mirage-of-a-victory

[mirage-of-a-victory]

Worth Remembering - 19

Part 18 | Masterlist

Emperor Caracalla x fem!reader x emperor Geta - 18+

Summary: You find yourself widowed, pregnant and forced to chaperone your sister-in-law at the imperial court. At least mourning traditions keep you practically worlds away from Rome's twin emperors. That is, until an injustice calls you to the other side of the imperial seaside residence.

Includes: reader is a (very tired) pregnant widow; Caracalla has mommy issues (this is an understatement); reader has a name and I think a personality (?); historical inaccuracies, because I am writing this based on what I remember from secondary school Latin classes; undoubtedly spelling mistakes (sorry!!)

Series warnings: the twin emperors; non-con/dub-con; violence in various degrees; misogyny; slavery; pregnancy

Chapter warnings: violence; gladiator games (finally); some semi-(?)vivid descriptions of crucifixions

Word count: 5.5k

Once your litter nears the Colosseum, you call it to a halt. As soon as you push back the curtain separating you from the city, the clamor of the people swells into an obtuse mix of yells, cheers and applause. Varus hurries to your side.

‘Empress, you should —’

‘I want to see them,’ you dismiss him, getting out of the litter.

As soon as you are on your feet, you are flanked by Praetorians on all side. The people of Rome are kept at bay only by their fear of these men’s swords. You know Geta and Caracalla mistrust the masses. They only like to show them their faces on official occasions, when there is a comforting distance between the imperial persons and the faceless crowd. But while your husband and brother-in-law barely leave their palace unless official business calls them away, you leave the palace’s ground occasionally for prayer. And thus you have come to realize that for all their shouting and screaming, there is little to fear of them. Or at least, if there is some imperial person they wish to hurt, it is not you.

You pay no mind to their calls, their questions, you are only focused on one thing. Macrinus and his spies have been nailed to wooden crosses. And it is along the Via Sacra, the road connecting the very heart of Rome, that these crucified traitors are exhibited. In total around a fifty people are thus suffering on high crosses by the roadside. Fifty people dying such a gruesome death because they would dare to harm your husband, you, your child. Even your child unborn. It is strange that even when seeing the lethal pain on their faces, in their naked bodies, you do not feel any pity, let alone remorse. There is only emptiness.

You stop at the cross to which Macrinus is crucified. The soldiers even nailed down his feet to the wood. To your dismay he is already dead. Alongside all of his minions he looks ordinary. Mundane even. There is nothing to look at here.

You turn back to your litter, but then notice something in the common commotion around you. There are just not shouting your name, praises or obscenities — all things to which you were used to.

No, there are two rarities in today’s clamors.

The first — the title augusta.

The second — questions about your unborn child.

You gesture to Varus and whisper in his ear. He straightens his back and in his deep voice he shouts, ‘The empress’s unborn child is dead — murdered by these traitors.’

And then you point at the many crosses, crooked and bloodied by the road, at the people either writhing in torment on them or hanging limp and lifeless from them. The people begin to yell and boo and some even try to pull down a few crosses, apparently insistent on bringing bloody justice to the conspirators themselves.

‘Empress, I beg of you, return into the litter, lets get you to the arena.’

Seeing that, indeed, a terrible pandemonium has settled over the populace, you adhere to Varus’s plea and retreat into your litter. As your slaves hurry to get you as quick as possible to the Colosseum, you pull your knees to your torso, hugging yourself.

They did not kill your child. Nona told you so, as soon as the two of you had a moment alone. She whispered her sins into your ear: when news came to her of the miscarriage, she took her chance. And now you took yours.

It is not as if you lied. Sooner of later, Macrinus would have killed the whole imperial family, you and your child included. So you did not lie, although you were not entirely truthful either. It simply does not matter. The people of Rome love you. And to survive this imperium, which so despises your husband, you have to be loved by them. Who knows, perhaps through loving you, they may come to loving their emperors as well.

As soon as you walk through the private entrance for the imperial household and their guests, a pair of hands grab your shoulders. Out of instinct you try to push them away, but they hold you in too strong a grip. It is Geta, you realize when you have gathered yourself, and his dark eyes are wide with anxiety.

‘Are you hurt?’

You blink, then let your gaze drift from his panicked expression to his ringed fingers digging into your shoulders. ‘I am fine.’

An enthusiastic babble draws your attention. Caracalla approaches, carrying your little girl so that she sits upright with her back against his torso. She is dressed in a pretty, yellow tunica onto which Caracalla pinned a pretty brooch in the form of a moon. Nerulla may be dead now, but Telesina still received a teething ring — on which she is biting insistently. She is blissfully unaware of the way her father is gnawing his lower lip.

‘They could have — they could have killed you,’ Caracalla stutters. ‘The people they are vile.’

That’s strong coming from him.

‘They may hate you, but they love me,’ you retort. ‘Geta, hands off, if you please.’

Your brother-in-law relents and you reach for your babygirl, but she is insistent on staying in Caracalla’s arms for now.

‘Daddy’s girl,’ you sigh.

At least that wipes away Caracalla’s anxiety. He grins proudly.

‘Do not make a habit out of getting so close to them,’ Geta whispers as he takes his place at your other side. ‘The masses are unpredictable.’

You only hum, not interested in discussing this any further. Even though you have a lot to say. After all, having miscarried only yesterday you would have preferred lying in bed all day. Alas, your presence is required to show the people the imperial household stands strong.

‘Gods, Thurina, do you relish in making me look like such a fool?’ Geta laments.

At this Caracalla laughs. ‘Brother, you have no idea what you have gotten yourself into.’

Not quite pleased to be talked about thus, you ask, ‘Are we just going to stand here?’

Geta scoffs, then claps for everyone to take their position. You are confused when Geta and Caracalla insist on you standing between them. ‘My husband should be in the middle, his —’

‘For today you are seated between us,’ Caracalla interrupts.

‘The people may hate us, but they love you,’ Geta adds.

You feel heat settle in your cheeks at him using your own words against you. Clearly, this is a non-debatable topic. So you brace yourself and flanked by the twin-emperors you walk up the stairs to the imperial box. The clamor of the crowd crashes into you like stormy waves. You are once again reminded of how many people this theater can host: sixty five thousand. And today the it is packed full. It is as Caracalla said, a third grand chair has been placed at the front row of the imperial box. Yet, instead of allowing you to sit down immediately, Geta takes your hand to lead you down the few steps to the edge of the balcony. You make sure to slip your hand from Geta’s as soon as you need no assistance.

While the emperors wave at the crowd, you only look at them solemnly. Your husband is dressed in luscious red, ears pinned with dangling earrings, while Geta is clad in heavy bronze and blue. Both of them wear laurels, despite the campaign being celebrated not being theirs. Once again you must appear quite underdressed in comparison. You have donned a dark blue stola and palla — as close to mourning black as would be proper on such a joyous occasion. The only jewelry you are wearing, is a ring Caracalla gifted you. Despite all this, the crowd is once again chanting your name. And that title again.

Augusta.

Telesina, confused by all the clamor, looks around with a deep frown. She almost lets her teething ring fall, but you take hold of it quickly. When she refuses to accept it again, you bop her little nose, making her yelp. Your interaction does wonders for the crowd’s reception of the imperial family, as they set to applauding more. The chanting of your name and the title you have not been bestowed, only ceases when the man himself enters. Then the name on everyone’s lips is Marcus Acacius. The laureled general seems to modest to approach, but Geta gestures for him. You greet your friend with a subtle smile and inch closer to your husband, to make place for him. Geta all but forces Acacius to address the masses, and once he does, the whole Colosseum bursts out in cheers.

The whole affair is crazy and absolutely dizzying. You are quite relieved when you are finally allowed to sit down. Although then you only feel out of place. Sitting between both emperors, you are elevated to the heart of the imperial household. Only now you are seated, do you take the time to take in your surroundings. Acacius and Lucilla are seated on the row behind you, together with Egnatia Agripinilla and her father. Yet Geta goes on happily ignoring his fiancé.

The gladiators are announced and you hold your breath for a moment. Even before Cato decided to die in a match with a gladiator at a party, you never much enjoyed games. The last time you attended them, must have been half a decade ago. You left early, feeling so sick to the stomach that by the time you arrived home, you had already vomited in the front yard of one of your neighbors. This time, too, you feel an uncomfortable feeling settle in the pit of your stomach.

The morning is all about men fighting beast. The first animal these ten or something gladiators have to confront, are baboons. As soon as the fighting begins, you turn to look at your baby girl. She is too young to understand what she is watching at — that is, if she even sees the arena from where she is seated. You hope the violence remains out of her sight. Caracalla rocks her on his knee, as he follows the bloodshed below in the arena with twinkling eyes. Biting on your tongue, you force yourself to watch as well, but you tense as you see an especially rabid baboon bite a piece out of a gladiator’s neck. A mere moment later another one pierces the beast’s head with a sword. The fight goes on for half an hour or so. At the end, one corpse is removed and one gladiator is pulled out of the arena to receive immediate medical care.

A break of a quarter of an hour follows, in which you retreat with your husband and babe to the rooms behind the imperial box. You sit down behind a drawn curtain to feed your babygirl, while Caracalla rants about the fight. He comments on sorts of violence which you blissfully failed to notice.

‘The real danger of the animal bites is not the bleeding or even piercing vital organs. No, no, you see, if they do not kill the gladiator immediately, well, the beasts carry all sorts of diseases.’

‘In that case, I understand why the gladiators would prefer a death in the arena,’ you comment.

Caracalla pulls aside the curtain and slips into the small space with you and your child. ‘I hope one of them dies today. On the sand. Perhaps, perhaps! Perhaps I will finally be allowed to bestow judgment.’

You take your husband in as he is now, all giddy and excited. How he can relish so in needless bloodshed, even if it is supposed to be a sacral ordeal, is beyond you.

‘By midday Telesina and I shall return to the palace,’ you say as you unclasp the fibula still in place and move Telesina so she may suckle from your other breast.

‘Whatever for? You’ll miss the spectacle. Mellitula, just stay and enjoy.’

‘You know I do not quite like this,’ you retort. ‘I much prefer races.’

‘Then we will have races for Bassiana’s birthday!’ he decides, but then, again he pleads, ‘Please, do not leave. It’s much more fun with you around.’

‘How? I just… sit there.’

‘Exactly. You sit there. Beautiful, wonderful you.’ He cups your face in his hands and then with playful severity he decides, ‘You must stay, wife, I insist. It is your place, right beside me.’

Between you and your brother. You keep the thought to yourself.

He leans in and kisses you in that soft, careful way he does when he is trying to coax you into being the obedient wife. You wish you were not swayed so easily, but when his lips brush so sweetly against yours, you find yourself relenting too easily.

‘As you wish, husband.’

He grins, and disappears behind the curtain again. When you return to the imperial box, you find Caracalla annoying one of the Praetorians and Geta conversing with the general and his wife. His own fiancé is, to your chagrin, once more neglected. Egnatia Agripinilla is trying to face the embarrassment by staring straight ahead, into the momentarily empty arena. Even if she fails to show you the respect your position deserves, you feel for her. She is barely sixteen, she has no idea what she has gotten into except what she has been thought: she will wed a man, be loyal to him, and provide him with as many babies as she can. You can only imagine how hurt she must be due to Geta refusing to show her even simple cordiality. Still keeping Telesina upright against your shoulder, you stop by the young lady’s chair and ask, ‘How are you enjoying the games?’

Agripinilla looks at you with liquid fire in her eyes. The poor girl is at the verge of tears. Yet, she still speaks with arrogance, ‘It is wonderful, thank you, Volusena. How is the little Bassiana liking them?’

‘She has no idea what is going on,’ you dismiss her rudeness. ‘That is most likely for the best. Geta —’ You turn to your brother-in-law. ‘— your bride-to-be looks thirsty.’

Geta turns to you, disturbed mid-phrase. You confront his challenging gaze head-on. The time when you feared his annoyance or dismay have long passed, and neither do you much feel intimidated by the threat in his dark irises. He relents and snaps his fingers. A slave brings him a cup of wine, which he offers coldly but cordially to his betrothed.

‘Thank you, my emperor,’ Agripinilla speaks.

‘Agripinilla inquired about the gladiators performing today. You know better than I, Geta, why don’t you enlighten her?’

Before he can protest or try to complicate you into the conversation, you approach the lady Lucilla, leaving Geta to tell Agripinilla all there is to know about today’s arena fights.

‘You look radiant, milady,’ you tell Lucilla. ‘I am happy to see you once again in the company of your husband.’

‘Thank you, empress,’ she bows her head slightly. You do not expect more from Rome’s most favored princess. ‘I see your little girl is bothered by teething aches.’

‘Very much so.’

‘I believe we must thank you, milady,’ Acacius comments.

You frown. ‘I do not…’

‘The emperor Geta and Caracalla have granted Lucius leave to Hispania,’ Acacius explains, and his wife adds, ‘It is still not Italia, but in this province he is allowed to roam freely.’

‘I am not involved in this,’ you reply honestly. ‘But I am happy. For all of us. It is time to leave needless feuds behind.’

‘I do think you are involved,’ Lucilla remarks, ‘even if you do not realize it.’

Before you can assure you that your influence does not reach so far, trumpets announce the beginning of the second round. You sit down, with Telesina still pressed against your shoulder. You are surprised the crowd sets to chanting your name. It is Geta who urges you, ‘Stand, show them the child.’

You hesitate, but then convincing yourself that your baby girl will not even realize what is going on, you do as he demands. You stand and turn slightly, so Telesina may see the crowd, chanting over and over again the name bestowed onto her by your husband.

Bassiana.

After a minute or so Telesina begins to squirm in your embrace, and you return to your seat, exhausted. Your heart is thumping hard against your ribcage. And still the crowd cheers, but now for the gladiators entering the arena. Those who survived the first round will now have to face the wrath of hungry lions.

‘Mellitula,’ Caracalla calls and blinking you turn to him, ‘Are you alright?’

‘That was a bit too much,’ you admit.

He leans over and makes you take a sip from his cup of wine. ‘You need to drink more. The day is warm..’

A drop spills and when you retreat it drips down your chin. Wiping it away with the back of your hand, your gaze falls on Geta, looking at you as if he is contemplating something terrible. Caracalla reaches for your hand, however, and so as an obedient wife you accept to hold it. Telesina falls asleep against your shoulder, paying no mind to the raging of the crowd.

‘Whatever makes you think I would agree to go to Hispania of all places?’ Nona scoffs while a slave girl combs her dark moist curls.

The tepidity of the bath has made you all soft and relaxed. After the hectics of today’s gladiator games you felt you deserved to be pampered just a bit. You lean over the edge of the bath, resting your chin on your forearm, as you take in Nona’s figure. The damage of her marriage has yet to fade; the bruise on her shoulder is still dark blue, and the scars on her thighs a deep red. She has not spoken a word about it, and you would not be surprised if she never did. What she must have gone through under the hands of that man must have been beyond nightmarish.

‘I hear my estate near Tarraco is very beautiful,’ you try.

‘And very old. Do not get me wrong, I do not intent to stay in this godsforsaken city,’ she assures you, ‘but I am leaving for Cato’s — your estate, I mean, just outside of the city. I will not evacuate myself to the other side of Mare Nostrum.’

Although you have missed her banter, this is not the topic on which you wanted to meet her in discussion. ‘Nona, please, I only trust you with this.’

‘Just send Sejanus. If you allow him to bring his wife and daughter, he —’

‘I cannot be subtle about this, can I?’ you interrupt her with a sigh. You stand up, water droplets falling from your naked form. ‘I am trying to get you there, because a certain someone will be there as well.’

Nona looks at you with narrowed eyes. ‘Who?’

You let a pair of slave women wrap you in a towel and then slip closer to your sister. You whisper the name in her ear.

‘Are… are you messing with me? If you are, Thurina, I swear to Mars —’

‘I am not,’ you insist. ‘I wanted to surprise you, but I see now that I cannot. I spoke with the emperors at dinner. Lucius will be sent to Hispania and allowed a career in law or literature or anything which has nothing to do with the military or the state. And you are free to go to my estate in Tarraco to see that it is maintained.’

‘But Geta would not allow it,’ Nona retorts, pushing the woman combing her hair away. ‘He despises me. And Lucius, why would he — Why would your husband? Caracalla even more than Geta hates Lucius, fears him as —’

Softly you interrupt her ranting, ‘They are finally opening their eyes to the truth of the world, Nona.’

She shakes her head, unconvinced by your reasoning. Agitatedly she demands a slave to hand her a towel, and clenches her jaw as she wraps it around herself.

‘I will not go,’ she asserts.

‘Nona —’

‘No, I will not do it,’ she insists. ‘I will not leave you with those two men. I only just returned to your side —’

‘Sister, I am married to Caracalla, nothing can ever change that. This is my place, I cannot go, but you?’ You take deep breath. ‘Nona, I urge you, go to Hispania. Be with the man you love. You are still too young to suffer all on your lonesome on our estate outside of Rome. Neither do I want to see you become a shadow of yourself at this court.’ You see her hesitation lingering and add with a roll or your eyes, ‘You do not even have to marry him, you do know that? Just go have some fun, or, or something. If you want to return in half a year do so. But please go. For his sake. Your sake.’

