#an arm. invisible. composed of waves

[slytherin-pen]

Kindling the Flame

pairing: Eris x reader

word count: 1.3k

warnings: pregnancy, vomiting, Eris is scared but nothing happens

all acotar credits belong to sjm

a/n: yay! i’m back from the dead. not super proud of this one but it was one of my few wips that were close to being finished when i decided to get back to it. i’d been going through some adhd paralysis and health issues but hopefully i’ll be back to normal soon.

Eris Vanserra paced the length of the room, his boots whispering across the hardwood floor of your shared bedroom. His face, usually calm and composed, was marred with worry. His gaze darted back to you, lying on the bed with a damp cloth pressed to your forehead, your skin pale and clammy.

"Love," he murmured, his voice a soft, worried rumble as he knelt beside the bed. "You need to eat something. Just a little. Please."

You shook your head, the mere thought of food sending another wave of nausea rolling through you. "I can't, Eris," you whispered, voice strained and tired. "Everything makes me sick."

Eris’ jaw clenched, his mate instincts screaming at him to protect you, to make this better somehow. Yet, he was helpless against this invisible force causing you so much distress. He brushed a few stray sweat-soaked strands of hair from your face, his fingers gentle as they lingered on your skin.

He had never felt this powerless. His magic could command flames, and his influence could sway an entire Court, but he could do nothing against this. This cruel twist of fate that left you so ill, so fragile. A dream of having a child together had become his current nightmare. The little fireling was sucking everything out of you, and as the days passed it was getting harder to get anything in you. A mix of wonder and dread filled his chest. He was thrilled to become a father, to hold your baby in his arms, but this? Watching you suffer, unable to do a thing? Watch as the life drains out of you, as your cheeks hollow out, and the joy that once filled your eyes is replaced with fear? It was unbearable.

He tried to reflect on his mother’s pregnancies. So many centuries ago now but he could remember them briefly. Perses, and the twins, August and Aethon, had been easy for Phoebe in the beginning. She claimed to have not had many symptoms until the third trimester. With Killian and Macareus she had some slight hiccups, nausea in the beginning being one of them. He nearly thought of her pregnancy with Lucien and quickly slammed the door of his mind on that thought. It was the one pregnancy Phoebe had struggled with during labor, thanks to his cruel father. His mate did not need those stress-inducing memories, she needed to eat.

"I’ll try some tea," he suggested, forcing calm into his voice even as his heart raced. "Ginger, maybe. It might help settle your stomach and then we’ll go from there."

You nodded weakly, knowing he was trying his best. "Alright," you murmured, and he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead before leaving the room.

In the kitchen, Eris moved swiftly, hands shaking slightly as he prepared the tea. He felt a rush of frustration that he couldn't simply snap his fingers and make you better. He wanted to burn away your sickness with his flames, to destroy whatever was causing you pain, but he couldn't. This was your pregnancy, your body nurturing the tiny life within you. He had to be patient. You’ve barely entered the second trimester and it already felt like he was close to losing you. After witnessing the birth of his six siblings he knew this was supposed to be the least dangerous part. Sure, not being able to eat certain foods anymore and lighting cinnamon candles all around the house to block out the less-than-savory scents was expected. He had hoped you would get some relief by the second semester as his mother had, calling it the eye of the storm, but your condition has only worsened over time. What was once a short list of foods to avoid has become endless, your nights are sleepless as you toss and turn with insomnia, and the way your emotions changed throughout the day reminded him of the money scale sitting on the desk in his office.

Returning to the bedroom, he found you curled up tighter on the bed, your face pinched with discomfort. "Here, my flame," he coaxed, sitting beside you and helping you sit up, holding the teacup to your lips. "Try a few sips."

You took a tentative sip, grimacing slightly at the taste but managing to swallow. Eris’ hand moved to the small of your back, rubbing soothing circles there. "That’s it," he encouraged softly. "A little more."

The tea felt warm going down, and you managed a few more sips before the nausea surged again. Eris' face fell as he saw you press a hand to your mouth, trying to fight it down.

“I’m sorry,” you gasped, feeling tears prick at your eyes as you leaned over the side of the bed. He was immediately there, grabbing the small trashcan on the floor and holding your hair back, murmuring reassurances even as he felt a stab of panic shoot through him.

"Don't apologize, love," he murmured once the wave had passed, wiping your mouth gently with a damp cloth. "None of this is your fault."

"But I know it worries you," you whispered, voice small and fragile. "I don’t want to cause you pain."

Eris’ chest tightened. “You don’t. Not in the way you think,” he confessed, his voice breaking slightly. “I just… I hate that I can’t make it better. That I can’t take this from you. I’m so afraid of losing you, and I don’t like seeing you suffer.”

You reached out, your hand finding his, squeezing it with whatever strength you had left. "I’m okay," you assured him, even though you both knew it wasn’t entirely true. "It’s worth it. For our baby."

His heart softened at your words, his free hand moving to your stomach, resting there gently. “Our baby,” he echoed, a faint smile on his lips. “I know. And I’m excited, love, more than you know. But if anything happened to you…” He trailed off, the fear evident in his amber eyes.

You leaned into his touch, letting his warmth seep into your skin. “Nothing will happen,” you whispered, but your voice was tired and not as confident as you’d hoped. “I’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.”

Eris nodded, though the tightness in his chest didn’t fully ease. He pulled you closer, cradling you against him as if he could shield you from the sickness. “Let me try making some broth,” he offered, his voice determined. “Just a little. It’s light, and it might stay down.”

You nodded, too tired to argue, and he pressed a kiss to your temple before reluctantly pulling away again. He busied himself in the kitchen, channeling his worry into careful preparation, pouring all his love and care into the simple task.

When he returned with the steaming bowl, he sat on the edge of the bed, lifting the spoon to your lips. “Just a sip,” he encouraged gently. “For me?”

You smiled faintly and took the spoonful, managing to swallow. The warmth of the broth spread through you, soothing the ache in your empty stomach, and you nodded for another. Eris’ heart lifted slightly, his hope rekindled.

“Good,” he praised softly, his fingers brushing your cheek. “Take your time.”

You took a few more sips before the nausea started to build again, and Eris quickly set the bowl aside, ready to help you if needed. But this time, the sickness didn’t overwhelm you, and you managed to take a deep breath, leaning back against the pillows.

“See?” he murmured, a small, proud smile on his lips. “You’re stronger than this, my love. We’ll get through it together.”

You nodded, your eyes fluttering closed, exhaustion pulling at you. “I know,” you whispered. “Thank you, Eris. For everything.”

He pressed another kiss to your forehead, his heart swelling with love for you. “Always,” he promised softly. “I’ll always be here.”

And as you drifted off to sleep, he stayed by your side, his hand resting protectively over your stomach, his heart full of determination. Whatever it took, he would see you through this. You were his mate, his love, and nothing would stand in his way.

[sweetheartbitesb4ck]

part one ||  part two ||  part three || part four || this is part five

You were Simon Riley's first proper girlfriend. Obviously there was that girl from year 2 at school who he 'married' in the playground, as well as numerous failed attempts at dating, but you? You were different. The thought of committing to you made him nervous, but in a fuck, I'm head over heels way. The thought of not committing to you, on the other hand, made him feel sick with the idea of you not being around.

You'd made it official about a week or two ago, and had been taking it slowly since then. Nor you or Simon wanted to rush into anything, but after a few dates it started to seem so... real.

The most recent date is what really made up your mind about the soldier (who had already pretty much written out your wedding vows). It had made you realise quite how strong your feelings were. It was a romantic night... Ghost had spend hours sifting through his phone for restaurants in the area; it had to be faultless... the lighting couldn't be too bright, it had to be great food, he wasn't going to let it be a busy place, et cetera...

Once he had found the flawless place he booked a table for two, and on the actual day he got dressed hours before he needed too, picking out his best clothes. He was wearing black jeans and a slightly unbuttoned shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, because in all honestly he was a little hot from nerves. He wanted the night to be perfect.

You were also nervous... the afternoon was spent on facetime with your friends, debating over what jewellery went with what dress and whether to wear makeup and if so what eyeshadow and which lip gloss and... it was all a blur, really. By the time you were ready both your dressing table and bedroom floor looked like bombs had gone off; clothes were everywhere and there was a mess of makeup wipes from when you'd aggressively scrubbed off your full face again and again to re-apply with pin-point intricacy.

Finally 7 pm had drawn around. You'd arranged to meet outside of the restaurant, so you walked over from your place. Simon had arrived 20 minutes early so he stood outside awkwardly, rocking on the balls of his feet and nodding uncomfortably at people passing by who gave the skull mask a weird look. He knew it made him look a bit odd... he wasn't used to wearing smart clothes and the scars and tattoos on his arms as well as the balaclava were a stark juxtaposition to the slightly fancier setting.

As he saw you walking over, he straightened himself up, brushing invisible dust from his attire and lifting his hand in a mechanical looking wave. You giggled slightly, looking down and grinning. "Hello," You say, voice warm.

"You..." Simon starts, eyes round beneath the mask. "You look absolutely stunning," He mumbles, voice gravelly as hooked his arm around your back before you and him start to walk towards the restaurant. He held the door open for you before nodding at a member of staff in the entrance. "I... er I got... I mean, have, a reservation for two," He stutters, fumbling around with the rolled up sleeves as he tries to pull them down.

