed both sides of your collar and ripped.

You tried to jerk away from him, but he was too close and the only way out was blocked by the wall. Buttons scattered across the room with little plinks.

The only thing keeping your dress on was the fact that your hands were tied behind your back. But the outlaw didn't let that stop him for long.

He leaned down and pulled a knife from his boot.

"Don't squirm 'round and I won't cut you, alright?"

Sound advice, but not something you were about to listen to. You thrashed in his grip, twisting as much as you could. You didn't want that thing anywhere near you.

He grabbed your hair, and yanked your head backwards. You screamed into your gag, your whole scalp aching.

You might have continued fighting, but that's when you felt the cool metal of his knife at your throat. Not the sharp edge, but still enough of a reminder to keep you still.

"Good. Not so hard, is it?"

The knife moved away from your neck and to your sleeve. He slipped the blade between your skin and the fabric and yanked upwards.

Your sleeve tore with an ugly ripping sound, all the way down to the wrist. You whined into your gag, but he ignored you and repeated it on the other side.

He was breathing heavier now, even though the work of keeping you still couldn't have been much of a challenge for a man as strong as him. He put the handle of his knife in his mouth and used both hands to pull your dress off you. It pooled at your ankles, ruined.

You still had your chemise, but the thin white fabric was almost as bad as being naked. Your nipples poked through and he narrowed in on them, one hand coming up to cup your breast. His teeth were biting into the handle of his knife, hard enough to leave indents in the wood. Like a man struggling to control himself. He breathed out slowly, just feeling the weight of your tits in his palms.

You were crying so hard you almost couldn't see his face. A mixture of pity and want.

He kneeled down to put his knife away and stayed on his knees, hands coming to your hips. He looked up at you, blue eyes bright with something you didn't yet know how to recognise. Lust. Want.

His thumbs stroked circles into your skin, your chemise the only barrier between you and him.

"If I was a better man, I'd almost be sorry about this."

He grabbed your leg and hooked your thigh over his shoulder. You almost stumbled, forced to keep your back against the wall if you didn't want to loose your balance.

His fingers gathered your chemise from the hem up, pinning it at your waist with his palms. You were wearing stockings, simple white ones that reached your mid thigh, and plain lace garters.

All in all, it was a damn nice framing for your bare cunt.

God, he could practically feel his mouth watering.

He didn't give you any warning. Just slipped his tongue between your lips. Hot, wet, like nothing you'd ever felt. You tried to squirm away, practically tried to climb up the wall to get away from him. But he had you trapped, one massive palm on your hip and the other on your thigh.

He found your hole real easy. Slipped his tongue all the way in, the bridge of his nose grinding into your clit. You whined at him to stop it, to please just let you go, but with the gag, all he heard was a pretty little sound that made him keep going.

He sucked on your clit, his jawline standing out in sharp relief. His stubble scraped your thighs. So masculine, so unbearably, overwhelmingly manly.

With the way he held you still, you couldn't do anything except take it. Feel even inch of his tongue, feel his hot breath on your skin, feel his nails scraping your thigh. You wanted to hate it. You wanted to be disgusted by it.

But oh, it felt good.

Sometimes, when the neighbour's handsome son came over, you'd feel a little throbbing ache between your legs. This was exactly like that, cranked up to a thousand.

You whined again, and he must have been the Devil's own son, because he just doubled down. Swirled the flat of his tongue across your whole clit and then ran it down all the way to you ass.

You thighs were shaking, and the pit of your stomach felt tight with something your couldn't explain.

"That's my girl." He sounded pleased, smug. Practically cooing at you in his rough baritone. "Feels real good, don't it?"

If he didn't break soon, you felt like your whole body would. Something inside you was building, getting closer to the edge. And you were terrified of it. You breath was coming hard and fast.

Mercifully, he pulled away. Kissed the triangle of your pussy and then your inner thigh. You could feel his teeth against your skin when he smiled.

"Not yet. I ain't nearly close to done with you."

He stood and you weren't sure whether to be thankful or upset. You felt woozy, hot. Like heat stroke, or like getting drunk.

His mouth and chin glistened. He rubbed it dry on his palm, smirking all the while.

"I bet you feel real empty inside, huh sweetheart?"

You nodded your head, not sure where he was going with this. You did feel empty. There was a hot, throbbing itch in your stomach that you had no idea how to scratch.

"Aww, poor thing. I can take care of that for you."

His hands moved to his belt, blue eyes pinning you to the wall. When he smiled, there were lines around his eyes. They should have been comforting, a mark of someone who laughed often and laughed easy. They weren't.

You shook your head, pleading with your eyes. The tears were starting to come again, thick and fast. For a second or two, with his tongue deep in your core, you'd forgotten that he'd want something in exchange.

His eyes hardened, his smile not moving an inch.

"I will take care of it, girl. You can cry if you want, but we've come too far to stop now."

He grabbed your thigh and pulled your leg up, forced you back against the wall. Your whole cunt was wet and glistening with his spit.

Something hot and hard rubbed between your pussy lips. You shuddered, tried to move away. His other arm came around your waist and he pulled you against his chest. The smell of him was overwhelming - gunpowder and leather and whiskey. He smelled like a man. He smelled like your ruin.

Your forehead fell against his collarbone, and his chin came to rest on the crown of your head. The same way a father might hold his daughter after a nightmare.

But there was nothing fatherly about the cock nudging at your entrance.

"Shhh, you're okay. It ain't gonna hurt."

Liar. Terrible, heartless liar.

He pushed in and it felt like your whole body was splitting apart. It burned.

You sobbed into his chest, not entirely sure what was happening to you. This was the sort of thing that was only whispered about. The sort of thing that was kept vague for good, obedient girls until their wedding nights. The only thing you knew for a fact was that it hurt and you wanted it to stop.

He groaned, pressed a kiss against your hair.

"Sweet little thing, ain't ya? Gonna be good 'fer me? Gonna take it nice and deep?"

You couldn't answer. There was only the stretch of his cock inside you and the oppressive tightness of his arms.

He set a slow, drawn out pace. Cock pulling all the way out to the tip and then sliding right back in. You could feel every inch.

Not gentle, but not needlessly mean either. You were shivering in his arms, pussy fluttering like a heartbeat around him.

No one but him knew how fucking difficult it was to keep so slow. Tight, tiny little thing bleeding and crying all over him. Any red blooded man would want to rut into you like a stallion. See just how many tears he could wring out of you.

It was only experience and determination that held him back. If he was a younger man...

It was the right decision to have you first. Not even his second in command - that tall bastard with all the self control in the world - could have managed this.

He huffed out a laugh.

"You're little too young for me, doll. Reckon I could be your father."

He slid back inside you, grinding against your clit in a way that made you whimper.

"Shitty fucking father though. To be doing this to my little girl."

He let go of waist and cupped your jaw in his palm. Tilted your head back, his nose and lips skimming up your neck. You smelled so fucking good. Nothing in this world was as sweet as a needy, crying girl.

"You gonna call me daddy, little girl? Gonna beg me to be nice and let you go?"

You whimpered, a pathetic little sound through the gag. It only made him smile against your neck.

"Thaaat's it. Just take it. Let me break you in. Gonna be all stretched out and sweet when I'm done with you, yeah?"

He sucked at your neck, at the delicate spot where your shoulder started to slope away. A little immature maybe, to want to mark you up like an animal, but wasn't he being plenty mature already? Wasn't he being just saintly in his patience?

"Fuck, you're getting close, ain'tcha? Can feel you gettin' all tight."

He pulled back to look into your eyes, overflowing with tears and just so damn scared.

"You ain't got no idea what's 'bout to happen, do ya?"

He pulled almost all the way out, and then slammed back in, hard. Your tits jumped and your eyes fluttered shut.

"Just relax and let it happen. It's gonna feel reeaal good."

You tilted your head back and he followed you, lips right back at your throat.

He picked up the pace, trying not to be too rough and slowly failing. The closer he got to his own end, the less important kindness seemed. It wasn't long 'fore he was slamming into you so hard he could feel your tits bouncing. His breath was coming fast, each exhale almost a growl.

"Take it, just like that. C'mon doll, just let me fuck you. Just let me make you mine."

You bit down on your gag and came. Your whole body shook, your nails digging into your palms. You didn't now what he'd done to you, but you couldn't stop it. Your pussy was a clenching, sensitive mess. You felt light headed enough to faint. And the only sound and thought in your head was his voice, right in your ear and rough with barely held back want.

"That's my girl. My good fucking girl."

A good man might have slowed down then. Might have realised just how sensitive you were. He didn't. He kept pistoning his cock into you, fucked you through your orgasm.

You writhed on his dick, in pain and overwhelmed and more scared than you'd ever been. And all of it just served to make him harder, to bring him closer. Even he had to admit he was a bastard for enjoying it so much. He didn't deserve something so sweet. All he deserved in life was a short dance with a noose. But who gave a fuck about that? He'd taken you, he'd stolen you, and like any good thief, he was going to enjoy you.

You felt it when he came. His cock pulsed and twitched inside you, and something hot dripped down your thigh.

He pressed his forehead against yours, hands so tight on you that you felt bruised.

He came down slowly. Kept you plugged up with his cock while he softened. The only sound in the room was his harsh breathing. You couldn't even cry anymore. All you wanted was to close your eyes and sleep and make the pain disappear.

He pulled back and tilted your chin up.

"Look at me."

You opened your eyes, tears still caught in your lashes.

"There she is. Ain't so bad, is it?"

All you could do was sniffle and hope he was bored of you.

He let you down carefully. You weren't steady on your feet at all.

"I've had a lot of blood on my cock over the years, darlin', but I reckon yours is the finest."

He kissed you. You were still gagged, so it was less a kiss and more so his lips pressing against yours.

When he finally stepped away from you, you almost wanted him back. You sank down to your knees, too dizzy to stand.

"Poor thing. Too much to handle, doll?"

He ran his fingers through your hair.

"You did so good, princess. Now just stay so sweet, and the rest of this day will go a hell of a lot easier for you."

You were too out of it to figure out what he meant. You closed your eyes and heard his spurs jingling as he walked away. The door creaked open and then he was gone.

You might have tried to run for it, but you ached so bad that even the thought of it was painful. Your hands were still tied as tight as they were before.

You didn't notice the footsteps or the voices until they were right outside the door.

"So much for bein' nice. Boss left her a right mess."

"Better than you woulda done. Least she's still in one piece."

They came to stand in front of you, two men with their bandanas pulled down around their throats.

You recognised their voices. These two were the most quarrelsome of the bunch. They still had their gun belts on, both of them carrying revolvers. Gunslingers then. Every gang had them.

"Look at her already on her knees 'fer us."

"Why you cryin' pretty girl? Was the boss too mean with ya?"

You looked up slowly. Boots first - silver spurs, well worn leather. Then their belts. And finally, their faces.

One was dark skinned, a crescent scar on his cheek and his hair cropped short. He rubbed his jaw as he looked at you, a half smile showing pearly white teeth.

"Oh, would ya look at those eyes? A man could drown in 'em."

The other was tanned golden with the sun, his eyes a pale green. He was still wearing his Stetson, and his dark hair was long enough to brush his shoulders.

"Boss must be getting old. He left some of her clothes on."

That made the dark one laugh. "Nah, I reckon it's meant to be a treat just 'fer us. Like unwrapping a present on Christmas mornin'."

The green eyed one squated down in front on you and grabbed your jaw. His hands were rough from labour, and his callouses scraped your skin. Whatever he saw in your eyes made him smile, but it didn't have a lick of kindness in it.

"Look at that...Boss really did break you in, didn't he filly?"

He stood and pulled you up with him, hand still clutching your jaw.

"I reckon she's gonna be real sweet to us. Gonna be all nice and obedient."

The other one came to stand behind you, his fingertips brushing the nape of your neck as he moved your hair out of the way.

"That right, filly? You gonna be all sweet?"

The green eyed one nodded your head for you. His eyes had a certain cruelty to them that made you want to step away. He seemed the type to use spurs and whips both, and to use them often.

He let go of your jaw and focused on the rest of you. And oh, what a lovely sight you were. All tied up and crying, your tits just visible through your chemise. A little virgin about to loose the rest of your innocence to his teeth. A fucking vision, a fucking dream.

He pinched one of your nipples and rolled it between his fingers. Your thin chemise wasn't any protection at all.

"Sensitive, ain'tcha?"

You whined. Not sure whether to pull away or step closer.

The gunslinger behind you wasn't in the mood to be left out. As his partner tugged and played with your nipples, his hands came to rest on your waist. And what huge hands they were. You could feel the heat of him even through your clothes.

He dropped his head to the nape of your neck and inhaled, his nose buried in your hair.

When he spoke, his voice was a low rumble.

"What do you want?"

The green eyed one looked you up and down, weighing his options. Finally, he smiled.

"I'll take her mouth."

Your whole body went cold. He couldn't mean...

"Hmm. That's fine with me." His hands dropped from your waist to your ass, squeezing. "I want to have her from the back anyway."

They must have been in perfect sync with each other. The one in front of you stood aside and the one behind you pushed you towards the bed. You stumbled, landed on the duvet chin first, your teeth slamming together despite the gag.

You didn't have time to push yourself up before they were tearing your chemise off. The thin straps ripped and your last bit of modesty floated to the floor in a tattered white heap. You were left in just your stockings.

The dark one pulled you up by your hips, one hand grabbing the rope around your wrists to keep you steady.

Smack.

Your whole body jerked forward, your ass cheek stinging.

One of them laughed, mocking. "Bet that'll leave a mark."

The dark one ran his palm over the welt, smiling though you couldn't see it.

"We promised the boss we would be nice, remember?"

The green eyed one circled the bed. You could feel his eyes on you, drinking in your naked skin, your stockings, the tears soaking your gag.

His hands were on his belt. Not undoing it yet, just watching you.

"Y'know, I give that tall bastard a lot of shit, but even I gotta say he was right this time. She's a real cute thing."

The man behind you was still stroking your ass, squeezing and watching your flesh give under his fingers. So soft, so fucking pliable.

He hummed quietly, more concerned with you than with his partner. He slipped his thumb down between your cheeks, catching on your asshole for a second. That sent a jolt of panic through you. They wouldn't...

He must have felt you moving, because he sighed and let his fingers continue downwards. Smearing cum and blood across your pussy lips.

"Not today," he said, soft enough for just you to hear. "Boss wouldn't like that."

That wasn't reassuring to hear. It meant that he still wanted it. Wanted to fuck your virgin ass without any care for the pain, for the hurt. The thing stopping him wasn't empathy, but obedience.

He rubbed tight, harsh circles into your clit. You were still sensitive and you pleaded into your gag, asking him to be just a bit more gentle. Either he couldn't understand you or didn't bother to even hear you, because he carried on, fingerpads rough as sandpaper.

The green eyed one noticed though. He seemed to notice just about everything.

"Want me to take that gag off sweetheart?"

You nodded your head frantically. The sides of your lips felt raw and you couldn't stand the taste of it.

He kneeled with one leg on the bed and undid the material. When he pulled it away, thin lines of spit followed.

You sucked in a lungful of air, coughing. He gathered your hair out of your face, held it all in a loose fist at the back of your head.

"All better?"

Maybe you were wrong about him. Maybe he wasn't so bad.

"...yes." You swallowed, your voice still hoarse. "Thank you."

He tilted his head, smirking.

"So polite. Boss really did a number on ya, huh? Or are ya just a well bred little lady?"

You didn't get a chance to answer, because the other gunslinger ground his palm against your cunt. You yelped and jerked forward on instinct.

The green eyed one tightened his hold on your hair.

"None of that. You can take it."

"I can't! It hurts."

His free hand tugged at his belt, pulling it free of the belt loops. You blanched. What the hell did he need that for?

"Ain't even been a minute and you're already whining? C'mon pretty, there's better things to do with your mouth than that."

He let go of your hair long enough to loop the belt around your neck, the leather wrapped around his fist. He tugged and it tightened, metal buckle pressing icy cold against your skin.

He pulled upwards, forced you to look at him. His cat eyes were mean, amused at seeing you leashed.

"You even think 'bout usin' your teeth and I'll pull this so tight you won't even be able to think 'bout breathing. Got it?"

What was he talking about? Your teeth?

Your answer came soon enough. With his belt off, it was real easy for him to take his cock out. He sighed, relieved to have it free.

The only thing keeping you in place was the belt around your neck. Even still, you pulled backwards until you couldn't go any further.

It was huge.

Thick, with veins running all the way to the tip. That was supposed to fit inside of you? You'd never seen a man's cock before. Even when the boss fucked you, you'd only felt it. No fucking wonder it hurt so bad, if they were all this size.

It was horrifying, and still you couldn't look away.

"Ain't it a sight?"

He grabbed it with his free hand and yanked your head down with the belt, until the tip brushed your lips.

"Come have a closer look."

Maybe if your hands were free, you'd be able to pull away. But as it was, you were staying balanced only because of his grip on the belt and his partner's grip on your arms.

He rubbed the tip across your lips, leaving behind a sticky coating of precum.

"Don't be shy," he purred, "Give it a little kiss."

The belt tightened until you listened. You pecked the side of it, where it wasn't so gross and sticky.

"Atta girl. Now open wide."

You desperately didn't want to. He tasted of salt, and his cock was so hard that you couldn't even imagine how it would fit.

You didn't want to, but what choice did you have?

You opened your mouth and he pushed himself past your lips with a groan. The tip scraped against your tongue, soft as velvet and tasting like the sea.

He let go of his dick and tangled his hand in your hair, pushing your head lower. Until the tip brushed the back of your throat. You gagged, shivering all around him.

"God, your mouth is fucking heaven sent."

He pulled out slowly, until it was just the tip sitting in your mouth.

"Are you gonna join me or what?"

The other gunslinger snorted.

"Fucking impatient. You gotta treat a lady gentle on her first time."

You heard the rustle of clothing behind you, and the hand that was playing with your cunt came to rest on your hip, fingers digging into the flesh for a good grip.

Your cunt felt cold without his touch, but his fingers were quickly replaced with his cock. The head nudged at your entrance, hot enough that you could practically feel it radiating. The leaking pre mixed with the sticky come already on your lips, thin strands of white pulling and breaking as he settled himself against you.

You wanted to say something, anything, to make them stop, but the gunslinger still had his dick in your mouth.

"Hmmm. Nice and warm and I ain't even pushed inside yet."

"Ain't she? Like she was made for us."

His hand slid from your hair to you jaw, thumb tracing your cheek. He could see the bulge of his cock against your cheek - it made you look a little chipmunk getting all cozy and ready for winter. Your tears were caught on your lashes, silver dew drops like you just took a swim.

"You heard me, baby? You're made for us. Made to fuck us and keep us happy. Our little lady."

They both pushed into you at the same time.

Thick cock bullying into you, trapping you between them with nowhere to go. You wanted to scream, but you couldn't. You couldn't even think. Couldn't even breathe.

The green eyed cowboy pulled on your leash and forced you to tilt your head back, bare your throat to him. He pushed deeper into you, until his dick was down your throat and your nose was brushing the hard muscles of his stomach.

He held you there, cock down your throat and tears collecting in your eyes, while his partner started thrusting.

You couldn't breathe.

You couldn't pull away, couldn't fight him. You could just look up at him, eyes all wide and scared. Your panic was thick in your blood and he drank it in.

Smirking, keeping you at his mercy. He knew you couldn't breathe, and he still held you on his cock.

Your heart was racing and you felt light headed before he finally pulled out. You gasped, thick strings of spit connecting you. He only gave you enough time to catch a few deep breaths before he was back in your mouth, thrusting. Going just as deep but thankfully pulling out.

