#a world without caesars | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

byhuenii · 28 days ago

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Dye Me a Lie

Pairing Bucky Barnes x F!reader

Syonpsis You’re just a girl. an Avenger with a mind-reading gift, hair that changes when the heart breaks too loudly, and feelings for Bucky Barnes that you’ve done everything to bury. But the silence between you is loud. Misread glances, inside jokes that don’t feel like yours, and insane jealousy. He doesn't know how to love you. You’re not sure how to stop.

Word Count 9.5k

Tags + Warnings MISCOMMUNICATION. Warnings emotional repression, heartbreak, unspoken mutual pining, JEALOUSY, identity struggle, suppression of feelings, mild combat scenes, brief injury mention (non-graphic), sarcasm, mental health undertones (burnout, escapism via hair symbolism), language (mild), crying (a lot of it tbh), healing, deep character vulnerability. SEMI TOWER FIC AY AY AY! Not proofread lmfao

Readers playlist/Songs mentioned “I Like U” — NIKI “Normal Girl” — SZA “Party 4 You” — Charli XCX “Love Me Not” — Ravyn Lenae “Get You” — Daniel Caesar “Ribs” — Lorde

— Dye Me a Lie a girl going through everything with hair dye

You were just a girl.

That was the line you repeated in your head like a mantra. It sounded simple, grounding, honest. It helped keep you tethered when the world around you spun too fast, when your mind stretched too far into thoughts that didn’t belong to you, when the ache in your chest sharpened from unspoken feelings that had nowhere to go.

A girl. That was all.

You weren’t a god, or a super soldier, or a billionaire in a flying suit. You didn’t control the elements or conjure magic from your fingertips. You weren’t anyone’s chosen anything. You were born with a mind that never shut up, honed in the field to be quick, quiet, deadly. Your talents have earned you a place on the team. Your training made sure you stayed there.

But you were still just a girl.

Just a girl who couldn’t stop noticing the way Bucky Barnes stirred his coffee like it had done something to him personally. Just a girl who couldn’t help but flinch every time he smiled at Natasha like she was the only person in the room.

Just a girl who knew how to bury feelings, but didn’t know how to kill them.

Today had started like any other. Mission debrief at 0700. Training drills by 0900. Bruised ribs by 0935.

And now? Lunch in the compound cafeteria, pretending like everything inside you wasn’t unraveling one look at a time.

Sam sat across from you, slapping his tray down like a man without a single ounce of subtlety. “You’re gonna stare a hole through him, y’know.”

You didn’t even try to pretend. “Who?”

Sam gave you a long, slow blink. “Seriously?”

You followed his gaze. Bucky, in the corner. His hair pulled back, dressed down in a soft black tee, sleeves pushed up to the elbows. Standing next to Natasha — again.

It was the way they leaned into each other. Comfortable. Familiar. Easy.

You tore your eyes away, heart twisting like it wanted to hide.

Sam didn’t tease this time. He just watched you quietly.

“Don’t,” you whispered.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You forked a piece of food you couldn’t taste. The buzz of thoughts around you was white noise. Background static. None of them mattered. None of them reached you, because all you could feel was the weight of something that hadn’t even happened.

He didn’t look at you like that.

He never had.

And God, you wished you could shut that part of yourself off. The one that kept hoping anyway.

You had read his mind once. Years ago. On accident. Or maybe on purpose — you couldn’t tell anymore. It was right after a mission, blood still drying under your nails. You’d reach for him when he looked like he might collapse, tried to ground him with your voice, your presence — and your power slipped.

There was nothing there.

Just silence.

A wall of steel, reinforced by years of training, trauma, pain. Not just unreadable — unreachable.

You never tried again.

Since then, Bucky has been kind. Polite. Distant.

And you? You filled the space between you with wishes and wariness, and wore your feelings like armor you couldn’t take off.

You were still watching him when he glanced over.

Just a flicker. A second.

Your eyes met.

His brows twitched. His lips parted like he was about to say something.

Then Natasha nudged him, and he looked away.

You turned back to your tray and tried not to look like you were falling apart.

Sam exhaled softly. “So. Still think they’re just friends?”

“I don’t know,” you said. “Does it matter?”

“Only if you keep looking at him like that.”

You laughed, short and humorless. “I’m not looking at him like anything.”

Sam arched an eyebrow. “Lying to a telepath is one thing. Lying as a telepath? Bold move.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Silence stretched between you. Companionable, at least. Sam didn’t push, and you didn’t explain. He just peeled the label off his water bottle and you picked at your food until the moment passed.

Later, when you walked the halls of the compound alone, you thought about what Sam said. You thought about the way Bucky looked at Natasha, and the way he didn’t look at you. You thought about the quiet.

You wondered if he would ever notice you the way you wanted him to.

You told yourself again: you were just a girl.

But you didn’t believe it as much this time.

You’d trained for this.

The sparring. The infiltration. The telepathic silence. The part where your heart learned to harden so your body could do what it was told.

But you hadn’t trained for being paired with Bucky Barnes for a two-week stealth recon mission in the middle of nowhere. Alone. Just the two of you.

No Natasha. No Steve. No emotional buffer or easy distraction.

And no escaping proximity.

It was a Stark-funded, S.H.I.E.L.D.-monitored “contain and assess” op on a black site suspected of trafficking experimental tech. Simple in theory. Dangerous in practice. Which is why they sent in two of the most capable people they had.

Unfortunately for you, those people were you — and Bucky.

“Try not to kill each other,” Sam had said with a smirk before you boarded the jet.

You didn’t even have it in you to glare at him. Not when your stomach was already doing cartwheels from the weight of Bucky’s quiet presence at your side.

He hadn’t said much since the briefing. A few nods. One “copy that.” A slight brush of his hand against yours when you passed him a file — accidental, definitely, and burned into your memory like wildfire.

The silence between you was deafening, but not cold.

Worse — it was careful.

The safehouse was tucked between jagged cliffs and dense forest, half-crumbled but wired with J.A.R.V.I.S. security. Two rooms. One bath. Zero excuses not to talk.

You unpacked your gear in silence, sorting through blades and dampening cuffs like they could distract you from how much you felt him behind you. How the hum of his brain — always too quiet to read — still managed to fill the room like fog.

You were hyper-aware of him. The way he moved. The way he didn’t speak unless spoken to. The way his shirt clung to his back as he adjusted the surveillance monitors, flexing with the motion.

You hated yourself a little bit for noticing.

“Dinner?” he asked, finally breaking the silence.

You blinked, startled. “What?”

He looked over his shoulder. “You need food. Fuel. We both do.”

You stared for a beat too long. “Yeah. Right. Fuel.”

Fuel. Not a shared moment. Not anything.

Just survival.

Dinner was quiet. Rice, lentils, and a hard-boiled egg each, like this was prison and not a recon site. You sat across from him at the makeshift table, chewing slowly, watching him when you thought he wasn’t looking.

You thought you were being subtle. You always thought that.

“You okay?” he asked, not looking up.

Your fork froze mid-bite. “What?”

He glanced up then, eyes meeting yours.

You froze under the weight of it — not the blue, not the sharpness. The softness. The question behind the question.

“I’m fine,” you lied, because it was muscle memory by now.

He nodded. “Just seemed… off.”

You shrugged. “Guess I’m just not used to silence.”

A beat.

Then he surprised you.

“You always seemed quiet to me.”

You blinked. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

His lips twitched — not quite a smile, but something close. “Fair.”

You hated how much that tiny expression meant to you. Like it was proof of something you didn’t have the words for.

The next few days passed in patterns.

Surveillance. Night shifts. Radio intercepts. Late-night debriefs in low voices, shoulder-to-shoulder in front of screens flickering with static.

You began to move in rhythm — clearing rooms in tandem, anticipating each other’s body language, syncing like you were meant to do this forever. Like your minds were linked even if he was locked to your power.

You didn’t need to read Bucky’s mind to feel it — the pull. The glances held a second too long. The silence before he said your name. The way his eyes softened when he thought you weren’t looking.

But he never acted on it. Never stepped past that invisible line.

And so, neither did you.

At night, you lay awake in your bunk, replaying every moment. Every almost. Every look that could mean something — or nothing.

You hated the uncertainty. Hated how much you ached for clarity. For closeness.

And the worst part?

You were starting to think you weren’t imagining it.

It all fell apart on the fifth night.

You were coming back from a perimeter check, soaked from the rain, hoodie clinging to your skin, hair plastered to your face. You hadn’t spoken in hours. The mission had been tense — too quiet, too many variables.

You walked through the door, and Bucky was waiting.

His eyes scanned you instantly. The way your shoulders slumped. The way your hands trembled. He stood without a word, grabbing a towel from the rack and moving toward you like instinct.

He reached out — but paused.

Hold it there. Between you.

You took it slowly, fingers brushing his.

“Thanks,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t move away.

His eyes searched yours like they were trying to read a language he never learned.

You swallowed. “What?”

“Why do you flinch when I get close?” he asked, voice low.

You blinked. “I don’t.”

“You do.”

The towel in your hand suddenly felt too heavy.

“Is it because of Natasha?” he asked quietly. “Because if you think—”

You laughed, bitter. “I don’t think anything. You’re allowed to be close to whoever you want.”

His brows drew in. “That’s not what I—”

“I don’t need an explanation, Bucky.” You stepped back. “You don’t owe me anything.”

He stared at you like you’d just said something in a language he didn’t understand.

You wished you could explain. Wished you could say: It’s not about Natasha. It’s about how much it hurts to want you when you don’t want me.

But you didn’t say anything.

You dried your face. Turned. Walked away before he could answer.

That night, you lay awake again.

But now, his voice echoed in your mind:

“Why do you flinch when I get close?”

Because I want you too much, you thought. Because I know you don’t want me back. Because I’m just a girl — and you’ll always be Bucky Barnes.

You were avoiding him.

Not well — you trained in evasion, not subtlety — but enough that it was noticeable. You took solo shifts for recon. Ate at odd hours. Slept on the couch instead of the bunk. You had your reasons, even if they were all cowardly.

Reason #1: You couldn’t stand another almost-touch.

Reason #2: You couldn’t hear your own heart breaking every time he looked at you with concern but not want.

Reason #3: You were tired of pretending you didn’t want more.

But Bucky Barnes wasn’t oblivious. He wasn’t stupid. He noticed. And more importantly — it got to him.

He started snapping more. Being colder. Less patient in briefings. His words clipped. His tone was sharp.

You knew what he was doing. He was trying to push you into talking. You’d trained with spies — you knew a pressure point when you felt it.

But you were stubborn, too. So you pushed back by pretending it didn’t bother you.

Until it finally did.

It started in the field.

You were on a covert sweep through the eastern corridor of the compound’s target sight — the first major breach of the mission. Bucky was on point. You were covered. You’d done this a dozen times before.

Only this time, you didn’t hear his callout in time. You hesitated.

And in that second of pause — a motion sensor was tripped.

The alarm blared. You scrambled for cover. Bucky yanked you down behind a wall, a metal arm pressed hard against your chest as bullets ripped through the space you’d just been standing in.

“Jesus, focus!” he snapped.

“I was focusing—”

“You were zoning out. Again.”

The words hit harder than any shrapnel.

You stared at him, breath catching.

He didn’t let up. “This isn’t just about your feelings anymore. You could’ve gotten us both killed.”

Your hands curled into fists. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Then act like it!” His eyes burned. “Whatever’s going on with you — the distance, the cold shoulders — figure it out. Fast.”

That was it. The spark. The break.

You shoved him back. “You don’t get to lecture me about distance.”

His mouth opened. “What—?”

“You think I’ve been distant? Try looking in a mirror, Barnes.” You weren’t yelling — but it was close. “You’ve been keeping me at arm’s length for months. Smiling at Natasha like she’s the only one who gets you. Acting like I’m invisible unless we’re on a mission.”

He looked stunned. Not by your anger — but by the words.

You kept going. “I’ve watched you look at her like she matters. Like she’s something to hold onto. I get it. She’s perfect. She gets you. I’m just—”

“Don’t.”

You blinked. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth. Or feelings.”

You stared at him, trembling. “You didn’t have to say anything, Bucky. I see it.”

He stepped toward you — too close. “You think me being close to Nat means I don’t care about you?”

“You’ve never once given me a reason to think you do.”

The silence that followed was worse than the shouting.

And then — his voice dropped.

“I notice you, y’know.”

You froze.

His tone was different now. Quieter. Angrier. Not at you — at himself.

“I notice when you laugh at things no one else hears. I notice when you change the way you move depending on who’s in the room. I notice the way your eyes stay on the exit, always calculating. And yeah — I noticed you stopped sitting next to me. Stopped smiling. Stopped trying.”

You didn’t breathe.

“I thought…” He swallowed. “I thought you were pulling away because I made you uncomfortable. Because I said or did something wrong. I didn’t know it was because you thought I didn’t care.”

Your voice came out small. “Do you?”

His jaw clenched. “Every damn day.”

Your heart squeezed. “Then why—”

“Because I didn’t think I was allowed to.” His voice cracked, barely audible. “You don’t even let me in.”

“That’s rich,” you whispered. “Coming from the guy I can’t even read.”

He blinked. You hadn’t meant to say that. It just slipped — years of restraint breaking open like a fault line.

You stepped back, eyes stinging. “I tried. Once. After Sokovia. You were shut off. So I shut off, too.”

Bucky’s expression cracked right down the middle.

The mission was still live. The alarms had died, but the consequences hadn’t. You both knew it. Still, neither of you moved.

“I didn’t know,” he said.

You nodded. “I didn’t want you to.”

A beat. Two.

Then he spoke again.

“I never wanted to hurt you.”

And finally — finally — something in you broke.

Tears burned your eyes. You didn’t let them fall. You just nodded again. Swallowed the hurt. Pressed it down into the same box where you kept all the almosts.

“I know,” you said.

And this time, you were the one who walked away.

–

The mission ended three days later.

No casualties. Data secured. A win on paper — but you didn’t feel victorious. You felt emptied out. Like a building left standing after a fire, charred beams and all.

You barely spoke to Bucky on the ride back. Just gave your report, nodded when needed, and stared out the quinjet window like the sky had answers you didn’t.

He didn’t try to talk to you either. And maybe that hurt worst of all.

You didn’t mean to dye your hair. Not really.

It wasn’t even premeditated. You got home, stood in the shower for forty-five minutes, and when you looked in the mirror, you didn’t recognize yourself.

You didn’t look heartbroken. You looked fine. And that made you furious.

So you drove to the nearest drugstore in sweats and sunglasses, grabbed whatever boxes your hands landed on, and spent the rest of the night in your bathroom.

Pink. Brown. Cream. Strawberry. Chocolate. Vanilla.

By sunrise, your hair was a swirling mess of Neapolitan.

It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t delicate. It was loud and bright and stupid and so obviously the kind of thing someone does when they’re trying not to cry again.

You stared at yourself. A stranger in the mirror — but one who looked closer to you than the “fine” version did.

This was your war paint. This was your screw it hair. This was your “I’m still here and I feel too much and I don’t know how to stop” signal.

Wanda came by first. She didn’t ask, just hugged you like you were made of glass and said:

“You look powerful.” And that almost made you cry.

Sam was next.

He walked into the rec room, did a full double take, and then grinned like a menace.

“Alright, Neapolitan. Who broke your heart and where’s the body?”

You threw a pillow at him. He dodged. Barely.

“I’m fine,” you said, which fooled no one.

Then came Bucky.

You hadn’t expected him to be in the common area. You especially hadn’t expected to run right into him while balancing a cup of hot tea and your frayed dignity.

He stopped cold when he saw you.

You froze, too.

His eyes scanned your face — and then your hair. You could see the exact moment it registered. His jaw tensed. His expression softened in the same breath.

“You changed your hair,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “Good observation, Barnes.”

A pause.

“I like it,” he added.

You scoffed. “You don’t even know what it means.”

His voice dropped. “Try me.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.

Because in that second, he looked at you — really looked — and you saw it in his face: He got it.

He saw the war you’d been fighting with yourself. The colors you’d wrapped around your grief. The piece of your identity you’d painted just loud enough for someone to finally notice.

And maybe — maybe — he’d start noticing more than just your hair.

You started keeping your door closed again.

Not locked — because that would mean you were trying. Closing was enough. Closed said “I’m here, but don’t.” It said you were keeping it together.

It said:

“This room is Switzerland. No one gets in unless I let them.”

The team noticed. Of course they did. You were never the aloof one. You were the one who asked how people liked their coffee. Who made dumb nicknames. Who wore three different colors in your hair like it was armor.

And now? Now, you weren’t even you.

Wanda didn’t push. She just brought takeout and sat near you with music playing low and didn’t say anything about your red-rimmed eyes. Sam made sure to crack jokes loud enough for you to laugh at from the hallway. Tony upgraded your room tech. You didn’t ask. He didn’t mention it.

Clint just looked at you once over breakfast and went,

“Ah. That kind of heartbreak.” Then handed you the last donut. No questions asked.

But Bucky? Bucky was quiet.

He didn’t come to your room. Didn’t seek you out. But he also… didn’t keep his distance. Not really.

Because suddenly — suddenly — he and Nat were everywhere.

Laughing low near the mission board. Whispering in the hallway. Sitting close during briefings.

You told yourself it was nothing. They were old friends. Partners in the field. Comfortable.

But then you saw the way he looked at her — the kind of soft familiarity that you didn’t have. The kind you’d wanted.

And it broke something in you that hadn’t been cracked before.

You didn’t confront him. You just… vanished.

Not physically. You still showed up to train. To plan. You spoke when spoken to. You were competent. You were a professional.

But emotionally? You shut every door.

You stopped making jokes. Stopped sitting at the kitchen counter in the morning where he always found you. You avoided any room he was in longer than necessary.

And when he said “Hey” once in the hall, testing the waters, your “Hi” came out cold enough to frost a window.

He didn’t try again after that.

“Y’know,” Sam said one night, flopping onto your couch, “you’re allowed to be pissed.”

You didn’t look up from your screen. “I’m not pissed.”

“You’re right. You’re livid.”

You sighed. “He can do what he wants.”

Sam tilted his head. “But can you?”

That shut you up.

You thought it would stop hurting. It didn’t.

Because every time he laughed at something she said, a tiny part of you splintered. Every quiet smile he gave her felt like another door slammed in your face. And the worst part?

You weren’t even mad at her.

She was kind. Brilliant. Brave. She deserved the world.

You were just… a girl. A mind reader. A combat expert. A bleeding heart with Neapolitan hair and no one looking.

So you distanced yourself harder.

And that’s when Bucky noticed. Noticed in a way that made him ache.

Because you weren’t just cold — you were gone. You didn’t laugh around him. Didn’t look him in the eye. Didn’t even think toward him anymore.

You just became… quiet.

And that silence? It haunted him.

–

You didn’t mean to dye it again.

But Neapolitan started to feel… childish. Loud in a way that didn’t protect you anymore. It didn’t say, “I’m healing.” It said, “I’m stuck.” And you were tired of being stuck.

So you dyed it at 3AM, half-asleep and half-desperate, staring at the dye boxes like they were mood rings.

You picked black, copper, and blonde.

Messy. Bold. Uneven. A little wild.

Calico.

A patchwork of colors that didn’t make sense to anyone but you. A kaleidoscope of chaos. But this time, there was no symbolism spelled out. This time, it was messy on purpose.

Sam took one look the next morning and raised a brow.

“So we’re in our feral girl era, huh?”

You sipped your coffee. “Apparently.”

Bucky didn’t comment at all. Just stared. Longer than he should’ve. Then looked away like it burned.

He finally cornered you in the gym. No audience. No mission. No excuses.

You were mid-set, gloves on, sweat slick on your brow, and there he was — standing like an apology without a mouth.

“Are you ignoring me forever?”

You didn’t pause. “I’m not ignoring you.”

He tilted his head. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You slammed the gloves into the mat and stood.

“Do you want a fight?” you snapped.

His brow furrowed. “No. I want to talk.”

You exhaled, sharp. “About what? You and Nat? About how I’m supposed to smile while you two play secret spy whisper games and pretend like it doesn’t feel like knives every time I walk into a room?”

He looked like you slapped him. “It’s not like that—”

“Then explain it, Barnes.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “She’s helping me with something. It’s not— I didn’t know it looked like that.”

“You didn’t know?” Your voice cracked. “You didn’t know it would hurt watching you give someone else the softness I wanted from you?”

He went still.

You took a breath, voice quieter now. “I’m not mad you’re close to her. I’m mad you didn’t even notice it was breaking me.”

Then — the worst part.

He stepped closer. Guilt written across every inch of him. “I didn’t mean to push you away. I was scared.”

You blinked. “Of what?”

“Of you. Of how much I care. Of the fact that you look at me like I’m someone worth loving and I don’t— I don’t know if I can be that.”

Silence.

For a moment, it almost sounded like honesty. Almost felt like something soft was trying to bloom.

But then he added, “And I didn’t think it was fair to ask you to love someone like me.”

And that?

That undid it.

You flinched. “Then you should’ve left me alone. Instead of giving me almost.”

He froze.

“I would've almost taken the silence over.”

And you walked past him. Left him in the echo of his own cowardice.

Sam found him twenty minutes later.

Didn’t ask. Just threw a towel at him and said:

“You messed that up real good.”

Bucky didn’t respond.

Sam continued. “You don’t get to be scared and selfish. Pick one.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched.

“She was finally pulling herself together,” Sam said. “Then you hit her with just enough hope to wreck her all over again.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“No one ever does,” Sam cut in. “But it still hurts the same.”

Silence stretched.

Then Sam looked him dead in the eye.

“You want her back? Do better. Or let her go for real.

–

You don’t shut down. You evolve.

That’s the worst part.

You don’t cry in corners anymore. Don’t hide away or stay quiet. You show up. You spar again. You make breakfast and snarky comments and laugh like nothing’s wrong. You’re back to being the one who can level Tony with a single dry remark, who can out-quip Sam, who makes Wanda snort-laugh during debriefings.

You’re fine.

You’re so fine, it’s starting to terrify the people closest to you.

Because your hair is still calico — wild, a little chaotic, like it doesn’t care — but you’re brushing it like you’ve got nothing to hide.

And that? That means you’re hiding everything.

Bucky notices. But it’s too late.

You’re friendly. Polite. You greet him when necessary. You hold doors open. You speak during missions.

But you don’t look at him like you used to.

No soft eyes. No quiet smiles. No mental whispers of “please just say something.” You treat him like anyone else.

Like he’s no one special.

And it kills him.

Because he still looks at you like you hung constellations in the sky and he forgot how to read them. Because now that he knows what it felt like to almost have you, the silence is unbearable.

But you?

You just keep going.

“Thinking of changing it again?”

It’s late. You’re on the rooftop with Sam and Wanda, drinking something hot, watching the city glitter below.

Your fingers tug at a copper strand, thoughtful. “Maybe. I’ve been thinking red. Like cherry soda red.”

Wanda hums. “You only go red when you want someone to notice.”

You smirk. “Well, someone should.”