"What name is that under?" The waitress asks, smiling politely. You try to hold back your smirk, yet again staring at the floor.

"That's under Gho- no- fuck-" He falters, expression embarrassed. Just the sight of you alone had sent him into flustered and in love mode. "It's under Riley," You chime in, taking Simon's hand and squeezing it gently. Once sat down at a table with menus, you burst into laughter, clapping your hand over your mouth as you attempt to compose yourself. "It's great to see you again," You beam, eyes glistening as you see Ghost's eyes crinkle in the corners with happiness. It only took a little smile from you to make everything feel lighter for the man who had once been so emotionless.

At the end of the meal, Simon refused to let you even just consider paying the bill. As soon as the the card reader was presented he swooped in with his card, smiling smugly under the mask at your protests. You fold your arms and pout with mock anger, but soon your were grinning again as he held out your jacket for you and slipped his arm around your waist as the two of you walked out.

You make your way into the night, streetlamps gently lighting the paved street. Simon nods forwards and you cross the road as he begins to speak. "We should go on a little walk, eh?" He tilts his head at you, smiling under the mask.

"That sounds nice," You said, taking his hand as you start to walk. Ghost knew just where he would take you, so he guided you to a small, pretty bridge going over a gentle river.

"This is so pretty," You murmur, stopping in the middle of the bridge and leaning on the railing. "Mhm," Simon replies, his eyes set firmly on you and only you... the way the moonlight washed over your face in that way. He wraps an arm around your waist again, pulling you in as your hands shift to gently rest on his chest. "Mhm," He repeats, moving his spare hand to tug at the balaclava. He grunts, flushing red under the fabric from a mixture of anticipation and embarrassment "Can you just..." He pulls at the mask again and you huff with laughter.

"Sure..." You whisper, tugging the fabric to his nosebridge.

"All the way off," He mumbles, suddenly feeling that feeling.

Your eyes widen slightly and you nod, gently pulling the whole mask off. You lean backwards for a moment, running your eyes over his flushed face. Every scar was like a location on a map, dotted around his face and sloped jawline. You feel your breath hitch slightly as you take him in, your eyes round with adoration and cheeks becoming hot.

Simon tilts your chin up as you stretch onto tiptoes (what with the large height difference) and he pulls you in closer, smirking slightly at your fixed gaze on his face. "Creepin' me out..." He chuckles, just standing there for a minute, not wanting to do anything that would make you uncomfortable. "Simon hurry up," You giggle, finally breaking the silence and blinking.

"Hurry up and what?" He furrows his brows, a look of genuine confusion flashing over his face. "Oh..." At that point, his cheeks might as well have been scarlet. "Shit." Ghost whispers to himself before taking a deep breath and leaning in to kiss you, his arms wrapping around your frame as his slightly chapped lips brushed against your soft lips. He quickly pulls backwards, expression concerned. "That's what you meant, yeah?"

You just giggle, tiptoeing again to loosely place your arms on his shoulders and around his neck, the mask still bunched up in your palms. "Of course it was, silly," You murmur, stretching to kiss him again.

Simon's heart rate was racing and his eyes fluttered shut, kind of just accepting his amazing fate. Even though he could feel his palms growing clammy, he slid a hand to cup the back of your head, his fingers raking into your hair.

Your first kiss. And oh, what a kiss it was... calm yet passionate, lips connecting in a way that ensured nor you or Simon wanted to pull away. You'd kissed other people in the past, sure, but nothing was like this. You could have sworn you felt your whole body buzz because in all honesty this was new; nothing like those mediocre kisses that it was safe to say you had left in the past.

This? This was love.

Simon pulls away, catching his breath as he strokes your hair with his thumb. "That was..." He stammers, looking away slightly.

He was not used to being this vulnerable, especially without the balaclava on. He felt exposed, but in a weird safe way. It was new, as were a lot of these feelings, all caused by you, but he was strangely welcoming to every single on of them.

"Yeah it was..." You respond, a smile pinching at the corners of your mouth and eyes.

"That was perfect," He manages, looking back at you, his ocean blue eyes that were once so haunted softening. Ever since he first set eyes on you, through the window, you had this exact effect on him. The one that made his whole body feel light and made him feel so at home, because, in all honesty, you were... you are his home.

hope you enjoyed pt 5!! I'm so sorry for the lateness... I've been SO busy ;w;

anyways, if you have any suggestions or rq's for a possible pt 6 or for anything else, make sure to comment or leave me an ask!

[deliciousangelfestival]

Her Turn Now - 4

Character: CEO!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Summary: Twin sisters. Opposite worlds. The eldest is a tough, no-nonsense soldier. The youngest is a quiet, hardworking corporate girl. They rarely meet—until the younger sister collapses from stress, hiding months of workplace bullying.

Furious and protective, the soldier twin trades places with her. Heels off, boots on. Now, the office has no idea what's coming.

She doesn’t play nice. She doesn’t play fair. And while she's serving justice in a pencil skirt, the ruthless CEO starts to take notice…

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi 🙏🏻

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 , -

The next morning, Bucky couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling in his gut. There was something… different. Levi sat across from him in his office, looking calm, composed, and almost stronger. He squinted slightly, watching the subtle changes.

Could the doctor have given her some kind of vitamin boost? Or was it something else entirely?

As they discussed the department's remaining issues, Bucky casually leaned back in his chair, folding his arms as if relaxing. But his words were careful, calculated.

"You know," he began with a light smile, "ZENES is having a concert next week."

The name hit you like a spark. ZENES? So that was where he was steering this. Testing you. Of course, you knew the band. Levi had recommended a few of their songs years ago, mostly their quieter acoustic tracks. It wasn’t a mainstream group; only a small circle followed them.

You nodded, steady and easy. "Oh, ZENES? Yeah, I saw that on my feed this morning. Their new live album's actually decent. Not as good as their studio stuff, but I guess that’s normal." You smiled faintly, trying to layer your answer with just enough detail to sound natural.

Bucky's eyes softened slightly, as if you’d passed some invisible test.

He smiled back. "Yeah, you're right. The studio version’s cleaner."

But beneath his nod, the weight in his gaze remained. He was still watching.

As the morning moved on, you carefully followed the routine Levi had described. But one misstep nearly slipped through.

You placed a cup of hot tea beside him after lunch. No matcha today. He glanced down at the steaming cup and then back at you, brow slightly furrowed.

"You didn’t have your matcha this morning," he said gently. "You always drink it first thing."

Your heart skipped. Another test. You kept your tone casual, almost dismissive.

"Doctor’s orders," you replied, waving your hand. "No sweet drinks while I’m taking the new meds. Matcha’s off the list for now."

Bucky gave a small, apologetic laugh, shaking his head. "Right. Silly me. I forgot."

You could feel his eyes lingering for a moment longer than necessary. Testing. Always testing.

Stay calm. You knew this game.

When the day wound down, both of you made your way to the lobby. The moment the glass doors slid open, chaos greeted you. A crowd of journalists and camera crews swarmed outside, blocking the exit. Microphones shot forward like spears.

"Mr. Barnes, is it true your negligence caused thirty employees to be hospitalized?"

"Is it true the Planning Department was operating under unsafe conditions?"

"What about the fire? Are you responsible for those homes being destroyed?"

Bucky tensed beside you. His jaw locked. The camera flashes reflected off his suit, making him blink rapidly.

Before he could speak, you stepped forward. Years of military drills made the weight of camera equipment and microphones nothing compared to the field gear you'd carried.

"Back off," you said firmly, raising your hand. You pushed a reporter aside with practiced ease, forcing a path forward. Your voice stayed calm but cutting. "You’re obstructing company business. Step back."

Bucky stood frozen, eyes wide. He wasn’t used to seeing Levi move like that.

Once you were past the crowd, you let out a small wince, placing a hand on your shoulder. "Ah... I think I pulled something," you said, adding a weak smile for effect.

It was bad acting. Even the nearest cameraman arched an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. But it worked well enough. The reporters eased off, sensing the scene was dying.

Inside the safety of the car, Bucky let out a long breath, still looking at you like you were something unfamiliar.

"You okay?" he asked softly.

You gave a faint nod, keeping your eyes forward.

"I’m fine. Just a little sore."

****

The car hummed softly as the city lights blurred past the window. For a few moments, it was calm, until Bucky’s phone lit up again. He sighed before answering. You watched his jaw tense, his hand gripping the phone a little tighter than before.

"Yeah," he said flatly.

The voice on the other end was loud enough that you could hear bits of it leaking through. His stepbrothers. Again.

"Bucky, you really screwed up this time. The board is furious. The press won’t stop talking about the hospitalizations and the fires. Do you have any idea how bad this looks for the company? Dad’s ready to let you take the blame for all of it."

Bucky's lips tightened into a hard line. He stayed silent, letting them vent.

"You always wanted control, didn’t you? Well, congratulations. When the company falls apart, it’s all on you."

The call ended with a sharp click. He didn’t say a word for a while, staring out the window as if the darkness outside might offer him some kind of answer.

"What an asshole," you muttered, breaking the tense silence.

