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|| creature in the night ||



Pairing: Vampire!Eddie/Reader
Summary: (Un)dead or alive, there are some things about your boyfriend that never change.
Word count: 2.1k
Tags and warnings: Fluff, vague horror elements, brief mentions of blood and injury, brief mentions of smoking, no use of Y/N.
(For this week's Discord writing prompt! I've had this whole idea for a vampire Eddie AU in my head the past few days, and I needed to do something with it. I might make this into a little series of vaguely connected one-offs. Hopefully it reads okay! I'm very tired.)
Eddie Masterlist || Fic Masterlist || Taglist

It's just past midnight. The house is dark, save for one lone light. Yours. You're curled up in your bed, trying your best to keep yourself awake. The book in your lap slowly falls to one side, as your head starts to drop onto your chest. It'd be so easy to just let yourself drift off right now, so easy...
Then you hear it.
Three sharp knocks against your bedroom window.
And just like that, you're up, almost tripping over yourself in your hurry to cross the room. You unlatch the window, pushing it open. If you weren't suddenly wide awake already, the cool breeze that hits you would be more than enough to shake the sleepiness from you.
"You can come in," you whisper as loudly as you can.
You don't even think before you say it anymore. It's second nature now.
Can’t just climb through your window anymore. Some bullshit rule I gotta follow.
But there's no one there. You squint into the gloom, scanning the garden as best you can.
Nothing.
Then you hear it. Clicking, over and over. A sharp rattle, and a muffled swear.
You smile to yourself. You know where he is.
You wrap yourself up in a thick cardigan and slip on your shoes, stopping at your bedside table to take a box of matches from the drawer. Carefully, you hoist yourself up onto the windowsill, dropping quietly down onto the flat surface below. While the view of the pine trees from your window is certainly beautiful, it's not the main reason you picked this particular bedroom. The house is a bit of an odd shape, with the kitchen jutting out from the main building, leaving it with its own roof. A flat little expanse that leads easily to the slope of the main roof.
So long as you take your time, and avoid that one tile that's been threatening to fall since the last storm, you can easily make it to the small, even strip at the top of the house.
You can still hear the clicking as you make the short climb up, and it's not long before you find the source.
Eddie sits waiting for you, one of his hands curled around the cigarette hanging from his lips, as the other violently shakes a lighter. He clicks it again and again. Nothing.
You perch yourself next to him, slipping the box of matches out of your pocket and holding them out to him.
“Have I ever told you how much I love you?” he asks, his mouth curling into a cheeky smile as he takes the box from you.
“You talking to me or them?” you reply teasingly, gently bumping your shoulder against his.
Eddie laughs as he pulls out a match, striking it against the side of the box and holding it to the end of his cigarette. At last, it lights. He shakes the little flame out before taking a long drag. The noise that escapes him is downright obscene.
“Christ, I needed that,” he murmurs, blowing a long trail of smoke into the night air.
You huddle a little closer to him, and on cue, he lifts his arm, sliding it around your waist. You rest your head against his shoulder, and for a moment, you can pretend that nothing's changed. It's just like before, when you would sneak up here in the middle of the night to spend time together.
Until something very large and leather-like curls protectively around you, and the illusion's shattered.
You don't mind, though. Not really.
He's still the same old Eddie. Just with a few extra parts.
It doesn't matter. You love him all the same.
Of course, the changes had taken some getting used to. And before that, you had to get your head around the fact that he was still alive.
Well, alive is a strong word. Considering he doesn't have a heartbeat anymore, or need to eat like you do, and the small matter of the giant, bat-like wings sprouting from his back.
It had taken everything in you not to scream when you'd opened the door to find him lying there, covered in dirt and his own blood. You kept trying to convince him to let you bring him to the hospital, but he wouldn't listen. So you'd done what you could, cleaning his wounds and patching him up as best as your bathroom first aid kit and a few trips to the pharmacy would allow.
Over time, the scratches across his chest healed, leaving red, raw scars. He should have died, the wounds were far too deep.
He did die. Technically.
And yet here he is, smoking a cigarette on your roof like nothing had ever happened.
He can even make his wings disappear when he wants now too. Neither of you have been able to figure out how the hell he does it. Eddie's just glad he doesn't have to constantly explain himself to strangers.
He's still able to go outside during the day, but he prefers the night-time. The sun always ends up giving him terrible headaches now.
"I've always been more of a creature of a night, anyway," he'd said, cracking himself up at his own joke.
Some things really never change.
He prefers having his wings out, though. Says he feels cramped when he has to hide them. He’s like a contented cat when he finally gets to stretch them properly, and he damn near purrs like one when you scratch them. You think it’s cute.
You place a hand on his chest. The Hellfire demon head in the middle of his shirt has an almost plastic feeling as it touches your palm.
It's a new one. Hasn't been washed enough for the patterns to crack just yet. There was barely anything left of his old one after he'd stumbled out of the woods that night.
“You know, I probably shouldn’t, after what happened to me, but I miss that damn shirt," he'd confessed one night, as you were redressing one of his still-healing wounds.
About a week later, you’d brought him a brand-new one from the printing store in town, and he’d swung you in his arms in excitement, injuries and all. He’s so much stronger now, and it never ceases to leave you breathless.
"Have you eaten?" you ask.
You feel Eddie's hair brush against your face as he moves, taking another drag of his cigarette.
"Mm-hm. We finished up the last of the campaign tonight," he replies.
He's practically vibrating against you as he talks. You can't help but smile. Even as he is now, he's still your sweet dork of a boyfriend.
"How'd it go?" you ask, sitting up to give him your full attention.
He pats his stomach with a big smile.
"I ate like a fucking king tonight. Seriously, I'm stuffed," he says.
"That good, huh?" you say with a laugh.
You love seeing him so happy like this. It's infectious.
Eddie nods enthusiastically.
"Ohh, yeah. The whole party survived! How was I not gonna eat good after that?"
It had taken you both some time to figure out how Eddie was supposed to sustain himself after...everything. It's not that he can't eat regular food anymore, he can; it's just now it tastes like shit. His words.
Somehow almost bleeding to death didn't leave him in as bad a state as finding out he couldn't eat a bacon cheeseburger anymore. In spite of everything, seeing him like that, arms folded and pouting, you couldn't help it - you'd started laughing.
And Eddie's eyes had lit up, like all his birthdays had come at once.
"Do that again," he practically begged once you'd stopped.
You just looked at him, confused.
"Why?" you asked.
Eddie shook his head. "It doesn't matter, just trust me," he said impatiently. "Please."
He pulled a face then, the one where his eyes crossed that always cracked you up. You laughed again, and Eddie had pulled you close to press a sloppy kiss to your cheek in pure excitement.
It was another while before you were able to find a name for it. You'd come home from the library one day with a stack of books in tow.
"I think I've found it!" you announced triumphantly, holding one out to him.
Eddie had practically snatched the book from you, quickly flipping to the page you'd bookmarked.
"'Psychic vampire'?" he read aloud with a frown. "What kinda bullshit is that?"
It had taken him some time to get onboard with it - he kept saying it didn't sound as cool as being a bloodsucker. Eddie never really did have his priorities in check, even when he was alive.
If you're honest, you still don't fully understand it, but you're just happy that he's able to eat again. Well, in his own way.
It was certainly a learning process. At the start, he couldn't control it, and then he'd accidentally gorge himself on every emotion in the room and end up making himself sick. He also had to figure out what he liked and didn't like. And then there was the issue of how exhausted being around him was leaving you.
"I dunno how to explain it," he'd said, "It's just...God, it sounds stupid, but...when you're happy, like really happy, I just can't help myself. It's like an all-you-can-eat."
As sweet as that was to hear, you'd still had to set some boundaries with him. Otherwise, you were going to spend your whole life slumped on the couch.
So, he'd figured out how to eat without completely draining everyone around him, or making himself ill. After giving practically everyone he knows a collective heart attack when he decided to just show up on their doorsteps like nothing had ever happened, he'd gone back to DM-ing with the Hellfire Club. Having so many emotions running all at once like that means he's able to feed without hurting anybody, and in turn, he's able to put his all into every campaign. It's a win-win, really.
He still says you're his favourite, no matter what.
His hand gives your waist a soft squeeze, and you already know what he's going to say before he opens his mouth.
"Y'know...There's always room for a little dessert," he says nonchalantly.
He'd be the very picture of innocence, if it wasn't for the smile he's desperately trying to fight back.
You roll your eyes. Ridiculous as he is, though, you just can't seem to tell him no. Not that you'd want to, anyway. You lean in close to him, letting your eyes fall closed as his mouth meets yours. He's gentle in how he kisses you, taking his time, as if there's nowhere in the world he'd rather be than right there, with you. He cradles your face in his hands, and even with his newfound strength, his touch is as light as a feather. The air around you feels a little warmer, as Eddie's wings curl in around you.
It's funny. You know what he is, and yet you've never felt safer than you do right now.
When you finally break apart, you open your eyes to find him watching you. His own eyes, now ever so slightly tinged with red, are so full of love when he looks at you that it's hard to resist the urge to kiss him again.
"Feel better now?" you ask.
Eddie gives you a warm smile, the one that really shows off his dimples.
"Always do when I see you, sweetheart," he murmurs, his thumb brushing against your cheek.
You stay like that for a while longer, wrapped up in each other's arms and lost in your own little world, until finally, your body betrays you with a loud yawn.
Eddie chuckles, as he gives you a gentle shake.
"Let's get you to bed, huh?" he says, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose.
You shake your head, trying and failing to stifle another yawn.
Eddie climbs to his feet, gently pulling you upright as well.
"Come on, sleepyhead," he says, taking your hands in his.
He carefully leads you back down the slope of the roof. He hasn't quite figured out how to use his wings properly, but his balance is much better than yours, and before you know it, he's helping you through your bedroom window.
"D'you mind?" he asks, a little sheepishly.
You smile. "You can come in," you reply.
Immediately he's climbing in after you, doing his best to tuck his wings in so he doesn't knock anything over. He follows you to your bed, making sure you're comfortable first before he starts tugging most of his clothes off to slide in beside you. You're already half-dozing as he gently pulls you closer to him, your head resting against his chest.
You fall asleep in Eddie's arms, safe and warm, and without a care in the world.
A lot has changed, but some things - the ones you really care about - are just as perfect as they always were.

Taglist: @punkrockmlchael @hikohyuuga @iitsmandii @medievalharlot @glassbxttless @getaapologist @fandom-princess-forevermore @robinbuckleywife @samslvrgirl @cheesesandwichsanto @magikdarkholme @spider-starry @jeangeniex @hazydespair @rainybloo28 @alexxavicry
(You can join the taglist here! If you wish to be removed, please let me know!)
#no more proofreading time to let it be free and out of my drafts#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x you#vampire eddie munson#vampire!eddie munson#vampire eddie au#angie writes#prettycalla writes
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Letting myself be a teensy bit unhinged this week - I’m working on some vampire stories! Hopefully I’ll have something posted in the next day or so. (Although, it might not necessarily be who you think it is…) 🫶
#i��m so full of inspiration and yet the words will not form sentences#also i just finished playing date everything and honestly let’s just be grateful i’m restraining myself from writing in that department#because man would this become a stepford blog so damn fast#anyway#angie waffles
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|| genua ||