Sam glances sideways. “Are you trying to make someone jealous again?”

You exhale slowly. “No. I’m trying to forget someone who didn’t choose me.”

They don’t say anything after that. They don’t have to.

He tries again — too late, too little.

You’re walking back to your room when you see him — leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting.

He doesn’t speak right away.

You stop a few feet away, arms crossed. “If this is another almost-apology—”

“It’s not,” he says quickly. “I just… I wanted to ask how you’ve been.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

He frowns. “I mean it.”

You smile — sharp, not soft. “I’ve been incredible. My hair looks like fire, I’ve been sleeping eight hours, and I haven’t cried over you in at least a week.”

His jaw twitches.

You tilt your head. “Anything else?”

He wants to say yes. You see it in him. He wants to say everything. But he doesn’t.

And that’s when you know: he’s still scared.

You nod once, like that’s all the closure you’ll ever get. “Good talk, Barnes.”

Then you walk away.

–

The breaking starts small.

Wanda sees it first — in the way you stare at your own reflection like it’s a stranger you’ve almost learned how to mimic. In the way your laugh is just a little too loud, a little too sharp.

“You know he looks at you like he’s drowning,” she says one day, mixing dye with gentle hands.

You shrug. “Let him. I already swam to shore.”

She hums. “And yet you’re still dyeing your hair over him.”

You look down.

The bowl is full of warm brown and honey blonde.

Less armor. Less noise. More… you. But the kind of you who wants to be chosen. The kind of you who wants someone to say,

“I see you, even when you’re quiet. Especially then.”

When she finishes, you blink at the mirror. You look soft. Normal.

You look like a girl who wants to be loved. Not survived.

Sam doesn’t ask. He just throws an arm around you.

He finds you in the common room, staring out the window like you’re trying to read omens in the traffic.

“You okay?” he says.

You nod.

He hums. “Liar.”

You smile — brittle. “Getting better at that.”

He squeezes your shoulder. “Don’t get too good. We need the honest version of you around.”

You nod, trying not to cry.

He pauses. “You know he’s gonna show up too late, right?”

Your throat tightens.

Sam looks at you with soft, clear eyes.

“Don’t let him take the best parts of you with him.”

Tony’s advice is sharp, but not unkind.

“You’re not hard to love,” he tells you, passing you your tablet.

You blink. “What?”

“You’re not hard to love. He’s just bad at directions.”

“…I don’t—”

Tony sighs. “Look, kid. People like us — we shine weird. And some people need a damn map to find the light.”

You look down.

He pats your shoulder, softer now. “Someone will find you and say, ‘There you are.’ Not ‘What do you do’ or ‘Who did you save.’ Just… you.”

And Clint? He hits you where it hurts, but it’s exactly what you needed.

You’re sitting beside him on the roof, legs swinging over the edge.

He doesn’t look at you when he says it.

“I saw you pull away,” he murmurs. “From him. From yourself.”

You sniff. “Wasn’t my choice.”

“No,” he says. “But it’s your choice now.”

You turn.

Clint finally looks at you.

“You don’t have to be the cool one. The unbothered one. The just-a-girl one. You’re allowed to want something. Even if it scares him.”

You blink fast.

He adds, “And you’re allowed to walk away if he never stops being scared.”

But when the collapse comes, it’s because of him.

Because Bucky sees your hair and something in him shatters.

You look soft. New. Real.

You look like someone trying.

And it kills him. Because he knows it’s not for him anymore.

But he still tries. God, he still tries.

“You dyed it again,” he says, voice raw.

You don’t look at him. “Yeah.”

“You look—”

“Don’t.”

That shuts him up.

You turn, eyes bright with too much. “Don’t you dare say something kind. Not after what you didn’t say.”

He stares. You stare back.

Then you break.

“You made me feel crazy,” you whisper. “Like I was seeing things that weren’t there. Like I was asking too much for wanting someone to choose me back.”

He’s quiet.

You laugh bitterly. “I changed everything about myself trying to be easier to love. Calico hair, Neapolitan, brown with gold — none of it made you see me.”

Then your voice cracks.

“I would’ve loved you with everything I had.”

And he— He finally breaks, too.

“I know,” he chokes. “I know. And I’m sorry. I was scared. You make me want to be someone I’m not sure I can be.”

You step back.

“That’s not my problem anymore.”

He flinches.

You add, softer now, “But I hope one day it’s not yours either.”

And you walk away.

–

It starts with a song.

It’s nearly midnight. You’re stretched out on the floor of your room, headphones on, staring up at the ceiling fan spinning slowly. Your new hair — soft brown with streaks of honey — is spread out across the floor like it’s trying to be gentle with you.

“I wish I was a normal girl...” —SZA in your ears.

You close your eyes and breathe in the sound.

You’ve never been normal. Not with your powers. Not with the chaos in your chest. Not with the way you feel everything is too hard, too much, too loud.

But for three minutes and twenty-eight seconds, you pretend you are. You imagine a life where love isn’t complicated. Where Bucky Barnes isn’t a question mark branded into your ribs.

You picture someone — anyone — choosing you without flinching.

Then the next track rolls in.

“We can talk it so good…We can make it so divine” —Lorde, sharp, aching.

You laugh under your breath.

Because yeah. You still like him. You’re just done bleeding for it.

–

The mission comes at just the right time.

It’s a low-stakes one: intel retrieval, some clean-up, a detour through Prague. You go with Sam and Wanda. Just the three of you — the trio of the “don’t-ask-me-about-Bucky” club.

Wanda notices immediately. “You’re smiling more.”

You stretch your arms, crack your back. “I’m emotionally reborn.”

Sam snorts. “You say that like you didn’t cry to a Charli XCX remix two nights ago.”

You grin. “It was ‘Party 4 You’. Show some respect.”

“and crying to Lorde?” Sam raised an eyebrow a small smirk at the corner,

“That counts plus it was ribs!” You scoffed light, “and don't act like you didnt cry either sam!”

Wanda rolls her eyes, but you catch the way she watches you carefully — how she’s waiting to see if you’ll fall apart again.

You don’t.

Even when a group of Hydra stragglers trap you in a narrow alley, even when your comms buzz with static, even when Wanda loses line of sight — You still don’t break.

You let your fists talk. You let your mind twist one of their thoughts into mush just long enough for Sam to dive in from above.

You’re fast. Efficient. Ruthless.

But you’re also laughing by the end of it — bloodied but breathing, alive.

Sam claps you on the back. “There’s my girl.”

And something in you eases. Because yeah.

Maybe you’re still aching. Still haunted by a pair of stupid blue eyes. But you're still you.

And that’s something.

Coming home is harder.

Bucky doesn’t say anything when you walk through the compound doors.

But he looks.

Hard.

You don’t meet his gaze. You joke with Tony, high-five Client, make fun of Sam’s flying posture.

But when you pass him — your shoulder brushing his just slightly — you feel it

That familiar pull.

The yearning hasn’t left.

It’s just quieter now.

You listen to one more song that night.

You’re in your room, hair still damp from a long shower, skin smelling like lavender and fire.

“I only threw this party for you…” —Charli XCX again, soft and glittering in your headphones.

You stare at yourself in the mirror.

Not a normal girl.

Not his girl.

Just a girl.

And somehow, that’s enough. At least for tonight.

–

It starts with silence.

He doesn’t say your name. He just shows up at your door at 2:17 a.m., soaked from rain, like the universe itself couldn’t keep him away.

You don’t open it at first. You stand on the other side, forehead pressed against the wood.

Your heart’s thudding. Loud.

He knocks again.

“Do you love me or love me not?” The lyric filters through your Bluetooth speaker, too soft to blame but too honest to ignore.

You open the door. And there he is — raw and real and ruined.

“Can I talk to you?” His voice cracks. He swallows. “Please.”

You say nothing. Just step aside.

He doesn’t look at you at first. He just paces. Wet boots on hardwood. Dripping guilt across your room like it’s a confession.

“I keep seeing you in every corner of this place,” he says. “And it kills me that I don’t know how to reach you anymore.”

You stay quiet.

He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I messed it up. I know I messed it up. But you have to understand, I didn’t know what to do with what I felt.”

You flinch. “So you ignored it?”

He stops pacing.

You whisper, throat caught in a ball “Or did you just ignore me?”

His jaw tightens. “I didn’t think I deserved it. You. Any of it.”

You let out a small, tired laugh. “That’s the thing, Bucky. You don’t get to decide that for me.” tears threatening to spill eyes glossy.

He steps closer. The room gets smaller. The air gets louder.

“I think about you all the time,” he breathes. “When you dyed your hair brown, I thought—God, I thought I lost you. Like I finally saw you trying to be someone else because I made you feel invisible.”

You look up. “You did.”

Silence.

“Don’t you come back no more… don’t you come back at all…” Ravyn Lenae’s voice whispers in the corner.

His breath hitches. “I don’t want to lose you.”

You stare at him.

Then—quiet, calm, steady:

“Then why did you spend so long acting like I wasn’t something to hold onto?”

He doesn’t answer.

He can’t.

Because now? You’re the one walking away.

You sign up for the next mission within the hour.

High-risk, high-speed. Undercover extraction. Wanda signs on first. Then Nat.

She meets your eyes across the mission board and says nothing. Just nods — like she knows exactly why you’re doing this.

Like she knows the sound of a girl trying to outrun a heartbreak that won’t stay quiet.

–

Nat doesn’t hold grudges. You never did either.

She leans against the helicarrier wall before the jump, eyes on you.

“You okay?”

You nod. “I’m tired.”

She hums. “He’s trying.”

You look away. “So am I.”

Nat studies you for a long second.

Then she says, “Sometimes, trying isn’t enough.”

You almost break again.

But then Wanda walks up and slides her hand into yours — steady and sure.

“You ready?” she asks softly.

You nod. “Let’s burn it down.”

The mission is brutal. So are your thoughts.

You don’t think about him when you’re fighting. You think about breathing.

About surviving.

About being something other than a girl with a bleeding heart.

But when you’re alone, during a lull in fire, perched on the rooftop with sweat on your brow and blood on your hands—

You think about the look in his eyes when you walked away.

You think about the question that song whispered:

“Do you love me, or love me not?”

And the answer he never gave.

You come back different.

The bruises bloom yellow on your arms. Your heart’s still cracked in that delicate way — not broken, but echoing every step.

You come home to the Compound late at night, your hair tied up, hoodie too big, eyes too quiet. Wanda gives your shoulder a squeeze. Nat doesn't say much, just offers a tight smile.

You pass Bucky in the hallway. He freezes. You do too.

He looks at you like he’s about to say something. His mouth opens.

But then Nat calls his name from the common room.

And he turns away.

Again.

The laugh comes out of you sharp.

In your room, alone, you laugh bitter and quiet. Because of course. Of course.

You almost died, and he still couldn’t say anything.

You strip out of your tac suit, stare at yourself in the mirror. The brown and honey-blonde hair is still there. Still soft, still trying.

But your eyes are starting to look like someone you don’t recognize. Like a girl who doesn’t believe anymore.

He tries. But too softly.

–

The next day, there’s a coffee cup waiting on the kitchen counter.

It’s your order.

You know it’s from him — he’s the only one who remembers the stupid oat milk and one pump of cinnamon.

You pick it up. You sip it.

But you don’t say thank you. You don’t go looking for him. Because what’s the point of breadcrumbs when you’re starving?

Sam watches you with narrowed eyes.

“He’s a damn idiot,” he mutters.

You smile without humor. “Yeah. Well. I’m done waiting for geniuses.”

He corners you later. Too late.

In the training room. Just you, the punching bag, and the ghosts.

He walks in slowly. You feel him before you hear him. The way the air shifts. The way your ribs lock.

“I didn’t know how to say it,” he says softly.

You land another punch. And another. “Say what?”

He’s behind you now. “That I didn’t mean to make you feel invisible.”

You stop.

Turn.

You’re sweaty. Tired. Raw.

“I don’t need you to apologize for the past,” you say. “I need you to show up in the present.”

His face cracks. “I’m here now.”

You nod slowly. “But I’m not sure I am.”

You grab your bag and walk past him — shoulder brushing him again.

But this time, you don’t look back.

The final twist comes from Clint.

Later that night, Clint finds you on the roof, eating ice cream straight from the tub.

He sits next to you with a grunt.

“You know,” he says, “I’ve seen Bucky fight gods and aliens. Never seen him look more scared than when you stopped talking to him.”

You snort. “Well. He should be scared. I’m terrified.”

Clint grins. “You are. But you’re also a girl who deserves to be loved right. Loudly.”

You go quiet.

Then: “Do you think he ever will?”

Clint sighs. “I think some men have to lose the best thing in their lives before they realize it was the best thing.”

You say nothing.

The wind whips your hair around your face.

Brown and gold. Still soft. Still burning.

And that night, you dream of the sea — and you wonder what it feels like to be wanted without fear.

It starts in the hallway. Of course it does.

You're just walking. Sweatpants. Hoodie. Hair pinned back.

The kind of morning where the coffee tastes like survival, and your soul feels heavier than your bones.

And then he’s there. Bucky.

Leaning against the hallway wall like a question with no answer.

And your phone’s still playing softly through one earbud—

“Every summertime / Every now and then you cross my mind…” — and he hears it. You know he does. You both freeze.

You keep walking. He doesn’t let you pass.

He gently reaches for the earbud cord, slides it out. His hand lingers for a second too long.

You whisper, “Don’t do this if you’re not gonna finish it.”

He looks at you.

“Finish what?”

You blink hard. “This half-version of you. The breadcrumb kindness. The Almost. I’m tired.”

His voice drops to a crackling whisper. “So am I.”

You stare at him. “Then why did you wait until I changed my whole self just to survive you?”

He sees it now — the hair.

It’s midnight purple, thick and soft and unreadable.

He opens his mouth like he might ask what it means.

But I don't.

Because he doesn’t need to. Not if he’s really paying attention.

It means this:

It means longing. It means a bruised kind of hope. It means the kind of hurt that’s grown roots.

It means: you’re still here, but you’ve built a castle of silence around your heart.

He knows he can’t knock it down this time. He’ll have to ask for a key.

Later, you’re sitting on the edge of the beach.

Sunset bleeds across the sky like someone split open a ripe peach. Sam invited everyone for a “team reset” and bonfire. You're surprised when Bucky shows.

Even more surprised when he sits next to you.

Neither of you speaks.

Then: “I never told you about the first time I noticed you.”

You blink at him.

“I really noticed you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Was it when I knocked you flat in training?”

He gives a crooked smile. “No. That was when I fell in love with you.”

Silence.

“It was the time before that. You were walking out of a mission briefing. Hair all cotton candy and chaos. I remember thinking… ‘God, she looks like she doesn’t even know she’s the most alive thing in the room.’”

You don’t respond.

Because how do you respond to that?

So you say what you’ve never said.

“Do you even know how badly you hurt me?” Your voice cracks. Just barely.

“I used to think your silence was mysterious. But it was just cowardice, wasn’t it?”

He doesn’t deny it. Just look at the water.

“I wanted you to choose me,” you whisper. “But I guess I wanted it to matter to you first.”

Bucky finally turns. Eyes full of something that looks too much like an ache.

“It did matter. I just… didn’t know how to love you in a way that didn’t end with me losing you.”

You nod slowly.

“Well. You lost me anyway.”

And still…

There’s no yelling. No grand kiss in the sand.

Just quiet.

The kind that says: We’re not fixed. But we’re not broken beyond repair either.

His fingers graze yours.

You don’t pull away.

But you don’t hold on either.

–

After the beach, the next morning:

You walk into the kitchen. Tony is making something suspicious with a blowtorch. Wanda’s sipping tea. Sam’s already grinning when he sees your hair.

Everyone stares.

It’s no longer calico.

Not brown with honey.

Not Neapolitan.

Not soft.

It’s midnight purple, and no one can read what it means.

Except Bucky, who finally doesn’t try to guess.

He just meets your eyes with something like understanding.

And you…?

You just sip your coffee and say, “Morning.”

Like maybe — just maybe — being “just a girl” is enough.

–

You don’t ignore him. But you don’t invite him in.

It’s a quiet sort of standoff.

You train with Sam. You spar with Nat. You do recon reports with Steve. Debriefs with Tony. Quiet nights with Wanda and the occasional drink with Clint.

But Bucky?

Bucky gets the version of you that’s polite, efficient, and unreadable.

You laugh at Sam’s jokes. You tease Clint. You roll your eyes at Tony.

But Bucky? You barely look at him.

And it’s killing him.

The compound feels too small sometimes.

You pass him in the hallway. You’re carrying a box of gear. He holds the door open. You nod. He doesn’t move.

Then softly:

“You’ve changed your hair again.”

“You noticed?”

“I always do.”

You say nothing. Walk past.

His voice breaks slightly.

“What does this one mean?”

You pause. Then: “If you have to ask, you’re not ready to know.”

That stings. But you mean it.

–

You spar with Nat one morning. She doesn’t pull her punches.

Not physically. Not emotionally.

“Y’know,” she says between strikes, “he talks about you like he’s trying not to. Which means he is.”

You duck a punch, spin her to the mat.

“Then why hasn’t he said anything?”

Nat breathes hard beneath you. “Because he’s scared. He thinks if he touches it, it’ll break.”

You get off her. Offer a hand up. “It already did.”

She takes your hand. Hold it for just a beat too long. “He doesn’t know that.”

That night, you hear him outside your room.

Not knocking.

Just standing there.

Maybe for thirty seconds. Maybe longer.

You hold your breath.

He never knocks.

He walks away.

Wanda corners you in the library.

You’re curled on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, headphones in, pretending.

She taps your shoulder. Her powers buzz against your skin gently.

“I didn’t read your mind,” she says. “But I felt it.”

You take out one earbud. “Felt what?”

“You feel like you’re one hallway away from a scream.”

You say nothing.

Wanda sits beside you, gently braiding a loose strand of purple behind your ear.

“You’re trying so hard not to hope,” she says. “But it still leaks out of you.”

You laugh, soft and bitter. “I’m tired of wanting what won’t come.”

Wanda leans her head on your shoulder. “Maybe he just hasn’t figured out how to come the right way yet.”

Mission prep. One week out. Just you, Sam, and Bucky.

Tension like a live wire.

Sam fills the space with banter, but you and Bucky keep dodging glances like they’re weapons.

During gear check, he stands too close. His hand brushes yours.

You don’t pull away.

He doesn’t apologize.

That night, you lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, wondering why almost-love hurts more than heartbreak.

Because at least heartbreak ends.

–

You sneak out with Wanda and Sam to sit by the water. You don’t speak.

Wanda brings wine. Sam brings music. You bring the version of you that’s holding it together.

They don’t press you. They just exist beside you.

And in the waves, under the stars, your hair catches the moonlight. Midnight purple that looks almost black, almost soft, almost real.

Sam finally says it:

“He’s drowning in you. And he doesn’t know how to swim.”

You whisper:

“I’m not asking him to. I’m just asking him to stop pretending he’s not in the water.”

It starts with your hair. Because of course it does.

You hand the dye box to Wanda without a word. Sam’s sitting backwards on a chair behind you, watching like it’s a ritual. Because it is. It always has been.

Wanda hums as she parts your hair. Her fingers are gentle, reverent. Sam starts reading the instructions even though you both know you won’t follow them.

“You sure?” Wanda murmurs, already knowing the answer.

You nod. But it’s not about the dye.

It’s about surrender. About saying: “I’ve tried everything else and I’m tired of hurting quiet.”

The color bleeds in like sunlight cracking through

It’s coral red—not firetruck, not crimson. Softer. Warmer. A glow from within. And the money pieces? Soft blonde. Like forgiveness at your temples. Like a whisper of light you didn’t think you deserved.

Wanda helps you rinse. Sam holds the towel for you. You stare in the mirror when it’s done, and for once—you don’t try to decode it.

This isn’t a message.

It’s just a version of you who finally took back her voice.

And then you see him.

You’re walking back to your room, headphones in, the chorus of “I Like U” playing like a secret you’re too tired to guard.

“I want you / I want you / I want you / I want you to have me too…”

And he’s there. Bucky. Leaning against your doorframe. Not running this time.

He sees the hair.

His mouth opens, but he doesn’t ask what it means.

He just says:

“You always change your hair when you crash. What’s this one mean?”

You sigh. Pull one earbud out. Step forward.

“It means I’m done waiting for you to catch up.”

And Bucky—finally, finally—breaks.

The confession isn’t neat. It never could be.

“You think I didn’t feel it?” he says, voice rough. “Every joke you told that I couldn’t laugh at because I was too busy memorizing the sound? Every time you walked out of the room I felt like gravity left you?”

You blink. This is too much. Or maybe it’s just enough.

He steps forward. Hands shaking. “I’ve been in love with you since the first time you looked at me like I was more than my past.”

You say nothing.

Because if you speak, the dam might break too loud.

So you do what you’ve always done: You put your headphones back in. Turn the volume up.

“I like you / I like you / I like you / Sorry I never meant to…”

And he sees it.

Take the earbud from your ear. Puts it on his own.

And just says, soft:

“Me too.”

–

You laugh. It cracks like thunder through silence.

“That’s it? After all that, you just—‘me too’?”

He grins. Eyes shining, ruined, real.

“What do you want me to say? That I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner? That I was scared? That I thought I didn’t deserve you? I am. I was. But I’m here now.”

You look at him.

And finally, finally, you let yourself believe it.

It’s not perfect. It’s not tied with a bow.

But he takes your hand.

And this time? You hold on.

Hard.

–

You’re on a Quinjet again.

The seat beside you is taken—by him, now. Always by him.

Sam flies. Wanda reads. The clouds roll like waves beneath you, soft and silent.

You're on a low-stakes recon mission in Norway. Just a supply sweep. Easy. Quick.

The kind they give to agents who deserve a breath. The kind they give to people in love, who need time to just be.

You lean your head on Bucky’s shoulder. Your coral red strands fall against his black jacket. His gloved thumb traces idle shapes on your knee.

You don't talk. You don't need to.

This is peace.

And you earned it.

You land just after dusk.

The mission is routine. Wanda takes points. You and Bucky sweep the perimeter.

But there’s a moment—just before you enter the outpost—when he grabs your wrist.

“Wait.”

You blink up at him. He looks nervous.

“I just…” He clears his throat. “You’ve changed again. Not your hair. You. I mean—not changed like—God, I’m screwing this up.”

You laugh softly.

“I get it,” you say. “I feel it too.”

He exhales. Relieved.

“I just didn’t know someone could feel so much and still keep standing.”

You shrug. “I didn’t know someone could love me exactly as I am. Not as a hero. Not as a mind reader. Just...”

“Just a girl?”

“Yeah.”

And he leans in.

This time, the kiss is soft. Like rain. Like recognition.

The mission ends. But the softness stays.

Back on the jet, Sam grins but says nothing.

Wanda nudges your foot with hers and whispers, “I told you. He just didn’t know how to come the right way yet.”

You laugh.

Later, in your room, you find a note on your pillow in his handwriting:

“You were never just a girl. But I love you like one. Simply. Deeply. Without question. -B”

You tuck it under your pillow.