That pulled a faint, tired smile from him. "They all are."

"So you're just gonna sit here and let them mock you like that?" you pressed, your tone sharper than you intended. You couldn’t help it. Watching him quietly absorb all of their cruelty—it stirred something inside you. The part of you trained never to back down.

He glanced at you, the faintest amusement flickering in his eyes. "I feel like my drill sergeant is sitting beside me."

His words caught you off guard, and for a second, your breath hitched. He wasn’t supposed to say something like that. Was he… noticing?

You quickly covered, refusing to let your face betray you. "Well," you said, forcing your tone light, "after months of being bullied, I’ve learned to stop being quiet. Sometimes you’ve got to fight back."

He let out a low chuckle, his eyes still studying you as if searching for something beneath the surface. But he said nothing more.

"They want to remove me from the succession," he finally said, breaking the silence.

You turned your head, your gaze steady. "Your brothers?"

He nodded, his jaw clenched. "They're the ones who sent those journalists and reporters. Stirring the pot. Making sure my name stays tangled in the mess."

A quiet breath escaped you. "Do you know their weakness?"

He allowed himself a dry chuckle, eyes narrowing on the road ahead. "Of course. Being the outcast had its advantages. No one acknowledged me, but that meant they never cared to hide anything when I was around. I've heard and seen more than they realize."

You tilted your head, voice sharper now. "Then use it."

For a moment, Bucky glanced at you, his brows raised as if taken aback by your boldness. "Levi... you're kind of straightforward tonight."

"Being silent because of the bullying made me quit being silent," you said simply, voice calm but laced with something steel-like beneath. Your gaze returned to the window, but you felt his eyes linger on you a second longer.

He didn’t reply, but his thoughts raced. She’s different. Stronger. There was a depth to you now that hadn’t been there before. Or maybe… had he never seen it before? His grip on the wheel tightened as her words repeated in his head like a steady drumbeat.

Later that night, those words rang even louder.

Alone in his apartment, the city stretching endlessly outside his windows, Bucky sat at his desk. The screen of his laptop glowed in the dark. Enough. He'd had enough.

He opened file after file, digging into years of hidden scandals, offshore accounts, and quiet backdoor deals his stepbrothers thought were buried. All things he had heard in whispers, half-conversations, or drunken confessions they thought meant nothing.

One by one, he compiled everything. Every dirty secret, every transaction. Then he hit send.

By morning, the house of cards came crashing down. Their father’s furious voice echoed across the halls of the Barnes estate. His stepbrothers stood in front of him, pale and defeated. Disappointment burned in Mr. Barnes’ eyes as he stared at his sons.

"You’ve disgraced this family," their father said coldly.

And just like that, Bucky had flipped the board they tried to control.

******

A week slipped by, and only one week remained.

Surprisingly, the days spent with Bucky had become… pleasant. You shared quiet conversations over coffee, brief glances filled with unspoken words, and even the occasional bursts of laughter that made your heart tighten unexpectedly.

An invitation came.

The private house party was on a scale you hadn’t yet experienced. A helicopter waited for them on the rooftop, blades slicing the air as Bucky guided you toward it.

The weather had turned moody, dark clouds swirling above as the helicopter lifted off. Wind buffeted the aircraft, making it sway. The pilot’s voice shook slightly through the intercom. "Wind speeds are picking up, sir."

You calmly leaned forward, placing a hand on the pilot’s shoulder. "Steady on your pitch. Keep your nose slightly higher against the crosswind. Let the updrafts help you, not fight you."

The pilot blinked but nodded, following your calm instructions. The helicopter stabilized, cutting through the sky with surprising ease.

Bucky stared at you, utterly stunned. "You know aviation?" he asked, voice laced with disbelief.

You realized you may have slipped. You forced a soft laugh. "Our dad used to teach us a little bit of everything. He says it’s good for survival."

Bucky nodded, but a flicker of suspicion passed behind his eyes.

The mansion came into view. No, mansion wasn’t even the word. It was more like a private empire. Several helicopters rested on the pads, yachts floated lazily in the nearby private harbor. A different level of rich entirely.

The host greeted them with a wide grin, clapping Bucky on the shoulder and offering you both cigars. Bucky politely declined, but you took one.

You studied the cigar for a moment, fingers feeling its familiar texture before lighting it expertly. The rich aroma filled your lungs, and you exhaled slowly, savoring it.

The host laughed, clearly impressed. "Most ladies I meet don’t handle a cigar like that."

You smiled sheepishly. "Sometimes, after coming home for Christmas, I share one with my father. He enjoys the expensive ones."

The host’s laughter grew heartier, his impression of you warming instantly. Bucky, however, remained silent beside you, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. Levi never smoked. Not even a puff.

The party swirled around you in glittering conversations and empty politeness. The buzz of forced laughter, clinking glasses, and backhanded compliments grated on your nerves. After a while, you slipped away from the main crowd and found your refuge near a grand marble fountain.

You sat quietly, staring at the ripples in the water, lost in thought. Moments later, you heard footsteps approach.

Bucky sat beside you, his posture relaxed but his gaze quietly observing.

"These kinds of parties always exhaust me," you admitted softly.

He smiled faintly. "You and me both."

The silence settled between you before he spoke again. "You remember back in college? That tiny bar outside the campus. The one with the old upright piano in the corner?"

Your breath caught slightly. Careful.

"You used to play there sometimes," he continued. "Mostly late nights. I remember one night... you played ‘The Winter Waltz.’"

The memory tugged at something inside you. That night wasn’t Levi’s. That had been you. You were the one who had played that song, sneaking out after drills.

You gave him a faint smile. "I never could resist that song. The melody always stuck with me."

Bucky’s eyes locked onto yours for a heartbeat longer than necessary. The suspicion was there, quietly blooming behind his gaze. He didn’t say it aloud. But he knew.

Not Levi. Still, he stayed quiet.

*******

The sunlight poured gently through the tall windows of the McCain house as laughter echoed down the grand staircase. Levi had been getting stronger these past few weeks. The hollowness in her cheeks had filled in, her eyes brighter, her steps lighter. She was regaining herself, piece by piece.

Downstairs, the familiar voices of your team filled the living room. Casey, Ortiz, and Dom had arrived after being summoned by David. Their banter filled the air, making the house feel less like a hospital and more like home.

Levi took a deep breath, smoothing her sweater before stepping into the room.

Casey was the first to spot her, nudging Ortiz with a mischievous grin. They both fought back their laughter the moment Dom turned toward her, utterly oblivious since he didn't join when you rushed to the hospital.

Dom stepped forward confidently, his usual wide grin on his face as if greeting you.

"Boss," he said with a nod, his tone light but confused. "You look... different today."

Levi blinked at him, holding back a chuckle. "You don’t know, do you?"

Dom tilted his head. "Know what?"

"I'm your boss's younger sister," Levi said, her voice calm but amused.

Dom squinted, glancing back and forth between her, Casey, and Ortiz, trying to catch the joke. "Boss… you told me you have a younger sister."

"I am the youngest," Levi clarified, crossing her arms, a playful glint in her eyes.

Dom still stood there, completely frozen, as if his brain refused to process what he was seeing. His gaze shifted from Levi, to Casey, to Ortiz, then finally landed on the family photo displayed on the mantle. His jaw dropped.

"What?!"

Laughter erupted around the room, Casey doubling over, Ortiz wiping his eyes, even David chuckling as he stood with arms crossed, silently enjoying the scene. Levi couldn’t help but laugh too, shaking her head as Dom finally threw his hands up in defeat.

"You’ll catch up, Dom," Casey teased.

As the laughter died down, Levi’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen. A new notification. A photo from one of the business party blogs.

The image displayed you standing beside Bucky at the party, his hand resting lightly on your lower back as he leaned closer to say something in your ear. You were laughing, your head slightly tilted toward him. The intimacy of the photo was subtle but undeniable.

Levi’s stomach tightened. She forced herself to breathe, but something inside her simmered, an unfamiliar ache twisting through her chest.

Without thinking, she dialed your number.

The phone buzzed again in your hand. You had been expecting it—dreading it, really.

You answered softly. “Hey.”

Levi’s voice came through, calm but carrying a weight you could feel even across the distance. “I’m ready to come back.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, your chest tightening. You had rehearsed this conversation in your head so many times, but now that it was happening, it felt heavier than you imagined.

“Okay.” You forced a smile, even though she couldn’t see it. “The office is running smoothly. He’s… waiting for you.”

There was a pause on the other end. Neither of you spoke for a few seconds. She was giving you room to say it, but you didn’t want to. Not directly. Instead, your voice softened. “It’s… harder than I thought, Levi.”

“I know.” Her voice stayed calm and patient. Not accusing. Just… knowing.

That almost broke you more than if she had been. “I packed my things,” you added quickly. “I’ll head back to base tonight. Everything’s ready for you to step back in tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Her answer was quiet, but final. “Thank you.”

The call ended.

You sat there for a while, the silence of the room pressing down on you. Your heart felt tight, heavier with every passing second. It was painful, not because you were leaving the job, but because you were leaving him.

You zipped the last part of your bag shut, took one long breath, and stood up. Duty first. Always.

You quietly slipped out of the apartment that night, heading back toward your military base, carrying with you the weight of everything you didn’t say.