‘We are only just reunited,’ Nona murmurs.

You give her a soft smile and push a lock of her hair behind her ear. ‘I missed you too.’

She wraps her arms around you, and you make sure the embrace lasts a while. Admittedly, you do not want her to go. You want her all to yourself. But after all she has been through, she needs to be away from this city. And she needs to see the man for whom she has suffered so or the wounds she has suffered will only fester. When you finally retreat, she admits, ‘I will go. But only to see your estate put in order. I do not care about Lucius.’

From how she speaks, how she lowers her eyes it is obvious she cares about Lucius very much. But you allow her to keep her pride. Once both of you are redressed, you see her off to the guest quarters before retreating to you own. The hour is late already. When you go check up on Telesina, she lies fast asleep in her crib. Her little lips are parted and her fingers are moving as if she is trying to grasp something.

‘Sweet dreams, sweetheart,’ you whisper before kissing her little head.

You are disappointed to find your bed empty. Caracalla must have set of to his concubines once again. As if your unborn baby did not die inside your womb just yesterday. As if the both of you have no loss to grieve. For a brief moment you fear he may just have forgotten. It would be the first. He may fail to remember courtiers’ names and faces, he may mix up details on state affairs, and at times he believes his mother to be alive, his father to stalk these halls — but he never forgets when it comes to you. But maybe this was a tragedy he’d rather ban from his memories. The thought alone brings tears to your eyes and you sit down on the bed slowly.

Placing a hand on your belly, you finally allow yourself to drown in the loss. The confusion. You had not been sure you wanted this baby, until you lost it. Perhaps grieving it would have been easier if it had indeed been poison taking it from you, and not your own body failing. Why did it happen? Why did the gods resent you? Perhaps they feel you are failing Rome. But you are doing the best you can.

You do not know if you can handle this a second, third, gods forbid, fourth time.

A banging sound in the distance. A bolt of fear rushes through your body, as a short scream escapes you. When you turn to the general direction of the disturbance, you, however, only see Geta emerging from the small adjoining room serving as Caracalla’s closet. In his hands, he holds a lush coat.

‘Did I scare you?’ he asks and he does not even try to hide his amused smile.

You are in no mood for his stupid antics. ‘Just go.’

But he does not move. You feel his gaze on you, and feel terribly vulnerable under it.

‘Sister, what is wrong?’

Why does he have to ask that? You are in no state to react to this simple question as you should. And indeed, all it does is bring tears to your eyes, set a lump in your throat. At this Geta drops the expensive looking mantel and approaches you, as if he would a wounded horse.

‘Thurina,’ he says softly, ‘if it was today, if it was too much, the people and the games — you can stay here tomorrow.’

‘I lost my baby, Geta.’ The words finally escape you, all broken and messy. ‘I… I just… And Caracalla, he…’

He hesitates, just for a handful of seconds. But then he sits down beside you, ‘I am sorry for you. What Macrinus and his rats did. Their souls will be tormented for this.’

But it was not them, it was you. Only you failed in this. You repress the confession. They must never know Nona’s lies, the treachery you became implicated in, even if it was for the greater good. But gods, you cannot go through this again.

‘How can you bear it, Geta?’ you whisper. ‘I hate being empress.’

‘Yet you far outshine me and my brother in imperial grace, augusta.’ When he sees the compliment does not draw a reaction from you he tries, ‘This is all I have known. I do not know who I would be without Rome.’

‘Well, you’d be just Geta, I suppose.’

‘Just Geta,’ he repeats. ‘You are the only one who treats me like that. As if I am not crowned and throned.’

‘As your sister I am one of the few people who can,’ you retort.

‘I had a sister before, and she could not manage me, let alone my brother.’

You tense at the mention of Fulvia Plautilla.

‘You have no idea, do you?’ he asks. ‘How… grateful I am that you are here?’

You meet his dark eyes, drowning in an affection you did not know he could even hold. Softly you tell him, ‘Geta, I do not want to be here.’

‘I know. That is why I am all the more grateful.’ He swallows down hard. ‘You once asked me, why I was so occupied with how you are raising your daughter.’

‘You sounded angry with me,’ you retort.

‘Caracalla and I had a wet nurse each.’ He adverts his eyes from you. Solemnly he goes on, ‘We were not raised on the same milk. But we did experience the same cruelty. Whenever my mother would try to sing us to sleep, care for our childhood bruises, play along in our games, our father would see to it that it never happened again.’

‘That is heartless,’ you only manage.

‘When he died, I considered cutting open my father’s corpse to see whether he truly had a heart,’ he states dryly. ‘I must admit, being raised like that, you confused me.’

‘I can understand.’

‘My brother is extremely lucky, Thurina, to have you as a wife, as a mother to his children, and as an empress. I am sure…’ He takes a deep breath. ‘I am sure the two of you will have more children. Lots.’

‘I just wish…’ you begin to say, but you shake your head.

‘What do you wish, sister?’

And when he speaks to you so carefully, so kindly, you fail to keep it to yourself.

‘I just wish my husband would hold me when I am hurt. Instead of setting off to his concubines, he should… he should…’ The tears finally spill from your eyes. ‘I am a married woman, then why am I so lonely?’

And when Geta finally pulls you into his embrace, you allow yourself to sink into his touch. His one arm holds you close by the small of your back, while his other hand softly cups the back of your head. The smell of him — deep and tangy — comforts you. You let your head rest on his shoulder and feel your breathing settle in a steady rhythm, your tears drying on your cheeks.

‘Caracalla does not mean to hurt you,’ he whispers. ‘He is just… clumsy.’

You sniffle. How delicately his fingers massage your scalp — you cannot imagine you felt awful just a minute before.

‘I know.’

He holds you so closely and tenderly like that for a long while. And it may have lasted even longer, if the doors did not open. In comes walking your husband. You tense, but Geta does not let you slip from his arms. Being kept in place as you are, you can only watch as Caracalla comes to a staggering halt before the two of you. He is keeping his arms secretively behind his back. He grins, raising an eyebrow, but before he can make a lewd comment, Geta says, ‘Your wife is feeling lonely, brother.’

‘I — I am sorry,’ he stammers, ‘I did intend to be here before she, but it took longer than expected.’

Then he shows what he is keeping hidden: a small wooden figure in the form of a cat. It is not that which draws your attention, but the tidbits of cloth tied around his fingers. They are stained red.

‘It is your Silvatica, mellitula,’ he announces.

You sit up straight, but still Geta’s arms remain around you, as does your hand stay on his strong torso. ‘You cut yourself, husband.’

‘Yes, I carved it myself!’ he beams with pride. ‘It has been a long time, but I managed —’

‘Your fingers, my sweet, you cut yourself.’

His mouth is open for a moment without a sound coming out and then he scoffs. ‘Just a few drops of blood. I would spill more just to see my wife smile.’

You accept the little figurine and are quite surprised to see it is so detailed and finely carved. Such delicateness you would have thought beyond Caracalla’s mastery.

‘Your spilled blood would not make me smile, husband.’ And then you add, ‘Thank you.’

He licks his dry lips. ‘So you like it?’

‘Yes,’ you stand, Geta’s touch falling from your body.

You turn to your brother-in-law — and are utterly confused by the tenderness you feel for him in this moment. ‘Thank you as well, Geta. Do not forget what you came here for.’

He stands slowly and then sets to receive the cloak.

‘That’s mine!’ Caracalla immediately retorts, but before they can set off discussing, you place your hand on your husband’s cheek and tell him, ‘Let’s get that white paint of your face, shall we?’

‘It is mine, I just let you borrow it,’ Geta says as he walks past, but Caracalla is to distracted by you to react.

‘Bassiana likes Dondus,’ he says as you sit him down on a settee.

‘Maybe I should carve her a little ape.’

You ignore his suggestion as you dip a sponge in bowl of water. ‘I thought… I thought you were with your concubines again.’

The giddiness in his demeanor dies down. He is gnawing on his lip when you place the moist sponge against his cheek.

‘I prefer to be with you,’ he says, as a layer of white is wiped of his face. ‘We’ll have more children, mellitula. It is like you said, not easy at all, but… we’ll have more.’

‘Lots,’ you agree softly, rinsing the sponge in the basin, before bringing it to his face again. ‘You know, I much prefer you without all that paint.’

Post-scriptum

Somehow you have fallen asleep. Seated between two emperors, while the crowd is yelling and cheering and applauding, and a naval battle is being performed in the flooded arena — somehow you managed to fall asleep in the midst of all this chaos. Admittedly, little Bassiana did keep you awake almost the whole night. The little girl refused to just be quiet and good and fall asleep, and you refused for a slave to take care of her.

Seeing that his brother too is marveled at your feat to fall fast asleep during the games, Caracalla mouths to him, ‘Do not wake her.’

Geta rolls his eyes, and gestures for another cup of wine. Caracalla scratches Dondus’s head. The monkey is sitting on his shoulder. As Dondus chirps, Caracalla’s attention drifts to the pretty girl sitting behind Geta. Egnatia Agripinilla looks down at your sleeping form with a childishly angry frown. He does not like the girl much, not with how she tries to seduce his brother and leers at you and keeps her head so high.

In the flooded arena the two ships finally crash and you jolt awake at the crowd’s rising cheers. Blinking you find his gaze.

‘What?’ you ask bluntly when you see him stare.

‘You fell asleep, mellitula.’

Your eyes dart from left to right as if caught in an unbecoming state. Then you must see something quite debauched in the arena for you shake your head and say, ‘I was dreaming so nicely and now this.’

‘Were you dreaming of me?’ Caracalla inquires.

You keep silent, but the smile on your lips betrays it all.

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[mirage-of-a-victory]

𓀏 ﴾ 𝕹𝖘𝖋𝖜 𝕳𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖔𝖓𝖘 | 𝕰𝖑𝖎𝖏𝖆𝖍 𝕸𝖎𝖐𝖆𝖊𝖑𝖘𝖔𝖓﴿𓀏

𓀏- 𝕰𝖑𝖎𝖏𝖆𝖍 𝕸𝖎𝖐𝖆𝖊𝖑𝖘𝖔𝖓

🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭

𝖂𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌 | NFSW Content, Cockwarming, Subtle Voyeurism

𝕹𝖔𝖙𝖊 | Gender Neutral Reader (however use of of the word cunt) This is a continuing work.

Thigh garters. Wear some thigh garters, and you have this man sat.

Stops in the middle of sex to give you a break. He always had water bottles and your favorite (nutritional) snack on standby. 

He loves a good tease. Whether that's you not wearing any underwear under your clothes or walking about the house in mesh lingerie, he will speed you to the bedroom, and have you, no matter the time of day. 

The moment you kiss his neck, or hand, or chest, he's ready for you. (Sometimes you'll catch him blushing)

He is a dom, sometimes he'll let you take the lead, but he's unwaveringly always a dom.

Relishes cockwarming. Your lips or cunt around him as he reads? Impatiently squirming for him as he turns to the next page? Definitely.

Loves to be between your thighs, especially if you squeeze his face, it…calms him for some reason.

Thigh riding is his guilty pleasure. Seeing you pleasure yourself on his thigh, desperately blabbering and begging him to fuck you. It's exhilarating.

Occasionally when he’s just watching you clean the dishes, read a book, or put some jewelry on, he'll get a hard-on. (Your mere existence is a temptation to him)

His favorite position is missionary, he wants to stare into your eyes while he fucks you. He wants to see exactly what he is doing to you. 

Moisturizing after showering is the most seductive thing you can do. Lathering up oils and lotion onto your skin, not even paying attention to his ever-peering eye. And your glistening naked body? He gets so hard it’s painful. 

Once you told him that you adored his hands, and he looked at you with an intense gaze as if you tempted him. For the next several hours, you were pounded to the point where you were wrecked by his cock and your orgasms.

Suffice to say, if you give him a compliment, he's fucking you right then and there.

You don't have to seduce him “Your mere existence is a seduction” (as he says). Any little thing you do, he finds immensely attractive. (there was this one time you were sucking some food off your fingers, and he practically charged at you)

...

𝕿𝖔 𝖇𝖊 𝖈𝖔𝖓𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖚𝖊𝖉

𓀏- 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖁𝖆𝖒𝖕𝖎𝖗𝖊 𝕯𝖎𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 | 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕺𝖗𝖎𝖌𝖎𝖓𝖆𝖑𝖘

𓀏 - 𝕸𝖞 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

𓀏 - 𝕭𝖑𝖆𝖈𝖐 𝕺𝖗𝖕𝖍𝖊𝖚𝖘 - 𓀏

🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭

[mirage-of-a-victory]

 𓀊﴾𝕳𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖔𝖓 | 𝕰𝖑𝖎𝖏𝖆𝖍 𝕸𝖎𝖐𝖆𝖊𝖑𝖘𝖔𝖓﴿𓀊

 𓀊- 𝕰𝖑𝖎𝖏𝖆𝖍 𝕸𝖎𝖐𝖆𝖊𝖑𝖘𝖔𝖓‏

🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭

𝖂𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌 |

𝕹𝖔𝖙𝖊 | Gender Neutral Reader, This is a continuing work.

Once you're in a relationship, he doesn't allow you to pay for ANYTHING.. 

He allowed it before, as you weren't in a relationship yet so he didn't want to seem overbearing (yet he always offered and encouraged you to let him pay for things)

However once you're in a relationship with this man, your wallet will never be opened again. 

He also enjoys you asking him for things. Whether that's a glass of water, a shopping trip or a back rub. He wants to be wanted or even needed by you, in any way.

He loves listening to you ramble, and talk about any of your interests. The light in your eyes as you blabber about any passion or interest of yours is captivating to him. 

He entertains any question or subject you wish to talk to him about, regardless if he is entirely knowledgeable about it (He’ll just let you take the lead)

This man practices subtle PDA, like loosely holding your waist when you're in line. Or rubbing your hand as you talk. He enjoys being close to you, and touching you, though he tries his best to refrain from affection in public. 

He actually really enjoys Halloween, the new ideas and takes on costumes inspired by the past and mythology are intriguing to him.

He likes washing you. Whether that's your hair or body. Like I've said earlier, he likes to take care of you, and If you're feeling lazy that day, he'll definitely jump at the chance to wash you. It's therapeutic to him.

He relishes spoiling you, but does respect your boundaries. If you say you don’t want to be spoiled, he’ll respect it. Sorta

He won’t buy something obnoxious like an entire house, but if you mention wanting a new phone, the next day you’ll have the newest one.

He truthfully appreciates a lot of modern music. More particularly conscious rap. It's enjoyable picking apart the lyrics. Just like poetry, and like any form of literary writing he’s enraptured.

Adores reading dates. He enjoys sitting quietly with you, both of you lost in your own books. It's pure heaven.

Whenever you compliment him, he'll get a a little cocky and smug. He won't show it at least obviously, but there are subtle signs. (he makes snide comments to his sibling about what they lack compared to him, using you as a reference)

He will have a smug smirk whenever you get flustered or visibly affected by him. He’ll tease you, with that damn smirk too.

...

𝕿𝖔 𝖇𝖊 𝖈𝖔𝖓𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖚𝖊𝖉

𓀏- 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖁𝖆𝖒𝖕𝖎𝖗𝖊 𝕯𝖎𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 | 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕺𝖗𝖎𝖌𝖎𝖓𝖆𝖑𝖘

𓀏 - 𝕸𝖞 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

𓀏 - 𝕭𝖑𝖆𝖈𝖐 𝕺𝖗𝖕𝖍𝖊𝖚𝖘 - 𓀏

🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭

[mirage-of-a-victory]

That's the most sensual thing I've ever read about Elijah.

Elijah loves to fuck.

It’s a little bit scary because he’s one of those guys who you would expect it from but the real deal is way crazier. He’s the type to hold you in place while he kisses you down your neck and make sure you were literally shaking.

You’d think it would be Klaus who’s insatiable (and he definitely is) but Klaus is like that because he just randomly wants to fuck you. Elijah gets turned on like magic.

You can take off your coat, just a little bit slow with your hair wrapped around your shoulder and your neck is visible, and now you’re in missionary. You’re bouncing up and down, and Elijah’s gripping the sheets next to your head. He’s staring deeply into your soul as he thrusts into you hard. Like he wants to break your pussy or something. And he might be trying too, you never know with him.

He’s talking to you, but quite a bit to himself, about how good you feel. About how cute you are, about how you should know better than to get him turned on in the middle of the day, about how it’s okay because your so pretty that he just HAS to forgive you. And when you try to squeeze out a sentence of rebuttal his big strong hands grab your warm face and he plants a kiss to your lips that has you wriggling under him and hoping this lasts forever.

In his mind, it’s your fault that you both spend so much time in bed. That he can’t stop grabbing your breast (he hates whenever you call them tits if you must refer to them in a way like that then he’ll accept boobs) and he can’t stop putting them in his mouth and making you melt. You look so good and you take such good care of him and the people he cares about that he just has to reward you for that.

How can he stop himself? When he wakes up horny, and has to go through the day stuffed in his suit. Then he sees you preparing to make breakfast for him in the kitchen. With that ass he adores and those breast he just can’t get enough of. His favorite handfuls. Your braids that you insisted had to be waist length are pulled into a pony tail that frames your face perfectly with two curled strands cupping your soft face. And you’re probably wearing a sun dress to combat the NOLA summer sun. He can’t help but want to take you in the kitchen.