You let your hair fall in messy waves.

And for the first time in a long time—

You don’t wonder what the color means.

You don’t think about what people see.

You don’t need to read anyone’s mind.

Because finally, finally—

Being you is enough.

Just a girl. Just a heart. Just this.

And he chooses you anyway.

Always.

–

It’s late.

The compound is quiet, lights low, windows open to a summer night breeze.

You’re curled on the couch, legs across Bucky’s lap, your fingers idly playing with the cuff of his sleeve.

The TV hums with some old black-and-white movie Sam insisted you’d both like. You stopped watching ten minutes ago.

Because Bucky hasn’t stopped looking at you.

And you can feel it.

That low hum behind your ribcage. That frequency only you can hear.

So you do it.

You slip quietly into his mind—not digging, not forcing—just listening to what spills over when his guard is down and you’re close and his heart is too loud to hide.

And you hear it.

“She’s gonna see it. She always sees it. God, say something, say something—”

“I’d give her everything if I could just figure out how to say it out loud.”

“I don’t know what she sees in me but I want to be what she keeps looking for.”

“Please don’t stop looking.”

And then, softer—

“I love her. I don’t know how to not love her.”

You blink once.

Your chest aches in that way it always does when someone tells you the truth without meaning to.

He sees it—he feels it. You don’t hide the fact that you’re in there.

He reaches up, brushing your cheek gently with his thumb.

“Caught me,” he whispers, a little crooked smile on his lips. “Didn’t mean for all that to spill out.”

You lean your forehead against his.

“I’m glad it did.”

Because it’s not a grand speech. It’s not a perfect line from a movie. It’s not fireworks or confetti.

It’s just him.

Raw. Real. Yours.

And his mind is no longer a maze of doubt and silence— It’s a love letter.

One you were always meant to read.

He doesn’t say "I love you" again. He doesn’t have to.

It’s in the way he pulls you closer. The way his hand settles over your heart like he’s memorizing the rhythm.

Outside, it’s raining. The windows fog.

And in your headphones, just barely audible—

“Through drought and famine, natural disasters / My baby has been around for me…”

You press a kiss to his jaw.

And for the first time, you don’t feel like you’re too much. Or not enough.

You’re just a girl.

And for him?

That’s everything.

Wanda watches you from the hallway. Sam nods once when Bucky walks past holding your hand.

Clint mutters, “Took ‘em long enough.”

Tony raises a brow. “Called it.”

Steve? Steve just smiles quietly and doesn’t say a damn thing.Because he knows— Sometimes, the best stories take time to burn right.

(You've got mail!) OH MY GOD IM SO NERVOUS TO POST THISS I HAVE BEEN WORKING ON THIS AND I WANTED TO GET THIS DONR BEFORE MY TRIP SO ITS A LITTLE BIT OF THIS A LITTLE BIT OF THATT AND IM LIKE RAAAAA

Tags @bbsbrina

#w.riting ‹𝟹 ‎scripts #bucky x female reader #bucky x y/n #james bucky barnes #bucky x you #bucky barns imagine #bucky barns fanfiction #bucky fanfic #james bucky buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky x reader #i need him so bad #need that man #i miss him sm #fuck you marvel #ugh my baby #this made me so sad #mcu x f!reader #mcu x reader

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ekkkkey · 3 months ago

Text

there will be games! (final)

summary: Cassandra, a quiet and loyal wife to the much older Senator Tiberius, accidentally attracts the unsettling attention of Emperor Caracalla at a lavish feast hosted by Senator Thraex...

warnings: 18+ minors dni, this is dark, noncon

word count: ~4k

chapter I chapter II chapter III chapter IV chapter V

«No woman could feel safe if her beauty or name aroused the emperor's curiosity.»

-Suetonius, The Twelve Caesars (Caligula, Chapter 36)

⋆ ⋆ ☼ ⋆ ⋆

Claudia twirled before her, showing off, stretching out her slender wrists adorned with expensive bracelets.

"If I had known Livia would send us such gifts, I wouldn’t have cried so much when they took her from us," she spun once more and, laughing, sat beside Cassandra, wrapping her arms around her, pressing her forehead against her shoulder. "I know you’re sad… About Father, about me, and… about your husband. But please, you’re the last person I have left to talk to! Don’t be so grim! It’s been over a year—you don’t have to wear mourning anymore! You’re young, beautiful…"

"Enough," Cassandra cut her off, her voice tired, her thoughts even darker.

A year had passed. A year since she became a widow. A year since her life was shattered, destroyed. It was true—she no longer had to wear mourning for her husband, and she could even remarry, if not for the stigma of a traitor's widow, the stain of an adulteress, and if not for the scars left on her skin, pale and inescapable.

Claudia, one of her younger sisters, had never seen the marks. Cassandra hid them, too ashamed to speak of what had happened in the imperial palace. How shocked Claudia had been when she learned that Cassandra—the luckiest among them, married, happy—was returning home in disgrace, back under their father’s roof.

Tiberius’ family had not accepted her. And she herself had no desire to live in a home filled with hatred.

But the girl who returned was not the same quiet, dreamy Cassandra who had left. What came back was only a shadow, an empty shell—pale, hollow-eyed, covered in wounds and bruises, with her hair cut short. Her father had known what had happened but had been powerless to change anything. Then, three months later, he died. His old heart couldn’t take it. And Cassandra blamed herself for that, too.

Without a man in the house, she had been doomed. But Livia, the youngest of the three sisters, had spent the last seven years training in the Temple of Vesta, and with that came privileges—privileges that saved Cassandra and Claudia from a fate worse than death: being handed over to some stranger.

Normally, the fate of widows and orphans—those who had lost their fathers but had not yet married—was decided by the Senate, sometimes even by the Emperor himself. Just the thought of it sent phantom pain burning through the place where he had carved his name into her skin. Cassandra’s fingers twitched, running through her short hair, tucking the strands behind her ears. He had cut those, too, to make sure no one would dare look at her, as if that had ever been possible.

"I’m begging you!" Claudia knelt in front of her, gripping her hands tightly. "Just one evening! My wedding, Cassandra! Rome is not a trap!"

Cassandra exhaled, pained, unwilling to listen to her sister’s pleading. She should be happy for her, and yet all she felt was fear and unease. She had not set foot in Rome for a year. The quiet, forgotten province suited her. She no longer wanted to see the world—her past had killed all curiosity in her. Everything had been peaceful… until history started repeating itself.

After the conspiracy of General Acacius and several senators was uncovered, a great purge followed. The ranks of Rome’s elite were drastically thinned. The executions went on day after day, and the Praetorians crushed rebellion after rebellion. The discontent had been widespread—many had loved the general—but steel was the best argument an emperor could make. And when the executions spread beyond the nobility, the people fell silent.

That was when Appius entered their lives—or rather, Claudia’s life. A newly appointed senator, he had taken the seat of one of the traitors.

The first formal meeting had sealed everything. He was too young for the Senate, but he had been utterly captivated by Claudia’s charm, her brightness. Cassandra could only watch in horror as history repeated itself… though there was one difference. They loved each other.

"Livia already refused me! At least don’t refuse me, too!" Claudia’s tearful pleas continued. "It’ll just be his family!"

Cassandra couldn’t bear to see her like this. She agreed.

If just one of her sisters had been with her at the imperial court, maybe—just maybe—things would have been different. Wouldn’t they?

⋆ ⋆ ☼ ⋆ ⋆

Rome no longer seemed beautiful to her.

The further they traveled, the heavier the weight in her chest became. It was only when they passed the Colosseum that she could breathe a little easier.

But just as her anxiety began to subside, it flared up again. The villa of Appius’s family wasn’t just large and beautiful—it was enormous. Green branches, golden and red ribbons adorned the already magnificent residence, proudly declaring where the groom lived.

Claudia was quickly pulled from her arms by the firm hands of the wedding matrona, who was to prepare the bride. Cassandra simply followed the flock of women, obedient and silent. The wedding had not yet begun, but the villa was already filled with guests.

It reminded her of her first time stepping into Senator Thraex’s home. A shiver ran down her spine, and she pulled her dark brown cloak tighter around her, telling herself that everyone who had once known her was probably dead by now.

"Ah, Cassandra! What a surprise!"

Appius caught her in a warm embrace, as if he truly was delighted to see her.

As custom dictated, the groom wore only a simple white toga and a pair of bracelets. His sharp blue eyes swept over her, like a man surveying goods at a market.

For the first time in a long while, she was not wearing black—the color that marked her as a widow. She didn’t look so bad, she told herself, if not for the short hair, barely reaching her chin.

"Appius, what a wonderful reception! So many guests!" She lied, feigning admiration for the sheer number of extravagantly dressed people in the vast, opulent hall.

Claudia had assured her it would only be the groom’s family. But surely not all these people were his relatives.

"Oh, thank you!" His voice was just as honeyed, though his sharp gaze noted her unease. "The rest of the guests will arrive later, for the ceremony itself. After all, my position now requires a little less modesty than before, wouldn’t you say?" He bowed to her with mock politeness and disappeared into the crowd.

The guests didn’t interest her. Neither did the villa, nor the wine, nor the food.

Cassandra retreated to the farthest corner, doing everything she could to remain unseen.

As the halls grew more crowded, the chatter louder, and the evening sky darkened, Claudia finally appeared.

The ceremony began.

Cassandra stepped closer. She saw her smiling sister, her head covered with a delicate orange veil. The same vows, the same rings she herself had once exchanged with her husband. It felt like a lifetime ago, though not even two years had passed.

"It can’t be!" A woman’s hushed, excited whisper sounded close by.

"I told you! Appius didn’t become a senator just like that! And he’s been friends with the emperors for a long time," replied another muffled voice.

Cassandra froze. Her sister’s face blurred, and the ceremony’s noise faded away, leaving only the quiet murmuring of two women she didn’t know. The happiest moment she had experienced in years was once again overshadowed. And once again, he was the reason.

The ritual continued, the lovers exchanged their vows, but Cassandra was entranced by the conversation she should never have overheard.

"Friendship, ha!" A quiet, eloquent giggle made her twist her lips. Could it be that her sister’s husband… "But who would refuse the emperor?"

"You’re lying! That can’t be!"

"It’s the truth!" More quiet giggling. "I saw him once. Oh, it was a sight! He waved to us, and I swear, I was ready to leave my husband forever just for one night with him! That deep blue cloak embroidered in gold, the golden cuirass with the sun shining in the center—"

"Which emperor?"

"Caracalla. They say he’s cruel and insane, but we all know those vile tongues." The voices grew even quieter.

"I heard he’s ill…"

Cassandra stopped listening. She didn’t want to drown in memories any further.

For a brief moment, she felt free, light. Her sister, now a wife, embraced her, pressing warm kisses to her cheeks, flushed and happy. Even Appius hugged her—more modestly, of course—but Cassandra forced herself not to dwell on it or on the conversation she had overheard.

Her sister was happy. And so, for her sake, was Cassandra.

Then came laughter, music, and wine. As the bride’s sister, she couldn’t avoid attention for long. Guests pulled her into idle conversations, politely avoiding questions about her husband. A few young men even tried to steer the talk into something indecent, but she brushed them off.

"What’s the matter, my dear lady? Has your heart already been claimed by someone?" He was charming and young, but just the thought of closeness with a man filled her with dread.

But dread awaited her ahead. The evening picked up pace, more and more wine loosened tongues and hands, and she once again felt nervous.

Something was wrong.

She blushed from a sudden wave of emotion, then turned pale with fear, hearing a piercing animalistic screech, high and loud. The fear was sharp, painful, as though her past had caught up with her once again. Conversations swirled around her, but she only clutched the silver cup in her hand, desperately trying not to panic.

They were here.

The play of light and shadow, the darkness of evening, and the flickering torchlight deceived the guests, but she saw him. He was just as he appeared in her nightmares.

His delicate features, a high forehead framed by unruly red curls, and beneath pale brows, those mocking blue eyes gleamed.

Why was she looking at him? Why was she staring?

Yet she couldn’t stop, her gaze drifting lower—to those defined red lips, the soft curve of his chin and neck… He hadn’t changed a bit, except perhaps for the feverish flush that now colored his face even more vividly.

A shadow shifted, and torchlight illuminated his brother’s face—pale, tight-lipped, dark eyes sharp, and furrowed brows.

The emperors were sober. And completely joyless.

Though Caracalla smiled.

He always smiled. She remembered that well—smiled even in rage.

Appius quickly made his way to the noble guests, gracefully gesturing for everyone to continue the celebration, all while taking turns kissing the emperors’ hands.

Cassandra cast a desperate glance at her sister, seated among the women. But Claudia didn’t notice—too thrilled by the presence of Rome’s rulers.

Yet the air in the room had changed.

She saw the way the lutenist’s hands trembled, how he licked his suddenly dry lips, terrified of plucking the wrong string. Gossip or not, many still believed in the emperors’ cruelty. The proof hung in the streets—rebels crucified and tortured, all those who dared rise against the Caesars.

Voices lowered. Laughter grew restrained.

After all, everyone only had one head.

"Hail the Caesars!" the crowd roared, and finally, smiles spread across the emperors’ faces.

Slaves swiftly cleared space in the grand hall. The young rulers took the place meant for the newlyweds, but it seemed no one dared object.

Appius, forgetting his young wife entirely, hovered around the emperors like a fawning servant, laughing and pouring wine into their goblets as if he himself were a slave.

Like in a dream, Cassandra watched them from the shadows, catching every gesture, every lazy movement of their hands. Caracalla was bored, the tip of his tongue tracing his upper lip, still sober and thus irritable. Geta, with a forced smile, nodded at Appius, clearly sharing his brother’s mood.

Her heart pounded with fear and dread when the young senator waved Claudia over, clearly eager to present her to the emperors. Caracalla sat up straighter, tilting his head to appraise Appius’s young wife. Oh, Cassandra knew that look—evaluating, languid, always bored and never passing up a chance for amusement. Geta mirrored his brother, wiping his chin as he studied Claudia. There was no honor in their gazes, only cold, slippery intent, but her sister didn’t see it—just as Cassandra herself hadn’t seen it once upon a time.

Appius held Claudia by the fingertips, spinning her in a circle as she laughed, clearly more intent on showing off than entertaining his bride. Caracalla leaned forward with a smirk, his pale, delicate hand, adorned with gold and gems, reaching out toward her sister. Without thinking, Cassandra stepped forward in fear for Claudia.

"Claudia!" she called out before she even realized what she had done.

Her fragile shield of shadow fell away as she emerged into the light. Appius and Claudia stared at her, puzzled, but they weren’t the ones who mattered. Along with them, those feverish blue eyes fixed on her. Her legs weakened, her palms grew slick with sweat, but it was too late—she was caught again.

"Oh, Cassandra, come here!" her sister called. Appius clearly disapproved but couldn’t object.

On unsteady legs, she still managed to approach them, feeling the crowd's eyes on her. And their eyes. God, she hated them both with equal ferocity! The fact that Geta tormented her less didn’t lessen his guilt—after all, it was with his casual approval that Caracalla had started this whole twisted game.

Appius introduced her, and she bowed her head in feigned reverence. When she looked up, Geta’s unblinking gaze met hers—he recognized her, how could he not, after all he’d witnessed? Her scar throbbed painfully, and she averted her eyes, unable to withstand the oppressive blackness of his stare. But it was much harder to meet Caracalla’s gaze… though, to her surprise, he clearly didn’t remember her. Still, relief didn’t come. In his eyes, she saw curiosity, a spark, excitement! He feverishly licked his lips, his red mouth curling into a smile, his hand tightening around his cup. Gods, had they truly cursed her, binding him to her, sending him to torment her again and again? He didn’t even recognize her, and yet he was intrigued!

Then Emperor Geta leaned toward his brother, whispering something in his ear, and Cassandra realized she was doomed. Now, recognition appeared on Caracalla’s face, and he burst out laughing like a child, patting his brother on the shoulder as if he’d just made a brilliant joke.

"Little bird?" His voice was hoarse, deceptively soft, as if they were old friends.

Claudia looked at her, confused, but Cassandra couldn’t answer. Worse still, her sister was witnessing this entire humiliating spectacle.

"My emperor," she replied quietly.

"It really is you!" He scanned her from head to toe, his mouth slightly open, never ceasing to smile, his obsessive gaze drinking in her face.

"So, this is your sister?" She nodded. "And where’s your husband?"

Her breath caught, and Appius and Claudia froze beside her. Even Emperor Geta stared at his brother, one eyebrow raised in evident confusion. It took every ounce of her strength not to break down in tears right then and there. Instead, she exhaled shakily and answered, "Dead. You killed him, Caesar."

The delight on Caracalla’s face was a mockery. He didn’t touch her, but she felt as if he’d slapped her across the face.

"Did I? Really?" He leaned back, spreading his legs, clearly pleased with himself. "So, you’re a widow now? What wonderful news!"

Was he taunting her, or was he truly so sick? She couldn’t tell, but judging by Geta’s heavy gaze, he was concerned.

"Come here, little bird," he said, spreading his arms in a welcoming gesture, and she obeyed, stepping closer. "I’ve never had a widow before," he purred, trailing his hand along her thigh, still sitting, lazily, almost weightlessly, touching the thick fabric of her clothes with his fingertips. Yet, she felt the long-forgotten heat of his touch. He himself, like his hair—blood, fire.

Geta nodded to Appius, who took Claudia’s hand and led her away. Cassandra wanted to protest, to reach for her sister, to beg for rescue, but instead, she caught only a worried, strangely hurt look from Claudia—a look that cut her heart deeper than all the emperor’s cruelties.

"You vanished, my dear," Caesar said, yanking her hand down and forcing her to sit beside him, at his feet, like some nameless slave. Long-forgotten humiliation flushed her neck and cheeks red, especially as the guests still stole glances their way. "I missed you so much," he whispered in a singsong tone, his ring-laden fingers burying themselves in her short hair, stroking it. "I liked your hair," he said, his hot hand sliding lower, down her neck, then beneath the fabric, nearly brushing her chest. But it wasn’t lust that drove the young emperor—Cassandra felt his tender fingers trace the pale outline of her scar, following the path of the blade that had left it there.

"Brother, not here," Geta warned, clearly uneasy. "Have you forgotten the uprisings the Praetorians worked so hard to crush? Leave her be—you’ve already taken enough from her, so…"

"And I’ll take her again!" A grimace of rage twisted Caracalla’s powdered, delicate face. He released her, nervously twisting the rings on his fingers. "Don’t lecture me—you, of all people, should know that, brother."

"I’m just asking you not to do this in public!" Geta relented. "This is a wedding…"

"If I want, our dear Appius will take her place with a snap of my fingers," Caracalla hissed, clearly displeased by his brother’s words. "Or, if I desire, his little wife will do."

She looked up at him in horror, silently begging him not to.

Geta merely clicked his tongue and turned away, taking a sip from his goblet. Caracalla, however, shifted from rage to tenderness, gazing down at her once more, his thumb brushing along her cheekbone, her lips.

"Missed me?" A soft, playful slap to her cheek made her close her eyes. "I know you did, little bird. I imagine you often thought about our little meetings." He paused, a sly grin tugging at his lips. "To be honest, I don’t remember our sweet little dates all that well, but no one can stop us from repeating them, hmm?"

Angry tears welled in her eyes, but they didn’t fall—she kept fighting to hold herself together. Her husband was dead, her father was dead, and her sisters… her sisters were relatively safe.

"You can’t treat me like this," she said, hardly believing the words had left her mouth.

Caracalla laughed, his laughter echoing through the hall, but the nervous twitch of his mouth betrayed that he was far from amused.

"Can’t I?" he taunted, his fingers digging into her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "You’re a widow and an orphan! Who but the father of Rome would open his arms to you and offer you shelter?" But his touch brought only pain, and the look in his darkened eyes promised suffering.

Then his grip softened, his hand stroking her cheek tenderly, as if he truly meant to comfort her. But instead, Caracalla leaned in, his hot breath laced with the sweet scent of oils and powder, and whispered heatedly in her ear, "Now I am your husband, your brother, your father, understand? You are mine." His lips nearly brushed her temple. "Now you are my property, and I will do with you as I please, my dear."

A single tear rolled down her cheek, and Caracalla, sealing his words, kissed her forehead in a fatherly gesture before pulling back.

The music played on, life buzzed outside, but for her, everything had stopped right there. Caracalla, pleased with the impression he’d made, like a street magician, opened a particularly large ring on his index finger.

Through a veil of tears, Cassandra saw the Emperor bring the ring to his nose, inhaling the powder that filled the hollow space of the ornament.

"What do you like most about me?" he asked, still mocking. Geta grimaced, clearly starting to get irritated.

She wanted to say she hated him, that she wanted to wipe that smug grin off his face, but the fear for her sister’s fate was overwhelming, so she bowed her head and whispered quietly, "Generosity, my Caesar."

"Great answer!" He snapped his fingers and turned to his brother. "Hear that? I’m generous!"

"Of course she’ll say whatever you want," Geta’s displeasure was plain to see. The way the young emperor curled his lips, furrowed his brow, and tapped his fingers—all of it spoke of a foul mood.

Could Caracalla’s behavior truly anger him so much? The brothers quarreled often, but they always seemed a united front—so what had changed? Why was Geta looking at his brother with such tight-lipped disdain? Then his gaze shifted to her, and Cassandra understood. He hated her. The mere fact that she had reappeared in their lives and captured Caracalla’s attention infuriated him.

"And since I am generous," Caracalla continued grandly, ignoring his brother’s words, "I will be generous to you." The emperor extended his hand to her, as if for a kiss, but the ring was still open, and she understood exactly what he wanted her to do.

Cassandra pressed her lips shut, turning her head away, and the smile vanished from Caracalla’s face. Emperor Geta, on the other hand, leaned over his brother’s palm, inhaled the powder, and quickly wiped his nose. Now two pairs of eyes bored into her, waiting for her to submit.

"Who are you hurting more?" Geta said, licking his lips and leaning back, far more relaxed than he had been a moment ago. "You’ve been told countless times, but you’re still stubborn as a mule—or are you just an idiot? A brainless, obstinate wench whom, by some twist of fate, my brother lusts after? Huh?"

Caracalla hated disobedience and had no patience for coaxing, so he seized her jaw, pressing painfully until she opened her mouth and looked up at him. His eyes had darkened, and in the halo of red paint and the dim torchlight, they looked utterly mad.

He released her face for a moment, but only to scoop a handful of powder from the ring and shove it into her mouth. Cassandra couldn’t withstand the force and obediently opened her mouth, fearing he’d dislocate her jaw.

Suppressing the urge to bite him, she waited for the humiliation to end, but Caracalla’s breathing grew heavier, and he continued to force her to lick the bitter powder from his delicate fingers. In the end, he always got his way, no matter how much she resisted.

Finally, he stopped tormenting her mouth, wiping his wet fingers on her cheek and leaning back, satisfied, glancing at his brother with a wide grin that revealed a golden tooth.