******

The next morning, Levi stood before the mirror, smoothing the wrinkles on her blouse and brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her heart fluttered with excitement and nerves. Today was her first day back at the office. After everything that happened, after everything her sister had done for her—it was finally her turn again.

She stepped into the company lobby, head held high. Familiar faces greeted her, though most didn’t notice anything different. She offered polite smiles and short nods as she made her way to her department.

When she entered Bucky’s office, he looked up from his paperwork and smiled.

"Morning, Levi."

"Morning," she replied softly, her voice calm and steady.

At first glance, everything seemed perfectly normal. But as minutes turned into hours, something began to gnaw at Bucky. The energy around her felt… different. The usual spark, that subtle sharpness he had grown accustomed to over the past few weeks, wasn’t there.

Instead, Levi carried a calm, more reserved demeanor—one that he vaguely remembered from before all the chaos. It was familiar, yes, but something was off.

Then came lunch.

As always, Levi walked to the break counter, humming faintly. She pulled out her usual matcha set—the one she had insisted on using every single afternoon.

The soft whisking sound filled the room, the earthy aroma of matcha drifting through the air.

Bucky stared at the cup in her hand, his mind racing. His chest tightened as realization struck.

This was Levi.

The real Levi.

His brows furrowed slightly as he closed the file in front of him. His eyes never left her.

"Levi?"

"Hmm?" She glanced over her shoulder, flashing him a soft smile.

His throat felt tight for a moment, but he forced the words out. "Where is your sister?"

Levi's hand paused, mid-stir. Her smile faltered, just for a brief second, but enough for Bucky to catch it. She straightened, placing the cup on the counter carefully.

"I…" she started, but no quick lie formed on her lips. She knew she was caught.

The room suddenly felt smaller, quieter.

Bucky leaned back in his chair, studying her with quiet intensity. His voice softened, but the weight of his words pressed into the space between them.

"I’ve known for a while," he admitted. "Or at least, I’ve suspected. You two may look identical, but you feel different. She didn’t drink matcha. She liked tea after lunch. She handled my brothers like a soldier, not like you. And yesterday, at the party…"

He let the sentence hang in the air, unfinished, heavy.

Levi lowered her gaze, guilt flickering behind her eyes.

"I didn’t want to drag her into this," she whispered.

"But she chose to be dragged in for you," Bucky replied gently.

My book Arrogant Ex-Husband and Dad, I Can't Let You Go by Alina C. Bing are on Kindle. Check it out!

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[the-winter-spider]

The Alchemy | Part One

NFL Bucky x reader au

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: Angst, fluff,

A/N: I only have one more chapter of Invisible to post so ima get this new series out there. I plan to alternate with this one and Say Don Go! Also im Canadian, ive never watched football in my life before Taylor Swift & Travis Kelce so bare with me, Im a hockey girl 😇🤣

ALSO WOW another ts inspired fic what are the odds lmaoooo

------

The stadium buzzed with energy, every seat packed with fans decked out in the team’s deep blue and silver. Flags waved, chants echoed, and the floodlights bathed the field in an electric glow. The scoreboard flashed 20-24. Fourth quarter. Six seconds left on the clock.

Bucky Barnes stood on the field, his cleats dug into the turf as his breath came in steady bursts. His number 17 jersey clung to him, streaked with sweat and dirt, but his focus was absolute. Across from him, defenders crouched low, their eyes locked on him. Everyone in the stadium knew where the ball was going. The golden boy, the clutch player, the one who could pull miracles out of thin air.

At the line of scrimmage, Steve Rogers—number 18, the quarterback—barked out commands, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. “Green 18! Green 18! Set!” His hand hovered under center, waiting for the snap.

Next to Steve, Sam Wilson—number 78, the running back—grinned as he looked to his left. “Hope you’re ready to make me look good, Barnes,” Sam called to Bucky, his voice tinged with a mix of adrenaline and humor.

Bucky smirked, glancing over his shoulder. “Always am, Wilson. Try to keep up.”

The ball snapped.

Time slowed, the roar of the stadium dimming to a dull hum in Bucky’s ears. He exploded off the line of scrimmage, his legs pumping as he darted past the first defender. His route was a perfectly calculated arc, his sharp cut leaving his opponent scrambling in his wake.

Steve dropped back, his eyes scanning the field, calm and composed as chaos erupted around him. The offensive line was holding—barely. Sam sprinted out to the right, dragging a defender with him and creating just enough space for Bucky to hit his mark.

“Buck!” Steve’s shout was clear, even over the thunder of the crowd. The ball left his hands in a perfect spiral, arcing high into the night.

Bucky didn’t slow. He kept his eyes on the ball as it sailed through the air, his body moving on instinct. A defender lunged at him, but he sidestepped, his cleats digging into the turf and propelling him forward. Another defender was closing in, but he wasn’t fast enough.

Bucky leaped, his arms stretching to meet it. For a split second, the stadium seemed to hold its breath. His fingertips brushed the leather, and then the ball was in his hands, secured against his chest as he crashed to the ground in the end zone.

The buzzer sounded.

The crowd erupted into a deafening roar, the stands a blur of jumping fans and waving flags. Bucky pushed himself to his feet, the ball still clutched tightly in his hands. His teammates swarmed him, slapping his back and tugging at his jersey.

“Hell of a catch, Buck!” Steve shouted, pulling Bucky into a quick hug, his grin as wide as the field.

“Couldn’t have done it without that throw,” Bucky replied, though his grin didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Sam jogged over, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “Man, you’re gonna make the rest of us look bad if you keep pulling off plays like that.”

“Just doing my job,” Bucky quipped, though his voice carried a hint of weariness.

The cameras swarmed, capturing every second of the celebration. Bucky turned, tossing the ball to an equipment manager as he ran a hand through his damp hair. He offered a practiced smile to the crowd, raising his hand in a quick wave. The adrenaline still pounded through his veins, but underneath it all, he felt…empty. Moments like this used to mean everything. Now, they were just another show.

----

You stood just behind the sidelines, your camera in hand as you captured the final seconds of the game. The stadium’s energy was almost overwhelming, but you kept your focus, snapping shot after shot as the ball spiraled through the air. The lens followed Bucky, capturing the moment his fingertips grazed the ball and the exact second he pulled it to his chest.

Your thumb hovered over the record button as he hit the ground in the end zone, the buzzer blaring through the stadium. The noise was deafening, but you barely noticed, too focused on capturing the raw emotion of the moment—his teammates rushing to him, the grin splitting Steve’s face, Sam throwing his hands in the air as he jogged over.

Through the lens, you could see every detail: the streaks of dirt on Bucky’s jersey, the intensity in his eyes, the way he stood a little apart from the celebration even as he was surrounded by his team. You lowered the camera for a moment, watching as he turned to wave at the crowd, that effortless smile on his face.

There was something surreal about seeing him like this, so different yet so familiar, especially after all these years. The golden boy of the NFL, the star of every highlight reel, and yet…still Bucky. You just wondered what he would think if he knew you were tasked with covering his team for the duration of the season.

-----

The press room buzzed with energy as reporters jostled for position, shoving microphones and cameras toward the front. Bucky sat at the table, effortlessly commanding the room. His jersey clung to him, still damp with sweat, and his dark hair fell messily across his forehead. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, his easy smile lighting up the space.

“Bucky, talk us through that final play!” one reporter called out.

Bucky smirked, shaking his head. “It’s not just me. That was all teamwork. The guys up front gave me the space, and Stevie threw a perfect pass, I just had to do my part.”

“Just your part?” another reporter pressed. “That was your second game-winning catch this season and it just started! You’re making it look easy out there.”

“Well,” Bucky replied, flashing a quick grin, “it’s never easy, i’ve just got a great team behind me. We work hard for moments like that.”

More questions came, volleying back and forth. He answered them all with polished charm, his practiced media persona never faltering. But as the questions wore on, his gaze started to wander, skimming over the sea of faces and microphones. That’s when he saw you, his blue eyes did a double take before confusion and shock swam through them.

You were standing off to the side, not pushing to the front like the others. You weren’t yelling over the noise or angling for the best shot. You were just…there. Scribbling something into your notebook, head ducked slightly as if you wanted to disappear into the crowd.

Bucky froze for a fraction of a second, the polished grin faltering for the briefest moment before he caught himself. His heart stuttered in his chest, a wave of recognition crashing over him. He blinked, his brain scrambling to catch up. No way. It couldn’t be.

You were trying to stay out of the fray while still capturing the scene. Your notebook was a familiar weight in your hands, its pages filling with shorthand notes that you’d polish later. It was your way of staying grounded—your way of not staring too long at him.

The boy you’d grown up with. The boy who used to challenge you to races down your block, who teased you mercilessly, who knew all your secrets. Seeing him now, years later, as the NFL’s star receiver, felt surreal. He’d become everything the world expected him to be. And yet, in some strange way, he was still the same.

You ducked your head lower, scribbling furiously to avoid the wave of memories threatening to crash over you. Focus. Professional. Objective. That was your mantra when you’d taken this assignment. You hadn’t even known it would be his team until you arrived. Now, all you wanted was to finish your notes and leave to compose yourself fully before he could notice you.