But Elijah is a gentleman so settles for hugging you from behind and letting his hands roam up and down while whispering enticements in your ear.

“Why don’t you just come up to bed?”

“Elijah it’s 9:30 in the morning, I’m far from tired”

“Why don’t you come up to bed and let me reward you for looking so good?”

And it always works. The combination of him touching you like that and kissing your neck and whispering in your ear? Oh yeah. Draws dropped.

Now you’re back in bed in your room which was still messy from the night before when you came home from dinner and he put you up against your bedroom door.

Your dress was still on the chair from where he tossed it off you.

And he’s slowly peeling your dress off your body, while you rip off the buttons of his shirt with a tenderness. He’s looking at you like he wants to eat you, and he might do that. But when he slips his hand into your underwear and feels how warm and wet you are it’s ridiculous. He has no time to do anything else he has to fuck you and he has to do it now.

After all this time, you still seemed a little embarrassed at how wet you were but the other thing Elijah loves is that you’re a grown woman who also likes to fuck.

It’s why you both work so well.

And he’s already gotten you started. He knows it, because he knew the second he started feeling the soft warmth of your stomach and he felt your heart rate speed up he knew it. Elijah Mikaelson doesn’t just lay with any woman. You had to be a freak on some level but he lucked out with you.

You’ve unbuttoned the top of his shirt, and you won’t stop kissing him. It’s like he’s hypnotized you (which he would never do, to Elijah your word is basically law) and you’re fully giving him power. Your hands fumble with his belt buckle and you make sure you run your hand over his erection a few times. He feels you smiling into his kisses as he jumps his hips into your hand.

The way you whimper when he picks you up and places you on your back on your shared mattress, he gets a smell of your perfume and can’t help the growl that escapes him. Then he’s holding you by your face as he demeans you just a bit for wanting him so bad.

“What would you do without me? There’d be no one to take care of you and we couldn’t have that could we?” Then he’s going to nibble you on your neck.

He decides, to hell with your dress. He could just rip it but he does like this dress on you and doesn’t feel like going to the store for a new one. He doesn’t want to take his hands off you. He doesn’t want to back away long enough to take off your dress. He pulls down the top to free your breast, stunned by their beauty like always. You had tan lines, one part of your skin a lighter brown than the rest. The area around your breast covered by your bikini more specifically when you two head out into the sun for a swim.

Your underwear he didn’t mind ripping off and you were trying your best to get as much of his shirt off as possible. One of you needed to be sensible though. So you pushed him off for just a moment and looked up at him while you tore off his belt. He was standing over you at the edge of the bed while you were on your knees still on the bed.

You wanted it so bad it made him laugh. You were looking at him with those big brown eyes and you were breathing heavily. He ran his hands over your braids, and couldn’t help but bite his lip when he imagined what he was about to do to you.

You yanked his pants down, and then his boxers. All seven and a half inches of him sprung out at you and you, ever eager, gave him a long lick. Elijah shuddered, it was like you just sent an electric shock up him. Good god you were something. But Elijah didn’t have the time for all that, because of course Elijah has to do something with his days. Like cleaning up after his siblings. He could always get a blowjob later. Maybe he’d give you some too. Who was he kidding? Elijah loved giving head like it was no one’s business. But I’ll write about that later.

Did I mention that he loves being on top of you? In the sense that he has to be on top of you intimately. Squished on top of you, while he fucks you and you cream all over him.

He slides into you and can’t help the groan that escapes him. His head rolls back on instinct, and you shudder entirely.

He starts moving, rocking his hips into yours the way you like. Warm and wet, and tight with your back arching slightly. He presses his chest down against yours with his shirt open and his suit jacket stuck against his sweaty skin. The bed starts rocking as he picks up the pace and pulls your head to look him in his eyes.

It’s your weak point naturally. Elijah knows he’s handsome that’s why he keeping looking at you like that. He knows you can’t handle staring him in the face like that, and that it makes you want to act all types of crazy when he’s inside of you.

He likes asking you questions while he pounds into you. He does it hard but in a way that doesn’t make you feel like he hates you.

“Tell me how you feel.” You know things along that line.

And when he gets close to cumming, you can see the veins under his eyes start to push to the surface. His breathing gets heavier, but the effect he has on you is so much worse. He doesn’t even know but the way he has you folded on your back, begging him to cum inside of you speaks volumes when you were usually such a composed woman. But Elijah usually wouldn’t be muttering nonsense about putting a baby in you (especially when you both know it isn’t possible) so it works.

He likes when you both cum at the same time. He likes squeezing your breast tenderly, with the right amount of aggression to turn you on. He’s in your head, filling your brain with filthy images. He’s talking you through it, and then you’re both cumming. Elijah cups your face and tosses his head back (partially because his instinct is to bite you and he doesn’t want to scare you by biting you with no warning) and you’re letting out moans that Elijah wants to die hearing.

Elijah loves to fuck. He loves the soft tender feeling of squishing you, and feeling you grind up against him. He’s loves spanking you when you act out (brat tamer Elijah is coming soon trust) of line. He loves squeezing your neck just slightly. He loves when you pull out your variety of freaky tricks and when you let him have full control over your body. He’s loves you above all else. And fucking your brains out is one of his favorite ways to show it.

༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻

You guys can’t stop me, I’m on a roll

Guys Elijah has literally possessed me and I’m very much happy about it. I will not stop writing about Elijah I don’t even care if this is bad I just needed people to see my thoughts about him. He’s been my man since I was ten.

Anyways I don’t really know what this is either, I was scrolling through tumblr and randomly saw some porn so now you guys get to read this. Love you all and thanks for reading 🫶🏾🫶🏾🫶🏾

[mirage-of-a-victory]

Worth Remembering - 18

Part 17 | Masterlist

Emperor Caracalla x fem!reader x emperor Geta - 18+

Summary: You find yourself widowed, pregnant and forced to chaperone your sister-in-law at the imperial court. At least mourning traditions keep you practically worlds away from Rome's twin emperors. That is, until an injustice calls you to the other side of the imperial seaside residence.

Includes: reader is a (very tired) pregnant widow; Caracalla has mommy issues (this is an understatement); reader has a name and I think a personality (?); historical inaccuracies, because I am writing this based on what I remember from secondary school Latin classes; undoubtedly spelling mistakes (sorry!!)

Series warnings: the twin emperors; non-con/dub-con; violence in various degrees; misogyny; slavery; pregnancy

Chapter warnings: I did not edit this at all sorry; indecent dreams; suspicions of poison; miscarriage

Word count: 5.4k

Pre-scriptum

Your swollen lips, soft and wet, taste like lemons; sweet and sour. As he deepens the kiss, you dig your fingertips into his shoulders. Your soft whimpers and his greedy moans are muffled by the kiss. When you open your legs for him, his heart hiccups. Desperate to feel you, he lets his hands wander to the inside of your thighs. Your skin is even softer here than he imagined.

‘Geta,’ you sigh against his mouth.

His cock twitches impatiently. Burying his face in the crook of your neck, he assures, ‘I know, my love, I know what you need.’

‘No, Geta, you do not.’

Suddenly you sound far away. Startled he backs away, you are on your feet, looking down on him. The sun is setting over your shoulder. At the horizon a storm is gathering. Your figure is clad in dark red robes, as if you are covered in blood.

‘Do you not feel even the slightest bit ashamed, brother?’

The haunting ghost of you dissolves and when he opens his eyes, he is immersed in the dark of his chambers. Sweat sticks to his body like a second skin. Panting he preps himself up on his elbows. It is not the first erotic dream he has had of you, but it is the first to leave him so disheveled. To end so imminently. Most often you are soft and sweet on him, inviting you to delight in your body. Not once did your dreamform reject him. Until now. Yet, his cock is still achingly hard. With an annoyed groan he lets himself fall once again onto the mattress.

‘Augustus,’ comes the meek voice of a slave girl, ‘perhaps some water?’

He could order her to deal with his erection. He could fuck her and be done with this. But for months now the thought of any other woman in his bed than you has been enough to cool his lust. Horrible as the dream was, it still is as close as he may ever get to you. So with a hand gesture he sends the slave girl off before she may ruin his appetite. Until he has won you, his hand and his imagination will have to do.

Marcus Acacius is bestowed a triumph, to take place on the Kalendae of April. Having led the Roman troops to an overwhelming victory in Numidia, the time has come to sanctify his successes. The event causes you quite a headache, as it is up to you as empress to see to it that the official seats are distributed accordingly. Given the Roman nobility have no lack of internal feuds, it is quite a hassle to assure that no enemies are seated next to each other.

Even then, your official duties pale against your matrimonial ones. To say Caracalla is anxious about the ordeal is an understatement. The day before the celebrations, he refuses to lay down in bed. Instead, he inspects the golden armor he is planning to wear obsessively, and fusses over what Dondus should wear.

‘What you need, is sleep.’ You turn to lie on your side and gaze at your husband, sitting in front of a heap of clothing on the floor.

He says over his shoulder, ‘I am not tired.’

‘Look at me, Caracalla.’

For a moment he remains frozen, then he turns to you. With a soft smile you say, ‘Come lie next to your wife, my sweet boy.’

He blinks, his fingers digging into the little blue tunica he is holding and then finally he lets it go. He allows a slave to take Dondus from his shoulder and approaches the bed. You sit on your knees to help him out of the heavy clothes and jewelry.

‘What worries you?’ you inquire.

‘No-nothing!’

You remove his rings, one by one, letting them fall to the ground. ‘I know you. You are fussing. Why?’

He is left now only in a simple white tunica. Without his luxurious robes and decadent jewelery, he looks quite like a normal man.

‘Acacius has come back victorious,’ he says as he finally climbs onto the bed.

‘Bless the Gods for this Roman victory.’

You lie down onto your back, but Caracalla does not mirror your movements. Instead he sits on his knees in the middle of the bed, fumbling with the sheets. ‘It has been three years since Geta and I had our victory in Caledonia.’

‘You fear he will overshadow you.’

‘Rome measures her leaders by their military successes.’

You frown. ‘Do you want to go to war, husband?’

‘I…’

‘Hm?’ You reach for his hand.

Encouraged by the touch he admits, ‘I do not like… the discomforts of campaigns.’

‘You do not like war,’ you correct. ‘That seems to me a perfectly reasonable thing to say.’

‘Eventually, Geta and I — we will have to. If not on our own accord, the borders, they are —’

‘Husband,’ you interject, ‘There is nothing wrong with trusting such business to your generals. If it is your image which worries you, then I should remind you, Rome does not measure her leaders only in the wars they fight. There is always the brilliancy which they build.’

Caracalla frowns. ‘What do you have in mind?’

‘If you wish to make a statement, you could have something built,’ you suggest. ‘Baths, for example, I heard the city is in dire need for new baths.’

He contemplates your words and for a moment you fear he is going to slip out of bed again. But then he lies down on his side, wraps an arm around you and pulls you close. He smells of lavender and mint, as only an hour ago you covered his skin with a balm to ease the ache of the acne. You settle into the familiar fragrance.

‘My brilliant wife,’ he mutters as his hand moves to your belly. ‘How is our child?’

‘Tired,’ you whisper.

You are still unsure how to feel about the child growing in your womb. You assumed that, since you already have birthed one child, your second pregnancy would be at least less daunting to you than your first. Yet, the opposite is true. The hopeful bliss you felt while being pregnant of Telesina is markedly absent. Instead, there is only anxiety. Perhaps it has to do with the father. Although you have decided to put aside your ire, this child has been conceived in a period of resent and anger and disgust. Even now you are unsure how you feel about Caracalla. At nights like this, when he comes to you all sweet and tender it is easy to imagine yourself loving him. Less so when he shares mischievous glances with his brother, or returns drunk and feverish from an orgy. Yes, you laid down your anger, but not because you believe the wrongs have been righted. Only because you cannot afford to wear yourself out by holding onto resentment. You have a child to raise. If all goes well, then in half a year there will be a second.

You do not think all will go well. You place your hand over Caracalla’s lying on your tummy, once again terrifyingly convinced that the life growing inside of you will never bloom. While your husband sinks into a deep slumber swiftly, you lie wide awake for hours.

The crowd’s clamor crashes into your head like stormy waves. Last time you heard anything like this, was when the emperors and you entered the city last August. This time the people of Rome are not chanting your and your daughter’s names, however, but that of their general returned once more victorious. It are the syllables Marcus Acacius which the crowd calls again and again, and it is the man bestowed this name now making his way up the stair to the palace. Little Telesina is writhing confusedly in your arms. There is an anxiety in her eyes: she does not quite like the people’s cheers and chants. Rocking her slightly you look at the little boys and girls throwing red flower leaves onto the stairs as the victorious general approaches.

Your husband is dressed in golden armor, and although he was giddy about today’s celebrations in the morrow, now he looks more composed than you ever saw him. Geta, too, has not spared the theatrics, having donned an impressive white cloak over his golden armor. For all the authority claim to hold, they put far too much effort in their looks. You yourself have chosen for the purple stola and palla Geta gifted you, and some golden jewels. The approving looks of the senators gathered to greet the general have not gone past you. It appears your choice of dress — the imperial color, but the restraint in your choices of gemstones — is to these men’s taste. At least one member of the imperial family who does not overindulge in luxuries.

As Acacius comes to a still before the emperors, proclaiming his victory theirs, his eyes glance at you. You want to smile at him reassuringly, but you cannot permit it. The relief you feel at your most powerful ally’s return is indescribable, but you cannot let it show. As far as Macrinus’s spies are concerned, you and Marcus Acacius are cordial acquaintances.

‘Crown him in laurels, brother,’ Caracalla answers to Acacius’s proclamations, and as Geta places the victor’s crown onto Acacius graying locks, the crowd erupts in an intimidating applause and clamor.

Quite distracted you follow the three of them into the palace’s courtyard. The senators flock behind you. One of them approaches you, inquiring after Telesina’s health. He tells you a bit about his granddaughter in turn, before apologizing for occupying your time and retreating. When you join your husband’s side the subject at hand is, apparently, the general’s wife.

‘Remember the privileges we have granted her?’ He moves his jaw agitatedly. ‘Where is she now to ignore such an occasion?’

You raise an eyebrow. Lucilla’s absence has been agreed upon before. Admittedly, her excuse that events like these are simply too much to bear for her at her age is unlikely another way to thwart the emperors’ plans to abuse her exalted image in their own advantage. Yet, there is no need to bring this up now. However, you are too distracted to intervene in the conversation, because for whatever reason Geta is demanding one of the Praetorians to hand him his sword. Telesina reaches out for Caracalla, but you hush her, and take her little hand into yours.

Before Acacius can defend his wife — like any husband should in such a situation — Geta returns. With the sword in hand.

‘There are victories yet to come. Persia.’ He places the sword onto Acacius’s shoulder. ‘India.’ Onto the other shoulder. ‘Both must be conquered.’

‘Rome has so many subjects,’ the general retorts. And you must commend the man, for he does not move even when Geta presses the sword’s blade so deep into Acacius’s neck that it draws blood. Without looking away from the emperor, the general decides, ‘She much feed them.’

‘They can eat war,’ Caracalla comes in all too eagerly.

You clench your jaw. And this is the same man who last evening expressed being afraid of having to go to war. Annoyed by the general’s refusal to cower and submit, Geta throws the sword into the impluvium. It has been quite some time since you saw the two of them behave so erratically. Acting as they are now, they may fit into a badly written farce but as emperors they are only proving themselves inadequate.

‘So you want Rome to starve. How wonderful,’ you interject coolly. Before one of them can recover from you having spoiled their fun, you tell the general, ‘I am happy to see you returned safely and victoriously, Acacius.’

‘Empress.’ The general bows his head and reaches for your hand, but you tell him, ‘There is no need for that, Marcus Acacius. I have my hands full, as you can see.’

‘The little Septimia Telesina Bassiana has grown a lot.’

It remains surreal to you to hear others refer to her with the nomen gentilicium Septimia. After all, she has the Herminus nose. From the corner of your eye you see Geta clenching his jaw. Yet, Caracalla, who has already forgotten his annoyance over Lucilla’s absence, adds full of pride, ‘And my dear mellitula is expecting again.’

‘I congratulate you both, then,’ the general offers.

‘Thank you, general,’ you answer cordially. ‘I hear people have flocked to the city to attend the games held in your name. I do hope you will enjoy them.’

‘I just told the emperors that I —’

‘Your triumphs will be celebrated as tribute to the greatness of the Roman people,’ Geta interrupts him.

‘And we will hear no more protests!’ Caracalla decides with a grin, as his brother makes the general kiss his hand.

So the general does not insist on these games the twins have organized into the smallest details. You can sympathize. You as well do not look forward to having to sit for hours on hand into the imperial box as to be a spectator to violence and death. Alas, the spilled blood pleases the gods and the Roman people. You will have to suffer it, if only for five days.