She turned away again, hoping no one had seen. Fortunately, her sister was speaking with her husband, but there was one witness to her shame. The young man who had flirted with her earlier was staring right at them, and the confusion and disgust on his face were yet another invisible slap.

Caracalla sees him too, and it excites him, turns him on. She feels her head start to spin, her eyelids grow heavy, as the emperor presses her head against his leg, as if she’s one of his many slaves, showing everyone who she belongs to now.

"Who’s that, little bird?" His tone promised nothing good.

"I don’t know him, Caesar," she replied, her voice trembling, clenching her fists tightly, trying to think clearly.

"Lie to me, and I won’t be kind," he said, his fingers in her hair tightening, pulling, causing pain.

"It’s the truth! We spoke today, nothing more, he’s just…"

"Do you want him? Shall I bring you his head? It’d make a fine wedding gift, don’t you think?"

She couldn’t think. Tears blurred her vision, and her thoughts tangled further. She saw Caracalla’s pupils dilate, his gaze growing heavy, languid, his breathing quickening—surely, she looked the same, drugged and dazed. A wedding gift? What was he talking about?

"Bedding ceremony!" Caracalla drawled in a sing-song voice, rising and immediately stumbling, grabbing his brother’s shoulder.

The guests looked at him in confusion, as did the newlyweds.

"But, Emperor, it’s still early…" one of the high-ranking guests began obsequiously.

Caracalla merely snorted and extended his hand to her. And then it hit her. This was their bedding ceremony. He was playing out his own perverse version of a wedding, twisting everything to suit his depraved whims. The sanctity, the sacred rite meant only for Claudia and Appius, was trampled underfoot, but no one dared object to the emperor. They all smiled saccharinely, unwilling to provoke his wrath.

Caracalla was too unsteady to lift her himself, so Geta hauled her to her feet with a sharp tug. The moment she was upright, Caracalla wrapped an arm around her waist, pressing his nose against her neck, grinning lazily in satisfaction, utterly dazed from intoxication.

"Don’t take too long," Geta muttered.

Caracalla only laughed.

The guests echoed him, their laughter swelling to fill the hall. Only Claudia remained silent, her face drained of all color, watching-unblinking—as her sister was dragged toward the room meant for the newlyweds.

"Save me. Save me!" The words pounded in her skull like a funeral bell.

But no one would save her. There wasn't a soul in Rome who would stand against the Emperor, who would shield her from the emperor's hungry gaze.

Nothing from her wedding to Tiberius was happening now. No ritual, no solemn rites—only crude, mocking songs. The men scattered, whistling and shouting obscenities, as if they had already forgotten that the woman being taken was the bride’s sister, handed over to the Emperor against her will.

The women were quieter, but even among them, some did not look at her with pity. Some watched with envy, some with scorn.

All of Rome would know. She had no doubt. If she had managed to keep what happened in the palace a secret from her sisters, there was no hiding this. The stain of shame had already settled over her like a black shadow—right before Claudia’s eyes.

The tears broke free. She couldn’t hold them back anymore.

Caracalla didn’t like that.

His grip on her waist tightened as he leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. In that same soft, honeyed tone, he purred, "Smile, little bird. Or we won’t even need a separate room. I’ll take you right here, in front of everyone. Then, I’ll let them all have their turn—Appius included—while your dear sister watches."

He smiled as he said it.

She forced a smile, too, wiped her tears, and felt her legs trembling beneath her.

A moment later, the clamor faded, the door closed behind them, and they were alone.

Everything inside had been carefully arranged for the young husband and wife. But no one else would be entering this room tonight.

Tonight, it was her cage.

And in front of her, smiling softly, drunk and amused, stood her tormentor.

Her knees buckled, and she sank onto the edge of the bed, sitting stiff as a bowstring, clutching at the fabric of her clothes, her cheeks burning.

Caracalla rubs his nose childishly, pulls the laurel wreath from his head, sending his red curls into a wild disarray, then he steps closer and mockingly places it on her head.

"A virtuous matron you will never be. What a pity," he sighed. "But you can still be my sweet little pet, Cassandra."

Her name was another lash of the whip.

The crown on her head feels like thorns, heavy, as though the world’s troubles have been laid upon her.

"Undress," he commands, his voice dropping lower as he positions himself at the head of the bed.

He didn’t undress himself, but she could see—he was aroused. His pale skin was flushed, the paint on his face smudging as he watched her hesitantly move.

Her slowness irritates him. Like a raging fire, he impatiently pulls at the remnants of her clothes, tossing the crown aside like a worthless trinket.

"Why?" she whimpered, while he looked her over with delight, his gaze lingering on the scar he had given her. "Why me? Why are you doing this, Caesar?"

Caracalla stilled.

His turquoise eyes turned glassy, as if lost in thought.

"Why?" He blinked, his long, girlish lashes casting shadows over his cheeks, making him look almost vulnerable, almost innocent.

"Because I can?" he mused. "Because I want you?"

And with each word, he leaned in. His fingers wrapped around her throat, squeezing slowly, firmly,

He stared at her without malice, and that made it even more terrifying.

"Do you realize how beautiful you are?" he whispered, his breath hot against her earlobe. His grip tightened. "Do you realize how much I want you?"

His fingers pressed harder.

"The moment I saw you, all I could think about was how much I wanted to destroy you."

She gasped for air.

"You make me so angry, little bird," he murmured, his thumb brushing over her pulse, feeling it race beneath his touch. "And I desperately want to snap this fragile little neck."

She started to gasp for air, and only then did he release her, shoving her away with mockery.

"But not now, hmm? Right now, you need to be quiet, stop asking stupid questions, and fulfill your wifely duties, understood?"

She said nothing more, sitting silently, her head bowed.

"Well, no, this won’t do. This is a wedding, not a funeral! Is that how you greet your husband?" She didn’t know what to do and only raised her tear-streaked face to him.

"Turn around. I can’t stand tears."

She obeyed, turning her back to him, and immediately, he pushed her down onto the sheets, forcing her onto her elbows.

"On all fours, little bird, arch your back," he murmured, his soft palm pressing against her lower back, making her take the most humiliating position possible.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then a sharp slap against her backside made her gasp, her face buried in the sheets, quietly silencing herself out of shame. Caracalla, clearly pleased with her reaction, grabbed Cassandra’s wrist, twisting it behind her back, forcing her to arch even more and whimper like a beaten animal.

He takes her without warning, quietly exhaling with satisfaction and gripping her thigh painfully. Cassandra only lets out a stifled gasp, not even trying to pretend she enjoys it. Her body is ready to accept him; she’s wet, she can feel it—the drugs have taken effect—but her mind resists.

"See? Even a pedigreed bitch turns out to be just a bitch in the end," he coos tenderly, releasing her hand, squeezing her thighs even harder, leaving scratches on her soft skin.

From a slow, teasing rhythm and lazy purring, he shifts—harsher now, sharper. Her mind empties of all thoughts, as if it's not her hair being roughly yanked, not her shoulders and neck marred with painful bites, and as if it's not her being brutally raped right at her younger sister's wedding.

"Please, stop!" she whimpers, but he only presses her head into the sheets with his hand, continuing.

She sobs, breaking into a moan, a whimper, and then another shameful moan. Worst of all, the guests behind the door might hear it, but Caracalla deliberately pushes everything to a frenzy, to madness, not for nothing did he say he wanted to destroy her.

"This time, it’ll work," he presses his entire body against her back, squeezing her breast, his nails digging painfully into her pale skin. "Be grateful, Jupiter himself has blessed you with his seed." He makes a few more harsh thrusts, sinking even deeper, then freezes with a moan. His hand curls around her neck, forcing her to turn, and kisses her wetly, messily, breathing heavily.

Her legs tremble; she feels dirty, broken. Cassandra can imagine how she looks from the outside: covered in bites and bruises, with tangled hair and swollen lips. A whore.

"Now, now, no time to sulk!" he acts as if nothing has happened, his gaze still feverish and amused. "Now it’s time for your dear sister’s farewell, isn’t it?"

Cassandra understands that tonight will last forever and merely nods in resignation. She is dead inside.

⋆ ⋆ ☼ ⋆ ⋆

She never thought she would return to the imperial palace. Just as she never thought that, at such a young age, everything she loved would be destroyed. Nor did she think that she would ever find herself in such a position.

Cassandra waited in the tiny room, more fitting for a slave’s quarters than a place for meetings. She gazed melancholically out of the small window, hugging her shoulders.

"So it’s true."

This wasn’t the voice she had expected.

Emperor Geta seemed out of place in the shabby room, too dramatic and pompous in his expensive clothes and jewels.

"I wasn’t expecting you," she replied coldly.

"I know." He looked her over with a sharp gaze, lingering on her stomach. "But you should understand why I’m here."

With a soft clink, he placed a tiny vial on the table in front of her, and in his black eyes, she saw the reflection of death.

"What about your brother?"

"Oh, he’ll be furious, but… you know, he’s quick to forgive," Geta replied in the same melancholic tone, as if they were old friends. She might have been surprised, if not for the circumstances. Now, he had no reason to hate her.

"So, this is the end?" A sudden emptiness filled her. She wasn’t sad for herself or for the unborn child in her womb.

"It’s salvation, isn’t it?" For the first time, he seemed serious, almost like the emperors of old legends. "He won’t let you go. Caracalla loves his pets."

"And you want him to love only you?" she bitterly smirked and took the vial in her hand.

Geta’s eyes narrowed, his calm demeanor evaporating.

"You wanted to die," he said harshly. "I’m giving you the chance. And even if you don’t take it, I’ll slit your throat myself. Choose, Cassandra."

Hearing her name now felt strange. The gods had played a cruel game with her. Maybe after death, she would find peace? She opened the lid.

"You’ll be buried with honor. I’ll make sure of that," he spoke of her death as if it were nothing. And in truth, it wasn’t. The gods had no interest in mortals and their insignificant lives.

"Please, keep my sisters safe," she whispered, tears flowing down her pale cheeks as she took a sip.

"I promise," was all he said before they fell silent, staring out the tiny window.

The poison spread quickly through her body, painless. She was glad it was Geta who had done this, that he had spared her the necessity of facing Caracalla. Her head grew heavy, and she leaned against the wall, closing her eyes.

And, as if mocking her, her mind conjured the image of the second emperor.

A crimson sunset.

Red hair, red robes.

Clear, light blue eyes and that smirk.

"See you soon, little bird."

⋆ ⋆ ☼ ⋆ ⋆

Hello, my friends! Well, that’s it, the story has come to an end. I think the final is quite logical, though I can’t help but feel a little sad about it.

But for those who enjoyed my story, I have good news! I’ve been deeply inspired by a new plot featuring our ginger little scoundrel, and I’m already finishing the first chapter of a brand-new tale!

Stay tuned 💋

#emperor caracalla #caracalla #caracalla x oc smut #emperor caracalla x oc #gladiator 2 #gladiator ll #fred hechinger #joseph quinn #emperor geta #geta #caracalla smut #caracalla x oc #emperor caracalla x reader #caracalla fanfic #caracalla x reader smut #caracalla x reader #geta and caracalla

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derekhighwaytf · 8 months ago

Text

Witches and Twinks

MONDAY

The small London restaurant’s dim light flickered against the wine glasses, casting soft Merlot shadows onto George and Adam’s lips, noses, the entirety of their smug, helpless faces. This should have been the perfect pairing. They were both intellects, with high senses of self and a love for information (ie. control), and though they’d talked for nearly an hour at this point, the conversation felt more like a fencing match than the start of a beautiful new friendship—each word a parry, each retort a thrust. Adam, dressed in his sweater and khakis, leaned back in his chair with a faint smile, his tone sharp but measured for every measure George tried to fling upon him.

“As much as people romanticize magic or ‘karma,’ it’s all just bullish storytelling,” Adam said, swirling the last of his drink. “Yes, Shakespeare and Marlowe write about it, but even they understood that human intellect, not divine intervention, drives our fate. Julius Caesar—perfect example. ‘The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.’ The real power lies in reason and intellect.”

George, dressed more casually in his loose-fitting green shirt, met Adam’s judgey gaze with a bewitchingly bemused smile. “Shakespeare also believed in the supernatural,” he countered. “The witches in Macbeth didn’t rely on logic to mess with the characters. Magic, fate, karma—call it what you may, but it holds an inexplicable force over more than just imagination. You’d be surprised how much control you don’t have.”

Adam chuckled, leaning forward slightly, his confidence more than bordering on just arrogance. “Macbeth? The witches merely represent internal fears and ambition every man or woman has in themselves. You can interpret them as mystical, inexplicable forces if you must, but at the end of the day, it’s Lady Macbeth’s persuasion and greed that destroy her husband. Shakespeare knew that intellect was the ultimate weapon. Magic? That’s just an excuse for weak minds like yourself who can’t handle the complexity of the human condition.”

George’s smile twitched as if he found the power not to turn Adam into the jackass he’d been acting like right then and there. “You academics, always trying to boil everything down to logic. I think you’re missing the point of the supernatural entirely. It’s not always about intellect. There are forces beyond understanding, beyond your understanding,—forces that aren’t impressed by your degrees or how many times you’ve read Troilus and Cressida.”

“An underrated work, if I say so myself.” Adam’s smirk deepened. “And yes, the mysterious ‘forces beyond understanding.’ Tell me, how do they rank next to a Ph.D. in Shakespeare? I’d be curious to know.”

George tilted his head and took a swig of his drink, his gaze softening in a way that made Adam’s need to seek scholarly validation seem hollow. “You think Shakespeare would’ve agreed with you?”

“I know he would’ve,” Adam replied, superiority painting his tone. “The entire premise of his greatest works is that humanity’s biggest downfall is ignorance, not the supernatural. He’d side with intellect.”

“Or maybe he’d side with me.” George leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a near whisper. “You don’t think Shakespeare had a little magic in him? Maybe even enough to change a man forever?”

Adam’s smile faltered slightly, a small crack in his polished confidence. “What are you getting at?”

George’s just giggled, something dark and knowing flashing behind them. “I’m saying that not everything in this world is logical, Adam. You’re sitting here, lecturing me about Shakespeare, as if your intellect puts you above magic or fate. But I could change your entire world with just a flick of my hand, and all that book knowledge would evaporate into thin air.”

Adam’s gulped, unsure whether to get up and run or call the waiter. “Magic doesn’t exist,” he scoffed. “This isn’t some fantasy. It’s reality. You want to impress me? Show me something real.”

Without hesitation, George raised his hand, a scarred palm outstretched, and without breaking eye contact, he waved it through the suddenly thickened air with an inexplicable grace. The motion was so sudden, almost imperceptible, but Adam’s reaction was immediate. His breath hitched, his confident posture writhing and wilting as his widened eyes fluttered in confusion. The polished veneer of intellectual superiority melted away as something unfamiliar and overpowering gripped him.

Suddenly, Adam found himself folded over the table, unable to look away from George. The irritation he’d felt moments before evaporated, replaced by a deep, floundering passion—something that made his heart race and his chest tighten. His thoughts scrambled, no longer sharp and clear but clouded, fogged by an overwhelming sense of need.

“I…” Adam stammered, his voice cracking slightly. “I don’t understand… what were we—?”

George shushed him, his eyes twinkling with satisfaction. “You’re not supposed to understand, love. That’s the point.”

Adam’s breath grew shallow, his pulse quickening as his gaze locked onto George, unable to break away. His mind, usually so sharp and critical, was a jumbled mess of scrambled eggs. Everything he knew, everything he prided himself on, suddenly felt distant, irrelevant. All that mattered now was George—his voice, his presence, his timeless beauty. George was Adam’s everything now.

“You’re…” Adam’s words trailed off as his hand reached across the table, trembling. “You’re the most incredible man I’ve ever met.” He swallowed his own tongue, choking on his own breath. “Will you marry me?”

George’s smile widened, a quiet, knowing victory in his eyes. He leaned back, looking under the table, watching as Adam’s brain couldn’t catch up to his…heart.

“And just like that,” George whispered, “all your intellect can’t stop what you feel now, can it?”

Adam blinked, his face flushed with a mix of confusion and something else, something deeper. “No… I… I can’t stop it.” He swallowed hard, his voice small, vulnerable. “I don’t want to.”

George’s eyes glittered with satisfaction. “Good,” he murmured, his voice smooth as silk. “Now, why don’t we talk about something that really matters back at your place?”

Every part of his intellectual, collected self knew better than to let this menace into his home, but all Adam could do was nod at his newfound love’s commands. And how bad could it be? All’s well that ends well, right?

Adam fumbled with the keys to his flat, his hands trembling with an erotic urgency he’d never known before. A man of his knowledge and tact would never sleep with a man so quickly, but alas, his once methodical mind, the same one that could cite King Lear on a whim, now reeled only with thoughts of George on his bed—George's lustful eyes, George’s sweet cock, George's very presence seemed to fill every emotional crevice of his being. His usual restraint, his prudent superiority, was gone, replaced by a consuming need to be filled by this cunning, enchanting strange.

They stumbled inside, the door locking shut behind them. “I’ve never…” Adam’s voice cracked, and he shook his head, words failing him. “I don’t know why, but I want you, I need you. Now.”

George’s lips curled into a soft smile, almost pitying. “Not yet, love. You’re tired.”

“No, I—” Adam’s horny existence began to protest, but before he could finish, George raised his hand and with a single flick of the wrist, Adam’s body crashed into a wave of heavy and irresistible drowsiness. His knees buckled slightly, and he stumbled backward onto his bed, the fatigue wrapping itself around him like a thick, suffocating blanket. His eyelids fluttered as the last bit of resistance left him, and in moments, he was fast asleep, still in the preppy clothes that once defined him.

George stepped forward, his eyes brooding as he stood over Adam's sleeping form. His fingers trailed lightly over Adam’s temple, tracing the outline of his brow. “You’ll thank me for this one day,” George murmured, though he knew Adam couldn’t hear.

With that, George’s expression shifted from amusement to something far more dangerous. He moved to the center of the room, kneeling over, and began reciting words in Old English, his voice low and rhythmic, like a conjurer summoning something deep and ancient.

“This man doth dress in shorts of scanty seam,

But two inches, nay more, could his cloth bear.

All trousers, all pants, dare try to redeem,

Will twist and turn, yet still they'll shorten there.”

As the words slipped out from George’s lips, the change began. Adam’s legs, still clad in his conservative khakis, twitched. The fabric shimmered like glitter, rippling unnaturally, as though it had come alive beneath him. Slowly, the pant legs began to pull and pull, retracting themselves upward inch by inch. The sturdy material warped and shrank, tightening suddenly as it rose. In moments, the khakis had transformed entirely into a pair of short, nay, outrageously short gym shorts—barely two inches of inseam, leaving almost nothing to the imagination.

The fabric clung to Adam’s shivering thighs, exposing pale skin that had seemingly never seen the light of day. His knees, his nonexistent calves, everything that had been carefully covered up was now on display, with the hem of the shorts barely reaching the tops of his legs. He lay there, still sleeping, completely oblivious to the transformation.

George’s eyes gleamed as he watched his imagination solidify into reality, their bright, synthetic fabric snug against Adam’s skin. “Much better,” he whispered, stepping closer. But alas, he wasn’t done just yet.

“In tanks of muscled shape, his chest laid bare,

Neckline to navel, each nipple shall show.

Armholes so deep, their movement none can spare,

In every stride, his shirt reveals more woe.”

Another shift rippled through Adam’s sleeping body, this time around his torso. The sweater he’d been wearing—the very picture of propriety—began to distort itself, the fibers unraveling at his collar. The neckline dipped lower, and lower, and lower still, until it stopped just above his flat belly button. The sleeves, too, warped, pulling up and away from his twig-like arms until they were nothing but gaping holes that left his ribcage completely exposed. The fabric thinned as the sleeves disappeared, leaving him in a muscle tank so revealing that his nipples couldn’t help but to peek through with every slight motion.

The soft knit of his sweater had become a thin, athletic material, stretched across his chest and shoulders, barely covering anything. His once modest outfit was now reduced to something shamelessly provocative, his entire upper body on display, his pasty white skin brushing against the air with every breath.

George admired his work, his fingers drumming lightly against his thigh as he took in Adam’s new look. “Perfect,” he murmured. And yet, there was still more to be done.

“In high shoe laced, his socks pulled crisp and white,

A chain of gold doth glisten 'round his neck,

Beneath it all, a jock to fit him tight,

No other cloth for him shall fate select.”

Once again, for the final time tonight, the changes swept through Adam’s cold, lifeless body, this time starting at his feet. His Sperry boat shoes dissolved, giving way to a pair of bright white Nike hi-tops, their thick laces tied into the most perfect bows for the treadmill. The socks that appeared around his ankles pulled up snugly, reaching mid-calf, their crisp whiteness almost blending to the cream of his skin.

Next, the thinnest, most douchiest gold chain materialized itself around his bony neck, resting just above his exposed collarbone. The delicate glint of the necklace caught the light, its subtle flash at odds with the rest of his now athletic ensemble. Finally, the transformation moved beneath his shorts. His boxers melted away, replaced by a tight-fitting jockstrap that cupped him in place, offering minimal coverage and the most maximum exposure, almost as if he were a twink stripper on the Miami shore instead of the next youngest professor at Yale.

George stepped back, admiring his handiwork. Adam, once a picture of scholarly decorum, now lay before him clad in nothing but slutty gym shorts, a muscle tank that exposed far more than Adam would ever desire, hi-top sneakers, a thin gold chain, and the most illuminating jockstrap. It was absurd, provocative—and exactly as George had imagined.

For the final touch, George recited the couplet, his voice soft but firm:

“Forever cursed, his garments shall remain,

In shorts, in tanks, he'll live his life in vain.”

With those words, the spell was sealed. No matter what Adam touched, no matter how hard he tried, every article of clothing would morph into this same, revealing outfit. George smiled, satisfied, and took a seat in the armchair across from Adam. He watched him for a moment, sleeping so peacefully despite the irreversible change that had just taken place.

But as the night crept on, George allowed himself to sleep too, a smirk still resting on his lips as he lied next to his creation. Tomorrow, when Adam awoke and his spell of infatuation wore off, George knew that’s when the real fun would begin.

TUESDAY

“AHHHH!” Adam woke up, his heart racing as the morning light shone onto his hungover face. His body felt strange, but his mind was far more disturbed. The events of the previous night seemed fragmented, cloudy—George, the strange pull, the overwhelming desire, none of it made sense. He sat up in his sheets, his eyes darting around the room, his chest heaving.

He looked beside himself and dear God, there he was. George was still asleep, draped casually across the sheets, his face peaceful in the way that seemed entirely at odds with the havoc he’d wreaked. Adam’s stomach turned. I slept with him, Adam thought, his mind spinning like a top. He clenched his fists in the sheets, his face flushed with shame. How had he let this happen? His mind, so methodical and proud, had completely failed him and allowed him to degrade himself for some vampiric twink.

