pascaloverx

[pascaloverx]

I loved chapter 2 of back to black, i'm looking forward to the next chapter and also the next one of haunted!🤍

so happy to know that you are looking forward to the next chapters of my fanfics with Nicholas Chavez character

[pascaloverx]

BABYBOY

Summary: You work as a caretaker for the home and dog of a famous individual in a luxurious apartment. On a fateful day, you find yourself in dire need of help when your boss’s dog gets locked inside the apartment. The newest neighbor, an incredibly handsome man, comes to your rescue. That man is none other than Nicholas Alexander Chavez.How will your relationship with him unfold?

Author's Note: This fanfic is for those who’d love to imagine themselves in a romance with Nicholas Chavez. I should warn you that there’s a possibility the reader might get involved with Nicholas while he’s still in a relationship with someone else, though nothing is set in stone yet. This fanfic will include explicit language and mature content. Consider yourselves warned. I hope you like it and interact with the story!

three

FOUR

"This is completely over the top!" you exclaim as you try to adjust yourself in Nicholas's arms, who is carrying you as if you were incapable of walking. The doctor discharged you from the hospital but recommended avoiding any major effort. Apparently, Mr. Chavez took that quite literally.

"Over the top or not, you spent a week in the hospital. The least you can do is rest and not take any risks—hey, stop trying to get out of my arms," Nicholas says as you squirm, attempting to slide out of his warm embrace.

Truth be told, you enjoy being like this with him. But you know the spell won't last much longer. The days you spent with him at the hospital—being cared for by him—felt magical. But he's taken, in a way. Entertaining anything between you would be reckless.

"Look, I don't want to seem ungrateful, but seriously—just put me the hell down," you say, trying to sound polite while also firm.

He lifts you slightly, almost as if to bring your bodies even closer. "I'm only putting you down once we're inside my apartment. No use insisting," Nicholas replies, his eyes locked on yours. His breath brushes your face, and the scent of his cologne fills your senses.

Ah yes. Your boss has granted you indefinite leave from caring for Baby, so you can recover from the trauma and your injury. Baby will be staying at a dog hotel, while you're being given paid time off. The only problem? You no longer have anywhere to go back to.

"I'm still not convinced that staying at your place is the best idea," you murmur as you and Nicholas pass through the lobby of the building you both live in.

"Mr. Chavez, I see you're being quite the gentleman to Miss Y/L/N," the doorman remarks, watching Nicholas carry you in his arms.

"Señor Ramirez, no sería educado dejar a esta belísima señorita así," Nicholas replies in Spanish, making the doorman smile while you flush with embarrassment.

"The lady is grateful for the gentlemanly gesture—even if it is a bit much," you add, speaking up.

"Honestly, I do think it's a bit much to be carried like this," you say, feeling the judgmental looks from Nicholas and Mr. Ramirez.

"Después de su trauma, señorita," Mr. Ramirez begins, "the best thing you can do is rest. In fact, I want to assure both of you that the building management will take extra care with security," he says, looking between you and Nicholas — who, truthfully, seems far more focused on holding you than on anything Mr. Ramirez is saying.

"We both appreciate it, but now Superman here needs to take me upstairs," you say, tightening your grip around Nicholas, who smiles and bids Mr. Ramirez goodbye.

You both step into the elevator, and you try to wriggle out of Nicholas’s arms — but you grow frustrated when he won’t let go.

"I told you, I’m only putting you down once we’re inside my apartment," he murmurs near your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

Finally, you arrive at his apartment — though it was clearly no easy feat for you. Memories of what had happened there still haunted you. But being with Nicholas made you feel safer.

He gently places you on the couch, and for a moment, you feel a sense of comfort. “You’re treating me like I’m some delicate doll,” you murmur as he adjusts a cushion under your feet.

“You could’ve been seriously hurt. I’m sorry, but I can’t even imagine what I’d do… what would become of me, if you had died,” Nicholas says softly, his hand gently caressing your face. At the touch of his fingers, your eyes close—as if, in that moment, all you wanted was to live within his warmth.

“Don’t you think we’re rushing things?” you ask, your voice low but firm—not from anger, but from the overwhelming intensity of what you’re feeling. “You risked your life for me, and I’m almost certain I don’t deserve all this. We haven’t even had sex, and we’re already acting like we’re… something.”

Nicholas doesn’t flinch. He just looks at you, steady and calm.

“Are you saying that if we slept together, it would somehow justify what I did?” he asks, his voice quieter now, as though trying to understand you—and making you feel a little ridiculous for implying that intimacy could validate something so selfless.

“You only heard the part about sex, didn’t you?” you mutter, growing frustrated—not just with him, but with yourself, with the situation, with the need to put logic into something that just is.

“That just sounded like the most interesting part,” he replies, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. Then he leans in slowly, settling beside you on the couch, and presses a gentle kiss to your cheek—his lips warm, comforting, grounding.

And you have to admit it—you like the feeling of his mouth on your skin. “Would it make you feel better,” he whispers near your ear, “if I said I would’ve done the same for anyone in danger?” You pause, heart racing.

“Would you be telling the truth if you said that?” you ask, your voice barely audible. Nicholas doesn’t answer with words right away. Instead, his lips move from your cheek to your neck in a slow, deliberate trail. He draws closer, his breath brushing your skin as he chuckles softly—right as your question lingers in the air between you.

“Obviously not,” he says, his fingers brushing the soft skin of your neck as he tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear, then presses another tender kiss there. “I did what I did—I risked everything, so to speak—because that man would have hurt you. Let’s just say I want to be your superhero.”

He leans in and kisses your lips, gentle yet charged with passion, his hands cradling your face and drawing you closer. You find yourself responding, leaning into him for more intensity, but a sudden twinge of pain makes you break away with a soft gasp.

“We can’t keep going like this,” you whisper in his ear. “If we’re willing to risk our lives for each other, maybe we should consider actually dating—officially. But of course, there’s the fact that you have someone else…”

Before you can finish, Nicholas plants a quick, reassuring peck on your lips and smiles. “I’m a single man,” he replies, voice low and earnest. “I can assure you that right now there’s only one person in my life, and that’s you. And mind you, we’re not even official yet.”

He pauses, his eyes locked on yours. “But you should know this: I’d face any danger, cross any distance, just to keep you safe—and to see you smile. If you’ll let me, I intend to be more than just your hero.”

"I want to give this a chance—to see where it leads, you and me," you say with a gentle smile, running your fingers through Nicholas’s hair, which feels soft beneath your touch.

“Then it’s settled. You and I, we’re officially—” Nicholas starts, but you quickly cover his mouth with your hand.

“Easy there, tiger. We’re officially seeing where this goes… but no rushing into anything,” you reply, teasing yet firm, your eyes meeting his with a spark of affection and warning all at once. He nods in agreement and leans in to kiss your lips, a kiss you eagerly return.

“But just so we're clear—you and I are taking things slow,” you begin to say, only to falter when you feel Nicholas's lips trail gently down your neck. His hands grip your waist firmly, pulling you closer as his mouth brushes over your skin in tender, lingering kisses.

“And by slow, I mean no crossing any dangerous lines…” you manage to whisper, though your voice wavers as he tightens his hold on your waist and returns to your lips, kissing you more deeply, more hungrily.

Heat rushes through your body, making your head spin, until your vision blurs slightly and you break the kiss with a soft gasp.

“Are you okay?” Nicholas asks, his hand immediately going to your forehead, concern darkening his gaze.

You smile faintly, touched by the gentleness of his touch.

“No need to answer—you’re running a fever,” he says, standing up swiftly and disappearing into the apartment. Within moments, he returns with some medicine and a glass of water.

You take the pill gratefully and, after a few minutes, begin to feel the discomfort ease.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” you murmur, your voice tender as he gently pulls you against him, laying your head on his chest. His fingers begin to run soothingly through your hair, lulling you into a sense of peace you hadn’t realized you needed.

"I like you. Of course I’ll take care of you, mi amor," he murmurs softly, his hand continuing to gently caress you.

“And... if you’re willing to be with me, does that mean you’ve sorted things out with your... previous casual romance?” you ask, your voice growing drowsy as you remain nestled against him, feeling as though he is, somehow, your safe harbor.

“If you must know, she asked me to choose between staying with her and working on what we had... or leaving to take care of you. As you can see, I chose you,” he says simply, meeting your gaze.

He leans down and presses a tender kiss to your lips, and you can’t help but whisper, your mouth still close to his, “Promise me you won’t regret choosing me.” He smiles at you with such warmth, as if you had said something adorably foolish.

“The medicine must not have kicked in yet, because you’re clearly hallucinating,” he teases gently, kissing you affectionately on the cheek. It is comforting—so comforting—to be held like this, to see the certainty in his choice. And yet a small part of you remains afraid, unsure if the two of you truly have what it takes to make things work. Still, sleep soon overcomes you, and there, in the arms of the man who so effortlessly captivated your heart, you drift off into a peaceful slumber.

You wake up the next morning feeling renewed. You realize you are no longer on the couch, but lying in a bed — though it does not seem to be Nicholas’s room, but perhaps a guest room. On the bedside table, you notice a note.

"I didn't want to wake you. I'll be recording all morning, but I prepared breakfast for you and left a change of clothes for you to wear. Think of me while I'm away, because I will surely be thinking of you," Nicholas wrote, signing at the bottom: "eternamente enamorado de ti."

You decide to take a shower, moving carefully. Afterward, you put on the clothes he left for you, which carry his scent, making you feel even closer to him. You then head to the living room and find a beautiful breakfast set out, waiting for you. Nicholas is certainly going to leave you spoiled if he continues like this.

You begin serving yourself when you hear the doorbell ring. Without rushing, you walk over and open the door — and find yourself face to face with the woman who was once almost Nicholas’s girlfriend. There is a tense silence between you as she looks you up and down, as if studying you carefully.

TO BE CONTINUED...

[pascaloverx]

Author please, come back. I miss you!🥹

aww thank you so much for the affection, I'm slowly coming back but at least I posted a chapter today

[pascaloverx]

@edb954

@jakobtorettoworld

BACK TO BLACK

Summary: You and Charlie have been married for a few years, but something feels off. You've been growing distant, caught in the struggle of trying to expand your family through adoption. But then, something happens—something that changes your life for the worse.

Author's Note: I’m honored by this request and hope you enjoy what I’m preparing for this fanfic. If it goes well, I can certainly guarantee more chapters. The story will include betrayal, marital issues, and pregnancy. Engage if you like it! I would like to say that other requests are welcome and that I loved writing this chapter. If you like the chapter, interact.

one

TWO

Unfortunately, Charlie didn’t die. It would’ve been easier if he had. Or if you hated him enough to let him bleed out on the floor. But you didn’t.

So you called an ambulance. You stayed with him. You gave your statement to the police. But you didn’t care to remain by his side at the hospital. Once the officers confirmed he had broken into your home, verified your gun license, and ensured Charlie wasn’t in critical condition, they let you go. You told them you wouldn’t press charges. Said he seemed disoriented, confused, but not violent.

Now you're back at the house, swallowed by silence, standing in the wreckage of yet another storm Charlie brought into your life. Over twelve hours of chaos. Of memories you tried to bury. You need to run. Again. You can’t risk him finding you. Can’t risk him poisoning this new life you’ve fought so hard to build—with more lies, more apologies, more ruin.

A knock—followed by a second, louder one—rings through the house, sharp and impatient. You were just about to start packing your bags, but the insistence at the door forces you to abandon your task.

"I'm coming!" you call out, walking briskly toward the entrance. But when you swing the door open, your breath catches in your throat. Charlie.

He stands there, clearly still recovering from the gunshot wound you gave him. He looks pale, strained—his posture weak, his shoulder stiff beneath the bandage barely visible beneath his coat. You instinctively take a step back, the sight of him striking you like a blow.

"You shouldn’t be here," you murmur, one hand instinctively flying to your belly as a sharp twinge runs through it, tightening your nerves.

"I’m sorry for showing up like this. I just... I needed to see you," he says, his voice cracked, almost hollow. Something is off. You don’t know if it’s the pain laced in his voice or the way his eyes look—distant, dull, like a shadow of the man you once knew. Like whatever part of him you loved had been hollowed out.

"Needed to see me?" you repeat coldly, stepping fully in front of the doorway, your body blocking the entrance with deliberate firmness. You’re not letting him in. Not again. Not now.

“The officers told me you didn’t want to press charges,” he begins, his voice low and strained. He looks utterly drained, like just standing there is costing him everything he has. It almost makes you feel guilty for not inviting him in. Almost.

“I honestly…” He exhales slowly, like the weight of it all is too much. “I don’t know how to apologize for breaking into your home. Especially now, seeing that you’re pregnant.” His eyes flicker to your belly, a flicker of regret passing over his face. “The doctors think the fall—or something—messed with my memory. They say it’s temporary, but… if it weren’t for my driver’s license, I probably wouldn’t even know my name right now.”

You go still. That explains everything. You’re not standing in front of your husband—at least, not the version of him that lied, betrayed, and destroyed you. This is someone else. Someone who doesn’t know you. Someone who doesn’t even know himself.