What follows now is a banquet. The emperors go on to show off their esteemed general to the senators and their wives, while you sit down with your ladies. Quintina is no longer part of your inner circle, but the twins made sure Juventia Florentina would take her place. Although you cannot deny the comfort you find in having an old friend so close by, you are aware she is only welcomed at court precisely because she knows you so well. Florentina has all but admitted that both Geta and Caracalla try to pry from her information on your life before you came to court. She has promised to not reveal anything of worth, but you are still anxious. You do not consider anything you have ever done particularly scandalous or revealing, yet gods know that any inconspicuous fact may become a whip in the hands of those twins.

Even with Florentina around, you lament Nona’s absence at this very moment. You have been seeing more of her since your biweekly lunches with the senators’ wives. As agreed, she only listens and take notes — a slave’s task — but afterwards, there is always a moment to check in on her. Things considering, she is doing as well as you could hope. Her husband has stored away his violence, on the emperors’ warning, yet now their marriage is only filled with resentment. With her silence Nona has not proven to be the easy ticket into your private life, and as the emperors insist on overlooking her noble birth she does not even give him access into the Patrician circles still out of Macrinus’s reach. Now he has also come to realize she may never bear his child.

‘I am his greatest disappointment,’ Nona told you once. And then that mischievous smile you missed so reappeared, ‘I relish in this fact.’

The only worth she has to him now is your attachment to her. Thus you are assured you will see her later this evening. To the emperors Macrinus will show off the gladiators planned to fight in the arena, and to you he will demonstrate the authority he sways over your dear sister.

‘Egnatia Agripinilla is here as well,’ Messalina whispers to you as she gives Telesina a bronze rattle in the form of an owl.

Excitedly your little girl shakes the toy, giggling over the tinkling sound of the pebbles moving inside of it.

That Agripinilla has not come to greet you yet is, to say the least, indecent. You are the female head of the household, overseeing her marriage to Geta. Even when they marry, you will still have authority over her due to age, experience, and well, your child. Children. You place a hand over your belly, but it is still to early to feel the new life inside you kick.

You do not prefer to view hierarchies within families, but yours is the imperial family. Agripinilla is only a girl, however, and raised by an ambitious senator of a father. It is little surprise she has decided that between you two as sisters-in-law should exist some sort of competition. There is little you can do now to make her realize time and energy cannot and should not be wasted on such frivolous internal feuds. Hopefully, when she is settled in matrimony, she will calm down. Though, if Geta insists on evading his marriage bed, you may as well never have a sisterly bond with the girl.

‘Don’t they make a striking couple,’ you say to your ladies, as Geta kisses his betrothed’s ringed hand.

The way Agripinilla moves betrays her good education. Every movement she makes seems calculated and well-considered. As she matures, elegance will settle in her body, you are sure of it. Dressed in a pretty pink tunica, simple golden jewelry adorning her taupe brown skin, and her black hair done to the latest court fashion, she easily becomes the center of the room’s attention. It is absurd Geta seems so disinterested in her.

‘She is quite thin,’ Iusta notes, ‘It makes you wonder whether she will manage to survive child birth.’

You do not even spare the lady a glance. ‘Do not comment on her body. She is still young, still growing.’

Reprimanded, your ladies take to discussing the private life of a senator who is trying to engage your husband in conversation on what seems to be urgent business. Telesina has taken to biting on the rattle instead of shaking it.

‘I think I will need to get you a teething ring or something,’ you tell her, as your rock her.

‘It is the time for her teeth to start coming,’ Florentina agrees. ‘Does she already have a protective amulet, the type with the pierced tooth?’

You shake your head. ‘Casta advised to place a horse tooth in her crib as soon as teething began, to help with the pain, but I fear she will put it in her mouth and… choke on it.’

‘Not an unreasonable fear,’ your friend assures. ‘An amulet over her crib will suffice, I assure you. Honestly, I do not understand all that talk about placing horse teeth, wolf teeth in the crib.’

‘I’ll buy one tomorrow, after the games.’

‘No, no, I still have one. I’ll get it blessed once more by a priest and bring it with me tomorrow.’

Telesina lets out an annoyed sound, apparently feeling quite uncomfortable.

‘Thank you, Florentina.’

That is when Agripinilla, having given up on drawing Geta’s attention, finally approaches you — as she should have done before turning to her betrothed. She is accompanied by her mother, who only goes by her nomen gentilium Cervonia. She is a lithe woman from whom Agripinilla must have inherited her regal brow.

While her mother makes a respectful bow, the girl speaks boldly, ‘Volusena Thurina, I hope an event of this scale isn’t too weary on you in your delicate state.’

Her mother at least has the decency to cringe at her lack of cordiality. You do not mind, however. In comparison to Macrinus’s slyness and net of spies, you prefer the outright animosity Agripinilla shows you. And admittedly, you find her boldness quite amusing. Her comments only betray how little she knows of carrying a child or the expectations which come with being an empress.

‘I am doing quite well, Egnatia, thank you. Will you sit with me for a while?’

‘I fear I have still have a lot of acquaintances to greet. You know how it goes.’

‘I must congratulate you on the decree, empress,’ Cervonia tries to distract you from her daughter’s lack of respect. ‘I know many young girls and mothers will be happy to see that marriages under the age of fourteen are so discouraged.’

‘Even if we regard the fact no girl can be a woman before fourteen, it is well-known a pregnancy so early in life would only limit a woman’s ability to have multiple children,’ you reiterate the reasonings you brought, through your husband, to the senate. ‘I would prefer to prohibit it, but I can make peace with the senate’s decision.’

Said decision was to force any man marrying such a young girl, to pay a “compensatory sum” to the state. The decree is the first tangible fruit of your meetings with senators’ wives. Of course, there have also been declarations on proper dress code and behavior, but those are meaningless in comparison to this achievement.

‘You are empress, are you not? Why do you not just prohibit what you believe to be foul behavior?’

You eye Egnatia Agripinilla with a scrutinizing gaze. Calmly you tell her, ‘You are a senator’s daughter, are you not? And a woman too. Then surely you have all tools available to answer your own question.’

‘Empress, please forgive my daughter —’

‘There is no need,’ you interrupt Cervonia. ‘We will be sisters soon. It is only natural that we should speak boldly and openly with each other.’

Egnatia Agripinilla turns to her mother with a sly smile. ‘I am only trying to get to know my future sister.’

Noticing Telesina tugging at your stola, you stand. ‘Will you be joining us in the imperial box tomorrow?’

At this for the first time a sort of panic arises in Agripinilla’s eyes, but it is Cervonia who speaks, ‘The emperor has not invited us.’

‘There must have been an oversight. I invite you, then. If you will excuse me, a certain little girl is hungry.’

You retreat into a small sitting room not to far from the festivities. Telesina is in quite the difficult mood all of a sudden. She is hungry, but does not settle in your arms. Then she drinks from you, then she pushes you away, then she cries because she is still hungry. It must be the teething. You will have to discuss with Caracalla how to handle tomorrow. With Telesina like this, you cannot sit in the Colloseum the whole day. Once she is finally done, you set her upright against her shoulder. She lets out a burp and then a bothered cry.

‘I know, I know, sweetness.’ Then to Nerulla you say, ‘She needs a teething ring.’

The girl sets to leave, but as she opens the door, there stands Marcus Acacius.

‘General, are you lost?’ you ask.

You gesture Nerulla away, and Acacius enters the room. With your handmaiden away on an errand, you are completely alone.

‘I admit, I am here on purpose,’ the general says. ‘Please, empress, you should sit.’

‘No, no, Telesina just ate, she likes it when I walk around with her after. But please, do you sit down. You must be weary from the war and that long journey back.’

Humbled the general sits down. For a moment he is silent, and you are very aware he is investigating you. It has been quite some time since you last spoke and back then, you were not even Caracalla’s betrothed.

‘I must admit, empress —’

‘Thurina,’ you interrupt. ‘Marcus, our correspondence has been the only thing soothing my worries over Rome. So call me Thurina.’

He bows his head. What an example of Roman piety he is. How he reminds you of another man — one you had to forget and evade, lest you were to remain faithful to Cato.

‘Thurina, then. I will speak freely, if I may.’

‘Of course.’

‘When the emperors spoke to me earlier today —’

‘When they played at dramatics, you mean.’

‘Well, yes.’

He does not dare to mimic your playful smile. You are empress and can thus afford to ridicule the emperors. A general cannot do the same.

‘When the emperor Geta spoke on the conquest of Persia and India, that was cause for worry. Your intervention, however, … I believe what I am trying to say so clumsily, is that I am relieved that when Rome is bestowed two such emperors, she is also blessed with an empress like you.’

‘Do not hold me in too much esteem, Acacius, there is only so much I can do.’

‘What you can do, you do well.’

‘Perhaps in light of that, you must know, that… the talk of Persia and India will remain only that. Talk. I believe it is the company of sycophants such as Macrinus and that other one, Thraex, which makes the emperors… act up, if you will.’

‘I am unsure,’ he admits.

‘I am sure,’ you retort. ‘Macrinus wants to be emperor. And for that to happen, the current ones must prove incapable. He is trying to make them into his fools, Acacius, and I will not stand to see it.’

‘The gladiator master has indeed become a problem,’ Acacius admits.

‘My officers have noted as well, how he bribes important figures in the military. He is trying to get the Praetorian guard to his side.’

You hold Telesina a bit tighter, imagining what would happen to her if the guard decided to crown that man and his ambition.

‘This must be dealt with before the games end,’ you decide. ‘We have quite some people willing to testify, do we not? And that letter, the one sent to bribe the senator Rutilius?’

Acacius lowers his head in admittance. ‘It may not be enough to convince the emperors. But through senator Gracchus we have found someone willing to testify on a matter which just may sway the emperors to see beyond the smoke into the light of truth.’

‘Who?’

‘One of the men Macrinus sent to… to kill your parents-in-law.’ You stop rocking Telesina, your whole body becoming completely still.

‘What…’ You do not manage to speak. After all these months of investigating, you failed to gain any clearer sense on the matter.

‘He has recently become a Christian, and apparently his new faith has urged him to seek forgiveness for his sins.’ Acacius stands, but still keeps his distance. ‘This man testifies that it were Macrinus’s men who took your child all those months back. To scare you and the emperor. He had Nona’s parents blamed, because he already planned to marry her and with her parents dead, their immense wealth would go to through her to him.’

‘Oh gods, how I hate that man.’

An uneasy feeling settles in the pit of your stomach.

‘There is also… also the testimony of my wife.’

‘Acacius, I would not presume… I know that whatever she did was for her son. She does not need to be involved.’

‘No, she insists. Lucilla guessed Macrinus was behind it from the beginning, and struck a deal: she would confirm his story on the kidnapping, if he were to speak in favor for her son.’ Acacius folds his hands behind his back, standing straight. ‘But now she suspects Macrinus will have Lucius killed soon on Pandataria. The man’s ambitions know no bounds.’

‘If only all these testimonies did not come from the people the emperors believe to be their enemies. Lucilla, Gracchus, you,’ you lament.

‘The Christian, the letter, and the minor witnesses must balance that out. And you, Thurina, they trust —’

Suddenly a sharp pain pierces through your womb and black spots blurry your vision. Wide-eyed, you let out a shriek and stumble back. If it were not for Marcus Acacius’s dexterity, you would have fallen onto the floor — and little Telesina with you.

‘Empress —’

‘Take my baby, call a doctor,’ you groan through the pain.

He does as you ask him to, and as soon as Telesina is out of your arms and safely in the general’s embrace, you allow yourself to sink on the floor to curl into yourself. You are vaguely aware of Telesina’s crying disappearing in the distance, the fuss around you — slave women rushing to your side, Praetorians flowing into the room — but all you can feel is the burning inside your belly. And the slickness pooling between your legs. When finally Caracalla sinks down on his knees beside you, you look at him in tears, ‘I lost it.’

Post-scriptum

Dondus is chirping incessantly as he ruffles through Caracalla’s hair. As soon as the little monkey saw his keeper in this state, eyes red from crying, rocking little Telesina’s crib, he set to trying to soothe his master. And it worked. The only thing now keeping Caracalla’s tears at bay, is Dondus’s familiar sounds and touches.

‘I put them in danger again,’ Caracalla murmurs. ‘It is my fault, Dondus, I am… I am pathetic.’

It all happened so suddenly. One moment he was drowning himself in wine, the next Marcus Acacius called for a doctor to be brought to the empress.

To you, his sweet mellitula.

You lost the child. And from there all began to spiral. As you were laid a bed, stola sticking to your legs due to all the blood all of a sudden there was theorizing on the cause. It could be your own body failing its duties, you admitted, but it was your sister, having somehow made her way into your rooms, who spoke the word poison. And yes, that is why you called for the doctor. So that Telesina would be examined, because you had only just fed her. From that point on Caracalla failed to think straight. To think at all. As the doctor forced your poor little girl to throw up, a crowd gathered in the bedroom. Not just your sister, but your freedman, Marcus Acacius, Lucilla.

The attention turned from your weakened body to a set of letters, a group of slave witnesses and a Christian spilling a horrific story on Telesina’s abduction. Lucilla admitted to lies, in favor of her son, and a net of spies spanning his whole household was revealed. The prefect of the guard was contemplating taking a bribe. The span of the conspiracy was terrifying. As was the depth of it. Nona insisted that the miscarriage was the result of her husband’s scheming. But your own handmaiden, who admitted that since the very moment Caelius bought her into the household she had been tasked with spying on the empress, vowed to have no knowledge of a poisoning. She was sent off to be crucified nonetheless.

Whatever the cause of you miscarriage was, it has become undeniable that Oppelius Macrinus has betrayed the empire. Him. The gladiator master, imagining himself invincible, had set his mind on usurping Caracalla and Geta. But the only reason why he got so close to his goals, was because the twins themselves had been so easily manipulated. Blinded by his fatherly guise, his flattering, his amusements the twins had allowed a viper to live and thrive in their household for months.

And it has cost Caracalla his unborn child.

At least his little Bassiana is sleeping soundly. If she indeed through your milk was poisoned, then the doctors intervention had come in time. The baby shows no signs of discomfort or illness whatsoever. Yet, Caracalla dares not leave her side. He will rock this crib all night. He knows you would do so, but you are too tired and weak.

He does not hear his brother come in. Yet, when a shadow falls over him, Caracalla immediately recognizes Geta’s presence.

‘Tomorrow, Macrinus will fight to the death with his own gladiators,’ Geta decides.

‘No,’ Caracalla murmurs. ‘Have him crucified with the others. In the arena, he will only find glory in death.’

‘As you wish, brother.’

With crossed arms Geta leans over the crib.

‘I am sorry, Caracalla,’ he whispers as his gaze is on little Bassiana, fast asleep. ‘For your child. But, the doctors assessed that there are no reasons to suspect Thurina has… She is still fertile. There will be children.’

‘I put her through that.’ He looks up at his brother. ‘I am a wretched husband.’

A moment of silence and then Geta decides, ‘You are.’

Even though Caracalla accused himself, Geta’s agreement only adds salt to the wound. Dondus jumps from Caracalla’s shoulder onto his lap, and Caracalla cannot help a smile.

In a hoarse voice Caracalla remarks, ‘You are only cruel to me, because you still want to lie with her. And I cannot fault you for that, so I forgive you, brother.’

‘You should join your wife in bed.’

‘No, she worries over Bassiana. So I am right where I should be.’

‘Then perhaps I should join her,’ Geta considers aloud.

Caracalla scoffs. ‘She would scratch your eyes out.’

‘Likely.’

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[mirage-of-a-victory]

is it crazy to ask for NSFW alphabet headcanons for abbé de coulmier? I apologise greatly if it is :( please no worries if not!! I love ur work so much

Here you go dear! I hope you will enjoy it, don't hesitate to comment^^

A = Aftercare He is at his most priestly in the aftermath. Wrapping you in blankets like vestments. Wiping your brow with tender fingers. He whispers prayers, half for you, half for himself. Yet there is always a trace of fear in his eyes, as if each time is one step closer to damnation.

B = Body part Your hands. He stares at them when you speak, when you sleep, when they touch him. He’s obsessed with the way your fingers wrap around his wrist, cup his face, or leave invisible marks down his back. They’ve become instruments of both salvation and surrender.

C = Cum He’s conflicted. On one hand, it disgusts him, the rawness of it, the sticky evidence of what he’s done. On the other, it fascinates him. He touches it like he shouldn’t. Sometimes he doesn’t clean it up right away. Sometimes he makes you watch him taste it.

D = Dirty talk Rare, but piercing when it slips past his control. You’ll hear fragments of scripture turned profane. His voice stays quiet, like it’s meant for confession, not conversation. “Do you want me to fall, my love? You’re so good at leading me astray.”

E = Experience He had no real lovers before the asylum. But the Marquis changed that, not through action, but influence. The writings corrupted his thoughts. He began to imagine things. To want. By the time he touches you, he’s read enough to be dangerous.

F = Favorite Position Something intimate, something eye-level. He needs to see your face, to feel every shift in your body. He likes it when you're on top, it absolves him of initiating, of power. Yet when he breaks, when he gives in, he grips your hips with a desperation that says 'mine'.

G = Goofy Rarely. But when you catch him unguarded, clumsy after bliss, sheets tangled at his ankles, he’ll laugh, soft and breathless. And when you laugh too, he looks at you like he’s found heaven in a heresy.