Panic gripped him as he stood from the bed, only to stop mid-step when he realized a breeze he’d never felt before. His legs were bare, his thighs on full display. It was then that he noticed his reflection in the mirror across the room. His mouth fell open in shock. Gone were his conservative khakis and sweater. In their place, he wore nothing but a pair of impossibly short gym shorts, a muscle tank that exposed his chest and nipples, white socks pulled up to his calves, and, what on earth, a jockstrap? He looked at himself again and thought he looked like a child dressing up in his musclehead uncle’s clothes.

He quickly shuffled to his dresser, desperate to change out of this ridiculous, humiliating outfit before George woke up. He rifled through his drawers and pulled out a pair of khakis and a button-down shirt, but as soon as his fingers touched them, they shimmered and twisted, morphing into the same slutty gym shorts and revealing muscle tank that now clung to his body. Adam's eyes widened in horror. He threw the clothes aside and reached for another pair, only for the same thing to happen. Every single item he touched—his jeans, his sweaters, even a pair of pajamas—all transformed into the same jock-bro ensemble.

“What the fuck?” Adam muttered under his breath, the frustration building. His heart pounded as he rifled through his now everchanging closet, grabbing hangers and tossing clothes aside in a frantic attempt to find something—anything—that wouldn’t transform. But everything he touched met the same fate, shrinking and twisting into the cursed, douchebag outfit.

Behind him, he heard a soft laugh.

George finally awoke, sitting up in bed, arms crossed, a lazy smirk plastered on his face. “Having trouble love?”

Adam spun around, his face flushed with fury. “What the hell is this?” He gestured to his outfit, his voice rising. “What did you do to me?”

George laughed again, softer this time, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “What’s wrong? What happened to the complexity of the human consciousness or whatever bullshit you were spewing last night?”

“Magic?!” Adam’s voice cracked with a mixture of disbelief and anger. “Is that what you’re blaming this on? You can’t be serious!”

“Oh, but I am, love.” George stood, casually pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it aside. “Oh, come on. Don’t you like your new look? I think it suits you.” He took a step closer, his smirk growing wider. “And honestly, after all that big talk, I would’ve thought you’d handle a little transformation with more grace.”

Adam clenched his fists, his voice shaking with rage. “This isn’t funny, George! Somehow you’ve made me look like some jock-bro idiot. What the hell am I supposed to do like this? Just tell me what you did!”

But George’s expression darkened. “You still don’t get it, do you?” His voice dropped, the playful tone gone. “You can’t just insult me, mock what I believe, and expect no consequences.” He took another step forward, his brooding eyes locking with Adam’s. “You wanted to prove your intellect was above everything—above magic, above fate. But you’ve proven nothing except how small your mind really is.”

“Small?!” Adam barked. “The only thing small here is you, you psychopathic, egotistical—”

But before Adam could finish, George’s pupils flashed with anger. He raised his hand, the air around him seeming to hum with energy. “Careful what you say next,” George warned. “Or you might not like what comes next.”

Adam’s lips parted, the insult on the tip of his tongue, but he hesitated. His pride warred with his common sense, but he couldn’t stop himself. “You’re nothing but a dumb fucking slut."

Suddenly, quiet filled the room as the words escaped Adam’s quivering lip, but once he got himself collected, George’s voice rang out in outrage, calm, yet oh-so commanding.

“This man shall bear a curse of feet most foul,

With stench of sweat, his socks shall rot and tear.

His pits shall reek, his skin a pungent scowl,

Athlete’s rot shall mar each inch laid bare.”

Adam barely had time to register what George had said before a horrifying sensation crept up from his feet. He looked down, his newly acquired hi-tops feeling unnaturally damp. His socks, once crisp and white, were now soaked with sweat and dirt, clinging to his wretched skin. He wrinkled his nose at the sudden, overwhelming odor that wafted up from his shoes. It was rancid—like rotting toe cheese mixed with mildew and and an ocean’s worth of sweat. His feet itched uncontrollably, the skin burning as if something was crawling beneath it.

At the same time, his armpits began to burn and sting. He reached up instinctively, only to pull his hand back in disgust. His armpits were slick with a salty wetness, and the stench hit him like a punch to the gut—thick, sour, and overwhelming. It was as if he hadn’t showered in weeks, months even. His face flushed with embarrassment as the realization set in: his body reeked. His feet, his armpits—every part of him was drenched in sweat and stench, a walking cloud of filth.

“What the—?” Adam staggered back, staring at George in disbelief. “What did you—?”

But George wasn’t finished. He raised his hand again, his eyes gleaming with a dark satisfaction.

“This man shall itch where modesty once laid,

His bush shall grow, his groin a scratching hell.

He’ll fight in vain to stop his hands’ parade,

As arse and crotch demand his touch as well.”

And just like that, a sharp itch exploded itself across Adam’s groin, so intense that he doubled over in shock. His fingers flew to his waistband, instinctively trying to scratch the burning sensation beneath his jockstrap. The itch was so unbearable, spreading across his groin and into his backside, radiating like fire near his hole. No matter how hard he tried to resist, his hands were drawn to the sensation, scratching furiously, desperate for relief.

But there was none. The more he scratched, the worse it got. His fingers dug into the fabric of his shorts, and soon, he was practically clawing at himself, unable to stop. His face flushed red with embarrassment. The itch was maddening, and it didn’t care about decorum or propriety. Weak, he was scratching himself in front of George, his hands running over his crotch and ass, completely helpless against the overwhelming need for relief.

“Stop this,” Adam gasped, his voice shaking as he continued to scratch. “Please, stop.”

But George only smirked, his voice calm as he began the next quatrain.

“Each hour, his body shall release its gas,

With burps and farts to shake the very air.

No matter where he goes, no lad or lass

Will dare endure the odors he’ll declare.”

Before Adam could breath in, his stomach rumbled violently. His eyes widened in horror as his body took over, an enormous belch ripping from his throat, so loud it echoed through the tiny studio. A second later, a foul-smelling fart exploded from him like a cloud, the stink so pungent it nearly knocked him back.

“No—” Adam gasped, but his body betrayed him again. Another belch, followed by another fart and another burp, and yet another fart. The stench filled the room, thick and nauseating. His face turned crimson as he stumbled back, his hands flying to his mouth as if he could stop the sounds from escaping, but it was no use. Every few seconds, another belch, another fart, the air around him quickly becoming unbreathable.

George watched, amused, as Adam staggered, his eyes wide with humiliation. He raised his hand one last time, his voice soft and final.

“This man of filth, of shame, of rank decay,

Shall live apart from grace, in filth to stay.”

With that, George turned toward the door, leaving Adam in the haze of his own stench, his body a twisted caricature of everything he once prided himself on. The smell of his own filth lingered in the air, heavy and oppressive, but it was the itching, the relentless belching, and the horrible farts that kept him anchored to the spot. His whole body was a battlefield of sensations he couldn’t control. His intellect, once his greatest weapon, felt utterly useless now.

He staggered toward the bathroom, desperate to scrub away the grime of his new persona. He turned on the shower, hoping the water would wash away the stench and the shame. But as soon as the water hit his body, it did nothing. The sweat, the reek from his armpits and feet, even the itch in his groin—it was all still there, clinging to him like a second skin.

After multiple futile attempts, he stared at his reflection in the fogged mirror. His eyes were bloodshot, his face flushed from scratching and embarrassment. His once carefully maintained hair was now matted with sweat, and his body, encased in the ridiculous bro-ey outfit, made him look more like a lazy frat boy than a Ph.D. candidate.

Adam threw on a hoodie, hoping it might cover up some of the smell, and pulled the hood over his head, trying to obscure himself. He couldn’t just stay home. He had a meeting with his professor that afternoon—he had to go. He had to maintain some semblance of normalcy, even though nothing about this felt normal.

As he left the apartment, he became acutely aware of the looks he was getting from people on the street. Some wrinkled their noses, others shot him a glance before quickly looking away. His footsteps echoed in his ears, punctuated by the sound of another loud fart escaping him, followed by a huge, gut-shaking belch. The smell followed him like a shadow, and the itch in his groin was impossible to ignore. He scratched absentmindedly, wincing as he did, but the relief only lasted a second before the itch came back with renewed intensity.

The closer he got to campus, the more nervous he became. His body wouldn’t stop betraying him—every few steps, another belch, another fart, another desperate scratch of his groin and butt. He could feel the sweat pooling beneath his shirt, the odor rising with it. He pulled his hood tighter over his head, hoping to disappear into himself, but nothing could hide what was happening to him.

By the time he reached his professor’s office, he was a mess of nerves. He stood outside the door, trying to compose himself. You can do this, he thought, even as his body itched and groaned in protest. But the second he stepped inside, the look on his professor’s face told him everything.

“Adam,” Professor Wilson said, his voice hesitant as he looked up from his desk. His nose wrinkled almost immediately, and Adam saw him discreetly glance toward the window as if considering opening it for fresh air. “Are… are you feeling alright?”

Adam swallowed hard. “I—I’m fine,” he lied, but even as the words left his mouth, another loud belch erupted from his throat, followed by the unmistakable sound of another fart. The air around him was thick with the stench, and he could see the professor’s face go pale with disgust.

Professor Wilson stood abruptly. “Perhaps we should reschedule,” he said, clearly trying to hold back his revulsion. “It seems like you’re not… in the best condition today.”

“I can explain—” Adam started, but even as he spoke, his hands betrayed him again, scratching furiously at his groin and rear, the itch unbearable. He tried to stop, tried to keep himself composed, but his body had other ideas. Another belch, another fart, each more embarrassing than the last. The smell in the room was unbearable, and Professor Wilson’s eyes were wide with a mix of pity and horror.

“Adam, I think it’s best if you go home and take care of… whatever this is,” Professor Wilson said, his voice tight with discomfort. “We’ll discuss your dissertation another time.”

Adam’s face burned with shame as he nodded stiffly, his throat too tight to speak. He turned and left the office, another loud fart escaping him as he hurried down the hallway. The students he passed gave him wide-eyed stares, some covering their noses, others whispering and laughing as he stumbled past them. Each new step felt heavier, the weight of the day pressing down on him, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t escape the nightmare his life had become.

By the time he could finally make it back to his apartment, he was utterly defeated. His body reeked, the itch in his groin had only gotten worse, and his belly was constantly churning with the pressure of more belches and farts waiting to erupt. He kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto his bed, burying his face in his pillow. The day had been a disaster—there was no way he could continue like this.

As the evening settled in, Adam lay there, his mind racing even as his body continued to betray him. He had to find George. He had to fix this. There was no other option.

He couldn’t live like this—he couldn’t endure the stares, the laughter, the humiliation. His career, his entire life, was at stake. With each itch, each stench, each belch and fart, he felt his old self slipping further away, and he was terrified of what he would become if this continued.

With a heavy sigh, Adam closed his eyes. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, he would find George and demand that he fix what he’d done. Tomorrow, he would get his life back.

WEDNESDAY

Adam sat desperate against his pillow and his headboard, his phone clutched in his hand, staring down at the screen with a sense of failure. The stench from his armpits, the itching in his groin, the endless belches and farts—everything had become so utterly unbearable. The reflection he caught in the mirror was still that of the cursed gym rat, his outfit vulgar and ridiculous against his scrawny body, the stink so thick it began to cling to the walls of his flat.

He began typing. His fingers trembled slightly as they tapped against the glass, carefully crafting the text to George. His pride screamed against it, but he was out of options. He couldn’t live like this, not anymore.

"Hey George,

I’ve been thinking a lot…and I just wanted to say how sorry I am. I was so out of line, and I didn’t mean to insult you or dismiss what you believe. I get it now—there are things beyond intellect, beyond control, and��beyond me. I was wrong, and you were right. There. I should’ve believed in magic instead of trying to mock it. Please, is there anything I can do to fix this? I don’t want to keep living like this, I just can’t."

He hesitated for a moment before hitting send, his stomach twisting into a knot of hope and dread. Adam tossed the phone onto his bed and laid back, staring at the ceiling as the minutes stretched into hours. Every itch, every foul-smelling fart reminded him of his new reality. He tried to distract himself—cleaning the apartment, watching plays on Youtube, attempting to focus on some new Shakespearean analysis—but nothing worked. The stench hung in the air like a punishment, stuck to him no matter what.

By midday, Adam’s hope had started to wither into nothingness. George wasn’t going to respond. He probably didn’t even care. Maybe this was it—maybe this revolting, humiliating state was his life now. He sighed, dragging his hands through his sweaty hair, glancing toward his phone again. Still nothing. He swallowed the lump in his throat and paced around room, fidgeting with his bro clothes that clung to his now lean body like a cruel joke.

Bzzzz.

Adam rushed to his phone, his heart thudding against his chest as he unlocked the screen. A message from George appeared, and his breath caught.

“Curses can’t be undone, love.”

Adam’s face flushed with frustration. His jaw clenched as he stared at the words. All of that groveling, all of that begging, and this was the response? He typed furiously, his anger bubbling to the surface, but before he could send anything back, another message appeared.

“But I must admit. I didn’t think you would actually say that. Honestly, I really appreciate the apology. Why don’t call it even, huh? Why don’t I give you a gift?”

Adam blinked at the screen, his anger slowly dissipating into confusion. A gift? What kind of twisted gift could George possibly mean? If it was anything like the last, then he could keep it. But before he could protest, another message filled the screen.

“His arms, like oaks, doth stretch from end to end,

With strength to lift the world or crush its weight.

Their power matched with beauty none can fend,

Two mounds so vast as sunset’s final state.”

As Adam read the words, he felt a sudden warmth spread through his arms. Not again, he thought, but then his eyes darted down in alarm as his previously thin, lanky arms twitched, then bulged. He watched, wide-eyed, as his biceps began to swell, the muscles rippling and bubbling beneath his skin. The skin of his arms grew tight, barely able to contain the massive growth. His once scrawny arms were transforming into huge, muscular limbs—so strong, they looked like they could crush stone with a single flick.

He flexed experimentally, his new muscles hardening themselves like marble. His biceps were enormous, so large they cast a shadow on his bony torso. He stared in disbelief at his own body, feeling an unfamiliar surge of power rush through him.

His phone buzzed again, another text:

“His chest, like breasts of Venus round and great,

Two orbs of strength that push against the day.

Each pect’ral it’s own ball upon a beach,

So full, so firm, none dare to turn away.”

Adam’s gaze shifted down towards his chest, and once again, he felt the same warm, tingling sensation spread across his torso as he began to feel an unnerving top heaviness. His pecs swelled, pushing against the straps of his tank top until the neckline stretched even lower than before. His chest ballooned outward, each pec growing into a massive, rounded mound of muscle, firm and solid beneath his skin. His nipples presented so visibly, his chest now so large it jutted forward, casting a shadow over his barren stomach.

The weight of his new pecs made him feel even more powerful, even more in control. He couldn’t stop staring, watching the way his body filled out, how his once-flat chest had been replaced by two enormous mounds of muscle that jiggled involuntary with every breath. They were so big, so round, they almost looked unnatural—but Adam loved it nonetheless.

Another text…

“His stomach, carved like canyons deep and wide,

Each groove a trench, each line a valley low.

His legs, like trunks of ancient oaks abide,

With strength to stand through storm and sun and snow.”

Adam’s abdomen contracted, the sensation rippling through his core. He watched as the muscles on his stomach began to etch themselves into deep, chiseled grooves. His once-flat belly was now an eight-pack, every ridge and line so pronounced it looked like his abs had been carved out of granite. His waist boxed in, accentuating the sheer mass of his chest above and the powerful definition below.

His legs were next. His thighs bulged beneath his gym shorts, the muscles expanding rapidly, filling out with every second. His calves thickened into pillars of strength, his quads growing into enormous slabs of meat that made his legs look like logs. He was massive now, his entire body transformed into something that looked like it had been sculpted by the god Zeus himself.

The final couplet arrived, and as Adam read the words, he felt the last part of the transformation taking hold:

A man’s man, dominant, in every stride,

With looks that none, not man nor beast, can hide.”

As Adam gazed into the mirror, his eyes widened in awe. His reflection had changed entirely. He stood there, towering, his body brimming with strength and raw masculinity, as if he’d eaten raw eggs every day of his life since he was ten. His jawline was sharper, his posture more commanding, and the way he looked—it was undeniable. He was an alpha now. He demanded attention, respect, and desire. The smell, the stink that had once plagued him—it didn’t matter. His overwhelming physicality eclipsed all of it.

Adam grinned, a wave of confidence crashing over him. This was power. This was control. He grabbed a jacket, still feeling the massive stretch of his biceps as he slipped it over his shoulders, and headed out.

At the nearest gay bar, the moment Adam walked in, all eyes were on him. His broad shoulders and massive arms filled out his jacket in ways that left little to the imagination. He could see heads turning, guys sneaking glances at his hulking frame, his thick pecs nearly busting through his shirt. He walked up to the bar, and within seconds, a couple of older men sidled up to him, their eyes wide with interest.

One of them, a trucker looking man with salt-and-pepper hair and the crustiest mustache, leaned in, his voice low. “You’re looking good, boy. Smell like man too. Why don’t you let me buy you a drink?”

Adam wrinkled his nose slightly. The man was old, rotund, and ugly. He could do better, much better. “No thanks, ..sir,” Adam replied coldly, his voice deeper and more commanding than he remembered. The man’s face fell slightly, but Adam didn’t care. He was too busy reveling in the attention, in the way every guy in the bar seemed to be watching him, wanting his body.

As the night wore on, more and more guys approached, trying their luck with him. But none of them were good enough for Adam. He was an alpha now—he could have anyone he wanted, and the more he held out, the more they wanted.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow, he would go see George again. If George can do this for him. There’s no telling what else he could get out of the witchy twink.

THURSDAY

Adam took the tube immediately once he awoke and stood in front of George’s door, the weight of his muscular new form making him feel absolutely invincible. His inflated biceps and thick chest on the reflective glass of the door fed his ever growing ego, but deep down, he couldn’t help but shake this nagging doubt. George had done this to him—made him into a walking Marvel superhero, sculpted from stone, pure lust, and raw, unadulterated power. But was it enough? No, Adam wanted more. Needed more.

He knocked, his hairy knuckles bristling past the door handle. The first time he’d sought George, he’d dismissed the supernatural as nonsense. Now, with the power of George’s magic coursing through his sculpted body, Adam was ready to claim yet another piece of it. But this time, he knew he had to play his cards just a tad bit differently.

The door creaked open, and there stood George, his face shifting from surprise to a soft, almost suspicious smile. “Adam,” George purred. “Back so soon?”

Adam leaned against the doorframe, his massive arms bulging as he flexed them just enough to show off the strength George had given him. “Missed me?”

George raised an eyebrow, but his gaze lingered on Adam’s tits, those enormous pecs straining against the thin straps of his bro-ish muscle tank. There was a flicker of something in George’s eyes—desire, interest, maybe even a sliver of actual emotion, something he hadn’t felt in centuries. Adam noticed, and he played into it, taking a step closer, his voice low and smooth.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” Adam said, his hand grazing George’s arm. “About I’ve been thinking about just how much I owe you for this body, for… everything.”

George tilted his head, still guarded. “And what exactly do you want this time, Adam?”

“I don’t want anything,” Adam replied, his lips curling into a seductive smile. “Just you.”

He moved closer, his muscular frame dwarfing George’s, his presence overwhelming in the cramped air of the doorway. George hesitated for a moment, but Adam’s hand slipped to the nape of George’s neck, pulling him in with surprising gentleness. Their lips met, slowly melding together, turning into something hotter, far more dangerous. Adam’s thinly veiled cock rubbed against George’s abs as his walls came crumbling down, and for the first time, Adam felt the subtle shift in power—he had George, really had him.

The day blurred into heated moments, their bodies tangled in sheets and sweat. Adam was relentless, his new body a weapon of seduction, and George, for all his magic, succumbed to the raw physicality of it. They moved together with an intensity that neither had expected, sucking, fucking, and by the time they lay spent, George was quiet, staring at Adam with something akin to affection.

Adam, however, was already thinking ahead. He turned to George, still catching his breath. “You’ve got power, George. Magic.”

George giggled with a flush. “You’re just saying that.”

But Adam turned cold. “I want more of it.”

George’s face darkened. “What exactly are you asking for, Adam?”

Adam grinned, his arrogance returning now that the heat of the moment had passed. “Whatever gift you think I deserve. You’ve given me all this, how can I doubt your judgment, my sweet baby. My love. I’ll leave it up to you. Surprise me.”

George’s expression shifted from curiosity to something more guarded, his eyes narrowing as he watched Adam’s smug face. “Anything I want, huh?”

Adam shrugged, confidence oozing from every pore. “I trust you.”

George sat up, his fingers trailing along Adam’s broad chest as if considering his next move. For a long moment, he said nothing, then with a quiet, deceptive murmur, he recited:

"A man so well endowed, his length shall grow,

Eight inches, thick as snake in fabric’s cage,

His buttocks firm, a perch for all to show,

A bubble round to seat him firm with age."

Adam’s goosebumped body tingled immediately, the familiar warmth of transformation spreading through his lower regions. He let out a low, grunty moan as the sensation deepened, his cock thickening and lengthening under his teeny tiny shorts. Diameter growing as his ass tightened, the muscles swelling into perfect, round bubbles that pushed him slightly upward in the bed. He grinned, looking down at himself, clearly satisfied with George’s work.

“That’s more like it,” Adam murmured, his hands roaming over his newly enhanced assets. The heft of his cock felt incredible, and his ass, firm and plump, made him sit taller, more confidently. “I can’t wait to use this out in SoHo.” He turned to George, expecting more praise, more lust, but George’s face remained unreadable.

Then, George’s voice darkened, and he continued the sonnet.

"But this thick snake shall rise and never fall,

In constant stand, no peace, no quiet still.

His rounded arse shall breathe and stretch at call,

Each muscle loose, no seat can meet its will."

Adam’s smile faltered, confusion flickering in his eyes. The change happened so quickly—his cock, now a monstrous length, hardened immediately, pushing insistently against the fabric of his gym shorts. It throbbed, always erect, always at attention, with no sense of relief. He shifted uncomfortably as his ass, once firm and perfect, started to feel strangely loose towards the center. It twitched and clenched on its own, the muscles stretching and relaxing without his control, as if it was becoming an underground tunnel.

“Wait, what the—?” Adam stammered, sitting up, his hand moving to adjust his cock, but it wouldn’t soften. His asshole kept opening with a subtle, almost breathing sensation that made him feel unstable, as if he could fit a tube station in there.

George smirked, watching the realization dawn on Adam’s face. “Not quite what you expected, is it?”

Adam’s panic grew as he tried to stand, but the constant, unrelenting erection made every step uncomfortable. His ass moved with a will of its own, making it impossible for him to walk without awkwardly adjusting himself.

“Stop this,” Adam demanded, his voice sharp with fear. “Fix it!”

But George continued, his voice soft, but with a cutting edge:

"For every man he sees and thinks of thus,

A need shall spark, his body shall obey.

Two seconds more, his lips will ask with trust,

And if they say ‘yes,’ he cannot turn away."

Adam’s eyes widened in horror as the words sank in. The change was immediate. His mind, sharp and calculating, suddenly snapped. The second he looked at George, an overwhelming desire flooded him. He took a step forward, his voice trembling.