“I’m sorry you were hurt,” you murmur, voice gentler now despite the storm still swirling in your chest. “Even if you did invade my home… I could’ve handled it differently.”

Your baby kicks hard—again and again—sensing your unease, and you press a hand to your belly, trying to soothe the life growing inside you. Then, against all the instincts screaming for you to shut the door and walk away, you take a cautious step back. Just one.

“Maybe you should come in. You don’t look well,” you say quietly, your expression careful, unreadable. You try not to reveal how much you know him, or how much you once loved him. Because the truth is, no matter how much of you wants to hate him… there’s still a part of you that remembers.

You remember how careful he was at the beginning—how it felt to be beside him, how safe and seen he once made you feel. But the moment he steps into your home, you force yourself to silence any inappropriate thought, any lingering softness that dares to surface.

After you shut the door behind him, you both move quietly toward the living room. The floor, once stained with his blood, shows no trace of it now—you made sure of that before packing. His eyes scan the room, taking in the boxes, the scattered belongings waiting to be sealed away.

He lowers himself slowly onto the couch, the motion labored, and then looks at you with something like recognition—or maybe confusion.

“Are you leaving?” he asks softly, the question hanging in the air between you like smoke.

“Maybe I am,” you murmur as you settle onto the sofa, keeping your tone guarded, “but I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“Not trying to be rude,” you add, your voice quieter now, more composed.

He glances around at the packed boxes again, then meets your gaze. “I was just curious because of your things… but I must say, leaving like this doesn’t suit you, Y/N. You never struck me as a coward.”

And that’s it. Something clicks in your mind—sharp, immediate, undeniable. He’s pretending. That bastard.

“You haven’t changed, Charlie Mayhew,” you say, eyes narrowing slightly as you stare at him. The softness vanishes from your face, replaced with cold clarity. “Still playing the same old games.”

"The pot calling the kettle black," Charlie scoffs, his voice low and mocking. "You played pretend just as much as I did—made me think you were dead while you hid away in this little town like a scared little mouse, carrying our child."

That familiar, devilish glint returns to his eyes—the one you thought you had escaped. He chuckles as he remains seated on your sofa, lazily surveying the room like he already owned it.

“There is no our child,” you say coldly, pressing a protective hand against your belly, feeling your baby kick frantically beneath your palm. The tension is thick, and your child seems to sense every bit of it.

“There is my child. This is my house. My town. And there is no room for you in my life anymore,” you finish, your voice firm, as though stating a simple, irrefutable fact.

He tilts his head slightly, the mocking smile never leaving his lips. "Sounds lovely in theory," he murmurs, inching closer, "but in practice... you're alone, pretending to be someone you're not."

Before you can move, he places a hand carefully over your stomach. Strangely, your baby's wild kicking calms under his touch. You squeeze your eyes shut, fighting the wave of emotions that threatens to drown you. Don’t fall for it, you chant silently to yourself. Don’t let him back in. Not again.

"What do you want, Charlie?" you ask, firmly removing his hand from your belly. It’s obvious he wants something—or is planning something—given the unnatural calm in his voice.

"I want my family back," he says, his eyes dropping to your stomach with a softness that almost looks genuine. "Despite everything, I still love you. We both wanted this baby so badly."

You nearly laugh at the absurdity of it all. "Why don't you ask Detective Duval to give you a family?" you reply sharply. "Since you were so eager to screw her while you were still married to me." The corners of your mouth twitch with bitter amusement. The audacity of Charlie, showing up here after everything he had done.

"It's strange, really," you continue, your voice cold and steady. "You coming after me now. My fake death should have freed you from the burdens of being a husband. You could have built a lovely life with your mistress."

"I admit it was a mistake to get involved with Megan," Charlie says, his voice heavy with false remorse, as if he were a man hopelessly in love. You let out a mocking laugh. He must really think you’re a fool.

"Of course not," you snap. "I'm sure you spent your time complaining about me while you were rutting with her like a pair of animals in heat."

You narrow your eyes at him, the fury burning just beneath your skin, and rise to your feet, pacing the living room in growing frustration while Charlie watches you carefully.

"You’re going to end up stressing our baby, Y/N," he murmurs, reaching out to take your hand and stroking it gently.

It’s a gesture he once used to calm you during the endless rounds of fertility treatments at the hospital—when you were still foolish enough to believe in the future you were trying to build together.

So many attempts, so many dreams of a family... and now that you finally carry the child you once prayed for, Charlie has become the very source of your deepest misery.

"If you truly care about the baby," you say in a low, almost pleading tone, your voice trembling as the tears build in your eyes, "then leave. Pretend you never found me. Live your life and let me live mine." You feel sick at the contact of his hand, as if his very touch stains you.

"I loved you more than I ever loved anyone in my entire life. I just didn’t know how to show it," Charlie says, as if there could ever be any justification for what he had done to you.

"When we started chasing after this dream of a child, of a family... I didn’t know how to tell you, but I already felt complete with you. It was you and me against the world. And then it seemed like you needed this third person to be able to love me. I started to believe I wasn't enough for you." The bastard.

Finally, you allow yourself to cry—but the tears are mixed with a bitter, almost hysterical laugh, as though you had reached your breaking point.

"And you had the audacity to call me a coward," you say through clenched teeth.

"Your act of seeking out another woman, instead of being honest with me, was pure cruelty—an act of true cowardice. And do you know what makes it even worse?" You step closer to him, standing face to face now as he rises from the sofa.

"It’s the fact that you didn’t tell me the truth because you were selfish. Deep down, you knew I might leave you if I found out. And yet, you chose to deceive me. To make a fool out of me."

"And there is nothing I regret more than that," he says, but honestly, it is not enough to satisfy you. No amount of regret could ever cover the wounds he had inflicted upon you.

"But I am not leaving here without you. So either you return to the life we once had, or I move into your guest room," he declares with precision, as if there were no other option.

"As you wish, husband," you reply, locking your gaze with his. "I shall return to being Y/N Mayhew, only to formally file for divorce—and then you shall be forever immortalized as a mistake of my past," you say, making it abundantly clear that there would be no reconciliation.

"You are forgetting, dear wife, that we shall still have a child together. We will forever be bound by him," he says, stepping closer to you. There is something almost perverse in the way he speaks.

"Then perhaps I shall need to become a widow, not a divorcée," you reply in a cold tone, offering him a slight smile—making it perfectly clear that you are serious. Inside, you think that his death might be the only way for you to finally overcome whatever love still lingers within you.

Without another word, you turn subtly and begin making your way toward the staircase leading to the second floor. "Sleep on the couch. Tomorrow, we shall return to our former lives—until death do us part," you warn him, before disappearing into your bedroom.

[pascaloverx]

BACK TO BLACK

Summary: You and Charlie have been married for a few years, but something feels off. You've been growing distant, caught in the struggle of trying to expand your family through adoption. But then, something happens—something that changes your life for the worse.

Author's Note: I’m honored by this request and hope you enjoy what I’m preparing for this fanfic. If it goes well, I can certainly guarantee more chapters. The story will include betrayal, marital issues, and pregnancy. Engage if you like it! I would like to say that other requests are welcome and that I loved writing this chapter. If you like the chapter, interact.

one

TWO

Unfortunately, Charlie didn’t die. It would’ve been easier if he had. Or if you hated him enough to let him bleed out on the floor. But you didn’t.

So you called an ambulance. You stayed with him. You gave your statement to the police. But you didn’t care to remain by his side at the hospital. Once the officers confirmed he had broken into your home, verified your gun license, and ensured Charlie wasn’t in critical condition, they let you go. You told them you wouldn’t press charges. Said he seemed disoriented, confused, but not violent.

Now you're back at the house, swallowed by silence, standing in the wreckage of yet another storm Charlie brought into your life. Over twelve hours of chaos. Of memories you tried to bury. You need to run. Again. You can’t risk him finding you. Can’t risk him poisoning this new life you’ve fought so hard to build—with more lies, more apologies, more ruin.

A knock—followed by a second, louder one—rings through the house, sharp and impatient. You were just about to start packing your bags, but the insistence at the door forces you to abandon your task.

"I'm coming!" you call out, walking briskly toward the entrance. But when you swing the door open, your breath catches in your throat. Charlie.

He stands there, clearly still recovering from the gunshot wound you gave him. He looks pale, strained—his posture weak, his shoulder stiff beneath the bandage barely visible beneath his coat. You instinctively take a step back, the sight of him striking you like a blow.

"You shouldn’t be here," you murmur, one hand instinctively flying to your belly as a sharp twinge runs through it, tightening your nerves.

"I’m sorry for showing up like this. I just... I needed to see you," he says, his voice cracked, almost hollow. Something is off. You don’t know if it’s the pain laced in his voice or the way his eyes look—distant, dull, like a shadow of the man you once knew. Like whatever part of him you loved had been hollowed out.

"Needed to see me?" you repeat coldly, stepping fully in front of the doorway, your body blocking the entrance with deliberate firmness. You’re not letting him in. Not again. Not now.

“The officers told me you didn’t want to press charges,” he begins, his voice low and strained. He looks utterly drained, like just standing there is costing him everything he has. It almost makes you feel guilty for not inviting him in. Almost.

“I honestly…” He exhales slowly, like the weight of it all is too much. “I don’t know how to apologize for breaking into your home. Especially now, seeing that you’re pregnant.” His eyes flicker to your belly, a flicker of regret passing over his face. “The doctors think the fall—or something—messed with my memory. They say it’s temporary, but… if it weren’t for my driver’s license, I probably wouldn’t even know my name right now.”

You go still. That explains everything. You’re not standing in front of your husband—at least, not the version of him that lied, betrayed, and destroyed you. This is someone else. Someone who doesn’t know you. Someone who doesn’t even know himself.

“I’m sorry you were hurt,” you murmur, voice gentler now despite the storm still swirling in your chest. “Even if you did invade my home… I could’ve handled it differently.”

Your baby kicks hard—again and again—sensing your unease, and you press a hand to your belly, trying to soothe the life growing inside you. Then, against all the instincts screaming for you to shut the door and walk away, you take a cautious step back. Just one.

“Maybe you should come in. You don’t look well,” you say quietly, your expression careful, unreadable. You try not to reveal how much you know him, or how much you once loved him. Because the truth is, no matter how much of you wants to hate him… there’s still a part of you that remembers.

You remember how careful he was at the beginning—how it felt to be beside him, how safe and seen he once made you feel. But the moment he steps into your home, you force yourself to silence any inappropriate thought, any lingering softness that dares to surface.

After you shut the door behind him, you both move quietly toward the living room. The floor, once stained with his blood, shows no trace of it now—you made sure of that before packing. His eyes scan the room, taking in the boxes, the scattered belongings waiting to be sealed away.

He lowers himself slowly onto the couch, the motion labored, and then looks at you with something like recognition—or maybe confusion.

“Are you leaving?” he asks softly, the question hanging in the air between you like smoke.

“Maybe I am,” you murmur as you settle onto the sofa, keeping your tone guarded, “but I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“Not trying to be rude,” you add, your voice quieter now, more composed.

He glances around at the packed boxes again, then meets your gaze. “I was just curious because of your things… but I must say, leaving like this doesn’t suit you, Y/N. You never struck me as a coward.”

And that’s it. Something clicks in your mind—sharp, immediate, undeniable. He’s pretending. That bastard.

“You haven’t changed, Charlie Mayhew,” you say, eyes narrowing slightly as you stare at him. The softness vanishes from your face, replaced with cold clarity. “Still playing the same old games.”

"The pot calling the kettle black," Charlie scoffs, his voice low and mocking. "You played pretend just as much as I did—made me think you were dead while you hid away in this little town like a scared little mouse, carrying our child."

That familiar, devilish glint returns to his eyes—the one you thought you had escaped. He chuckles as he remains seated on your sofa, lazily surveying the room like he already owned it.

“There is no our child,” you say coldly, pressing a protective hand against your belly, feeling your baby kick frantically beneath your palm. The tension is thick, and your child seems to sense every bit of it.

“There is my child. This is my house. My town. And there is no room for you in my life anymore,” you finish, your voice firm, as though stating a simple, irrefutable fact.

He tilts his head slightly, the mocking smile never leaving his lips. "Sounds lovely in theory," he murmurs, inching closer, "but in practice... you're alone, pretending to be someone you're not."

Before you can move, he places a hand carefully over your stomach. Strangely, your baby's wild kicking calms under his touch. You squeeze your eyes shut, fighting the wave of emotions that threatens to drown you. Don’t fall for it, you chant silently to yourself. Don’t let him back in. Not again.

"What do you want, Charlie?" you ask, firmly removing his hand from your belly. It’s obvious he wants something—or is planning something—given the unnatural calm in his voice.

"I want my family back," he says, his eyes dropping to your stomach with a softness that almost looks genuine. "Despite everything, I still love you. We both wanted this baby so badly."

You nearly laugh at the absurdity of it all. "Why don't you ask Detective Duval to give you a family?" you reply sharply. "Since you were so eager to screw her while you were still married to me." The corners of your mouth twitch with bitter amusement. The audacity of Charlie, showing up here after everything he had done.

"It's strange, really," you continue, your voice cold and steady. "You coming after me now. My fake death should have freed you from the burdens of being a husband. You could have built a lovely life with your mistress."