H = Hair The Abbé’s grooming is meticulous. You’ve watched him, when he didn’t know you were watching, at his vanity, smoothing a comb through his hair with almost ritualistic precision. There’s control in it, discipline. But what lies beneath the cassock? dark, soft curls trailing down his stomach like some secret path to ruin. He trims neatly, not for vanity but for cleanliness. Or so he tells himself. In truth, he thinks of you every time the blade grazes too close. Of how your mouth would look against that same path, how your breath would warm his thighs. He always pretends to be scandalized when your fingers run through his hair during sex. But when you pull, just slightly, he whimpers. You’ve learned he likes to be undone, strand by strand.

I = Intimacy He craves it like wine. Not the physical, though that too, but the closeness. Your breath on his skin. Your heartbeat against his chest. You sharing your past with him in the hush of night. He’ll never admit it, but he weeps quietly sometimes, afterward.

J = Jack off Yes, more often than he would ever admit. It started as guilt-ridden, silent sessions in the dark. But now, he sometimes thinks of you on purpose. He finishes on the floor of his chamber, forehead against the stone, whispering your name.

K = Kinks Power imbalance. Confession as foreplay. Blindfolds. Restraint, especially being the one restrained. He also harbors a secret curiosity about pain, about being punished., for his dirty mind, his sins.

L = Location He prefers confined, secret places: the vestry, behind locked chapel doors, the alcove of his chambers. Somewhere the saints on the wall can’t see, or maybe where they can. That ambiguity excites him.

M = Motivation He’s always at war with himself. Love pulls him to you. So does loneliness. But when desire takes hold, it’s not gentle, it’s ravenous, almost fearful. You become the only thing that makes him forget his God.

N = No He’s careful, cautious. If something makes you uncomfortable, he stops immediately, even apologizes. But if you ever say “no” during something he initiated, he shatters. The guilt consumes him for days.

O = Oral He excels at giving. He considers it his penance, his mouth put to use for your pleasure. He’s focused, trembling, sometimes murmuring verses between kisses. When he receives, however, he struggles. It feels like surrender, and that terrifies him.

P = Pace Slow and intense. Every thrust is laced with meaning. He holds you like you might disappear, watches you like a prayer answered and then torn apart again. But when the need overtakes him, he can become rough, almost punishing.

Q = Quickie He pretends he doesn’t like them. That it’s beneath him. But when you grab him by the cassock and drag him into a shadowed corner, he forgets every vow he ever took.

R = Risk He lives in it. Every kiss, every touch is a blade at his throat. The asylum echoes. Royer-Collard is never far. And still, he reaches for you.

S = Stamina Surprisingly high. Once he allows himself the indulgence, he’s insatiable. He makes up for lost time, for all the years he denied himself. He falls asleep tangled in you, wakes hard again by dawn.

T = Toys Unfamiliar at first, except for what the Marquis showed him or wrote of but if you guide him, if you place something in his hands and say, "use this on me", he’ll obey. Eyes wide, breath caught. His curiosity is darker than he admits.

U = Unfair He uses your desire against you sometimes. Whispering praise when you’re desperate, denying you release until you’re trembling. “You wanted a holy man...” he’ll murmur. “This is what I am. Shall I show you what else I’ve become?”

V = Volume He’s quiet. But not silent. There’s a breathy, broken quality to his moans. He sometimes gasps your name like it wounds him. If you push him far enough, he whimpers.

W = Wild card There was a night, once, when he asked you to mark him. With your teeth. Your nails. He needed to be reminded that something could stain him more deeply than sin. That you chose him.

X = X-ray (what’s beneath) A haunted man. A body trained in abstinence, undone by need. His touch is reverent but his heart is desperate. He fears losing his soul, not to hell, but to you. And part of him wants you to take it.

Y = Yearning Always. Even when he’s inside you, he’s reaching for more. He wants your soul, your secrets, your past and your future. He wants to be consumed, and consume you.

Z = Zzz… Sleep never comes easily. He holds you while you drift. He strokes your back absently, murmuring psalms he barely believes in. When he does fall asleep, it’s always curled into you, like you’re the last piece of grace left in his world.

thank you for reading and please don't hesitate to comment, really motivates me to keep writing! <3

tag list: @lyoongx @weirdflecksbutok @skaravile @niniita-ah @stardancerluv @sgtsavoytruffle @charlie-sisters @ohcarlesmycarles @valentina15 @bring-your-holy-water​​ @fly-like-a-phoenix​ @we-were-electrocute​ @sophiefleck​ @the-queen-of-things​ @five-miles-over @jokerflecker @galos-writing @bb-skyrunner @buttergirlie

[mirage-of-a-victory]

Relationship HCs

Still unsure of how I wanna write the Sinners characters so forgive me if these are a bit choppy, I'm working on it!

Warnings: Mentions of blood, death, and very slight arson, brief mention of sexual talk(Stack), mentions of crime, brief mention of a gun(Smoke), mention of stalking(Remmick obvi), manipulation(Remmick), control(Remmick), kinda gaslighting(Also Remmick, damn this guy's a catch), AFAB reader in mind though it's mostly gender neutral, I think that's it

Characters: Smoke, Stack, and Remmick

Elijah "Smoke" Moore

His life has been full of corruption, backdoor deals, and distrust in the system. That's just how it is for men like him. Smoke reads people like newspapers, and you earn his trust slowly. If you're "not from around here," he watches you like a hawk at first.

On the other hand, Smoke doesn’t "date"—he courts. Expect slow-burn tension built through lingering glances, quiet walks through town at dusk, and handwritten notes left tucked in a book. It’s old-fashioned in the most soul-stirring way.

He doesn’t open up quickly. Early on, he watches you more than he speaks to you—measuring your words, your reactions, your soul. But once Smoke trusts you, his emotional depth is staggering. He doesn’t say "I love you" often, but when he does, it lands like scripture.

He isn’t the type to grandstand. He protects you with subtleties—walking on the side closest to traffic, checking the locks twice, noticing when your mood shifts even if you don’t say a word. He’s like a steady hand on your lower back guiding you through a crowd. And he'd kill for you without a second thought. But you’d never know—his threats are silent. Just a hard stare, a slow stand, a calm "We done here?"

Smoke doesn’t announce his anger. He doesn’t rant, or threaten. He watches. Measures. Files it away. If someone hurts you—really hurts you—he doesn’t need to raise his voice. He’ll simply make sure that person’s luck runs out. Even if that's simply pulling out his pistol.

Smoke likes smalls rituals. Consistency. Getting up at the same time, making the bed, making coffee, sitting down to eat. He’ll invite you to share those rituals, not to control you, but because sharing sacred things is how he shows love.

You'll never have to guess what he wants. Despite not being a talker, Smoke isn’t a game player. But you will need to read between silences. In return, you get loyalty and devotion that feels elemental.

He's not PDA-heavy, but behind closed doors? Smoke’s hands say everything his mouth doesn’t. He holds you like he’s grounding himself. It's deliberate, reverent. Like he's memorizing every part of you.

Elias "Stack" Moore

Stack falls fast and hard—if he's into you, everyone knows. He’ll drag you into a whirlwind of chaotic plans, late-night drives, half-baked schemes, and sweet nothings mumbled against your neck at 3AM.

If anyone so much as looks at you wrong, he’s ready to throw down. You're his, and though he’d never cage you, he makes damn sure you feel claimed—in the best, most delicious way.

He can sweet-talk you into anything—an argument, a kiss, a stupid adventure. But beneath the charisma is someone who feels everything too much, all the time. You’ll be the calm in his storm, but Stack needs someone who isn’t afraid to stand up to him, too.

He’s the kind of guy who says "I love you" mid-fight, throws his jacket over a puddle for you, and would absolutely get you anything you ask for, even if it's mentioned in passing.

A stolen locket. A nice coat he bought for you. A flower plucked from the cemetery fence. He shows love like a fox bringing gifts to your doorstep—part concerning, part suspicious, but still all sweet.

Physical affection is constant with Stack. Arms slung over your shoulders, kisses on your temple mid-sentence, rough hands tangled in your hair. Stack loves hard, and he needs to feel close to you to function.

He uses every possible term of endearment for you—"doll," "sugar," "honeybee," "sweetheart," "babygirl," "pretty thing." He’ll call you "trouble" with a grin and whisper sexual things under his breath in front of others just to see you blush.

You spend most nights at the Juke joint together. He thrives in low-lights with the blues playing and whiskey flowing. He’ll take your hand and twirl you through a crowd like you’re the only person alive. He might get into a fight. He'll likely win. He’ll definitely make it look like it was for you—even if it wasn’t.

Stack takes things personally. You cry? He’s already on his way to break somebody’s jaw. He doesn’t think first. He reacts. Wildly, passionately. His love is loud, so his vengeance is louder.

Stack's temper is a match waiting for a strike. But with you? He softens. Even during the fights you may have, he'll barely raise his voice, if at all.

He is feral about making sure you’re taken care of. He grew up knowing pain and hunger, and you’ll never feel it if he can help it. Even if it means going back to a life of crime.

Remmick

At first, he waits. Watches. Learns what you like, what you dislike before you ever know his name. Then, Remmick woos like a gentleman—pulls out your chair, quotes poetry, knows exactly when to laugh, when to lean in, when to say your name like it means everything. But it’s never just romance—it’s strategy. Your reactions are data. Your affection is leverage. At least, that's how it started.

Everyone else is expendable, usable. But you? You’re different. Once you’re his, he doesn’t let go. He might test you, manipulate you, but it always comes with that unsettling devotion. You’re not part of his plan. You are the plan.

He'll act like some upper class man in most scenarios, folks trust easier that way. But when it comes down to it, he fights like someone who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. Because truthfully, he did. That duality is part of his draw—and his danger.

With enough motivation, he can find anyone. And if they hurt you or insult you, you won’t hear a word about it after the fact. You’ll just see a headline the next day about a new missing person. And his only comment? "I warned 'em."

Whether you have money or not means nothing to Remmick, he doesn't want that. He wants your loyalty. Not the easy kind. The kind forged through shared secrets and dangerous truths. If he has your trust and you have his, he’ll kill the whole town for you. Burn the world for you.

He's possessive, but not always openly. You won’t always see it. But you’ll feel it when someone else touches your hand too long. That cold silence. The next day, the person is gone. "They had debts," "Shame, really."

Remmick doesn’t control in obvious ways—he guides. He convinces. Suddenly you’re wearing what he likes, avoiding who he hates, echoing things he’s said. But he frames it like care. And maybe to some extent, he believes that's what it is.

He doesn’t believe in second chances. Betrayal is met with ruin. But if you wrong him—hurt him, lie to him—he can’t let go. Not really. He might punish, withdraw, twist the knife—but he won’t walk away. You’ve been branded into his soul, and he hates that as much as he craves it.

Someone talks bad about you? They’re scared shitless later that night. Touches you without permission? Their business burns down. Hurts you? They vanish. He doesn’t just get even—he erases.

He trusts almost no one. Most people he keeps close are pawns and usually not even people. But you? You’re the one person he doesn’t use, even if he manipulates the world around you. He’d kill for you. He’d die for you. And though he'd never let it happen, he expects the same devotion.

You’ll never get the full story (At least not while you're human). Not until it’s too late. You’ll know pieces: his banjo, the letter in a foreign language he hides, the night he came home covered in blood with calm eyes. You’re not sure if he’s trying to protect you—or protect himself from what you might think.

[mirage-of-a-victory]

criminal/stickyfingers!smoke x bimbo!black!fem!reader.

The first thing you smell is cash. Not cologne, not motor oil, not even the cigarette he’s always pinching between his fingers—but cash. Raw, bitter leather and metallic ink. Money. And it trails in behind him like smoke itself, slinking through the wide halls of the home he bought you, echoing off marble and soft light.

You’re bent over the marble kitchen counter, syrupy hips poking out from a pink satin robe, the one he got monogrammed with Mrs. Moore stitched over the heart. Bare legs glisten. Anklets jingling. Lipgloss always fresh.

His voice glides in slow. “Why you always bakin’ somethin’ with ya ass out like that, baby?”

You don’t answer at first. Just stir the sugar into the sweet tea with two fingers, lazy, wet swirls. You feel his eyes all over you—thick and hot like honey down your spine. So you tilt your head and smile, glossy lips parting just enough.

“Because you like it, Pa.”

Smoke chuckles low in his throat. Gravel. The kind of sound that makes your thighs brush together. He drops the duffel bag on the floor with a thud—money, of course—and strolls toward you, slow and greedy.

He wears all black, shirt halfway unbuttoned, gold chains dancing on his chest. You know he didn’t come home through the front. You know the duffel’s not from any bank that would shake hands with a man like him. His knuckles are still red. His ring’s still bloody.

But he pays all the bills.

You ain’t even know what a light bill looked like since you met him. His hand finds your ass before his mouth finds your cheek. A kiss, soft, reverent. Fingers sinking into the dough of you, making you gasp.

“You make my whole fuckin’ house smell like sugar,” he murmurs, brushing his nose down your jaw. “My sweet girl.”

You giggle like it’s innocent, though your knees are going soft and your robe’s slipping open. Your lashes flutter, thick and heavy. “M’just makin’ cake,” you hum, eyes glossy, dumb, pink. “Thought you’d be hungry.”

“i am hungry.”

You feel him growing against the back of your thigh. You let out a little coo, one of those bimboish gasps he lives for. His big hand wraps around your middle, just under your tits, pulling you close like he owns you. (He does.)

“Cake can wait,” he murmurs in your ear. “But I can’t.” And neither can you.

[mirage-of-a-victory]

I never thought I'd say this, but I want to suck a flaccid dick, but only if it's Joel's!

Sticky

Pairing: Old!Joel x Reader

Summary: Joel can’t get it up. You lick frosting off his flaccid cock to help increase the bloodflow a little bit.

Warnings: 18+. Another fic for my AARP-affiliate fuckers. Soft cock ✔️ Buttercream frosting ✔️ Needy old Joel ✔️ Oral (m!receiving). Foodplay. Acute erectile dysfunction. Feral!Reader. Age gap. Daddy kink. Lots and lots of spit.

Note: To the anon who sent this request in today—I 🩷 U

Word count: 1.2k

He didn’t deserve you.

Really, in all the sixty-something years he’d been alive, Joel Miller felt as if he’d struck gold when he landed a partner as considerate, kind, patient, and sweet as you.

He thought if you got any sweeter right now, he’d have to head to the doctor to get his blood pressure checked out—that was how wild and saccharine things were looking.

With his elbows resting limply on the armrests of his favorite recliner, feet planted shoulder-width apart on the wooden floor, and his eyes trained in one, lone line, Joel felt like his stomach might fall out of his ass at any second. His hips jerked as he felt a loud, wet pop below.

You pulled off his cock, frosting all over your lips and chin

“That feel OK, daddy? Any better than before?”

Better than you could even imagine.

Joel blinked through the dreamy haze before his eyes and peered down at you. You were knelt between his legs, and your face was dripping with spit and icing.

You’d been licking and sucking cupcake frosting off his dick for the last twenty minutes, and the limp bastard hadn’t stirred a bit. He was still soft as he’d ever been.

Joel leaned forward so he could cup your glistening chin.

“You feel the best,” he assured you gently. “Always do. But I’m, uh…I’m not sure he’s gonna cooperate with us today. You sure you wanna keep on goin’ like this, baby?”

“‘Course I do. This is fun.” You grinned.

After three years, two babies, and more love and laughter shared than any man like him could ever hope to have, Joel felt a tug at his heart. He couldn’t believe his luck.

“What? Suckin’ this old, limp—” he started, about to disparage himself and that nasty bout of erectile dysfunction he’d been experiencing of late. Before he could finish, though, you took him back in your mouth.

You nudged his hand aside and dove right down to the base, with your lips flaring around the soft, tender skin. Silver hairs tickled your nose, and you just giggled at it.

The reverberations from that little laugh traveled up in a second from his tip to his stomach to something deep and primal and needy percolating inside him. It caught him off guard. In the next moment, you were sliding off, letting his member droop down, but only long enough for you to dip two fingers in the container of icing you’d brought up with you. The stuff was bright and pink.

It also happened to feel like a dream when it mixed with your spit and soaked your tongue. You stuck your index and middle fingers into your mouth, and with the frosting all over your tongue, you leaned down.

You licked Joel’s tip. Coated him in the stuff.

“Don’t talk bad about your dick. He’s my best friend, y’know,” you murmured, clearly smothering another grin.

Before Joel could reply, your lips were pursing together, and a big, shiny glob of saliva slid out. You drew your mouth even closer to his frosting-coated head, and you spit on it. You gripped him mid-shaft, and you worked the moisture that slid down in a series of quick pumps.

Joel’s jaw went slack, and he groaned.

“Best—best friend, huh? That really how you feel?”

At the same moment, your lips parted again to take his cock in between them. Your mouth slid down, pushing the spit and the pink frosting with it, and, in tandem with the strokes of your hand, you sucked him messily. Repeatedly, you bobbed your head up and down.

The whole time you did it, your eyes were trained on his.

If Joel weren’t sitting down, he would have collapsed.