You gagged and choked and felt like you were drowning on his cock. And all the while, his partner yanked you back and slammed balls deep into you.

It was too much. You couldn't focus on anything. You were limp in their hands, letting them fuck you and just trying to survive it.

You weren't sure how long it took. Your whole world was narrowed down to just them - their hands on you, getting tighter and meaner the closer they got to coming.

The one fucking you from the back let go of your hip and curled his whole arm around your waist, leaning over you until his lips were on your neck. Fucking you hunched over like a dog in heat.

He bit your shoulder, sunk his teeth in with a snarl.

They didn't talk much anymore. There weren't any words left. Just the need to fuck and claim and come.

The sounds were the worst. The slick squelching of a cock in your cunt, the slap of skin on skin, the heavy snarls for you to take it like a good girl. And their raspy breathing, like stallions after a gallop.

The gunslinger pulled harder on your leash, keeping you still while he fucked your face. He's teeth were gritted tight, his eyes narrowed and focused entirely on you.

The dark one must have hit something deep inside you, because you made a whining, moaning sort of noise that vibrated all through his cock.

That was what did it. He forced his cock all the way down your throat, held you in place while he came.

When he pulled out, you were coughing so hard your whole chest ached.

That's when you felt it - hot spunk splattering all over your asshole. Your whole body shuddered at the feeling.

The man behind you kissed your back between your shoulder blades and slowly moved down. When he came to your ass cheeks, he sunk his teeth in with a playful growl.

He flipped you onto your back, and you sunk bonelessly down onto the covers. Your nipples were tender and your neck was a patchwork of marks.

The dark skinned one flopped down next to you and threw a possessive arm around your waist. He hummed, pleased as a bear before winter.

"Best fuck I've had in ages."

His partner was silent, his fingers toying with the belt still around your neck. You tilted your head back to look at him.

He was smiling, not soft exactly but about as close as a cruel bastard like him could get. He was so handsome, when he wasn't trying to choke you.

He sighed and let his fingers drift up your cheeks.

"I wish we could stay, pretty. But the day ain't done just yet."

The other one grumbled. "Can't we just lay here for a bit? I've got my girl all nice and snug. Why should I let her go?"

"Boss's orders, that's why. We gotta play nice and share."

"Why? Those bastards don't deserve her."

"And we do?"

He didn't bother to answer, just pushed himself to his elbows and looked down at you. His eyes were a deep brown. Sweet, almost.

"No," he said quietly, "We don't."

He leaned down and kissed your cheek. Soft, like a husband would. He stood and only looked back at you when he was at the door. Hard man, killer and gunslinger that he was, you thought you saw just a little guilt in his eyes.

When he was gone, the green eyed gunslinger ran his hands through your hair.

"He's right, y'know. We don't deserve a girl like you."

There wasn't any guilt in his voice, just a deep sense of satisfaction.

"But we've got you anyway. If the world gave folk what they deserved, you'd never have been so unlucky to catch our eye in the first place."

He leaned down and pressed a kiss against your other cheek, and then nipped at your jaw. A coyote savouring a bone.

"You'll learn to take it, sweetheart. And when I'm done, you'll learn to like it."

He left his belt around your neck and let the door slam shut behind him.

You could hear when they joined the others out in the yard. Their laughter drifted up to you, sharp as a wild dog's bark.

You closed your eyes. On your back in nothing but your stockings and a leash. It wasn't the sort of thing you'd ever imagined as a possibility. Hell, a lot of today was filled with things you'd never even thought about.

You hurt in just about every place. But parts of you throbbed with a pain that wasn't entirely unwanted.

Traitorous body, traitorous mind.

You couldn't possibly like this. You were being used by criminals, killers. Your virginity was just another prize for them to steal. You were a good girl, raised in a good home with upright, moral parents. You weren't some lady of the night, some harlot, to enjoy their roughness.

Right?

When the door sighed open, you didn't even bother to open your eyes.

"These young ones don't know any gentleness, eh beauty?"

His voice was calm. The sort of soft tone you'd use with a filly still nervous 'bout the bit.

You could hear his footsteps. Heavy boots but no spurs.

You flinched when he touched the belt around your neck, but he didn't do much more than run his fingers across the leather.

"Let's get this off you. Idiots. You don't harness a creature so fine."

He pulled it off your neck carefully and then touched the bruises it left behind.

"Open your eyes for me, beauty. Let me see you."

You almost didn't. What more was there to see? Another man with too tight hands and a hunger that wouldn't end?

It was his voice that did it. So kind. No growl behind the words, no clenched teeth snarl.

The first thing you saw were his eyes. A dark hazel, like an eagle's.

"Ah, just as pretty as I thought. Do you want to sit up for me? Those ropes must be hurting something awful by now."

He was older than you, but not by too much. Older than the gunslingers, but not nearly as old as the boss. His hair was tied in braid that fell almost all the way down his back. Lakota, if you had to guess, or maybe Crow.

There was a pair of workman's gloves shoved in the pocket of his jeans, but he didn't carry a pistol. The wrangler most likely.

You sat up slowly, wary. He didn't seem awfully worked up about a naked woman sprawled on the bed in front of him. Maybe he wasn't so bad...

He untied your hands without letting his own wander.

You flexed your fingers and carefully brought your hands to your lap. Your shoulders ached from being stuck in one position for so long.

"Will you let me go?"

"Oh, beauty." He touched his knuckles to your cheek. "That's what you want, isn't it? To go back home?"

"Yes." Your throat felt tight with tears. "More than anything."

He closed his eyes.

"It hurts to see you cry, beauty. It hurts to see these marks on you. But even if I was the only one holding you back, even if it was entirely up to me... I wouldn't."

"Are you going to do the same thing as the rest of them?"

He held your face in his palms, thumbs tracing your cheekbones. He smiled, but it was awfully sad.

"It's been real long time since I've had a woman, beauty. And never one so fine. I'm still just a man."

You were crying again, though you didn't realise it. Tears washing hot over his fingers.

"Shhh." He leaned down and kissed your forehead. "I'll be gentle. I won't hurt you."

He undid his belt slowly, eyes on you the entire time. You were on your knees again, your stockings making you look oh so innocent and oh so filthy all at once.

He grabbed your hand before he took his cock out. You pulled away, but his grip was too strong. Not rough, not hurting you. Just too firm to escape.

He brought you hand to his crotch, pressed your palm against his cock. Even through the thick denim of his jeans, you could feel how hard it was.

"All your doing, beauty. That's all your fault."

He undid the last button and his dick pushed it's way free. Big and no less intimidating for being the second one today. His fingers were knotted between yours and he dragged your hand up his shaft. He sighed, a man finally getting release.

"Here, this will go faster if you use your mouth."

His other hand came to rest on the nape of your neck. Not forcing you down exactly, but heavy, inexorable. Trying to refuse him was like fighting the pull of the moon.

He didn't force himself into you like the gunslinger did. Just kept using your hand - still dry - to stroke himself.

"Come now beauty. Just a little lick and it will all be over. You want that, don't you?"

You did. You wanted this day to end.

You cautiously licked the head of his cock, your tongue almost blistering hot. He groaned and for just a second, the hand on your nape tightened. Like he really did just want to pull you onto him and have his own way.

"There you go. Not so terrible, is it?"

It wasn't. He tasted salty, but not in an unpleasant way. And hearing him groan like that made some part of your gut flutter.

You felt just a little braver. When he pulled you closer, you let him. He rubbed the tip against your lips, smearing pre-cum all over them.

You didn't want his cock down your throat. Didn't want to feel like you were choking. But everything he'd done to you so far had been miles different to the gunslingers. Maybe he'd be different in this too.

Slowly, you opened your mouth. You expected him to shove himself inside you, betray the tiny bit of trust he'd built.

He didn't. Instead, he stood perfectly still. He even stopped using your hand, though he kept it wrapped around the base. Just letting you get comfortable. Letting you explore.

It was what your daddy did when he was working to tame a colt. He'd let them get used to him a little at a time, until they didn't mind his touch at all.

You were too nervous to take him in much deeper than the tip. But he didn't complain at all, just watched you with those golden eyes.

You sucked on him. Just the tip, but you wrapped your lips around him and treated it like it was candy. You flicked your tongue across the underside of his head, eyes locked on his to see if he liked it.

And from the way his breathing was picking up, you reckoned he liked it plenty.

Hadn't the gunslinger wanted you to kiss his? Maybe that's what men wanted. You pulled off his cock with a wet little pop and turned your attention to his shaft. You kissed him - small, shy little pecks all the way down to his hand and then back up again.

He was smiling, head tilted. He almost seemed amused.

"So that's how you like it, huh?"

You hummed, not sure how to respond. Both the gunslingers and the boss kept getting faster the closer they were to finishing. Maybe if you used your hand...

He seemed surprised when you moved your palm, but it didn't last long. When he was sure of what you were doing, he let go of your hand and let you do it all by yourself.

There was a lot of friction and you couldn't go as fast as you wanted without yanking on him. You needed some kind of lube, something to make him all slick...

Oh.

Of course.

You licked him, all the way from balls to tip, trying to drool on his cock as much as possible. He shivered, voice getting just a bit tighter.

"Careful girl. You're playing with fire."

You didn't know what he meant. All you wanted was to finish this. Be able to rest and dream sweet dreams, dreams without men's hands on your body.

His cock was wet with your spit and when you started using your hand, it squelched lewdly.

He groaned, his hand coming to your jaw and his thumb tracing your lips.

"Open your mouth for me, beauty."

You did. You couldn't look away from his eyes. That burnished gold like dead man's treasure.

He pressed his thumb against your tongue, ran it over your teeth. He seemed just as captivated by you as you were by him. The men outside were laughing again, voices raised and vulgar. But he didn't for a second look away from you.

He smiled and said something to you in a language you didn't understand.

Your hand was moving a lot faster now that you'd found your stride, your thumb brushing over his slit on every third stroke. The only sign that he was getting closer was his breathing.

At the last second, he pulled his thumb out of your mouth and rested his tip against your lips.

Hot spunk shot at you, some of it dribbling down your chin and some of it coating your tongue. He groaned, jaw clenched tight. He was panting like a dog on a hot day, still looking at you like you were the finest thing he'd ever seen.

He pulled his cock away and replaced it with his thumb, smearing his load between your lips and across your teeth. He spoke in his language again, words just a little more forceful than before.

You thought he was done with you. Thought he'd be satisfied with leaving.

Instead, he leaned down and kissed you. One hand was still on your nape and you had no room to pull away.

It was your first proper kiss. He was hungry, his tongue scraping across your teeth. One hand came to rest behind you on the bed, and he slowly forced you down, still caught between his lips and his hand.

He ended up between your legs, still not letting you go even though you were both almost out of breath.

"Beauty," he muttered, lips pressing against on yours.

When he finally broke away, he didn't go far. He rested his forehead to yours, breathing hard. You were sharing the same air, in that tight little space. And somehow that felt more intimate than anything else the outlaws had done to you.

He was practically lying on top of you, the hand that held your neck now tangled in your hair, and his other at your waist. He held you like a lover would.

A lover. Would you ever have one, if they let you go? Who would want you after your virgin's blood was spilled?

He kissed your cheek, slow and lingering.

"Oh beauty, how can I be so lucky?"

He didn't let you go. Just held you underneath him and laid his head on the side of your neck.

You were tense, muscles all coiled and ready to be hurt. But in his arms, you relaxed a little at a time without even realising it. This man wouldn't hurt you, whatever his reasons were.

His dark hair had come loose from it's braid and you absentmindedly brushed it off his brow. That made him smile just a little.

It had grown quiet outside and the only sound was of the breeze rustling the curtains and his soft breathing.

"How did such a kind man become an outlaw?"

You didn't really mean to ask that. And kind couldn't be applied to him without qualifiers. But in the face of everything that had happened to you, his softness was saintly.

He hummed against your neck.

"Bad luck. Bad people. Having nowhere to go back to. It changes you."

You swallowed, sad though you weren't sure why.

"I'm sorry."

He pushed himself up and looked into your eyes.

"Don't be. You're my reward, my reparation."

He brushed his knuckles across your cheek again. "I've waited my whole life for you."

You wanted to ask why. What made you so special? Why did he want to keep you?

The door opened with a bang.

"Are ya really still busy? That ain't fuckin' fair."

The gunslingers were standing in the door, both of them looking irritated. Your whole body tensed. They couldn't be back so soon, could they?

The wrangler pushed himself to his knees. The way he was sitting, your hips ended up on his lap with your legs on either side of him. He put a hand on your thigh absent-mindedly.

When he looked back at them, any softness in him drained away. He was just another outlaw with hard eyes.

"Is it the boy? Boss is really letting you go through with it?"

"It's 'bout time he became a man. And you're the one who was goin' on 'bout playing nice."

The wrangler sighed and looked back at you. When he spoke, it was just for you to hear. 

"I don't want to leave you, beauty. But boss's orders."

He leaned down and kissed you, ignoring the gunslingers' cat calls.

When he stood up, you had half a mind to ask him to stay. You almost reached for him. But the gunslingers were watching you and something in you whispered that showing him favour was a terrible idea. You kept your hands knotted in the sheets. For both your sakes.

When he was gone, you sat up and pushed yourself all the way back to the headboard. Hugged your knees to your chest. You hadn't noticed him earlier, but the gunslingers had a boy with them.

They were half dragging him into the room, one with his hand on the boy's nape and the other with a fist in his shirt.

He was young, barely past eighteen. Slightly built, with pale eyes and bronze curls. He wasn't looking at you. Or more accurately, he was doing everything possible to avoid looking at you.

The gunslingers gave him a rough shove and he landed on the bed, bouncing a little before he pushed himself up.

"Gonna get your first taste of a woman boy, and she's a real fine one."

The green eyed gunslinger leaned over and grabbed your ankle. With one brutal yank, he dragged you away from the headboard and all the way to the foot of the bed.

"Missed me, sweetheart? 'Cause I sure missed you."

He caught one of your wrists and tutted.

"Just like him to let you loose. Fuckin' hell, don't he realise how much easier you are when you're all tied up?"

He knelt with one boot on the mattress and pulled you up, twisting your arm behind your back so you ended up with your head tucked under his chin.

"We was feelin' real bad 'bout hurting you, pretty. So we thought we'd make it up to you. Brought you somethin' you'll really enjoy."

You were skeptical of anything he did. He wasn't the charitable kind.

The boy finally looked at you. His eyes were round, nervous.

"Do... do you want this?"

The gunslinger slapped a palm over your mouth before you could answer him, dragging you closer to him at the same time.

" 'Course she wants it. She'd be fighting a whole lot harder if she didn't. Ain't that right?"

"Would be clawing our eyes out if she really didn't want it," the other gunslinger agreed.

The boy looked rightly skeptical. You were crying an awful lot for someone who "wanted it."

"But..."

The dark skinned gunslinger sighed and grabbed the boy's neck.

"Look at her. You're tellin' me you ain't getting just a little hard seeing her like that?"

"Yes but -"

"But what? You want her. And she's right there for the taking. It ain't complicated."

The man holding you was obviously getting impatient.

"You wanna be a man? Wanna come on jobs with us? Than fucking earn it."

That seemed to decide him. He crawled towards you, just as scared to touch you as you were to be touched.

"What do I do?"

"Open her legs and start eating."

He touched your knee. He gulped, focused entirely on the feel of you. He slowly let his hands drift up your thighs.

When he reached your mid thighs, he tried to pull them apart just a little. You kept your legs as tightly closed as you could. Whatever you tried to say was muffled by the gunslinger's hand, but it was enough to make the boy look up at your face.

You could see it in his eyes. The desire to have you and the horror at knowing this was all forced. In the end, guilt won.

"I can't."

He pulled away from you, his fingers shaking.

"She doesn't want this. How can you hold her down and make her take it?"

The dark skinned gunslinger clicked his teeth in annoyance.

"God, could you be any more pathetic? It don't matter what she wants. All that matters is that you're strong enough to take what you want."

The boy was almost off the bed when the gunslinger grabbed his hair and yanked him back.

"It's a lesson you gotta learn boy. Or you ain't gonna live long in this business."

The boy yelped, hands coming up to try and pull himself loose. You could have told him it was useless - you couldn't escape their hold no matter how hard you fought.

He dragged the boy across the bed and back to you.

The gunslinger holding you could see where this was going and he laughed, mean and mocking.

"Gonna be the hard way, eh?"

His hand dropped from your mouth and curled around your throat. He squeezed, just hard enough to remind you of his strength.

"Be a good little pet and open your legs."

You didn't. Hadn't they done enough already? They'd ruined you. Why not just leave the boy alone?

The gunslinger growled. "Ain't listening so well without my belt around your throat, is that it?"

He twisted your arm further up your back, until your whole shoulder was throbbing. You squirmed, arching against him to get the pressure off. 

"Do I gotta teach you a whole new lesson in obedience? I promise I'm a much harder master than the boss."

He let go of you throat and grabbed your thigh, his fingers digging into the meat. His partner was quick to do the same on your other leg. It wasn't any good fighting them. They weren't scared of hurting you and they didn't care if they left bruises.

They wrenched your thighs apart and the gunslinger shoved the boys head between your legs.

"You ain't scared of a lil' blood, are ya? Clean her up nice and good."

The boy looked up at you with tears brimming in his waterline.

"I'm sorry."

He didn't have the boss's skill. His tongue was soft, hesitant. Probing, but totally unsure what to do.

You shivered at the feeling of his lips on your clit, his warm breath tickling your thighs.

The gunslinger growled and pushed him further down, until his nose was grinding into your folds.

"She ain't gonna get away. Use your whole tongue, suck on her, bite. Fuck's sake, do we gotta do everything for you?"

The one at your back laughed and nipped your cheek.

"She wants it though. Just look at those pretty tears."

The boy whimpered but did as he was told, dragging his tongue all the way up. His hands came to rest on your thighs, skin so much softer than the other men's.

His teeth brushed your clit and you gasped. The boy froze.

And then, he did it again.

You shuddered, thighs shaking just a little. He didn't seem to notice it, but his grip on your legs was getting tighter. He focused on the sensitive spot he'd found, raking his tongue across it.

You made another small, involuntary sound.

The man at your back purred. "There. Ain't that sweet to hear?"

The boy started to suck on your clit, tongue hot and wet. He pushed himself deeper, his nose and chin both buried in your cunt. He didn't even notice when the gunslinger let go of his hair.

He curled his arm around your lower back and pulled you closer to him, almost lifting you off the bed. The wet sounds of his sucking filled the room.

The gunslinger let go of you thigh, satisfied that the boy had a good grip on you. He kissed the corner of your lips, his hand coming up to play with your tits.

"Y'know, we never did get to make you come. Can't help wonderin' what you sound like."

You kept your jaw clenched tight. You weren't going to give him the satisfaction.

He must have read your mind, because he chuckled. Pinched your nipple hard enough that you bucked in his grip.

"Oh, you're going to come for us. Ain't that right boy?"

The boy muttered something and went right back to eating you out. You could feel the same heat in your belly as when the boss had you. Like a band about to snap. Every little move was too much, every flick of his tongue on your clit was somehow more intense.

You squirmed, trying everything you could to get him off. The boy ignored you. Just held on a little tighter and pinned you thigh to the bed.

"Please," you whined. "It's too much."

The gunslingers snickered at that.

"Poor darlin'. Does it hurt real good?"

"Don't fight it. Just let it happen. No one will know except us."

"And we're real good at keeping secrets."

The extra mean gunslinger pressed his cheek against yours and looked down at the boy between your legs.