"I admit it was a mistake to get involved with Megan," Charlie says, his voice heavy with false remorse, as if he were a man hopelessly in love. You let out a mocking laugh. He must really think you’re a fool.

"Of course not," you snap. "I'm sure you spent your time complaining about me while you were rutting with her like a pair of animals in heat."

You narrow your eyes at him, the fury burning just beneath your skin, and rise to your feet, pacing the living room in growing frustration while Charlie watches you carefully.

"You’re going to end up stressing our baby, Y/N," he murmurs, reaching out to take your hand and stroking it gently.

It’s a gesture he once used to calm you during the endless rounds of fertility treatments at the hospital—when you were still foolish enough to believe in the future you were trying to build together.

So many attempts, so many dreams of a family... and now that you finally carry the child you once prayed for, Charlie has become the very source of your deepest misery.

"If you truly care about the baby," you say in a low, almost pleading tone, your voice trembling as the tears build in your eyes, "then leave. Pretend you never found me. Live your life and let me live mine." You feel sick at the contact of his hand, as if his very touch stains you.

"I loved you more than I ever loved anyone in my entire life. I just didn’t know how to show it," Charlie says, as if there could ever be any justification for what he had done to you.

"When we started chasing after this dream of a child, of a family... I didn’t know how to tell you, but I already felt complete with you. It was you and me against the world. And then it seemed like you needed this third person to be able to love me. I started to believe I wasn't enough for you." The bastard.

Finally, you allow yourself to cry—but the tears are mixed with a bitter, almost hysterical laugh, as though you had reached your breaking point.

"And you had the audacity to call me a coward," you say through clenched teeth.

"Your act of seeking out another woman, instead of being honest with me, was pure cruelty—an act of true cowardice. And do you know what makes it even worse?" You step closer to him, standing face to face now as he rises from the sofa.

"It’s the fact that you didn’t tell me the truth because you were selfish. Deep down, you knew I might leave you if I found out. And yet, you chose to deceive me. To make a fool out of me."

"And there is nothing I regret more than that," he says, but honestly, it is not enough to satisfy you. No amount of regret could ever cover the wounds he had inflicted upon you.

"But I am not leaving here without you. So either you return to the life we once had, or I move into your guest room," he declares with precision, as if there were no other option.

"As you wish, husband," you reply, locking your gaze with his. "I shall return to being Y/N Mayhew, only to formally file for divorce—and then you shall be forever immortalized as a mistake of my past," you say, making it abundantly clear that there would be no reconciliation.

"You are forgetting, dear wife, that we shall still have a child together. We will forever be bound by him," he says, stepping closer to you. There is something almost perverse in the way he speaks.

"Then perhaps I shall need to become a widow, not a divorcée," you reply in a cold tone, offering him a slight smile—making it perfectly clear that you are serious. Inside, you think that his death might be the only way for you to finally overcome whatever love still lingers within you.

Without another word, you turn subtly and begin making your way toward the staircase leading to the second floor. "Sleep on the couch. Tomorrow, we shall return to our former lives—until death do us part," you warn him, before disappearing into your bedroom.

[pascaloverx]

Honestly, I had a creative block and was stuck with college assignments and now that I'm back to writing my fanfics, I just feel like what I'm writing isn't good enough.

[pascaloverx]

SAFE & SOUND

author's note: I have to admit that it never crossed my mind to have the courage to write a Joel Miller fanfic, but I wanted to dare to do it, out of pure desire. if it's not good, let's all pretend nothing happened. and if the fanfic goes ahead, I will make a proper summary.

PREVIEW

A drop of water hits the floor inside your house. The leak is back, even though you patched that same crack in the roof not too long ago. Outside, the ice is starting to melt, and soon, it feels like your entire house might flood. People have told you more than once to ask Joel for help, but you’d rather deal with it yourself. Truth be told, he already seems burdened enough.

A sharp knock breaks the silence. Loud, impatient—has to be Ellie. You hurry to the door, and before you can even say anything, she pushes her way in.

“I need your help,” she says, already stepping over the threshold like she owns the place.

“A polite person might say good morning first. I thought the Millers were raised with better manners,” you mutter as you shut the door behind her. She scowls at you, clearly unimpressed.

Sometimes, when she looks at you like that, you remember being her age. And you realize your mother must’ve had the patience of a saint. Especially during the outbreak.

“I’m not—ugh, whatever. I need help training. Combat,” Ellie says, her voice laced with urgency.

You don’t need to ask why she’s here. Most folks in Jackson—the ones she’d actually want to spar with—won’t touch that request. They’re too afraid of Joel. You’re one of the few who doesn’t flinch at his name.

“I haven’t even eaten yet,” you grumble, heading up the stairs to find something less cozy and more suited to getting punched.

“I can wait,” Ellie calls after you. “I just need to get this out of my system.”

You sigh. “Since I clearly don’t have a choice, want to tell me what’s got you all worked up today?”

She follows you into your room without hesitation, her boots thudding softly on the worn wood floor. She doesn’t answer right away, and as you dig through your drawer, you glance back at her. There’s something in the set of her jaw—tight, angry, maybe even scared. She reminds you of your little sister. Same restless energy. Same fire in her eyes.

“No. I don’t want you pulling a Gail on me,” Ellie snaps, crossing her arms. “One of the things I actually like about us is the lack of context. Like, you don’t know why I’m pissed off, and I don’t know anything about your past—except that your mom helped build this place.” She’s not wrong. Around here, keeping secrets is more than habit—it’s survival.

“Alright,” you sigh, raising your hands in surrender. “I won’t pry into your life. But you’re gonna owe me a favor.” She eyes you warily as you gesture toward the ceiling.

“I’ve got a leak. Again. Ask Joel to come fix it for me.” It’ll be better coming from her than from you.

“Can’t you ask me for, I don’t know, a kidney or something?” Ellie mutters with an awkward smile as you head into the bathroom to change. Even from the other room, you laugh at her suggestion.

“Nope, Ellie. What I really need is a proper fix on this house. And you…” you step back out, adjusting your sleeve, “you need someone who’s not afraid to knock you around a little.”

You give her a playful punch on the arm, just hard enough to make your point. She grins, rubbing the spot. “Fair enough.”

You head toward an old, abandoned spot—quiet enough that only someone nosy would stumble across you two.

“Where’s your guard dog today?” you ask as you walk beside Ellie, boots crunching over frost-covered gravel.

She narrows her eyes at you. “Jesse is not my guard dog,” she says, clearly annoyed.

“But,” she adds with a smirk, “he’s tied up with something else. Thinks I’m off somewhere, quietly reflecting on my reckless behavior.” She laughs at how easily she fooled him.

“Ellie, I seriously doubt he believes you’re off soul-searching,” you say, giving her a sidelong glance. “You might wanna be careful. I don’t need trouble knocking on my door.”

She shrugs, but the glint in her eye says she knows you’re right—even if she has no plans to behave. “Thought you weren’t afraid of anything,” Ellie taunts as she lunges toward you.

You dodge, stepping aside just in time to send her stumbling into a wooden wall with a loud thud. She’s quick to recover, already charging again. A punch slices through the air, narrowly missing your jaw. You raise your arms in defense, but her second hit lands hard—right in your stomach.

“Cheap shot,” you mutter, breathless. “But I liked it.” You retaliate, swinging with enough force to knock her off balance. She manages to duck, just in time, feet skidding against the dirt as she finds her stance again.

The two of you keep going, exchanging blows, both trying to sharpen your timing, your precision. Ellie’s giving you a real fight, but you know if this continues much longer, she’s going to walk away bruised—maybe worse.

You sweep her legs out from under her, and she hits the ground with a solid thump. That’s when a voice interrupts you.

“You’re not supposed to be here… but what really hurts is that you didn’t invite me to watch.” You turn to see Dina approaching, arms crossed, a grin tugging at her lips.

Ellie looks briefly embarrassed. You offer her your hand, helping her back to her feet without a word. Dina always has that effect on her.

“Maybe next time,” you suggest, glancing between them, “you can be the one running combat drills with Ellie.”

They exchange a look—one that lingers a little too long, full of something unsaid. Tension. Maybe something more than that.

“I’d love to,” Dina replies with a teasing smile, “but I’d rather not be the reason Joel gets pissed. Speaking of which—Ellie, come with me before someone sees your face.”

You glance at Ellie and realize she’s more banged up than you thought. To be fair, you’re not in much better shape. Your back aches and there’s a sting on your lip that wasn’t there before.

“Go on, Ellie,” you say, cracking your neck as you stretch. “Just don’t forget to ask your dad to fix my roof.”

She shoots you a grumpy look but nods before heading off with Dina, rubbing her bruised arm.

You watch them disappear around the corner, something tight settling in your chest—equal parts ache and amusement. You take a few minutes to tidy up the place, brushing away the scuff marks and clearing signs of the rough sparring session. The last thing you need is someone asking questions about what went on there.

Once satisfied, you head back toward your house. So far, no one's called you for patrol duty or dragged you into another council meeting—small mercies, for now. You're halfway lost in thought when you suddenly bump into someone. The impact is solid enough to throw you slightly off balance.

“Maybe you should start wearing glasses,” Joel mutters, his tone sharp—like you were the one who nearly knocked him over.

“The concept of apologizing for stepping into my path must’ve slipped right out of your vocabulary, huh, Miller?” you snap back, straightening yourself and trying not to wince from the soreness in your body.

“I don’t need to apologize,” he replies flatly. “You came outta nowhere. Looked like you were running from something.”

You quickly avert your gaze, doing your best to hide the bruise blooming on your cheek and the sting on your lip. If he sees you like this, it won’t take more than a second for him to realize Ellie probably looks the same—and then it’s only a matter of time before he pieces it all together.

“I think we’re going to have to disagree on that,” you reply, trying to keep your voice even, maybe even polite. “But honestly, it’s not worth arguing about. Pretend this collision never happened, and I’ll do the same.”

You make a move to step around him, eager to end the conversation, but Joel’s hand suddenly catches your arm, pulling you back toward him.

“You don’t usually back down from a fight,” he says, narrowing his eyes at you. “Why’re you being reasonable now?”

And just like that, irritation bubbles up inside you. This is exactly why the two of you don’t get along.

“Can’t I just admit defeat and move on, Joel? Do you really need me to start a debate about whether or not it was okay for you to bulldoze into me and then act like you didn’t owe me so much as a ‘sorry’?”

You spin around fully to face him, letting the frustration leak through. And that’s when you realize your mistake. If there are bruises or cuts on your face from sparring with Ellie, he’s seeing them now. You try to turn your head away quickly, but it’s already too late.

“What the hell happened to you?” Joel asks, stepping in closer and raising both hands to cup your face. His calloused fingers are gentle, but they leave no room to escape. He pulls your face toward him to get a better look, eyes scanning every mark. Shit.

“I… had a training session with Jesse,” you lie, voice steady but a little too quick. “He’s younger than me, so, you know, I end up having to teach him a thing or two sometimes.”

Joel lets out a low, disbelieving grunt, but his hands don’t leave your face. His expression darkens. “You been training with Ellie?”

It doesn’t sound like a question. It sounds like a verdict.

You take his hands gently but firmly, lowering them from your face. Then you turn on your heel and start walking toward your house, your steps faster than usual. It’s not exactly fleeing—but it’s close. Joel hesitates for a few seconds, then falls into step behind you.

“Joel, you don’t need to walk me home. I’m a big girl,” you say without looking at him, hoping he’ll take the hint and drop it.

But he doesn’t.

“Don’t change the subject. You and Ellie been up to something?” he presses, his voice low and edged with that signature Miller suspicion.

You turn to face him.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but the way you talk makes it sound like we’re not two grown women capable of owning our choices. Ellie and I were just training. Nothing more,” you say, locking eyes with him, your tone calm but firm. “I know she’s your daughter, but—”

“Don’t,” he cuts you off, eyes narrowing, voice low and sharp. “Don’t think for a second I need advice on how to handle things with Ellie.” You study his face, seeing the tension coiled behind his calm. A nerve has been hit—clearly. But you don’t step back.

“I wouldn’t dare interfere in your delicate little dance of a father-daughter relationship,” you say, pointing a finger at him. “But if you keep bottling her up, she’s going to push back. That’s just the truth.” A long silence stretches between you. Then, without another word, you turn and keep walking—half expecting him to stay behind. But he follows. Of course he does.

"I thought we were done here—do you really have to follow me?" you ask, slowing your steps.

"Your roof’s leaking again. I'm coming with you to fix it," he replies, gruff and straight to the point.

"Ellie told you?" you ask, raising an eyebrow. There's no way she had time to say anything.

"No. Just figured someone like you wouldn’t know the first thing about patching a roof," he says dryly, not even sparing you a glance. You scoff, but there’s a flicker of amusement in your eyes. Typical Joel—rough around the edges, but always showing up when it counts.

"Which is exactly why I never asked you for help in the first place… 'Someone like me'? Care to explain what that's supposed to mean?" you ask, turning sharply to face him.

Joel doesn’t smile often, but the flicker of amusement in his eyes says he’s enjoying this far more than he should.