A shuddering breath left his lungs, and, without thinking, he lowered a hand to your cheek. While your mouth kept sliding back and forth over his still-flaccid cock, he tried to follow it while he could. He cupped your jaw and felt trails of spit and sugar that had trickled as you sucked.

Something tightened in his gut.

Nothing stirred between his legs at first, but then, when your lips left him again and you flattened out your tongue to give his member a long, slow, teasing lick, he let out a groan. Spit was smeared in a line, and his balls twitched.

You were committed to this. As if sensing the faintest movement down below, you moved your lips to the rounded globes, and you sucked one into your mouth.

“Fuckin’ shit,” Joel hissed.

You sucked the other one in. You teased the tip of your tongue over them both, and, while Joel was trying his hardest not to go into cardiac arrest from those motions alone, you leaned down. Swiftly, you took another dollop and drew it out with three fingers—a little more this time.

Joel expected you to smooth it over his shaft with your lips and then suck him down again. Maybe stick out your tongue and drag the whole pinkish glob down to his balls

Instead, you lifted your hand to him.

It was under his chin in no time at all.

“Suck it off my fingers, daddy. Please.”

Joel wasn’t thinking. He couldn’t compute.

Somehow, still, with his brain barely online, he opened his mouth to you and let you push three icing-stained fingers inside it. Eyes round, he felt your touch pull out and prepared to swallow it whole. Then you stopped him.

“Don’t eat it,” you said, eyes twinkling.

Joel paused. He blinked dumbly back at you.

“Wh—” he started to say, mouth full of frosting.

Before he could get out a word, you parted your lips.

“Spit it in my mouth.��� And then your tongue pushed out.

In that moment, Joel thought he might lose his mind.

It wasn’t like the request was even particularly obscene—you’d done plenty of dirtier things together before—but now, here, you were meeting his gaze with such a soft, innocent look, and something about the sheer idea of feeding you this frosting was like a punch to the gut.

He steeled himself briefly. Unblinking, and with his brain feeling like the consistency of scrambled eggs, Joel leaned forward, and he reached for your throat.

His fingers secured themselves gently around your neck like it was second nature to him, and you tilted your chin.

Joel met your gaze. It was soft, sweet, and loving as ever.

Thinking again how fortunate he was, he pursed his lips.

As soon as he spit into your mouth, the words slid out.

“I love you, baby. Don’t deserve you the least little bit.”

You caught the frosting easy. Your lips closed around it, and with your eyes still locked on his, you let part of the same thick glob dribble out—past your lips, down your chin a bit, enough to trickle down the throat that he was still holding—and then you fixed him with the softest, sweetest smile you could manage before lowering again.

Then you let the rest dribble down his cock, which, to Joel’s mind-numbing surprise, was suddenly partly erect

You weren’t looking at it.

Your gaze was still holding his, and in it, Joel found nothing but the same, unadulterated feeling that he had. Your whole face was practically radiating that look.

Chin smeared, lips smiling, and a now stiff, throbbing cock caked in frosting gripped in one of your hands, you blinked back up at him like it was the most normal thing.

For a beat, Joel didn’t think that he could love you any more than he did in that moment, and then you said:

“Of course you do, daddy. I don’t mind getting sticky.”

[mirage-of-a-victory]

Yan! Chrollo forced F!reader to take shows with him

Yandere Chrollo making reader shower with him

He definitely does he’s such a dick

Warnings: Noncon mention, sex in exchange for privileges, Yandere, kidnapped reader

Pls follow if you like the headcannons ♥️

/|\^._.^/|\ /|\^._.^/|\ /|\^._.^/|\ /|\^._.^/|\ /|\^._.^/|\ /|\^._.^/|\

You hate it with him, your life wasn’t perfect before he took notice to you but it was fine

You could do basic things without practically begging or having to give up your body and self worth in exchange

You could cook, dress yourself, go to sleep and wake, you could shower, you didn’t have to grovel at his feet for human rights

The his in question being Chrollo lucilfer, a man that claimed to love you but normal people would agree you don’t hurt what you love

Then again he’s not normal is he, you can except all the other things, you could eat without cooking and wear whatever he wanted, hell you’ll even sleep and wake when he pleases,you can live without them, but showering? You needed to shower

The deal was you could submit to him in bed and shower alone or he could get in with you and eye fuck you and stroke himself while you try and get clean, as long as you keep your eyes up and try to ignore his soft grunts the ladder is the more preferable option

Of course you can’t keep him off you forever, the most you get is some signs he’s gonna satisfy his desire with your body in the near future, some subtle hints, he shows clear signs of annoyance anytime you choose to let him shower with you instead of letting him take you, jerking off faster and just standing there under the water waiting for you

He’s ready to pin you down and have his way with you now, all the signs are showing, when you walk up to him with your towel in hand your ready to pick your least favourite option

He doesn’t look up from his book “Well my dear, you know your choices, what would you rather” my dear, the word lingers for a second in your mind, the word suggests he has ownership over you, not far off, your mind he sounds bored, he expects you to pick what you always do

“The first one” he looks up and raises his eyebrows, “hmm, that’s unexpected, may I ask why you pick this after so many weeks of picking the second option”

“No you can not, c-can we just veg this over with” you hate the stutter in your voice

“No, shower first, I want you clean” he stands up to kiss you, you pull away quickly to go shower

At least this way he’ll hopefully be gentle, it leads to less pain and tears, tears yes, but pain will be limited

You’ll just have to suck it up once and go back to holding out

Just this once you’ll tell yourself

[mirage-of-a-victory]

elijah mikaelson being a father would include

• elijah’s protectiveness would skyrocket the moment he learns you’re pregnant. he’d constantly worry about your well-being, ensuring you’re safe and comfortable at all times. he has every supernatural precaution in place to protect both you and the baby.

• he becomes even more attentive, catering to your every need. he’s the type to anticipate your cravings before you even mention them.

• elijah would dive into researching everything about pregnancy, from ancient texts to modern-day advice, to ensure he’s fully prepared. he’d want to be informed about every possible scenario, just so he can be the best support system for you.

• his calm and composed nature would be a grounding force for you during the emotional highs and lows of pregnancy. elijah would always be there to soothe your worries, offering words of comfort and reassurance.

• elijah is incredibly affectionate with you and the baby, always placing gentle kisses on your belly and speaking softly to the baby. he loves feeling the baby kick and would often rest his hand on your stomach, finding peace in the connection with his unborn child.

• he is meticulous about ensuring you eat well and stay healthy. elijah even prepares meals himself, filled with all the nutrients you and the baby need. he encourages you to rest often, insisting on taking care of everything else so you can focus on your well-being.

• elijah is incredibly understanding of the emotional rollercoaster that comes with pregnancy. he listens to you patiently, whether you’re venting about something minor or sharing your deepest fears about motherhood. he always knows exactly what to say to make you feel better.

• despite the changes that come with pregnancy, elijah would go out of his way to keep the romance alive. candlelit dinners, slow dances, and thoughtful gifts would be his way of showing you that he’s still as madly in love with you as ever.

• elijah would be excited to plan for the future, discussing names, nurseries, and what kind of life he envisions for your family. he’d take great care in ensuring that your home is ready for the baby, overseeing every detail to make sure it’s perfect.

• elijah’s already intense protectiveness would amplify tenfold when your child is finally born. he’d ensure that no harm ever came near them, even if it meant going to extreme lengths to secure their safety.

• he is a gentle and caring father. he’d want to be someone his child could look up to, not just as a strong leader, but as someone who is compassionate and just.

• he’d take pride in passing down mikaelson family traditions, teaching your child about their rich history. despite the dark aspects of their lineage, elijah would focus on instilling a sense of honor and the importance of family loyalty.

• he would be very involved in your child’s education, wanting them to be well-read and knowledgeable. he’d share his vast knowledge of history, art, and culture, encouraging a love of learning and a deep appreciation for the world.

• while elijah has high expectations, he’d approach fatherhood with a gentle hand, guiding your child with patience and understanding. he’d encourage them to think for themselves and make their own decisions, always offering wisdom when needed.

• elijah would treasure the small, everyday moments with your child— reading to them before bed, watching them play, or simply holding them close. these quiet moments would be his escape from the chaos of his immortal life.

• he’d be very conscious of the example he sets, striving to be the epitome of integrity, grace, and honor. elijah would want your child to grow up seeing him not just as an original vampire, but as a man of principle and honor.

[mirage-of-a-victory]

WHO MADE THIS GIF (MAKE MORE)

[mirage-of-a-victory]

The Mistress of The Devil

Ivar the Boneless x DarkWitch!Reader

Warnings: mention of witchcraft, demons

Summary: Dark clothes, dark aura and powers. Where you came from, or who you were, not even Aslaug was sure anymore. All she could recall is that she promised to wed her son to you. And now, the Devil had a wife.

"I said you will marry her and this is the last I want to hear anything from you Ivar!" hearing his mother yell, Ivar knew, he lost this battle.

He was to marry this unknown woman.

He hated the idea.

Ivar will just simply kill her, he needs no wife.

He said, but the next day, just when Kattegat woke up, there stood a woman.

She was dressed in a black, her smile was kind, too kind for someone dressed so dark.

"My name is Y/N. I came for my wedding."

Everyone was confused. Aslaug ended up showing you around and introducing you to your future husband.

Ivar Ragnarson.

A strong man with an even stronger will. His legs were the proof of it. He never backed down, not letting anything get in his way.

You liked it.

The determination. The fire.

It is just what you need in a husband.

You smiled at Ivar as you two were wed.

Now, you had him.

---

Everyone knew the name Ivar the Boneless. Everyone feared Ivar the Boneless.

The fearless Viking known for his intelligence and insanity.

But then, a whisper came with the wind.

A whisper of his wife.

A woman, explained as the Darkness herself.

The Christians referred to her as Satan's Wife. 

Would that make Ivar Satan in their logic?

Everyone wondered how could Ivar be so fearless, how could he know so much.

The answer was simple, his wife.

You, with your powers inherited throughout the generations of women in your family.

You, the dark sorceress who fell madly in love with a not so simple Viking.

It was always you.

People who survived Ivar's wrath often said it was as if he had a dark figure standing behind him. The figure was tall, and had long arms and eyes that glow red like blood.

Overexadiration, but not far from the truth.

One of your many beings. 

Sentenced to follow and help Ivar in his fights, the being didn't have a name. It was simply black and tall.

Ivar swore sometimes he could see it from the corner of his eye.

It made him recall a time when he first saw one of your... pets.

It was very late, the fire has nearly gone out, both of you sleeping under furs.

Ivar woke, his mind fuzzy with sleep when he saw someone or rather something in the corner. 

But as his eyes focused and he woke up with a start, the thing vanished.

"What is it, Ivar?" you asked, being awakened from your slumber.

"I saw someone." you looked at the corner he kept on staring at.

"I will deal with it, sleep now." you smiled at him as you stood up and walked towards the entrance of the house.

Ivar followed you, crawling as you opened the door, his words failed him.

You stood a couple steps from the door, looking towards the darkness. You turned to your left, then to your right. As if you saw someone you spoke up, just as Ivar found his way towards the doorway.

"Let him sleep! You are scaring him, I told you before." you said, to him it looked like you have gone mad, then you turned to him. "I told you before, they wouldn't hurt you, don't be afraid of them, Ivar." you said and Ivar swore he saw something move to his right. He quickly looked and saw a pair or long fingers on the wall, the... thing right around the corner, Ivar felt frozen.

Then he saw it.

The face of a being, not human. Illuminated by the light coming from the window, Ivar's pair of blues met with black eyes and skin so pale, Ivar never seen anything like it before.

"It won't hurt you." you said with a lower voice as you watched Ivar. He then looked back at you, you saw his confusion. "They won't hurt you." you said once more and this time, Ivar believed you.

But never after that night did he ever want to see any of your creatures.

---

You were a rather light sleeper. 

There were occasions when nothing could wake you, and other times where a simple movement from Ivar made you wake up. This was one of those nights.

You were awakened by his simple movement, you couldn't fall back to sleep and so, you decided to just sit by the fire and watch it and Ivar.

Ivar woke up hours later, it was still dark outside and he looked at you.

"Are your demons haunting you again, Wife?"

"Quite the opposite, My King. I'm haunting them." you smirked and Ivar moved to the edge of the bed. 

You stood up and stood still a couple steps away from him.

"What would you do for me, Ivar?" you asked and he looked into your eyes.

"I would burn the entire world. Kill every last person just to get to you. Kill every last demon just to have you with me again." you moved onto the floor, crawling over, you placed your hands on his knees.

"Would you run for me?" you watched his eyes switch. 

You offended him.

You corrected yourself.

"If I give you the ability, would you run to me, run to save me, run to kill them? Would you?"

"C-Can you?" he asked, eyes filling with hope.

And you nodded.

A simple nod.

"Will it hurt?" came his next question.

Another nod.

"It would be worth it. Standing beside you, as the proud husband I am. Run to you? Without a question." he ran his fingers through your hair.

You sealed your deal with a kiss.

---

Everyone in Kattegat woke up with a feeling of dread.

Then they all saw.

Ivar walking around like nothing happened, as if his legs always worked.

The Devil could walk.

And it terrified everyone.

They only could imagine what his enemies would think, given how his own people were terrified of him. 

His brother always knew Ivar's wife wasn't a regular woman. They had this feeling about her, as they said, there was a darkness around her.

And upon seeing their brother walk, there was no more doubt about it.

She made him walk.

So, was is actually that Ivar married the Devil? Would it actually be the Devil and her husband?

One thing was for sure, now whenever someone looked into the dark of your eyes, they could hear people crying and begging.

And just like with many names in history, yours and Ivar's were eventually melted into one.

It was no longer Ivar the Boneless and his wife.

Soon, all people remembered was the fierce Viking, Ivar the Boneless.

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[mirage-of-a-victory]

Yandere! Elijah Mikaelson x Fem! Reader- Romantic SFW Alphabet.

From this ask.

Tw: MDNI, violence, manipulation, toxic behavior, possessive behavior, yandere behavior, yandere relationship, toxic relationship, possessive relationship, materialism, self-harm, themes of slavery, violent behaviour, allusions to pet play, mention of Stockholm Syndrome, inappropriate use of compulsion/ mind control, physical abuse, master-servant relationship, stalking.

A-traction: What do they find attractive about their partner?

Elijah liked a partner that looks elegant in formal clothes, dresses or suits, it doesn't matter. He is attracted to the oblivious and almost dumb type of people because he enjoys breaking them down, bit by bit until that innocence and obliviousness is worn away. He likes kind people so he can corrupt them but he also likes a bit of a brat so that he can feed into his superiority complex via putting you in your place, whether through violence or manipulation. Elijah is all about corruption, he'll swoop in and play the perfect gentleman before sweeping the rug right out under you. You're his little bunny, he'll toy and play with you until he gets bored which will never happen.

B-abies: Do they want children? If so, how many?

He doesn't really want children. If it happens, then it happens. But other than that, he won't go out of his way to get you pregnant. He just doesn't want that added responsibility on top of maintaining his family and their chaos. If you do happen to get pregnant, then he will use your children as a way to further your submission. You can't do anything when he's got your newborn in his arms. Plus, while you're pregnant, you cannot run away or stay independent of him. However, he may become annoyed with your pregnant self as it means that he has to be more gentle and not so demanding of your time. You can thank Rebekah for intervening and making sure that he is less intense while you're pregnant. Afterwards though? Be prepared to be jumped almost immediately by one entitled vampiric psychopath.

C-omfort: How good are they at comforting their partner? And how well do they receive comfort in return?

Any type of 'comfort' you receive from him, just know he's doing it to get something he wants. Elijah is the type of entitled yandere to pray on your weakend mind to exploit you, sexually, mentally or emotionally. It's a double edged sword in a sense, because you'd be so mentally exhausted that you'll cling to the crumbs of affection that he'll give you, knowing that it is a facade but still craving it all the same. Elijah would demand your comfort and attention when he feels upset. Actually, scratch that. He would take your attention and affection forceful. He has no qualms being manipulative and violent, just so long as he gets what he wants. If Elijah was genuinely upset, he wouldn’t want you to comfort him because he wouldn’t want to be vulnerable and weak to you. He’s in control, he has the power. You don’t.

D-eath: How well would they cope if their partner died?

It would depend on how far into the relationship the two of you are. If you died quite close to the start of his obsession, he won’t react as outwardly as he would when he has a deeper obsession. He’ll act fine and unbothered, more mad that you died so early and that he couldn’t ‘play’ with you anymore. He also uses your early death to justify his feelings. Elijah may feel some semblance of affection, albeit being twisted, so when he mourns he may feel sad which frightens him. He does not want to be seen as weak and attached to you is something he and his peers perceive as a weakness so he tries to manipulate it and convince himself that what he is feeling is disappointment and anger. Disappointment because you didn’t last as long as he had hoped and thus you were unworthy to be his consort, or more likely slave or pet. Anger, though, because how dare you die! Your life was not your own, from the moment he set his eyes on you. You had no say in anything because Elijah controlled it all. Your life was his to manipulate and use to his liking, and consequently, your death too. However, if the relationship was more developed and he became more attached to you, he would, for lack of better words, go bat-shit crazy. Elijah was using you as a punching bag, sex doll, therapist, etc. You were his immediate support system, whether you liked it or not, and to have that ripped away from him so suddenly caused unfathomable destabilisation to his mental health. His violent and emotional outbursts would be frequent and intense. He may even blame his family, his close siblings or anyone who unfortunately comes across him in such a state. This may lead to him hurting those close to him. He would immediately destroy everything you ever had, the anger bubbling up because you had the audacity to die. But he would regret it because then he has nothing to remember you by but the ghost of you. Elijah lied to himself and others while in actuality, he loved you in his own twisted and horrible way. Although, the longer the relationship goes on, the more likely he is ensuring your survival by lacing your food with his vampiric blood or just out right forcing you to drink it from his open veins.