"Don't tell me you're shy. We're real well acquainted by now, ain't we?"

You hated when he spoke to you like that. All sweetly condescending.

The boy wasn't letting up. Just kept sucking your clit and dipping his flexed tongue into your hole, switching from one to the other like he couldn't get enough. Like you were water in the desert and he'd drop dead without you in his mouth.

You fisted the duvet in your free hand, trying to distract yourself. No good. Your body had wants and needs of its own.

You could feel it building and there wasn't anything you could do to stop it.

You threw your head back and bit your lip, but it still wasn't enough. Small whines and gasps slipped through.

Your cunt was clenching, your whole belly a warm knot finally coming undone. It felt better than good.

It felt fucking incredible.

The boy didn't seem to notice. He just kept at it, even though your clit was swollen and aching and bright with blood.

The gunslinger noticed though. You could feel him smiling against your neck.

He tugged at your earlobe with his teeth and then kissed all the way down to your shoulder.

"Maybe we ought to be nicer, if that's what you sound like."

"Like a fox in a trap. Whinin' so nice 'fer us."

Your whole body felt like you touched lightening. And the boy's tongue was the worst if it.

"Please, enough. I...can't..."

The dark skinned gunslinger leaned closer to you, smiling in a way that wasn't nice at all.

"You're so sweet when you beg, filly. Ask politely and I'll get him off you."

You swallowed your pride. What was left of it after today anyway? They'd seen far too much of you for you to hold onto false modesty.

"Please. It's too much. Just make it stop."

Maybe it was your voice or maybe it was your tears or maybe he was just feeling merciful after emptying his balls inside you. He grabbed the boy's hair and hauled him up.

The kid's lips were red and swollen, his whole jaw slick with spit and spunk. He looked dazed, eyes still on the spot between your thighs.

"I'm not done yet. Can't I just..."

"Ain't complaining now, are ya? You see why we went through all that trouble for her?"

He was still holding onto you and he made a half hearted tug to get you closer to him.

"Five more minutes. Please."

The gunslinger scoffed. "You think just 'cause you had a taste you can make demands?"

He pulled the boy's hair and dragged him off the bed. His jeans were bulging at the crotch and his eyes never left you.

"But you said -"

"We said that you'd get a taste. Nothin' more."

The gunslinger holding you spoke up, his lips still pressed against your shoulder.

"You gotta earn it boy. Our girl ain't gonna be wasted on some greenhorn."

"Gonna have to make do with your fist, like the rest of us had to."

When the boy was off the bed, the gunslinger let go of your arm and shoved you forward. You landed on your forearms, your body sprawled in front of him.

He planted a hard smack on your ass and leaned over you, lips brushing your hair.

"You'd better dream about me sweetheart. Better feel me in your mouth when you close your eyes."

His fingers swiped across your cunt, rough and probing. You winced at the feel of him.

"Or else I'll just have to fuck you so hard the memory is burned into your mind."

You looked over your shoulder, eyes catching his for just a second. Long enough to realise he meant every word of his threat. He smirked, satisfied.

He stood and grabbed the boy by his upper arm. Together with his partner, they bundled him out the door. Business all finished, eh?

You sagged into the bed and watched them leave, your cunt still pulsing when you moved. You were exhausted and you looked it, too tired to push yourself up.

A hand caught the door before it closed.

Another one? How much more were you supposed to take?

The newcomer nudged the door back open and stood there for a minute, watching you. He had a bowl of water in his hand, a wash rag thrown over the side.

You hadn't seen his face before, but you recognised him. The tall, well spoken one who made you ride on his horse.

He was dressed better than most of the others. A black, silk waist coat and a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. A silver cross dangled on a chain around his neck.

It made you want to laugh. What God could he worship, when he was a sinner so black?

"Hello dove."

You didn't answer. Just watched him with your cunt fluttering and your lips bruised. 

He was the palest out of them all, skin more like a scholar's than a cowboy's. He had black hair, as long as the gunslinger's, but tied back. He was probably Chinese, but born on this side of the Pacific. His accent was almost the same as yours.

He walked towards you slowly. Not nervous, but more like he was worried about spooking you.

He put the bowl of water down on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed, half facing you.

"It must hurt."

You stayed quiet. What did he know of hurt? He wasn't the one being held down and fucked.

He nodded at the bowl. You hadn't noticed it, but the water was a milky white.

"That's to clean you up. I reckon they left a few more cuts and scrapes than they intended."

You found your voice. Smaller, meeker than you remembered.

"Why do you care?"

"You think we don't care?"

You blinked. Of course you thought that. What else was there to think? They were outlaws who took you to satisfy themselves for an afternoon or two. What more could there be?

He laughed, but it was a bitter thing.

"Oh, qīn’ài de. If we didn't care, you'd still be a free woman."

You didn't understand what he was getting at. He sighed and reached for your ankle.

You jerked away. You didn't want to be touched ever again. Not by a man, not by anyone.

He sighed again.

"Don't be difficult. I want to help you."

"Why?"

He was quiet. Just watching you with his dark eyes. There was something familiar about him, though you couldn't tell what.

Finally, "You don't remember me."

You were in no frame of mind to care about his feelings.

"No."

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his forehead resting on his knuckles. Like a man at prayer. He turned his head a little to speak to you.

"It's been a long time, but you saved my life once."

You frowned, totally blank.

"You were still just a girl. Thirteen or fourteen maybe. I'd just turned twenty, part of a gang for the first time and too damn cocky."

He rubbed the skin just above his thumb. There was an ugly scar there, the skin still raised and puckered after all these years.

"Our heist went wrong. Sherrif and his deputies were waiting for us. I got shot. Not so bad that it would kill me, but bad enough that I couldn't make it home."

You couldn't see where this was going.

"Ended up in a barn, bleeding everywhere. I heard footsteps and I thought for sure I was done for. That the rancher was going to blow my brains all over the wall. But it wasn't him that found me."

You sat up slowly and ended up on your knees, your back to him. You thought you understood now, but you let him keep speaking.

"Wasn't him, but his daughter. Dropped the milk when she saw me but she didn't scream. Just came over and asked how she could help me. Me. A wanted man who'd just killed six deputies."

You didn't know that part of the story. All you remembered was the hot summer sun slanting through the cracks in the barn, and the young man bleeding out in the hay. You remembered him digging the bullet out and asking you to stitch him up, his face going all pale.

You closed you eyes and it was like you were right back there, hiding him in the hayloft and telling your pa the blood on your dress was from killing a chicken.

"Why did you do it?" he asked.

"Because you looked scared. And because I was a little in love with you."

That probably wasn't the answer he was expecting. You pulled in a shuddering breath.

"You were older than me, but still so young. The most handsome man I'd ever met. You told me you got shot by mistake, and not to tell anyone because it would get your little brother in trouble."

You could hear a smile in his voice.

"And you believed me?"

"Yes. Why would you lie to me? Outlaws were just a thing from stories. And I suppose I wanted to believe you. You told me I was going to be really pretty someday, that you'd have to come back and marry me. No one had ever said anything like that to me."

He hummed. "You really thought I was handsome?"

"Yes."

He still was, but he had none of the sweet, boyish softness you remembered. He was handsome in a hard, dangerous way. Diamond rough. You could cut your skin on the sharpness of him.

"But what does that have to do with anything? Why...why do this to me, if you owe me your life?"

He sighed and reached for you. He hooked his arm around your waist and dragged you onto his lap.

"I kept checking in on you over the years, do you know that? Every time I was near your ranch I'd ride out and look for you. Always watching."

"Why?"

"I felt like I owed you. I wanted to make sure you were fine. And when you got older...well, I just liked looking at you."

You shivered. There was something in his voice, a longing far deeper than anyone of the other cowboys'.

"Will you let me go when you're done?"

He sighed and tucked your hair behind your ear.

"Maybe that would be the merciful option. But we aren't merciful men."

He pulled your head onto his shoulder when you started crying.

"You're going to stay with us, qīn’ài de. For a very, very long time."

"Why now? Why..."

His hand was soft in your hair, his voice even softer.

"You're young, lovely, a rancher's only child. How much longer 'til your pa started to consider marriage? And who would come knocking on his door? No, I couldn't loose you to them."

"You're the one..." you tried pulling away but he kept you still, head against his shoulder.

"Me," he agreed, "I'm the one to blame for this. And even knowing that, I wouldn't take it back."

"The others..."

"Brutes, aren't they? But they're my brothers. And once they saw you, they wanted you too."

He said he couldn't loose you to another man, but that didn't make any sense.

"If that's true, why did you let the others..." You swallowed, not sure how to go on.

"Why did I let the others have you first?"

You nodded. He played with the cross on his necklace. Finally, he spoke.

"Because I want the most time with you."

He pulled away to look at you and you realised how wrong you were. It wasn't that he didn't feel any lust for you, it was just that he hid it far better than the rest of them.

But now... oh, his was the worst you'd seen. Boiling hot, on the end of its tether. This was a man who wanted you. Who'd spent years wanting you.

He laid a palm on your thigh.

"They got you for an hour each maybe. But I'm going to have you all night."

[geeksquade]

People who are oppressed and traumatized die several deaths and are reborn multiple times. Mickey 17 is Mickey Barnes' greatest desire to live. Mickey 18 is Mickey Barnes' deep rage and violence; his reaction to being continuously ground under the boot of the higher class. No one can be expendible, because none of us are made to be expendible, yet some lives are treated as expendible. Some lives have less value than the upper class' "taste". 18, in the end, regains power through self-sacrifice—this is the extent of what he can do to free 17, his purest, most child-like desire to live. The traumatized fight back eventually; 17 channels 18 when he dreams of the wife printing herself and her husband, when he sees the bowl of blood (where did it come from? Who did she kill?) and this is his nightmare because he feels like his new found freedom is once again at risk; that he once again needs to be brutalized by tragedy. But he knows he has to resist and he finds strength in 18. "Fuck off". This movie has such heart and is a tribute to those of us who are crushed by the ones above them with more money; more power. Robert's portrayal of 17 is beautiful and personifies the best of humanity. It's just so well made and earnest and I'm so disappointed that so many of the reviews seem to have completely missed the point, instead failing to find satisfaction in some superficial perception of what makes a movie artsy.

[geeksquade]

Eyes of the Gods XII

series masterlist - part eleven

Pairing: Caracalla x fem!Reader x Geta

Summary: You rise to the challenge set before you.

Warnings: 18+, minors dni, unhealthy relationships, controlling behavior, threesome, biting, breeding kink, period typical sexism, obsessive/possessive/ relationships, talk of pregnancy, historical inaccuracies, manipulative behavior, jealousy, past domestic/child abuse, unedited - there are many, many historical inaccuracies here so don’t read if that will bother you!

Word Count: 8.1k

Caracalla's room was oddly dark given the time of day. It was as though the sunlight itself was too afraid to enter the emperor's chambers, instead lingering just outside, peeking anxiously in.

The room smelt strongly of blood. You swallowed, almost tasting the iron on your tongue. You stole a quick glance at Geta over your shoulder. He placed a firm hand on the small of your back, steering you further into his brother's room. It was quite clear that he expected you to be the one to deal with him.

This was, after all, your fault.

There, surrounded by shattered pottery and broken ornaments, was Caracalla. There was blood everywhere you looked, smeared throughout the room. It looked as though Mars himself had crushed the entire room in his grip and left only destruction.

Caracalla was on the floor in the centre of it all. One foot was swinging back and forth but the rest of him was entirely still. His gaze was trained steadily on the ceiling and you could hear him muttering something to himself, perhaps a rhyme.

Geta’s hand was still on your back. Even if you wanted to turn back, he would not let you.

You stopped at the edge of the room, where the chaos began. “Caracalla?”

His foot stopped swinging. Slowly, his head turned until he was staring directly at you. His eyes were eerily clear. Once they were trained on you it was hard to fight off the shiver that was trying to claw its way up your spine.

A muscle in his face twitched. Gradually his arm rose from his side until he was holding it out, palm facing you. His fingers curled, beckoning you closer.

Tentatively, you tip-toed your way through the destruction. Caracalla had settled himself in the small amount of space in which there was no glass and you met him there, crouching down beside him. His eyes sparkled like rare jewels, tracking your every move.

You placed your hand in his, trying to ignore the slight quiver in your fingers. His palm was warm, slightly clammy. For a moment he just stared up at you, eyes darting over the planes of your face.

“Caracalla- “you began.

He used your hand to yank you toward him and pull himself up at the same time. Your chests collided with an audible thump and you had barely a moment to register his face buried in the side of your neck before he was biting down. Hard.

You cried out and pushed feebly against his chest. Geta moved somewhere in your periphery but did not come closer. Seconds ticked by like minutes until he finally unclamped his jaw from your neck, leaning back until he could stare up into your sweating face.

“You left,” his lips curled.

You could see your own blood smeared across his lips, his teeth. Your neck throbbed but you did not reach up to touch it.

“I came back,” you said simply.

“Does not matter,” his hand squeezed yours, “the Praetorians would have returned you to us sooner or later. You left.”

“I was afraid,” you told him honestly, “Afraid for any child I might have. Our child. I – I could not see how such a vulnerable thing could survive such a place.”

Caracalla’s lips thinned, his eyes darting over your shoulder before settling back on you. “Our mother and father never cared about such things.”

It was a heavy statement. You had heard things, of course, about the father of the emperors but. . .

“How would you feel?” you pulled his hand down to rest on your stomach. “How would you feel if you knew someone wanted to hurt our child?”

His nostrils flared. “They would burn for even entertaining the thought.”

“I may not be with child,” you admitted, “but, it would only be a matter of time. I was afraid and I – I could not think clearly. As soon as I regained control of my head I returned. I do not intend to leave again.”

Caracalla laughed, the sound raspy and broken. “As though you could.”

His tongue ran over his lips, chasing the flavour of your blood. Geta had crept closer and you could feel him looming over you. You should have felt trapped. Instead, you felt safe.

“I knew you would return,” Caracalla continued, “I prayed to the gods and they heard me.”

You let him take your hand once more, let him place it against his chest. You could feel his heart thudding beneath his clothing. It was as if it wanted to leap right out into your palm.

“I prayed for other things, too,” he murmured, tilting his head.

“What did you pray for?” you whispered.

Caracalla’s hand delved into the folds of his tunic, beneath the neckline. You saw the glint of something gold at his neck and then a pop as it snapped. He pulled out his hand to reveal a ring, gold and glinting, between his fingers.

You blinked repeatedly, half expecting the tiny thing to disappear before your very eyes. Caracalla gripped your hand tightly and pushed the ring down, down, until it was very firmly on your finger.

“The empress of Rome cannot very well abandon her people,” Geta said, “or her husbands.”

The band was thick and engraved with several symbols A winged infant, a pomegranate and studded with tiny jewels; it was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen. You did not feel worthy.

“How can I -?” bewildered, you looked between the two for answers.

“Officially, you will marry Caracalla,” Geta scowled, “but you are also mine. We know it, you know it.”

Geta still sounded bitter over the fact and it would’ve made you laugh if you weren’t still so confused. Caracalla had lifted your hand to his face and was busy admiring the ring when he wasn’t nipping at your fingertips.

“I meant,” you tried again, “how could you marry me? I am nothing –“

“You have become everything,” Geta interrupted, insistent. “It is only fitting that your position reflects this. As far as anyone knows, you are a Lady.”

That, you doubted. Surely you were not so quiet that no senators would recognise you? And the slaves, the Praetorians, they would talk.

You focused your attention back on Caracalla. There would be time to further question him and Geta on their plans later. You felt as though if you ignored him for too long, Caracalla would be quick to set his teeth to your skin again.

Caracalla tapped the ring. “Do you know why this is the finger that the ring is placed upon?”

“I do not,” you admitted.

“This finger contains the vein of love,” Caracalla eyed you carefully. “Though I am not sure you possess it, so cruel you were in leaving us. Perhaps I should slice it open and see it for myself.”

There was that cruel edge in his voice again. His anger seemed to seep from his pores, drawing guilt from you in return.

“It is there,” you leaned close, “I know it.”

“How?” Caracalla brushed his nose against yours, so close that you could only make out the blue of his eyes.

“When I look at you,” you breathed, “I can feel it. Just there, thrumming against my bones. You make it sing.”

Caracalla eyes were wide, his lips parting. “Show me.”

It was hard to say exactly how you made it to the bed. Geta took the lead and you followed closely behind with Caracalla. You dared not take your eyes off him. You could see the war going on inside of him; that wrath colliding with desire. You knew which side you wanted to win and you were not willing to leave it to chance.

Geta was quiet. You could sense the jealousy brewing in him but he seemed to understand that his brother was barely tethered to reality. You met his eyes as you dropped onto the bed and hoped he could see the emotion in your eyes.

Geta pulled you backwards until your back was flush against his chest and you were settled between his legs. Even with all the clothing in the way you could feel his warmth. He blew air over the bite mark his brother had left behind and you flinched, reminded of the task at hand.

Caracalla stood at the end of the bed, swaying slightly as though drunk. His eyes were heavy as he watched you wriggle out of your clothes until you were bare before him. This was no place for embarrassment or coyness so you shoved both to the side, determined to do what he had asked.

“Come here, please?” you raised your hands.

As though in a trace, Caracalla crawled onto the bed, eyes glued to your face. You knew that if there was so much as a hint of regret or dishonesty that he would lash out. You kept your face open and honest, allowing the very real yearning you were experiencing to seep through.

Geta drew his knees up, allowing more room for his brother who had stopped between your knees. His eyes dipped, searching and hungry, before coming back up on your face.

You leaned forward and carefully took his left hand in yours, bringing it to rest upon your breast. His palm was firm against your nipple, drawing a languid sigh from your lips.

“Can you feel that?” you asked. “My heart?”

“Yes,” he swallowed dryly, “it feels like a bird. So fast.”

“It’s for you.”

You dragged his hands lower, lower, until his fingers were pressed against your cunt. Already you could feel your own arousal starting to leak out. It coated Caracalla’s fingers, making it harder to remember the point you were trying to make.

“This is for me as well?” he asked.

“Yes,” you quivered, allowing one more moment before pulling his hand up to rest on your stomach. “And this. My womb.”

Caracalla’s fingers left tiny smears of wetness as he touched your stomach, jaw going slack. “Yes,” he nodded frantically, enthusiastically, “mine. I will fill it with children, with heirs.”

“As is your right,” you breathed, “as my husband.”

Caracalla choked out a moan, eyes clouded with want. You recognised the feeling in yourself and let your knees fall open, wider, baring yourself to Caracalla and Geta with little shame.

Geta pressed his face into your hair and adjusted himself, grinding his length against your ass. You curled your arm up and around the back of his neck, holding him close as Caracalla tore at his own clothing.

It was a frenzied scene. Limbs knocked against limbs, hair was pulled, teeth were used. Geta slipped his hands beneath your knees to keep your cunt unbarred, his grip tight and unrelenting. You could feel that honey-sweet flutter emerging, working its way through your entire body.

Caracalla’s cock looked painfully hard as he squeezed it in his fist. “My wife,” he said to himself, “I am going to fuck my wife.”

You tilted your hips, hoping to urge him closer. It worked. He pressed a kiss to your lips, tongue flickering into your waiting mouth as he took and took and took. You were all to happy to give. You could taste your own blood in the kiss and it only heightened the intensity of the kiss.

His cock brushed against your inner thigh, then your puffy lips. With only a slight adjustment, Caracalla was sliding all the way home in a motion that was so quick it almost made you shout. Slight pain pinched at your insides but it was soothed by the alluring feeling of fullness, of belonging.