Pairing: Geta/Reader
Summary: The blade of a sword brings to light a new side to your stoic husband. (Prompt fill)
Word count: 4.5k
Tags and warnings: Very appropriate use of a sword (putting your annoying husband in his place - Geta's way into it though, don't worry), period-typical sexism, a little suggestive at the end but no actual smut, as historically accurate as I could manage, Geta is a nuisance (affectionate), empress!reader, reader is she/her, no use of Y/N.
(Welcome back to another round of 'I'm gonna bully Geta onto his knees'. This took way longer to write than I'd like to admit. A big thank you once again to @getaapologist for the idea and for brainstorming with me - you're the best!)
Geta Masterlist || Fic Masterlist || Taglist
The title of Empress is certainly a grand thing to hold, but often in name alone. You were to quick to realise that much of your role would involve accompanying your husband on many of his duties, such as meetings with respected figures and tours of important buildings. It is often difficult to remain as graceful and dignified as tradition dictates, especially when you are as warm and dreadfully bored as you are now.
Much of the afternoon has been dedicated to overseeing the affairs of the Roman armoury. For Geta, at least. You have been left in charge of keeping your hot-headed brother-in-law entertained and trying not to faint. Neither are easy tasks.
Caracalla sits in the chair next to yours, entirely slumped into it in frustration. He has been digging at a loose thread in his robes for the last fifteen minutes or so, growing more and more restless as he is forced to wait.
You, by contrast, attempt to remain upright, but are feeling very much like a wilting flower, as you watch Geta hold conversation with the man next to him.
You can tell that the cloying heat is affecting him as well, if the rising red flush along the back of his neck is any indication.
Caracalla huffs a long, loud sigh, and not for the first time. You turn to look at him. He is the very image of an impatient child. He looks exactly how you feel.
"What is the point of a tour of an armoury if I am not allowed to touch anything?" he mutters irritably, pulling at the loose thread with such violence that it is a wonder he does not tear a hole in the fabric.
You gently place a hand over his, to calm him. He looks up at you then.
"Will you not speak to him?" he asks, rather petulantly. "I wish to leave. Now."
You know that there is no point. Geta will tell you that he must attend to his duties as Emperor, and you will return to your seat, worse for wear from having had to leave it in the first place, and this conversation with Caracalla will repeat once more, and you will rise to speak with Geta again, and so on, ad infinitum.
Before you can gather the energy to attempt to explain this, you notice that Geta is in the midst of crossing the room to you.
You sit up a little straighter, in the hope that it is finally time to leave.
"A marvellous arrangement, is it not?" he asks, taking your hand as you raise it to him.
"Quite," you reply politely, as Caracalla scuffs his sandals loudly against the floor with yet another impatient sigh.
Geta turns his attention to his brother then.
"Whatever is the matter?" he inquires, his brow furrowed slightly. "I would have thought that you would be ecstatic to visit such a place."
Caracalla scoffs. "What good is it if I am to look and no more?"
Geta holds his tongue - as you do. There is no explaining to Caracalla the dangers of his own sudden fits of bloodlust, and that it is far safer for all involved if his hands remain empty of a sword or axe.
Geta turns back to you.
"And what of you, wife?" he asks. "What do you make of such a display?"
You raise an eyebrow at Geta wearily. As if he is truly unaware that you have been left to attend to Caracalla and little else.
"I do not see what all of this fuss is about," you say, resting your cheek against your palm, finally allowing your composure to slip for a brief moment.
While the skill required to wield the weapons stored within these walls is of course not lost on you, you do not understand why men would rather gut each other than simply speak.
"Well, of course. You are a woman, you need not concern yourself with such matters," Geta replies, as casually as if he were discussing the weather.
You know that there is no true malice behind his words, yet you find yourself seeing red all the same.
"Is that so?" you reply, a sweet smile that borders on sickly pulling at your lips.
Caracalla watches the pair of you in fascination. He pats your arm in an almost sympathetic manner.
"Ignore my poor brother," he says, now very much enjoying himself. "He knows so little of how to speak to women. It is his curse to bear."
Geta glares at his brother, seething. Caracalla lets out a cackle in reply.
You remain silent, and no more is said of the matter.
But that does not mean that you are not thinking. Your husband may not mean offence by what he says, but he must be taught a lesson.
The question is - how, exactly?
As someone of your station, it is rare that you are ever truly alone. Even in the baths, there is always someone posted on the other side of the door for your safety.
How it irks you.
There is only so much to gain from arguing with Geta about this. You are adept at wearing him down on most matters, but on this one, he refuses. The best that you have been able to manage is that the crowd - for lack of a better word - of guards that would follow your every movement has been reduced to three, and only one of them is with you at a time.
You do, however, hold a particular fondness for one of your guards. He is an older man, by the name of Tiberius. While he may not be quite as young as many of the others that are stationed throughout the palace, he is certainly a force to be reckoned with, and there has been many an occasion when you have been witness to it first-hand.
You owe your life to him, though he does not see it in quite the same manner. It is his duty, after all.
You have built an easy rapport with him during your time together. He has been married for almost as long as you have been alive, with two daughters not much younger than you. You enjoy hearing his tales of his family, and inquire about them often, going so far as to send them gifts on their birthdays and at Saturnalia. There are times when he is reminiscent of a father figure, though you would never embarrass the man by telling him so.
It is during the course of one of your afternoon walks that a thought occurs to you - on the matter of your husband and his behaviour.
Summer has just passed its zenith, and autumn is drawing closer with each day, for which you are grateful, as the heat has continued to be nigh unbearable. Tiberius follows behind you diligently; although he leaves enough distance between the two of you to afford you a little privacy.
You stop for a moment, turning to peer at him from beneath the brim of your parasol. He stops as well, with a curious look as he smiles at you. The other Praetorians are so terrified of you - or rather, of your husband - that none of them dare to even meet your eye. It can be lonely, holding such a lofty title, and so you appreciate that there are men like Tiberius who treat you for what you really are - human.
"Is everything alright, my lady?" he asks. "Are you tired?"
You shake your head, your gaze instead dropping to the ornate sword that so rarely leaves Tiberius' side.
"I have a question," you reply. "A request, in fact."
"Of course," he says, with a slight nod.
You retreat under a nearby tree, neatly folding your parasol once you are certain that the foliage above you will provide enough shade. Once you are satisfied, you turn your attention back to Tiberius.
"You are, of course, well trained in combat," you say. "I have been witness to your skill on a number of occasions."
Tiberius bows his head.
"You flatter me," he replies humbly. "I am grateful for your kind words."
You cannot help but smile. It is not sycophancy that causes him to act in such a way; it is merely his nature.
Nevertheless, you wave your hand in a dismissive manner.
"Please, it is the truth," you say, insistent. "You are an incredibly skilled fighter. Which leads me to my request."
You point to the sword at his hip.
"I want you to teach me how to wield a sword."
His eyes widen for a brief moment, before he quickly schools his expression back into something more fitting of a guard.
"My lady, I am unsure if..." he begins to say, faltering as you immediately shake your head.
You, of course, are prepared for this.
"Not a word about my husband, if you please," you command, but your tone is still kind.
Thankfully, he obeys, holding his tongue.
"I know that while you may be my guard, you must answer to him," you continue, with a little shake of your head. "But surely there is no harm to be found in what I ask of you, is there?"
"There is the danger of injury, or worse, my lady. I cannot in good conscience allow that to happen to you," he replies, well-versed in what he must say.
"But what would be the likelihood of such a thing? When a man with your skill and training is here to guide me."
Tiberius may not be like most of the men you have encountered in your life, but he is still a man. A little flattery, well-timed, and he will surely crumble to your will.
He looks to speak, but no words pass his lips. Finally, he nods.
"As you wish," he says, with another bow of his head.
You clasp your hands together in delight, a wide smile spreading across your face.
"Wonderful!" you reply happily. "We will, of course, keep this between ourselves. No one else need know."
Tiberius' shoulders relax a little at that, as if in relief.
"Thank you," he replies, with a small smile of his own.
You turn back to your parasol, opening it up as you step out from beneath the tree's dense leaves.
"Shall we continue?" you ask.
Tiberius gestures in front of him.
"Please, lead the way."
Tiberius, as ever, as is as good as his word, and is ready to begin your training as soon as you are.
There is, however, a problem.
It is not so much the training itself that proves difficult, though it is certainly taxing in of itself; it is the task of keeping it a secret that causes you the most trouble. It seems as though no matter where you are, or what time of the day it is, there is always someone to act as witness.
This, you cannot allow. Not a word of this must make its way to your husband's ear. You are insistent on this.
The palace is a vast place, and many of its rooms lay dormant. You learned this rather quickly after it became your home. You have always been a creature of curiosity, and how could you possibly resist the veritable treasure chest of secrets that lay in front of you?
This knowledge lends itself to your advantage, and it is not long before you are able to secure a private place for you to begin your training.
Tiberius is a fair teacher, and ensures that no harm comes to you during your time together. It is tougher than you had initially thought; even holding the sword with the correct posture leaves you tired within minutes at the beginning.
But you are determined.
Regardless of how long it may take, you must accomplish your task.
A number of weeks pass before you feel confident enough to put your plan into action. There is still far more for you to learn, but you did not come into this venture with the hopes of mastering the skill; rather, your true goal was to put your husband in his place for his irksome little quip, amongst the others that have slipped past his lips in the time since.
Besides, you do not need to possess his exact level of skill when you have the element of surprise on your side.
You have not informed Tiberius of the entirety of your plan, of course. He has been far too complicit thus far, and you do not wish for trouble to fall upon him. Not that you would allow it in any case.
Besides, you are more than capable of completing the rest by yourself.
Within your chambers are a number of swords, intricately displayed. Geta is rather fond of keeping them within reach, though they have been reduced to mere decoration in their lack of use. The Praetorians are well-equipped to handle any potential threat that may arise.
Procuring one for yourself, therefore, will be an easy matter.
You wait until Geta next has training of his own. He is not the most diligent student, as you are aware, but he at least makes an effort.
You wait patiently in your chambers until he returns, pretending to be completely absorbed in the codex laid out on the table in front of you.
"Wife," he calls, as he crosses the room to greet you.
You acknowledge him with a soft hum, smiling pleasantly as he lifts your hand to his lips. A part of you feels a little guilty for what you are about to do.
"I trust your training went well?" you ask.
He gives your hand a little squeeze before he lets go.
"It is nothing for you to concern yourself with," he replies.
His tone is just patronising enough that you suddenly no longer feel guilty in the slightest. You rise then, your gaze falling on the arrangement of swords.
"You are quite right," you agree cordially. "It is certainly nothing for a woman to concern herself with."
Geta hums in assent, as if he has unheard your verbal jab, and you have most certainly made up your mind. You carefully lift one of the swords, now prepared for the sheer weight of it.
"I have never given these much notice, but I must say, they are beautiful," you murmur, peering at Geta from the corner of your eye.
He was in the process of removing his own sword, but has since stopped, eyeing you somewhat warily.
"Yes, they are," he replies distractedly. "You must be careful-"
You lift your head to give him your full attention.
"Whatever is the matter?" you ask, an amused expression on your face.
You tilt your wrist downward, acting as though the weight of the sword is too much for you. The sudden look of surprise on Geta's face is almost reward enough.
Almost. But you have not come this far merely to come this far.
Before he can react further, you tilt your wrist upward once more, turning your arm so that the length of the sword now faces you. You delicately run the tips of your fingers along its flat surface, as the other maintains a tight grip on the hilt.
Geta has not moved.
"Did you know that I have trained as well?" you ask, as you admire the intricate detailing along the hilt.
"No, I did not," Geta replies quietly.
It may well be your imagination, but to your ears, he sounds...different.
It is enough to draw your attention back to him.
He is staring, his gaze fixated on the blade in your hands. A faint blush is beginning to creep across his pale complexion.
"Is there something wrong?" you ask.
Your tone is light, innocent even, but you are quite sure that you already know the answer.
His gaze snaps up to yours then, and any uncertainty you once held has disappeared. His pupils are blown wide, much like those of a cat when it is on the hunt.
But it is not you that is prey. No, if you were a gambler, you would wager that is quite the opposite.
"You have never spoken to me of this," Geta starts cautiously. "When did you acquire such training?"
"That is neither here nor there, is it?" you answer, though you are both aware that there is far more lurking beneath the surface.
Slowly, you stretch your arm out, so that the sword is now pointed directly at Geta. The light of the lanterns glints across the blade ominously. You stand far enough away that you are of no impending danger to him.
And yet the intent is clear, judging by Geta's wide eyes. His expression is one of surprise, naturally, but there is something else there. Something you cannot quite place.
"What ails you, wife?" he asks, his gaze fixed upon the point of the blade.
"Whatever would lead you to such a conclusion, husband?" you counter sweetly.
You have not lowered the sword.
Geta dares to step forward, stopping just short of injury.
"You have made your point," he says calmly, in that same tone reserved for senators who will not see things his way.
Ever the diplomat.
"But I think perhaps we can talk instead, would you not agree? No more of this nonsense," he continues, raising his hand as if to wave the blade aside.
A mistake. Strategy never was Geta's strong suit.
No sooner have the words left his mouth when you move, withdrawing the sword in a swift, circular motion, before bringing it up once more - this time, to rest against his throat.
Once again, he is in no impending danger, and yet the intent-
"Wife," he says thickly, evidently choosing his words carefully.
Oh, the intent has very much been made clear.
"I have upset you, that much is obvious to me now," he continues, his eyes never once leaving yours.
There it is again. But what is it?
You tilt your head to one side.
"Is that so?" you say. "Please, do go on."
He grimaces, hardly daring to move from where he stands. You, by contrast, are certainly enjoying yourself.
How satisfying it is to see your husband pay for his ignorance.
Perhaps now he will think before he speaks. You can only hope.
"It was...something that I said," he says, tight-lipped as he struggles to think of what exactly it was.
"That hardly narrows it down, does it?" you ask.
Your voice is bordering on simpering, and you can see already how much it grates on Geta's already frayed nerves.
"No," he reluctantly agrees. "It does not."
He huffs a quiet sigh. His patience is rapidly wearing thin.
"Perhaps it would be best for me to sit, so that I may think better," he says tersely, regarding you carefully as he does so.
"Yes, I think that would be for the best," you reply lightly.
Geta's eyes narrow. He was not expecting you to be so agreeable.
"I would hate for you to become tired when we have so much to discuss," you continue, pressing the sword ever so slightly closer.
Geta stiffens suddenly, with a sharp breath inward.
You incline your head in the direction of the ground.
"Sit."
Geta glares at you, his expression nothing short of venomous.
"I beg your pardon?" he all but spits.
"You may beg, if it would please you," you tell him with a smile.
How can you stop yourself, when an opportunity so perfectly presents itself?
Geta manages to hold his tongue, which surprises you. You know all too well how fond he is of arguing.
There is a tension in the air, thick and palpable in its presence. You wonder how long it will take for him to break.
It is not a question of if, but rather, when.
Stubborn though he may be, you are certainly patient when you need to be. Particularly when it comes to matters such as this.
At last, when you have shown no sign of relenting, he concedes defeat. He will not, however, allow you victory in its entirety, choosing to drop to only one knee.
Even so, what a beautiful picture he paints as he kneels before you.
"A wise choice," you murmur. "Now you can think. I know how tiresome a task it can be for you."
Geta is quick to open his mouth to argue, but you are quicker, positioning the point of the sword beneath his chin. With a gentle movement, you tilt his head upwards to face you.
His already dark eyes are almost black now, and there it is. That expression you have not been able to put a name to.
You are quite certain of what it is now.
"Please correct me if I speak out of turn, but...you do appear to be enjoying this, husband," you offer in a soft voice.
Geta says nothing. The room is so silent that you can hear him swallow.
If this is the power he feels as Emperor, then you cannot entirely blame him for his actions. It is rather addictive.
But even so, he must learn.
"Shall I give you a clue?" you offer.
"Yes," Geta replies curtly, not daring to move his head.
You let out a little huff, as if in disappointment.
"Have you forgotten your manners?" you ask in a saccharine voice. "Try again."
Geta looks as though he is at war with himself. As if he wishes to fight back, but there is something else, something beyond the sword beneath his chin, that holds him back.
Something more.
He shuts his eyes, a pained expression on his face.
"...Please," he whispers.
To say that you are delighted in this very moment would be an understatement.
"Now, was that really so hard?" you murmur.
The softest little scoff escapes him, but he somehow manages to restrain himself.
You decide not to push him too much further. He is in the midst of discovering something new about himself, after all.
"Do you remember the visit to the armoury we made together?"
His brow furrows for a moment.
"Yes," he answers.
"Think for a moment. What, exactly, might have upset me about that visit, hm? Something you said, perhaps?" you continue, pressing.
To his credit, Geta does seem to be giving what you have said a great deal of thought. His expression changes suddenly, and you smile knowingly.
At last, he remembers.
"And so now you understand," you say.
"Yes," he says again, his voice barely more than a whisper.
"I must admit that you have behaved far better than I could have ever dreamed. However..."
You trail off with an exaggerated little sigh.
"...it is not quite enough."
Geta does not speak, instead watching you warily.
The knowledge that his own sword still remains by his side, and yet he has not once made a move to draw it, is not lost on you. It is an overwhelming thought.
But you will not allow yourself to become distracted.
While you are more than aware of how much you have tested Geta thus far, what you are about to do next may well be the undoing of your little game.
"Apologise," you command.
You are prepared for the fight that is to come. The outrage, the poisonous words spat at you, the uncomfortable, lingering silence that far outstays its welcome.
But it does not.
Geta remains where he is, silent and still. It is as if he has been carved from stone. His wide-eyed gaze never once leaves yours, boring into you with such a fierce intensity.
His tongue runs across his lower lip, and you hear his intake of breath before, at last, he speaks.
"...I am sorry," he murmurs softly. "Truly, I am."
It is not often that you hear him speak like this. Right now, he is not the charismatic ruler of the Roman Empire. He is your husband, a man who has been truly and utterly humbled.
By your hand.
Satisfied, you slowly lower the blade, holding it by your side.
"May I stand?" Geta asks, in that same soft voice.
You nod.
"You may," you reply.
It takes him a moment to move. His expression is dazed, as if he is under some sort of spell.
When he is at last able to rise, there is a moment of stillness. As though time itself has halted in its tracks. And then Geta is crossing the room to you. There is a fire in his eyes, the likes of which you have not seen before.
He takes the sword from your hand, tossing it across the room. Before you can say a word, he reaches for you, his hands tight against your shoulders as he drags you into a bruising kiss.
So often must he restrain himself, particularly amidst the prying eyes of the Empire, that it surprises you when he allows himself to let go like this.
So unguarded. Exposed.
Although, it is most certainly not an unwelcome surprise.
There is a ferocity to how he kisses you, how he wraps his strong arms around you and holds you flush against him. It is as if he must redress the balance between you, to reassert his dominance.
But it is not only that.
There is a vulnerability to his actions; as if he lays himself before you, all of him, for you, and only you, to see.
It is an indulgence that you are rarely ever afforded, and so you allow yourself to bask in it, all too readily.
You are as hungry for it as Geta is, and he is downright ravenous.
Kissing you is no longer enough, he needs more; having moved lower to your neck, his tongue and teeth causing a weak feeling in your knees that could prove dangerous if his hold on you was not as tight as it is.
A breathless laugh escapes you, as his teeth nip at the skin just below your ear. You hear him hum softly, as if in approval, and he does it again, worrying at the skin, hard enough to surely leave a mark. You gasp, and he relents, running his tongue across it, as if in silent apology as he lets go.
He presses closer still, and it takes a moment before you realise his intentions. You allow him to guide you across the room, when suddenly you are released from his embrace, to find yourself falling back onto the bed.
You look up at him. He is the very picture of a man possessed in how he undresses, his own sword clattering to the floor in his impatience. You open your arms to him, and he goes to you, all too willingly.
There is, of course, a part of you that wishes your beloved husband would behave himself. But, if you were to be entirely honest with yourself, there is another, slightly darker part of you that hopes that he never learns.
After all, you do seem to find such pleasure in reminding him of his place.
And while he will not bring himself to openly admit it, you know in your heart that Geta is very much in agreement.