“George, I—” He swallowed, trying to fight the words that wanted to spill out, but they escaped anyway. “I want you… I need you. Please, let’s do it again.”

George’s smirk faded into something almost pitying as he stepped back, shaking his head. “No.”

Adam blinked, the refusal shocking him, but the need remained. His body trembled with desire, the thought of George sending his blood rushing. He reached out, desperate. “Please, I can’t—”

But George stood firm. “This is what you wanted, Adam. You wanted the magic. Now you’ve got it.”

Adam’s desperation turned into panic, the uncontrollable lust gnawing at him as he realized what had happened. “Please, you have to stop this! I can’t live like this!”

George’s eyes softened, but his voice remained firm. “If you never see me again, I can never curse you again. Plain and simple.”

Adam’s heart pounded in his chest, the weight of the curse pressing down on him. He had no choice. He nodded stiffly, his voice shaking. “Fine.”

Without another word, he fled the apartment, the constant throbbing in his pants making every step unbearable, as if he were walking with a third leg. His ass twitched, loose and awkward, making him shift with every movement. He tried to keep his eyes down, avoid seeing anyone, avoid thinking about anyone. But as he neared his flat, he saw him—the old, fat man from the bar, the one with the crusty mustache he’d brushed off so easily the night before.

Adam’s eyes locked onto him, and the thought, just two seconds, crossed his mind. The change was instant.

“Hey,” Adam called out, already relieving his itchy erection, his voice unabashed from shame. “You wanna fuck me?”

The man’s eyes widened, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Yeah, I do. Let’s go boy”

Before Adam could stop himself, he moved closer, his body betraying him. They ended up in Adam’s flat, the humiliation sinking deeper as he stripped down, his body moving on its own, giving in to the fat man’s cock. Every moment was pleasure, the curse forcing him to enjoy it all. As the man’s fingers roamed into his hole, Adam’s cock stood painfully erect, his ass twitching and clenching, unable to resist the pleasure.

By the time it was over, Adam lay in bed, the old man’s snores filling the room. He stared at the ceiling, the weight of his actions crushing him. He hated it. He hated the curse, hated George, hated himself. But as he thought back to the encounter, a sickening sense of satisfaction settled in his chest.

Maybe this was who he was now. He’d become the horny, bro-ish slut he’d always railed against.

But hey, at least he still had his wits about him.

“You wanna go again,” he asked the sleeping bear.

He awoke. “Fuck yeah I do.”

FRIDAY

Adam groaned, his body still humming from the night before, shifting slightly in his bed, the weight of his smelly, bulging muscles pressing against the mattress in ways that felt less and less alien. The stench of sweat and sex clung to the sheets like a cruel reminder, but what gave him the most relief was that the old mustached bear, the fat man who had taken him, or he’d taken in, last night, was gone, leaving Adam with what few shreds of dignity he had left. For but a brief moment, Adam felt a glimmer of his old smart self, something buried deep beneath the layers of this cursed, grotesque transformation.

He brought himself up slowly, running a hand through his cum-soaked, dampened hair, trying to ignore the disgusting aire of musk that followed him everywhere. The night’s events replayed slowly in his mind, and each moment sent waves of heat rolling through him. He was disgusted with himself, yet somehow also satisfied. As much as he wanted to shake off the craziness of last night, something darker tugged within him—or instead, someone. Someone he couldn't control.

George.

The mere thought of him, that witchy smile, made Adam's heart pump and race. He tried to resist it, clenching his fists as he paced around his tiny studio. No. He wouldn’t give in. Not again. But the more he fought it, the stronger the curse became. His cock twitched in his shorts, eternally hardening more and more, his mind clouded with an overwhelming desire as he let out a massive burp. It was George. He needed George. He needed to see him, fuck him, even if it meant more and more of these horrible, disfiguring changes.

Without even realizing what he was doing, Adam was out the door, heading toward George’s place. His brain screamed at him to turn back, to stop this madness, but his feet kept moving, each step heavier with the weight of inevitability. He arrived at George’s door, his heart pounding so hard it echoed in his ears. Before he could second-guess himself, he knocked.

The door creaked open, and there stood George, the same knowing smile curling on his lips, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Back so soon?” George asked, voice dripping with mockery.

Adam swallowed, his throat tight. His body screamed with need, the throbbing in his pants unbearable. “I… I need to fuck you,” he stammered, the words barely making it out. His muscles tensed, his breath shallow. “Please, George. I just want to stick my-”

“No.” George’s tone was sharp, cold. “I warned you, Adam.”

Adam froze, his heart sinking. Panic flooded his chest. “No, wait, I… I—” He turned to flee, the humiliation too much to bear, but George’s voice stopped him dead in his tracks.

“You’re not going anywhere,” George said softly, a cruel edge to his voice. With a flick of his hand, Adam’s body locked in place, muscles freezing as though they were held by invisible chains. Adam’s eyes widened in fear as George circled him like a predator, his gaze sweeping up and down Adam’s massive form.

“You could’ve been so wonderful, Adam,” George whispered, his fingers trailing across Adam’s rigid biceps. “If only you weren’t so obsessed with being better than everyone else.” George stopped in front of him, his eyes gleaming. “But don’t worry. I’m going to fix that.”

Adam’s heart pounded in his chest, his giant mind racing with panic. He tried to move, to speak, but nothing worked. He was trapped, helpless, his body at George’s mercy. And then, George began to recite.

“This man, with wit so sharp, shall find it dull,

His tongue to fail at words with length and grace.

In single beats, his speech doth make him full,

No thought can break the barrier of his face.”

Adam’s head buzzed as George’s words sank into his soul. He tried to protest, to say something, anything, but when he opened his mouth, all that came out were simple, one-syllable words, clumsy and slow like the dumbass he used to make fun of, the one he was about to become. “Wh-what… you… do…?” he stammered, struggling through each word. His brain felt like it was being squeezed, cell by cell, every attempt to say something even somewhat intelligent or complex was met with a foggy, impenetrable wall.

“No… more…” he managed, but even that felt like a battle. His tongue stumbled within his mouth, his speech slurring as the magic took further hold. Adam’s face twisted in frustration, but there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t even think of a word longer than one syllable. His mind was trapped in this humiliating simplicity, a far cry from the sharp intellect he once wielded.

George smiled, watching the struggle unfold with sadistic delight. “You’re already looking more like yourself, love.” He continued, his voice low and melodic.

“A jaw so slack, it barely knows its place,

His mouth hangs wide, flies wander through the door.

With 'duh' his mind reflects upon his face,

A smile so dumb, he trusts each word, what's more.”

As the next words spread themselves throughout the air and landed onto Adam’s face, he felt his jaw slacken into a relaxed position, the muscles in his face going completely limp. His mouth hung open, agape, his lips parting into a dumb, vacant expression. He could feel the cold air tickling his teeth as a small, stupid smile crept onto his face. He tried to close his mouth, to tighten his jaw, but it wouldn’t obey him. No matter how hard he tried, it remained slack, open, like a door left ajar.

Flies buzzed around, and before he knew it, one flitted into his mouth. He barely registered it, too dazed, too numb to even care. His face felt frozen in that idiotic grin, his eyes glazed over. Worse yet, every word George said sounded so… true. Every part of him wanted to believe whatever George told him, his gullibility sinking deep into his bones.

Adam’s mind screamed at him to resist, to hold onto what was left of his pride, but that part of him was fading fast. His lips, still curled in a stupid smile, parted again. “Uh… yeah, right…” he muttered, barely able to form coherent thoughts. His voice sounded thick and dopey, like it belonged to someone else, someone who couldn’t even spell Shakespear.

George’s voice softened, almost tender. “See, isn’t that easier? No more thinking, no more overcomplicating things. Just smile, and trust whatever I, or anyone tells you.”

Adam’s heart pounded in his chest, but his mind couldn’t focus. His thoughts were slipping away, replaced by something far simpler, far more primal.

“His thoughts now cloud with only two desires,

To lift, to bed, these things alone will stay.

His mind a fog, of neither will it tire,

And all else fades, in gym and bed to play.”

With those words, haze descended over Adam’s mind. Thoughts, once sharp and filled with wit, were now muddled, clouded with only two overpowering urges. He wanted to work out. He wanted to fuck. Everything else—his career, his pride, his intellect—faded into the background, meaningless, never to be seen again.

Images of bench presses flashed into his shrinking mind, the sensation of cold iron in his sweaty hands, the strain of his muscles as they bulged and flexed. And then there was sex—hot, mindless sex. His cock throbbed in his shorts, and the desire, the absolute need for physical release overwhelmed him, drowning out any other thought. Working out, fucking, working out, fucking, again and again and again. That was all that mattered now. Nothing else made sense, not like he could comprehend it anyways.

Adam tried to resist, to push through the fog, but alas, it was no use. His mind was too far gone, too consumed by primal urges. He let out a resonant, needy groan, his thoughts too disorganized to form any coherent plan of escape.

George watched with satisfaction as Adam’s transformation neared its end. With a triumphant smile, he delivered the final couplet.

“And now this man goes by initials who,

With knowledge slight, no higher than eight-two.”

As George’s last words took their hold, Adam felt the last remnants of his old self slip away, the final pieces of his mind shattering like glass into a distant oblivion. He wasn’t Adam anymore. He was… AJ. His name was AJ, always had been. That dumb, jockish grin became permanent across his face as his old life rewrote itself. His memories, once filled with scholarships, academic debates, tragedies and comedies, were now replaced by scenes of the gym, of flexing in front of the mirror, of fucking nameless faces in dark, sweaty backrooms.

His chest swelled with pride at the thought of lifting those heavy weights, of feeling the burn in his muscles as he pushed himself harder and harder. His thoughts were no longer burdened by complicated ideas or big words. They were simple, direct. Lift. Fuck. Repeat. That was it.

AJ blinked, his slack jaw hanging open as he stood there in front of George, his once bright mind now dim, sluggish, and focused only on the most basic of desires. His body reeked of fart and musk, his mind a tangled mess of lust and primal urges. His life as Adam, the intellectual, was gone. All that remained was AJ, a dumb, slutty, smelly jock.

George stepped back, admiring his handiwork as AJ smiled dumbly at him, his eyes empty, his brain no longer capable of critical thought. “You look perfect, AJ,” George said, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

AJ’s grin widened, his thick tongue lolling slightly as he scratched at his crotch. “Th-thanks… bro,” he slurred, his voice deep and stupid.

“You’re a good boy, aren’t you?” George murmured, tilting AJ’s chin up so their eyes met.

AJ’s smile grew even wider, his lips twitching as he struggled to form words. “Yeah, bro,” he said, his voice slow and thick. “I’m… real good.”

George couldn’t help but laugh. AJ was exactly what he had imagined—empty-headed, obedient, and driven by nothing more than his primal instincts. “You won’t be needing any of those big words anymore, will you, AJ?” George asked, his voice dripping with condescension.

AJ shook his head, his brow furrowing slightly as if even that small movement required a great deal of effort. “Nuh-uh,” he mumbled. “Big words are… uh… too hard.”

“Exactly,” George said, patting AJ’s cheek lightly. “And from now on, you’re going to live a very simple life. No more worrying about being better than anyone else. No more trying to prove how smart you are. You’ll be much happier this way. Just working out, fucking, and doing whatever you’re told.”

AJ nodded slowly, his thick muscles pulling and rippling beneath his skin as he flexed unconsciously. “Yeah, bro,” he agreed, his voice, like his mind, slow. “I like… liftin’... an’ fuckin’...”

“Now, AJ,” George said with command, “I think it’s time you head to the gym. You wouldn’t want to miss leg day, would you?”

AJ’s eyes widened slightly, the thought of working out sending a thrill of excitement through his body. “Leg day,” he repeated. “Yeah, bro. I gotta… lift.”

George smirked, watching diligently at his Frankenstein creation as AJ’s single-minded focus shifted completely to the gym. “That’s right, big guy. Go on, hit the weights, and make sure everyone sees how big and strong you are.”

AJ beamed, his dim-witted grin stretching even wider. “Gotta pump some iron.” And as AJ disappeared into the distance, George sighed, knowing the man who’d once scoffed at him, at the very idea of magic and fate was now living proof of it’s power, his entire existence rewritten by just a few simple words. George smirked, satisfied once again, and waited for the next asshole to match with him on Hinge.

AJ, meanwhile, wandered toward the gym, his thoughts a jumbled mess of anticipation and primal urges. He could feel the weight of his bulging muscles with every step, the tightness of his tank top stretching across his massive chest. The constant itch in his groin had him adjusting his shorts every few seconds, a fart always ready in the chamber, and his cock already hard at the thought of the next guy he’d meet, or the next weight he’d lift. He grinned stupidly, flexing his biceps as he prepared for the first set. “Let’s go, bro,” he muttered to himself, his voice thick with excitement. “Time to get swole.”

And with that, AJ’s transformation was complete. The man he had once been—Adam, the intellectual, the scholar—was gone, replaced by a farting, burping, simple-minded, horny, muscle-obsessed jock who lived only for the gym, for sex, and for any task any man asked for.

“Life’s good, bruh.”

#male transformation #mental change #tf story #gay tf #muscle tf #broification #iq loss #fart kink #dumber #himbo tf #himbofication

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mannyblacque · 3 months ago

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Bluesky CEO Jay Graber wore this shirt at SXSW. It was a diss directed at Mark Zuckerberg.

Last week, Bluesky put the shirt on sale and it sold out in less than an hour.

Now they have it for sale again but only for 3 days, with proceeds going to the AT Protocol developer ecosystem, the open network that Bluesky is built upon.

How do we feel about this?

#jay graber #bluesky #flashes app #jack dorsey #a world without caesars #mundis sine caesaribus #mark zuckerberg #fuck zuckerberg #fuck facebook #delete facebook #instagram #twitter #elon musk #fuck elon musk #social networks #social media #delete twitter #bluesky social

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creantzy · 2 years ago

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Lose sight of yourself

My favs love terrorizing children 😍👍

(Characters:

Nikolai Gogol from "Bungou Stray Dogs" and

Bill Cipher from "Gravity Falls"

- Summary for those who may not know GF: Bill is a cunning dream demon that makes deals with people and is able to possess someone's body if they agree to it and shake his hand. And of course he loves to toy with people psychologically-)

The background in the first few slides is a visualization of the inside of Nikolai's mind

I got this idea when I thought about Mykola's idea of freedom vs Bill Cipher's, and how they basically have what the other wants xD Canon Nikolai wants to be free from his emotions, his humanity, while Bill Cipher wants to be free from the mindscape and be able to access our world, in other words: physical freedom.

Bill is literally not human, not bound to biology, and probably has the kind of "free will" Nikolai desires, while Nikolai on the other hand has the physical freedom Bill wants- even more so than other humans thanks to his ability.

But in this one-part-comic Mykola starts out believing that it's merely his body that is the trap, until Bill Cipher makes him realise that it's not how it works. Young Nikolai in this AU viewed the concepts of "body" and "mind" as separate units where one (the mind/ soul) represents his own self and the other (the body with all its sensations and emotions) is a "prison" that his self is trapped in. However, in reality BOTH components are part of his real self, equally, and one cannot exist without the other. Losing one of them would mean to lose oneself entirely.

And well- that's what Nikolai decides to try, ultimately ending up with his canon goal:

"You're fighting against God in order to lose sight of yourself."

I hope this makes sense, I am very deep in a BSD and Gravity Falls brainrot and whenever I fixate on two things at the same time this is what happens😭

(Btw, Bill possessing Nikolai is not him achieving his ultimate goal, it's merely a step. A vessel is still just a vessel, and not physical freedom in the way he wants it.

How exactly Nikolai's body could be useful to Bill's plans is up to interpretation since it's not the focus of this mini comic xD)

Caesar, 3

A1Z26

Bill's symbol substitution

#bungou stray dogs #bungo stray dogs #bsd anime #bsd #bsd nikolai gogol #nikolai gogol #mykola hohol #bill cipher #gravity falls #crossover

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arcane-fox · 16 days ago

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Legion Profligate (1/4)

Series Summary: Caesar’s Legion is invading the Mojave Wasteland. After your unfortunate run in with their horrific atrocities, a high ranking legionary spares you for one sole purpose.

Pairing: Dark!Acacius x Female Reader Rating: Explicit 18+ MDNI WC: 8k (AO3) Chapter Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. VERY DARK. NONCON/DUBCON. Stockholm Syndrome, Explicit Smut, Violence, Power Abuse, Slavery and Forced Breeding, Age Gap, Derogatory Language, Creampies, Cum Talk, Unprotected PinV, Oral (m!receiving), Angst

Chapter I | Chapter II | Chapter III | Epilogue

Notes: This is a Fallout/Acacius crossover mini-series set during the events of Fallout New Vegas. You do NOT need to be familiar with Fallout to read this series. Huge thank you to Odi @thedilfdiaries who has been my biggest cheerleader for this series and my beta. Also huge thanks to Aly @iamasaddie for reading this over for me and giving me great feedback and courage. Endless love and gratitude to you both!

Series Masterlist | Notifs | AO3

It had been over 200 years since the atom bombs fell. The nuclear war that changed the globe forever. 200 years of radiation. Starvation. Violence. Factions splintering across the country and still fighting for the scraps of a forgotten world. A never ending fight for survival that became the new normal for every generation to come.

War never changes.

Word had spread across the Mojave that the Legion was pushing further West. The relative safeness of the settlements protected by the NCR was eroding. They had fewer soldiers to spare for protection and instead were mobilizing to protect the more important towns bordering the Colorado River and New Vegas.

Sunhollow was not a priority outpost, and the Legion could smell blood in the water. The New California Republic was struggling to hold on to its territory.

They came just before dawn's first light. At least 100 legionaries surrounded Sunhollow and the first wave charged in with spears and machetes. Snipers picked off anyone who tried to flee. Some of the citizens fought back but they were no match for the brutality that the legionaries wielded.

Just four NCR Rangers were stationed there and managed to take down several Legion soldiers with their submachine guns before they were overcome. They were quickly captured. They were gathered at the center of town and burnt alive on the pyres. Frightened townsfolk were slaughtered as they tried to run and their bodies were just left to rot with the rising sun. Everything smelt like death.

This raid was nothing but a slaughter. The men were either crucified or beaten to death. The youngest children were rounded up and enslaved. The older ones were left to share the same fate as the men. They had already been influenced by the NCR values and could never be indoctrinated into the Legion. It was not worth the risk. Unlike the tribal towns that lived peacefully without the influence of the NCR, no man at Sunhollow was given the choice to pledge their loyalty to the Legion.

The Legion referred to anyone in the NCR as profligates and used it like a filthy slur. An annoying blight to be removed and the last real opponent in their path to taking over the West. They stole nothing, instead just leaving behind an aftermath of death and blood and fear. Their numbers were growing, and their patience dwindling. Smaller Legion camps like this one had an eagerness to exterminate the outlier towns while final preparations were being made to wipe out the NCR Army once and for all.

After hearing about the atrocities at the town of Nipton where only one person was left alive, this war has progressed far beyond just disrupting supply lines and taking out NCR soldiers. They wanted to demoralize anyone left standing with the NCR and eliminate anyone who shared their values.

Personal liberties were not granted in the Legion. Everyone served Caesar and if you were to oppose you would be killed without question. The youngest and newest recruits were always used as front line attackers and many of them knowingly gave their lives for the cause, because it was what they were trained to do. Those who proved themselves were able to move up in the ranks with better weapons and armor. Loyalty was rewarded. This made the fiercest and most competent fighters the best equipped to survive.

You had learnt all about the Legion while working closely with the NCR Rangers. The only reason you were in Sunhollow was to accompany a trade caravan delivering medical supplies between outposts. You were spending a few nights resting before heading back West. The trade route was relatively safe until recent months and you knew the risks. You could handle yourself with a firearm while the mercenaries took out the big threats. Not this time. You along with everyone else in Sunhollow were not prepared for this.

Reading pre war books you had a wealth of knowledge on the Roman Empire too. You were fortunate to be raised to understand advanced literacy. While many people only knew how to read and write the bare minimum, it had become something you excelled at and leveraged in your line of work as a merchant.

A useful skill that at this moment felt incredibly useless. There was no reasoning with legionaries and being an overly educated woman was a threat more than anything. Something to keep to yourself and blend in as a cooperative and docile captive.

You dropped to your knees in a line with other “lucky profligates” that were temporarily spared. They made you watch the relentless slaughter of the townsfolk. Watching grown men cry and beg for mercy before receiving a beating or a blade to the throat. Your caravan of male colleagues had long been decimated. Being a healthy, young woman was the only thing keeping you breathing for now.

You gathered that the pair of soldiers with the red plumes fanning across their helmets were the infamous Centurions. Rising to their comfy position because of their proven brutality. Their presence here was an indication that this was more than just a raid. They seemed to be accompanying a more practically dressed legionary administering the fate of the remaining captives.

He walked back and forth along the row of women with bound hands, denoting many of them ‘unfit’. They were dragged off into the town hall by hungry wolves eager to have their way before taking their lives. Judging by the screams coming from the building, none of it was merciful.

He didn’t wear a helmet, and his armor was splattered in blood. His machete hung at his hip opposite of his sidearm, adorning his traditional looking black and gold roman armor with nuclear age weaponry. The Legion was known for following the military structure of the ancient Romans, right down to the armor.

He stood in front of the town hall, presiding over the soldiers assembling more crosses to crucify the remaining men. Observing the newly made slaves who were tossing bodies of their friends into the pyres. He looked tired of it all. Tired of wasting potential resources for the sake of spreading fear and demoralization. You caught the subtle way his expression was less enthusiastic, almost as if he found these immoral deeds repulsive. Or so you imagined. You were desperate for any sliver of hope that could save you at this point.

Acacius, you heard the other men call him. You deduced he was some sort of higher ranking Legionary. He had a red tunic with gold accents under his armor, making him stand out. His armor was more ornate, too, with a golden Medusa emblem on his chest. Golden claws decorated his pauldrons. The worn, black patina of his armor made him look menacing and regal.

“Ave, Caesar,” he said as he nodded to some of his men, appearing to give them permission to string up the unlucky souls. They did so without apprehension but his face wore a hint of disgust. It was easy to miss, but you were watching him intently.

He was older than many of the others. Grey flecks throughout his scruff and his messy, dark curls. Sullen eyes and an aquiline nose. His shoulders were broad and commanding with a more tapered waist. His arms and legs were solid with lean muscles and he exuded power from every angle. His meaty thighs proudly showing exposed flesh between the pteruges on his skirt and above his leather greaves. Legs that could chase you down in an instant. His body was built to fight and built to win with or without a weapon.

He carried himself with a confidence that his word was absolute, and to challenge him would be met with his raw strength. Everything about his presence felt powerful and unforgiving.

He was… handsome. An observation you lamented given the situation.

He kept evaluating you with intrigue and finding something about you worth keeping around for now. You couldn’t stop trying to sneak a reading on him either. It was a dangerous game, but one you couldn’t seem to withdraw from.