"You’ve got your talents," he says with a shrug. "You’re quick, sharp, know how to handle a fight. But fixing things? Not your strong suit. You’re great at tearing things down—not so much putting them back together."

He doesn’t miss a beat before adding, with that maddening calm of his, "And if you keep stopping every time your pride gets poked, we’ll still be standing here by nightfall."

You roll your eyes and turn back around, jaw clenched, pace steady—but not fast enough to lose him. You both reach your house, and the moment you turn the doorknob and it doesn't open right away, Joel lets out a low murmur—like something’s not quite right. You can feel the weight of his breath behind you.

“If I promise to be reasonable… will you tell me what I did wrong?” you ask softly, as though trying to coax an answer out of the impatient man looming at your back.

“Can you even be reasonable?” he replies, almost like he’s genuinely curious.

You take a deep breath and turn toward him, giving him just enough room to step inside. The two of you stand there in the doorway, locked in a quiet standoff, until he finally speaks.

“You’re using too much force when you turn the knob,” he says, his tone flat but instructive. “It’s got a trick to it. Less brute strength—more finesse. You give it a little pull before you turn it.”

Joel reaches for the doorknob, shuts the door again, and reopens it effortlessly in one smooth motion. You're honestly impressed—but you mask it with a shrug, pretending it’s nothing.

“Well then,” you say, summoning your most gracious tone as you gesture grandly, “as the reasonable person I clearly am, I’ll simply say—thank you for your guidance, good sir.” You offer a courteous smile and step toward the inside of your home.

Joel remains on the threshold, not moving, his eyes scanning the interior as if evaluating it. It’s subtle, but you notice. And he doesn’t cross the line into your space.

“You do know it’s safe to come in, right?” you ask, pausing to glance over your shoulder. Your voice is soft, but there’s an edge to it—a quiet call-out. He meets your gaze and you catch the flicker of discomfort before he looks away.

“I know,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Since you’re being all... reasonable today, just wait here a second. I’ll go grab my toolbox. Judging by the state of things.” He adds the last bit as casually as possible, but it lands somewhere between concern and insult.

You blink at him, half-grateful, half-offended. "Right. Because clearly I’ve been living in ruins." Joel doesn’t answer—just gives you that unreadable look of his before heading off.

You stand in the doorway, arms folded, trying to decide if you should be thankful or pissed off. Probably both. Then—plop. A drop of water hits your shoulder. You look up. Another leak. Of course. Well. At least he’s coming back to fix it. Though—naturally—nothing in this life comes without a price.

[pascaloverx]

I miss season 2. I’d take a Rocco route. I’ll take a Gary route. Just anything.

[pascaloverx]

TAGLIST

@lunaticpotatoer

@babi-leclerc

SHAMELESS

Summary: You are moving into the Leister mansion after tragically losing your father in a plane crash. He worked for William Leister, who immediately offered to take you in. The problem? His son, Nick Leister, who is far from pleased about having a stranger living under his roof.

Author's Note: My slight fixation on Matthew Broome led me to create this fanfic, but I can’t guarantee it will be good. So, dear reader, if you enjoy it, please interact and comment. The fanfic will likely contain strong language, violence, and adult content. Minors should not engage with it.

three

FOUR

Embarrassment is all you can feel the next morning. Fortunately, you’ve already decided to pretend nothing happened and just move on with your life.

You get up and head to take a shower, but quickly notice the bathroom you’re supposed to use has a locked door. Curious, you peek into Nick’s room and realize he probably didn’t sleep at home. Obviously—he’s likely with his girlfriend or whatever she is to him now.

You take the opportunity to use his bathroom instead. It’s incredibly luxurious, with a massive vanity and an oversized shower. You undress and step into the spacious glass box, letting the hot water wash over you while soft music plays in the background.

The shower goes smoothly, relaxing even. But when it ends, you realize you didn’t bring a change of clothes. Wrapped in a towel, you prepare to make a quick dash back to your room. But as soon as you step out of the bathroom, you crash straight into Nick—shirtless. You both lose balance and fall to the floor.

"This isn’t exactly how I imagined starting my day, but I’m not complaining," Nick says, his voice low as you become painfully aware of your bare, wet body pressed against his. Crap. The towel slipped off during the fall.

Your naked skin is against his, warm and slick from the shower, his light sweat mixing with the droplets of water still clinging to you.

"Nick, I’m going to need you to close your eyes. My towel fell," you say, trying not to move too much—any more friction and this situation will spiral fast.

"I think we’re better off just staying like this," he murmurs, his gaze locked on you, darkened with desire. You stare at him, barely believing his audacity.

"Nick Leister, how can you be so shameless—taking advantage of this moment when you're clearly involved with someone else? I know I gave you the wrong impression when we kissed yesterday, but..." Your voice rises slightly as emotions overflow, words tumbling out faster than you can rein them in. But you're cut off—by Nick gently pressing his lips to yours.

"It breaks my heart to think you’d believe I’d kiss you or make a move while being committed to someone else," he says softly. "Luckily for you, I’m someone who forgives easily, so I won’t hold it against you. Though… another kiss would definitely help." His face is still so close, and you’re still on top of him, heart pounding.

"Why would I kiss you? Stop being such a flirt," you say, scolding him for even suggesting another kiss.

"I'm going to get up and wrap myself in the towel. Be a good boy and close your eyes," you instruct, staring him down. His face is just inches from yours—if you leaned in just a little, your lips would align with his without effort.

"I’ll be a good boy, I promise," Nick says, and then obediently closes his eyes in front of you.

You brace yourself and carefully get up, hoping he keeps his word. Wrapping the towel around your body again, you take a deep breath and steady yourself. Then you lightly touch his arm.

"Lift your hand—I’ll help you up," you murmur. He lifts his hand toward you, and as he opens his eyes slowly, you help him stand. In the process, your back bumps into the bathroom door, which is now closed behind you.

Once again, your bodies are dangerously close. "You’re beautiful," he murmurs, his gaze trailing from your face down your form.

"You're only saying this because you saw me naked?" you ask, your voice softening with the mix of embarrassment and shyness that floods through you.

"Why fight something we both want?" Nick murmurs, his lips nearly grazing yours, teasing and deliberate.

“Your father brought me here to take me in, to treat me like family. Giving myself to you feels wrong when the media is already calling us adopted siblings,” you reply, voice low, even as his arm slides firmly around your waist, drawing you in closer.

“I already have a sister, Y/N,” he breathes, and then brushes a soft kiss against your lips—a mere taste, a temptation that leaves your mouth tingling.

Just as you lean in to deepen the kiss, needing more, he pulls back slightly, a smirk playing on his lips. “Are you going to take a risk with me?”

Something in you snaps—desire overruling doubt—and you reach up, threading your fingers through his hair and pulling him down to you. Your lips collide with his in a kiss that's hungry and heated, mouths moving with urgency and longing. His hands grip your waist, pressing your body fully against his as your kiss turns deeper, more intense.

His tongue brushes yours, a slow, deliberate stroke that sends a shiver down your spine. You respond in kind, your mouths locked in a rhythm of passion and tension, his hand sliding up your back, your fingers tugging gently at his hair. The door behind you creaks under the pressure of your bodies, but neither of you cares—you're too lost in each other, in the kiss that tastes like all the things you shouldn’t want but crave all the same.

You begin unbuttoning his shirt as his hands tighten around your waist, drawing you even closer. Without breaking the kiss, the two of you move toward Nick’s bed, his body guiding yours until your back meets the mattress. He hovers over you, lips never straying far from yours.

You part your legs to let him come closer, and he slowly starts to unwrap the towel from your body, trailing soft kisses along your shoulder. His lips find yours again just as your fingers begin fumbling with the button of his jeans—but before either of you can go further, a knock sounds at the door.

“Son, have you seen Y/N?” Mr. Leister’s voice calls from the hallway, making your whole body tense in panic.

Nick kisses you gently, as if trying to calm you, and then calls back, barely suppressing a laugh, “I think she said she was getting some air. Maybe out for a run or something.”

“All right. Nick, if you see her, be nice. I know you said she gets on your nerves and you weren’t thrilled about having her here, but I want her to feel welcome,” his father replies.

You stare at Nick, stunned. He freezes for a moment, clearly caught off guard by the way his words have come back to haunt him.

“I’m leaving now, but I want both you and Y/N at the masquerade ball tonight. Don’t be late,” his father adds, then walks away.

You push Nick off you immediately, pulling the towel back around your body as you sit up, your face flushed with a mix of anger and shame.

“You could’ve just told me I was irritating you,” you say coldly, getting up and heading toward the door.

“Y/N, that’s not what I meant. Please, just listen—” Nick pleads, reaching out to stop you from leaving, his hand on the door.

“Let me explain,” he murmurs from behind, his breath brushing against the skin of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Nick, I don’t want to hear it right now. Please, just let me go,” you answer softly, your voice calm but resolute. You don’t turn to face him—and after a pause, he steps back, letting you pass.

Without another word, you walk out, heart pounding, and head back to your room, the weight of everything sinking in with every step.

[pascaloverx]

TAG LIST

@nightingale-slayer

@chloe-skywalker

@noonenuts

@lunavelha

@badassturtle13

@grzeszna

RAGE

Author's note: if you like this little sample of the fanfic idea, kraven x reader. Interact with the story, so I can see if I continue or not. this chapter includes mature content. minors do not interact!!!

Summary: You are secretly Dmitri Smerdyakov's bodyguard, though over time, you've developed a friendship with him. However, you share a complicated past with his brother, Sergei Kravinoff. Now that Sergei is back in town, who knows where this will lead you?

ONE

TWO

“Dmitri!” you shout, chasing—yes, chasing—your best friend through the streets as he tries to flee from you. Ever since he witnessed you kill a man to protect him, it’s become painfully clear that you’re not just his best friend who happens to be a co-worker.

“I don’t want to hear your excuses—not now. If there’s even a way to justify what happened back there,” Dmitri replies breathlessly, his steps erratic as he stumbles through the empty street.

“I know it’s confusing, but I can explain,” you say, trying to catch up to him. That’s when you notice something wrong—two men moving toward Dmitri from opposite sides. He hasn’t noticed them yet, still too caught up in the spiral of panic.

Knowing how shaken he already is, you decide not to expose him to another violent scene—not if you can avoid it. It’ll have to be the hard way, but a safer one.

You grab his arm and swiftly pull him behind you, shielding him with your body. “What are you doing?” Dmitri asks, confused, but he doesn’t resist.

You glance toward the approaching men, then lean close to Dmitri’s neck. Your voice drops to a whisper. “I hope one day you’ll forgive me, мой дорогой друг,” you murmur against his skin—my dear friend.

Then, with practiced precision, you sink your fangs into his neck. A gift—or curse—of serpentine origin. The toxin you release isn’t lethal, but it’s strong enough to render him unconscious. Dmitri’s body goes limp in your arms, and you catch him before he hits the ground.

Carefully, you lay him down near the entrance of a closed café, propping him against the wall. The two men finally reach you. You rise to your feet slowly, gaze sharp, movements poised. They think you’re vulnerable, distracted by the body beside you. They have no idea who they’re dealing with. You ready yourself to strike.

One of them charges at you, attempting to knock you down. But the moment he touches you, your body reacts on instinct—inhuman, unyielding. You grab him with unnatural strength, delivering a swift punch, then another. He grunts, momentarily stunned, before lifting you off the ground and hurling you across the street. You brace yourself for the impact. But it never comes.

Instead, Sergei catches you mid-air, his body wrapping around yours like a heated shield in the dead of winter. His boots scrape against the pavement, the sheer strength of his frame absorbing the brunt of the force. It’s like colliding with steel wrapped in warmth.

“I’ll let you handle the one who threw you,” Sergei murmurs, his voice low, his smile more feral than reassuring. He’s clearly enjoying the chaos.

You nod, breathless but steady, and the two of you split, each charging at your assigned target. The men hesitate now. Maybe it’s Sergei’s predatory eyes, or the way his stance mirrors that of a lion about to feast.

“Come on, big guy,” you say, locking eyes with the one who tossed you. “I’ll go easy on you.” He rushes toward you again, this time armed with a dagger. He drives it into your abdomen—but when you don’t fall, don’t even flinch the way a human should, panic flashes across his face.

You slam your boot into his chest, sending him backward. Even with the blade lodged in your stomach, you advance. You yank it out, gritting your teeth at the pain—your wound bleeds, slower to heal than usual, but you're still standing. Without hesitation, you drive the dagger into his arm, forcing him to his knees with a scream. Then your fangs descend.

You sink them into his neck and inject your venom—silent, swift, and merciless. His body convulses violently, a tremor of agony before it stills. He collapses at your feet. You look up.

Sergei stands across from you, blood smeared across his mouth as he pulls his teeth from the neck of his own victim. The man falls to the ground with a dull thud, lifeless.

Your gazes meet across the carnage, both of you blood-soaked, breathing heavily. “Just like old times,” Sergei says with a bloodstained smile, his eyes gleaming like fire in the night.

You stare at Sergei in admiration—yes, just like the old days. The kind of chaos you two used to get into could fill volumes. And part of you aches to fall back into those familiar patterns, to celebrate survival the way you always did: tangled together, bodies hot from the thrill of the fight, blood still drying on your skin.