Taglist: @lover-rep-fanfic @x-vadon @dubiousmetamorphosis @hikohyuuga @iitsmandii @medievalharlot @glassbxttless @getaapologist @fandom-princess-forevermore @robinbuckleywife @bib200 @samslvrgirl @cheesesandwichsanto @magikdarkholme @spider-starry @jeangeniex @hazydespair
(You can join the taglist here! You can also request to be removed through the same form!)
#i will proofread this again when i’m brave enough#emperor geta x reader#emperor geta x you#geta x reader#geta x you#prettycalla writes#angie writes
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Mirabel
eddie munson x fem!reader
word count: 1k
summary: Corroded Coffin Fest Day 2: Selling the Drama | You and Eddie love estate sales— and you happen to find a very dramatic porcelain doll at one.
warnings: Dolls (if you don’t like them), Spirits, Spooky & Possibly haunted items
notes: Submission for @corrodedcoffinfest! This one is simply inspired by the title (they’re selling this dramatic ass doll at an estate sale). This is a part of my Eddie & Bats AU! Hope you enjoy 🫶🏻 Thank you to @punkrockmlchael @robinbuckleywife & @iitsmandii for reading this over and @peachyproserpina for editing!
The LA heat’s already creeping up the back of your neck when you climb out of the van, the smell of dry grass and dust hits you immediately. You can hear birds chirping somewhere and there’s a little crowd gathered on the driveway of the two-story farmhouse up ahead. You nudge Eddie in the ribs with your elbow.
“Okay,” you grin. “How haunted do you think this place is, on a scale from one to full-on exorcist needed?”
Eddie squints, shielding his eyes with one hand taking in the sight in front of him. “I mean, she’s at least whispering Latin in the walls.”
“Perfect.” You lace your fingers with his. “Let’s go find something fun.”
Estate sales are your thing. Some people hit up farmer’s markets, some people go hiking, you drag your heavy-metal husband into the dens of the recently deceased, looking for the dustiest old shit you can find. Eddie always says he tags along for moral support, but you know he gets a kick out of these sales too. Inside, the house smells like bleach, citrus air-fresheners, and old paper. Eddie stays close to your side, his hand still curled tightly around yours.
You’re barely ten minutes into your search when you find her.
She’s in the corner of the back parlor, tucked behind a chipped vanity mirror. Her eyes are clouded— made of real glass— and her hair is stiff, an ashy blonde that might’ve been golden once. She’s wearing a once-pink dress with little pearl buttons. You gasp. “Oh my god, Eddie!”
Eddie leans over your shoulder and says, “Absolutely the ugliest fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
You let go of his hand to lift her and then clutch her to your chest. “She’s perfect.”
“I’m gonna have nightmares,” he sighs playfully, a grin spreading across his face as you start checking her over for a price tag. “That little Victorian hellspawn is gonna end up in our bed.”
“Jealousy’s not a good look on you,” you say over your shoulder.
She’s five bucks.
You’re about to dig your wallet out when a woman behind you clears her throat. She’s a bit older than Eddie, with pink glasses and a patterned skirt. Her hair is in a pony-tail, and she’s got that look you’ve seen at these sales a thousand times. “You’re buying that one?” she asks softly, her eyebrows raised in confusion.
You clutch the doll to your chest just a bit tighter. “Yep.”
The woman hesitates and then sighs heavily. “That used to belong to my grandma. She kept it locked in a cabinet in her sewing room.”
Eddie leans in, interested in whatever story was about to unfold. “Why locked?”
The woman sighs again. “Because weird shit happened when it was out. Lights flickering. The radio turning on. Movement.”
You try not to beam at her. “Seriously?”
“She said it laughed once,” the woman adds, “And it doesn’t have a voice box.”
“Oh my god,” you whisper, full of delight. You turn to Eddie like this is the best news you’ve ever heard. “She laughed.”
“You are—” Eddie’s already chuckling, rubbing a hand over his face. “You are so messed up.”
You roll your eyes, ignoring him completely and turn back to the woman. “Did anything bad actually happen?”
She shrugs, “Other than nightmares? No. My grandma said she used to wake up and it’d be somewhere else in the house. It only stopped when she put it back in the cabinet and locked the doors.”
Eddie looks at you like he’s waiting for you to reconsider bringing the little spawn of darkness into your shared home.
You grin. “I’ll take her.”
Back in the van, you buckle her into the backseat. She looks straight ahead, one glass eye is slightly misaligned, the other is locked on Eddie in the rearview. “This is gonna be the one that kills us,” he hums, drumming his fingers on the wheel. “Not the weird sushi we had that one time in Tokyo. Nope. It’s gonna be this fuckin’ freaky little demon doll. Death by porcelain.”
“She has a name,” you say softly, climbing into the front seat.
“She better not.”
You glance back at her. “She looks like a… Mirabel.”
Eddie sighs as he turns the key in the ignition. “Of course she does.”
You don’t put her in the doll room right away. You leave her in the living room overnight, perched on Eddie’s favorite armchair across from the couch. Eddie glares at her every time he walks by.
That night, you wake up to the sound of faint whispering. You roll over. Eddie’s already sitting up, rubbing his face. “You hear that?”
“Is it Mirabel?” you ask sleepily, rubbing your eyes.
He turns, exhausted. “Why do you sound excited?”
“I’m just asking.”
The whispering stops before either of you can really track it down, and in the morning, Mirabel’s still sitting where you left her— except her head’s tilted slightly to the left now. Eddie puts her in the doll room before he leaves for rehearsal that morning. Three days later, the stereo turns on by itself and plays a single track— Dream On. Eddie stares at the speakers like they just sprouted legs.
“She’s a fan,” you say and shrug, not looking up from your book.
“She’s a terror.”
You sigh, closing the cover and lean over to kiss his cheek and whisper, “Jealousy.”
After a week, she’s comfortably nestled on the highest shelf in your collection. You try not to touch her often, but she moves sometimes. Slight things. Tilted head. Shifted foot. You just start shifting her back into place every morning. Eddie starts calling her your third roommate. But even through the jokes, he always says goodnight to her and the other dolls. Every night. He walks by the doll room, peeks in, gives them a little salute, turns his attention to Mirabel, and says, “Don’t possess my wife, freak.”
And you swear she smiles.
tags ;; @keeryhours @beau-hawkins @preciouslosers @amanitacowboy @emxxblog @crybabyddl @jeangeniex @thejordiverse @vinecstasy @kripkie101-blog @prettycalla @dancininseptember @robinbuckleywife @the-unforgivenn
#ahh i love this!!#i used to have loads of porcelain dolls when i was younger#i’d line them up on their stands on the windowsill#i had the prettiest one with the same name as me too!#where was i oh right the fic#made me nostalgic so already 10/10#i love the idea of big mean and scary eddie is afraid of a porcelain doll#but he’s willing to push past it for you#what a sweetheart#eddie munson#fic recs
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|| eligere ||



Pairing: Caracalla/Reader
Summary: There are times when the poison in Caracalla’s mind drags him under, and you along with him.
Word count: 2.5k
Tags and warnings: Darker content than my usual writing, angst, mentions of paranoia, mind games and control; throat grabbing, fear elements, bittersweet ending; it’s not super dark, but please heed the warnings and mind yourselves with this one! 18+!! Minors, please do not interact!!
(MISSIO's Twisted is to blame for this. Basically ‘what if I took my very first Caracalla fic and made it a little darker’? Please do not read this if you think it might be triggering, thank you!)
Caracalla Masterlist || Fic Masterlist || Taglist

It is no easy task, to entertain an Emperor. Certainly not one as demanding and volatile as Caracalla.
But in your time at the Imperial Palace, you have somehow managed to learn more than enough to not only keep your head, but to build some semblance of a rapport with him.
And perhaps, if you were to allow yourself to truly fall into delusion, something more.
You have certainly become well-versed in Caracalla's moods during the time you have spent with him. You know when his excitable laughter will descend swiftly into a temper, when his fear of being alone will devolve into trembling sobs as you hold him close in your arms.
But there are some signs that are beyond even your knowledge.
When he calls for your presence in his chambers one evening, you are none the wiser of what lies in wait for you, blissfully unaware of the darkness that lurks beneath the surface of those bright, mirthful eyes.
He is lax in how he presents himself to you, all but draped across the lectus he reclines upon; an ornate cup, now empty of its contents, held precariously between his fingers.
He smiles up at you lazily, reminiscent of the warmth of a summer's day, and so captivated are you that you miss the little warning signs.
The bitten fingernails, how his jaw clenches just a little too hard.
How you do not see the lion, hiding in plain sight.
By the time you do, it will be too late.
He heaves himself upright, his movements a little sluggish, reaching for you as he does so. The cup in his hand clatters to the ground. You hold your hand out to him, and his fingers clumsily encircle your wrist. His grip is strong as he pulls, and you fall easily into his lap.
His arms come to rest around your waist, lithe fingers plucking lightly at the fabric of your robes. You smile to yourself, taking his hands gently in yours and raising them to your lips to press a kiss to each of them.
Caracalla lets out a soft giggle, but it is quite unlike how he usually sounds. It is as if something preoccupies him.
"My Emperor, is there something on your mind?" you ask, as delicately as you are able.
He hums non-committedly in response, flighty hands pulling themselves from your grasp.
An uneasiness settles over you. You do your utmost to hide it.
It is some time before Caracalla speaks again, and you silently pray that he did not feel you flinch against him at the sudden sound of his voice.
“If my brother were to show interest in you, would you go to him?” he asks, his voice eerily gentle.
It is an unusual question, and one that you are entirely unprepared for. In your surprise, you cannot help but laugh, assuming that it is asked in jest. Caracalla is fond of making mischief, of this you are very aware.
It is a mistake.
Heavily adorned fingers wrap around your throat, pulling you back tightly against Caracalla’s chest. You try your utmost not to panic; instead running your hand soothingly over his, in an attempt to calm him.
It does not work.
“You laugh, and yet you do not answer me,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough in your ear.
His grip tightens momentarily, wrenching a pained gasp from you.
“Would you go to him?” he asks again, through clenched teeth.
You hastily attempt to shake your head.
“Well?” he insists.
“N-No,” you manage to choke out. “O-Of course not, my Emperor.”
You hear him smile, before an unsettling giggle falls from his lips. Under any other circumstances, you find Caracalla’s laugh to be so musical and full of life. But now…
Oh, how it fills you with dread.
His hand loosens; not enough to release you, but enough to allow you ample breath, for which you are grateful.
You appear to have appeased his temper. Until-
“But he is Emperor, is he not?” he asks. “You would deny him?”
You do not know how to respond. It is all too obvious to you now that Caracalla has slipped away, and something far darker has taken his place.
You have been witness to this side of him in the past, but never in such a disadvantageous position. For how can you protect yourself from a beast, when you cannot see it?
"My loyalty is to you, first and foremost, my Emperor," you reply, slowly and carefully. "I will remain by your side, unless you wish for me to go elsewhere."
This seems to sate Caracalla for a moment. His fingers drum lightly along your collarbone. The repeated motion leaves you feeling queasy, but you dare not stop him.
He hums again, as if in contemplation.
"And if I were to send you to him, would you go? Would you fall into his arms, or would you fight to remain at my side?"
His fingers scratch at your skin; lightly, but it is enough to send a shudder through you. His hand moves again, making its ascent towards the column of your throat once more. You take a breath in anticipation.
"Would you kill him, to prove your loyalty to me?" he whispers, each syllable so horribly vivid in your ear.
"I would...I would go to him if that is what you will of me," you force yourself to reply.
It is a dangerous game. You do not know the rules, and yet you are forced to play anyway.
Caracalla lets out a snarl, and his hand squeezes. You splutter at the sudden force around your neck.
"Little dove, how you sidestep what I ask of you," he chides.
He is unnervingly calm in how he speaks now. Somehow it does more to instil fear in your heart than the beastly noise that erupted from him not a moment ago.
"You always have been so light on your feet. So quick-witted. You think you can play me for a fool, do you?"
You dare to raise your hand, once again gently placing it over Caracalla's.
"I would never do such a thing, my Emperor," you reply softly, desperate to placate him. "You mean far too much to me."
A laugh erupts from him then, cold and cruel. It does far more to wound you than his bruising grip.
"You cannot possibly care for me," he spits in response.
There is a tremor in his voice, and he is still there. Beneath the howling of the monster that holds you captive.
"But I do," you dare to argue. "So much so, that it...that it hurts."
How you have prayed for the day when you could tell Caracalla how you truly feel. That you revere and adore him, in spite of the tales you have been told. Of the things you have seen with your own eyes.
But you had never imagined that it would be like this.
"It hurts?" he echoes. "You do not know the meaning of the word."
You squeeze your eyes shut, anticipating his hand to close tight around you again.
But it does not.
Instead, he drags a finger across your skin, back and forth, back and forth. A single line, across your throat.
Somehow it is far more violent in its intent.
"Since you seem to have difficulty in understanding, I will ask again," he says.
You attempt to focus on your breathing. In, out. In, out. In-
"Two Emperors stand before you. Both desire your attention, demand your affections. Neither are to be denied. Which do you choose?"
You shake your head. You cannot play this game anymore. It hurts far too much.
Caracalla clicks his tongue in annoyance at your lack of an answer.
"He demands your hand, but you are loyal to me. So, which is it to be? Which one...do you...choose?"
You cannot bear any more of this - how he torments you so. There must be a way that you can speak to him, beneath the teeth and claws of this horrid beast that holds you both in its clutches.
"Please...Caracalla," you whisper, tentatively prying his hand from your throat to press a kiss to his palm.
It is a dangerous move, and surprisingly, he allows it. You feel his hand tremble against your lips.
Alas, all too quickly, he is snatched away from you once more. He pulls his hand from your grasp, tossing you from his lap in the suddenness of his movements. You manage to save yourself from a more grave injury, but your hands burn from the harsh impact with the ground.
You force yourself to look up at him, your eyes beginning to sting. You refuse to give this...this thing the satisfaction of seeing your tears.
Caracalla sits forward, his hands clasped together as he watches you with a gleeful expression.
"Oh, you are fun!" he says giddily, his mouth splitting into a wide, disturbing smile. "I have not had a plaything as amusing as you in quite some time."
Plaything.
How can one word cut so deeply?
In spite of your feelings, you of course hold no illusions of your place, of what your true purpose is within the palace. Caracalla is Emperor, a God amongst mortals, and you must not think yourself to be above the role that you have been given.
Oh, but the Gods are cruel in the hand they have dealt for you. If they are to damn you for such thoughts, then so be it.
For how can you accept that Cupid has struck your heart with an arrow for a man who seems to take such delight in the suffering of others?
"There were others that came before you, of course. But how they bored me,” he continues, as he drapes himself across the lectus once more. “But now…Well, they do not bore anyone anymore, do they?"
He laughs again, a cruel, cackling sound that is piercing in the otherwise silent room.
You do not try to fool yourself into believing that Caracalla is a good man. Far too much blood has been spilled at his behest, for his amusement. You know only too well the pleasure he takes in watching the life drain from a man's eyes. How his own hands are stained.
But this...
Even for what you know, what you have seen, something is not right.
It is as if another's influence is at play. As if someone has whispered words of poison into his ear.
This is not the Caracalla you know. Not truly.
Ignoring the terror that holds your heart in a vice grip, you carefully move to stand, wincing at the pain that thrums through your body.
Caracalla watches you, but does not move; rather like a cat that has noticed something of interest, but not quite enough to act. For this, you are grateful.
Every fibre of your being fights against what you are about to do, and yet you press on, sitting next to Caracalla in the small space that remains between him and the edge of the lectus.
He turns his head slightly, regarding you through narrowed eyes. You can see now the tell-tale fog that lies within his gaze, and you steel your resolve. This will not be an easy task.
You should run. You know this. And yet, you take his hands in yours, in spite of your fear, in spite of the tremors that threaten to overwhelm you entirely.
"Caracalla."
You speak his name softly, and with such gentleness. Your hands are not tight in their grip, and you lightly stroke your thumbs across his knuckles, taking care not to catch his rings in your movements.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
Gentle. Slow.
"I am loyal to you, and you alone. Should you wish for me to leave, then I will do so, but only because you have commanded it. I would serve no other. And if your brother were to take me for his own, then..."
You take a little breath, to steady yourself. You must remain calm.
"...then I would spill my own blood before allowing it to happen," you finish resolutely, even as your eyes begin to well with tears once more.
Caracalla has not moved, not once. Save for an occasional blink, and the soft, shallow breaths that fall from his lips, you would think that all life has left him.
Now, you must wait, and hope that your words are enough of an antidote.
It is agonising. As if time has ground to a halt altogether. As if Saturn has fallen asleep, and left you in the aftermath.
Slowly, Caracalla shifts, his head turning to one side, then the other. His expression is dazed, but it is different now. As though he has just awoken from a deep sleep.
His blinks grow heavier, and he looks up at you.
"Where...have I been?" he asks, in barely more than a whisper.
You smile, relief washing over you like a strong tidal wave.
"You fell asleep, my Emperor," you reply. "You had called for me, and I have been waiting for you to awaken."
Caracalla smiles in return. It is warm, affectionate; one that you are far more acquainted with.
"How loyal you are to me," he murmurs, squeezing your hands gently.
You nod, desperate to swallow the lump rising in your throat.
He has no idea just how deep that loyalty runs.
How it may one day cost you your very life.
Caracalla slips free from your hold, as he attempts to right himself. You are gentle in your assistance, sitting back a little to allow him more room. He does not give you the opportunity to go far, his hands clutching your shoulders to keep you close.
His brows draw together in a frown, as his gaze drifts lower. One hand reaches out to your neck, and you will yourself to remain still. His touch lacks the cruelty that it once held; careful fingers delicately trace across your skin.
"What happened to you?" he asks, concern evident in his tone.
You shake your head, with a smile that is more of a grimace, and close your hand over his.
"It is nothing you need worry yourself with," you tell him, hoping that your words sound convincing.
Caracalla's attention remains fixated on your neck, as if he had not heard you speak. Moments pass, and at last, he looks up.
"If anyone were to lay a hand upon you, know that I would see to their demise myself," he whispers, his gaze now unsettlingly sharp.
You nod, not quite trusting yourself to speak. Caracalla slides closer to you then, his arms snaking around your waist to hold you close.
You squeeze your eyes shut, a wave of emotion threatening to overcome you as you do the same, holding him tighter than you mean to.
You are uncertain and wary of what the future may bring, but for now, you are thankful that this storm seems to have passed, and that Caracalla has returned to you.