You also overheard one of the younger soldiers quipping quietly about his leadership. Criticizing him for sparing the lives of profligate women and children. How instead they should be slaughtering everyone to make an example, even the ones that had their uses. His eyes scanned over you as he said the last part with insinuation.

Acacius apparently heard it too, as it sparked him to take action for mocking his command.

“Hold your tongue, or you will join these bodies,” he threatened as he brandished his machete and pressed it to the soft flesh under the chin of the mouthy soldier, who cowered back. “You know nothing about building an empire.”

The soldier steadied himself, submitting only to get out of his situation. Even you could see this one was a loose cannon.

“Yes, Acacius,” he conceded with a fake docility.

“Disobey me again and it will be your last breath.” Acacius stepped forward as he spoke those words and pushed his chin upward with the blade. A trickle of blood ran down his neck as he punctured him with the tip.

His eyes caught you watching him and his face hardened, hiding any traces of morality as he sheathed his weapon. Your curiosity had overstepped and you had seen too much.

You looked away, but could still feel him on you for a moment longer. Your gaze dangerously fluttered back to him as if he was willing you to look again. His penetrating glower investigating your misplaced interest in him.

His body was still running on the adrenaline from the bloody slaughter earlier. Unlike most other men in higher ranks who still had unsullied armor, he was in the thick of it all. Ruthless and leading with brutality. He wasn’t just executing orders. He was an expert killer and didn’t happen to be in his position by accident. He demonstrated his skills in battle, and the snide comment he overheard sparked a primal rage in his core. How dare anyone question him?

It was a wishful and foolish thought to find any sympathy in the Legion. You try to look away as he steps towards you, bracing for the blade that was sure to follow.

He grabbed you by your neck and forced you to look him in the eyes. To his surprise, and yours, you met them with prowess.

His gaze caught the two-headed bear badging on your shoulder. A mark of NCR allegiance. It enraged him.

“Get up.” he barked. He towered over you as he pulled you up by your bound hands. “Make yourself useful, Profligate whore.”

Your words stuck in your throat and you were silent. He was going to make a demonstration of his savagery, at your expense.

–

You could hear some sneers coming from some of the nearby legionaries as he pushed you up the stairs and into the nearby building. They were laughing at your misfortune like savage hyenas as you were being paraded into the lion's den.

A few more legionaries were inside, forcing themselves on captive women. Out in the open, it didn’t matter to them. They were barbaric. Celebrating their victory with some casual rape and torture. It was abhorrent. They seemed to have more privilege and were able to indulge in their spoils. Their helmets resembled war bonnets, decorated in black and red feathers. Some of them wore red face wraps or darkened goggles, making them look even more menacing.

Everything about the Legion was so hierarchical and you figured they must be Decanus. Commanders under Acacius. Middle management. Leaders. Dangerous men who got away with too much and still had too much to prove to ascend even higher. At least they were easy enough to pick out.

When they saw Acacius the room tensed. He fanned his hand out to signal that there was no need to stop what they were doing. His silent command was somehow even more intimidating.

Your chest tightened and you bit your lip to stop it from quivering. This was not a fate you would wish on your worst enemy.

You turned to face him and tried to plead with a whisper, choking on your words in panic. He ignored you and pushed you into the middle of the room. You fell onto your forearms and knees, grabbing the attention of others who started to eye you like a piece of meat.

He stood above you like a conqueror and used his foot to turn you on your back to face him. His expression was cold and dutiful. That morality you swore you saw earlier was gone.

He kneeled down with his legs spread over you and pressed his body up against you. You struggled underneath him, fighting for your life as he caged you in. His hand wrapped around the front of your neck and tightly held it as he leaned over your shoulder. He spoke softly in your ear but with a vulgarity and crudeness that made you shudder.

“You can be a whore for my men, who will use you up until there is nothing left. Or, you can behave and perform your duty to me as Caesar sees fit.”

You knew what that meant. The only duty women had was to be bred to make more soldiers. You heard the horror stories. Women were not free in the Legion. Nobody was really, but women had it the worst. The healthy and docile ones were relegated to breeders and the old and young used for slave labor. All of them were property to be used by the Legion men whenever they wanted. Anyone not compliant or too smart for their own good was killed. They only needed your body, and nothing more. You were either indoctrinated into the Legion, or your life was taken.

Your survival instincts kick in as panic courses through your body. You can fight it or you can accept the hand dealt to you. The luxury of living is dangled in front of you with a cruel ultimatum that will likely end in death either way. You know for certain you are not ready to leave this world at the hands of being torn apart and defiled by multiple barbaric men.

This was just one man. One large, powerful man who was giving you a choice.

You give him what he wants and signal your obedience by relaxing your body under him. Your heart was hammering out of your chest with an obscene thud and he felt your fear pulsing through your veins. It was turning him on and you felt him swell between his legs.

The pressure on your throat left you unable to speak and he pushed against you even harder as you struggled to breathe.

“That’s a good girl,” he growled into your ear.

If you cooperated maybe it could earn you another day to live. Another day to figure out what the hell you were going to do.

His hand relaxed on your throat as he pulled back to stand up. You gasped for the air you were finally afforded. He stripped your tattered clothes off your body with little effort and flipped you back over onto your stomach.

You lay there, prone and paralyzed with your bound hands outstretched in front of you. Naked and shaking.

Acacius took off his belt and with it tossed his weapons to the side. He freed his hardness as he stepped out of his underclothes. Crudely, he spit into the palm of his hand and spread it along his cock and kneeled down between your legs.

His leather bracer slid roughly across your skin as he worked an arm under your belly to lift up your hips. He made just enough room to slide his hand over your mound and grab you with a rough hold. Blood and grime was still covering his body and the metallic, earthy smell made you recoil. You winced at the feeling of his filth making contact with you.

He propped you up on your knees with your forearms supporting some of your weight while he nestled up to the plush of your ass against his hips. His massive form looming behind you made you feel even smaller and more insignificant than you already were. You had zero leverage.

Your mind was racing. How many women had he taken in this way? How many women had chosen this same fate? How likely was it that after he fucked you he would take pleasure in killing you too?

Those thoughts fell to the wayside as his middle finger abruptly dragged into your slit, gathering your wetness. You didn’t expect your body to be preparing you like it was. Betrayal or gratitude, it made no difference.

“Mmm” he groaned as he pushed two of his fingers into your hole. “You actually want Legion cock, don’t you?”

His absurd question goes unanswered and you resent your body.

His rough, gritty digits worked you open and it couldn’t even be considered a poor excuse for foreplay. He wasn’t priming you for a good time. This was about him taking what he wanted, when he wanted and how he wanted. Prying you open so there was as a little resistance as possible when he inevitably drove into you.

He pinched at your sensitive bud to see if he could draw a sound from you and scoffed when you did, as if to mock you for reacting to his touch. He cupped your mound hard and jammed his fingers back into you, splaying them inside. He teased more pressure on your clit with the heel of his hand until he was convinced you would be able to take him. Whether you were ready or not, he would make it fit regardless. That much you were certain of.

You could feel his length getting harder against your ass. You tried to calm yourself from the panic that ensued when you realized how massive he really was as he began rutting his hardness against you. Sheathed in a needy, primal rhythm that was picking up tempo.

Deep breaths. You closed your eyes, focusing on breathing as you hung your head low and braced for what was to come. He tore his hand from you and left you empty for the briefest moment.

He wasted no time lining up his cock with your slit. The spongy head leading the way for his engorged member. Tapping it against you as he started to rut into you with fervor. Splitting you open with his thick shaft.

Your eyes went wide and you cried out with a pained mewl. Not only was he denying you time to adjust to his size, but he was so swollen with need. The girth of his cock complimented his broadness all over. The pain from the stretch seared into you like a hot knife. Your eyes tightly shut and tears fell.

He pushed you down into the floor as he fucked you. His hands clawed into your hips, trying to hold you up and pulling you into him until his weight had you pinned under him. The floorboards scraped against your skin each time he pounded into you, making your knees and elbows raw.

Your hands were clasped together in an iron grip. The rope around your wrists felt like it was getting tighter the more you struggled.

The rough leather strips of his armored skirt slapped into your skin as he thrusted, drawing his full length out and driving it back in even deeper. Again and again. Forcing himself into you and taking up all available space, greedy to make more room.

His groans were loud and animalistic. He was overcome by his nature and held nothing back. Pounding into you with ferocity. Each thrust harder and more urgent to lose himself inside you.

“Please…” you horsley pleaded to him. “Please…” you didn’t know what you were asking for, you just wanted it to be over.

You turned your head so your cheek was pressing into the floor and tried to gaze up at him. His focus on you was unwavering, boring into your soul. The darkness in his eyes had zero regard for your attempt at thwarting his intensity.

He didn’t let up.

As his cock twitched inside you felt him slow his pace, but not his force. You could feel him starting to come undone as he began knocking at your deepest parts. The tight coil in your belly started to unwind.

Fuck no, please no. You pleaded to yourself.

You resented your body for how it started to accept him inside you. Your walls clenched around his heat as he fucked you harder and harder. How could your body betray you so cruelly to give you any semblance of pleasure from such a vile man? The heavy drag of his cock against your ridges stirred something inside that you wanted to bury away, but it clawed itself out.

Despite where you were it felt like everything shrunk away and simplified. It was just two bodies fucking and teetering on the edge of bliss. Allowing your mind to escape into a place where it would be ok. A place where you could give in to the growing heat in your belly and revel in the way it washed over you.

The pretty moan that escaped your lips was enough to send him over the edge before you could choke it back. He heard you unravel. Your convulsing walls gave you away anyways, and he knew he had you. Squeezing him tightly as something dark and sinister released within.

He grit his teeth and pulsed inside you, drawing from you a whimper. You could feel his hot cum filling you up as he panted, emptying his balls and painting the depths of your cunt with his spend. He fucked it deeper inside you until he finally started to soften and still.

The room was silent except for his heavy breathing and your despondent sobs.

The tears streamed down your face as he pulled out of you and hovered on all fours over your broken body beneath him. His hand wrapped into your hair as he yanked your head up so your ear was to his mouth.

“You’ll take my cock when I give it to you,” he threatened. “I’ll fuck this profligate cunt until my cum is the only thing left inside you.”

The grip in your hair tightened as he urged you to acknowledge him. His hot breath puffed against your ear with each labored exhale.

“You hear me?” he snarled. His grip was painful on your scalp and you winced.

“Yes, Ac-” your reply trailed off, not knowing if you should dare say the name you overheard.

“Acacius.” He enunciated boldly.

“Yes, Acacius.”

Content with your reply, he pushed you back onto the floor. You laid there afraid to move or speak another word.

He redressed and adorned his weapons. Ignoring you laying there like a discarded plaything he lost interest in.

Except that, you didn’t know it, but he felt drawn to you in a way that he knew he had to have more of you. You intrigued him in a new way. You weren’t weak like the others, and you were observant. He wanted to challenge your resolve and break your spirit to succumb to him without hesitation. You saw something in him that he tried to hide away. Something inappropriate and unbecoming of a legionary in his position. Your dissolute temptation had to be snuffed out before it took hold on him and yet he couldn’t bring himself to take your life. Not yet. He had to try to tame you first. Fuck it out of you and taste your fruit before it spoiled.

You wondered why you were spared. Surely keeping someone like you alive with strong NCR convictions would be a great risk for the Legion. Maybe he wanted you to tempt him. To challenge him. Maybe it was all a game for him to see if he could turn you to his side. Or maybe he was waiting for you to fuck up so he could have his fun in new ways.

It was all too much to think about when your fate was teetering dangerously at the hands of the enemy.

“This one’s mine.” He casually commands to the other men as he walks away from your disheveled body without as much as a glance back.

Mine. The tone of how he referred to you so nonchalant replayed over and over in your head. What did that really mean for you?

Whoever he was, he had authority. You felt like you made a deal with the devil. Sold your soul and to what end?

You could feel him leaking out of you as you shifted to curl your arms against your chest and draw your legs together tightly. You wanted to shrink away and disappear. Wake up from the nightmare.

What the fuck were you going to do now? Was this your life now? To be bred and kept like livestock and bolstering the future generations of Legion until you died? The thought of such a bleak destiny made your head spin and your heart race.

You lay broken on the floor, catching your breath between tears. Feeling empty where he stretched you open. It was a hard feeling to reconcile. You had no concept of how much time had passed, only that it felt eternal, and you felt alone. Wanting for something that you couldn’t define.

None of the other legionaries touched you, but you could feel their eyes on your broken body. Feel how much they wanted to. Perverse thoughts and immoral intentions being projected at you with their hungry gaze. Leaving you there vulnerable and subdued felt as much a test to them as it was punishment for you.

You felt the tiniest comfort inside that you could not quite explain. Not gratitude, but some faded semblance of it. Acacius had been merciful in a twisted way. He stripped you of your dignity and your freedom, but he didn’t give you to the wolves.

–

One of the decanus commanders came in after some time and approached you assertively. His face was covered up with a red cloth and black goggles, and his helmet was covered in black feathers flowing backwards. He looked ready to run into battle.

He tossed a garb at you. A plain, linen dress style tunic except for a red X painted on the front. The mark of a legion slave.

He brandished his knife and reached for your wrists to cut the rope binding your hands. The marks left behind were raw and bloody.

Without your hands bound it changed very little other than some minor relief. There was no place to run and no way to escape without being hunted down in an instant. If you didn’t get picked off by a bullet, one of the mongrels would make quick work of you. Even if you somehow managed to get away, you would die in the Mojave with no supplies. Your hands were more useful to them being untethered and put to work. You weren't going anywhere.

With your new found freedom you threw the dress to the side and turned away from him, wrapping your arms around your knees to withdraw the best you could. Was he expecting you to be grateful for something to cover up with? You’d rather be naked than wear those dehumanizing rags.

What came next caught you off guard.

The sting of his hand on your cheek shocked you. He had backhanded you, holding back nothing. The delayed pain came with a vengeance and your eyes welled up with tears.

“Put it on and get outside with the others. We’re leaving.”

You did.

–

You and the few other women left were all given the same modest garbs to wear. Easy access for the taking whenever they wanted to. The thought made your stomach churn. They didn’t even give you proper footwear. You were expected to march with what were essentially socks.

You didn’t speak to the other women and they didn’t speak to you. They were all behaving compliantly. In shock from the neverending atrocities. Shells of their former selves. They had been broken too, just as you were. You didn’t know any of them from your short stay at Sunhollow and that realization further exemplified the feeling of truly being alone.

You were rounded up between two formations of soldiers and followed in line with the others as you moved out. You were given supplies to carry and you wondered how your body could possibly manage this for miles. It did, because there was no other choice.

The sight of the pyres and burning buildings reminded you how Sunhollow would be forever transformed into a desolate graveyard. Inhabitable and soon the scraps would be picked over by raiders until nothing remained but bones and ashes.

You only saw Acacius from a distance. He had cleaned up since your last encounter with him, no longer covered in blood and his armor polished. He had a crimson cape draped over his pauldrons and was positioned to the front of the march. He looked regal and intimidatingly powerful.

He was leading the Legion onward to the next place to destroy. Legionaries near him were holding red banners with the signet of the bull. Anyone within eyesight of them wouldn’t dare intervene with their march. The Legion’s reputation for cruelty and brutality made them feared by everyone.

An unexplained pit formed in your stomach. He felt so far away and unreachable. While it should be a good thing to get as far away from him as possible, somehow it felt wrong. Dangerous even. It was hard to reconcile with the way you felt.

You were safer with him than without.

Crucified bodies lined the street as you were led away from your past life. Walking towards an uncertainty. You wondered if you would be better off to be strung up like them. At least their battle was over… until you noticed a few of them still breathing and left to die in the sun with a slow and agonizing death.

You followed in line with the others, silent and defeated. Marching onward with strangers to an unknown future.

–

It didn’t take long for your intuition to be proven right.

After a full night and day of walking across the Mojave with minimal rest, the army made a proper camp for the night. Basic tents were quickly setup along with fires to cook food and stay warm. Everything was done with efficiency like a well oiled machine.

The tents were basic and simply used for sleeping quarters. No comforts other than a bedroll. A place to rest with a fabric roof over their heads. Everybody was beyond exhausted and quickly off to sleep after eating. A few guards stood on the outskirts to keep watch, but for the most part, it was quiet. Almost peaceful with the stars above looking extra bright in the night sky.

You recognized where you were from your extensive time on the road with the caravan. You were following the Colorado river, and heading closer and closer towards New Vegas; the heart of the Mojave. The place where sooner or later the big showdown between the Legion and NCR Army would come to a head. Hoover Dam and New Vegas were the big points of contention, and you had been strategically distancing yourself as things escalated. Now, that was completely unavoidable.

You and the other captives were left out in the open surrounded by tents in the cold, night air. The only comfort was the rags you were laying on and letting your feet rest. You were exhausted, and barely had time to think about it before falling asleep.

You were startled awake when you felt a cold blade graze your cheek.

Your eyes fluttered open and you started to panic and let out a shriek until the man pressed his knife across your throat, daring you to make another sound. If anyone else woke up, they pretended not to see anything.

“You think you’re special, don’t you? Well, I’m gonna see what’s so special about you myself.”

His eyes were blown out, black with evil intention. It was this time you recognized this was the same soldier that was mouthing off about Acacius earlier. You had humiliated him without meaning to, and he wasn’t going to let that go.

“No profligate is worth keeping alive, even if she’s a looker.” His tongue wet his lips and your face contorted in disgust. He was a repulsive man.

The soldier was reaching his arm up your dress and you didn’t dare move a muscle with your throat a hairline from being slit. You tightly closed your eyes and heard a loud blast. A gunshot. Hot liquid splattered on your face. Blood.

Acacius came out of the shadows and silenced the legionnaire with a single bullet to the back of his head.

His lifeless body fell to the ground with his hand still resting on your inner thigh. Running his mouth had, yet again, been his downfall. Alerting Acacius who was restless in his nearby tent, and masking his footsteps.

Your heart was pounding with adrenaline from the close call, and gratitude for your savior. You looked him in the eyes and they were dutiful. He was protecting his spoils on the outside, but you saw a glimmer of fear in his eyes if he had been too late.

Acacius dragged the body off of you and spit on his fresh corpse after he said something disapproving in a latin tongue. His insolence had reached its limit, and his now dead body was left there as a reminder that insubordination had consequences.

The commotion at this point had awoken several of the men. The prying eyes of the obedient soldiers accompanied silence. They knew better. That soldier had it coming and Acacius had swiftly ended that incident.

You locked eyes with Acacius again, and he simply nodded towards his tent and turned on his heels.

You got up to follow him, trailing behind like a lost puppy as he went back to his tent. A modest, semi-private cloth housing with nothing but a bedroll and a few supply crates. The thin door covering did nothing for sound but it provided the tiniest privacy from prying eyes.

His armor was laid near his bedroll along with his weapons. He tossed his sidearm in the pile and raked his hand down his face. He was wearing just his red tunic and looked so much more vulnerable; unarmed and frustrated.

You feared following him to his tent was overstepping, but your adrenaline high from the recent assault made you do it anyway.

“Thank you,” you gazed down, afraid to see his reaction as you approached. Afraid he would disapprove of you speaking to him.

He reached towards you cupping your chin and forcing you to look up at him while he pulled you in closer.

“No one is going to take what’s mine. Nothing more than that.”

There it was again. Mine.

His words were dismissive of what this really meant to you, but you could see through him. Now in a more private setting without the eyes of his subordinates he didn’t have to put on an act. There were cracks and an opportunity for you to explore his true intentions. Was he claiming you just for the sake of control or was there something more? He seemed brash on the surface, but underneath maybe you could strip away the noise and see what kind of a person he really was.

He let go of your chin and pulled a rag out from a water bucket by his feet. He wrang out the excess and held your face against the palm of his hand while he wiped the cloth across your cheek. The bridge of your nose. The other side. Wiping away the blood of the man who dared to touch you. He was being gentle. Tender, even. He wasn’t making eye contact, focused instead of brushing away the filth.

You watched him intently. Impossible to read, but you couldn’t deny your intuition. He had a guilty aura about him. Guilty for what the man tried to do to you, or sympathetic for bringing you into this cruel world to begin with. You were going to find out.

“Clean yourself up,” he said quietly as he handed the rag to you to finish the job. You could feel the blood still sticking on your skin and imagined you must be a sight.

You kneeled next to the bucket and washed your skin the best you could, relishing in the cool kiss of the water's touch.

Acacius groaned as he sat on one of the supply crates, using it like a chair. His posture was so tired and almost docile. It was hard to imagine he had just killed a man with zero remorse. Unphased by taking a life.

What overcame you was that same undefined feeling you had earlier. You wanted to be closer to him, and give him a reason to want you close. While he had just saved you, you had only narrowly escaped.

You crawled on your knees in front of him, slowly and with an eagerness to thank him. His tired eyes narrowed on you as kneeled between his legs.

You reached for the hem of his tunic and found his cock half-hard. You gazed up at him with glossy eyes.

“Let me thank you properly.” You paused with apprehension.

His cock twitched at your offer but he kept his face stern. It was hard to read him and know if you were overstepping or if this would be condoned. You swallowed back your hesitancy and pushed on, hoping for his approval.

You slid your hands up his thighs and pushed back his tunic all the way to his belly so you could have unobstructed access. You opened your mouth and let your tongue poke out, giving his tip a lick and placing a kiss. It was almost playful. You weren't sure what came over you, but you embraced it when he stifled a sound that you recognized. A pleasurable groan.

Of course any man would enjoy this act, but this was a man that was used to taking. Not this unsolicited softness you were bestowing on him.

He tangled his hand in your hair and urged you in closer, using his other hand to hold his cock steady at the base.

“Knew you’d be a good girl for me,” he said with a low and breathy voice. The praise from his words made that darkness inside you stir again. You wanted his praise.

You swirled your tongue around the head of his cock, lapping gently at his leaking slit and relishing his flavor. You could sense his body was tired and resigned to letting you do all the work. It felt like a test too, to see how much you would do without him forcing you. See how much you wanted him and how far you would take this on your own volition.

You took in more and more of his length, letting your tongue lick up the underside of his cock and feeling it stiffen even more. You were just now able to really marvel at its size. He was thick and weighty with a slight curve to the left. You traced the prominent vein that trailed along his shaft with your tongue, pulsing under your touch. You were getting sloppier with your mouth as he was getting harder and it was becoming a lot more to handle than you were used to.

The tightness in your core was starting to wind up. A heat spreading that called for attention you tried to push aside.

Your hands left the tops of his thighs briefly to reach for his balls. They too were hefty and he stifled another moan as you worked them with your fingertips. He seemed to really enjoy that and you had a mind to give them more attention with your mouth if he didn’t have such a grip on you already.

He was fully hard now and jerked into you, losing some control. You relaxed your throat enough to let him thrust inward. Your hands returned to his legs to brace yourself as he bucked a little too hard and you gagged on his cock. The throaty groan he made watching you struggle was heavy with arousal.