But the moment flickers away as you spot movement—fast, silent, and lethal. A third man appears behind Sergei, poised to strike.

“Sergei!” you shout, already moving. Without hesitation, you rip the dagger from the dead man’s arm and hurl it through the air. Sergei catches it with practiced ease and spins around, burying the blade deep into the attacker’s leg before the blow can land. The man stumbles with a cry, but Sergei is already on him.

A punch to the gut. Another to the head. The man crumples to the ground, groaning in pain. Sergei doesn’t even pause—he grabs him by the hair, yanking his head back so their eyes meet. His voice is thick, growling with menace as he demands, “Who sent you?”

The man’s lips tremble, his breathing ragged. “Aleksei Sytsevich… but you already knew that,” he sneers, blood spilling from the corner of his mouth.

Then, with a smirk twisted in pain, he hisses in Russian, “Все, кого ты любишь, умрут.” ("Everyone you love will die.") And just like that, the life fades from his eyes. He dies smiling.

You’re dying to argue with Sergei, but right now, your priority is getting Dmitri somewhere safe—he’s clearly in danger.

“Let’s go before someone else shows up,” you mutter, glancing at Sergei, who seems to notice the anger simmering beneath your expression.

“I’ll carry him,” Sergei says, picking Dmitri up from the ground and slinging him over his shoulder as if his brother weighed nothing at all.

You both head straight to the parking lot to grab your car and leave. The drive is tense, silent. You go directly to Dmitri’s apartment. Sergei lays him gently on the bed as the effects of your bite slowly begin to wear off.

You start packing some clothes into a bag for Dmitri, preparing to get him out of there as soon as possible. Meanwhile, Sergei helps himself to a glass of whiskey in the living room, as if none of this chaos just happened.

You sigh—three times, in fact—frustrated by how nonchalant he seems.

“You can go ahead, I’m ready to be judged,” Sergei says the moment you step out of the bedroom, the bag in hand.

You can’t help but laugh a little. It’s strange how no matter how much time passes, you two always fall back into the same roles. He screws things up, and you’re the one who has to clean up the mess.

“Do I really need to say it? That once again, Sergei Kravinoff, you’ve put your brother in danger over some selfish impulse of yours?” you ask, standing across from him, your voice cold and stern.

He takes another sip of his drink before his eyes land back on you, steady and intense.

“You don’t need to say it,” he replies calmly. “But I know you will. You’re always so quick to throw blame before I even get a chance to explain myself.”

There’s a quiet fury building in him. You can see it in the way his jaw tightens, in how his eyes begin to lose their human warmth—something more feral starts to surface.

“It’s not worth starting this argument. You don’t change. You never will, in truth,” you state, moving across the room to get closer to Sergei. Confronting him won’t solve anything, but it might quiet the storm inside you, even if just a little.

He lets out a low growl as he downs another sip of whiskey, jaw clenched.

“You judge me like you're any different,” he mutters, voice coated in bitterness. “Look at us—we're standing in the same place we were years ago.”

“What are you talking about?” you ask, genuinely trying to make sense of what he’s implying.

“You’re trying to channel your anger at me for one mistake instead of facing the real problem,” Sergei says, his voice lower now, raspier, as if trying to maintain control—perhaps to win the argument by force of logic rather than rage. He points at you, not aggressively, but deliberately.

“You want someone to blame because it’s easier than admitting how bad things have gotten. But we don’t have time for that. Not with Aleksei moving like this.”

The tension between you two hangs heavy in the air, old wounds clashing with new threats. You can feel it—the danger isn't over, and neither is the history between you and Sergei.

“Aleksei is only making moves like this because you were incompetent enough to let him know he was being hunted,” you say, fully aware of how much Sergei despises being called incompetent—especially in two areas of his life: professional and sexual.

“Say that again,” he growls, his voice sharp, stepping closer with each word. You can already smell the whiskey on his breath, strong and intoxicating.

“You,” you say, stepping forward until there’s barely space between you. “Were utterly incompetent… letting the one you were meant to hunt become the beast stalking your every move.”

You hold his gaze, unflinching. “You failed, Sergei. And now we all bleed for it.”

His hand shoots out, wrapping firmly around your neck—not enough to hurt, but enough to show you just how serious this has become. Then he crashes his lips onto yours, kissing you with a hunger that burns like wildfire. You let yourself drown in it, in the heat of his mouth consuming yours as though tasting something forbidden and long craved. His tongue is fire—but you're more than ready to burn.

When his hands slide down to your waist and grip your ass with possessive force, you sink your teeth gently into his lower lip, drawing blood with a delicate precision. He pulls back abruptly, touching his lips and catching sight of the blood. He lets out a low hiss of pain—then returns to your lips with even more fervor, hungry, wild.

You take the opportunity to trail your nails down his chiseled chest, eliciting a low growl from deep within him. His hand grabs the back of your neck, pulling you tighter, and with one swift motion, he lifts you into his arms. Your legs wrap around his waist as he starts carrying you toward Dmitri’s guest room, lips never leaving yours.

“Sergei!” Dmitri’s voice suddenly cuts through the tension, calling out from the bedroom.

You and Sergei freeze, your breaths heavy, lips swollen, bodies still pressed together. You meet his eyes—neither of you really wanting to stop, but both knowing it’s best for now. “Go,” you whisper, pressing a softer kiss to his lips as he slowly lowers you to the ground. “I’ll finish packing his things.”

Sergei gives you a heated look, eyes still burning with unspoken promises. “You can be damn sure this isn’t over,” he murmurs against your lips, stealing one last kiss before heading off to Dmitri’s room.

[pascaloverx]

RAGE

Author's note: if you like this little sample of the fanfic idea, kraven x reader. Interact with the story, so I can see if I continue or not. this chapter includes mature content. minors do not interact!!!

Summary: You are secretly Dmitri Smerdyakov's bodyguard, though over time, you've developed a friendship with him. However, you share a complicated past with his brother, Sergei Kravinoff. Now that Sergei is back in town, who knows where this will lead you?

ONE

TWO

“Dmitri!” you shout, chasing—yes, chasing—your best friend through the streets as he tries to flee from you. Ever since he witnessed you kill a man to protect him, it’s become painfully clear that you’re not just his best friend who happens to be a co-worker.

“I don’t want to hear your excuses—not now. If there’s even a way to justify what happened back there,” Dmitri replies breathlessly, his steps erratic as he stumbles through the empty street.

“I know it’s confusing, but I can explain,” you say, trying to catch up to him. That’s when you notice something wrong—two men moving toward Dmitri from opposite sides. He hasn’t noticed them yet, still too caught up in the spiral of panic.

Knowing how shaken he already is, you decide not to expose him to another violent scene—not if you can avoid it. It’ll have to be the hard way, but a safer one.

You grab his arm and swiftly pull him behind you, shielding him with your body. “What are you doing?” Dmitri asks, confused, but he doesn’t resist.

You glance toward the approaching men, then lean close to Dmitri’s neck. Your voice drops to a whisper. “I hope one day you’ll forgive me, мой дорогой друг,” you murmur against his skin—my dear friend.

Then, with practiced precision, you sink your fangs into his neck. A gift—or curse—of serpentine origin. The toxin you release isn’t lethal, but it’s strong enough to render him unconscious. Dmitri’s body goes limp in your arms, and you catch him before he hits the ground.

Carefully, you lay him down near the entrance of a closed café, propping him against the wall. The two men finally reach you. You rise to your feet slowly, gaze sharp, movements poised. They think you’re vulnerable, distracted by the body beside you. They have no idea who they’re dealing with. You ready yourself to strike.

One of them charges at you, attempting to knock you down. But the moment he touches you, your body reacts on instinct—inhuman, unyielding. You grab him with unnatural strength, delivering a swift punch, then another. He grunts, momentarily stunned, before lifting you off the ground and hurling you across the street. You brace yourself for the impact. But it never comes.

Instead, Sergei catches you mid-air, his body wrapping around yours like a heated shield in the dead of winter. His boots scrape against the pavement, the sheer strength of his frame absorbing the brunt of the force. It’s like colliding with steel wrapped in warmth.

“I’ll let you handle the one who threw you,” Sergei murmurs, his voice low, his smile more feral than reassuring. He’s clearly enjoying the chaos.

You nod, breathless but steady, and the two of you split, each charging at your assigned target. The men hesitate now. Maybe it’s Sergei’s predatory eyes, or the way his stance mirrors that of a lion about to feast.

“Come on, big guy,” you say, locking eyes with the one who tossed you. “I’ll go easy on you.” He rushes toward you again, this time armed with a dagger. He drives it into your abdomen—but when you don’t fall, don’t even flinch the way a human should, panic flashes across his face.

You slam your boot into his chest, sending him backward. Even with the blade lodged in your stomach, you advance. You yank it out, gritting your teeth at the pain—your wound bleeds, slower to heal than usual, but you're still standing. Without hesitation, you drive the dagger into his arm, forcing him to his knees with a scream. Then your fangs descend.

You sink them into his neck and inject your venom—silent, swift, and merciless. His body convulses violently, a tremor of agony before it stills. He collapses at your feet. You look up.

Sergei stands across from you, blood smeared across his mouth as he pulls his teeth from the neck of his own victim. The man falls to the ground with a dull thud, lifeless.

Your gazes meet across the carnage, both of you blood-soaked, breathing heavily. “Just like old times,” Sergei says with a bloodstained smile, his eyes gleaming like fire in the night.

You stare at Sergei in admiration—yes, just like the old days. The kind of chaos you two used to get into could fill volumes. And part of you aches to fall back into those familiar patterns, to celebrate survival the way you always did: tangled together, bodies hot from the thrill of the fight, blood still drying on your skin.

But the moment flickers away as you spot movement—fast, silent, and lethal. A third man appears behind Sergei, poised to strike.

“Sergei!” you shout, already moving. Without hesitation, you rip the dagger from the dead man’s arm and hurl it through the air. Sergei catches it with practiced ease and spins around, burying the blade deep into the attacker’s leg before the blow can land. The man stumbles with a cry, but Sergei is already on him.

A punch to the gut. Another to the head. The man crumples to the ground, groaning in pain. Sergei doesn’t even pause—he grabs him by the hair, yanking his head back so their eyes meet. His voice is thick, growling with menace as he demands, “Who sent you?”

The man’s lips tremble, his breathing ragged. “Aleksei Sytsevich… but you already knew that,” he sneers, blood spilling from the corner of his mouth.

Then, with a smirk twisted in pain, he hisses in Russian, “Все, кого ты любишь, умрут.” ("Everyone you love will die.") And just like that, the life fades from his eyes. He dies smiling.

You’re dying to argue with Sergei, but right now, your priority is getting Dmitri somewhere safe—he’s clearly in danger.

“Let’s go before someone else shows up,” you mutter, glancing at Sergei, who seems to notice the anger simmering beneath your expression.

“I’ll carry him,” Sergei says, picking Dmitri up from the ground and slinging him over his shoulder as if his brother weighed nothing at all.

You both head straight to the parking lot to grab your car and leave. The drive is tense, silent. You go directly to Dmitri’s apartment. Sergei lays him gently on the bed as the effects of your bite slowly begin to wear off.

You start packing some clothes into a bag for Dmitri, preparing to get him out of there as soon as possible. Meanwhile, Sergei helps himself to a glass of whiskey in the living room, as if none of this chaos just happened.

You sigh—three times, in fact—frustrated by how nonchalant he seems.

“You can go ahead, I’m ready to be judged,” Sergei says the moment you step out of the bedroom, the bag in hand.

You can’t help but laugh a little. It’s strange how no matter how much time passes, you two always fall back into the same roles. He screws things up, and you’re the one who has to clean up the mess.

“Do I really need to say it? That once again, Sergei Kravinoff, you’ve put your brother in danger over some selfish impulse of yours?” you ask, standing across from him, your voice cold and stern.

He takes another sip of his drink before his eyes land back on you, steady and intense.

“You don’t need to say it,” he replies calmly. “But I know you will. You’re always so quick to throw blame before I even get a chance to explain myself.”

There’s a quiet fury building in him. You can see it in the way his jaw tightens, in how his eyes begin to lose their human warmth—something more feral starts to surface.

“It’s not worth starting this argument. You don’t change. You never will, in truth,” you state, moving across the room to get closer to Sergei. Confronting him won’t solve anything, but it might quiet the storm inside you, even if just a little.

He lets out a low growl as he downs another sip of whiskey, jaw clenched.

“You judge me like you're any different,” he mutters, voice coated in bitterness. “Look at us—we're standing in the same place we were years ago.”

“What are you talking about?” you ask, genuinely trying to make sense of what he’s implying.

“You’re trying to channel your anger at me for one mistake instead of facing the real problem,” Sergei says, his voice lower now, raspier, as if trying to maintain control—perhaps to win the argument by force of logic rather than rage. He points at you, not aggressively, but deliberately.

“You want someone to blame because it’s easier than admitting how bad things have gotten. But we don’t have time for that. Not with Aleksei moving like this.”

The tension between you two hangs heavy in the air, old wounds clashing with new threats. You can feel it—the danger isn't over, and neither is the history between you and Sergei.