Caracalla looked unsteadily down at where you were joined. The sight was obscene; the swollen folds of your cunt swallowing down the thickness of his cock like you were born for it. He pulled back slowly until just the tip was left. You would’ve squirmed if Geta hadn’t had such a tight grip on you.

“Take her, brother,” Geta commanded, “she returned to us. Reward her.”

“Yes,” Caracalla agreed, “yes. Reward.”

Caracalla’s hips were flush with yours as he pushed in, all the way to the root. You swore to all the gods that you could feel him in your throat. With Caracalla at your front and Geta at your back there was no escaping.

An unsteady pace was set, Caracalla’s hips snapping into yours as he fucked you dizzy. Your head lolled back onto Geta’s shoulder and he nipped at your earlobes, whispering sweet praises and filthy words directly into your ear. His hands slipped around to your breasts, cupping them and swiping across your nipples with his thumbs.

Caracalla’s head found your shoulder once more, face burying into your neck. Geta urged you to relax, let his brother take what he was owed. Caracalla’s tongue lapped at the wound he had created earlier and he moaned at the metallic taste of your blood.

“Everything,” he shuddered, “I want everything.”

Your own orgasm prickled at your insides but you kept it at bay, allowing Caracalla to fuck into you at a near brutal pace. If you were not with child already then you felt quite certain you soon would be.

“I am yours,” you bit out, reaching up to cup his cheek. The coolness of the ring contrasted greatly with the warmth radiating from his red cheeks. “Your wife.”

Caracalla let out a pathetic mewl, hips slamming into yours for one final time as he emptied himself inside you.

You cupped the back of his head and pressed a kiss to his cheek. It was difficult to think clearly when you were still so aroused. The thought of Caracalla’s seed inside you was enough to make you feel slightly dazed and delirious.

You cried out as Caracalla slid his softening cock from your cunt. Before any of his seed could spill, he pulled you forward whilst simultaneously lying back until you were draped across his chest. His eyes were wild, cheeks red and slick with sweat. He looked content and you breathed a ragged sigh of relief, letting your cheek press into his chest.

You almost didn’t notice Geta positioning himself behind you until his cock brushed against your ass. You jolted and tried to sit up but Caracalla kept you locked down with his arms until he felt sure you weren’t going to run.

Geta slid his hands under your hips, urging you to your knees. The position was new to you and felt somehow more wanton than before. You knew better than to question them. Your chest began to heave with anticipation, your nipples stimulated by the hairs on Caracalla’s chest. The sensation drove you wild, made you present your cunt as though you were an animal in heat.

“Good girl,” Geta praised, sliding his fingers through the wet mess of you.

You thought that not being able to see might dampen your excitement but, if anything, it made the anticipation all the sweeter. You could hear the erotic sound of him using your wetness to stroke his cock, his breath stuttering out of his chest. Your imagination provided you with countless images; Geta’s hand on his cock, his eyes on your cunt, his head falling back in pleasure.

“Please,” you finally whined, “Geta. Please.”

The head of his cock teased your clit once, twice, until it was almost unbearable. Finally, he allowed himself to be sucked in by your greedy cunt. It was enough to send your orgasm ripping through you, knees going numb against the mattress as you tightened around Geta’s cock.

“Fuck,” he swore. His palm cracked down on the globe of your ass. “Foolish girl, trying to take this away from me.”

“I’m sorry,” you babbled, eyes threatening to roll behind your eyelids. “I’m sorry, Geta, please.”

“Your place is beside us,” he reminded you again, hips slapping against your ass. “Cunt full of cock and belly swollen with child.”

You bit out your eager agreement. If you talked too much you felt as though you were at risk of biting off your own tongue and swallowing it. You remembered that night in the baths with Caracalla, how you had felt as though you would do terrible things if only you could feel this pleasure forever. The thought rose now, burying itself in the forefront of your mind where it could be sure you would not forget it.

Soreness was beginning to spread but it felt delicious, like scratching too hard at an itch that had been bothering you all day. Geta’s hands were fastened at your hips as he fucked you, drawing out sounds you hadn’t even known you were capable of making.

“You are also mine,” Geta rasped. “Do not forget it.”

His palm pressed into the centre of your back as he rode you to his own orgasm, wringing another one out of you with just the pulsing of his cock inside you. Your cunt spasmed around him, urging his seed further inside even as he pulled out of you.

You raised your head unsteadily from Caracalla’s chest, blinking blearily. Caracalla laughed at your expression, reaching down to pinch at your nipples. Geta appeared at your side with a pillow in hand and you were helpless as he pulled you from his brother, arranging you so that you were on your back with the pillow tucked beneath your hips.

“There,” Geta said mildly, “that will help.”

Caracalla curled up at your side like a satisfied cat. Although he seemed tired, he did not close his eyes, nor did Geta on your opposite side.

Your body was already beginning to feel the repercussion of being so thoroughly fucked. You felt as though their fingerprints were surely branded upon your skin. Your body was littered with red marks from teeth and hands and your cunt was beginning to develop a pleasant ache.

“Sleep,” Geta instructed.

“What about you?” you asked.

“We will not until you do,” Geta said, stern. “And I shall remind you now that there are Praetorians outside the door under specific instruction not to allow you to go anywhere.”

“You will tell us if you require something,” Caracalla said, settling a hand onto your stomach. “We heard that it is best you do not move after. It gives the seed a better chance to take root.”

“You are future empress of Rome and mother to our children,” Geta reminded you, staring down at your bare body with firm eyes. “To leave us now would be treason. Sleep, and dream only of us.”

Treason. The very word made you uneasy but not as much as it would have a month ago. You had no intention to betray the emperors.

Your brief time alone had told you where you wanted to be and who you wanted to be with. A cage, perhaps, but gilded it was. It did not feel as difficult as it should have been to settle back into it.

The marriage ceremony was to take place less than two weeks later.

Neither Geta or Caracalla were particularly concerned with how you would be received. They did not believe that anyone would have reason (or the nerve) to question you. This did not deter you from keeping a closer eye on the Praetorians than usual, and seeking eye contact with every slave you passed.

You searched them for malice, judgement, anger. You found none of that, only a quiet acceptance and something like relief. Perhaps that paranoia caused by Macrinus and his hired killer would always be there, stuck to your back, just out of sight but able to whisper in your ear.

Macrinus was dead. Geta had told you after you had woken in the night, sweaty and panicked. You had imagined he was just there, poisoned wine in one had and dagger in the other. He had told you that you must choose. You had woken up before you could.

“I wish I could have been the one to do it,” Caracalla had said, “His corpse is still down there, rotting away. Do you want to see?”

“No,” you had shaken your head, “I believe you.”

Both brothers were kept busy for the majority of the week but that did not mean you were ever left alone. The constant company was grating but you understood that you had brought it upon yourself and so you endured it with a pleasant smile and relaxed demeanor.

Neither of them seemed comfortable unless you were glued to their side. Caracalla seemed intent on continuing to test you, to make sure you were not so much as thinking of leaving them again. He had several outbursts – not at you, but at the Praetorians. Each time he would have a number in his mind, different every time, and if the number of Praetorians outside the door did not match that exact number, then hell would break loose.

Geta took to patrolling the entrances and exits of the palace himself at random times through-out the day. You had woken up at least twice to find his side of the bed empty, leading you to assume that he was conducting his surprise checks at night as well. If he found the level of security unsatisfying, his temper would flare almost as badly as his brother’s.

 The first few days you were with at least one of them at all times. It was better that way, calmer. As the days passed by and they could no longer afford to neglect their duties, you were left with dressmakers and the Praetorians, both of whom were issued deadly threats for if you should so much as get pricked by a pin.

That was where you found yourself now. Never had you been so thoroughly measured and fussed about before. The woman talked lowly amongst themselves, occasionally offering you small smiles and tentative compliments as they fluttered around you.

It was conflicting. You did not have the demeanor of a Lady and you were sure they noticed. You did not feel worthy of the attention nor the clothing. But the women treated you as if you were, and you were beginning to realise that that might just be enough to get you through. Like your attacker had said, this was not really about you. It was about the emperors.

Four Praetorians were scattered about the room. One was Consus, from all those weeks ago. The others were unfamiliar to you, but not for long. They were your personally assigned guards. The emperors had decided it was safer for you to have personal guards; less likely anyone would get loose and reckless when they knew anything that happened to you could be traced directly back to them.

Though you also thought that there was perhaps a second reason. You had been selfish that night, deceiving guards and openly lying to them. Even now you had not worked up the courage to ask if anyone had faced any consequences for your actions that night. It had been easier, then, because you did not know them. They may as well have been faceless ghosts for all the care you had.

You would get to know these men. Their lives, their preferences, their families. It would not be so easy to look them in the eye and throw them to the wolves.

Sabina, a woman a few years older than yourself, held up a hairnet for you to touch. “What do you think, my Lady?”

You reached out to run your fingers over the fabric. It was a sunny colour, the colour of freshly cracked yolks. You had seen yellow before but this seemed far richer. Strands of gold were woven into it, causing it to glitter in the sun, adding depth and texture. It was coarse to the touch and would ensure that your hair was kept out of the way.

“It is beautiful,” you smiled, “you possess true talent, Sabine.”

Sabine flushed under your gaze, her mouth opening and closing several times as though she was nervous. “It is an honour to hear such a compliment from the future empress of Rome. I am sure we will flourish under your rule.”

You hoped so. That was, after all, part of the reason why you had returned. And if you could not do anything for Rome, perhaps your child could. Either way, you would offer your home and your husbands everything you had and pray that the fates would grant you a positive outcome.

The room quietened down as the door opened and Geta entered, robe billowing out behind him as he strode directly in. He looked every bit the young god, hair vibrant and glowing, tall and imposing, eyes once again smeared in that familiar kohl.

Without a word, everyone filed out apart from your personal guard. They positioned themselves by the door, just out of earshot, and politely averted their gazes. You remained up on the raised platform, watching as the emperor approached.

Geta gave you an intensely appraising look, eyes zeroing in on the golden hairnet in your hand. It stood out against the white tunic you were wearing. The tunic was thin, allowing for easier measurements, and your nipples peaked at Geta’s attention.

“My brother wanted to see you,” he said, “but I told him that he would have more than enough time to do that in the upcoming days.”

You rolled your lips together. “I am happy to marry Caracalla. Truly. I – I only wonder – “

“Why him?” Geta interrupted. “Why him and not me?”

That was a question you had been pondering over for almost a week. It did not matter, really. You knew that your relationship with both of them meant more than paperwork or titles or the opinion of others. Simple curiosity had kept the question at the forefront of your mind, no matter how hard you tried to shoulder past it.

“You were meant to be for him,” Geta laughed lightly, mockingly. “I am sure he has mentioned it before. I saw the way you comforted him, the way you were kind when you did not have to be, and I thought that it would be beneficial to have another person able to calm him as I can.”

You remembered that night clearly and now, fondly. At the time your own terror had kept you quick and anxious, desperate to squirm out from under the oppressive weight of their attention. Now you flourished under it, craved it almost above all else. The gods likely thought your mercurial nature was amusing.

 “Less than a day passed, a single interaction, and I wanted you for myself,” Geta reached up, tracing a careful finger over your lips. “I suppose that it is highly fortunate that my brother and I have always shared.”

“Then how did you decide that Caracalla would be the one to marry me?”

“I love my brother,” Geta said, “and I can see that he needs you. Without you, even with me, he experienced only chaos. I would do anything to ensure that he does not have to endure such madness again. Including this.”

“You do not need me, Geta?” you asked quietly.

His lips parted. “You know the answer, enchantress.”

You had done the right thing in coming back. You felt more confident in your decision than ever and relaxed a little, continuing to watch Geta as he stepped back and shot a quick glance over his shoulder at your guards.

“Our father was an unpleasant man,” he said suddenly, bluntly. “I gathered that yours was not so different.”

“How?” you asked, stunned.

“I asked you about your carving once. I asked if your father had made it,” Geta paused, running his tongue over his lip before continuing. “The venom in your voice when you answered reminded me of how I feel about my own father.”

Images of your younger years rose unbidden, clouding your mind with their turmoil and bitterness. Your father had stolen your mother from you and you felt her loss more keenly now, whilst preparing to be married, than you had in years.

“They are gone,” you said firmly, more to yourself than him. “Both of them.”

Geta nodded, seeming to come back to himself a little bit. You were surprised that he would share such things with you but were appreciative of his honesty. It was difficult to speak about; you knew this from experience. Even on days you tried to forget, the most painful of reminders could sneak up on you like assassins and ply you with vicious memories.

“You are the opposite to him in every way,” Geta murmured. “Kindness to his cruelty. Love to his hate. We intend to keep you by our sides for the rest of our lives and your marriage to my brother will help ensure this.”

Geta left, allowing the dressmakers to return to the room and continue their work. The mood was pleasant and light and you allowed yourself to sink into the attention, offering your opinion when necessary and trying on pieces as they constructed them, trying to ignore the nerves that were scraping at your insides.

In a week, you would be married to a man you had once feared.

In a week, you would be empress of Rome.

The intricacies of the ceremony were decided upon, the clothing complete. You were not sure exactly what had been decided upon until the day arrived.

Looking at yourself now, dressed in the clothing of a future empress, you could not help but admire yourself. You certainly looked the part. Now you believed that it may be possible that no-one would question you.

Your hair shone from a combination of careful brushing and expensive oils. Your skin reflected in a similar way; heavily scented and smoothed with creams and oils. Even your nails had been trimmed and shaped, dead skin filed away until you felt like an entirely different person.

After today, you would be. It was easier to let your past slip from your fingers when they were busy reaching out for something else. That was what you focused on; the future. Not just yours, but Rome’s.

Sabine stepped back, admiring her handiwork. Normally dressing you would be the task of a ladies’ maid but the clothing was so delicate and finely crafted that you hadn’t felt right letting anyone other than its creator touch it. You had also contributed where you could, as it was common for a bride to fashion her wedding clothing, but had quickly found you hadn’t the skill for it and instead stepped back and let Sabine do her work.

That, and you had not yet been assigned any maids. Anyone in such close proximity to you had to have been closely vetted and the emperors already felt on edge with you being surrounded by so many people on your wedding week.

The belt at your waist felt sturdy and impossible to ignore. You lifted up your hand and traced the edges with your fingers. It was for Caracalla to undo. After that, you would be joined once more, but as man and wife.

There was still much that was unknown to you. You were aware of all the usual traditions but also knew that you would not be able to take part in most of them. You had tried to pull answers from Geta and Caracalla several times but they had brushed you off with soft assurances and teasing pinches.

You smoothed your hands over the front of the white toga. The sensation was pleasantly cool despite the heat of the late afternoon.

The streets were abuzz with people. It was no secret that there was to be a wedding. You were aware of the sacrifice offered to the gods, a bull slaughtered, and the sharing of food and drink in the streets below. The mouth-watering scent of roasted meat floated in through the windows. It should have been appealing but your own nerves were stamping out your appetite.

Sabine had retreated to the door and was exchanging quiet words with Consus. Your brows furrowed at the discreet conversation and you tilted your head, hoping to pick up on a word or two.

Sabine returned with a light cloak. It was as dark as night. She looked to you for permission before wrapping it around your shoulders, pulling it close at the front to hide any glimpse of white. The hood was tugged up over the gold of your hairnet. You looked like a secret, concealed and tucked away.

“I shall pray for your good fortune,” Sabine smiled.

Surrounded by your guards, you were led from the palace and to a discreet carriage, empty apart from a driver. It was plain, the type you regularly saw around Rome. You glanced at them for some sort of answer but they only ushered you inside. One joined the driver at the front and the other three slipped in beside you, looking uncomfortable and warm in their uniforms as they tried to settle in.

There was a jolt as the carriage began to move. “Consus,” you tried again, “where am I being taken?”

“The emperors wish for Rome to welcome you as the empress you will be,” he said simply.

His answer was not entirely helpful. With a sigh, you sat back in your seat. When you reached up to remove the hood, Consus shook his head.

So, you were a secret. The lengths that the emperors would go to in order to disguise your past from prying eyes was not unexpected. You looked down at your hands in your lap, slowly unclenching your fists until your hands were open, fingers shaking.

There, you said to yourself, I am letting go.

You rode in the carriage for quite some time. You kept looking to Consus for information but he would not provide it. Eventually the carriage rolled to a stop. When you rose to your feet, Consus stopped you.

“Oh,” you said, hands raising to your cloak. With unsteady fingers, you unwound the ties and gently tugged it off.

The air was warm and soothing, softly curling around your arms as you stepped from the carriage. The sun had begun to set; you had not realised it was quite so late in the day. You were surrounded by fields, all empty. Likely any workers had been removed specifically so you could come here safely. Above you there was an archway, and at it’s peak, a wolf and two suckling children.

“Romulus and Remus,” you said to yourself.

Your own carving had looked almost identical to the one marking the entrance to the city. You wondered if your grandfather had been here, if it was this that had inspired him to make one for his daughter. You paused, searching for a feeling, a sign, that your mother was perhaps with you.

There was another carriage in front of you, only this one was not so plain. Outlined with colourful paints and murals, this was the carriage of a noble. This would be the carriage that would take you back to Rome.

Even with the distance you could still hear the city. You looked at it and thought of the emperors that inhabited it, the emperors who were waiting for you now. You had left Rome the daughter of a murdered woman, a simple kitchen worker, lover to the emperors. You would be entering as the its empress.

The Praetorians seemed to sense the enormity of the moment as they did not rush you, instead allowing you to watch the sun a moment more. Every time you turned or took a step they would tense, ready to detain you. In the end you stood still, admiring the view with an unsettling feeling that this would be the last time you would ever see it exactly like that. The sun would not change, of course, but you would.

An instrument sounded in the distance, the sound of trumpet. They echoed across the fields and reverberated through the city.  Your lips parted at the sight of a hundred torches being lit – for you. To guide you into Rome. The Praetorians did not have to tell you that now was the time. You could see it. You could feel it.

You set your shoulders back, trying to emulate the posture you often saw on noblewomen. Consus opened the door and you set forth without pause. The interior of the carriage was more comfortable than the one previously. You kept your body as still as you could, apart from your index finger, which you tapped against your leg.

As the carriage approached the city once more, you peeked anxiously out of the small window. It was mostly shielded by gauzy curtains but you were still able to catch a glimpse of the world outside. The closer you got to the city, the more Praetorians you saw. They lined the roads and were quick to snuff out any fights or eager citizens.

And the people – the sheer amount of them left you reeling. It was a mystery to you that you had been able to sneak out of the city at all. For every Praetorian there was at least five people. They craned their necks to get a glimpse of your carriage, a glimpse of you. Heart pounding, you pressed your back against your seat.

Consus cleared his throat. “Perhaps. . .you might try waving?”

Waving. Yes, you could wave. With an audible gulp, you sat forward once more and raised your hand, hoping the jolting of the carriage would hide its shakiness. If possible, the crowd got louder. People threw their hands up in response, smiling and pointing.

That was how you wanted them. Entertained, content. Anything to avoid their ire. Keep the emperors calm, keep them blithe, and you may just be able to do that. The pressure was quickly mounting but you were determined to shoulder the burden.

The imperial palace loomed over you once more. The crowds thinned out as you arrived, likely for the safety of the emperors and yourself. They were still close enough to see, and you felt them collectively inhale as the carriage rolled to a stop.

Cheers rose as Caracalla emerged from the palace. He flashed his gold-toothed grin, regal and immaculate in his toga virils. A wreath was perched amongst his unruly curls and his toga was embroidered with what looked like golden thread.