E-venings: What do they like to do with their partner in the evenings?

In the evening, Elijah likes to enjoy the more extravagant things in life where he can yet again exert his power over you as your superior. Perhaps he’ll take you to an event where you’re nothing more than arm candy and he’ll let other ogle you all night. Or maybe he’ll hold a feast with his family and feed you the scraps off his plates as you kneel by his side like the good little pet you are. Act unruly, and he’ll pull your leash tight and slap you for your impotence. Oh, did I mention you’re naked whilst playing your pet role? Free use kink, anybody?- But he always, always ends his evenings in a gold gilded, claw foot tub where the water is boiling and the suds hide everything that needs to be hidden. And he orders you to cut your wrist and pour your delicious blood into a crystalline champagne glass and be careful not to spill a drop, you don’t want to make a mess now, do you? And as he is sipping at it, he expects you to give him a back massage, working away the tension in his frame that his family undoubtedly caused. Sometimes, when he feels as if you’re getting too comfortable, he’d fake being asleep, maybe rest his head on your shoulder and just when you think you can slip away, his grip becomes bruising and his fangs are buried in your neck.

F-ight: How are they when arguing? Are they usually the instigator? Do they apologise first?

Elijah never argues. He gives verdicts and its up to you to remedy the situation unless you want the punishment to be even more brutal. Some of your earlier arguments, especially around when you’re first kidnapped and moved to Elijah’s home, take on the role of a whiny brat versus the weary experienced guide. Elijah acts almost like he has your best interests at heart, he wants you to accept your situation as soon as possible so he doesn’t have to deal with your emotions. He doesn’t like mess. As your relationship progresses, your arguments and disputes become a lot more violent and possessive in their nature. Perhaps you smiled at one of his family members a little bit too long or perhaps the bath water wasn’t at the temperature he wanted. Either way, Elijah will always blame you. You get taken advantaged of? Why can’t you be smarter. You get kidnapped? You just wanted an excuse to get away from him. Why is Klaus more rowdy? You must’ve done something. Etcetera, etcetera. No matter what happens, it’ll always be your fault in his eyes and if you get hurt? Elijah will use it as a chance to demean and belittle you. After all, you’re nothing without him. Elijah will only apologise if it was a part of any of his torture methods, in order to lower your defences and mess with you further. He enjoys giving you a false sense of relief and comfort only to just rip the carpet out from beneath you. More than likely you’ll be the one apologising and grovelling at his feet for forgiveness because the punishment without it will make you wish that you were dead.

G-eography: What is it like to be in a relationship with them? What are the ups and downs?

I use the word ‘relationship’ very lightly as a relationship indicates equality and love and general non-toxicity and what you have with Elijah is the complete opposite of all of that. To be in this situation with the vampire, you have to act and look a certain way. Elijah likes it when you keep calm and collected in the eyes of people outside his house and family, especially when he allows you to come with him to galas, parties, meetings and other important events. You should look like a doll, posed and collected, not too eager but not too disinterested, elegant but not too tempting. Just so. When you’re out of the public view and in the ‘comfort’ of his home, Elijah still has expectations but they turn more perverted and oppressive. You were safe in the public, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to do anything too outrageous until you got back. (He could just use compulsion but in his mind, that would take too much effort. More than what he believes you were worth. Keep kidding yourself bud-). Some of the positives though include a lot of material things. Elijah has no qualms of providing material things if you were well behaved. He’ll shower you with jewellery, clothes and even pets (they don’t last long). But act out of hand? Everything but your embellished collar is stripped from you.

H-onesty: How honest are they with their partner? Do they keep secrets from them? And do they expect complete honesty exchange?

Elijah will only be honest if it allows him to gain something he wants. He also likes to speak his mind to fully degrade and belittle you, letting you know that he truly thinks you’re a waste of space and that you are lucky he even lets you breathe- again feeding into this idea that your life is his property, something that he can do as he pleases with. Elijah will drop massive truth bombs when your mood starts to get positive, just so he can bring it back down to a place where he can manipulate you fully with ease. Because of this, always assume that he has something to hide from you. He is a master at secrecy and god forbid you ever fall into Stockholm Syndrome, he’ll cheat on you and then torture you with the knowledge that you were never ever good enough to keep him satiated and satisfied so, naturally, he went to others to fulfil his urges. Though, if any of his flings try to get closer or even demean you, he won’t hesitate to rip their heart from their chest and force you to eat it raw. And don’t worry about being ill from it, he’ll just heal you with his vampiric blood. Elijah finds it extremely amusing if you even attempted to hide anything from him. Much like Klaus, he has eyes and ears everywhere and loves using the information he learns to torment you further. And when he believes that you’re hiding something that not even his spies are able to discover, then he’s not above using compulsion to force the truth from your lips.

I-njury: How would they react if their partner got injured? Would they hide their own injuries?

As previously stated above, Elijah is no stranger to a bit of violence here and there in your relationship and he even takes pride in some of the marks he’s left you with. However, catch him on a rare melancholic day, where his ‘knightly’ behaviour seems to shine through, he’ll trace your scars and kiss them tenderly, almost apologetically. But he’ll only do this when your asleep or under his compulsion where he’ll order you to forget what he does. He does not want you to know how vulnerable and weak he can be for you. However, if someone else was to hurt, no matter how small the injury is, he will go feral. Again, like I stated above, he partially blames you for getting hurt like you were able to control it. He’d punish you but he would be more focused on punishing the individual who decided to slight him by attacking his pet. Elijah would eviscerate that individual, unless they were family or important to one of his family’s many schemes. He would see red and nothing more, completely shredding that person to smithereens if he was able to hurt them. If for some reason he couldn’t hurt them, and they weren’t family, he would rely on mental and emotional torture. Using compulsion, he would subject that person to a myriad of many horrors that he pulled up from the darkest pits of their mind or use the compulsion to force the individual to hurt their loved ones or forcing them to do horrendous things. The punishments that Elijah would succumb you to aren’t necessarily punishments? Okay, so they are if you aren’t fully in the throes of Stockholm Syndrome this will be torture to you unless you’re freaky (some of you are tho-). He becomes extra clingy and demanding of your attention and forced affections. Its not obvious and Elijah spins it like you’re extra needy since you got hurt and he ‘saved’ you. Elijah would hide his injuries for sure. He dislikes showing you his vulnerability, afraid that you might take advantage of that and hurt or leave him. He simultaneously keeps you at an arm’s length away and yet presses you into his side at the same time. He’s a very complicated man and he has you to deal with all that for him, always and forever.

J-ealously: Do they get jealous easily? How do they cope with it? How do they react when their partner gets jealous?

Elijah does get jealous easily, not as easily as his other siblings but it is apparent by the way he basically solders you to him throughout his day. He knows anyone stupid enough to challenge his ownership would be shredded into tiny little pieces before their next breath. But he can’t help but feel insecure and that you’d slip away if he looked at something else. So he decides to keep you close and always within his eyesight. If he gives you no opportunities to act out, then you’ll stay under his thumb for the foreseeable future. On top of his possessiveness in correspondence of his jealousy, Elijah took a lot of his turbulent emotions out on you. So be prepared to be the human punching bag for the next two weeks after the initial event in which his jealously stemmed from. As mentioned above, once Stockholm Syndrome has taken root within you, Elijah likes to torment you by having a string of lovers to really further the fact that you aren’t on the same level as him and could never fully have him since he was your superior. He does find your streak of jealously as humouring and oddly arousing? He finds it attractive as you now want him, seeing it as you being utterly devoted and encompassed by him and his presence- a reflection of how he feels about you, it seems.

K-iss: How do they kiss? How do they liked to be kissed? Where do they like to kiss their partner? Where do they like to be kissed?

Elijah is a demanding and teasing kisser. He completely controls the affection and will force his tongue into your mouth in order to gain the upper hand in what he perceives as a vulnerable moment. He teases you through the act of kissing, getting you riled up only to leave you high and, well maybe not so dry. He despises any kisses that you initiate, he will not give you that power over him. He has to be in control. He would prefer if you went with the flow and reciprocate it, albeit more submissively, but he won’t wait for you to process it before he’s deepening it. Elijah loves kissing your neck and chest, specifically around your collar bones and heart. He prefers to mix feeding and kissing, hence the neck being one of his go to areas for affection/ torture. The neck is also harder to cover up, meaning any marks he leaves behind will be more visible. He enjoys feeding on you whilst you’re wearing the collar he forces you to wear, enjoying the feeling of the expensive leather against his skin as your hot blood fills his mouths. Elijah also loves leaving marks and kisses along your collarbones and chest, not only claiming his ownership over your heart but also enjoying the fact that there are marks of his ownership hidden in places where only they can see. If you were to kiss him, probably by his command, it would either be on his cheeks or his mouth. Its quite neutral and almost detached or formal. More than likely, these public displays of affection are hesitant actions, even when you’re deep in your relationship, because it’s so difficult for you to predict Elijah’s moods so these areas are considered ‘safe zones’.

L-ove: Who says it first? What’s their reaction when their partner reciprocates?

You definitely say it first, and you’re definitely completely submerged in Stockholm Syndrome when you do confess it. Its a twisted sense of love you feel for him, as you thank him for every scrap of food from his plate and praise him for punishing you so well. I guess the love you feel is actually a more twisted form of adoration. Elijah absolutely freaked out on the inside when you confessed to him. He was prepared to deal with you rejecting him for eternity so this is a surprise for him. He doesn’t say it back, he couldn’t show you how vulnerable he is or how much you mean to him. But he does treat you better from then on. Not by much, but its something. He lets you have more food instead of his scraps, except its in a shiny new dog bowl. He’ll take you to more interesting events such as galleries and museum showings. Again, it might not seem much but his family can definitely see a difference.

M-arriage: Do they want to get married? Do they propose? If so, how will they do it? What’s married life with them like?

Elijah would only use marriage to tie you closer to him, so that in any case he can pull the ‘worried husband’ card to locate you or convince you to come back, if that fails to work then he doesn’t mind just picking up his ‘lovely little wife’ and carrying her away. The honeymoon would be fire tho- Elijah wouldn’t even propose to you, he’d just slide you a form, tell you not to read it and just sign the dotted line. And then boom! You’re married by the next day. He might make an event about it but only if it fits into his family’s plans. But he might also be kinder and take you on an exotic honeymoon somewhere remote where he can spoil you physically without anyone around, under the cover that he’s just taking what he wants from you. And to be fair, married life with Elijah isn’t any different than normal life with him. He’d still treat you horribly but every time your anniversary comes around, he gets a small excuse to let down his walls a tad and show you a slightly more vulnerable man. Though, he’d only marry you once you’ve been turned into a vampire just so he has multiple things to tie you to him for the rest of your lives.

N-icknames: What are their nicknames for their partner? What are some for them?

Elijah’s nicknames for you include: Pet, Bitch, Doggy, Maid and Dear. Your nicknames for him include: Sir, Master, Dear, Husband, Eli and Love.

O-bjection: What is something they’ll never do with their partner? And what can they not accept about a potential significant other?

There’s not a lot of things that Elijah wouldn’t do since he is as obsessed with dominating you as he is obsessed with you. But a very rare few come to mind. He wouldn’t let others use you as they wish, since your his. And he wouldn’t let you die unless he had arranged for you to come back as a vampire. He isn’t into any permanent mutilation, he doesn’t mind scars or tattoos of his design but anything that permanently erases or effects your bodily mobility isn’t something that he finds appealing. Elijah likes hurting you but he doesn’t want you to be fully incapacitated since one, that would be annoying for him to grow used to and two, deep down he has some form of twisted love for you and that would cross a line that he subconsciously avoids at every time possible. In regards to what he would disregard and find unacceptable in a significant other, there’s a lot but it’s usually within two themes: rebellion and disorganisation. Its no secret that I portray Elijah as a micromanager and controlling individual, like a more down to earth and vampiric Patrick Bateman. So anyone who goes against his expectations of order and submission leave a bitter taste in his mouth and he wouldn’t even look towards them in his obsession. Don’t get me wrong, Elijah does like a bit of fire and bratty-ness but in his mind there’s either a time or a place for it, or it’s only a small percentage of the individual he’s obsessed with so it can be weaned way with time and tutelage. Elijah definitely prefers the more meeker and innocent type of people, he likes to pray on them like a fox and a rabbit. He likes to break them down into a clean slate and build them back up only to bulldoze them back down again.

P-ower: Who holds the power in the relationship? Is that power able to switch?

There’s no doubt about it, Elijah holds all the power. Even down the line, into the far future of your relationship where he’s sort of come to terms with his feelings, he will never ever let his emotions overcome him in what he believes to be a moment of vulnerability. Think of him as a puppet master and you the puppet, every thought, feeling and movement is carefully orchestrated by Elijah in what can be perceived to be a wonderfully tragic theatrical production where the carnal desires of a monstrous creature trapped in a man’s body overtake him, and the person who is he considers his other half. The power that he holds isn’t transferable nor is it able to ease up. To give you a sense of power or control is to put Elijah in a vulnerable position where he can be seen as weak (something he despises because he too was a victim of his abusive father who only valued power). He’s so scared he might get hurt again that he completely isolates himself from everything so he isn’t physically or mentally hurt. This may transfer into his mannerisms as being completely composed and looking very sharp and well put together, as if a single thing out of place could cause the end of his world.

Q-uestions: What questions are they always asking? What questions do they not hear enough of?

He loves to torment you, so lot of his questions are rhetorical and are most commonly frequent when he’s punishing you or interrogating you concerning your whereabouts or the people you’ve been talking to. Or sometimes, in sexy times, he’ll whisper things in your ears like “Do you know what you do to me? How my body yearns for you? How my very soul wishes to conjoin with yours?”. Or sometimes, when he’s feeling just extra, and you just so happen to be injured by an enemy, he’ll rumble out a “Who hurt you?”. Kinda hot, ngl-. As for Elijah, he likes you to ask him more domestic and servant-ish questions if that makes sense. He likes it if you ask things like “Can I help you, sire? What is your next command? More wine? Would you like to feed, master?”, he also really likes nonverbal questions like you just offering your wrist to feed and when you offer him a decanter or glass of wine or blood or both. Some questions, on a more personal and vulnerable level, he likes it if you ask things like “Is that comfortable? Do you need anything, love? Is this okay?” Etcetera etcetera.

R-omance: How romantic are they? Would they rely on the traditional techniques to woo their partner? Or would they be more creative?

Elijah is only comfortable with romance in a situation where he can brush it off and act like every gesture is just something he did on a whim, without anything really behind it. Almost like a shy tsundere. He can be romantic when he wants to, if it serves him in any way or if he feels like he needs some form of affection and attention. It most likely comes across selfish and demanding but easy, almost. Elijah wouldn’t push you too much but would still make you conform to his harsh standards. If we are talking pre-kidnapping Elijah, then his methods to woo you would be quite old fashioned and traditional, so much so that you would be yearning for even a kiss on the cheek since all he’s giving you now is just pecks on the hand. He presents the most kindest and gentlest front in order to lure you further into his spider web, think of him like an angler fish- lures his prey in with promises of true love and romance before utterly consuming everything you are willing, and not so willing, to give. Elijah would definitely solidify his place amongst your friends and family members so that he could use them as bargaining chips or hostages when he has fully intertwined himself with your life. He may take a bit of creative approach if you are less receptive to his affection or if he feels he is loosing your attention before he is able to kidnap you. He presents it as a positive, with him veering off from his comfort zone towards some things that may seem too drastic for such a rigid personality as his. It may be charming to you, and make you feel flattered as it seems that Elijah is willing to throw away his previous frigidity for someone like you.

S-leep: Are they the big spoon or the little spoon? What is their sleep schedule like?

Elijah sleeps almost like he is in the stereotypical vampiric coffin, all his limbs stiff and close to himself in an unconscious attempt to reduce his vulnerability that has been reflected in his physicalities. Usually, you don’t sleep on the same bed as Elijah, but definitely in the same room. He may have you sleep on a dog bed to match your dog collar and job as his pet. On the rare occasion that you do get to sleep in the same bed as him, it’ll be lined to two events. One, in a situation where Elijah is using it as a way to de-claw you and lessen your defences just so he can gain that sweet feeling when he fulfils the promise that is his vampiric and dangerous existence. He may present himself as a caring, loving individual who acts as you or protector when in fact he is the opposite- the cruel, selfish oppressor who craves to own everything you are and everything you have. This shows itself as him being physically dominating, whether by putting his hand on you somewhere in order to guide you or, in this case, by being the big spoon. In this position, he can make sure that you don’t go anywhere and that he has free access to your neck without much resistance from you. Two, when he is feeling a bit vulnerable and sweet he may crave physical contact to try and subtly offer his feelings in actions rather than words since in these moments, he feels safe and secure enough to do this. When this happens, being the big spoon allows him to fulfill the position of a protector and lover in the most twisted, but sweet way possible for such a mess as him. Elijah’s sleep schedule is a mess, but an orderly mess. He goes to sleep and wakes up almost on the hour every time but he likes to make sure that you at least get a few hours. Its kind of cute if you ignore everything else he has done. See, he can be sweet-

T-ime: How do they like to spend their with their partner? Do they draw it out or live in the moment?