“Aleksei is only making moves like this because you were incompetent enough to let him know he was being hunted,” you say, fully aware of how much Sergei despises being called incompetent—especially in two areas of his life: professional and sexual.

“Say that again,” he growls, his voice sharp, stepping closer with each word. You can already smell the whiskey on his breath, strong and intoxicating.

“You,” you say, stepping forward until there’s barely space between you. “Were utterly incompetent… letting the one you were meant to hunt become the beast stalking your every move.”

You hold his gaze, unflinching. “You failed, Sergei. And now we all bleed for it.”

His hand shoots out, wrapping firmly around your neck—not enough to hurt, but enough to show you just how serious this has become. Then he crashes his lips onto yours, kissing you with a hunger that burns like wildfire. You let yourself drown in it, in the heat of his mouth consuming yours as though tasting something forbidden and long craved. His tongue is fire—but you're more than ready to burn.

When his hands slide down to your waist and grip your ass with possessive force, you sink your teeth gently into his lower lip, drawing blood with a delicate precision. He pulls back abruptly, touching his lips and catching sight of the blood. He lets out a low hiss of pain—then returns to your lips with even more fervor, hungry, wild.

You take the opportunity to trail your nails down his chiseled chest, eliciting a low growl from deep within him. His hand grabs the back of your neck, pulling you tighter, and with one swift motion, he lifts you into his arms. Your legs wrap around his waist as he starts carrying you toward Dmitri’s guest room, lips never leaving yours.

“Sergei!” Dmitri’s voice suddenly cuts through the tension, calling out from the bedroom.

You and Sergei freeze, your breaths heavy, lips swollen, bodies still pressed together. You meet his eyes—neither of you really wanting to stop, but both knowing it’s best for now. “Go,” you whisper, pressing a softer kiss to his lips as he slowly lowers you to the ground. “I’ll finish packing his things.”

Sergei gives you a heated look, eyes still burning with unspoken promises. “You can be damn sure this isn’t over,” he murmurs against your lips, stealing one last kiss before heading off to Dmitri’s room.

[pascaloverx]

SHAMELESS

Summary: You are moving into the Leister mansion after tragically losing your father in a plane crash. He worked for William Leister, who immediately offered to take you in. The problem? His son, Nick Leister, who is far from pleased about having a stranger living under his roof.

Author's Note: My slight fixation on Matthew Broome led me to create this fanfic, but I can’t guarantee it will be good. So, dear reader, if you enjoy it, please interact and comment. The fanfic will likely contain strong language, violence, and adult content. Minors should not engage with it.

three

FOUR

Embarrassment is all you can feel the next morning. Fortunately, you’ve already decided to pretend nothing happened and just move on with your life.

You get up and head to take a shower, but quickly notice the bathroom you’re supposed to use has a locked door. Curious, you peek into Nick’s room and realize he probably didn’t sleep at home. Obviously—he’s likely with his girlfriend or whatever she is to him now.

You take the opportunity to use his bathroom instead. It’s incredibly luxurious, with a massive vanity and an oversized shower. You undress and step into the spacious glass box, letting the hot water wash over you while soft music plays in the background.

The shower goes smoothly, relaxing even. But when it ends, you realize you didn’t bring a change of clothes. Wrapped in a towel, you prepare to make a quick dash back to your room. But as soon as you step out of the bathroom, you crash straight into Nick—shirtless. You both lose balance and fall to the floor.

"This isn’t exactly how I imagined starting my day, but I’m not complaining," Nick says, his voice low as you become painfully aware of your bare, wet body pressed against his. Crap. The towel slipped off during the fall.

Your naked skin is against his, warm and slick from the shower, his light sweat mixing with the droplets of water still clinging to you.

"Nick, I’m going to need you to close your eyes. My towel fell," you say, trying not to move too much—any more friction and this situation will spiral fast.

"I think we’re better off just staying like this," he murmurs, his gaze locked on you, darkened with desire. You stare at him, barely believing his audacity.

"Nick Leister, how can you be so shameless—taking advantage of this moment when you're clearly involved with someone else? I know I gave you the wrong impression when we kissed yesterday, but..." Your voice rises slightly as emotions overflow, words tumbling out faster than you can rein them in. But you're cut off—by Nick gently pressing his lips to yours.

"It breaks my heart to think you’d believe I’d kiss you or make a move while being committed to someone else," he says softly. "Luckily for you, I’m someone who forgives easily, so I won’t hold it against you. Though… another kiss would definitely help." His face is still so close, and you’re still on top of him, heart pounding.

"Why would I kiss you? Stop being such a flirt," you say, scolding him for even suggesting another kiss.

"I'm going to get up and wrap myself in the towel. Be a good boy and close your eyes," you instruct, staring him down. His face is just inches from yours—if you leaned in just a little, your lips would align with his without effort.

"I’ll be a good boy, I promise," Nick says, and then obediently closes his eyes in front of you.

You brace yourself and carefully get up, hoping he keeps his word. Wrapping the towel around your body again, you take a deep breath and steady yourself. Then you lightly touch his arm.

"Lift your hand—I’ll help you up," you murmur. He lifts his hand toward you, and as he opens his eyes slowly, you help him stand. In the process, your back bumps into the bathroom door, which is now closed behind you.

Once again, your bodies are dangerously close. "You’re beautiful," he murmurs, his gaze trailing from your face down your form.

"You're only saying this because you saw me naked?" you ask, your voice softening with the mix of embarrassment and shyness that floods through you.

"Why fight something we both want?" Nick murmurs, his lips nearly grazing yours, teasing and deliberate.

“Your father brought me here to take me in, to treat me like family. Giving myself to you feels wrong when the media is already calling us adopted siblings,” you reply, voice low, even as his arm slides firmly around your waist, drawing you in closer.

“I already have a sister, Y/N,” he breathes, and then brushes a soft kiss against your lips—a mere taste, a temptation that leaves your mouth tingling.

Just as you lean in to deepen the kiss, needing more, he pulls back slightly, a smirk playing on his lips. “Are you going to take a risk with me?”

Something in you snaps—desire overruling doubt—and you reach up, threading your fingers through his hair and pulling him down to you. Your lips collide with his in a kiss that's hungry and heated, mouths moving with urgency and longing. His hands grip your waist, pressing your body fully against his as your kiss turns deeper, more intense.

His tongue brushes yours, a slow, deliberate stroke that sends a shiver down your spine. You respond in kind, your mouths locked in a rhythm of passion and tension, his hand sliding up your back, your fingers tugging gently at his hair. The door behind you creaks under the pressure of your bodies, but neither of you cares—you're too lost in each other, in the kiss that tastes like all the things you shouldn’t want but crave all the same.

You begin unbuttoning his shirt as his hands tighten around your waist, drawing you even closer. Without breaking the kiss, the two of you move toward Nick’s bed, his body guiding yours until your back meets the mattress. He hovers over you, lips never straying far from yours.

You part your legs to let him come closer, and he slowly starts to unwrap the towel from your body, trailing soft kisses along your shoulder. His lips find yours again just as your fingers begin fumbling with the button of his jeans—but before either of you can go further, a knock sounds at the door.

“Son, have you seen Y/N?” Mr. Leister’s voice calls from the hallway, making your whole body tense in panic.

Nick kisses you gently, as if trying to calm you, and then calls back, barely suppressing a laugh, “I think she said she was getting some air. Maybe out for a run or something.”

“All right. Nick, if you see her, be nice. I know you said she gets on your nerves and you weren’t thrilled about having her here, but I want her to feel welcome,” his father replies.

You stare at Nick, stunned. He freezes for a moment, clearly caught off guard by the way his words have come back to haunt him.

“I’m leaving now, but I want both you and Y/N at the masquerade ball tonight. Don’t be late,” his father adds, then walks away.

You push Nick off you immediately, pulling the towel back around your body as you sit up, your face flushed with a mix of anger and shame.

“You could’ve just told me I was irritating you,” you say coldly, getting up and heading toward the door.

“Y/N, that’s not what I meant. Please, just listen—” Nick pleads, reaching out to stop you from leaving, his hand on the door.

“Let me explain,” he murmurs from behind, his breath brushing against the skin of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Nick, I don’t want to hear it right now. Please, just let me go,” you answer softly, your voice calm but resolute. You don’t turn to face him—and after a pause, he steps back, letting you pass.

Without another word, you walk out, heart pounding, and head back to your room, the weight of everything sinking in with every step.

[pascaloverx]

I would like to let anyone who is a fan of Nicholas Chavez know that I will be updating the fanfics "Babyboy" and "Back to Black" until Friday of this week, so stay tuned.

[pascaloverx]

Hey when are you going to update shameless???

surprisingly, I will update shameless today

[pascaloverx]

LA VIE EN ROSE

Summary: You are at your sister’s wedding, even though you were not formally invited. Well, you are impersonating someone else. You needed to witness your only family getting married, even if she did not want you there. Everything was going smoothly—until a distinguished gentleman takes the seat beside you, intent on uncovering who you are and why you are pretending to be his date.

Author’s Note: Here I am once again, writing a fanfic featuring another Pedro Pascal character. I hope that if anyone reads this preview, they’ll enjoy it and leave a comment. Otherwise, let’s just pretend it never happened. One more thing—this fanfic will likely include explicit scenes in the future, if the story leads there. Have fun!

PREVIEW

ONE

Not that you had much of a choice, but you were now entirely in the hands of Harry Castillo. He hadn’t exactly kidnapped you, but something about the situation made it feel like an obligation to step into his car.

A car, mind you, that screamed luxury—its interior bathed in leather and the subtle scent of imported cologne, likely worth more than your entire apartment.

“I could’ve left perfectly fine without your ride,” you say, settling into the back seat, purposefully avoiding the passenger side. You didn’t want to give the impression that you were seeking anything more than a lift. The truth is, he intimidated you more than you cared to admit.

“And risk letting you slip away without explaining more about your lying sister? Absolutely not,” Harry replies, his voice cool as he pulls the car onto the road. Wait a minute...

“Mr. Castillo, I must inform you that I haven’t told you my address. Where exactly are you taking me?” you ask, catching his gaze through the rearview mirror.

“That’s because we’re headed to a private place,” he says smoothly. “Somewhere you’ll tell me the truth about your dear little sister. And afterward, I’ll take you home.” He says it with such refined composure that it almost makes the idea of being abducted seem like an act of aristocratic charm.

“You do know it’s not exactly legal to take someone somewhere against their will, don’t you?” you say, your tone firm, hoping to at least make him reflect on the matter.

Still, part of you knows—no matter how much you’d like to protect your sister—that revealing her secrets might not be so wrong. Even if she is an ungrateful brat.

He parks in front of a restaurant almost instantly, leaving you momentarily stunned. Before you can ask anything, he unbuckles his seatbelt and turns to face you, his eyes fixed intently on yours.

"Alright then," he begins, voice slightly rougher now—dangerously alluring, though his expression is dead serious. "You have two options, as I see it. Either you act like a good girl and come into the restaurant with me, we have a pleasant conversation over a glass of fine wine and perhaps some dessert—I saw the way you were eyeing the wedding cake, and I’m guessing you didn’t get a proper taste since you ran off like Cinderella at the stroke of midnight." He leans forward just slightly, his gaze unwavering.

"Or," he continues, "I drive you straight home and expose your sister as the opportunist she is—right at the start of her honeymoon. Your call." The air inside the car grows heavier. His tone carries weight, and it’s clear he’s not bluffing.

Of course! Here is your scene translated into English with the necessary adjustments and complements for clarity and tone, keeping in mind that this is based on the Materialists (2025) universe, with Harry Castillo played by Pedro Pascal:

“So now you’ve gone from kidnapper to blackmailer—quite the shift in character,” you say, leaning in closer, your face just inches from his. The proximity makes your breaths mingle in the narrow space between you.

“But I’m a reasonable woman,” you add, your voice steady yet laced with defiance. “I’ll go into the restaurant and endure your little interrogation.”

Harry smirks, the corner of his mouth lifting in quiet satisfaction, as if he'd just won a silent contest between the two of you. Then he clears his throat and exits the car without another word.

Moments later, he appears beside your door, opening it for you like a perfect gentleman. You unfasten your seatbelt with slow deliberation, your gaze never leaving his. He extends his hand to help you out, his grip firm, confident—exactly what you’d expect from a man like him.

Maintaining eye contact, you take his hand and step out of the car. He closes the door behind you and keeps your hand in his, guiding you with elegant ease into the upscale restaurant, the two of you looking every bit like a power couple.

You sit at a table set slightly apart from the crowd. It’s unmistakably a high-end restaurant, and deep down, you feel a bit out of place. Still, before you can fully process the discomfort, you’re surrounded—waiters practically orbit around Harry Castillo, eager to please. It’s almost as if you’ve become invisible in their presence, nothing more than a guest in the world that revolves around him.

That is, until he looks at you—really looks at you—as if you're the only person that exists in the room.

“Is it always like this for you?” you ask, glancing around as another server rushes by. “Surrounded by strangers eager to worship you?”

“When you have money, attention follows,” Harry replies, his eyes fixed on you with unnerving focus.