Bucky’s gaze lingered on you, his heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with the game he’d just played. He said your name softly, testing it on his lips. It felt foreign and familiar all at once. You didn’t react—too far away, too focused on your notes.

“Hey, Bucky!” another reporter called out. “What’s your mindset going into the rest of the season?”

He barely heard the question. His focus was entirely on you now, watching as you slipped your notebook into your bag and adjusted the strap over your shoulder. You were leaving.

“Uh, sorry,” he mumbled to the reporter, not bothering to look at them. “I need to…” He trailed off, standing abruptly.

The room went silent for a moment, the reporters exchanging confused glances. “Bucky, are you—?”

“Yeah, uh, excuse me,” he muttered, already moving. He left the table, ignoring the murmurs that followed as the cameras swung to track his movements.

His heart stuttered.

“Y/N?” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the din. He blinked, half-convinced his mind was playing tricks on him. He tried again, louder this time. “Y/N?”

You didn’t look up.

----

The late summer air clung to your skin, thick and still, like it was trying to hold you in this moment forever. The roof beneath you was rough and familiar, each crack in the shingles a memory. Nights like this always felt infinite—just you and Bucky under the stars, talking about everything and nothing. But tonight, that comforting rhythm was broken.

You sat side by side, the glow of the streetlights catching in Bucky’s messy hair. He leaned back on his elbows, that cocky grin you knew so well plastered across his face. “So,” he said, breaking the silence, “you wanna go to prom with me next year? You know, as friends or whatever.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped, but it sounded hollow even to you. “Prom’s not for another year, Bucky. Don’t tell me you’re turning into a planner now.”

“What can I say?” He shrugged, the grin widening, his confidence practically radiating. “I like to lock down the good ones early.”

You rolled your eyes and gave him a light shove, but your hand lingered on his arm for just a second longer than it should have. He felt it. He always felt it.

“Alright,” he said, his grin fading as he sat up straighter, his piercing blue eyes narrowing in concern. “What’s going on? You’ve been weird all night.”

Your fingers twisted together in your lap, your gaze dropping to the shingles. The words felt too heavy to say, but they burned in your chest. You couldn’t keep them in any longer.

“I’m moving.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. It stretched between you like the whole world had opened up, and all you could do was stare into the void. When you finally looked at him, his expression was blank, unreadable. That cocky smile you’d always known so well—it was just gone.

“You’re lying,” he said, his voice low, almost like a challenge.

You shook your head, your throat tightening. “I wish I was.”

His brows furrowed, the disbelief quickly turning into something sharper. “Why?” he asked, leaning closer. “You don’t have to go. You’re almost eighteen—just stay.”

“Bucky—”

“No, listen to me,” he cut you off, his words coming fast now, his tone filled with something you rarely heard from him: fear. “You could stay here. My ma wouldn’t care. Hell, she’d love it. You could move into the basement. You practically live at my house anyway. No one would even notice. You don’t have to go.”

The desperation in his voice broke something in you. You had known it would hurt, but seeing him like this—Bucky, who was always so strong, so steady—was unbearable.

“I can’t stay,” you said softly, the words barely more than a whisper. “I don’t have a choice.”

“Why not?” His voice cracked as he sat up fully, his hands curling into fists against the roof. “Am I not enough for you to stay?” He knew he was being selfish but he was so blind sided he couldn't help it.

The question hit you like a punch to the chest. Your breath caught, and you had to blink hard to keep your vision from blurring. “Fuck, Bucky,” you whispered. “Of course, you’re enough. You’re my best friend. You’re everything. But my mom…” Your voice broke, and you had to take a deep breath before continuing. “She’s finally leaving him. Bucky, we’re finally getting out.”

His jaw clenched, and his chest rose and fell unevenly as he processed your words. His hands gripped the edge of the roof like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. “Your mom…” he started, his voice trailing off. Of course, he was happy for her. He knew what it had taken for her to finally leave that asshole. He’d seen the bruises you never talked about, the way your voice would falter when you mentioned home. Of course, he understood.

But that didn’t make it hurt any less. She was taking you away from him, and he couldn’t stand it. "What about school? We have one more year left."

"They have schools everywhere Buck..." Your voice was soft and quiet.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything. The night stretched on, heavy and endless. You thought he might fight you on it again, throw out another plan, another reason for you to stay. But instead, he let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head.

“Well,” he said, his voice sharp and hollow, “I guess this is it then.”

“Bucky, don’t do this,” you pleaded, the words rushing out before you could stop them. “Please.”

He stood up slowly, brushing off his hands like he was trying to shake off the weight of your words. His expression was unreadable now, his eyes cold and distant in a way you’d never seen before.

“It was nice while it lasted,” he said, his voice clipped and emotionless. He paused at the edge of the roof, looking back at you one last time. “Hey, take care of yourself, alright?”

And then he climbed down the ladder, disappearing into the shadows below.

You didn’t call after him—you couldn’t. You just sat there on the roof, staring at the place where he’d been, your heart breaking under the weight of his absence. For the first time, the stars felt impossibly far away.

That was the last time you ever talked to Bucky Barnes.

----

You were halfway down the hallway, your footsteps echoing softly in the empty space, when you heard him.

“Y/N!”

You froze, halfway down the hallway. The voice was unmistakable now—stronger, sharper, but undeniably his. Slowly, you turned, and there he was, jogging toward you with an expression you couldn’t quite decipher. His broad shoulders filled the space, but it was his eyes—wide and almost boyish—that sent your heart racing.

“Is this really you?” he asked, stopping just a few feet away. His chest rose and fell as if he’d just run the length of the field. His gaze swept over you, disbelief and something like relief flickering across his face.

You laughed nervously, a sound that came out more like a breathless exhale. “I didn’t think you’d recognize me.”

Bucky’s lips parted in a huff of incredulous laughter. “Are you kidding? I could find you in any room.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Before you could respond, he closed the distance, wrapping you in a hug so tight it stole the breath from your lungs. For a moment, the world fell away—the noise, the cameras, the years. It was just Bucky, holding you like he was afraid you’d disappear. It was like you were kids again, sitting on rooftops and talking about everything under the stars. Holding you in a way where you finally felt safe like nothing or no one could hurt you because you knew these arm’s wouldn’t.

“Holy shit,” he muttered into your hair. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still on your shoulders. “I haven’t seen you in years. What are you doing here? Not that I’m not happy to see you—I’m just…wow.”

You smiled, your heart pounding in your chest. “I’m here to cover the team for the season.” You held up your press badge, a sheepish grin tugging at your lips. “Didn’t realize I’d be covering you.”

Bucky barked a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Fate, huh? Guess it wasn’t done with us yet.”

You both stood there for a moment, the hallway around you seeming to blur. His thumb brushed against your arm absently, like he was reassuring himself you were real. Finally, he stepped back, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“I’ve got about a thousand questions,” he said, tilting his head. “But I guess we’ve got the whole season to catch up, right?”

“Right,” you replied, the warmth in his eyes making it impossible to think straight. “The whole season.”

[moonyslipstick]

Paddock Hearts

Carlos Sainz was trouble. Beautiful, brooding, Spanish trouble with a smirk that made your breath catch and a voice that rolled down your spine like warm thunder. He walked through the paddock with that easy confidence, the kind that made people turn, made cameras follow, made your heart lurch with every glance he threw your way when no one was looking.

Which made sneaking around with him all the more dangerous. And all the more delicious.

You were a Verstappen. Max's younger sister. The paddock knew you as smart, sharp, and off-limits. Red Bull royalty, as some of the older mechanics liked to say. You weren’t officially team staff, but your presence had become just as constant. Quiet. Composed. Always a few steps behind Max, always watching, always invisible.

But Carlos saw you. Had seen you since Abu Dhabi last season, when you'd stepped out of the Red Bull garage and made a joke in Spanish to your brother. Carlos had looked up, amused and intrigued, and you had looked back. Just once. But it had been enough.

It started as flirty texts. Then "accidental" bump-ins near media pens. Then Monaco happened. A corner behind the hospitality suite, the echo of waves nearby, and Carlos's lips on yours, hot and hurried, like he couldn't believe you'd actually let him.

Since then? Chaos. Beautiful, secret chaos.

Hotel rooms booked under fake names. Walks at night with hats pulled low and hands brushing until they didn't. One too many close calls with cameras. Once, Max had almost caught Carlos slipping out the back hallway of your villa. Your heart had stopped. Carlos had laughed.

"You love the risk," he'd whispered against your throat that night.

And maybe you did.

But today was different.

Carlos had won.

Carlos Sainz, in Williams, had won.

No one saw it coming. Not the analysts, not the fans, not even you. Strategic perfection, chaos at the front, tire calls made on instinct, and Carlos—tense, focused Carlos—sailing through the storm to take P1 for Williams. The paddock was losing its collective mind. Commentators called it a fairytale. Blue and white smoke billowed from the Williams garage as they exploded in celebration.

And you were still frozen, heart stuttering in your chest, watching from the Red Bull wall.

He did it. He actually did it.

You wanted to run to him. Wanted to climb fences, tear through security, throw yourself into his arms. But you couldn’t. Not when no one even knew. Not when Max didn’t know.