Your breath snagged in your throat as he arrived at the door of the carriage, pulled it open and held out his hand. You met his eyes and lifted your hand but did not place it in his. It felt as though your knees were about to collapse right out from underneath you.

“You are certainly playing the part of the unwilling bride,” Caracalla cackled once before a sober expression settled over his features. “Come to me, wife.”

You got to your feet and settled your hand in his. He helped you from the carriage with an eagerness that almost made you forget the hundreds of people that were watching. Would they know that you were one of them?

You looked down at your clothing and then up at the red-headed emperor before you. Perhaps you had not been one of them for quite some time.

Caracalla shuddered at the sight of you in your wedding clothes, blue eyes darting over you as though he could hardly take it in. His hand clenched tightly around yours as he pulled you closer, closer, until your shoulders were brushing.

The crowd was quieter now, murmuring amongst themselves. You dared not even spare them a glance as Caracalla led you up the steps, further into the palace. You thought you saw Geta, grim-faced and jealous, but Caracalla would not allow you to take your eyes off of him.

As you entered the palace, you felt the eyes of the crowd dropping from you one by one. They were replaced by the eyes of the gods, judgemental and amused. You would not be here, if not for them, steered by a hundred tiny choices that could have been different but had led to you being here.

Empress of Rome.

The room Caracalla led you to was not one you had been to before. As always, the door was full of incredibly carvings and details but one in particular stood out. A woman, regal and tall. On one arm was a shield, in the other she held a pomegranate. Juno.

Caracalla tugged you into the room with an insistence you could not ignore. The room was lowly lit and not as big as you were expecting. In it’s centre was a lectus, draped with fabrics and with a pillow at either end. It was clear what was expected of you, but you felt no dread; only the low rumblings of desire beginning to chase away your anxieties.

You gasped as Caracalla whirled, crowding you up against the door and nosing at your jawline. “Hello, wife.”

Wife. Your heart seemed to pause for a moment before resuming. Caracalla’s cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright and keen. Already his hands were grasping at your arms, your waist, your ass. You could not help but arch into his touch.

“Husband,” you greeted, dusting a kiss across his bitten lips.

He giggled, the sound contrasting with the serious nature of your surroundings. It helped you relax more, melt further into his wandering hands and insistent mouth.

Your mind strayed, latching instead onto the other twin. Geta. Where was he? Although this marriage was happening with his approval it had been clear he was not entirely pleased. His love for his brother was admirable and softened you further.

Caracalla’s mouth found the scarred remnants of the bite mark he had left weeks earlier. His teeth slotted into it perfectly, dragging sweet pain down your spine and into your stomach. You stayed still, allowing him to continue mouthing at the mark.

“You are thinking of him,” he pulled away a little, “I can tell.”

Caracalla pouted and you quickly reached up to cup his cheek with your hand. “You are my husband, Caracalla. Tonight, I will be just yours.”

A pleased grin tugged at the edges of his lips as his hands slid to your upper thighs, urging you to hike one around his waist. Your toga was dragged up, and up, and up until you could feel his arousal pressing against you.

Caracalla’s eyes fluttered. It felt as though the room got hotter as he considered your position and the budding of your arousal that he could no doubt feel. He let your leg drop down to the floor before taking your hands again and almost dragging you to the lectus.

His hands found the knot at your waist. He admired it for only a second before pulling at it almost violently. He tossed it carelessly to the floor before placing his hand on your chest, pushing you down and back until you were laid out on the lectus beneath his greedy gaze.

The position seemed to change something in Caracalla. His hands clenched and unclenched, his jaw working furiously as he stared at you. The torches cast golden light over his face, orange flames caressing his pale skin as the moments stretched on.

“Is this real?” he finally asked, gazing down at you with a yearning so strong it made your eyes water.

“This is real,” you whispered, holding up your hand. Your ring glinted in the light, drawing his attention. “You gave me this, remember?”

Caracalla took your hand, first placing it on his chest before dragging it up to his face. His tongue flickered at your ring finger before he took it into his mouth, sucking at the digit as he palmed at his cock with his spare hand.

You squeezed your thighs together for relief, a whimper escaping your throat before you could catch it. Caracalla bit lightly at your finger before pulling away.

“Tell me you love me,” he breathed, crouching down beside you.

He watched your mouth with searching eyes, desperate hands clutching at your white toga. The arousal was coming off of him in waves, each one threatening to knock you and drag you down with it. It felt like a physical thing, filling the room until you had no choice but to breathe it in.

“I love you, Caracalla,” you answered.

 In the quiet of the room, it echoed. You saw the words hit him, saw him soak them up and swallow them down.

“I shall never want for anything ever again,” he rasped, “for you have given me everything.”

When he fell into your arms, it was unbelievably gentle. There was an underlying firmness to his touch that you knew would not allow for protests or pushing away. You held still as he peppered kisses across the planes of your face, as he got acquainted with your body not as a lover, but as a husband.

He took the liberty of freeing you from your clothing before attending to himself. He climbed on top of you, nestled between your thighs as though he belonged there. There was no discomfort or self-consciousness as his hands dragged over your skin, skillful ministrations preparing you to be taken by him.

You could feel yourself, wet and clenching. Caracalla did not tease you; he entered your cunt with a swiftness you had not expected. There was a twinge as you adjusted to his thickness, hands tight around his forearms as he began to pump in and out.

It felt like more the fucking. It felt like something divine, something you had been made for. Like the first gasp of air after being underwater; you could not stop your sounds, could not stop your encouragements as he increased his pace.

“Tell me again,” he pleaded, “tell me.”

“I love you,” you bit out, “Caracalla, my husband, I love you.”

Every time you thought he might be able to spill over the edge he would paise, chest heaving, and lavish attention upon your breasts. Your nipples were stiff under his tongue, between his fingers, and you could already feel the beginnings of bruises on the soft flesh.

It was hard to say when it was really over. Caracalla wrung orgasms from you as though it was his god-given gift, leaving you clenching and shuddering around him as his fingers rubbed tight circles into your swollen clit. He followed you over the pulsing edge several times but did not seem to tire. He seemed determined to make sure you left the room with the beginnings of life budding in your womb.

You were helpless and could do nothing but lie there and allow yourself to be split apart on his cock. Every thrust sent him deeper, his head nudging at a place that made you see stars. Even as you began to squirm and whine, he did not stop, pinning you down with a hot hand between your breasts.

Your orgasm rippled out from that place deep inside you, urging you to lock your ankles around Caracalla’s hips to keep him close as he pumped inside of you. Your eyelids slammed closed involuntarily as your back arched almost painfully up off the lectus, hands scrabbling for purchase as he squeezed you dry.

I must have pleased the gods, you thought, if this is to be my fate.

At some point, after what felt like hours, fatigue reared its head and rose to snatch the both of you down into thick sleep. Whilst drifting you were aware of his warmth on top of you, head resting between your breasts, his hair dusting your chin with every inhale.

You were also aware when the door opened, a familiar figure slipping in. Your eyes slowly opened as Geta approached, staring down at the pair of you whilst twisting at the rings on his fingers. His nostrils flared at the picture the pair of you no doubt painted.

Without a word, you held out your hand and beckoned him closer. Something like relief spread across his pale features as he settled on his knees beside the lectus, lifting your hand to press a reverent kiss on back. Your breath caught in your throat at the gesture.

“Do not neglect me,” he warned you. “Empress.”

“I could not,” you answered honestly.

With careful arrangement and much grumbling from Caracalla, Geta was able to wedge himself on the lectus with both of you. It was a warm tangle of limbs and mouths and always reaching hands. In your mind, it was a true reflection of your union, of your connection to the emperors.

So deeply entwined that even the gods could not tear you apart. You closed your eyes again and let your mind be seduced by sleep.

In the morning, you would take your place beside them both as empress of Rome. You would begin your lessons with tutors, meet senators, sit beside your lovers on a throne of your own. You would look to the people, hold their gaze, and you would not flinch.

Authors Note - please, please let me know your thoughts. This was a beast of a chapter to write and I can’t believe it’s the end!

This was always how I intended to end it. I kinda see this entire fic as a prequel towards the rest of their lives?

If you have questions or thoughts (be kind) do not hesitate to send asks!

Please reblog, comment, like, etc if you enjoyed. Interaction is what keeps me motivated!♥️

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[geeksquade]

i think we should all start using arabic words and phrases more often because its a beautiful language and also theres not really. english equivalents that have the same vibes

theres also the comedy potential of it. you guys dont know the joy of having your muslim friend text you "hopefully the racists in our city will all get sick and cant go to the protest" and you, as a pasty white guy, responding with "inshallah they get covid"

its a one hit KO every time. its fucking hilarious. theres no english word that has the same effect.

he also once texted me that he got over a mysterious illness he came down with (i think? i cant remember the exact context) and i responded with "subhanallah he is cured"

again, one hit KO. he lost his shit.

what im saying is we gotta normalise arabic. its just a language like any other, and it has some great words. its just like saying "thank god" or whatever, but theres so much variety and nuance. its beautiful

[geeksquade]

Eyes of the Gods X

series masterlist - part nine

Pairing: Caracalla x fem!Reader x Geta

Summary: You start to let yourself settle in with the emperors - but don’t get too comfy

Warnings: 18+, minors dni, unhealthy relationships, controlling behavior, period typical sexism, obsessive/possessive/ relationships, talk of pregnancy, dirty talk, breeding kink, historical inaccuracies, manipulative behavior, jealousy, mentions of slaves/slavery, threesome, male masturbation, fingering, attempted murder (again), induced vomiting

Word Count: 3.5k

Sticky, bruised. Satiated. You dragged your strigil along your oily skin, cleaning off evidence of your time with Geta. Steam rose and brushed against your cheeks, forcing your mind back to the feeling of Geta's fingers on you, in you.

Distracted, you placed the strigil back down and began to lazily trail your fingers through the oil water. Your hand went lower, deeper under the water, dipping into your folds. You could still feel the texture of Geta's seed lingering inside you.

What would Alba think? Geta had dismissed her, potentially destroying her life, and you had gone and fucked him as though it were nothing. Some naive part of you had thought that you could change the emperors, inspire kindness in them. It seemed they were changing you instead.

Even now you felt desire smouldering in your chest. You tilted your head back, sighed.

You knew that the things they had done were not right, that their impulsiveness and insecurity had threatened the very foundations of Rome in the past. And yet. . .

You heaved yourself from the bath, sending droplets of water scattering across the stone. Hastily you dried yourself off, slipping on a fresh tunic before heading to the door.

The material was soft against your skin. You could see tiny embroideries on the edges, golden thread that brushed against the tops of your feet with every step. The texture made you shiver. The emperors were not subtle. They intended to pry every remnant of your old life from your hands and stuff them full with - well, them.

And you had held open your hands and welcomed them.

Wincing, you thought again of Alba. That could have easily been you. A dark part of your mind whispered, but it wasn't. And that meant something.

Praetorians escorted you back to Geta's rooms. On the way, you passed several slaves. They eyed you with the usual intrigue - and perhaps something like thankfulness. It was not entirely lost on you; keeping the emperors occupied meant that others did not suffer under their forceful gaze.

It was not like it was some awful task, though. You were kept clothed, fed, entertained. Fucked. Your life had benefited under the attention of the emperors whilst others would have suffered. In return, all you had had to give up was your freedom.

And is that truly so bad, that voice whispered.

The Praetorians held the door open for you. You ducked under their arms with a quiet thank you. You could hear talking from within the next room and you padded in, clearing your throat to alert the emperors to your presence.

Caracalla was standing almost chest-to-chest with his brother, sneering up at him. Once he saw you he shouldered past Geta, coming to wind himself around your body like a familiar piece of clothing. He dragged you down to the carpet, nuzzling at your neck from behind.

"You were supposed to be for me," he huffed. "Geta is a thief."

"We discussed this," Geta dismissed, pouring himself a healthy cup of wine. "Ours. She is ours."

Caracalla ignored him, hands coming to cup your tender breasts. "Tell me," he urged, "who felt best - "  

"Brother," Geta interrupted, firm. "Enough."

"Caracalla," you said softly, hand reaching up to encircle his wrist. "Where is Dondus? I have missed her."

Eyes bright, Caracalla was quick to jump up and go to the door. You heard him bark out an order, the sound ringing throughout Geta's rooms. Geta set his wine down and offered you a hand up from the floor.

You took it and let yourself be pulled up and against his chest. He hummed a soft sound, nosing along your jawline.

"I preferred you dirty," he nipped at the lobe of your ear.

A smile flirted along the edges of your lips. Geta's eyes fixed on the small movement of your mouth, his own beginning to mimic it.

"Enchantress," he whispered.

You squealed as Dondus came scampering up your tunic, small hands pinching and tickling. She settled herself upon your shoulder, burying her hands in your still-damp hair.

"Sweet girl," you laughed, rubbing your fingers beneath her fuzzy chin.

Geta stepped back, returning to his wine. Caracalla took his place, cooing at Dondus whilst occasionally stopping to stare at your face.

"She seems to have fallen in love with you," he rasped, blinking heavily.

"And I, her," you smiled.

Caracalla continued feeding her bits and pieces of food. When he leaned in to press a kiss against your lips, it felt natural. He bit you a little, pulling back to reveal the tiniest smear of red on his grinning lips. Without thinking, you smiled back.

"There has been no updates on the man who tried to kill you," Geta suddenly said, serious.

Your stomach turned the memory. The dead men on the floor, the blood, the awful fight for your life. Moving past it seemed impossible, no matter how much you tried.

The man had to have been sent by someone inside the palace. The thought flashed across your mind, strong and urgent. How else would they have known the emperors were preoccupied, leaving you alone? You thought about the Praetorian escort and how he had allowed you to go the long way round. Had he been a part of it too?

You let Dondus climb from your shoulder before approaching Geta. You hesitated before reaching out, resting your hand on his elbow. His skin was cool despite the heat of the evening. The need to comfort him was irritating, itching the back of your mind.

"They will reveal themselves," you insisted. "They have tried twice now, to no affect. They will be back."

Geta ran his tongue over his lips. "You will remain here until they do."

"Here?" your hand fell from his elbow. "In your rooms?"

"Until they are caught," he stressed the words, reaching down to grab your dropped hand. He squeezed your hand between his. "You have become important. To him. He is better around you, healthier. I cannot risk throwing that all away."

"Important to him?" you echoed, lashes fluttering.

Geta's fingers twitched around yours. "To us."

Caracalla had been quietly creeping up behind you and now he used his body to press against your back, sandwiching you between them. Caracalla's hand slid around your front, coming to rest on your breast, above your thumping heart.

"If this was to stop," he breathed in your ear, "those responsible would wish that they had never been born."

"And of course," Geta added, his own hand coming to rest upon your stomach. "There is the matter of a potential heir."

"Heir?" you choked out, "What rights would any child of mine have?"

Caracalla snickered, pulling away. "Do not concern yourself with such things."

You wanted to ask more questions but both brothers turned from you, busying themselves with other things. Your hands twitched at your side, wanting to come to rest on your stomach. You shook your head. There was no telling whether you were already with child and the idea would only bring you more stress.

You spent the rest of the evening entwined on the bed with Caracalla, lazily twirling a curl of his hair around one of your fingers. He had practically melted into your touch, blinking up at you with hazy blue eyes whilst gently patting at your skin, drunk of the scent of you.

Geta left and came back several times. You could see him becoming increasingly frustrated, face becoming whiter as his lips got thinner, angrier.

"Fucking useless," he swore, sweeping a stack of paper to the ground.

"The Praetorians?" you asked, hand still buried in Caracalla's hair.

Geta turned to face you and seemed to relax a little at the sight of you wrapped up with his brother. He nodded, wordlessly coming to sit down beside you. He scent was one of sweat, of panic.

You reached up to cup his cheek. Beneath your fingers you could feel the barest hint of stubble and you let your fingers wander, exploring his face. Geta stared down at you like you were something miraculous. A pang of sympathy had you furrowing your brows.

Caracalla shifted beside you, dragging your eyes back to him. His cheeks were pink, lips parted as he let out little puffs of air. You could smell the sweetness of wine on his breath as his eyes scanned your face. He tilted his hips, the tiniest of movements, and you became excruciatingly aware of his length pressing into your thigh.

"Oh," you gasped, eyes darting back to Geta.

Geta cupped your hand in his, stroking his fingers down your arm, dark eyes searing into you and pinning you in place. Through out it all, your left hand continued swirling in Caracalla's hair.

"It is okay," Geta said, "he only wants relief."

"It is okay," you nodded, dazed. You were not entirely sure that it was normal to feel such levels of arousal. Your own desire suffocated you, made you weak willed and pliable. It was easy to surrender yourself to it.

Your hand fell from Caracalla's hair as he got to his knees and began to shed his clothes until he was only wearing nothing. Unbidden, your hand rose once more to tangle in the reddish brown hairs of his chest. You tugged a little, going dizzy at the frantic way Caracalla looked down at you.

Geta began to adjust your clothes, raising your tunic until it rested at your neck, baring your body. He reached down and tweaked your nipple, craning his neck down to soothe the pain with his tongue. Embarrassment was mercifully absent, allowing you to arch into his mouth.

"So good for us," Caracalla purred.

You almost passed out when Caracalla's hand fisted around his own cock and began to stroke. His knees trembled next to you on the bed as he reached down to palm at your breasts with his free hand, rolling your nipple against his skin.

Your hips began to undulate against the bed. Without thinking, you let your knees fall apart. Already you could feel the stickiness of yourself on your inner thighs. Geta sat up to admire you, hands pulling your legs further apart.

"I want to see how much you need us," he murmured.

Caracalla let out a strangled moan, hands working furiously on his flushed cock. It almost looked painful. Your mouth watered, tongue swiping at your lips, eager to soothe him. You were vaguely confused - that was one thing you had never done before. So how was it possible for you to want it so desperately?

Geta did not let you sit up. You could feel his hand on your inner thigh, keeping you spread, and there was no words for how badly you wanted that hand to touch your cunt.

"Why aren't you touching me?" you whined, twisting your hips, searching for some level of gratification.

"Sometimes the waiting makes it all the more sweet," Geta admitted. "Though Caracalla is not one for patience."

Caracalla finally took a measure of pity on you, swiping his hand through the slick mess of your cunt before securing it back on his own cock. Your clit throbbed at the brief touch.

"He proves my point," Geta quietly laughed, sliding his hand further in until finally his fingers were pressing against your swollen clit.

You almost shouted from the ripple of pleasure it sent up your spine. Geta did not stop. He began to rub tight, hot circles against your wet flesh until you were writhing, begging incoherently. Geta could not tear his eyes from your cunt and he inhaled deeply, relishing the heady scent of your skin.

"Geta, please," you moaned, rocking against his hand.

White, hot spurts of seed splashed across your stomach as Caracalla reached his end. Envious, you tried to clench your thighs around Geta's hand. Caracalla sagged into you, resting his face against your breast. The friction of your nipple against his cheek was enough to send your body splintering into pleasure.

It felt like insanity. They had wrung you dry, coaxing pleasure from you in ways that were unfamiliar to you. Climax sent any rational thoughts scattering from your brain until all you could think about was red hair and skilled fingers.

Just when you thought it was over, Geta tapped at your clit with his middle finger. Your thighs jerked at the contact and he laughed, biting playfully at the skin on your outer thigh. That felt good, too. Everything felt good with them.

"The stress does not feel so overwhelming now, I must admit," he said smugly, getting to his feet and adjusting his clothes.

The tent in his robes did not escape your attention. "What about you?" you asked.

Geta adjusted himself. "As I said, the waiting makes it sweeter."

You swallowed dryly, watching as he exited the room.