Taglist: @lover-rep-fanfic @punkrockmlchael @x-vadon @dubiousmetamorphosis @iitsmandii @medievalharlot @glassbxttless @getaapologist @fandom-princess-forevermore @robinbuckleywife @samslvrgirl @cheesesandwichsanto
(You can join the taglist here! You can also request to be removed using the same form!)
#i'm sick but i did my very best!#emperor caracalla x reader#emperor caracalla x you#caracalla x reader#caracalla x you#angie writes#prettycalla writes
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|| johnny storm masterlist ||



All of my Johnny Storm fics so far can be found here! All fics are Johnny/Reader. Reblogs are always greatly appreciated, thank you very much for reading! Smut is marked with a ❣️. You can join the taglist here.
lesson learned ❣️ You make the mistake of letting Johnny borrow your phone. You really should have closed your tabs. Smut | 3k words
owner of a lonely flaming heart (fan club card) Johnny finds out that you're a member of his fan club, and no, you're not going to hear the end of it anytime soon. Fluff | 2.3k words
2 posts | 5.3k words
#johnny storm masterlist#johnny storm x reader#prettycalla writes#angie writes#prettycalla's masterlist
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I’m almost finished with the short Caracalla fic I’ve been working on! It’ll be a little darker than what I normally write (along the lines of my Vampire AU, but without the actual vampire element - but maybe some more vamp work soon? 👀).
If anyone on my tag list doesn’t wish to be tagged in this one, I completely understand - please just let me know! It’ll have the content warnings at the start as always, and the usual Read More too! 🫡
#i know he’s a lil freak#and also i don’t want to accidentally trigger someone#angie waffles#emperor caracalla
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Join the Flaming Hearts Fan Club!
The whole world's gone Storm crazy, and here's your chance to get in on all the fun! Now you can join a fan club devoted to the hero that has set all our hearts ablaze and be right in the very thick of things. You can join the Flaming Hearts Fan Club and get lots of free goodies along with your lifetime membership. What's a Flaming Heart? It's someone who's warm-hearted, fiery and passionate, someone who loves Johnny Storm to pieces. And you can become a Flaming Heart simply by joining the super-fun Flaming Hearts Fan Club this very instant. You'll receive a beautiful membership card to keep with you now and forever, proving you're on the inside. Send for your membership in the brand new Flaming Hearts Fan Club and become an official Flaming Heart yourself! Set your heart ablaze! Do it today!
Text taken from the Official Flaming Hearts Fan Club ad flyer
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The Flaming Hearts Fan Club
johnny storm x fem!reader
word count: 2.2k+
summary: Something falls out of your pocket with the most unfortunate timing anyone could’ve asked for.
warnings: reader’s gonna be embarrassed, johnny’s gonna be a funny little son-of-a-bitch and i love him
notes: One of my friends, @prettycalla, and I decided to write this idea that our other friend, @getaapologist, had given us! (I was on fire for three hours, I hope you enjoy lmao). So here’s my version and the kickstart to my johnnyverse! Big thank you to @robinbuckleywife for reading this over and as always, big thank you to @peachyproserpina for editing, couldn’t do this without you!
It’s a sweltering July afternoon. You’re unfortunately standing in line at Burger Tower— it was of those space-age-styled fast food joints with chrome countertops, a glowing neon menu board shaped like a rocket ship, and booths upholstered in shiny red vinyl. The overhead speakers are playing The Supremes a little too loud for you to hear anything else, the smell of frying oil wafts around you, and the sun outside practically melts the linoleum floor tiles. It’s hot enough to make a person sweat through their shirt… and their pants…. really any article of fabric strewn on their bodies.
You’re one person away from the counter and you’re mentally running through your order— double cheeseburger, a strawberry shake, fries large enough to make you regret getting 'em— when you reach into your pocket to pull out your cash. Except you grab way more than you mean to. Something slips out and floats to the ground right at your feet. It’s face-down, but you already know what it is before it even touches the ground. Your stomach drops straight out your ass and to the floor.
It’s one of your photos from the Flaming Hearts Fan Club. The official one, glossy and embarrassingly well-loved. And now stepping up right next to it? The most unfortunate pair of shoes you could hope to see. Black boots. Sleek. Attached to legs in jeans that you woefully would recognize anywhere. A voice chuckles behind you, smug and too amused for your comfort, says, “Whoa, now that’s a handsome guy.”
You freeze right in your tracks. You know that voice. Everyone knows that stupid voice. It’s been broadcast on radio interviews, on late-night variety shows, and shouted from the skies when the Fantastic Four saved Midtown last month.
You turn on your heel.
Johnny Storm is standing there. His blonde hair windswept and looked too picture perfect, his sunglasses are perched in his head, and he’s holding your fan club photo between two fingers like it might catch fire if he grips it too tight. And he’s grinning. “Real dedicated fan, huh?” he says, flipping the photo around to show the front. It’s the one where he’s in his blue suit, smirking with his arms crossed like he knows exactly how good he looks— which, clearly, he does. “Where’d you get this? You know they make me sign those after three hours of PR torture every Tuesday?”
Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out except a breath that sounds vaguely like a question mark. You hurriedly grab the photo back, flustered and looking anywhere but at him, trying not to sweat through your blouse. “I— I’m not, like, obsessed or anything. My friend gave it to me. You know… as a joke.”
“Oh yeah?” He raises an eyebrow, then steps around you to the counter, calling over his shoulder.
You want the floor to open up and swallow you whole. Instead, you just shove the photo back into your pocket cursing yourself for even tucking it in the pocket of these jeans however many weeks ago. You order as fast as you can, duck your head to avoid him, and flee to the farthest booth in the restaurant. You’re definitely trying to hide behind your stupid milkshake and lick your wounds in peace. You make it halfway through a crinkle fry when a red tray drops on the table across from you, and Johnny plops down into the seat like he had been invited. He’s got two burgers on his tray, a large soda, and one of those dumb, charming milkshakes with whipped cream stacked a mile high.
You almost choke on your fries. “Are you… Are you seriously sitting here?”
“Sure am.” His eyes are twinkling as he peels the paper back on his burger. “You looked lonely. Or maybe mortified. Either way, sitting here felt like a public service.”
You groan and drop your forehead into your hand, elbow propped against the table. “You are the worst.”
“Incorrect. I’m the hottest. Literally.” He bites into his burger and shrugs. “Flaming Hearts, huh? That’s the fan club with the pins, right? Do you have the pin?”
You glare at him between spread fingers.
He leans forward, his eyes wide with mock innocence. “What? I wanna see it. Let me guess— it’s hidden in your purse next to the embroidered handkerchief with my initials, huh?”
“I do not have—” you stop yourself with a sigh. It doesn’t really matter what you say now. He’s already smiling like he’s won something.
He munches on a fry, then points one at you. “You know, most people pretend not to recognize me. They do that whole thing where they squint and go, ‘Hey, aren’t you that flying guy?’ and I say something modest, like ‘Only on days that end with Y.’ But you? You dropped the merchandise. You might as well have left a trail of rose petals to this very booth.”
You roll your eyes, but it’s almost impossible for you to stop smiling now. “If I buy you another burger and slide it across the table, will you try and forget this ever happened?”
“Oh, sweetheart,” he grins through a mouthful of fries, “This has been the best part of my day. I’m literally going to remember this forever.”
You laugh despite yourself and shake your head. He’s magnetic in the kind of way you wish you were immune to, that’s how this crush started, after all. All lazy charm and a ridiculous aura of confidence. But it really wasn’t in the sleazy, plastic way you’d expect from a tabloid cover boy. It’s like he actually likes being liked, in a deeper way— nothing surface level. “Why are you here?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t you have a lab to go blow up or something?”
“Nah.” He waves his hand in dismissal, smiling. “Reed banned me for the afternoon.” Then, he leans back in the booth, one arm draping over the back of the seat. “I figured I’d get some lunch and see how many people pretended not to notice me. You win, by the way. Dropping the photo? That was pretty good.”
You groan and hide your face in your hands again. And then you shake your head, starting to laugh as you say, “I am never living this down.”
“Sure you will,” he hums, holding his shake toward you like a peace offering. “Eventually. Probably. Maybe. Want a sip?”
You squint at him. “That’s how you get cooties.”
“Oh my god, you are in the fan club.”
“Shut up.”
He kicks your foot lightly under the table and sing-songs between laughs. “You didn’t say no.”
You shoot him a mock-annoyed look over the top of your milkshake. “You kicking me under the table now? Real smooth.”
Johnny shrugs. “Subtlety’s never been my strong suit. I mean… Come on. I light on fire for a living.”
You laugh again. It bubbles out of you before you can even realize it, and suddenly you’re smiling so wide that your cheeks hurt. He notices and he gives you this big, satisfied grin like he just won a bet with himself.
“What?” you say, narrowing your eyes at him, your heart beating so hard in your chest you think it may try to escape through your ears.
“Nothing,” he shrugs. “It’s just… really nice when people laugh around me instead of screaming and running for the nearest fire extinguisher.”
“Oh, is that a thing?”
“You’d be surprised.” He nudges the last of his fries into his mouth, chews lazily, then adds, “Actually, wait, no you wouldn’t. You’re the one with my picture in your pocket.”
You groan dramatically and drop your head down against the table for what? the third time now? “Will you please stop bringing that up?”
“Not a chance.”
You hear the squeak of the vinyl as he shifts in the seat, then there’s a rustle of paper as he crumples up his burger wrapper. He’s looking at you a little differently now— clearly still very amused, but he’s softened at the edges. Like maybe he’s not here just to tease you. Like maybe he kind of likes the way you look at him while he flirts or how you groan when he pokes a little fun at you. He tosses his trash onto his tray, wipes his hands on his jeans, then he looks back at you with a tilt of his head. “So. You headed anywhere after this? Or was lunch your big plan for the afternoon?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Why? Are you about to recommend I spend the rest of it being harassed by superheroes?”
“First of all, celebrity superhero. Get it right,” he says with another one of those signature grins, jerking his thumb back at himself as he points. “Second, I was gonna offer to walk you home. Unless you’d rather let the photo in your pocket be enough.”
You pause at his words, a fry halfway to your mouth. “You want to walk me home?”
He shrugs, like the suggestion is no big deal. Like he’s just a normal guy asking a normal girl to let him walk her home. But he was not a normal guy, he was fucking Johnny Storm, of the Fantastic Four. And you, you, were a member of his damn fan club. “Sure. It’s hot out. You might melt. I’d feel bad if I left you out there to fry like an egg on the concrete.”
“And you’re just… offering? Out of the goodness of your very flammable heart.”
“That, and you’re cute when you’re mortified.” He winks at you, like he hasn’t just said the sort of thing that might send your pulse into a thumping tailspin. “So what do you say? You live nearby?”
You hesitate, shifting in your seat, but it’s not because you don’t want him to. It’s because it still feels a little unreal that the Johnny Storm wants to walk you home like this is some normal, Saturday matinee kind of world. You nod at him slowly, your eyes still on him and a fry still clutched between your fingertips. “Just a few blocks.”
“Perfect.” He hops up, grabbing both of your trays. He dumps them in the bin in one graceful swoop. “Let’s go before I change my mind and fly off dramatically into the sunset.”
He holds the door open for you as you exit, the same stupid hot air you were trying to escape, slaps you both in the face like a slightly damp towel straight from the dryer. You step out into the sun together, and he falls into step beside you. You’re walking as if you’re old friends. Like this isn’t bizarre and slightly incredible. “So…” he says after a few minutes of walking in silence. “Do I get to know your name? Or do I have to keep calling you ‘Flaming Heart Number 247’?”
You tell him your name. His lips tug up at the corners as he repeats it, and then he nods as he decides in his own head that it suits you.
“I’ve gotta admit, I didn’t really think my Thursday was gonna include teasing a girl about my own face in a burger joint, but you’ve made the experience. You, uh…” He scratches the back of his neck. “You doing anything this weekend?”
You glance sideways at him, hand curling tightly around the strap of your bag. “Why?”
“Just wondering if you’d want to… I don’t know. Get a soda or catch a movie or something. We could go somewhere I promise not to spontaneously combust on you.”
You almost gape at him, “You’re asking me out?”
“Yeah, well, it’s either that or I keep circling this block every day hoping you drop another photo of me so we have something to talk about.”
You try to play it cool, really you do, but your smile slips out before you can stop it. “Alright, Mr. Celebrity Superhero. You’ve got a date. You set it up.”
Johnny beams at you, almost boyish, entirely smitten. “You won’t regret that.”
“I probably will.”
He waits a moment and then agrees with a teasing sigh, “You definitely will, but you’ll also probably have a pretty great time.”
He walks you the rest of the way home, his hands stuffed in his front pockets. He’s telling you some absurd story about Ben trying to cook dinner and him nearly setting off the building’s sprinklers. You’re halfway to your door before you realize— he’s not just funny, or cute, or famous.
He’s fun.
And when he leans against your front gate and smirks down at you like he’s waiting for a green light, you give it to him without even thinking. He doesn’t kiss you— it’s too soon for that, you’ve just met— but he does tap the back of your hand lightly and say, “Don’t lose that photo. It might be worth something someday.”
You roll your eyes at him. “Goodnight, Johnny.”
“Night, doll” And then, with one last wink, he steps back, salutes you— all teeth and dimples, and then takes off into the sky like he was always born to fly.
You stand there, watching him go, grinning like an idiot.
And it flashes through your brain, you’re definitely gonna need a new photo.
Maybe one with you in it next time.
tags ;; No one is on the taglist for Johnny yet— so if you’d like to join, fill this form out here!
#CECE!! the scream i just SCRUMPT oh my god#i am obsessed with this little shit#there i said it#the way you write him? give me 10 more please and thank you#also mad in the mood for a burger now so thanks for that#johnny storm#fic recs
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|| Owner of a Lonely Flaming Heart (Fan Club Card) ||