Carlos climbed out of his car, eyes wild and shining, hands shaking as he threw them in the air. The mechanics swarmed him. You stayed still. Pretended to be focused on your team’s strategy debrief. Pretended you weren’t dying to kiss him until your lungs gave out.

The podium was surreal. The anthem played. Champagne flew. Carlos laughed, heart-cracking joy in every move. His eyes scanned the crowd—he was looking for you. You stood where you always stood, just out of sight, blending into the Red Bull shadows.

And then came the press pen.

You slipped in from the back, blending in like usual. You weren’t supposed to be there, technically. But you had your ways. He was finishing his Sky Sports interview, drenched in sweat and champagne, hair wild, suit clinging to him, voice low and warm.

“Carlos,” the reporter asked, “you looked pretty emotional after that win. Was there something more to that celebration?”

Carlos hesitated.

And then he looked past the reporter. At you.

Your blood ran cold.

You shook your head. Just slightly. Not here. Not like this.

But he smiled.

He handed off the mic, ignored the PR handler tugging at his sleeve, and walked straight toward you.

People noticed. Heads turned. You tried to step back, but he caught your wrist gently, eyes locked on yours.

And then he kissed you.

Not softly. Not briefly.

A full, grounding, no going back kiss that set the paddock on fire.

Gasps echoed. Journalists scrambled. Phones lifted. One of the Williams mechanics swore out loud. And somewhere, just off to your left, Max’s voice rang out sharp and confused: “Wait—what the fu—”

Carlos pulled back, his hand still wrapped around your waist like he was daring anyone to pry you from him. Your heart was slamming into your ribs.

“You said,” he murmured, breath warm against your skin, “I could go public if I won.”

“I said if you win a race, not if you blow up the entire grid doing it,” you whispered, stunned.

He grinned. “Still counts.”

The cameras were still flashing. You could see the social media tsunami already forming. #SainzVerstappen was going to melt the internet. Max was marching toward you both. Fast.

Carlos didn’t move.

“I told you,” he said quietly. “I wanted the world to know who I did this for.”

Twenty minutes later, Max cornered the both of you behind the Red Bull motorhome. His arms were crossed, jaw tense.

“You’ve been dating a Williams driver? Behind my back?”

“He’s Carlos,” you said.

“He’s still in blue,” Max hissed, glaring at Carlos.

Carlos shrugged. “I figured winning for Williams gave me enough credit.”

Max stared. “I should be pissed.”

“You are,” you replied.

He groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Just… don’t do it in front of cameras again, alright? I had three Dutch reporters ask me if you two were planning a Verstappen-Sainz dynasty. I barely survived that.”

Carlos grinned. “Too early for dynasty talk?”

You elbowed him.

Max shook his head and stalked off, muttering about needing a drink.

Carlos turned to you, eyes soft now, hand brushing your cheek. “Worth it?”

You smiled, cheeks still flushed. “Every second.”

And when he leaned in again, you let him kiss you. Openly. Finally.

Because the world knew now.

And for the first time, you weren’t afraid of being seen.

[orcasoul]

The Lesser of Two Evils

Chapter Summary: The night of the banquet and your entrance into Roman society arrives. However it is more complicated than you could have ever imagined...

Chapter Warnings: Swearing, angst, enemies(ish) to lovers, slow burn, protective Marcus Acacius.

Word Count: 6,080

Chapter 7 Wolves in Sheep's Clothing

Your pulse is thundering in your ears, your heart thumping equally as fast as you gape up at the grand entrance of the Domus Severiana. For the past few days Marcus had pretty much drilled into you the correct decorum and the expectations for tonight's gathering, had coached you on how you should and shouldn't speak and what you in turn should expect. All the preparation Marcus had given you had actually helped to quell the initial dread you'd felt when you'd first learned of the invite, a slight anticipation (the good kind) taking it's place. You'll get to see firsthand how the 'other half live' and maybe you'll even enjoy the experience.

But now being surrounded by the exquisite palace complex of Capitolone Hill with it's many finely dressed guests you fear you may be a bit out of your depth. You close your eyes, taking a deep breath when you feel a warmth enclosing your hand. "It's okay. You can do this," Marcus said, gently, warmth shining in his chestnut eyes. Just this one gesture from Marcus was enough to release the tension curing around your spine. "I know," you squeezed his hand gently. Marcus' eyes linger on yours a bit longer than necessary and your stomach does a little flip when you notice his gaze slip, briefly, to your lips. Suddenly his expression changes, looking like he'd momentarily forgotten himself and slowly releases your hand.

You mourn the lost connection, wanting nothing more in this moment than to reach out and take his hand in yours again. But judging by his quick shift you know it wouldn't be appropriate. So you do the only thing you can think of and pretend the moment - or whatever that was - didn't happen. His composure regained, Marcus waves his arm in front of you. "Shall we?" You and Marcus fall into step with one another. Entering the banquet hall every head turns your way as a loud voice announces to the room, "General Marcus Acacius." Marcus strides into the room, calm and composed under the watch of all in attendance. You, however, under the surface, are anything but. While Marcus exudes confidence, his mere presence commanding respect, you are fighting to keep the contents of your stomach where they are.

Thank the gods - your own and those of Rome - Marcus had been thorough in his instructions with you. That's the only reason you are now walking beside him with your head held high, going against all your instincts to not draw attention to yourself. In the past, the more invisible you were, the better. But this isn't the past, you have to remind yourself and you have nothing to fear anymore. Following Marcus' lead, you make your way to where the emperors are sitting. Shock almost stops you dead in your tracks as you observe the scene before you. Scantily clad women and men surround both emperors, shamelessly touching them and each other in ways that should never be seen in public. It's obscene, but even more shocking is that no one in attendance seems to notice- or care. Is this really how the upper class live in Rome?!

"Your Majesties," Marcus bows and you shake off your surprise and follow suit, looking anywhere, but at the naked breasts of a concubine sprawling on Geta's shoulder. If Marcus is just as uncomfortable as you, he's doing a good job of concealing it. "Ah Acacius..." Geta stands and claps his hands, then turns his attention to you, "and Alia." His mock smile couldn't be any less convincing. "It's good of you to come." "Thank you for inviting us, Your Majesties," you reply, nervously. "Look at you..." Geta's eyes rake slowly over your form, making you shudder internally. "Why, you look like a real Roman woman now." Before you can say anything, Caracalla comes to stand by you, that weird monkey creature hanging off of him. "But looks can be deceiving, brother," he ribbed, smirking at you. "True," Geta agreed. "I guess only time will tell."

"Emperor Caracalla," Marcus spoke, almost forcefully, trying to shift their focus from you. "Many happy returns on your Dias Natalis (birthday), I'm sure the games will be quite the spectacle." Caracalla bursts into a wide grin, like when a child is excited to talk about their favourite toy. "Oh they will be. Blood and death. Is there anything more exciting!" In your peripheral vision, you could see Marcus tense ever so slightly. "No, I suppose not," he said through a forced smile. "So..." Geta turned back to you. "How are you finding life here? Is Acacius treating you well?" The look he's giving you makes youf eel on edge. It's as if he's trying to gauge you. "Um, to be honest, Your Majesty, it's a very big change and it will take some getting used too. But the General has been wonderful. He's been very accommodating and attentive."

"I bet he has..." Caracalla quipped, glancing between both yourself and Marcus. Geta chuckled at his brother. Your polite smile dropped at the shameless innuendo and at the same time you could see Marcus curling his fist by his side, tension radiating off of him; a wound coil, ready to spring. These two boys (and the more time you spend in their presence, the more they seem just that; immature little boys) are obviously getting a kick from their attempts to rile up Marcus. But being the mature and level headed man he is, Marcus refuses to give them the satisfaction. "If you'll excuse us Your Majesties, we're quite thirsty." Caracalla waves his hand dismissively, focusing on the creature on his shoulder. "Of course, carry on." He then mumbles something incoherent to the animal as he walks back to his seat.

Geta's eyes shift between you and Marcus for a second longer before he says, "You two enjoy the evening. I'm sure everyone here will want to acquaint themselves with our little saviour," he gives you a wink then turns to rejoin his brother and their friends. Marcus lays a hand at the small of your back, gently ushering you away. "General!" a boisterous voice calls from a few feet away. "Antius!" Marcus exclaims, clasping the mans' arm. He's obviously happy to see him which instantly puts you at ease. "It's been a long time, old friend," the man - Antius - grinned. "I see you are recovering well." "It's been far too long," Marcus agrees with an easy smile. "Please, allow me to introduce Alia," Marcus gestures to you, then back to his friend, "Alia, this is Antius, an old brother in arms and a retired war hero."

Antius rolled his eyes playfully. "Enough of that 'war hero' stuff. I just did my duty." Antius now turns his focus to you. "It is a pleasure to meet you, my dear. A friend of Acacius' is a friend of mine," he said warmly, nodding his head. "Oh, the pleasure is mine, Sir. You're very kind," you reply in your rehearsed tone. A part of you cringed at the sound of your own tongue, all these practiced pleasantries making you feel somewhat detached from yourself. Another thing you'll have to get used too. while the two men catch up your attention wanders to the room and that's when you notice many of the people observing you, some discreetly, some more brazenly and even some side eyed glares from some of the women. Resisting the urge to shrink into yourself, you square your shoulders and and maintain a neutral expression, keeping your composure.