There was always a quiet buzz about the palace. A pleasant white noise that allowed you to sink into the lectus, fingers trailing the carved designs as you let your mind wander. As it got later you could hear it beginning to die down, the sound of people trailing off to bed and prepping for the next day slowly getting lower and lower until there was nothing.

Caracalla was surprisingly perky. He was flicking his way through several papers, expression floating somewhere between boredom and mild interest. Every now and then he would look up, as though to make sure you were observing him carrying out his duties, and then look back down. It was rather endearing, much to your chagrin.

Boredom was also beginning to take its toll on you. After careful deliberation, you went to make a request for wine. You made sure to say please and thank you; these people had once been your peers, after all. Every time you could not help but think that they might refuse you. They never did.

A young woman brought it to you, nervous and twitchy. You dismissed her with what you hoped was a warm smile, glancing down into the jug as you carried it to the table. You could smell the thick aroma of fermented grapes and inhaled, thirsty.

"Wine, Caracalla?"

"Mmm," he looked up, finally giving up all pretense of work and dropping his pen.

His face was open, earnest. You paused for a moment, offering him a tentative smile which he returned. Something warm flooded your chest as you bit your lip and turned to pour yourself and Caracalla a cup.

You set it on the desk, taking care not to spill any. Caracalla picked up the cup, swishing the wine around for a moment as he watched you. Under his gaze you felt warm, but it was not an unpleasant feeling.

You raised the glass to your lips, swallowing several mouthfuls without thinking. For a moment it tasted pleasant, similar to the wine you had enjoyed previously. Then it hit your esophagus your eyes bulged, hands flying out the slap Caracalla's cup away from his lips.

"Something isn't right," you choked, scratching at your throat, "something isn't right!"

Your knees buckled, forehead inches from the edge of the desk as you collapsed. There was a faint tingling in your tongue as you gagged hard enough to bring tears to your eyes. Red-tinged bile spilt from your lips as you coughed and hacked. Your throat burned from the path the tainted wine had taken.

The noise of the palace was increasing once more.

Caracalla was suddenly kneeling in front of you, deathly pale and screaming. He gripped your jaw with one hand and forced his fingers down your throat, hard. It did the trick. You threw up, a disgusting mixture of food and wine. It burned just as much coming up as it did going down, agitating the tender patch caused by Caracalla's fingers.

You wanted to reach inside your own throat and pull it out, shake the poison from your body before it reached your stomach. You knew nothing about poison but your mind still raced, searching for any tidbit of information that might save your life. It was coming up disturbingly blank.

"How much did she drink?" Geta somewhere behind you, pulling back your hair. "Charcoal. Now!"

You heard the metallic slam of metal as the cup was launched across the room, glass shattering in it's wake. Panic consumed you, shoved you back into the light of reality with a harshness you had not been prepared for.

Even as Caracalla was shoving activated charcoal into your mouth, a distant part of your brain told you this should not have been possible. There were protocols, precautions.

"Poison tester?" you enquired, voice hoarse.

"Do not speak," Caracalla said, "where is the poison tester?"

It took an hour for you to stop throwing up. Even when all that was left was stringy bile, the charcoal was determined to make sure your stomach was entirely emptied. You could not be sure whether your shakiness, burning throat and pounding headache were a result of the induced vomiting or the poison.

Poison. Someone had tried to poison the emperors - poison you. It was you who had made the request for wine. It seemed the villain had struck again, boldly, desperately.

At some point, someone had kindly slid a bucket in front of you and a pillow underneath your knees. You looked up from the bucket, meeting Geta's anxious eyes. He was kneeling in front of you, pale and trembling. Caracalla was almost glued to your back, his legs on either side of you. You could see his hands, smeared with the black mark of charcoal. Your mouth automatically began to water and you gagged again.

"What happened?" you croaked.

"The poison tester has been beaten," he said, "badly, almost to the point of death. Someone must have put something into the wine after they were to have tasted it and had it sent up."

"Who?"

Geta's bottom lip shook. "The tester believes it was Macrinus. I do not believe he intended for him to live, but the gods are on our side."

Macrinus. A memory arose of that night in the entertainment hall, the way he had slithered up to you and asked you those questions. The way it seemed like he had already known the answers. He had made you afraid then, only at the time you could not comprehend why.

The master of gladiators. A man who had access to the emperors - who had been in a meeting with them, that day when you were attacked. It made your head swim. It made you doubt all others. Caracalla's paranoia began to make sense as you thought about the countless people surrounding the emperors, how easy it might have been for any one of them to do the same thing as Macrinus.

"Is he dead?"

His was a death you would be grateful for. A death you would feel no guilt over.

"The tester? No. Macrinus? He will be."

Geta reached out, laying a hand against your forehead. Until you felt the coolness of his rings you had not been able to tell how badly you were burning up.

"They do not yet know what poison was used," his admitted, "but they said that vomiting is a good sign."

"Where is Macrinus now?" you asked, shifting to ease the pressure on your knees. Uneasy, your eyes scanned the room as though you expected him to come leaping from the shadows, brandishing a dagger.

"He has likely been taken into custody. It is as you said; he could not resist another attempt. He became careless and decided to carry out the act himself," Geta nodded as he spoke, mostly to himself.

"Go," you insisted, squeezing his fingers. "Perhaps you can find out what he used."

It scared you to send Geta out into the palace in a way you had not expected. The only thing that eased your fear was that Macrinus had been caught . It had been him this whole time, you were sure of it.

Geta's nostrils flared as he debated, eyes darting from Caracalla to you. Caracalla shifted closer and said something over your shoulder that you did not catch. Whatever it was seemed to reassure Geta and he got to his feet, resolute.

The scene was grim. There was vomit splashed across the floor and carpet. You could see the wine you had knocked from Caracalla's hands too, tiny specks of it all over his clothing. Was it possible that the gods had taken mercy on you once more?

Lightheaded, you brought your hand down to rest on your stomach. What if you had been with child? Would this have destroyed the babe? Killed it in your womb before it could even take it's first breath? Perhaps, in saving you, the gods were trying to tell you something.

This was no place for a child.

Authors Note - the villain is finally revealed. An Anon sent me an ask suspecting it was Macrinus but I didn’t post just in case there was anyone who wasn’t sure! Not that it was super subtle

These murder attempts are beginning to take a toll on poor Reader. I wonder what she will do in response🤔 hopefully not anything super reckless and crazy!

Please make sure to like/comment/reblog if you enjoyed! Interaction is everything!

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[geeksquade]

Eyes of the Gods III

series masterlist

Pairing: Caracalla x fem!Reader x Geta

Summary: You are forced to leave all previous tasks behind and focus solely on the Emperors. They will have it no other way.

Warnings: 18+, mentions of domestic violence, dead parents, forced proximity, power imbalances, period-typical sexism, eventually dub-con, possessive behavior, toxic relationships

Word Count: 3k

The walk back to your shared room was miserable. Initially you thought it was the events of the past few hours catching up to you but your condition had only worsened by the time you reached your room. Fear and hopelessness had been replaced by the most pounding of headaches and you could hardly stay upright.

The walls seemed to warp and swell beneath your hands as you leaned on them for support. Head swimming, you pushed open the door and staggered to your bed. The straw seemed more uncomfortable than usual but you were grateful for a flat surface to lie upon.

The room smelt clean but even that made you nauseous. Alba, your friend, sat upon her own bed and wore nearly identical clothing to yours. She was handier with a needle and thread than you and so hers were better kept. Alba was, altogether, a more skilled worker than you. Many were! You did not feel as though you stood out. So why had this happened to you rather than someone else?

Her fingers worried the lightly frayed edges, dark eyes gazing at you with increasing concern.

"I heard what happened," she said, coming to stand beside you. "Did they do this?"

"No," you groaned, "this is a sickness, the one that has had half the slaves and workers out."

Alba stepped back. You could hardly blame her. It had taken the lives of several of the elderly slaves and it was a chore to endure. Lady Lucilla had been struck down by it and forced to remain here at the palace to recover rather than endure the journey home.

"I need to pack," you hissed, heaving yourself into an upright position. "I can't handle this right now."

The floor felt cool on the bottom of your feet. You slid from your lumpy bed and pressed as much of your skin against it as you could. It was a small relief.

The main symptoms were nausea, vertigo and headaches. You had at least two of the three. Fine one moment and almost incapacitated the next. That was to be expected when the majority of people lived in such close quarters. Even the masters were not immune.

Tomorrow you would know the full extent of it. Some had speedy recoveries, others suffered for at least a week.

"I do not have the time," you said aloud.

"Time for what?" Alba asked. "Pack for what?"

You let your head fall back onto the bed, stray pieces of straw poking your skull and getting tangled in your hair. A garbled laugh managed to claw it's way up your throat. "I am rising in the world, Alba. I am to serve the emperors directly."

You could not bring yourself to look up to see her face. What would you see? Pity? Sadness? Jealousy, even? Just because you were not happy did not mean that there were not others who would claw your face off to be in your position.

A hand ghosted over your hair. "I'll let the kitchen master know that you are ill. Try to rest."

The door opened and shut with the softest of sounds. Alba probably thought that she would never see you again. She and the other two would have to sleep elsewhere tonight and you would likely be gone come morning.

Truth be told, you did not have much to pack. Three garments identical to the one you were wearing. You picked the two cleanest and left the other. If what Caracalla had said was true then you would no longer need them. Several leather ties littered the floor beside you and you scooped those up, dropping them on top of your folded garments. They were handy for keeping your hair from your face.

Finally, your prized possession. To retrieve it you had to stuff your hand into your straw mattress, fumbling about until your fingers closed around something solid. You pulled it out with effort and clasped it gently to your chest.

It was a carved wooden figure of a wolf, head tilted back as if howling at the moon. The most intricate features were worn away and, truthfully, if you did not already know it was a wolf then you would not have been able to tell. It had been made by your grandfather, a man who you had never known, and passed to your mother. Eventually it had made it’s way to you.

It was perhaps the only thing that had evaded your father's destructive path. Your childhood home had been small and nothing else had avoided his open hands or fists. Including you and your mother.

In your mind they were both dead, though you had only seen your mother's battered body. After that you had left, using the cover of night to conceal yourself. It had served you well up until recently. There was nowhere you could go to avoid the will of man.

There was little point in hiding the wolf, really. It did not seem the sort of thing that would appeal to anyone else. Still, night after night, you found yourself sliding it into the spiky bedding and nodding off on top of it. Your own little secret. Yours and your mothers.

You tucked it between your tunics, out of sight once more. You could not leave it behind.

Sweat formed on your brow and you swiped it away with the back of your hand. The emperors expected you ready and waiting tomorrow morning. That now seemed unlikely but you would not know for certain until then. With a groan, you eased yourself back up onto your bed.

You wondered exactly how angry they would be if you were unable to be there the next morning. You allowed yourself to entertain the thought for exactly one minute and then shoved it away. There was no use in thinking such things now and it certainly wouldn't aid your recovery.

All you could do was sleep. Once again, faced with your complete lack of options, you allowed yourself the illusion of choice and let your eyes fall shut.

The room was still pitch black when you awoke. It did not alarm you at first. Your headache was still present but seemed to have lessened. Your aching limbs were sprawled across your straw mattress, almost as if they were trying to get away from your body.

Blinking slowly, you glanced about and tried to think about what had awoken you. The scuffle of feet, the sound of the door opening and closing? One of your friends likely had come back to fetch something they needed.

You groaned and shifted, attempting to get back to sleep. A warm had closed around your ankle and you shrieked, jerking your head up from the mattress.

"Shhh, poor, sick girl," came a voice from the foot of your bed.

"Emperor Caracalla?" you whispered into the dark. Even as you said it, part of you thought it was impossible. A hallucination caused by your fever. The emperors never came to the lower parts of the palace, they had no need. How could Caracalla be here now, in your room, in the dark?

"I wanted to know why you did not come."

The room was too dark to see properly despite your eyes trying to adjust. It was him. His hand was still firmly on your ankle. You were not sure whether it was you or him radiating that feverish warmth.

"I am sick, Emperor, and it is not yet morning," you tried to slip your ankle from his grasp, "you shouldn't be -"

Caracalla finally let go of you but only to ease himself further onto the bed, curling himself around your legs. You dare not breathe, hands opening and closing beside you. There was nothing you could do. This was not just any man, this was the Emperor. There was probably several Praetorian guards outside your door right now. You had never been safer or in more danger in your life.

"I know what it is to be sick," his voice was raspy, hands wandering over your lower legs, "and now, so do you. We understand each other. We can trust each other."

Your sickness was not the same as the one that plagued Caracalla, that much you knew. Some disease of the mind infected him, leaving him at times vulnerable and then violent. You should have felt scared; instead you felt pity.

Trepidation still had a tight grip on your insides. The Emperor had gone so far as to seek you out in the middle of one of his episodes. Every time you dared to dream that you could go back to being another faceless servant you were struck by reality.

"Emperor Caracalla," you murmured, gently wrapping your hands around his upper arms, "I only do not wish to make you sick. I helped you stay safe before, remember?"

"Yes," he answered, staring up at you in the dark. His skin was cool beneath your touch. It was much cooler in this part of the palace. You did not know what things triggered Caracalla's illness, what made it worsen and then seemingly get better. You did not want to find out.

"I want to make you safe again," you said, urging him up and off the bed. He seemed to be wearing the same clothes as when you had last seen him. "Come with me, Emperor."

Caracalla did not respond but he did as you asked. It was an effort to get yourself to the door. When you opened it you were greeted by six Praetorians, more than you expected. You tried not to feel overly self conscious in your night clothes.

The looked at you with the same curious look everyone had been giving you for the last few days. As if they were wondering what it was about you that had earned the attention of the emperors and why you weren't dead yet.

"Please," you begged, "can you deliver the Emperor safely back to his rooms? See that he gets ready for bed?"

There was a beat of silence and you wondered if you would have to drag yourself up the stairs and see to Caracalla yourself. You had no power over them and they had no obligation to take requests from you.

"Please, I just don't want to get him sick."

The one closest gave you a tight nod. None of them said anything but they helped Caracalla out from behind you. The hallway was well lit and he squinted in the torchlight, looking lost and confused. Guilt swarmed you and you debated forcing yourself up the stairs. It seemed as though he got worse at night. The man standing before you did not look like an Emperor but a boy. It was difficult to remember all the blood and terror he caused and relished in.

"Emperor Caracalla," you tried to smile, "I'll be there tomorrow but we both need rest."

He only nodded, face flickering through a variety of expressions as if not sure which one to settle on. One of the guards cleared his throat and that seemed to bring Caracalla out of whatever stupor he was in. He turned and went with them, glancing over his shoulder as he went until he disappeared from sight.

You let the door fall shut and crawled back into bed. If you were not so exhausted you would have felt angry with yourself. Yes, Caracalla was sick, but slaves and workers fell sick all the time. It was true that you had been oblivious to the full extent of Caracalla's issues. These nightly episodes were not something most people knew about. But you had seen the worse types of injuries and illnesses in your few years at the palace and yet - you felt sorry for him.

Swiping a hand over your face, you squeezed your eyes closed and tried not to think too much about how gently he had touched you or how vulnerable he had looked. You no longer understood yourself.

The next morning arrived quickly. Apart from an aching in your joints, you felt fine. Last night felt like a dream brought on by the fever. All your nights recently felt that way. You gathered your meager possessions and left your room for the last time.

There was a guard waiting outside your door to escort you to the emperors.

"Have they been waiting long?" you said, alarmed.

He only shook his head and angled his body to allow you in front of him. You glanced uncertainly over your shoulder.

"I'll tell you where to go," he barked.

You pressed your lips together and nodded. It made you uncomfortable to have him at your back. It felt as though he did not trust that you would not run away if he took his eyes off of you.

Weary, you followed his directions. Like before, the décor and furnishings got finer and finer the closer you got to the emperors. Apart from the servants quarters every part of the imperial palace was richly decorated but it was something different entirely in the emperor's quarters.

Even the doors were bigger and more ornate. Dusted with gold paint and displaying the finest carvings. Again, you felt small and insignificant. The Praetorians pushed the doors open and you walked in, hands twisted tightly in your tunics.

The room was heavily perfumed but the scent wasn't unbearable. It helped clear your thoughts as you walked in, helped you focus on what was before you now rather than what you had been forced to leave behind. Bitterness and anger would do you no good here.

Geta stood alone behind a desk. It was covered in papers and small trinkets. Trinkets that probably cost more than you had earned in your entire life. He played idly with a rounded crystal, eyes flickering up as you entered the room.

The Praetorians marched out after he acknowledged them, leaving just you and him alone. They obviously felt no concern over leaving you alone with the emperor. It made you feel pathetic.

"I thought you were sick," he said slowly.

"I was."

"I suppose I am fortunate to have you standing before me now," he leered.

You did not respond.

"I heard that my brother visited you last night," he continued. "He is still asleep now. Seems that you wore him out."

You cringed at the implication. "I comforted him. That is all."

"You say that like it is a small task," he said bluntly.

You opened your mouth and closed it again. His words verged on a compliment but not quite.

"I am happy to be of service," you finally said.

"I am sure that you are," he laughed. "There are clothes for you over there. Take off those rags and change."

Geta was suddenly in front of you, ripping your belongings from your arms and tossing them onto the floor. It would have been fine but your carving clattered across the marble, drawing his attention immediately. You almost went scrambling after it, horrified and embarrassed.

"What is this?" he spat, face twisting as he bent down to pick it up.

"A carving," you admitted. "It's mine. I did not steal it, I brought it with me."

Geta held it up to the light as though that would help him make better sense of it. "Your father made this?"

"No," you answered with enough venom that Geta glanced over at you. "No, Emperor. My grandfather made it and my mother gave it to me."

You winced at the careful way he examined you. It felt as though he was able to infer everything about you just from your responses. The wooden carving looked laughable in his pale hands; a stark contrast to the rich colours and jewellery he was adorned with.

He seemed almost amused. That was better than anger, at least. His expression was strangely open as he examined your treasure, twisting it every which way in his hands. It looked ridiculously fragile when he held it.

"You like carvings, then?" he said slowly. You sagged with relief as he held it out to you, cupping your hands so that he could drop it into them.

"I like this one," you said. You bent down and picked up one of your tunics, placing the carving into the centre of it and then wrapping it carefully.

"I am fond of them myself," he offered, watching you carefully.

Your eyes snapped to his, surprised at his omission. Geta seemed surprised himself and he turned back to his desk.

"I ordered you to change!" he snapped, storming back to his desk.

Again, he busied himself with his paper and trinkets but something seemed performative about his actions.

At first you had thought that you could learn and adapt to the emperors. With how unpredictable their moods were it now seemed impossible. Their differences and similarities were also difficult to keep track of. What one found amusing made the other irritable.

Hopes of surviving seemed dim but you would try nonetheless. Your mother tried until she couldn’t and you would do the same.

Clutching your belongings to your chest, you headed in the direction he indicated. There were several togas and stolas laid out. You had never worn anything with such color before. Nothing quite so soft either. You glanced up to see if Geta was looking. His gaze was fixed on his desk. You squirmed out of your toga and into your new clothes, trying not to feel as though you were shedding your previous life.

Geta met your eyes when you yanked the toga over your head. Of course he had looked the entire time. It had been naive to think he wouldn't. He was regularly surrounded by concubines and simpering senators that obeyed his every whim. The emperor felt as though looking upon your body was his right. Maybe it was.

His throat worked as though he about to offer some cruel quip or comment. You braced yourself for what would surely be a crushing blow. It was not that you were especially insecure about your body but privacy was a luxury you had gotten somewhat used to. Now it was just another thing that had been stolen from you.