Pairing: Johnny Storm/Reader
Summary: Johnny finds out that you're a member of his fan club, and no, you're not going to hear the end of it anytime soon.
Word count: 2.3k
Tags and warnings: Fluff, Johnny's a nuisance (affectionate), established relationship, no use of Y/N.
(Once again, thank you so much to @getaapologist for the brilliant idea! And you should definitely check out @glassbxttless for her amazing version of this!)
Johnny Masterlist || Fic Masterlist || Taglist

There's not a lot that Johnny doesn't know about you.
For starters, it never seemed fair for you to keep secrets from him. Almost every detail of his life is plastered all over tabloid articles and gossip magazines. He's even got his own billboard downtown, which he's very proud of, by the way. Needless to say, you knew more about him before you'd even had the chance to introduce yourself, and so you thought it was only fair that he knew just as much about you - even if most of it wasn't remotely as interesting. (Johnny begs to differ, but then he always does have to be different.)
Not only that, but you couldn't keep a secret from him even if you tried. Once he sets his mind on something, he just can't leave it alone. He reminds you of a hunting dog sometimes - as soon as he catches the scent of something interesting, he's on it in seconds. You made the mistake of telling him as much once, and he made such a embarrassing show of barking and howling at you in response that you've never done it again. Ever the exhibitionist.
But there's one thing he doesn't know about you, and you'd rather like to keep it that way, thank you very much.
You're a member of the Flaming Hearts Fan Club.
Johnny's fan club.
Look, you know how it sounds. A diehard fan who managed to keep the obsession under control long enough to get the job as his assistant, and as luck would have it, actually catch the eye of the Human Torch himself? It's ridiculous, it's entirely unbelievable, and yet here you are.
But the thing is, you're not obsessed with him. Never have been. You just thought he was cute. A friend had pointed out the advertisement for his fan club in a magazine. Why not? you'd thought to yourself. It was just a bit of fun.
And when you were invited for the job interview, you'd known that if you were successful, you'd be working in the same building as literal superheroes, which, while obviously an incredible thing to brag about, wasn't exactly your main reason for applying.
The field you were trained in was pretty specific; you knew this even while you were in college, with a class that was barely in the double digits. But you had no idea how difficult it was going to be to get hired after you graduated, save for setting yourself up independently, which seemed a little (okay, a lot) out of your current financial budget.
So when you'd seen the job listing, you'd jumped at the chance, the thought of where you'd be working not really occurring to you at all.
Until you'd gotten the job, and walked in to find Johnny Storm himself waiting for you.
That was two years ago now. And well...things have definitely changed since then. The biggest one being that the two of you are now dating.
If you're honest with yourself, you're still not entirely sure how it happened, but you wouldn't change how things are for the world.
Well, except for one little thing.
One little, rectangular, laminated thing, that is now lying on the floor, right at Johnny's feet.
You'd been trying to pay Johnny back for getting you coffee (not that he would take it, but you're nothing if not persistent), and it had slipped right out of your purse. You'd forgotten it was even in there.
"Is that...?" he begins to ask, before trailing off.
He crouches down to pick it up, and all hope that he hadn't noticed it goes right out the window.
"Oh my God, it is," he says, with a breathless laugh.
"Johnny..." you start, wringing your hands together nervously.
"I can't believe this," he says, with a shake of his head. "You're a member of my fan club. You."
You let out a sigh. Hell truly is other people.
He flips the card over, and his face lights up like it's his birthday.
"Oh, you signed it," he says, his smile only growing wider. "That is so cute."
He looks up at you then. He's clearly having the time of his life. At least one of you is.
"When were you gonna tell me about this, huh?" he asks, turning the card over and over between his fingers.
"Um, probably never?" you manage to reply, your face burning.
Johnny tilts his head at that.
"You know, I thought the vetting process for this job was pretty strict, and now I find out you've been a Johnny nut this whole time?"
He's kidding, you know he is. It still doesn't stop you from wanting to slap the smug smile off his face.
"Cut it out," you reply, trying to snatch the card from his hand, but he's too quick for you.
He moves out of your reach, turning on his heel and walking away.
"Man, I can't believe this is the photo they went with," he says. "I look like Captain Kirk here. Though he's a handsome guy, so I guess I can't complain."
He turns around again, holding the card up to his face and striking the same pose.
"You see it too, right?" he asks, as he pushes his hair to one side in an attempt to style it the same way. "Captain Storm. I like the sound of that."
He's having so much fun, he's completely ignoring the fact that you've been glaring daggers at him the entire time.
"Are you done making fun of me?" you ask, holding your hand out.
Johnny frowns at you in confusion.
"Oh, that's what I was supposed to be doing," he says, as if in sudden realisation. "Thanks for the reminder, doll."
This is it. This is the day you murder him. It's finally arrived.
Johnny's expression softens slightly.
"Hey," he says gently, crossing the short distance between you. "You know I'm kidding, right?"
You let out a little sigh, before nodding.
"I know, it's just...Well, it's embarrassing," you admit quietly.
He reaches for your hand, giving it a little squeeze.
"Nah, it's hardly embarrassing. I've seen worse. God, I've done worse," he replies, without his usual bravado.
You can't help but roll your eyes at that. Oh, you're well aware of Johnny's antics.
"I just...I don't want you to get the wrong idea," you tell him. "I didn't apply for this job because I'm some delusional fan."
Johnny gently tugs you close to him, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.
"Hey, come on," he murmurs. "I know that. You're nothing like my fans, and I love that about you. You don't treat me like I'm some sort of God. Which, if I'm honest, is fun up to a point. You treat me like me, and I appreciate it. Really."
You look up at him. You're one of the few people lucky enough to see him like this - without his usual cocky stance and snarky one-liners. Full of sincerity.
Human.
It reminds you why you fell for him in the first place.
"So, how did you end up becoming a member, anyway?" he asks.
So much for that, you think to yourself, albeit fondly.
"A friend of mine had seen the application form in a magazine, and we thought it'd be fun," you tell him. "I did always think you were kinda cute."
Johnny blinks at you in disbelief.
"Sorry, kinda?" he asks, tone exasperated.
"Okay, very cute," you reply, relenting. "Unbelievably cute. The cutest."
Johnny looks down with a little breath of a laugh. Rarely do you see him shy - you're not sure he even knows the meaning of the word.
"And, um, there was another reason I joined," you say softly.
At that, Johnny's focus is immediately on you again.
"Oh, yeah?" he asks, trying and failing to sound casual. "What's that?"
You lean in close to him, making sure you have his full attention.
"Reed's fan club wasn't taking any more applications," you whisper in his ear, and while he's spluttering to find a response, you manage to yank the card out of his hand.
You step out from under his arm, safely putting the card back in your bag and zipping it up. Johnny's face has turned very red, and you can't help but laugh. It's nice to have the upper hand for a change.
"C'mon, we really should get back to this," you say, nodding your head in the direction of the blueprint that's been all but abandoned.
Johnny just shakes his head in disbelief, and you bite back a smile, trying to refocus yourself on your work.
"This isn't over, by the way," he mutters, reaching for a pen to write something down. "Reed's fan club. Unbelievable."
Despite his little "threat", Johnny doesn't mention the card again. You find yourself a little on edge, waiting for him to bring it up, but eventually, you start to settle, pushing it to the back of your mind.
Not a great idea. You should really know better than to believe that Johnny has the capacity to let anything go.
You're in the middle of laying out the notes the two of you have been working on one afternoon, enjoying a rare moment of peace and quiet with Johnny still out on lunch, when the door opens behind you.
Speak of the devil.
"That eager to get started that you couldn't even wait for me, huh?" he asks, his tone light as his footsteps grow closer.
You shake your head, your attention still focused on the task in front of you.
"Just setting up," you reply.
You can sense him standing next to you, but he doesn't say anything more. Something's not right when Johnny's quiet, and you turn to look at him.
His hands are behind his back.
"I've got something for you," he says, with a coy little smile.
Knowing Johnny, this could either be very good, or very bad.
"What is it?" you ask, trying not to sound concerned.
Judging by how Johnny chuckles, you've clearly failed. He theatrically moves his hands so they're now in front of him.
He's holding a little card. You pull a face.
"Were you going through my bag?" you ask, tone exasperated.
Johnny shakes his head, his smile only widening as he holds the card out to you.
"Maybe you should take a closer look," is all he says.
You tentatively take the card from him, and immediately burst out laughing.
"Is this- Johnny, this is ridiculous," you try to chide, but there's no denying the smile still on your face.
It's a fan club card. For you.
You know it's supposed to be a joke, but he's clearly put a lot of thought and effort into it. He even chose a photo of you that doesn't make you want to kick him in the shins, which, for Johnny, is a surprise.
"Turn it over," he says.
On the back is his signature. He signed it. Even drew a little heart.
"And if you'll look at what it says underneath..." he says, trailing off as he points to the small, bold print under his name.
Fan Club President.
It's so silly, and yet you can't help but feel a little overwhelmed. Johnny's a hard one for you to understand sometimes; the polar opposite of you in so many ways. You don't know how many times you've thought that your relationship shouldn't work, and yet somehow, despite everything, it does.
He knows when you need dragged out of yourself for your own sake, and he knows when he needs to rein himself in. There's the Johnny who poses for the fans and paparazzi, and then there's your Johnny, who goes out of his way to get dinner for you from that cute little pizza place you love that doesn't deliver, and makes himself the president of the fan club that he made up just for you.
He might drive you crazy at the best of times, but no one has ever made you feel as special as Johnny does.
"Y'know, the one downside of being the first member of your fan club is that I have to get all the other stuff for myself," he says cryptically.
You stop for a second.
"Wait, what other stuff? What do you mean?" you ask.
Johnny won't meet your eye. Like a dog that's been caught doing something it shouldn't have.
"Well...It's just..."
He taps the card with his finger.
"I know my fan club membership comes with posters and stuff," he says, still too vague for your liking. "I mean, you would know."
"And...?" you press.
"Well, all I'm saying is...When am I gonna get a poster of you?" he asks, finally meeting your gaze.
With his signature shit-eating grin on his face, of course.
Your eyes widen. So does his smile.
"You're not serious! You're- Johnny, you're in your uniform in that poster. It leaves nothing to the imagination!" you hiss in embarrassment.
"And...? What's your point?" he asks, leaning on the table with his arms folded.
His tone is innocent, but his eyes are half-lidded, and he's giving you that look, the one that always makes your stomach flutter.
"Can we...Can we please get back to work now?" you ask, almost desperate for this conversation to end.
Before you do something completely out of character.
Johnny rolls his eyes, but he relents. Much to your relief.
"Sure thing, doll," he replies, leaning in to give you a quick kiss on the cheek.
He turns back to the notes spread out across the desk, and the pair of you fall into a comfortable silence for a while. Until-
"Okay, so maybe not a full poster spread, but how about some polaroids?" he asks, with a sly glance in your direction.
If the pen in your hand just happens to slip out of your grasp and hit him on the forehead, well...
Accidents do happen.