“Easy. Take me nice and slow,” he ordered. It was easier said than done when he was the one bucking into you. He brushed his thumb to push back your hair and you melted at his tenderness and how his hands engulfed you effortlessly.

You relaxed as best you could, taking in more and more of him. Both of his hands were twisted in your hair now, pulling your head to bob on his length slowly. He wasn’t holding you tightly, but you could feel his fingers curl into your scalp when you hollowed your cheeks.

You looked up at him and saw his mouth parting open slightly. His eyes were intently locking with yours. He was submitting to your tongue in a way that felt new for him. Relinquishing some control even if it was just for a moment.

You savored the pearly beads of precum that trickled out and wanted to receive more. His musky, sweaty scent combined with the saltiness of his taste made it all feel so raw and primal.

Seeing your mouth stuffed full with his cock made him twitch even more and you could tell he was getting close. He was trying to pull you off of him slowly. You sucked the tip hard and it made a wet pop as it released from your lips.

It was turning you on too, and you could feel how wet you were getting between your legs. You initially just wanted to placate him, but it felt like it was becoming so much more. You wanted him to spill into your mouth so you could drink him down. Hear the way he moaned when you sucked him dry. It was a thirst that overtook your reasoning and you mouthed his tip again in defiance.

There was a shift in his energy. That dutiful look returned as he fought against your needy mouth.

“Not wasting my cum in your throat.” His words came out biting but heavy with need. Reminding you of your role to play.

He yanked you off sharply and pulled you up to straddle his lap. Sitting over his meaty thighs he hooked his hand behind your back to hold you in place. You reached your arms out to hang off of his shoulders.

He grabbed the base of his cock and dragged the head along your swollen clit. He was already wet from your spit, but he gathered your slick for good measure. You moaned when he pressed into your clit and you caught the way he looked so pleased with himself. He was studying how your mouth gaped from his touch.

“Needy thing you are,” he groaned, low enough that you wondered if he meant to say it out loud.

You were good and ready, and he wasn’t interested in waiting any longer to get his release. He pulled you down hard on his length, filling you to the hilt in one motion and looking you dead in the eye when he did it. Watching you gasp at the stretch and your eyes widened. You were so needy for his cock and it felt right having him inside you again. The pain from the sudden invasion inside your body was overtaken by euphoria. The emptiness finally being soothed.

He held you like that for a moment and you wanted to beg him to move. You needed that friction to alleviate your aching hunger. He needed it too, but he was enjoying seeing you get impatient for his cock. You could feel him swell inside you and in this seated angle he nestled inside you even deeper.

“Acacius…” you whined and tried to lift up on his shaft but he held you still. He pressed his thumb into your clit and rubbed. Holding you down, impaled on his cock; unmoving. Making you start to convulse on him and moan under his touch.

“You’re gonna let me do what I want,” he said as his thumb’s motion intensified. “And I’m going to fill you with my cum.” More pressure on your clit. “Again.” Another circle. “And again.” Harder this time. “And again.”

The pleasure blooming was becoming too much and he knew he had you.

“And you're going to be begging me for it.” With those words he thrust into you, teasing the release you were chasing.

You let out a whimper and tried to speak, but your words were swallowed up by your moans. He thrust again.

“Fuck. Acacius… yes. I want..” he thrusted again “..want you to fill me.”

He hammered into you and the drag of his cock against your walls combined with the pressure on your clit was too much. Your orgasm washed over you in a way you never experienced before. A crescendo throughout your body, overtaking your flesh and soul. Clenching him and begging for him to cum.

His seed blasted into you and you felt him filling you up. His heat seeped into you as he groaned. There was so much, filling you deliciously with his cum, just as he promised.

He left you there for a moment, his cock slowly softening inside you but still plugging you up so nothing could escape while you caught your breath.

As the high of your orgasm began to fade it left you with a mix of emotions. Fucked out of your mind and also terrified of what you were getting yourself into. You knew he ultimately wanted to impregnate you, and you knew that you never wanted to bring children into this fucked up world. Still, the deep seeded fear of getting pregnant faded away when he was filling you so perfectly. He was right, you were going to be begging for it, and that future terrified you.

It also felt like a problem for another day. Right now, you had to live in the moment and figure out how you were going to make it to tomorrow. As you began to fall for Acacius, you were certain of one thing. Keeping him content was your only chance.

The tent was quieter now with you still in his lap and your shared breathing calming to an even rhythm. You didn’t want to leave his side. With him you were safe. He wasn’t going to hurt you, and he certainly wouldn’t let anyone else touch you if there was a chance you were carrying his child. It made you feel sickened to think of another potential life as armor, but it was the reality you were living in.

“Can I stay here with you tonight?” You asked, sheepishly.

There was something you could not shake about Acacius. While his words and actions were cruel and despicable on the outside, something about him seemed shaken. A legionary who showed any sort of wavering would be killed without question. Loyalty to Caesar was above all paramount. He had no choice on how to conduct himself in the eyes of the other Legion soldiers.

But you saw something in his eyes. Unexplainable but tangible. Something that gave you just enough hope that he wasn’t as evil as you thought. Maybe he was different after all. Maybe he was redeemable. Maybe he just needed someone like you to help him see the Legion for what it truly was.

You had to try.

“Not letting you out of my sight.”

To be continued…

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averagewriter-inthedark · 6 months ago

Text

To Be Loved is To Be Seen 👑 | Gladiator II Imagine

My Masterlists

Characters & Pairings: Emperor Geta x Empress!reader

Content Warnings: fluff, mentions of violence and insinuated murder. morally ambiguous reader (They match each other's freak), slight NSFW—MDNI 18+, mentions of pregnancy, soft!Geta, historical refences and mythology (not completely accurate to the timeline) | female!reader (she/her) no use of Y/n | wc: 3.6k

Requested 📨 yes/no (rules for requests)

Premise: On the evening of their son's first name day, the Imperial couple of Rome find solace and comfort in the rare moment their afforded when keeping the order of the Empire on their shoulders. Basking in the genuine softness that is only reserved for each other, away from the preying eyes of their court who constantly test their patience and bring upon the wrath of Mars and Venus.

Note: my love for Joseph Quinn has returned full force and it makes me hate Stanger Things again for killing Eddie off.

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Under the stars and Gods of the Roman night sky, the Empress stood on the balcony of the Royal chambers overlooking the beautiful city. A symphony of music and chatter from the people below, filling the streets as torches light the pathways and far beyond. The Colosseum, the battleground for Rome’s gladiators, once consumed by spectators to witness the blood and glory of her fighters now remained silent and steadfast as the day’s celebration came to an end.

And the Empress, adorning in the comfort of her nightwear and robes, held the celebrations honoree in her arms. Pius Septimus Caius. The one-year-old Caesar, heir apparent to the Roman Empire, stared up at his mother with wide eyes full of wonder. Reaching up with a chubby hand to grasp her hair, freed from its braids, pins, and curls.

“One day, this will all be yours,” she declared, adjusting the child so he was perched on her elbow, leaning his entire weight onto her side. Her mouth pressed to his head as she cradled him, “Everything the night touches, and what the sun shines upon when Sol comes to claim the sky from Nox, belongs to us.” Tiny fingers play with the seam of her robe, the young heir fixated on the gold detail.

Down below the Empress heard cheers erupt, peering to find citizens by the gates of the palace dancing and waving to the ruler. “Blessed be the Caesar on his first natalicium!” “Empress, may the Gods bestow great fortune to you and his Grace!”

Grinning, she raised her hand, fingers cupped to wave at the crowd, who grew in size--all vying to catch a glimpse of the Empress and Caesar before they retreated into the chambers. The balcony stood high off the ground and yards away from the streets, but the guards stood firmly with their weapons ready for any threat. Caius mimicked his mother. Arm moving up and down, igniting more cheer from their subjects.

“And when you’re older,” her voice dropped an octave, despite no soul in proximity. A menacing shift in tone all while the smile remained on her face. “Your father and I will teach you the ways of ruling this great empire with an iron fist and the secrets to prevailing without bringing destruction onto yourself. Where the people of Rome shall adore you, worship the ground you walk on, and stay loyal to you even when their hearts scream at them to run.”

Giving one last wave and shielding the boy from the cool breeze, the Empress retreats inside, the smile dropping to a dubious smirk, reflected in the way her eyes seem to darken now she is away from prying eyes. “You’re too young to understand, my dear Caius, the lengths your father, uncle, and I have gone to keep the favor of the people while hiding the truth of certain matters they surely would spread fire to the streets if they discovered.” Her chuckle echoes with the sound of the doors shutting. Sealing the chambers from the outside world.

“Gods be damned, the lengths I went to secure my position could bring upon ruin.” The bodies of the Senator and his daughter, who plotted to usurp her betrothal to the Emperor, now rotted to bone and dust beneath the Colosseum. “Not to mention the lengths your father went to ensure my hand.” At the bottom of the sea laid the box containing the man her father initially betrothed her to. Who’s life was forfeit the moment Geta laid eyes upon the woman he vowed would be his Empress.

And any and all Concubines knew not to dare breach the boundaries of the Imperial couple. Certain actions and intimacies were reserved for each other.

Do not kiss the Emperor or the Empress on thy lips.

The Emperor takes pleasure, he does not give. Only to her.

The Empress does not lay below, she remains above. Except for him.

The Emperor does not allow anyone on top of him, only her.

The Empress takes no seed but his. He releases in no one, but her.

The one time a brave soul attempted, ended with their passage to the Underworld.

Pulling back the duvet, the Empress settled into her side of the bed. Back pressed against the headboard and Caius tucked in her lap, she lit the candles on the nightstand for more the light the flames of the fireplace were unable to reach.

“Let me tell you a little story, my son, of the love between two Gods that is not so far from your father and I. Mars and Venus.” Eyes full of intrigued, the boy babbled in approval and snuggled closer into her embrace. Warmth of the duvet and fire hugging him alongside her skin. “The tale goes like,” she began hoarsely, “there was once a beautiful Goddess. More beautiful than any Goddess in Mount Olympus and the lands below, who held the bounds of love like no other. Venus. And every man, God and mortal, wanted Venus to be theirs. But she was married to Vulcan, the blacksmith God, who relished in being the one to have secured her hand by the order of her father, Caelus.”

The Empress’s jaw tightened, tone hardening at the last sentence as she thought of her father and former betrothed. The Senator twice her age whom her father agreed to marry her too once she reached marriage potential. Sentencing her to a life where the home he built would be her own personal prison. Hidden away from the likes of preying men, but would show her off as a prized gift from the Gods when he desired satisfaction from his peers.

Gods be damned he’d be her husband. She would’ve slit his throat on their marriage bed the night of the wedding. But alas, Mars rescued her.

“Venus spent every waking moment planning to rid Caelus from her life. Leaving Mount Olympus to live among the mortals. Drown herself in the sea. Poison him little by little until his body could no longer put up a fight.” The Empress had been so lost in her rising anger, staring at the flames of the fire, that she forgot what she was talking about. It wasn’t until hands brushed her cheek, and she glanced away to find her son tilting his head, wondering why she stopped the story.

“But one day while attending a feast, just when the Goddess believed all hope was lost, she was visited by Mars, the God of War.” Caius’ awed expression made her smirk, falling to a whisper, “and in that moment Venus knew her prayers had been answered.”

The smooth surface of the pillar beneath her finger guided her with each step, the column the only thing between the two as they circled each other. Eyes locked, drawing out the voices of the guests in the dining hall yards away. Leaving them the only two, standing on the balcony as they welcomed the cool night breeze and allowed Nox to be their only witness to the instant connection they both met the others gaze.

“You should not be without your guards, my Imperator. Tis a foolish thing to do when so many souls occupy your home.”

“Sounds as though you have plans to strike me down, my Lady.” His smirk indicated he did not feel threatened at all by her. Continuing to circle the pillar, he moved at the same pace as though not to lose sight of her face. Her entire being beckoning him like a siren luring their prey.

“Oh no,” she purred, lips curling up to match his smirk. Sending heat up his spine as the air around them shifted. “I wouldn’t dare dream of striking the likes of you down.

“No?” came his mock, like he didn’t believe her. “Is that not why you lured me out here?”

“Who said I lured you?”

“Ah, so it was luck you betted on that I’d follow you.” Geta suddenly stopped and turned to intercept her, the woman nearly running into his chest. But she made no sound of surprise, expecting him to eventually end their dance around the pillar.

The moonlight shined against her eyes, mimicking the twinkle of the stars above. “I did not have to bet on luck. You’ve been waiting the whole night to have me alone.”

Geta’s expression shifted to a mix of intrigue and lust, mesmerized by her confidence of speaking so freeling in front of him, knowing he’s killed men who’ve dared to do the same. “Is that so, my Lady? Care to enlighten me what assured you I’d leave the company of my guests to follow you into the night alone without my guards.”

Leaning closer, enough for him to feel the heat radiating off her body, she lifted a finger to trace the image of Mars on his golden chest plate. Smooth metal beneath her fingertip.

“I’ve felt your eyes trail me the moment I stepped through those doors,” she spoke into the night, never straying her intense gaze from him. “You may be good at masking your thoughts, my Emperor, in front of your subjects and Senators. But when that man introduced me as his intended….” her head tilted, challenging him to reject the claim about to leave her lips. “You appeared rather displeased.”

Geta’s hand came up to her arm, trailing up until it reached her neck to cup her jaw, rather rough yet she showed no trace of fear. In fact, she appeared aroused. It enticed him.

“Any man would when they are in the presence of Venus herself.”

“I’m flattered by your kind words, my Emperor. And if I may, being in your presence feels as though I've been visited by Mars.”

“Does that frighten you?” He questioned.

“On the contrary, I’m pleased,” she didn’t hesitate, making his grin widen.

“And like Venus, Vulcan has claimed you as his own.”

“He has not claimed me and never will.”

“You intend to kill him then? Before your wedding?” A trace of surprise laced his tone, but more so amusement.

Once again, she challenged him with her eyes, hand coming up to his own on her neck, “Would that please you, my Emperor.”

Geta’s eyes were as dark as hers, the tension between the two thickening as their goals of the night since the feast started finally came together. She was in his arms, and he was wrapped around her finger.

He brought his head to hers, leaving his mouth roughly centimeters from hers, giving her the promise she prayed to the Gods in the image of Mars himself.

“Very much so, but leave him to me, my Lady, I rather enjoy removing those standing in the way of what I want. And what I want, is you,” Their lips brushed together, sealing the vow in a single kiss, “Swear yourself to me, and I shall free you from him. You will be my Empress.”

“Mars and Venus loved in the shadows until they finally could show the world they belonged together. Vulcan was indisposed, thanks to Mars,” The Empress’ finger was grasped, Caius attempting to take her ring that caught his attention. It made her grin, letting the boy take her hand to inspect the jewelry. “And Venus made sure the maidens and Goddess alike knew better than to tempt Mars with their seduction,” voice dropping to a murmur, she added with a smirk, “those who dared were removed with ease.”

A squeal left Caius when he was suddenly lifted in the air, waving his arms rapidly as giggles echoed against the walls of the chambers. The Empress stared up with adoration, “and born from Venus and Mars’ love was their son, Cupid. The winged God of affection.”

Caught up in the moment, the little prince giggling as his mother continued to hold in the air as though he was flying, the Empress did not hear the chamber doors opening. The troubled expression on Geta’s face wondering why his son wasn’t in the nursery vanished upon his eyes landing on the scene before him. A sudden warmth filled his veins hearing Caius’ laughter, followed by the view of a beaming smile on his wife.

“Make no mistake, Cupid was as clever and mischievous as his parents. They say that when struck by his golden arrow, one is gifted with uncontrollable desire. But when he sends his arrow tipped with lead, they flee with great aversion.” Returning the boy back down, the Empress nuzzles her nose against his. Giggles still falling from his mouth he nearly drowns her voice out, but Geta manages to hear her. “And let us not forget dear Cupid was known to steal honey straight from the hives of bees. The sweetness too tempting to resist.”

The Empress swore she saw Caius’ brown eyes light up at the mention of honey. For he, too, loved the golden liquid. Especially when infused with bread or cookies.

Geta, who’d been watching from a distance fondly, finally made his appearance known, “and when Cupid’s stung by the bees he’s stolen from,” the Empress does not even flinch by the sudden intrusion. Having felt her husband’s eyes on them when he entered the chamber.

She turns Caius in her arms as her gaze shifts to Geta’s, smirking at the sight of him strolling to his side of the bed, robes clasping his figure and leaving nothing to the imagination. The light of the candles illuminated his gorgeous face, the vision of Mars, her Mars.

Caius reaches out to his father. Escaping the Empress’ hold when Geta settles onto the mattress. Letting his son fall into his arms while he continued, “he ran to his mother Venus claiming no creature that small should bring upon such pain. But Venus did not consol the young God like he hoped, no…” Geta’s eyes fixed on his wife, who met his gaze, their expressions full of delight. “She reminded Cupid how he was not so different from the bee’s. He was small, like them, and he delivered the sting of love.”

Of course, Caius was too young to understand the extent of his parents' stories. Just one year old and yet to speak his first words to the world. But he was captivated nonetheless, eyes big with awe and wonder.

“Poetic justice at best,” The Empress whispered, smirk never faltering as she leaned closer, her lavender aroma filling his nostrils. Leaving little room between the two now that Caius laid claim to sitting on Geta’s chest. The Emperor held him upright with one hand under his armpit and the other on his side.

“You gave me a fright, wife,” Geta remarked, tauntingly. “I went to the nursery, and imagine my surprise when I looked in my son’s cradle to find it was empty. Then I heard the guards chattering about how the front gates were flooded by citizens shouting their desire to see the Empress and Caesar.”

Chuckling, the Empress returned his playful smile, “My apologies, husband. Caius and I were enjoying the view of Rome at night Nox has blessed us with. I was showing him what will be his one day.”

Geta lifts a brow, “already preparing him for the throne? My dear, I thought you’d wait at least until his second name day.”

A hand lightly taps his shoulder in offense, though it does no damage and Geta simply laughs at the action. Caius, the bold prince, reaches his chubby arm to swat at his mother as to protect his father, making the two gasp with grins etched on their visage.

“Such loyalty, my son!” Geta lifts him up, causing giggles to erupt. “I shall dismiss my Praetorian guards and make you my sworn protector. No man shall harm the Emperors of Rome so long as the mighty Septimus Caius is by their side.”

Laughter echoes along the walls of the Royal chamber that any passersby outside, servant or guard, stopped momentarily on their journey just to hear the joyous sound of their Caesar. Geta brought his son back down only to bestow soft kisses against his soft cheek. The Empress gazing upon the scene with deep reverence.

Moments like these were rare. With the state of the Empire constantly on the shoulders of Geta and his brother and the Empress maintaining their facade of benevolent rulers to the public as to keep their favor, finding time to be a family proved rather difficult than they intended. Caius often got the attention of one parent at a time during busy days. Either Geta tucking him in at night before bed after a days worth of politics and scheming, or the Empress bringing the boy alongside when attending her duties. Hardly allowing the servants to care for him. Going as far as to refuse the wet-nurse when she birthed the child to feed him from her own breast.

An action that appalled the Senate and ladies of the court, but garnered the affection of Rome’s people.

Caius' laughter settled, the boy nuzzling into Geta’s chest as his mother brought her hand to caress his cheek. Lulling him to sleep. “Tis unfair you know,” she spoke softly, though Geta recognized the mischief in her eyes. “I held him in my womb for nine moons and he betrays me by having all your features and no trace of mine.”

Melted chocolate for eyes, hair reddish golden like the setting sun, and skin light as peaches from their garden trees, Caius was the spitting image of his father. He had plump lips and freckles adorning his tiny face. The only attribute he took from his mother was her nose. Other than that, he could be mistaken for the offspring of a concubine had the servants not attended the Empress first hand during her labors and subsequently the birth.

A chuckle left Geta’s lips, stroking his son’s hair as said matching eyes fluttered shut to find slumber. “He might have the likes of me physically, but rest assured wife, he’ll take on after you in every other way.”

“How so?”

“He’ll have your ambition,” he drawled, looking down at his son. “Your assertiveness and confidence. He’ll know to love no one but his family, and to remain loyal to them above all else. He’ll know how to sniff out traitors.” Geta’s voice is serene, his attention now toward his wife. “No one will ever deceive him. He will be the greatest ruler Rome has ever seen. All because he has you as his mother.” Tears pricked in her eyes, heart full of love and feeling butterflies in her stomach by his words.

Hand coming to his cheek, the Empress pressed her forehead against his temple, her voice featherlike against his ear, “and with you as his father, he’ll prevail. He’ll know how to be a fearless emperor, a doting father, and devoted husband. And maybe…” she trailed off, biting her lip as a smile threatened to grace her face. “A loving brother as well.”

The air caught in the back of Geta’s throat. Eyes wide and moving down her figure to follow her free hand trailing to cradle her stomach. “Are you…you’re certain?” The Empress confirmed his suspicion, kissing his lips as the lone tear fell from her eye.

“Yes, my love.” she whispers against his lips with a slight nod, careful to not wake the sleeping prince. “I have not bled in two moons. You’ve blessed me again with the honor of carrying your child.”

Overcome with emotion, Geta carefully sits up, holding Caius against his chest as he pulls his wife up as well to crash his mouth against hers. The passion filled kiss made her head spin, enough to make her fall had his one arm not wrapped around her waist to keep her upright. The kiss was wet, sloppy. Full of love, full of devotion. A kiss actors at the theater could never accurately portray. As the feelings behind it are what truly brings it to life.

Pulling away after a minute, flustered and consumed with lust, Geta holds her gently by the neck, forehead pressed against her own. “The Gods have granted me you, my Venus, and I cannot thank them enough for the gift you’ve given me. Our son, and the child in your womb. I need not anything else in this world but you and our children.”

Cupping his cheeks in her hands, she uttered, “I love you, Geta,” kissing him again with the same amount of passion as before, which he met feverishly.

When they pulled apart once more, Geta let his lips trail to her forehead before leaning back to announce, “I’m going to escort our little prince back to the nursery. I’ll only be a moment.” Adjusting his body, Geta lifted himself off the bed, a sleeping Caius pressed tightly to his chest. The soft patter of his footsteps headed for the chamber door, his wife watching him depart. However when he was about to open the door, Geta stopped and turned back to face her, a lewd smile painting his features.

“When I return, you shall take your place on top of me,” arousal flooded the Empress, his order producing the wetness between her thighs on command as it always did. Igniting the fire boiling within her stomach. Geta licked his lips, blood rushing to his groin by the predatory glint in her eyes. “Then I’ll have you under me after I’ve feasted upon your cunt. We have much to celebrate tonight.”

“Much to celebrate indeed….” Sinking back into the cushions of the bed while teasing the opening of her robes, the Empress sighed in content. Pleasure forming at what’s to come in the next five minutes. “I’ll be waiting.”

#emperor geta x reader #emperor geta x female reader #emperor geta x you #emperor geta imagine #gladiator ii imagine #joseph quinn imagine #gladiator ii fanfiction

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