Elijah likes to take you to extravagant events and expensive dates whenever he can but nothing can beat staying at home where he has you all to himself and fully as his whims. He likes to dress you up like a doll and the rip those clothes off you the same evening. Whilst in these clothes at these events, Elijah likes the fat that he can show you off and show other people that he is better than the because he has such a subservient and loyal pet to fulfil everything he desires. He enjoys being physically close to you and being able to manipulate your mentality quite easily. Elijah likes to draw out every moment with you, whether he’s playing the perfect partner or the worst torturer. He enjoys the mixture of emotions you go through and the inevitable result that you understand you cannot escape him, that your every emotion and thought is controlled by him. The only time that Elijah will ‘live in the moment’ is when he is punishing someone else for hurting you, he fully enjoys making them hurt. He looses himself in the violence and gore, no regard if you witness this or if the person he’s hurting is someone close to you.

U-ndertake: What are they willing to go through for their partner? And what would they expect their parter to go through for them?

Elijah may complain a lot if you do get into trouble from which he has to save you from but he would rather die than allow some other schmuck take your life when he has no way to ensure your living-afterlife-life. He would go through hell for you, kill armies for you and sacrifice nearly everything for you, save his family. If anything, he’d rope his family members into saving you as well. However, once he has you back, his anger and worry blends together and he takes it all out on you. Its not fair, no, but its a way he shows he cares for you. If he didn’t care, then he wouldn’t save you and then punish you in his warped sense of comfort. Elijah would break and train you as the perfect loyal pet so that no matter the situation, he would have someone in his corner at all times. Because of this, he would expect you to go through high heaven and waters to get to him. He would expect you to even betray his family and the actual Devil in order to save him and bring him to safety. Throughout your whole Stockholm Syndrome development, its drilled into you that without Elijah, you are nothing and that you were surely to die a slow, painful and pitiful death without him. And you may even feel this when you transition into a vampire.

V-alentine’s: Do they celebrate the holiday? If so, how extravagant is the celebration? And what do they expect in return?

Elijah makes a whole thing about the holiday as it’s another way he can manipulate you into accepting his horrific affections. He goes sickly sweet and often reminds you of how much he values and loves you- its the only time of the year that he can fully express his care for you without it being seen as weak or unusual as others may just assume that he’s either getting swept up in the holiday or that he’s using this for extra torture. The celebrations often include a romantic dinner out, lots of gifts and many, many heart stopping moments where it seems that Elijah might propose to you and further keep you tangled up in his web of control and lies. The gifts may include expensive alcohol, chocolate and the cheesy giant teddy bear that he names something stupid but close to you, like a family member he’s killed to punish your disobedience. In return, he’d expect complete compliance from you and maybe a bit more affection than usual. He may give you a piece of jewellery that allows him to track you wherever you go, magically. What can I say? He’s a romantic.

W-ild Card: A random aspect of domestic life with them?

I’ve touched upon Elijah liking baths and relaxation-centric things so I think that he would be a master at like self-care routines and he’d help you with yours under the claim that he “can’t have you looking drab, pet”. But in reality, it is an excuse so that he can feel your skin and get closer to you for some non-sexual intimacy. Think of him as this big, composed tsundere. You’d have to trust him to put on your face masks and creams the correct way since you obviously couldn’t do anything right without his guidance. This may even extend itself to aftercare, whether from sexy times or his punishments, where he’d put balms on your wounds or give you some of his blood to drink, all the while whispering how much of a good pet you were and how he was so proud of you or how he knows how much it hurts, but he does this to teach you because he loves you and wants to keep you safe so you must follow his rules. Sometimes he’ll let some of your wounds to heal naturally without interference just so he can see the scars and use them to remind you of what deviancy may bring.

X-OXO: Are they more affectionate in a public or private setting?

Its a mix, actually. In public, he puts up this calm and composed front where he’ll give you some longing bits of affection. A kiss that lasts a little bit longer than it should, his hand caressing your waist a little bit too low, his lips finding their way to your neck, his bruising grip on your arm and hand, etcetera etcetera. However, in a more private setting in the rare instance that he finds himself feeling broody and vulnerable, he’ll treat you almost like a porcelain doll. Yes, he still controls what you wear, do, say and probably think but his touch is featherlight and brief. He doesn’t speak for hours on end, all he does it watch you ever so carefully, like you will turn into dust and drift away from him right in front of his eyes. He tries to remember every detail about you, so painfully aware that you may not live as long as him. Even if you are a vampire, you’re not an Original so sunlight and a simple wooden stake could still end your life. And if you’re a mortal, then nearly everything can kill you and Elijah is not prepared to lose you so soon.

Y-earning: How well do they cope when away from their partner? And are there any coping mechanism they use?

On the outside, Elijah is almost unaffected. He’s calm, quiet and well put together but there’s something dark in his eyes. He’s twitchy, quicker to anger, less responsive to his family, more willing to hurt people, more reckless and aggressive. Think of a police dog that’s just waiting for the command to brutally hunt down an unsuspecting victim. His family are praying for you to either come back or be found as soon as possible. If its the case where he has sent you away, either for your ow protection or to be a spy for his family, then he may be a little bit less testy but it’s still there and takes a small dispute to open the floodgates and cause a massacre of innocents just so that he unleash all this pent up energy he’d normally direct towards you. Elijah doesn’t want to admit that he misses you so he puts so much energy into remaining neutral until he gets set off. However, some of his coping mechanisms are looking, and obsessing, over the portraits he’s commissioned from some compelled artists. The majority of them are of you naked and in some form of bondage with injuries. In a way, he feels as though he is worshipping your image. He’s a loyal follower of the Jesus-like individual he’s placed you as in his head. There’s probably a painting of you on a crucifix. He also kills all the artists that work on these, as only he can see you when your like this.

Z-eal: How far are they willing to go for the relationship? And does this energy remain the same throughout the relationship or does it change?

Elijah’s energy and input into the relationship increases the longer he has you in his grasp. His obsession grows the longer you play the subservient role he has forced you into. At the start of the relationship, he is quit reserved and always keeps you at an arm’s length away, emotionally, but that’s only because he didn’t want you to take advantage of him in his vulnerability, hence why he lashes out and becomes violent in response to these unknown emotions welling up inside him. He’s willing to burn down the whole world to find you and bring you back to his side, after some hefty punishments of course. He wouldn’t kill his family members, probably only dagger them if he feels like they might try to take you from him, have hurt you, have annoyed him by trying to interfere with your given schedule or if he senses that they might betray him or his closest siblings, Klaus and Rebekah.

[mirage-of-a-victory]

💭 thinking of bigbro!rafe who slaps your ass like it’s nothing & ward who calls him out…at first

late nights in the kitchen, when you’re standing at sink washing off some strawbs or getting a glass of whatever, you don’t even need to see him, you feel him before he even touches you. large hands hovering over your hips, curling around the satin fabric of your nightgown, you try to swat him away the first few times it happens, but never seriously, like you were afraid of pushing him too far. “stop rafey —” you’d mutter to him, soft, light, with a giggle like it was a joke, like he wasn’t your brother.

ward tries to intervene, getting fed up but ultimately fails, “rafe, quit it, she’s your sister for fucks sake,” his voice cuts sharply through the quiet, a little slurred from the bourbon in his hand. his eyes dark, teeth clenched, already exhausted. giving his son a look that screams more than just ‘knock it off’…

only for rafe to snap back, never flinching, “relax, i don’t do it outside the house. besides s’not like i’m touchin’ her pussy or some shit” low and cocky with a shrug of his shoulders then he bursts out laughing - dark, low, rattling, like it’s the punchline to some sick joke only he’s in on..

now, ward doesn’t even try to stop it anymore, like he full on starts walking away — brushing it off like a stress he can’t afford. telling himself rafe’s just being a stupid boy, because it’s easier to pretend it’s nothing, like he’s just acting out, that this is just another grab for attention or power.

and he notices your everything, the shorts, low-cut camis, the way rafe’s eyes never leave you.. he thinks about telling you to change, maybe once or twice he even opens his mouth to murmur, “you really think that’s appropriate around the house…?” but it comes out weak, unsure, hesitant, and you just shrug, “well m’ not goin’ anywhere, what’s the big deal?”

and he can’t say the truth. he won’t, he refuses. because that means admitting something’s wrong, something sick, and ward doesn’t deal with sickness, he only hides it and covers it up.

[mirage-of-a-victory]

Pandora

tw: female reader, non-con, free use, sedatives mentioned, prolonged captivity, meta

You often think about your old life, even though you promised yourself - and keep promising yourself, that you won't. You think about all the little joys and freedoms you took for granted - the small, cozy flat you were renting for cheap in a shabby, but hip neighbourhood. Choosing whether to go to a lecture or skip it, those hazy mornings when you'd wake up with your head pounding and a cold compress plastered on your forehead by a caring friend after a wild night. What a privelege it is, you realize now, to be at the center of your own life. To have sugar for breakfast or coffee at midnight, to fuck whoever you want and go out every weekend - to hold your friends and your loved ones close, and to have the option to be picky, very picky, to choose who gets to be in your life. Because for normal people, for all those other star-eyed 20-something year old girls, freedom is the default, a statement of enpowerment, liberation, living the life - for the first time, as an adult.

And you want to spit at their pretty faces. You feel the same way towards yourself from the past - you want to take her by the shoulders and shake her until some wisedom falls off, because she, they, don't know how good they have it. That autonomy is not always a mere state of being, but a continuous figh against the forces gripping it with tooth and nail, making you a slave, a shell of your former self. And he is no different.

He crawls onto the bed with a complete lack of grace, making it creak, the soft foam sinking in under his weight, and you fight a tired groan, imagining the same heavy, sweaty mass of a body laying over you, drowning you in a sea of pretend-softness, of pillows and bloodied feathers, into a dip that could be both a sex hollow, and your personal coffin, eventually. And although you wish you still had the tact to find your own bleak thoughts distateful, the severe repetitivness of this little "exercise", you're assured, would turned even the most sensible into cynics.

"Shh, it's okay." He whispers, covering your mouth with one warm, sweaty palm, muffling all the little sounds you can't help hissing through your already fried vocal cords, while the other strokes your hair gently, but all you can think about is grease. Grease, because he hasn't let you leave the bed in approximately eight days, give or take, ravenously hungry for your flesh. Grease, because he's still wearing that wretched blue uniform, soaked in machine oil - because if you close your eyes, you feel like it's dripping down onto your face and into your mouth through the gaps of his thick crooked fingers.

"It's okay, baby, be good now. It will over in a second. Just lay back and relax." Matt explains slowly as if you're stupid, as if you haven't been in this situation before, in this exact position on your back like some animal in heat, and God, you really hate his name. It's so simple, so honest - sounding, almost sweet, and it makes you want to reach out and claw his eyes out.

Now that you think about it, you hate his eyes too. They are brown, if slightly warm when the sun hits, but no matter how you look at it, there is nothing extraordinary about them. Or about his nose, or his lips, or his ears, or his cheeks; through and through, he's completely ordinary just like every other man on this planet. And perhaps you hate that the most, because in your dreams, in your nightmares, monsters are inhuman. Either inhumanly terrifying with big ugly horns and teeth as sharp as a dagger, or inhumanly beautiful, with hands so soft they pull you in before they devour you. Monsters are not boys like Matt. And things like this don't happen to normal, ordinary girls like you. And yet.

"Shit, you're so tight, n-ngh." In the heat of the moment he grabs the fat of your thigh, squeezing it for leverage - and it allows him to thrust into you harder, harder, pumping in so fast it almost frustrates you.

He's completely obsessed with you, keeping you tied down to his bed day and night, trembling over the possibility of you somehow breaking free. He fucks you as much as he wants, whenever he wants, because there is nothing you can do about it, besides lay there and take it. You'd scream if his hands weren't in the way. You'd fight if you weren't numbed down to your very bones with sedatives, unable to move an inch. But despite all his twisted efforts, the sadistic thrill of seeing you fully at his mercy, only a tad more human than a blow-up doll, he's never satisfied. Never slows down, never tires - over and over and over again, and you're exhausted.

"A-angel, you have no idea h-how perfect you look like this. F-fuck, I want to be inside you forever." Matt moans, breathing into your hair, staring at you forehead-to-forehead from above, and for a split second, you stare back.

And just for a second, you let your hell break loose. Somehow rehearsed, somehow repetitive, familair tight warmth washes over you, starting from your abdomen and spreading well into your lungs, making it hard to inhale. It's as if your throat muscle clamps down, refusing to let the tears go, to let them pop in and show their ugly heads to the world that, frankly, can't see you anyways, because he took you and hid you deep into his tower. And no one can see them now.

"I can't believe I found you, my love. I am never, ever letting you go. We never have to part again. Now we can truly be together forever." He mumbles feverishly, shoving into you with sloppy frenzy as he always does when he's close to climax. He pushes your whole body down and brings your legs up, bottoming out just to jut in again with newfound ferocity. And then he kisses your temple softly, very, very softly, as if to apologize for the entire thing. But it hurts nonetheless.

As the tears gloss over your eyes, burning your retina with acidity, you wish you could scream. Alas, dolls can only sing when their key is turned - and yours already sinked to the bottom of the ocean, never to be found again.

[mirage-of-a-victory]

Pathetic or not, I can't help it – there's always going to be something about that old man that draws me in, and I'll always want to fuck him, even if his dick won't get up.

Come to Grandpa- Old! Vito Corleone x Reader. 18+

I’m sorry for anyone who read this, I cannot keep the monster inside me contained. 😥

The room smells of mothballs, whisky, and cigarettes. It’s not the worst thing you've ever smelled, but honestly, it dulls the romance in the atmosphere, romance that was already questionable, dry, and devoid of any life.

Speaking of which. You think as the door whips open with a creak, he here is. You can smell and hear him before you see him coming; labored breaths and a musty stench that mingles with the odd aroma already in the air. It makes the small office feel more danker than usual.

“Vito.” You turn around, greeting him with the brightest smile you can muster. He smiles back as he approaches your seat, flashing his yellowish teeth. It takes a while for him to approach you. When he does, you stand up intending to to help him to his seat but he swats your hands away gently, but not before kissing them. You wince. 

Always the gentlemen.

“You look beautiful,” He says as he settles on the other side of the desk. His old eyes rake over your form that is encased in a tight black dress. He licks his lips, dribbling a bit. 

Gross.

“Thank you.” You say out of obligation. Your stomach rolls in disgust. 

Why is it always the old ones?

You make small talk with him for a couple of minutes. You listen to him drone on and on about the grandchildren from his thuggish children. He even holds up a photo of his youngest, Michael, with his child. Now Michael seemed like an interesting man; a rich, attractive, interesting man. 

“How lovely,” You say sweetly. Inside You’re screaming.

Hurry up, old man. 

It takes a while but the Vito finally finishes his yap fest and beckons you over. You stand up instantly and make your way towards him. You sink to your knees in front of him. You unbutton his pants with swift hands and yank down the boxers beneath. You are mildly disappointed to find a half erected cock, it makes work so much harder, but you’ve dealt with worse.

You begin by jerking him off slowly, carefully; wouldn’t want his heart to give in so easily. Vito is soon grunting, and his breaths become even more labored. 

“My dear, please.” Vito coughs.

You roll your eyes, looking down at his hardened cock. Your displeasure and disgust increase tenfold as a wave of what smells like goat's cheese hits you, it is permeating near his withered-up groin, congregating near his wrinkly balls.  The waft hits you in the face. It almost makes you gag. You push down the feeling as your head is simultaneously being pushed towards the tip of his cock.

Oh, Well. Bottoms up.

You swallow his cock completely. The taste of sweat and dried urine floods your mouth.

It doesn’t take too long for Vito to finish, that’s the beauty of sucking off old guys; their stamina is bust. Vito pulls you off before he can finish, and his cum promptly splatters on my face, unpleasant but it’s better than swallowing a load of stringy-cheese sperm. Vito attempts to wipe it off my face but you pull away and wipe it off yourself. 

You allow him to help you up from the floor. He’s musing about how beautiful you are now. It is fueled by the afterglow of his climax and now he won’t shut up about spending a weekend with you in a resort or somewhere tropical. You play along as you open your purse. He places generous wads of cash into your purse. It is the only real joy you derive from this tryst.

 You close the purse with a slam and make an excuse. You practically rush to the door. The taste of sweat and urine lingers in your mouth but at least you’re six thousand dollars richer.

I love to ruin people’s days with my stories. Hehe, hope you enjoyed.