Taglist: @iitsmandii @glassbxttless @getaapologist @fandom-princess-forevermore @samslvrgirl @magikdarkholme @spider-starry @peachyproserpina @robinbuckleywife @keaganz
(You can join the taglist here! If you wish to be removed, please let me know!)
#back at it again with johnny#proofread as best as i could i promise!#johnny storm x reader#angie writes#prettycalla writes
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|| reverentia ||



Pairing: Geta/Reader
Summary: Geta is afforded a rare, quiet morning with his Empress. He refuses to let even a second of it go to waste.
Word count: 2.5k
Tags and warnings: Smut (not overly explicit, but still very obvious!), fluff, Geta adores his wife, Geta's POV, reader is she/her, no use of Y/N. 18+!! Minors, please do not interact!!
(Once again, the lovely @getaapologist gave me a little thought and here I am, turning it into a whole thing. Please check out her fics, they're so good! This can also be read as a vague continuation of this fic.)
Geta Masterlist || Fic Masterlist || Taglist

When Geta awakens, the sun has yet to breach the horizon. The hour is somewhere between night and day; that strange time where he can merely exist as he is. The burdens that come with ruling have been taken from his shoulders, laid to rest elsewhere for a brief moment.
Now, he is a man, no more and no less. It is a strange comfort to him.
He turns his attention then to you, asleep in his embrace. Your head rests against his chest, tucked under his chin. As if you were made to fit so perfectly in his arms as you do.
His beautiful Empress. His beloved wife.
A soft sigh falls from your lips, your warm breath ghosting along Geta’s collarbone, and he cannot help the shiver that runs along the length of his spine. The movement jostles you ever so slightly, but it is enough for Somnus to lift his spell from you.
A sleepy little groan leaves you, and Geta holds himself completely still, lest he disturb you further.
But it is too late.
“Good morning,” you manage to say through a long yawn.
Geta pulls himself back, just enough that he can see your face.
How he finds himself clinging to little moments such as these. When the greedy, unsatisfied child that is his Empire still slumbers on, and his only thoughts can be of you.
He says nothing, yet his mind races with words that he still stumbles over. Words that you are fluent in, that are still foreign on his tongue.
He has always seen vulnerability as a weakness, and yet he does not with you. How you hold your heart out to him, so fragile, so easily crushed by a man who has known only to conquer, to destroy. And yet still you offer it to him, this delicate, breakable thing.
Once he thought you foolish for it; now it only urges him forward to learn to do the same for you.
He does not know how to say it, and so he decides, as he so often does, that he must show you instead.
For rarely does a man of his lofty position ever truly have to think of what he must say. Why would he ever need to, when he has a sea of sycophants at his command?
Simpering sheep with daggers hidden in their wool. Dangerous to turn one’s back to.
But Geta is no less dangerous. He has had to learn from a young age that there are few he can place trust in. The Empire will take and take and take, until he is little more than a husk, picked clean by scavengers.
His teeth have grown long, his claws sharp in his years on the pedestal he has been placed upon. He is versed in swordplay, but will surrender to the animalistic violence more commonplace in his brother when he must. They are two of a kind, after all.
And he will fall prey to his baser urges to protect you, again and again. Without thought, without fail.
You are more precious to him than any jewel, any land, even his title.
He places a hand beneath your jaw, gently tilting your head up to look at him. Truly he is privileged to be the only man to see you as you are now - your face bare, a soft smile pulling at your lips as you look up at him through half-lidded eyes, still tipsy with sleep.
He cannot bear the thought of another seeing you as he does now. Even his own brother.
There was a time when he might have lost your love to Caracalla, and it is the only time in his life that he has ever truly considered taking the very breath from his body. His own flesh and blood. The only other to hold Geta’s heart as fiercely as you do.
You bring a hand up to rest over his, and it is only then that he realises how he trembles. You overwhelm him, like nothing ever has.
Like no one ever will.
He leans in, brushing his nose lightly against yours before he kisses you. His mouth is firm against yours, and as always, you lean into it, allow him to take what he will. You submit so readily to him, and yet he is very aware of how much power you wield over him. He wonders if you know this too.
He nips at your lower lip, and you gasp softly, allowing him entrance. He licks at your mouth; soft in his actions, knows that you will not disappear. That in this moment, he can take his time.
Your hand tightens against his, your body pressing closer to him. He knows that your need for him is gradually growing, as his is for you. He has each little movement, each touch, each sound, committed to memory.
If he were to forget everything, let it not be this.
Let it not be you.
It is with reluctance that he parts from you. He slips free of your gentle hold, placing a line of kisses along the length of your neck, down your shoulder, the crook of your arm, the delicate skin of the inside of your wrist.
He looks up at you, as he presses another kiss to the back of your hand. What a vision you are in his eyes. Venus herself would dare have your head in her ire.
You reach for him then, as if to coax him back to you, and he forces himself to resist the siren song of your embrace, persuaded elsewhere by more pressing matters.
He slips under the covers as he moves lower still, continuing a path of kisses across your stomach, your hip, until he has settled himself quite comfortably between your legs. His hands drag softly along the lengths of your calves, back and forth, until he feels the beginnings of gooseflesh erupt beneath his fingertips.
You offer no resistance, allowing him to arrange you as he likes. It does not escape his notice the unwavering trust that you place in him in these moments.
How he would never dare to lose it.
His hands push at the fabric that covers you from him, over your knees, past your thighs, until it is no longer in the way of what he seeks from you.
He stops for a moment, if only to admire you; beautiful creature that you are, laid almost entirely bare before him. He will never tire of this view, even after his very last breath.
To him, you are a goddess made flesh.
He dips his head to the insides of your thighs, where his cheek, still rough at this time of the morning, scratches against the sensitive skin there. You let out a gasp, and a low chuckle escapes him as he does it again.
“Geta…”
He sucks in a breath at the sound of his name leaving you in such a manner. There are few who will use his given name, fewer still who have earned the right to address him with anything other than his titles.
There is Caracalla, who says his name with such familiarity, as though he was born with the word already on his tongue. And there is you, speaking his name with such care, such fondness, that he finds himself overwhelmed with feelings he does not yet have words for, each and every time he hears it.
"Whatever is the matter?" he asks, composing himself, as though he is unaware of the part he now plays.
"Surely you have teased enough," you reply, with an impatient little huff.
How sweet you are in your desire for him.
"You would accuse me of such a terrible thing?" he asks, the very picture of innocence. "Such treasonous words cannot be ignored."
"Oh, please, you exaggerate- Oh-"
Geta deliberately waits until that very moment to strike, distracting you entirely with his tongue. You jolt at his sudden movement, and he places his hands on your thighs, holding you firmly in place. He is well-versed in making you squirm, but he cannot allow himself to become distracted from the task he has so greedily set himself.
There was once a time when he thought an act like this to be degrading, particularly to one of his lofty position. How he has most assuredly realised his error in judgment.
For how could he possibly see you, as you are in this very moment, as anything less than magnificent?
He has grown far more adept since the first time he had you in this way, and will use every trick at his disposal to leave you a quivering mess beneath him. Little else provides him with as much pleasure as watching you fall apart so beautifully.
If he could keep you like this for eternity, he most certainly would, and judging by how your fingers thread tightly into his fiery locks, free as they are now of the weight of his laurels, you would let him. Let him worship you as you deserve.
He continues to move his tongue against you in that devastating way, until you are able to do little else but let him take what he wants from you. The sounds of your breathless sighs, as they rise slowly in volume, are sweeter than any music to him, little song bird that you are.
"G-Geta," you manage to whisper beneath quick, little breaths.
Your grip tightens in his hair, and sensing your growing need, he works harder to tip you over the edge that you are so desperately teetering from.
"Please- Stop-" you gasp out suddenly.
At that, he lifts his head immediately.
"Are you alright?" he asks, concern evident in his voice.
You nod shakily, and his shoulders drop in relief. To think that he might have hurt you-
"I am- I am more than alright," you reply, a tremble in your voice. "But..."
Geta rises then, moving until his body is over yours, his hands pressed to the bed on either side of you.
"But?" he echoes, his gaze focused so intensely on you. "Whatever is the matter?"
You cannot quite meet his eye, and he realises that it is not from fear or worry, but embarrassment.
"It...It is not enough," you admit quietly, finally meeting his gaze.
Geta's eyes widens for a moment, before his lips curl into a knowing smile. When once this would have provoked a childish reaction from him, now it only strokes his ego. Affirms how you feel for him.
"Oh. I see," he replies, crudely running a hand over his mouth. "What would you have me do then?"
As if he does not already know. In answer, you reach for him, your hands gripping his shoulders, as your heels dig gently into the backs of his legs, urging him closer.
Up until now, he has been able to ignore his own urges for the most part, but no longer can he cast them aside. Not with your soft touch against him, the warmth that radiates from your body, how you look at him, with such desire in your eyes.
To deny himself of you any longer would be to deny you both, and so he moves, his patience swiftly on the brink as he lines himself up and pushes into you. It takes everything in his power to stop himself from collapsing on top of you, but the feeling of you - that heat - around him is intoxicating. He is but a man, after all.
He gives you as much time as he can to adjust, but it is you who breaks first, clutching at his strong arms.
"Geta...If you do not move soon, I shall be driven to madness," you tell him, your need for him so evident in how you speak.
He needs no more convincing, and so he does as you command. He moves, and a groan slips through his clenched teeth at how perfect you feel. He is far too proud to admit it, but he knows that he will not last long.
He forces himself to focus on finishing what he has started, managing to build a somewhat steady rhythm, as he grows more and more pent-up with lust.
You only serve to make matters worse, clinging to him in a desperate manner as you urge him on. Your breath stutters, your nails scratching at his skin, and he knows that you draw close.
Geta's arms are tight around you, his fingers sure to leave bruises with how hard they press into your skin. He is animalistic in his need, yearning for release - both his and yours.
"Let go, mea lux," he all but pleads, as his hand slides between your bodies to push you further. "Let me see you."
It is not much longer before you are at last overcome, your back arching in his hold. He swears under his breath at how you squeeze him, and he is losing what little patience he had, he cannot last, he cannot-
His hips jerk forward as he spills into you, a growl working its way out of his throat as that wave of pleasure finally crashes over him. He ruts against you until he is finally spent, suddenly exhausted.
It is some time before he is able to move again. He manages to push himself up onto his elbows, and his breath catches in his throat at the sight of you. Your face is flushed, lips parted as you try to steady your breathing. He gives in to the sudden urge to kiss you that overtakes him, taking pride in how you gasp in surprise.
Neither of you speak for a while, content to quietly bask in the afterglow of it all together.
But there is only so long that Geta can ignore it. The unwelcome visitor in the room.
Sunlight is already beginning to peek through the slit in the curtains, slowly spilling across the floor, and breaking the spell that Geta has allowed himself to fall under.
"The hour grows later," he says softly.
It is with reluctance that he utters those words. He would give anything to remain as he is.
"Do as you must," you tell him.
He looks down at you, to find you staring up at him. He knows that look in your eyes all too well.
Stay here with me, you silently plead.
Geta lets out a quiet breath. Perhaps he can indulge himself a while longer. He lies down once more, pulling you into his arms as he does so. With your head once again against his chest, your soft breaths against his collarbone, it is as if he had never woken you at all.
Although he is most certainly glad that he did.
"Surely the palace can remain in one piece without me for a few minutes more," he murmurs.
You hum in agreement, wrapping your arms tightly around him in turn. Geta cannot resist the smile threatening to break across his face, and so he allows it. Allows himself another small moment of peace.
There is nowhere in the world that he would rather be right now, and certainly no one else that he would rather be with, than you.

Taglist: @lover-rep-fanfic @x-vadon @dubiousmetamorphosis @hikohyuuga @iitsmandii @medievalharlot @glassbxttless @getaapologist @fandom-princess-forevermore @robinbuckleywife @bib200 @samslvrgirl @cheesesandwichsanto @magikdarkholme @spider-starry
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I’ve been having to push through a few health flare-ups lately, but I should hopefully have some Geta edited and posted later in the evening! 🙏
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|| just how i feel ||