Then he adds, with a smooth confidence that catches you off guard, “But I’d say the stares we’re getting have more to do with how breathtaking you look tonight than with how much money I’ve got.”

The way he says it—gallant, unapologetic—makes your heart skip. There’s something about Harry Castillo that feels almost unreal.

“Are you trying to butter me up?” you ask, skeptical of his sudden compliment.

A sommelier arrives with the wine Mr. Castillo had selected, carefully pouring it into your glasses. You wait for his response as the wine settles. He thanks the sommelier with a polite nod before turning his attention fully back to you.

“You’re clearly not used to compliments—that much is obvious,” Harry says, lifting his glass. “But believe me, no one wastes time flattering someone who has nothing to offer in return. So take the compliment or don’t, but don’t assume I’m just sweet-talking you.”

You glance at him, then nod slowly. “Alright, I’ll take the compliment. But I’d still like to know—what exactly do you want from me?”

Harry swirls the wine in his glass, his fingers brushing the stem with a practiced ease. “I want to expose your sister,” he says plainly. “Because honestly, there’s no good reason for her to pretend she doesn’t have a sister, or to make up a fake mother. I’m sure the woman I helped earlier today isn’t your mother.”

He takes a small sip before continuing. “But I’m not just going to call her out. I want to give her the chance to explain—or at the very least, make her sweat a little for lying.” You narrow your eyes, waiting for the catch.

“To put it simply,” Harry continues, “the newlyweds are spending their honeymoon at an exclusive resort—with family and close friends invited to join the trip. I want you to be my date.” You nearly choke on your wine.

“You want me to be your date? Like… a fake girlfriend? Are you out of your mind?” you ask sharply, your voice rising just enough to draw a few curious glances from nearby tables. You immediately regret the volume, but—seriously—how could he even think of proposing something like that?

“I want to hire you to pretend to be my girlfriend,” Harry replies smoothly, completely unfazed by your reaction. “That way, you’ll have the chance to be close to your sister… while I enjoy watching her try to act like she’s never seen you before.”

He speaks with the same composed elegance as always, but there’s a glint of amusement in his eyes—as if your indignation is just another part of the entertainment.

“Don’t you think that’s a bit of an overreaction to finding out your best friend’s wife is a liar?” you ask, still trying to wrap your head around whatever strange proposition Harry Castillo is laying out before you.

“Exaggeration or not, all I need is for you to name your price,” he says, taking another calm sip of his wine, “and we can set off on what promises to be one of the most interesting trips of my life.”

“You mean we’d leave now?” you blink, trying to gauge whether he’s serious or just playing some elaborate joke. “Listen, rich people always have some weird offer up their sleeve, but are you seriously ready to hop on a flight right this minute—or is that just a you thing?”

He chuckles faintly, his voice steady. “To be honest, the trip wasn’t even my idea. Technically, I was supposed to join the newlyweds after the reception. But let’s cut the small talk. Are you in or not? Will you pretend to be my date?”

He’s growing impatient—you can tell. And though a part of you screams that this is a terrible idea, another part, the part drowning in debt and tired of being stepped on by your sister, sees a chance.

You stand up, a boldness rising in you like a fire lit by the sheer madness of it all. Walking over to Harry’s chair, you watch his eyes follow you with something dangerously close to admiration. Then, with practiced ease, you settle into his lap, adjusting yourself to appear closer, more intimate.

Locking eyes with him, you wrap your arms around his neck and lower your voice into a seductive murmur. “I’ll be your date. Your fake girlfriend. Your ace in the hole.”

You inch your face closer to his, your breath teasing his lips. “I’ll name my price when the time is right. Just know I’ll only do what I’m comfortable with—and every single expense will be on you, as a courtesy for making me feel like a traitorous sister.” You trail your fingers through his hair, and he smiles in response, clearly enjoying the provocation.

“I accept your terms,” he says, his hand slipping to your waist as murmurs of surprise rise from nearby tables. “As long as you understand—it’s all just for show.”

“Trust me,” you say, cupping his face like you’re about to kiss him. He closes his eyes, ready for your lips.

Then you pull back slightly, whispering, “This is me professionally proving how easily I can look like I’m into you.” With that, you gently remove his hands from your waist and return to your seat—composed, confident, and very much in control. When his eyes reopen, he fixes his gaze on you with a look of unmistakable desire.

“You’ve made yourself abundantly clear—I have no doubts about your capabilities,” he says in a smooth, measured tone. “Now, it’s time for us to go. I imagine you need to gather your things and pack for what will be our first—and perhaps only—journey as a couple.” He gently takes your hand, pressing his lips to it in a soft, deliberate kiss.

“You’re not worried that I might be deceiving you, are you? You barely know me, and yet you’re already letting me into your life,” you protest, your voice laced with uncertainty even as your hand remains in his.

“On the contrary,” Harry replies, his gaze unwavering, “the thought that you might be the one pulling my leg adds a certain intrigue to the whole affair. I don’t expect you to fully understand now—I only require that you be worth every cent of the price I’ll ultimately pay for your companionship.”

You study him intently, a blend of admiration and cautious skepticism in your eyes. There’s something both enchanting and enigmatic about him—an alluring contradiction that you can’t quite decipher. At that moment, a slice of cake is placed before you, clearly intended just for you. You hadn’t noticed that he’d ordered it.

“Bon appétit, my dear fake girlfriend,” Harry teases, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes as he watches you react with genuine surprise.

The unexpected sweetness of his gesture only deepens the intrigue of the situation—a lavish, perplexing moment that promises more adventures to come.

[pascaloverx]

STARVE

Summary: You lost your husband some time ago while he served as a gladiator for Emperors Geta and Caracalla. General Acacius saved you from becoming an object of pleasure for the emperors. Since then, he has taken you as his mistress. In your free time, you became a disciple of Ravi, the healer, dedicating yourself to tending to wounded gladiators. All seemed to be in perfect harmony until Hanno, a gladiator driven by a thirst for vengeance, crossed your path.

Author's Note: And the gods said: Starve will be a multi-chapter fanfiction (I hope readers will follow it all the way through). Without further ado, the characters belong to Ridley Scott's Gladiator II universe, though there will be significant deviations from the film. Historical accuracy regarding life in the Roman Empire may not always be strictly observed, so I hope you can overlook that. Yes, this story revolves around a love triangle, but I will strive to satisfy everyone. This fanfiction will include adult content, violence, and potentially coarse language. Please interact with this chapter.

SIX

SEVEN

There is a heaviness in the air as you still wrestle with the confusion of not knowing whether General Acacius has betrayed your trust all these years.

“If you intend to punish me for my disagreement with Emperor Caracalla, know that I am prepared to face the consequences of my actions,” you murmur, eyes cast downward, utterly dejected. You notice the footsteps of Emperor Geta drawing closer. Then, his hands gently lift your face, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“Healer, what did my brother do to you?” His words catch you off guard. You had expected him to assume you provoked Caracalla and that punishment was warranted.

“There will always be discord between the Emperor Caracalla and me. Augustus hovers between us like a ghost. Sadly, he is not pleased with my presence here, given all that lies in our past,” you say with a fragile voice, hoping Geta believes that you're weakened by the weight of it all.

His fingers softly graze your cheek before he draws you into his arms, startling you with an unexpected embrace. At first, the closeness feels foreign—you’ve never known him to show such tenderness. Yet you allow yourself to surrender to the warmth of his hold, returning the embrace and clutching his body tightly to yours.

“Augustus has long since departed this world, and the discord born of his memory should have faded with him,” Geta says, his voice low as his lips brush against your shoulder—which, amidst the chaos, had somehow become bare. The warmth of his mouth against your skin is unexpectedly soothing.

“Alas, my brother’s mind is troubled. He is no longer the man he once was.”

He pauses, a hint of worry clouding his expression. “He will not rest until he believes you have been punished for defying him. I must send you to a cell. But if you need—”

Before he can finish, you close the distance and kiss him. A kiss born as much from the need to silence this conversation as from the desire to feel something other than rage. His lips, however, are more eager than you anticipated—hungrier, as though Emperor Geta holds more than a passing interest in you.

“I can look after myself, Emperor. And if you do not object, I believe it is time I face my punishment,” you say, your lips still barely apart from his.

"General Acacius!" Emperor Geta calls out, still holding you in his arms. You wish he hadn’t chosen Acacius to escort you, but deem it unwise to challenge his decision.

General Acacius enters the chamber with precision, his gaze falling upon you and Geta. He seems slightly unsettled—perhaps even jealous—at the sight of your closeness with the emperor.

"What is your will, Emperor?" the general asks, and you notice the chains in his hands, meant for your wrists.

Geta steps away from you and gestures toward Acacius, granting him permission to approach and restrain you. The general wastes no time, fastening the chains without hesitation.

"Take the healer to a cell," Emperor Geta commands. "Tell the guards to treat her gently, but make it clear—she does not leave unless I give the order."

Acacius nods. He appears reluctant to touch you roughly, instead attempting to guide you forward with a soft nudge. You look at him, struggling to suppress the anger boiling within you, but say nothing as you walk away from Emperor Geta.

You move ahead of General Acacius. The silence between you feels like a dagger driven into the space that once held trust. He dares not speak. You sense that any words exchanged now might unleash destruction across Rome.

At last, he lifts you onto his horse and begins the journey toward your confinement.

“I should thank you,” Acacius murmurs as the horse trots forward, “for taking the blame upon yourself.”

With each steady gallop, your hands grip the chains tightly—if only to keep from pushing him off the horse and killing him then and there. Truth be told, you are not certain whether he truly murdered Augustus. Yet something in Caracalla’s words—or in the way Acacius has carried the weight of responsibility for you since your husband's death—makes you believe he may very well be the one who ended Augustus’ life.

"Did it fill you with gratitude to take my husband’s life with your own hands? Or was it by the blade of your sword?" you ask, struggling to believe you are truly accusing Acacius of such an act. The man who had cared for you all these years—the one who had made you feel safe, even if only for a moment.

“I do not take pride in what I have done,” he murmurs, admitting what you so desperately wished he would deny.

A wave of sorrow threatens to overtake you, tears brimming in your eyes. “You killed my husband? Why would you murder your friend—someone you once vowed to protect?” you whisper, your voice tight with emotion, nearly breaking as the grief takes hold of you. A sharp pain blooms in your chest, as if sorrow itself had taken root in your soul.

“Because he asked me to,” Acacius mutters, shattering something deep within you. No—no, it could not be true.

You move instinctively, as if your very body rejects his words, and fall from the horse. Acacius immediately dismounts to help you, but you recoil from his touch, struggling to gather yourself after the fall. Your body aches, but it is your spirit that screams in pain.

“You expect me to believe my husband asked you to kill him?” you speak with contempt, revolted by the very suggestion that Augustus would choose to abandon you.

“He could no longer endure the battles. No matter how hard he tried to stand tall, his body had long begun to reveal what he already knew in his heart. He was dying before our very eyes, Y/N,” Acacius says, once again attempting to draw closer. But you, already on your feet, step away from him.

“How could you?” you whisper, clutching the chains that bind your hands with trembling strength.

“I did it out of love,” General Acacius murmurs, his gaze fixed on you—his longing to close the distance between you evident in his eyes.

“Love?” you echo, as though the very word were foreign—a concept twisted beyond recognition by the betrayal it now represents.

“Augustus always knew I harbored feelings for you,” Acacius confesses, his voice strained, as though the weight of the truth were nearly too heavy to speak aloud. “I tried to bury it when I learned the two of you had wed… but I fear I never truly grasped the depth of it.”

You stare at him, unable to reconcile the man before you with the certainty you once held—that General Acacius had given his heart to Lucilla.

“Are you saying this only to deceive me again?” you ask, your voice laced with bitterness. “Professing some deep affection now, so that I might believe the rest of your tale?”

“I deceived you once,” he says softly, taking a step toward you before lowering himself to his knees. “I will not repeat that mistake.”

“So not only did you kill my husband, but you made me feel shame for believing there was more between us than a fabricated affair to maintain appearances?” The fury you had struggled to contain finally breaks through, lacing your voice with fire. He had deceived you—deceived you even while claiming to love you.

“I cannot express how deeply I hate you in this moment, General Acacius,” you cry, your voice sharp, searing—as though each word scorches the air between you. The truth is, you do not know what you feel. But something inside you demands to rise, and rage surges like a tide.

“This was what I sought to prevent,” he confesses, still on his knees before you, a rare vulnerability exposed in a man who seldom allows any weakness to show. You cannot stop yourself.

Gripping the chains that bind your wrists, you raise your fists and strike him across the face. The blow lands with a dull thud, and Acacius exhales sharply, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

“You are a coward!” you cry out, feeling the warmth of his blood trailing over your hands. The gash across his face reveals that your blow landed with more force than you had anticipated. Acacius’s lips tremble as he falters, clearly shaken.

“Yes, I am,” he says, voice hoarse. “I was a coward when I granted a friend’s request years ago without grasping the consequences—and I am a coward now, admitting that a part of me took advantage of the aftermath.”