He tilted his chin up. "Pour me wine."

"Of course, Emperor," you bent your head and did as you were told.

Authors Note: please please leave notes, reblogs & comments if you enjoyed!! I appreciate every single one of you♥️

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[geeksquade]

Eyes of the Gods II

masterlist - part I

Pairing - Caracalla x f!Reader, Geta x f!Reader

Summary - It is no longer possible to hide in the shadows. The emperors are determined to learn every bit about you despite any objections you may have.

Warnings - unedited, power imbalance, fight to the death, blood, brutality

Word Count - 2.7k

A restless night did nothing for your nerves. You awoke the next morning with the previous night's encounters still playing on your mind. You tried to dismiss your anxiety. You lived in the palace, it was natural that you would come across the emperors sooner or later. In fact, it was odd that last night was the first time!

Still, you had been disturbed with the weight of their full attention. Light and dark eyes that carried the same heaviness. It felt as though a layer of your skin had been peeled back, revealing pieces of yourself that you had no interest in sharing. You were concerned that they had not been pleased with what they had found.

Never had you been struck by such paranoia. It burdened you all morning, as you washed and got dressed, as you headed to start your daily tasks in the kitchen. It clung to your back, hissing conspiracies and exaggerations in your ears.

 Lack of sleep did not help. You had barely managed a few hours before having to get up to prepare the day's food. Such an important task demanded that you woke several hours before anyone else even stirred, creeping from your shared room and into your familiar workspace.

That morning, though, you were grateful for the time. You were not alone but those that accompanied you were grouchy and sleepy-eyed and so had no interest in idle conversation. That was fine, you liked it that way. You could pretend that there was nothing but you, the wood table in front of you, and the days work ahead of you.

The rest of your day continued in a similar fashion. Your familiar routines helped soothe you, helped ease the paranoia from your shoulders and draw you into a relaxed lull. The folding of dough, the washing of fruit, the preparation of trays. Your work brought you comfort.

It wasn't until the sun began to ease herself from the sky that things began to sour. It started with the presence of a cup-bearer in the kitchen. Usually they did not venture this far back and were supplied with what they needed elsewhere. You took note of her from the corner of your eye and did your best to immerse yourself in your work.

The Gods had different plans for you. The girl headed in your direction, watching you inquisitively but silently.

Then, she called your name. "Sorry to interrupt," she said, "but. . .your presence is needed in the entertainment hall."

Deep, intense dread settled in your stomach. "What do you need? I can send -"

"No," she cut you off, "you specifically."

You had only ever been in the entertainment hall a handful of times. Only once was during an event, where you found yourself quickly overstimulated and desperate to return to the kitchen. The other times had been after events, when they needed the extra pair of hands to clean up. Neither times had it been you specifically that was required.

It felt as though all the air was sucked out of the kitchen at once. All the smells, sights, sounds, gone. Only you and this inescapable demand.

Something in your face seemed to alarm the girl and she clasped her hands together and begged, "Please, just come. I do not know what they want but I do not want to be the one to refuse them. Please, they'll - just please."

They. You shuddered, feeling cold to the bone. It seemed you had let your guard down earlier. Now you were headed to the entertainment hall, most likely to be the entertainment. Whatever that entailed.

"What do they intend to do with me?" you asked, wiping your hands on your apron and slipping it from your head. You did not know what to expect. Part of you would have felt better knowing, the other part preferred to dwell in the uncertainty.

"I do not know," she said, voice pleading. "Don't make me go back up there alone."

You could not do such a thing. Besides, what other options did you have? If you said no, the Praetorians would likely come storming down and drag you out of the kitchen themselves. The only other options would be to drop everything now and bolt. Not that you would get very far but it would maybe feel better than potentially marching yourself towards your own doom.

For the first time in a while, it dawned on you just how little choice you had. Your parents had died long ago, leaving you scrabbling for shelter and food. You had found both in the imperial palace, and had fooled yourself into thinking that you chose this. You chose the back-breaking work, the long hours and constant terror. In reality, what else could you have done? Remained on the streets and starved? Would you go back to them now, just to give yourself the mere illusion of choice?

While these thoughts raced through your mind, your hands busied themselves folding up your apron and leaving it in it's usual place. You hoped you would be there to retrieve it again tomorrow morning. You heard yourself letting the head cook know that the Emperors had requested you, and you were not sure when you would be able to return.

She looked at you with a mix of pity and annoyance. If you did not return then she would be out a worker, but she was well aware of what usually went on in the entertainment hall. I did not chose this, you wanted to scream, it is not my fault.

You could have cried over the unfairness of it all. You had served the emperors well for many years, doing so out of sight and out of mind. Why could it not have remained that way? You had been loyal, hardworking and good. Was that not enough?

You stared at the cup-bearers back as you trailed after her, up the winding stairs and into the main part of the palace. There, the opulence hurt your eyes and made you stumble back. You felt like a dark stain on a pale dress. Out of place and obvious. There would be nowhere for you to hide tonight.

The girl kept glancing back at you, twisting her hands. "It's fine," you told her, mustering a smile. "It's not your fault."

"It's not your fault either," she whispered back. "What could women like us do against those who are chosen by Gods?"

Nothing, you thought. All you could do was summon some dignity and grace and face whatever was to come head on.

Torches lit the way to the entertainment hall. You kept straining for some hint of what you were heading in to. It was not loud, so no gathering could have been taking place. It was not until you got closer that you heard the groaning and thumping of flesh and you began to go sweat.

When you entered the room, you expected to see a writhing pile of flesh and hot bodies. That was not the sight that greeted you. Instead, there were three men circling the edges of a small space, all three equally as bloodied and bruised and covered in filth. Even with the torch light flickering you could make out various wounds and blood dashed all over the marble.

The emperors sat on the most luxurious chairs you had ever seen. Reds, golds, blues. The clothing they wore was more luxurious still. There was a scent in the air, something that reminded you of oranges, likely to combat the stench of spilled blood.

Caracalla looked far less frazzled than the night before, though it seemed the unhinged grin was a permanent fixture. His hair was less rumpled and he wore jewels throughout the red curls and in his ears. They glimmered every time he giggled, reminding you of your basic dress and worn sandals.

Geta wore his white paint and dark eye makeup, distinguishing him clearly from his brother. He seemed older despite the fact that they were twins. His eyes were light, a sign he was enjoying the fight before him, and his posture was relaxed. His tongue occasionally swiped back and forth across his lips, the color startlingly pink against the white of his makeup.

It seemed an interesting habit. The color of his tongue was the same as yours and it reminded you that although he and his brother had been chosen by Gods, they were still ultimately human.

The cup-bearer lead you to the them. "My Emperors," she called softly, "I did as you asked."

Caracalla sat up immediately, the boy behind him almost slipping from the chair. "It is you," he said, eyes snapping about your figure as though you were about to disappear. "I almost thought I dreamed you. My brother told me I did not."

You blinked, feeling hopeless. Maybe if you had been quicker in leaving Caracalla's chambers, Geta would not have seen you and you would have been able to slink back to the kitchens undisturbed.

A breeze caressed your hot cheeks, bringing you back to the moment and forcing you to leave the 'what ifs' behind. They were of no use to you now.

Geta's eyes flickered from you to the girl. The white of his eyes stood out against the dark makeup surrounding them. Despite what he had told his brother it felt as though he was surprised to have you standing before him. He seemed pleased.

"You are dismissed," he announced, coldly, cruelly.

The girl blinked, hands dropping to her sides. It was clear they meant her. "I - I'm sorry, what - "

"You are dismissed," he repeated, waving a hand as if to shoo her from the room. "Go. I do not care where but be swift."

That was all it took. Was she dismissed from this moment or from the palace? Did she have a job or was she now homeless? You could see all these questions flash across her face but she dared not ask. The moment must have lasted less than five seconds but it felt like an eternity. Eventually the girl turned and left the way you came, eyes empty and downcast.

That left just you. You could hear the primal noises from the fight still behind you but it seemed both emperors had lost interest. It had been bad enough dealing with them one-on-one last night but the weight of both their gazes made you feel as though you were sinking into the floor.

Geta broke the silence by holding out his cup. "More wine, woman."

You allowed yourself a second to be confused. Then you shot over to the small table and picked up a hefty pitcher, not unlike the one you had carried last night. Geta held his cup steady as you poured a healthy helping of wine into it. He leaned closer than necessary, warm breath dusting along your forearms. His scent was clean with some sort of oil layered into him and it surrounded you until you were dizzy.

Caracalla's eyes darted between the pair of you before he fumbled for his own cup and held it out. "Mine as well!"

"Of course," you nodded blankly. It all felt like some sort of dream sequence that did not make sense and would make even less sense when you eventually woke up. You thanked the Gods that you did not spill any wine as you attended to Caracalla.

He stared up at you as you filled his cup, eyes landing on your eyes, your mouth, your breasts. You shifted as though it would somehow conceal you from his gaze and he giggled wildly before settling back in his chair.

You turned to place the pitcher back on the table, desperate for any distance between you and the twins. The entire thing almost slipped from your hands when you felt Caracalla reach out to grab at the fabric of your dress.

"If you are to be our cup-bearer, you shall need something different," he announced, rubbing the worn fabric between his fingers. One of the warriors let out a wet rasp as another slid a knife into his gut, spilling his insides across the floor. The red of him was a stark contrast to the polished white of the floor. The room was pungent with the stench of waste and iron.

Caracalla continued, oblivious, twisting his fingers into the fabric of your dress. You could feel the heat of him inches from your thighs. "What is the color you are most fond of?"

"Yellow, Emperor," you lied, full focus on the hand that still had not let go of your clothing. Alarm was beginning to make your head spin. The previous cup-bearer had worn almost identical clothing to you. Why have you wear something entirely different?

"You'll wear blue, sometimes red," Geta announced, tilting his head to look directly up at you. Irritation flickered across his face and he suddenly stood. He was significantly taller than you and he leered down at you, seemingly happy with the difference. "Whatever we decide."

"Of course, Emperor Geta," you dared not look him in the eye.

Smooth fingers gripped your chin and tilted your head up. You gulped and prayed it was not audible. Geta's eyes searched your face and then he let go, satisfied with whatever he saw there.

"You'll sleep up here now, close to my quarters" he said, taking another long sip of his wine. "It is only appropriate if you are to serve me."

"Serve us," Caracalla interjected, irritated. "I saw her first."

You previous life was crumbling in your hands, insignificant and wasted. You thought you had known fear before but it was nothing compared to this. Caracalla held out his glass again and you filled it immediately. Their interest in you was bizarre and terrifying. If you were to survive you would have to do your best to comply.

"Please, mercy," one of the last men in the ring cried out.

Your heart clenched and you found yourself unable to look away. He was bloodied beyond recognition and the other warrior held a filthy sword to his throat, unflinching. Perhaps there were worst fates than yours.

Caracalla flung his cup across the room, wine sprinkling the floor and concubines. It landed with a clatter and you cringed, imagining the intricate design damaged. The men in the ring did not move.

"What did I say?" he screamed, "no mercy! You fight to the death or I shall kill you both myself!"

You felt faint. The pitcher trembled in your grasp. The stronger man did not need to be told twice. He swiped the sword across the other man's neck. His body thudded to the floor, his life's essence seeping out of him like he was nothing.

Caracalla laughed. "Fun, is it not?"

Your mouth was too dry to respond. Geta surprised you by laughing, "She is not used to such entertainment, brother. She will come to love it in time, I am sure."

It seemed impossible. Then again, so had almost everything that had happened since last night. Since then your life had been one big uncertainty, and you were too afraid to put your feet down lest they land in the wrong spot.

"Clean it up," Caracalla turned and yelled at one of the concubine. The sudden change in mood was startling. His cheeks became ruddy and his eyes raged. "Clean it up now."

The concubine rose swiftly, eyes frantic as he took the bucket of water waiting by the wall and began to swipe frantically at the mess. The water made the scene all the more horrific, blood reaching further than before and swirling around the remaining man's feet. You were nothing before these men.

Geta dismissed the man before returning his attention to you. "Go, retrieve your belongings. I - we - shall expect you ready and waiting tomorrow morning."

He reached out and traced careful fingers around your jaw. You waited for him to say something else but he only grinned, not so different to the manic look of his brother. They were twins, after all.

Caracalla looked as though he may argue but then sang your name, waving cheerily as you backed away from the pair of them.

You attempted a curtsey and scurried from the room, feeling every bit the little bird they had accused you of being. You were well aware that if you were a bird, they were hungry lions. You stood no chance against them or their demands. The two men lying on the floor were reminders of that.

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[geeksquade]

General Acacius x Isekai! Reader x emperor Geta

Words 2k

Part 1 Part 2

Get into the movie?What a joke Part3

The carriage came to a halt before a grand marble estate, its imposing facade gleaming in the golden sunlight. A lush garden surrounded the mansion, its paths adorned with blooming peonies and vibrant roses. The floral arrangements framed the entrance like a work of art, their delicate petals contrasting with the stoic grandeur of the house. Your eyes wandered to the gilded details embedded in the tall, spiraling columns flanking the doorway. Each column was a testament to craftsmanship, their intricate designs depicting mythical nymphs intertwined in an eternal dance.

The iron gates, crafted in ornate patterns, bore the likeness of two ethereal maidens, presumably the aforementioned nymphs. Their gazes, though forged of metal, seemed to follow your every move.

Swallowing nervously, you looked down at your hands, clenching and unclenching them. You closed your eyes for a brief moment, allowing the memories of the journey here to surface. Confusion and panic had plagued you, and though the turmoil still simmered, you had forced yourself to confront the truth.

This wasn’t a dream.

Somewhere along the way, the lines between fantasy and reality had blurred, and now you stood here, in a story you had once studied and admired. The man who had rescued you on the road—General Acacius—had called you by a name that was not your own: "Flavnia Plavcia."

The name was unfamiliar, its weight foreign, yet it resonated with an echo of significance. Flavnia. Plavcia. A woman whose story you knew not from modern tales but from the annals of Roman history. She was said to have wielded immense influence during the reigns of the emperors Geta and Caracalla.

Flavnia was a name shrouded in both admiration and infamy. Historians debated her legacy—was she a cunning survivor or a scheming villainess? According to one account, she had secured wealth and favor through relentless ambition, skillfully navigating the treacherous waters of Roman politics. She evaded countless assassination attempts, eventually retreating to Sicily, where she lived out her days.

But there was another tale—one of betrayal and tragedy. In this version, her husband had poisoned her and smuggled her lifeless body to Sicily, burying her far from her father, Cornelian, who had doted upon her.

You had studied both narratives in depth during your university years, yet neither version had provided a definitive answer. Flavnia remained an enigma—a shadowy figure from the past whose true character eluded clarity.

A Roman woman of such cunning in her time? you mused, stepping out of the carriage. Surely, even the blind would sense duplicity here.

Your musings were interrupted as the carriage door opened. A maid, dressed in simple yet pristine attire, curtsied deeply, her voice trembling with emotion.

“Lady Flavnia, welcome home,” she greeted, her eyes widening in shock as they fell upon your disheveled state. Her hand flew to her mouth as if to stifle a gasp.

“W-who did this to you, my lady?” she cried, her tone laced with both horror and concern. Her gaze flickered to your damp clothes, your tangled hair, and the traces of algae clinging stubbornly to your tresses.

Before you could respond, she had summoned more servants. They surrounded you, fussing over every detail of your appearance. Without hesitation, they led you inside, bathing you, combing the remnants of the ordeal from your hair, dressing you in finery befitting your station, and finally, offering a tray of delicacies to restore your strength.

Their care was meticulous, almost reverent. Though you uttered not a word, it became clear that these servants harbored deep loyalty to the woman they believed you to be.

---

Not long after you had settled into your quarters, the door opened abruptly. In strode a man of commanding presence, his expression a mask of fury barely concealed beneath a veneer of composure. He seated himself in a chair across from you, his elbow resting on the armrest as he propped his cheek against his knuckles.

The tension in the room was palpable.

“Point him out,” he demanded coldly, his voice low and deliberate, though it carried the weight of a tempest waiting to be unleashed. “Tell me who dared harm my daughter, and I shall see to it that he disappears from this world before the day is through.”

Your breath hitched, your eyes widening as his words struck you like a physical blow. Your hands clenched the folds of your skirt as you stared at the floor, the weight of his anger suffocating. How could you explain to him that you had no memory of the incident—at least not as Flavnia?

“I… I don’t know,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “It’s all a blur.”

His fist came down upon the table with a resounding crack, causing you to flinch violently. His face turned crimson with rage, his dark eyes alight with an almost supernatural fire.

“This is why I should never have allowed you to attend!” he thundered, pacing the room in agitation. His fury was boundless, yet his concern was equally apparent.

The man before you was no ordinary Roman citizen. He was Cornelian—a man celebrated for his valor and unwavering dedication to Rome. His reputation as “Stompus Staptus” (the Unyielding Gate) was not merely a title but a testament to his fortitude. He had once defended the gates of Rome against relentless invaders, holding his ground for an entire year.

But to you, he was something more than a legend. He was a father—a protector whose love transcended even his allegiance to the Empire. His daughter had once dubbed him “Atius Obsidium” (Father-Protector), and that title seemed to cling to him still.

Turning back to you, he sighed heavily. His anger seemed to drain from him as his gaze softened.

“If I had known the danger, I would never have allowed you to leave,” he murmured, his voice tinged with regret. “Those insolent fools think they can harm my daughter without consequence…”

Before his anger could reignite, you rose from your seat, placing a gentle hand on his arm.

“Father,” you began softly, a faint smile tugging at your lips, “there’s no need to waste your energy on them. Instead, I would like to discuss General Acacius, who assisted me. I wish to thank him personally.”

The mention of Acacius seemed to shift the atmosphere. Cornelian studied your face, his lips twitching into a small, reluctant smile. With a nod, he placed a hand atop your head, ruffling your hair affectionately.

“You’ve always had a way with words, my clever girl,” he said, his voice tinged with pride. “Very well. We shall arrange to meet with him. He has proven himself trustworthy, and for that, I owe him my gratitude.”

With a final, reassuring pat on your head, Cornelian turned toward the door. As he reached the threshold, he glanced over his shoulder.

“Rest now, my child. Your father will see to everything.”

“And you as well,” you replied warmly, watching as the door closed behind him.

Finally alone, you let out a long breath, sinking onto the plush bedding. Wrapping your arms around a pillow, you buried your face in its softness.

“What am I supposed to do now?” you muttered to yourself, your voice muffled. “And how am I supposed to survive here without my Milo?”

You sniffled, thinking of the little golden-furred cat you had left behind. Though you knew your mother would care for him in your absence, the thought of being without him in this strange new world was almost too much to bear.

The days flowed like a gentle stream, each bringing its own discoveries. You had already wandered through every chamber of the mansion, each one adorned with opulence: golden-framed mirrors that caught every flicker of light, heavy velvet curtains embroidered with intricate patterns, and antique furniture that whispered tales of grandeur. Yet none of these treasures captivated your heart as much as the garden did—a secluded paradise where wisteria cascaded like a shimmering veil, offering cool shade from the sun’s relentless embrace. The air there was imbued with a fragrance so divine that it seemed otherworldly, and the pristine white marble paths wove through the greenery like strokes of an artist’s brush, completing the vision of Eden.

This place felt untouched by time, a sanctuary where kindness blossomed in every soul you encountered. The servants, ever loyal, treated you with a reverence that bordered on familial warmth. You were their lady, the one they had known since your earliest days. Smiling faintly, you raised a hand to wave at one of the gardeners. He responded with equal enthusiasm, his weathered face lighting up with a grin as he set aside his tools. You approached him, your thoughts already turning to the flowers.