Pairing: Sue Storm/Reader
Summary: Sue has a secret admirer. She’s too shrewd to miss the clues, and unfortunately for you, she's quick to figure it out. Or maybe it’s fortunate?
Word count: 2.1k
Tags and warnings: Fluff, reader has a crush on Sue, reader is she/her (because please let me have this), no use of Y/N.
(The biggest thank you to @getaapologist for the fic idea! She also has an amazing version of this idea with Johnny, please check it out! Violets and lavender are two flowers very much associated with the LGBTQIA+ community, for anyone wondering. This obviously isn’t canon-compliant, sorry Reed! Just let me steal your girl for a little bit.)
Fic Masterlist || Taglist
You can't really remember when things started to change, but they have, and you can't ignore the problems that are developing as a result.
Every glance, every look, every little moment of silence between the two of you leaves you wondering. Questioning. Second-guessing.
It's driving you mad, and you know it's only a matter of time before it starts causing issues.
Having a best friend is the most wonderful thing in the world.
Until you realise that you're in love with her.
You had met in college, after signing up for a writing class. You were struggling to fit in, feeling very much like a fish out of water, and thought that maybe you'd have a better chance of making friends if you didn't immediately leave campus after every class.
Sue had stopped to tell you that she thought your bright blue satchel was cute, and you'd been practically inseparable ever since.
You were one of the few people she'd told about what had happened to her after the cosmic storm, and even though the whole world knows about it now, you still hold it close to your heart.
She's practically a celebrity now, and yet she always makes time for you.
"Because I love you," she'd said, with such sincerity that you could have cried.
You know how much she means it, every time she says it.
You just wish she'd mean it in the same way as you. Or that you could go back to feeling how you did before.
Before all of this confusion.
You're on your way home from work one afternoon when something catches your eye, and makes you stop in your tracks.
It's a flower shop. It's been here for years, you've passed it more times than you can count. But for some reason, this time feels...different.
Displayed in the windows are the most beautiful bouquets - roses, lilies, carnations - all perfectly arranged in pretty boxes and neatly tied with organza bows.
Your gaze is drawn to a bright bouquet of in the most vivid shades of pink and purple.
Violets, you realise, and your face suddenly feels warm.
It's one thing to entertain the idea of buying flowers for your best friend, but violets? You don't want to give her the wrong impression.
But you're lying to yourself. Because you do.
You so badly want to tell her how you feel.
You want her to know.
Because she's not just a friend. And she hasn't been for a while.
You nervously chew at your lip, trying to make a decision. Before you can stop yourself, you reach for the handle of the door, and step inside.
When Sue finally arrives home, she’s exhausted. She’s never been the best at knowing when to set boundaries and call it quits, and after everything that’s happened? Of course, it’s only gotten worse.
So she’s very much looking forward to just shutting the door and forgetting the rest of the world exists for one evening. If it can even let her do that.
Besides, she’s just about managed to accomplish her last main goal of the day - getting everyone home in one piece. Reed promised he’d finish up soon, Johnny only needed a little coaxing this time, and Ben had gone home when he was supposed to about an hour ago. They're like trying to wrangle children sometimes, she thinks to herself, with equal amounts of frustration and fondness.
It’s not that she doesn’t think they appreciate her, she knows they do. It’s just that sometimes she feels as though she’s fighting a losing battle, trying to make sure they take care of themselves.
She's about to toss her bag on the dining table to take off her coat, when she finds herself distracted by the bouquet of violets, arranged carefully in a vase in the centre.
"Doing a little decorating, Ben?" she asks, still focused on the flowers.
"Actually, they were sitting at the door when I got back," Ben replies, from where he stands at the kitchen counter, chopping potatoes.
One of Reed's (many) side projects of late has been working on prototype cooking equipment for Ben. He's missed cooking, and Sue's glad that he's able to do what he loves again.
"Didn't know when you'd be back, so I thought I'd give them a fighting chance in some water."
He turns to gesture at the table.
"There's an envelope too, came with the flowers," he says, with a curious smile. "Addressed to 'Storm'."
Before she can find it herself, Johnny's already slipping past her with the envelope in his hands.
“‘S’cute,” he says, as he turns it over, “'M not really much of a flower guy, though.”
Sue folds her arms, giving him a pointed look.
“And what makes you think they’re for you?” she asks, with a raised eyebrow.
Johnny gives her a look - the same one he’s been giving her since they were kids. The one that makes her see red. The midway point between patronising and arrogant.
The Johnny Special, she calls it.
“Please,” he scoffs. “They're obviously for me.”
“Give it here,” she insists, holding a hand out.
Johnny’s already tearing through the envelope.
Inside is a card.
He scans over it, mouth moving slightly as he reads. A frown begins to form on his face the further down he goes. He flips it over to see if there’s anything written on the back. Nothing.
Sue tilts her head to one side, tapping her foot.
“Well?” she asks, trying to keep the smile from her face. “Who’s your admirer?”
Johnny’s nostrils flare in annoyance, as he all but stuffs the card back into the envelope and tosses it onto the table.
“‘S’for you,” he mumbles, suddenly busying himself with the coffee pot as loudly as possible.
Sue picks up the card, curious as to who it could be from. She looks at the envelope, and a soft smile pulls at her lips when she recognises the handwriting.
When Sue calls you the next day, your stomach suddenly feels as though it's hit the floor.
Does she know? How can she possibly know?
You didn't sign your name.
She asks if you're free to meet her for coffee.
"Oh," you breathe, relief suddenly flooding through you.
"Is everything alright? she asks, and you can hear the concern in her voice.
"Yes!" you answer, a little too quickly. "Of course, everything's fine."
You can tell that she doesn't believe you, but thankfully, she doesn't push you. You agree on a time and place, and try not to immediately collapse when you hang up.
It's no big deal, you tell yourself over and over. It's just coffee. With a friend.
Friend. Right.
With a tired groan, you bury your face in your hands.
When you arrive at the little coffee shop the two of you always find yourselves at, Sue's already there, sitting at a table tucked away in a corner. She's reading over the menu, her wavy blond hair tucked behind one ear. Your breath catches in your throat, as if you haven't seen her like this a hundred times before.
But it's different.
She looks up, a bright smile lighting up her face when she spots you. She waves you over, and you just about manage to make yourself move.
She compliments your outfit as you sit down, and asks how you've been. Just like she does every time.
It's so different now.
Your stomach feels like it's in knots, so you decide against ordering food, pretending you'd had a big lunch when Sue looks a little concerned.
As if a mug of coffee is going to be any better for your nerves right now.
The conversation flows pleasantly enough, as it always does. Sue always has something interesting to tell you, and eventually you begin to feel yourself settle a little. You can pretend that everything's fine, just for a moment.
Then there's a beat of silence, before-
“You know, I received the most beautiful bouquet of flowers yesterday,” Sue says casually, her lips quirked into a little smile as she lifts her cup of coffee.
You look at her, warmth creeping into your face.
“Really?” you try to ask in a steady voice. “Who were they from?"
Sue frowns slightly, as if thinking to herself.
“That’s the thing, they didn’t leave a name,” she replies.
You let out a little breath.
“Oh, that’s a shame,” you say, trying to sound unaffected.
Sue hums, taking a sip of her coffee.
“It’s a good thing I recognised the handwriting in the card, isn’t it?” she asks, levelling you with a mischievous look.
You’re grateful that you hadn’t bothered with your own drink in that moment, otherwise it’d most likely be dripping down the front of your shirt right now.
“I, um-“ you start to say, faltering.
No point in lying now.
“Well, I just, I remember you telling me how much you loved flowers, and you’ve been working so hard lately, so y’know, I thought it’d be a nice surprise,” you ramble nervously.
Well, maybe a little lie wouldn’t hurt.
Sue raises an eyebrow at you, with an expression that seems to say "Really?". She sets down her mug, and reaches across the table to place her hand over yours.
“It was a lovely surprise,” she says softly. “Thank you.”
She squeezes your hand lightly, and your breath stutters. You tentatively turn your hand over, and instead of pulling away, she threads her fingers between yours.
Neither of you say anything, and for once in your life, you don’t feel the need to fill the silence. She looks at you with the softest smile on her face, and it takes everything in you not to reach across the table and kiss her like you so desperately want to.
Another little squeeze, and Sue's hand leaves yours.
The moment is gone.
“You know, Johnny thought they were for him,” she says, with a roll of her eyes.
You let out a snort, pushing the feeling that's threatening to overwhelm you to one side as best you can.
“Doesn’t he get enough fan mail?” you ask.
She laughs at that, and your chest tightens at the sight of her. She just looks so beautiful.
“Exactly!” she replies in an exasperated tone, shaking her head.
Her eye catches yours, and there it is again, that soft smile that's slowly tearing your heart to pieces as if it were made of paper.
A lump begins to form in your throat.
Oh, please, you think to yourself. Not now.
"You know, I don't know what I'd do without you," she murmurs. "Everything feels like chaos sometimes."
Her smile widens, showing off the dimples in her cheeks.
“I’m so glad I have you,” she says, with fondness in her voice.
You smile back at her, a little too wide. It hurts.
“Of course!” you reply, wincing slightly at how shrill your voice sounds. “That’s what friends are for.”
Sue shakes her head.
"I think...I think we might be a little past that now," she says.
Her eyes are so focused, watching you so intensely. It feels like she's looking right through you. It's unnerving, and the lump in your throat grows bigger.
"You don't really send violets to a friend, do you?"
She knows.
Oh, please, I can't have ruined it. She just said-
"Please tell me I'm not reading this wrong," she says, a quiet pleading in her voice.
She reaches across the table again, as if in offering, and you tentatively place your hand over hers. You can feel your eyes beginning to well with tears, but for an entirely different reason now.
"No," you manage to reply, "No, you aren't. I promise."
Sue's face lights up at your words, a breathless laugh escaping her. You can't help but laugh too, even as a tear rolls down your cheek.
It's been a long time since you've felt so light. Finally, things don't feel just as terrifying anymore.
A few days pass. You're in the middle of preparing lunch, when there's a knock at the door. You open it to find no one there; instead, a box waits for you on the welcome mat. It's a beautiful shade of pale purple, with an extravagant organza bow tied around it. You look up and down the apartment hallway, finding it empty, before bringing the box inside and setting it on the kitchen counter.
You carefully pull the ribbon free and lift the lid to find a bouquet of flowers.
Lavender.
Tucked inside the box is a little card. Curious, you open it, to find familiar neat script. You smile to yourself, still not quite daring to believe your luck.
Dinner, tomorrow night?
Taglist: @glassbxttless @getaapologist @robinbuckleywife
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Hey, Hi, Hello, can I tempt you further with more servant!reader? This came about after @kingoftruands kindly suggested something a bit darker? Thought it would suit servant!reader. Enjoy!
[ first blurb for servant!reader ]
Sweat soaked your skin as his large hands wrapped around your arms, pulling your body back against his, his presence domineering and lustful.
The warm summer night only contributed to the heat you felt now, his hands reaching, grabbing, groping, his breathing the only sound besides the fabric rustling.
You felt loose, like fresh clay. Moldable. Pliable. Moving into whatever shape or position he dictated, the sounds of the party far away now.
A fever, a reckless, unchecked need had caused him to seek you out, the amphora plucked from your hands before he dragged you away from the revelry, away from prying eyes, which you were grateful for.
It was a confirmation. An assurance that the connection made at that earlier party was something that persisted, even as you began working at the Palace. And it was hard to even call it work. This night was the first night they even tasked you with anything besides standing in the room as the twins debated, as they ate, as they held council.
Wear this. And these. And pour wine.
Those were your instructions. And as you ran your fingers over the fine material of the clothing, finer than you had ever touched, you became certain of one thing.
Your job was not merely to pour wine.
Though as the clothing was pushed up, aside, you could admit that this didn’t quite feel like work. As more of you became exposed to him, he grew greedier, his touch more firm, almost desperate. It felt forbidden to call an Emperor desperate. But that’s what he was.
As if he didn’t have his needs satisfied whenever he asked. As if there weren’t others, brought there specifically for their satisfaction, seated around them that he could’ve called on. He chose you, saw something in you back at that other party.
A foolish notion, one dismissed quickly from your mind as he pushed inside.
A strangled cry, part pain, part pleasure. Something he liked, apparently. His hand found your throat and pulled you back against his chest, his lips pressed to your ear as he moved, his fingers squeezing with each thrust.
You heard each intake of breath, each grunt. He wasn’t gentle, didn’t prepare you, didn’t touch you in a kind or thoughtful way. But why would an Emperor ever do such things?
Slowly but surely, he moved easier. And with that came an ache, on the verge of being satisfied. His grip went slack, and you reached out, needing support so you didn’t fall over, finding the wall within reach.
“You will not let another touch you, little lamb,” he grunted, hand abandoning the clothes and instead moving around to press at your abdomen, bringing you in closer.
“Y-Yes,” you breathed, face heating up at the way you sounded. So affected.
“Not even my brother,” he insisted. It should have worried you. You should have known this would be a doomed venture. But you nodded, muttering assent. And that seemed to be enough for him.
The stonework was smooth in front of you, cold to the touch. You would’ve wanted to press your cheek to it if you weren’t sure you’d wind up with a head injury.
Lightheaded and legs shaking, you felt his grip around your neck tighten. Pulse pounding in your face as his fingers didn’t let up. You could feel the press of the adornments around his neck as he pulled you back against him. Choked gasps echoed in the small space, his hips stilling.
Tension. Pressure. A fresh cold sweat. Before you could reach for the hand at your throat, you fell to the floor. He stood above, his expression guarded as he righted his clothes, his chest heaving.
“Go clean yourself up, and wait in my chambers.”
An order.
Your job was not to pour wine at all.
[ In need of even more servant!reader? ]
#jesus christ you’re just chucking me in at the deep end huh#not complaining in the slightest oh my god#his fucking hands#‘a reckless unchecked need had caused him to seek you out’ help me#‘he grew greedier’ YES let the brat have what he wants!!#‘it felt forbidden to call an emperor desperate’ i could write an ESSAY on this one line i swear to god#not the throat geta oh my GOD i can’t i can’t do this#the possessiveness i’m WEAK#‘this would be a doomed venture’ yeah for real i wouldn’t survive staying away from calla let’s be real here#KNOCK ME TF OUT GETA#‘go clean yourself up and wait in my chambers’ excuse me???? i mean i’m going just gimme a second#‘your job was not to pour wine at all’ the repetition of this line hits so GOOD#please i want 17 parts to this fic#i need more of your darker geta he’s PERFECT#emperor geta#fic recs
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I know you love Geta's neck (and I get it too), but I have a hand kink myself, and I would love to have a touchstarved Geta with a girl who is obsessed with his hands. (But I wish Caracalla would get some love too).
Hope this will suffice!
Pour wine. Replenish empty glasses. Stand stock still otherwise. Avoid all eye contact. Do not stare at them.
This was what you were told before an amphora of sweet wine was shoved into your hands and you were thrust into the revelry, directed to the back of the room to relieve another.
They were quite thirsty tonight, someone commented.
As you approached where they sat, elevated above all others, you caught a glimpse of golden laurels before you looked down, away from their radiance lest you get yourself in trouble.
They were guests of the master of the household, a senator. Why they had to come here instead of hosting others in their palace, you couldn’t begin to guess. It wasn’t any of your business anyway.
As you passed a small side table on one end of the long couch, you looked down at it. There were a few cups, all nearly empty. You rushed to fill them, careful not to spill. Right as you finished, a hand adorned in rings reached out, picking up one of the glasses.
The rings were gold, large dark stones embedded in each, adorning every finger. All different shapes and sizes, they still somehow formed a coherent aesthetic. You couldn’t help yourself as your eyes traced the path of the cup in his hand. He moved it into his right hand, the wine sloshing as he let out a great laugh.
Ruby red robes threaded with fine gold covered him, his shoulders shrouded in the thick cloth. As more laughter tumbled from his lips, he brought the cup up, his wide grin pressed to the rim, his head turning, and turning, until—stormy blue eyes, like sea glass, full of curiosity, stared back.
Feeling a chill fall over your shoulders, you quickly looked away, settling on the soft, ring-adorned hand now resting on the arm of the couch. You wondered if he’d ever worked a day in his life.
Bright eyes filled your sightline without warning, curiosity still there. You very nearly dropped the amphora, a grave mistake, to be sure.
“More wine?” He questioned, his eyebrows lifting as he held out his cup. It wasn’t empty, but you knew better than to question him, quickly refilling the glass. You quickly continued on your way around the back of the couch, eager to leave the strange encounter. You felt flushed, embarrassed at being caught looking.
Admiring? No, surely not. You didn’t admire anything. There was no capacity to admire when your life was work.
The other side table. Only one glass. Empty.
Pour. Pour and do not spill. Do not look.
Your hands were so unsteady after the encounter. So you reached for the cup, fingers brushing over the glass.
Now pour, go slowly.
A large hand overtook yours, the heat of it travelling up your arm as the ringed fingers touched yours.
“No more.”
An involuntary response, you looked up. You were frozen in place, honeyed walnut eyes keeping you there, the dismissive way they regarded you morphing into a passing interest.
“Emperor?” The high, feminine voice shattered the stare, and his eyes darted up to appraise the woman perched on the arm of the couch.
Sucking in a breath, you returned to yourself, hoping for the life of you that no one saw your exchange.
Either of them.
You moved to withdraw your fingers from the empty cup, muttering an apology, dear Emperor, forgive me, but his hand didn’t move. Instead, his grip tightened, and you glanced around, as if looking for help.
“You look frightened.”
You didn’t dare look up this time, lest you get caught up again. Instead, you studied the earthy jewel tones of his rings, the stones likely carefully chosen, plucked from the earth to sit atop the fingers of an Emperor.
Fingers that led to knuckles that led to the back of his hand. Tendons visible as his grip remained enduring, the veins passing over them standing out, blue green beneath his fair skin.
His wrist was wrapped in a thin silver band, polished to a shine.
Would it be cool to the touch?