"That's very impressive, my dear..." Antius' voice brought you back to your present company. You didn't realise they'd been talking about you. Luckily, you didn't have to pretend you'd heard the conversation because Antius continued, "to have such odds stacked against you both, and yet you made it here in one piece. You're a very formidable woman." "That she is," Marcus smiled softly at you, his eyes crinkling in the corners. A warm blush creeps across your cheeks as both men praise you. This is something new to you and you're not entirely sure how you feel about it. So, you deflect some of the praise onto Marcus. "I never would have made it without Marcus. I owe him everything." Marcus' smile softened even more at your humble deflection. After a moment Antius clasped Marcus on the shouder, "Well, I shan't keep you any longer, Acacius. There are many here who wish to welcome you home and meet you, Alia. Have a good night, both of you," "You too," Marcus smiled at his friend as he walked away.

Marcus offered you his arm - which you gladly accepted - as you both weaved through the crowded room, stopping often as he is pulled into conversation, eager people hanging onto his every word as he explains how your unlikely alliance came to be. Thank goodness he left out the worst parts, the ones you'd rather not think of. When asked how you are adjusting to life here you answered as simply and politely as you could, not really feeling comfortable engaging with people who, earlier, were giving you snooty looks and are now smiling so pleasantly at you, falseness rolling off them in waves. Is this what it's always like? A servant walks by with a serving tray and Marcus takes two cups of wine, passing one to you.

Since arriving here you've had wine a few times - having been denied it in Germania. They never would have allowed it to 'go to waste on you', as you'd been told - but the taste is still overwhelming and you struggle to really enjoy it. Watching Marcus speak so easily with so many people leaves you in a state of silent awe. It's no wonder he's gotten to where he has in life. He's confident, but not arrogant, commanding, yet humble and he just seems to draw people in. You are truly grateful that your paths crossed, even if it wasn't under the best circumstances. At the start of your... friendship? you wouldn't have dared to place your trust in him, but now? Now you can't help but do just that. The realisation stirs up a feeling you've not felt in a long time. It settles deep into your chest, your stomach, into every part of your being, spreading warmth and contentment throughout. You know you're safe with him. No man has made you feel this way since Farro. Shit, you're in trouble.

"Acacius!" a womans' voice broke the air. The group surrounding you both immediately separated and bowed their heads as a tall and beautiful woman wearing a cream stolla, covered with a deep purple palla and a crown of laurels almost identical to the emperors' approached. Marcus bowed his head then quickly grasped her outstretched hands, smiling affectionately at her. "My dearest Acacius, how are you?" she asked, enthusiastically. "I am well, thank you My Lady," Marcus replied, kissing the back of her hand. "How are you?" "Much better now I know you're home safe and sound. I wanted to call sooner but I thought you'd need some time to settle." The easy interaction between Marcus and this woman speaks of something deeper than them being simply acquaintances.

It leaves you feeling like you're intruding and you're not sure where to look. Strange how Marcus had never mention her before. She's clealy a person of importance in his life. Your heart twists as you bare witness to the closeness they both share. What a fucking fool you've been. You've tried to bury the feelings you've been developing for Marcus since you'd arrived here, not ready to acknowledge that he's become so much more to you than a friend and tonight, when you've finally accepted them fate has decided to remind you that somene like you could never be enough for a man like Marcus. He's kind to you and attentive but that dosen't mean he has feelings for you. He's just being a good man, trying to do right by the woman who saved his life.

Tears tingle behind your eyes, but you blink them back and force a smile as Marcus turns to you. "Alia, allow me to introduce the Dowager Empress Julia Domna, mother of emporers Geta and Caracalla. My Lady, this is Alia." "It's nice to meet you, Alia." Your eyes widen in shock when you realise who you've just been staring at and immediately bow your head. "Your Highness, it's a pleasure. Forgive me I- I didn't know who you were." Julia chuckled. "It's quite alright. I won't hold it against you, after all, you'r new to all this," she waved her arm around the room. Julia now adresses Marcus, "Oh Acacius, when we recieved word of your survival I dropped to my knees and thanked the gods." Marcus smiled on one corner of his mouth and shook his head.

"Thank Alia, she saved me," he said turning to you and placing his hand tenderly on your back, the warmth of his touch causing goosebumps to break out over your skin. A blush spread from your neck to your cheeks and you were helpless against the coy smile that spread over your face. That smile falterd slightly as you brought your gaze back to Julia. For a split second you could have sworn you'd seen a flicker of contempt in her eyes as she regarded the exchange between you and Marcus, but as quickly as it came, it disappeared, smoothed out by a saccharine smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Yes, everyone has been taking endlessly about your heroic rescue. So, Alia..." Julia lifted her chin, looking down her nose at you, "What do you think of the heart of our empire?"

Pushing aside your unease, you try your best to sound equanimous under her gaze. "It's like something from a dream. I've never seen anything like it." Julia nods with a smirk that silently says 'Of course you haven't.' Julia looks back to Marcus. "How long are you home for?" "The Medicus estimates it'll be three to four months before I'll be able to return to duty." Julia's face lit up. "We have a lot to catch up on and a lot of time for it! May I call on you soon?" "Of course, Julia. My home is always open to you." They smiled warmly at each other and all you could do was stand there and watch as your heart phyically ached. Julia seems pleasant in her approach but you can't ignore the niggling feeling that something is off with her, something subtle that puts you on edge.

Maybe it's just nerves, you try to reason with yourself. Marcus appears completely at ease, so maybe you're seeing something that's not there. You decide to give her the benefit of the doubt since she's Marcus' friend. "General Acacius!" Three men around Marcus' age stride towards you, Marcus greeting them warmly. They clasp arms and bow to the Dowager Empress before Marcus introduces you. It's all a bit daunting, meeting so many strangers at once. You wonder how Marcus can bare this never ending attention. As the friendly talk turns to wars past and present, you notice Julia becoming restless. "Gentlemen, if you'll excuse us I shall take Alia to meet the senators wives and leave you all to your reminiscences."

Before you can even think to object, she links her arm through yours. Upon impact your muscles stiffen and your eyes dart to Marcus, hoping he'll intervene. For a brief moment he looks uncertain, then his brow eases as he nods at Julia and mouths a silent 'It's okay' to you. "I'll take good care of her, I promise," she winks at Marcus. "Gentlemen..." she curtsies and they all bow their heads, wishing you both a good evening. Marcus watches from the corner of his eye as Julia leads you over to where a crowd of women are gathered, all the while, fighting an internal war within himself; keep you close or let you mingle? It can only do you good to meet new people and so far he hasn't seen any hostility towards you, but nevertheless, he remains on guard, taking a glance your way every few minutes.

More men have now joined his circle; a few senators and their sons and a couple of wealthy nobility. Marcus is only half listening to their conversation until they begin to discuss you. He's beginning to grow weary of having of repeating the same story over and over. They've all heard the gossip, for goodness sake. Alas, here he is again, recounting the same events. "So we finally get to put a face to the name... and it's a pretty little face too. I can see why you wanted to bring her back with you, Acacius," one of the senators sons' waggles his eyebrows, suggestively. Marcus' amicable smile drops like a ten ton weight, his fists clenching at his sides. Never has he wanted to rip a mans' tongue out more! "What exactly are you insinuating, boy?"

Marcus spat the last word out. The arrogant little prick has the audacity to snicker. "Just between us men..." he leans forward, mouth ticking up smugly, "She any good? We all know her people are savages. Tell me, is she just as wild and savage in the sheets?" Marcus is now chest to chest with the man, who up until a second ago was all bravado. Now he looks like he's about to piss himself. "Do not EVER speak about her like that again, do you hear me?!" The man backs up, his palms facing forward in surrender, trying to hide his fear behind a placating smile. His father comes to stand beside him, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Oh come now, Acacius," the senator said trying to diffuse the tension, "It's all in jest." "Not at her expense!" Marcus hissed quietly, in an effort to keep the heated exchange between the group.

The jumped up little prick continues, "So you're telling us you haven't-" "No! I haven't!" Marcus snapped, face turning red and pulse thundering at his temples. Another man joins in, "It's a crime, really. Pretty little thing like that going to waste. If you're not going to enjoy her, maybe I-" "Do. Not. Finish. That. Sentence!" Marcus whirled on the man, eyes blazing. Fury burns under his skin. A few heads have now turned to the quiet but tense voices, but Marcus is beyond caring. Before he can say anymore - something he might regret - one of Marcus' companions places a hand on his shoulder in a gesture of support. "Easy now gentlemen. I'm sure the wine must have loosened their tongues a bit too much," he narrowed his eyes at the other men. "I'm sure they meant no offence."

"Of course not," the young mans' father insisted with a nervous smile. "If you'll excuse us..." and with that he left, his son and friends following after him, leaving Marcus with his original company. "Ignore them, Acacius" the older of the three says. "She seems like a lovely girl and I'm sure she'll do well here." With a strained smile Marcus nods in agreement and cast his eyes once again to where you are standing. It bothers him that your back is turned towards him. How will he know whether or not you need him if he can't see your face? Reluctantly, he resumes his conversation with his friends, telling himself you're fine.