“I’ve been wondering,” you began, your voice carrying the melody of curiosity. “Would it be suitable to plant amaryllis here? They may lack fragrance, but their beauty could complement the mimosa.”

The gardener paused, his brow furrowing as he considered your suggestion. “It’s a fine idea, my lady,” he replied, though a trace of uncertainty lingered in his tone. “Yet, I fear they might not thrive together. Such flowers, though beautiful, sometimes fail to coexist.”

You tilted your head, undeterred by his hesitation. Together, you delved into the nuances of flora, your voices blending with the rustling leaves and the distant hum of bees. Unbeknownst to you, a figure lingered nearby. Acacius stood in the shadows, his dark gaze fixed upon you.

To him, this was an unfamiliar side of you. Gone was the woman whose sharp tongue and icy demeanor he had come to expect. In her place was someone alive with passion, her every word animated by a genuine interest. She seemed brighter, almost radiant, as she discussed the nuances of flowers with the gardener. This transformation confounded him. What had changed? Or had he simply never taken the time to see this side of you?

The gardener’s voice broke his train of thought. “It’s a shame,” the man said with a sigh. “Some beauties simply cannot share the same space.”

You offered him an encouraging smile, brushing aside his doubts with a gentle wave of your hand. “Nonsense,” you replied. “We’ll find a way. Perhaps a different arrangement…”

Acacius shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he stepped forward. “Lady Plavtiana,” he called, his deep voice cutting through the garden’s tranquil atmosphere. “Might I request a moment of your time?”

Startled, you turned to face him. Your expression shifted from surprise to guarded composure, though your hands betrayed you by nervously clutching the fabric of your skirt. “General… I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” you began, searching his face for answers. “I thought my father and I were to visit you at your estate. Do you have business with him?”

A smirk played on Acacius’s lips, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. “Indeed,” he replied. “But must you always address me so formally? We’ve known each other far too long for such titles. Simply Acacius will suffice.”

You stiffened at his words, your cheeks warming as you realized your slip. “My apologies,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. Before you could say more, he noticed the subtle tremor in your hands and decided not to press further—not here, with the gardener still present.

“Regardless,” he continued smoothly, his tone gentler now, “you are correct. I am here on business with your father. However, I was hoping to speak with you… privately. If, of course, you have the time.”

His words hung in the air, a quiet challenge, as his gaze met yours and held it. The gardener, sensing the shift in atmosphere, discreetly stepped away, leaving you alone with Acacius under the canopy of wisteria

[geeksquade]

LADY STRONG

Benjicot Blackwood x Velaryon/Strong!Reader

Summary - Stuck in the Riverland's on a marriage tour, you pretend to be Lady Strong when Benjicot Blackwood doesn't recognize you as the Princess of the Seven Kingdoms

Warnings - none except not edited!!

Word Count - 3.1k

!MINORS DNI!

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

As if the prospect of a marriage tour was not horrid enough, your first stop was proving to be positively dreadful.  

You had imagined the lands surrounding the Trident to be beautiful. A lush, verdant landscape—filled with fragrant herbs and bright, blooming flowers, painting the Riverlands in rich, colorful hues. You pictured babbling streams and plush grass, stunning castles and, perhaps, some equally as stunning men.  

What you hadn’t imagined, however, was the weather.  

Even from within the confines of Riverrun—the ancestral castle of House Tully—you still feel the effects of the merciless heat beating down upon the sandstone walls.  

Your handmaids had tried to dress you accordingly, stuffing you into your thinnest—and, consequently, your least regal—gown, in hopes that it might prevent sunstroke. Yet still, even as three of Lord Tully’s own servants try fanning you while you sulk in the dining hall, you feel as though every inch of your body is drenched in sticky sweat.  

“This is miserable,” you groan to Ser Lorent, the Kingsguard who had been assigned to your tour. Flanking your right, you spare the knight a pitiful, sidelong glance. “I believe I would sooner die a spinster than be forced to live in this sweltering purgatory!”  

The servants, haphazardly positioned around the table, remain utterly stone-faced, not letting on if they found your comment about their homelands to be humorous or offensive.  

Ser Lorent merely laughs. “The Riverlands are known for their humid summers, princess.” With a wink, he adds, “If you ever bothered with your studies, you would know this.”  

“I study!”  

“With the blade, perhaps,” Ser Lorent muses, his teal eyes twinkling with lighthearted mockery. “But certainly not with books, princess.  

Rolling your eyes, you slump further into your chair, your body practically melting into the upholstery. “Leave the geography lessons to Jace,” you tell him, waving an idle hand. “After all, he's the heir to the Iron Throne. I am merely the prized broodmare—” focusing on your plate, and the half-eaten lunch upon it, you try swallowing the bitter tang now filling your mouth—“a royal womb to be sold off to the highest bidder.”  

And, at times, you aren’t even sure if that is considered an honest truth… You’ve certainly never felt royal.  

Like your brothers, you were born extraordinarily plain-featured. With no silver hair or lilac eyes, you appear more like a common-born peasant than someone of prized Valyrian stock—and it didn’t help that, unlike your brothers, you had no dragon, either.  

Ser Lorent watches as you absently push a piece of seared cod around your plate, sighing. “That isn’t true, my princess.” His words are tinged with sympathy. “You are being sold to no one. Your mother wishes for you to have a marriage born of love—not duty.”  

“Ah, yes,” stabbing the fish with the prongs of your fork, you bring it to your lips, “which is why I’m being forced to spend my summer meeting with the haughty sons of fat country lords—for love.”  

His tongue clicks with disapproval. “Your mother has given you a choice in selecting your own husband, princess; which is a luxury not granted to many women.”  

Frowning, you pop the piece of fish into your mouth, turning his words over in your head.  

Gods.  

You hate it when he’s right.  

“Fine,” you relent, still chewing. Turning sideways in your chair, you raise your fork to him in a mock threat, “But my earlier statement stands! If I must take a husband, then it certainly won’t be anyone from here—lest I become no more than a puddle of sweat.”  

Ser Lorent cracks a smile at you. “Should you turn to a puddle, princess, then I vow to mop you from the floor.”  

“How valiant of you, Ser Lorent,” you laugh. “I’m unsure of how I might ever repay you for such loyalty.”  

“I’m not sure you have to worry about that, princess—I don’t believe that puddles are much concerned with matters of debt.”  

Turning back to the table, another soft laugh spills from your lips. “I suppose you’re right, Ser.”  

All too soon, however, your amusement begins to fade. A warm breeze blows in through the many open windows lining Riverrun’s dining hall, the stifling air only accentuating the stickiness of your skin.  

Sucking in a deep, heavy breath, you ask, “How long do we have?”  

Ser Lorent doesn’t ask for clarification, knowing almost at once what you were asking him. “We’re expected back in the Great Hall in a little under an hour, princess.”  

You blow the breath out, groaning slightly.  

An hour—that's all the time you had left before you would be forced back upon the dais, expected to once again smile and be cordial as men and boys from all across the Riverlands made their case for your hand.  

How many of them could possibly be left? This morning alone you had met with dozens upon dozens of them, their voices all blurring into a monotonous hum as they spoke of the history of their Houses—if one can consider nonsensical legends from the ancient Age of Heroes as true history, that is.  

Noticing the dreadful pall cast over you, Ser Lorent clamps a comforting hand on your shoulder. “How about a walk before we go back? It might help to clear your head,” he suggests. Then, with a wry grin, “Perhaps you might wish to think back on the men from this morning—see if any of them might make you change your tune about life in the Riverlands.”  

You pin him with a playful scowl. “There’s not a man alive that could change that tune,” you vow. “But you’re right—a walk might be nice.”  

Rising from your seat, the servants around you lower their fans, silently dismissing themselves.  

“Will you be accepting my company on this walk?” Ser Lorent teases—though you know what he’s really asking is: will you be accepting my protection.  

“After this morning, I believe I’ve had enough company for a lifetime.”  

The knight’s brow draws tight, an apprehensive frown beginning to pull at the corners of his lips. You roll your eyes.  

“Oh, don’t worry so much, Ser Lorent. It gives you wrinkles,” you tease. Adjusting the slit running along one side of your dress, you reveal the dagger holstered on your thigh. “I assure you that if any of these Riverlanders dare lay a hand on me, they’ll lose some fingers.”  

Ser Lorent snorts, head shaking. “It’s not you I worry about, princess,” he jokingly admits. “Just stay close by, understand? Your mother will have my head if anything happens to you.”  

“Yes, yes—understood,” you dramatically gripe, already walking past him to the exit.  

“Oh, and princess?” He calls out just as the guards pull the doors open for you to leave. You glance over your shoulder at him, brows lifted. “At least try not to injure anyone.”  

With one last roll of your eyes, bright with mischief, you shout on your way out, “No promises, Ser Lorent!”  

Wandering through the outer yards of Riverrun, the blistering sun beating down upon your skin, you find yourself overwhelmed by a sudden ache in your chest.  

You miss home. Desperately.  

You miss Dragonstone’s near-constant cover of clouds, forever shielding you from the heat. You miss the cool breeze rolling in off the Blackwater, the air peppering your cheeks with salty kisses.  

But even as you dream of a reprieve from the muggy Riverlands, you can’t help but miss your family—your brothers—most of all.  

Perhaps it is that feeling that led you here, to the training yard, guided by the familiar lull of splintering wood and steel slicing through the air, the sound offering a much-needed remedy to the homesickness twisting in your gut.  

Smaller than the one at Dragonstone, Riverrun’s yard was no more than a cramped stretch of dusty-dirt, lined with old training dummies and archery targets. Mostly encircled by the towering sun-bleached stones of the castles, only a small part of the yard remained open to the sprawling gardens beyond, sectioned off by ornate iron fencing.  

Striding over the open gate, your attention falls upon the lone boy standing in the yard's center.  

As the sunlight beats down overhead, long shadows dance around his feet as he glides through a set of movements—each step calculated, every strike deliberate.  

You step closer, keeping your steps light as you approach. With his back turned to you, you watch as sweat drips down his neck, glistening. It soaks into his tunic, the thin black material clinging to his lean, muscled back.  

He’s talented—you think, studying his form.  

Talent is something you're familiar with—intimately. You were raised around warriors—trained by the Rogue Prince himself. Yet never before had you found yourself so utterly bewitched by a fighter.  

He didn’t move like other boys.  

He wasted no time on the flowery style displayed by so many summer children—the ones who thought of battle as a performance rather than a matter of life or death.  

Instead, he moved with the lethal prowess of an apex predator—his blade cutting through the air with a controlled ferocity that, while lacking the flourish of other warriors, was undeniably impressive.  

Dirt flies as he throws himself into another set of movements—a series of strikes and parries, executing with unbelievable precision. With every twist and pivot, muscles tense and shift beneath his tunic, his body as powerful a weapon as his sword.  

He lunges forward—and wood cracks! as he slashes his blade along the belly of one of the dummies, a move that would have disemboweled a living opponent.  

Cutting through the sudden stillness, you bring your hands up to your chest, filling the yard with a slow clap. Back still turned to you, the boy's spine goes ramrod straight at the unexpected sound.  

“Impressive,” you muse, taking another step towards him. Mere feet remain between the two of you, now. “You move well—better than most, I’d say.”  

The boy spins around to face you, his once elegant movements now blundering as he nearly trips over his own feet. Biting your tongue, you try to hold in a laugh.  

Big, storm-cloud eyes meet your gaze, pinning you in place as he blinks, visibly thrown-off by your presence. “Sorry-” he stammers, out of breath. “I didn’t think anyone else would be coming out here-”  

You lift a hand, cutting him off with a smile. “Oh, no—don’t apologize on my account! I enjoyed the show,” you tell him. “Seems that you have a real talent for swordplay.”  

His cheeks flush, his lightly sun-kissed skin turning a stark crimson. “Thanks.” His laugh is a nervous, awkward thing—endearing, too. He sticks a hand out towards you, the other still limply holding his sword. “Benjicot. Blackwood,” he introduces himself, fumbling over his words, “but you can call me Ben or Benji—or anything, really.”  

You take his hand, biting your lip to mask your amusement. “Pleasure to meet you, Benji.”  

A beat of silence passes before confusion finally tugs at his features, his hand falling back to his side. “Uhm—” another sweet, awkward laugh— “and you are…?”  

Realization dawns on you, leaving your brows to shoot up to your hairline.  

Seven Hells. He doesn't know, does he?

A sudden speechlessness grabs hold of your tongue.  

You suppose you shouldn’t be surprised—after all, you aren't what many expected of a Targaryen princess.

Plain-featured and dressed in thin, common clothes, you imagine you likely appear no different than the servants surrounding you at lunch, fanning you to keep the heat from going to your head.  

Even so, it's rare that you met someone who doesn't know who you are. And, selfishly, after a morning filled with insincere compliments from haughty Lord’s, you like the idea of remaining nameless—titleless—for the first time in your life.  

“Wow—sorry—that was thoughtless of me, wasn’t it?” Tapping a finger to your temple, you laugh. “I’m Mylissa,” you lie, stealing the name of one of your handmaidens. “Mylissa Strong.”  

“Strong?” He echoes, brow furrowing. “Strange—you don’t sound like you’re from the Riverlands. Your accent is—”  

“Southern?”  

Benji nods.  

“Well, I’ve spent the better part of my life in the Crownlands, so I suppose I’ve picked up their accent,” you explain. “I’m here with the princess, actually—as her lady-in-waiting.”  

The mention of the princess—you—turns his skin a pasty white.  

Keeping a tight leash on your curiosity, you try not to sound too intrigued when you ask, “And what about you? Raventree Hall is a decent ride from here, is it not?” On horseback, the ancestral seat of House Blackwood was two days away from Riverrun, if not three. “Are you here to meet with the princess?”  

Benji shifts his weight, leaning from one foot to the other. “Supposed to,” he begins, his words tumbling out, “but I don’t know—I’m not so sure that I’ll go through with it.”  

Your expression falters, disappointment washing over you like a cold wave, combatting the intolerable warmth of the sun.  

“Why not?”  

He shrugs—a timid, shy gesture that feels so unlike the predator you had snuck up on. “There are over a hundred men in there,” he waves an arm to the castle, to the Great Hall within, “all waiting for an opportunity to impress the princess—meanwhile, I can hardly get out a single sentence without choking on my own spit.”  

Your laughter bubbles up involuntarily, a few giggles spilling past your lips. The Blackwood boy shoots you a playful glare from beneath long, dark lashes.  

“Well,” you begin, absentmindedly toeing the dirt between you, “perhaps the princess might find it endearing, don’t you think?”  

Benji scoffs. “Doubtful. I mean, think about it!—she’s a princess!”  

Your eyes widen, glimmering with mock-offense. “And what is that supposed to mean?”  

Once again, that crimson tinge returns to his skin, crawling up his neck, this time.  

“I meant no offense,” he defends himself, mistaking your expression for one of a Lady meaning to defend her princess. “But what could I possibly offer a princess?”  

You tilt your head, pretending to think on his words. “Well, the Blackwoods do have a history of being valiant warriors, do they not? And you seem to be quite skilled yourself,” you say, daring to let your stare drift down to his arms, the short sleeves of his tunic revealing well-muscled, sweat-slick biceps.  

He snorts. “I’m willing to guess that the princess would likely care naught for my skill with a sword.”  

“Then you would guess wrong,” you retort, a faint, teasing smile on your lips. “Many say that the princess herself is quite skilled with a blade—I imagine she would quite like a boy that’s capable of challenging her.”  

Benji’s eyes darken a shade, an unreadable expression crossing his features. “And what about you, Mylissa?”  

The false name catches you off-guard, but you do your best to hide it.  

“What of me?”  

A bit nervous, he asks, “Would you like a boy that can challenge you?”  

Your heart stutters in your chest—skipping several beats as his stare lowers, dipping past your waist and falling upon your thigh. On the dagger sheathed there, no doubt.  

Heat begins to crawl up your neck, hotter even than the sun's blistering rays. “Oh—” You stutter, words lost upon you.  

It’s true that you were used to the attention of men. After all, your morning has been filled with it, and soon enough the rest of your day will be, too.  

But this was different.  

Benji wasn’t giving you attention because you’re a princess, a mere royal womb to strengthen his House’s bloodline. Rather, he was doing it simply because he wanted to—a feeling that was utterly foreign to you.  

Wiping a clammy hand on his sweaty tunic, Benji misreads your silence, taking a half-step back. “Apologies, my Lady—that was too forward and-”  

You don’t let him finish his rambling. Taking a step forward, you close the gap he sought to create between you. “I’ll make you a deal.”  

“A deal?”  

You nod. “As you know, the princess will be in the Great Hall for the rest of the evening, holding court with the other Lord’s who’ve come for her hand. I'd like for you to meet with her.”  

Benji cocks his head, confusion crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I truly mean no disrespect to your princess, my Lady, but I was asking if you might be interested in–”  

“I know what you’re asking, Benji.” You lift one shoulder in a casual shrug. “And after you meet with the princess, if you still wish to inquire about my hand,” you say, placing a palm to your chest, “then I will happily hear you out.”  

In the distance, a bell sounds out—signaling the time, you realize.  

“If you’ll excuse me,” you start, already taking a few small half-steps backwards. “I’m expected inside.”  

Letting his sword drop to the ground, Benji lunges forward to catch your wrist. “So you agree to meet with me after court, then?”  

“If you’re still interested,” you muse, a tinge of anxiety laced through your tone, “then yes.”  

The corners of his lips twitch into a bashful smile. “I give you my word that–”  

You planned to interrupt him. To tell him not to make oaths he wasn’t certain he could keep, knowing that he may very well change his mind about you once he realizes who you are—that you’re not technically a Strong. But, before you can, another voice intervenes.  

“Princess!” Ser Lorent calls out, exasperated, as he walks through the gate. “We must hurry, princess,” he continues, pausing only to give a wary glance at Benji’s hands wrapped around your wrist. “We’re late.”  

Your pulse begins to pound, a surge of adrenaline coursing through your veins at being exposed as a liar by Ser Lorent. 

Benji’s face goes blank—then his eyes go wide, big as saucers as you snag your wrist from his grip.  

“Princess...” He utters, voice laden with disbelief. “Princess?!”  

You can hardly bring yourself to do anything other than grin stupidly at him, nearly stumbling over yourself as you back-up to where Ser Lorent is waiting impatiently.  

“It was lovely meeting you, Benji!”  

You hope he can hear just how genuine your words are.  

“I’ll see you in the Great Hall,” you call out over your shoulder, sparing him one last glance as Ser Lorent guides you to the gate, watching as he blinks in astonishment, still processing the revelation.  

Walking back towards the inner-castle, Ser Lorent glances down at you with a knowing look. “You seem giddy.” There’s a teasing glint to his words that makes you roll your eyes, cheeks flushing. “So,” he continues, his brisk pace never faltering, “does this mean that your statement from lunch no longer stands? That, perhaps, this sweltering purgatory may yet grow on you?”  

You bite your cheek, a permanent grin still etched onto your face.  

“Let’s just say that I’ve decided it’s best to keep my options open, Ser Lorent.”  

a/n - you may ask yourself: lainie, why would you refer to him as mostly BEN in the last fic and BENJI in this one??

and the answer? I have not ONE clue. my brain is rotting and benji is cute.

anyways, hope you guys enjoy this one! feel like I got to explore more of his personality here. additionally, I need HBO to know that if this boy ends up not being benjicot blackwood then I'm gonna fucking riot

benjicot blackwood tag list - @a-song-for-ages @ghostinvenus