His fingers pulled yours away from the cup. His grip was firm but not unwelcome. HIs palm was hot, hotter than his fingers as it pressed to the back of your hand, fingers wrapping around the side of your own palm, pulling it ever so slightly towards him. The tendons flexed as he adjusted his grip, as if he never intended to let go.
Foolish.
“Look at me.”
You obeyed, trapped at once by the sharp look he regarded you with. Surely someone was observing this, would run to tell someone that you were incapable of performing a task as simple as pouring wine.
“What is your name?”
His words startled you, and your own name tumbled from your lips in a gasp, feeling unfamiliar.
“You belong to Thraex?”
You found yourself nodding, eyes expanding your view of him, noting the soft wave to his sunny, golden-spun hair, laurels nestled among it. The way his full, pale pink lips were slightly parted, as if he might be breathing a bit heavily himself, or readying himself to speak again.
You waited for him to release your hand, eyes falling to where he held it. He turned your hand over, his thumb gently stroking the back of your hand as he inspected your palm. He might find your toughened skin, calluses, whereas his were smooth, soft, unsullied by hard labor.
“Go and collect your things. You will return with us.”
You found your voice in your shock, eyes snapping to meet his. “E-Emperor?”
The corners of his lips curled up in amusement, the glint in his eye maddening. “Would you like to stay?”
“No,” you answered without thinking.
He looked satisfied. “Good, little lamb. Now go.”
[ can I tempt you with another servant!reader blurb? ]
#first of all the gif choice 10/10 it’s one of my faves#because they’re BOTH in it for one#and there’s something so mildly unhinged about both of them but in very different ways#sorry i got distracted#i would NOT cope in this situation i am too nervous and shaky#‘they still formed a coherent aesthetic’ i love the phrasing of this so much and also i wish i could say the same about myself#i LOVE the life you breathe into calla!! he’s so wild and free and i know this fic is not about him but i’m a one track mind bitch!!#‘like sea glass full of curiosity’ ugh i love him#‘you wondered if he’d ever worked a day in his life’ i wish i was rich enough for people to wonder this about me#oh god geta#there’s something about knowing his hands are bigger than mine#that he’s bigger than me and i’m pretty tall as it is#i just wanna scream like a lot#you write him so vividly that i can see every movement every glance every little detail about him#you can tell how much you love him because he’s so carefully handled#he has such a commanding presence in everything he says and does and i’m so weak#you can’t keep doing this to me#like imagine going into someone’s house and being like ‘yeah i’m keeping this one’ god PLEASE i volunteer#another absolute masterpiece from geta’s empress herself#emperor geta#fic recs
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Servant!reader with geta where he brings her to a gladiator fight or he gets her to suck his finger or something 😶🌫️🤭
I liked this so much that I tried to satisfy both parts of your request.
[ find an earlier iteration of your servant!reader here ]
[ Geta Masterlist ]
(also don't mind me, this gif is magical, as is this whole scene for him. it's not my fault he keeps leaving his neck out. one day I'm gonna write about it.)
“Are the gladiators not enough entertainment for you, brother? Must you bring your plaything?” Caracalla complained, grey-blue eyes studying every inch of you.
It was unnerving.
Geta rolled his eyes, turning away from his brother’s taunt to look to you, partially to check in with you, but more so to block you from Caracalla’s view.
Your position was not lost on you. Your access to Geta was… quite unique. After a few weeks, it almost felt… normal.
As much as fucking an emperor could feel normal.
There was much to learn about Geta. That in private, he could be playful, even sweet if he wished it. He craved touch. He liked it when you used his title. You hadn’t dared to call him “Geta” yet. Not until he asked it of you. Not that he ever would.
That would imply a familiarity that would cross too many boundaries.
Too much, too close.
Foolish thoughts.
“Do you like the games?” His voice was low and quiet, just for you. A small bubble of conversation, only large enough for you two. These small moments where he genuinely wanted to hear you speak, and didn’t want to share the sound of your voice with anyone else.
That’s what it seemed like, anyway.
“I’ve never been, Emperor.”
Surprise. Satisfaction. Words just on the verge of being arrogant.
“It’s the greatest entertainment Rome has to offer. Nowhere else can you see strength like this,” he gestured to the arena, currently empty.
It was far too easy to delude yourself into thinking he was truly interested in you and your thoughts, your opinions. The reality was surely something in between. He might think he wants to hear them, but it didn’t mean he’d ever listen to them.
“I am sure it is wonderful, Emperor.”
Placating, always placating.
The cheering of the crowd pulled his attention away and the bubble burst, though his hand remained on your thigh, pulling your legs across his lap as he made you share the throne.
Blasphemous.
Could you be blamed for your delusions, when this is how you were treated?
“Look, there,” Geta gestured, pointing to the gate opening on the far side of the arena.
And you did look, pressed up against his side, you took in the spectacle, wonder and interest waning as soon as blood was drawn.
The sounds should not have been so clear. They were so far below, away, and yet the wounded cries echoed in the oval, reaching your ears as if the man were right at your feet.
Salt, iron, the stench of death.
With each slash and stab, Geta’s grip grew tighter. He cheered and jeered, winced and gasped, fully engaged in the violence below.
His brother was quite similar, though he was more energetic, a mad look in his eyes at times. All bluster and leaning against the back of the throne as if in agony whenever his chosen fighter fell.
Another of their servants stepped into view, obscuring Caracalla from view. They held a small plate. It contained some bits of fruit, nuts, honey.
Geta refused to acknowledge it, his eyes focused on the bloodshed before him. With a small smile, you reached out to accept the plate, holding it before you much like they had, waiting for Geta to notice.
“Hungry, little lamb?” Geta finally questioned, noticing the plate for the first time.
You opened your mouth to speak, but he wasn’t listening, he wasn’t even looking, eyes falling to the plate’s contents, ringed fingers hovering over them as he decided what to choose.
A juicy slice of plum, flesh glistening, drizzled in golden honey.
His eyes met yours, danger in them.
“Open.”
The command shot down your spine, your face warming. Squeezing your thighs shut, you opened your mouth, eyes on his as his own fell to your parted lips. He was entranced as he slipped the sliver of fruit between them, the pads of his fingers brushing over your lips.
He watched you intently as the sweet and tart flavor burst across your tongue, forcing you to give him a small sound of satisfaction at the taste. His lips slid into a wolfish grin.
“That’s a good little lamb,” he spoke, his voice oozing with glee.
He picked up a smaller piece and dropped it into his own mouth, still keeping his eyes on you.
“Another?” he asked, the piece of fruit already between his fingers.
You couldn’t refuse, because he wasn’t truly asking. You nodded.
He was clumsier, as if on purpose. The pads of his fingers touched your tongue as he slowly released the fruit, his eyes falling to a bit of honey running down your chin. He dragged his finger up, collecting the sweet nectar. He held his finger in front of your lips as you chewed, waiting for you to swallow.
His eyes moved down to your throat as you did, before they rose to meet yours.
“Clean,” he stressed, his big eyes bright with amusement.
Another order. You couldn’t refuse.
His lips parted as yours did, as if he were in a trance, your perfect mirror. His tongue pushed at the inside of his mouth as you accepted his finger into yours.
The honey was cool, a bit thicker than usual. Your tongue worked that much harder at it, applying pressure to get the sticky sweetness out of the whirl of his fingertip. Once loosened, you sucked, swallowing the sweetness.
A delighted chuckle burst out of his chest as he bit his lip, attention fully on you, the bloodshed occurring below completely out of mind. His grin was otherworldly as you released his finger from your lips.
“Little lamb,” he muttered, “you are…”
He didn’t finish his thought, just stared at you, as if coming to some realization. What it meant for you, you couldn’t know.
[ more servant!reader can be found here ]
#right off the bat let me at your caracalla please and thank you#the way your geta is still an arrogant emperor but also a quiet softie my heart#a man can have nuance#‘placating always placating’ why is this getting me there’s just SOMETHING about it#i need more of this manic geta#like you’ve captured how he is in that gif#please your caracalla hand him over#the fucking ‘open’ how dare you this is a direct ATTACK#how do you write this like porn like i feel like i’m reading smut in the BEST possible way#they’re literally just eating and yet and YET#‘he was clumsier as if on purpose’ geta you sly dog#‘as if he were in a trance a perfect mirror’ please i can’t cope my brain is so scrambled#you can’t leave me hanging like this PLEASE i need 10 more hours of this it’s so so good ugh#please read this!!#emperor geta#fic recs
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I Keep Falling, Maybe Half the Time
A/N: Well, here we are. We know next to nothing, this was gleaned from conversations with @prettycalla and a fun scenario that developed. This is a companion piece to the fic @prettycalla might be working on........ I've used the 8-20 seconds of Johnny from trailers, etc to come up with this version of him. I cannot pretend to know what he's going to be like in the movie, but I just hope you can appreciate this version of him. This'll be my Johnny, probably regardless, even after the movie comes out. Thank you for reading. It means a lot. If you feel like chatting with me about him, by all means, please do! Maybe more to come? We'll have to see.
Pairing: Johnny Storm x reader
Warnings: none? Slight fluff? It's still early days here. But as usual, blog is 18+ in general, so.
“You alright, Johnny?”
There was nothing but care and concern in your voice, but it still made him bristle up in defense of his sour mood. It had nothing to do with you, and yet everything to do with you. Not that he’d confess that.
“I’m fine, I just want to get to work.”
He was not fine.
And over what? The flowers? Those dumb flowers that he wanted nothing to do with? That were for his sister? They said ‘Storm,’ what was he supposed to think?
Of course that brief moment of embarrassment wasn’t still currently haunting him, hours later. Because that would be…
Crazy.
Maybe he was a little crazy. It’s not the end of the world. At least he was high-functioning. It had been a couple days since he last set himself on fire, maybe he was due a flight to blow off steam. Maybe then this wouldn’t bother him so much.
You offered him a small, if uncertain smile, and nodded, unfurling the schematics the two of you had been working on the day before. Some plans for a new spacesuit. Something more hardy. Something better suited to their new selves.
Johnny got stuck for a moment, stuck watching you, as if this wasn’t a daily phenomenon. As if he hadn’t noticed you before. Even if this happened yesterday, and the day before that, and each day since you were assigned this role.
No. Work. Distraction from a distraction.
The plans. Schematics. Drawn up just yesterday, but it was like any information about them had melted and poured out of his ears.
He tapped his lower lip with the pen, mind racing, desperate to catch hold of some relevant knowledge to save him from this spiral.
Because it wasn’t the flowers, was it? It was more, something he was too afraid to say out loud–
“Have you thought about materials?”
You interrupted his jumbled thoughts, saving him, as usual. Even if you didn’t know it.
“Materials. Right.” He scanned the schematic, his mind completely blank. A rare occurrence, but not one to celebrate. For as he tried to drum up compounds and fabrics, other thoughts filtered back in instead.
Nothing scares him. He’s seen enough in his work. But you?
Absolutely terrifying.
“Uh, this line here, we should use that hose, the black one, it’s… three-quarters.” He ducked down and scrawled in a tiny measurement beside the line in question.
“It’s five-eighths, actually,” you mumbled, worried the loose cannon was about to explode.
And explode, he did.
The pen clattered across the table and flew onto the floor, his hands spreading wide, threatening to scrunch up the plans laid out before you. Or set them on fire.
And when he looked up at you, you knew you were in for it. You steeled yourself for a rant about different hoses, or materials, or some other inane event that had clearly soured his day.
But nothing could have prepared you for the words that left his lips.
“Do you know no one’s ever bought me flowers? Ever?”
He looked at you like you held all the answers in the world. Like this was both your fault, and a problem he wished for you to solve, all at once.
“And, I know it’s more of a gift for a girl, but times are changing. Girls are asking guys out, surely that means it wouldn’t be weird for a guy to receive flowers–”
“Johnny?” you finally interrupted.
He looked up, pausing his rant.
“Are you asking me to buy you flowers?”
“What? No, of course not, that’s not what I…,” he trailed off, turning his back to you, arms crossed over his chest.
He couldn’t lie to himself and pretend like his heart hadn’t sped up minutely at the sight of the card sitting there waiting for him. It felt like a cruel joke, the way his hopes were so quickly tossed out, and having to own up to it to his own sister?
He wanted to leave. Itched to let loose and fly out of here.
But you. You were a problem he didn’t have an answer to. And maybe he never would.
“Just… don’t worry about it, okay? I need to… I have stuff I need to do.”
Before you could think of something to say that wouldn’t upset him more, he was out of the room, the door whirring shut gently.
As you knelt down to pick up the pen he’d thrown, you knew you’d have to make a stop on the way home.
The next morning, Johnny wandered into the kitchen, already making a beeline for the cabinet. He pulled out the box of bran flakes and dropped it on the counter.
Breakfast of champions. Even if it tasted like cardboard.
“That’s not breakfast,” Ben chided, nursing a pan of soft-scrambled eggs. “Take some of these.”
“I’m fine, Ben,” Johnny sighed, but he couldn’t deny a small part of him appreciated Ben looking out for him.
His eyes caught sight of the bright red petals, the arrangement sitting right where yesterday’s had.
Taunting. Gloating on behalf of Sue, surely.
The small spark of hope in his chest was ground up and shoved down as quickly as he could manage, a brief flash of the embarrassment from yesterday enough to tamp it down.
“Delivery for you,” Ben gestured with his chin to the flowers.
He scoffed, crossing the kitchen to get the milk out of the fridge.
“They’re not for–”
“They’re for me,” Sue interrupted, earning an eye roll from her brother that she graciously chose to ignore.
Again? Once wasn’t enough? When would it stop? When their whole kitchen island was covered in the small flower arrangements? Who was this mysterious suitor after his sister?
“You hoping it’ll spontaneously combust?”
Johnny turned back around, sour at the sound of his sister’s amused voice. He poured out a slightly unreasonable amount of cereal before adding just a bit more, setting the open box on the counter.
Nothing like bland bran to start the day.
“Come on, I’m only teasing.”
Johnny could hear the smile in her voice, listened intently as the small envelope was opened, the card pulled out.
He could imagine the soft smile on her face. He couldn’t fault her for being so happy. He just…
He burned with envy.
The silence hung heavy, the only audible sound being the sliding of paper on paper as the card was placed back into the envelope.
He set the milk down and turned, risking a glance over his shoulder. The card was tucked neatly back in among the flowers.
Sue looked up at her brother for a moment, the look communicating everything. There was a flash of curiosity there too, but Johnny brushed it aside, abandoning his breakfast to walk cautiously around the island.
The flowers were big, layered densely with soft petals. They were vividly red. All he knew was that they weren’t roses.
Sue offered him a small smile before walking away. She was always the more graceful loser.
Finally, Johnny’s eyes fell to the card.
Storm.
But that handwriting was impossible to mistake as anyone else’s.
His spirit dampened. You’d bought him pity flowers.
That’s what this was, right? His insane rant the day before had spurred you into action. As if the mere gifting of flowers was what he was after, and not…
The intention behind them.
It was silly to ask that of you, and yet…
He really, really wanted it.
Because the city’s admiration of him paled in comparison to what it felt like to earn a laugh from you. And for a long time he resisted what that meant.
Johnny plucked the card from the arrangement and flipped it over, fingers sliding under the envelope flap, gripping the small card and tugging it free. He wanted to see what made Sue look at him like he was keeping secrets. Because he wasn’t, not that he knew of.
Was he stalling? Yes. He knew he was, and yet he couldn’t bring his eyes to scan the handwriting he’d seen scrawled into margins on his reports, penciled into drafts of schematics and written a bit larger on bright orange sticky notes pasted to his workstation in your absence. That he absolutely, definitely did not have a drawer full of.
Read the card, already.
Johnny let his eyes lower and scan over the small square of cardstock, the blue pen vivid against the cream colored paper.
I’m very happy to be your first, Johnny.
His fingers traced over your initials and he couldn’t get rid of the fluttery feeling in his stomach. He clutched his newest prized possession to his chest and darted off to his room.
“Who are they from?” Ben called out. When Johnny emerged from his room, now flower-less but tucking a dress shirt into his pants, Ben raised his eyebrows. He gestured to the sad, soggy bowl of bran flakes. “What about your breakfast?”
“Don’t want it!” Johnny answered, stepping into the elevator.
Johnny felt fired up, like he was going to burst into flames at any second, but that would be bad. He had no clue what he would say to you when he saw you. Nothing felt right. He might be good with numbers, but he was absolutely terrible with words.
As the door slid open, there you were, already hard at work. You were leaned over a worktable, fiddling with some circular steel fittings, wearing that yellow sweater he liked.
Be cool.
As if he could be cool.
“Hey, I got some samples of different fabrics from R&D downstairs.”
Your smile was warm, small, comfortable. It sent his heart fluttering, like it always did.
Johnny couldn’t care less about the space suit right now. He had other things on his mind. He moved without a second thought. Normally overthinking everything, in this he was free.
“Johnny?”
His hands were almost hot on your skin as he pulled you in, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. It was simple, quite chaste, but it blew through silent barriers that had been maintained all this time.
He felt the tension under his hands, his worry immediately flaring up as his hands fell to your shoulders, down to bracket your upper arms. Craning his neck as if trying to inspect some damage he’d done.
Idiot. Fools rush in? Is that how it goes?
“So… you got the flowers?”
He looked up, his gaze catching on the corners of your lips as they rose.
What a smile.
His cold, stifling worry was replaced by nervous warmth, sparking up with each heartbeat.
“I got the flowers.”
#i love that my fic’s technically the reason he’s so annoyed#gotta get to work to finish it!!#‘it had been a couple days since he last set himself on fire’ god he’s SO dramatic#why is him fidgeting with a pen kinda hot tho (no pun intended)#‘saving him as usual’ crying#‘but you? absolutely terrifying’ johnny BOY#his lil tantrum boy i will smack you (affectionate)#ben has two lines and i’m in love with him#girl don’t think i don’t see those fire puns#the fact that the flowers are bright red too!!#‘because the city’s admiration of him paled in comparison to what it felt like to earn a laugh from you’ i’m losing my MIND#the drawer full of post-it notes!! johnny i see you you lil weirdo#‘i’m very happy to be your first’ lying down crying sobbing thanks#‘i got the flowers’ he got the flowers!!!! i’m so done#this was so sweet and soft and i’m all mushy i loved it#everyone needs to read this please and thank you#also your dividers for this are so cute i’m obsessed#johnny storm#fic recs
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