The way Acacius looks at you now is stripped of all armor—utterly vulnerable. You stare at him, trying to make sense of how the two of you arrived at this moment. The tears come then, a bitter, agonizing weeping that feels like it had long been lodged within you. Still on his knees, Acacius drags himself closer, then clings to your legs as though trying to physically anchor himself to you, to beg silently for the forgiveness he desperately desires.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs, gazing up at you as your tears fall freely. The plea in his voice is palpable. But in this moment, nothing he does can draw you toward forgiveness.

“General Acacius, rise—and take me to my cell,” you command, struggling to contain your sobs. Distance is what you need now. Perhaps time apart will bring clarity to your heart… or strength to your fists.

He looks up at you one last time before rising—seeking in your expression the faintest trace of hope for reconciliation. He finds none.

Without a word, he helps you back onto the horse, and then guides you in silence through the streets—toward your prison among the captured gladiators. You do not speak. He does not speak. Truthfully, you would not listen even if he did.

You only realize you have reached your destination when the murmurs of the gladiators reach your ears. Acacius steps forward before returning to the comfort of his home—and the embrace of his wife. Quietly, he removes the chains from your wrists.

“I will return soon… to see if you are well,” he says softly, gently undoing your bonds. You say nothing. You simply look at him—with a hollow, empty stare that seems to strike him harder than any blow could. He says no more. Then, you are led into a cell—

You then collapse to the ground as if your body can bear no more of standing. A tumult of conflicting emotions overwhelms you—guilt for having wounded Acacius, a burning desire for revenge for being deceived, and anger that your husband chose to command Acacius to take his life rather than open his heart to you. So many feelings churn within you that it seems you cannot bear the weight of them all.

Just then, you hear someone enter your cell. "General Acacius, it would be best for your safety that you depart," you say without turning to see who has come in, for you are nearly certain it is Acacius. You know full well that if you do not insist upon his leaving, the discomfort between you will only endure longer.

"I am not General Acacius," Hanno declares, surprising you, "but I am willing to risk my own safety to remain here." He fixes his gaze upon you, as if studying every nuance of your state, while you feel a deep shame for being so utterly broken in his presence.

"You should not be here," you murmur softly, acutely aware of your disheveled condition. Then Hanno stoops toward you, and without further delay, he gathers you into his arms, offering solace without requiring a single word from you.

"I feel that here is exactly where I should be, Y/N," Hanno declares as he draws you into his embrace, allowing you to feel the warmth of his body. He begins by kissing your neck, then your cheek, and finally your lips, holding you with a tenderness that belies the tumult of the day.

"I missed you," you whisper, comforted by the secure hold of his arms. You close your eyes, nestling against the expanse of his chest.

"I do not know what has befallen you, but know this: henceforth, you are mine to care for," he says, pressing a gentle kiss upon the top of your head. And so you remain together, intertwined in that intimate and reassuring embrace.

[pascaloverx]

TAG LIST

@1950schick

@chloe-skywalker

@xlatinaaxx

@mango-slush-boba

@syraxnyra

STARVE

Summary: You lost your husband some time ago while he served as a gladiator for Emperors Geta and Caracalla. General Acacius saved you from becoming an object of pleasure for the emperors. Since then, he has taken you as his mistress. In your free time, you became a disciple of Ravi, the healer, dedicating yourself to tending to wounded gladiators. All seemed to be in perfect harmony until Hanno, a gladiator driven by a thirst for vengeance, crossed your path.

Author's Note: And the gods said: Starve will be a multi-chapter fanfiction (I hope readers will follow it all the way through). Without further ado, the characters belong to Ridley Scott's Gladiator II universe, though there will be significant deviations from the film. Historical accuracy regarding life in the Roman Empire may not always be strictly observed, so I hope you can overlook that. Yes, this story revolves around a love triangle, but I will strive to satisfy everyone. This fanfiction will include adult content, violence, and potentially coarse language. Please interact with this chapter.

SIX

SEVEN

There is a heaviness in the air as you still wrestle with the confusion of not knowing whether General Acacius has betrayed your trust all these years.

“If you intend to punish me for my disagreement with Emperor Caracalla, know that I am prepared to face the consequences of my actions,” you murmur, eyes cast downward, utterly dejected. You notice the footsteps of Emperor Geta drawing closer. Then, his hands gently lift your face, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“Healer, what did my brother do to you?” His words catch you off guard. You had expected him to assume you provoked Caracalla and that punishment was warranted.

“There will always be discord between the Emperor Caracalla and me. Augustus hovers between us like a ghost. Sadly, he is not pleased with my presence here, given all that lies in our past,” you say with a fragile voice, hoping Geta believes that you're weakened by the weight of it all.

His fingers softly graze your cheek before he draws you into his arms, startling you with an unexpected embrace. At first, the closeness feels foreign—you’ve never known him to show such tenderness. Yet you allow yourself to surrender to the warmth of his hold, returning the embrace and clutching his body tightly to yours.

“Augustus has long since departed this world, and the discord born of his memory should have faded with him,” Geta says, his voice low as his lips brush against your shoulder—which, amidst the chaos, had somehow become bare. The warmth of his mouth against your skin is unexpectedly soothing.

“Alas, my brother’s mind is troubled. He is no longer the man he once was.”

He pauses, a hint of worry clouding his expression. “He will not rest until he believes you have been punished for defying him. I must send you to a cell. But if you need—”

Before he can finish, you close the distance and kiss him. A kiss born as much from the need to silence this conversation as from the desire to feel something other than rage. His lips, however, are more eager than you anticipated—hungrier, as though Emperor Geta holds more than a passing interest in you.

“I can look after myself, Emperor. And if you do not object, I believe it is time I face my punishment,” you say, your lips still barely apart from his.

"General Acacius!" Emperor Geta calls out, still holding you in his arms. You wish he hadn’t chosen Acacius to escort you, but deem it unwise to challenge his decision.

General Acacius enters the chamber with precision, his gaze falling upon you and Geta. He seems slightly unsettled—perhaps even jealous—at the sight of your closeness with the emperor.

"What is your will, Emperor?" the general asks, and you notice the chains in his hands, meant for your wrists.

Geta steps away from you and gestures toward Acacius, granting him permission to approach and restrain you. The general wastes no time, fastening the chains without hesitation.

"Take the healer to a cell," Emperor Geta commands. "Tell the guards to treat her gently, but make it clear—she does not leave unless I give the order."

Acacius nods. He appears reluctant to touch you roughly, instead attempting to guide you forward with a soft nudge. You look at him, struggling to suppress the anger boiling within you, but say nothing as you walk away from Emperor Geta.

You move ahead of General Acacius. The silence between you feels like a dagger driven into the space that once held trust. He dares not speak. You sense that any words exchanged now might unleash destruction across Rome.

At last, he lifts you onto his horse and begins the journey toward your confinement.

“I should thank you,” Acacius murmurs as the horse trots forward, “for taking the blame upon yourself.”

With each steady gallop, your hands grip the chains tightly—if only to keep from pushing him off the horse and killing him then and there. Truth be told, you are not certain whether he truly murdered Augustus. Yet something in Caracalla’s words—or in the way Acacius has carried the weight of responsibility for you since your husband's death—makes you believe he may very well be the one who ended Augustus’ life.

"Did it fill you with gratitude to take my husband’s life with your own hands? Or was it by the blade of your sword?" you ask, struggling to believe you are truly accusing Acacius of such an act. The man who had cared for you all these years—the one who had made you feel safe, even if only for a moment.

“I do not take pride in what I have done,” he murmurs, admitting what you so desperately wished he would deny.

A wave of sorrow threatens to overtake you, tears brimming in your eyes. “You killed my husband? Why would you murder your friend—someone you once vowed to protect?” you whisper, your voice tight with emotion, nearly breaking as the grief takes hold of you. A sharp pain blooms in your chest, as if sorrow itself had taken root in your soul.

“Because he asked me to,” Acacius mutters, shattering something deep within you. No—no, it could not be true.

You move instinctively, as if your very body rejects his words, and fall from the horse. Acacius immediately dismounts to help you, but you recoil from his touch, struggling to gather yourself after the fall. Your body aches, but it is your spirit that screams in pain.

“You expect me to believe my husband asked you to kill him?” you speak with contempt, revolted by the very suggestion that Augustus would choose to abandon you.

“He could no longer endure the battles. No matter how hard he tried to stand tall, his body had long begun to reveal what he already knew in his heart. He was dying before our very eyes, Y/N,” Acacius says, once again attempting to draw closer. But you, already on your feet, step away from him.

“How could you?” you whisper, clutching the chains that bind your hands with trembling strength.

“I did it out of love,” General Acacius murmurs, his gaze fixed on you—his longing to close the distance between you evident in his eyes.

“Love?” you echo, as though the very word were foreign—a concept twisted beyond recognition by the betrayal it now represents.

“Augustus always knew I harbored feelings for you,” Acacius confesses, his voice strained, as though the weight of the truth were nearly too heavy to speak aloud. “I tried to bury it when I learned the two of you had wed… but I fear I never truly grasped the depth of it.”

You stare at him, unable to reconcile the man before you with the certainty you once held—that General Acacius had given his heart to Lucilla.

“Are you saying this only to deceive me again?” you ask, your voice laced with bitterness. “Professing some deep affection now, so that I might believe the rest of your tale?”

“I deceived you once,” he says softly, taking a step toward you before lowering himself to his knees. “I will not repeat that mistake.”

“So not only did you kill my husband, but you made me feel shame for believing there was more between us than a fabricated affair to maintain appearances?” The fury you had struggled to contain finally breaks through, lacing your voice with fire. He had deceived you—deceived you even while claiming to love you.

“I cannot express how deeply I hate you in this moment, General Acacius,” you cry, your voice sharp, searing—as though each word scorches the air between you. The truth is, you do not know what you feel. But something inside you demands to rise, and rage surges like a tide.

“This was what I sought to prevent,” he confesses, still on his knees before you, a rare vulnerability exposed in a man who seldom allows any weakness to show. You cannot stop yourself.

Gripping the chains that bind your wrists, you raise your fists and strike him across the face. The blow lands with a dull thud, and Acacius exhales sharply, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

“You are a coward!” you cry out, feeling the warmth of his blood trailing over your hands. The gash across his face reveals that your blow landed with more force than you had anticipated. Acacius’s lips tremble as he falters, clearly shaken.

“Yes, I am,” he says, voice hoarse. “I was a coward when I granted a friend’s request years ago without grasping the consequences—and I am a coward now, admitting that a part of me took advantage of the aftermath.”

The way Acacius looks at you now is stripped of all armor—utterly vulnerable. You stare at him, trying to make sense of how the two of you arrived at this moment. The tears come then, a bitter, agonizing weeping that feels like it had long been lodged within you. Still on his knees, Acacius drags himself closer, then clings to your legs as though trying to physically anchor himself to you, to beg silently for the forgiveness he desperately desires.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs, gazing up at you as your tears fall freely. The plea in his voice is palpable. But in this moment, nothing he does can draw you toward forgiveness.

“General Acacius, rise—and take me to my cell,” you command, struggling to contain your sobs. Distance is what you need now. Perhaps time apart will bring clarity to your heart… or strength to your fists.

He looks up at you one last time before rising—seeking in your expression the faintest trace of hope for reconciliation. He finds none.

Without a word, he helps you back onto the horse, and then guides you in silence through the streets—toward your prison among the captured gladiators. You do not speak. He does not speak. Truthfully, you would not listen even if he did.

You only realize you have reached your destination when the murmurs of the gladiators reach your ears. Acacius steps forward before returning to the comfort of his home—and the embrace of his wife. Quietly, he removes the chains from your wrists.

“I will return soon… to see if you are well,” he says softly, gently undoing your bonds. You say nothing. You simply look at him—with a hollow, empty stare that seems to strike him harder than any blow could. He says no more. Then, you are led into a cell—

You then collapse to the ground as if your body can bear no more of standing. A tumult of conflicting emotions overwhelms you—guilt for having wounded Acacius, a burning desire for revenge for being deceived, and anger that your husband chose to command Acacius to take his life rather than open his heart to you. So many feelings churn within you that it seems you cannot bear the weight of them all.

Just then, you hear someone enter your cell. "General Acacius, it would be best for your safety that you depart," you say without turning to see who has come in, for you are nearly certain it is Acacius. You know full well that if you do not insist upon his leaving, the discomfort between you will only endure longer.

"I am not General Acacius," Hanno declares, surprising you, "but I am willing to risk my own safety to remain here." He fixes his gaze upon you, as if studying every nuance of your state, while you feel a deep shame for being so utterly broken in his presence.

"You should not be here," you murmur softly, acutely aware of your disheveled condition. Then Hanno stoops toward you, and without further delay, he gathers you into his arms, offering solace without requiring a single word from you.

"I feel that here is exactly where I should be, Y/N," Hanno declares as he draws you into his embrace, allowing you to feel the warmth of his body. He begins by kissing your neck, then your cheek, and finally your lips, holding you with a tenderness that belies the tumult of the day.

"I missed you," you whisper, comforted by the secure hold of his arms. You close your eyes, nestling against the expanse of his chest.

"I do not know what has befallen you, but know this: henceforth, you are mine to care for," he says, pressing a gentle kiss upon the top of your head. And so you remain together, intertwined in that intimate and reassuring embrace.