Oh, but you're not. Watching theses women interact with each other makes you realise just how unfamiliar you are in social situations. In the past, when you had been at large gatherings your purpose was to serve and be practically non existant. No one ever spoke to you unless it was to order you or belittle you and over time you had become used to it. Now, people not only see you, they actually want to talk to you, like you have some kind of worth in this world. I'm just an oddity to them, that's why, you tell yourself. And indeed, you do feel odd, standing in amongst them. You may resemble them outwardly, matching their fine clothing, sparkly jewellery and glamorous hairstyles, but that's where the similarities die. Whereas they carry themselves with poise and confidence, their very mien reflecting their own self assurance of who they are, you fear your own appearance is merely a facade.

And the worst thing is what if they all see it. What if the fact you are trying so hard to fit in makes you stand out all the more. You take a deep breath, realising you're starting to spiral and that's the last thing you want. So you banish those thoughts to the recesses of your mind; you'll deal with them later. For now you'll smile and do what you can to appear like you belong. The usual questions are thrown your way; how you met the General, how you'd managed to escape and what you think of the city. A couple of the women seemed sincere and genuinely interested in your story, but you couldn't shift the odd feeling in your gut when it came to the others.

Their smiles were warm but their eyes were... cold, calculating, including Julia's. One older woman, the wife of a very respected consul - and whom Julia seemed particularity close with - appeared to somewhat enjoy the slight digs she gave you, hidden behind a mask of politeness. "So, is this your first time attending one of our celebrations, Alia?" she asked, looking down at you. "Yes it is, My Lady," you reply, respectfully. "Oh please..." she snorts at you, "call me Sabina." You shift, uncomfortably. "Yes, Sabina." "I thought as much. You do stick out like a sore thumb," she smirked. "Why, when I saw you gawping at Julia instead of treating her accordingly I nearly spat my wine out."

A few of the women snickered at her remark, including Julia who leaned into Sabina and squeezed her arm, conspiratorially before turning to face you. You hope no one has noticed the blood rushing to your cheeks. "Like I said, it's alright. I'm sure she'll learn our customs soon enough. In this instance we can make allowances," Julia paused, eyes assessing you with a mock head tilt, "for those who know no better." Any inclination you previously had about giving Julia the benefit of the doubt just fell apart. This woman is as snide as she is charming. All you can do in response is offer a tight smile, fingers gripping the stem of your goblet a little too tightly. "So, are the rumours true?" A dark haired woman, a little younger than you asked in a low voice. "What rumours?" You raise an eyebrow. "That you-" she looks around before dropping her voice to a whisper, "killed your own leader before you ran."

Of all the questions tonight, you weren't expecting that. All eyes now rest on you, expectantly. A lump forms in your throat, your chest constricting slightly at the memory. Schooling your expression, you answer flatly, "I had no choice. He tried to kill me; I didn't let him." A tense moment of silence ensues as you purposely avoid eye contact with all the women, downing the rest of your wine in one big gulp. "Well..." Sabina broke the silence, "I suppose an uncivilized upbringing worked in your favour there. I personally couldn't live with myself if I had to take a life-" "Excuse me," you say sharply and walk away, not wanting to hear another word from these snooty bitches. Even if it was discourteous - which it probably was, judging by the intrigued looks from those nearby - you don't care. Manners be damned! You just couldn't bare to stand there a moment longer.

Once across the room, you stop by a table full of various meats, fruits and pastries. There's no way your stomach could handle food right now. Placing your empty cup down (maybe a little too forcefully) you close your eyes and breath in deeply, focusing on the melodies of the musicians. What an idiot you have been, to have hoped that tonight, people would begin to see you as a person and not as something beneath them. It's obvious to you now that ignorant people exist in every culture and you'll just have to find a way to navigate this society if you want to be a part of it. If others can do it, maybe it's possible for you too; it'll just take time. You're suddenly startled from your pensive state by a rough tugging on your leg, them on your arm.

Your eyes widen in alarm as that strange... monkey creature clambers up to your shoulder. In a moment of blind panic an involuntary yelp bursts from you as you stumble backwards into the table. Shaking your arm violently does nothing to help; the creature refuses to let go, reaching a tiny hand towards your face. A raucous laughter echos through the hall and you see Caracalla practically doubled over on his seat, his cackling growing louder at your predicament. His laughter is joined by others throughout the hall. After a few moments, Geta rushes over to you, trying and failing to hold back his amusement. "Come now, Dondus... get, get!" he swats at the monkey until it lets go, bounding back over to Caracalla.

"You'll have to forgive Dondus," Geta chuckled, "he's quite insistent when he sees something he likes." Heart pounding in your chest, you place a hand over the area to catch your breath. You dare not look around now, lest you burn with shame. "Thank you, Your Majesty." A smug grin takes over Geta's face. "It seems he's not the only one who's taken with you." Geta's gaze lifts over your shoulder and you follow his line of sight to see Marcus stopped halfway across the room, watching you with pinched brows. "Acacius hasn't taken his eyes off you all night." "He's just looking out for me, Your Majesty," you say dismissively, not liking his condescending tone. Geta hums, "I've never seen him quite like this in all the years I've known him. It's almost like he's... bewitched."

That last word made your blood run cold! Your head turns abruptly back to Geta who's now sporting a knowing and satisfied smirk. "You... you know?" you stammer, wide eyed. "Of course I know," he raised his eyebrows smugly. "Acacius told us everything." Your mouth falls open, you want to speak but for a moment you're lost for words, anger, humiliation and betrayal battling it out inside you. Why the fuck would he tell them?! Finding your voice, you plead, "You must also know it's not true, what they accused me of!" You hate how desperate your voice sounds, but you can't help it. Panic wells up in your chest at the thought of being branded a witch again. "Oh there's no need to worry," Geta laughs off your concern. "Most educated people don't indulge such nonsense."

A shaky breath leaves your chest, relief washing over you. Before you can respond, Geta continues, "But I can't deny it makes you all the more... intriguing. People do love a gossip." What do you even say to that?! Lucky for you, you don't have to worry about it too much because Geta, now appearing bored, wishes you a good evening and struts back to his brother and crowd of flesh. All of a sudden the room feels to small; the walls, the very air weighing down and closing in on you. Your eyes dart towards Marcus, who nods at you with a slight frown, silently asking if you're okay. Is he fucking serious right now! His frown turns to confusion as you shoot him a glare of pure fury. You have to get out of this room, now.

Spinning on your heel and ignoring the lingering stares, you hurry outside onto the balcony. Much to your relief the balcony is mostly empty. The only other people out here are at the other end of the large space and out of earshot. The marble parapet takes the brunt of your white knuckled frustration as you try to process everything that just happened. If the strength of your hands matched the strength of the anger swelling deep within, the marble beneath your fingers would be dust now. All evening you've been trying to assimilate, being mindful of what you say, even striving to adopt the mannerisms of those you've been trying to fit in with, and all this time the emperors knew your most shameful secret. And if they know who else knows?

"Alia?" Marcus' hand on your shoulder causes you to flinch away from his touch, taking a step aside and turning your head away. "What's wrong? Did Geta upset you?" You release a sharp exhale, your grip on the parapet, tightening once more. A beat of uncomfortable silence passes before Marcus speaks again. "Talk to me. tell me wh-" "You told them," your voice simmers lowly with rage. "What are you talking about?" Marcus asked, clearly perplexed, which only served to infuriate you even more. "I'm talking bout you telling the emperors and, heaven knows who else, that I was condemned as a witch by my entire village!" Marcus remains silent and you finally turn to face him, his expression a mixture of guilt and sympathy. "I did," he nodded.

"Why? why did you do that?" Tears gather at your eyelashes but you refuse to let them fall; not here, not in front of Romes high society. "I had to tell them." Marcus closed the gap between you but you stepped away. "No, you didn't. It wasn't for you to say." "Please let me explain," Marcus insisted, dropping his voice to not draw attention. "I trusted you, Marcus. I trusted you and you went behind my back!" Your chin quivered and Marcus' chest tightened at the sight. If he could get away with it he'd march straight up to Geta and strangle him to death this very moment. "It wasn't like that, Alia. If you'll just listen to me-"

"All night..." you snapped, voice rising, "all night I've been surrounded by these people, smiling politely, trying to be someone I'm not, and that was fine as long as no one knew of my past. Do you realise how foolish I feel now? I've been presenting this... front," you wave your hand along your dress for emphasis, "yet they can all see right through me." Marcus reached for your hand but you pulled it away. His stomach dropped at your rejection. "I'm sorry, truly, but-" "Just leave me," you sigh, hanging your head. "I'm not leaving you all alone," Marcus scoffed, as if the very thought was absured. "Please!" your voice shudders. "I need some time alone, some space to breathe. I'll find you later." You turn back to the parapet, gazing out across the darkening city. Marcus releases a deep sigh. "Okay... take all the time you need. I'll be inside."

As he walks away, you allow your shoulders to sag and blink back the building tears. You feel so lost. All you wanted was the chance to begin over, to build a respectable life and even even discover who you really are. You're no longer a slave, no longer a Gutone or a Gemani, but you're not a Roman either. You're... nothing. Even when you become a citizen you'll always be an outsider, always be different. A deep mental fatigue begins to press down on you. Tonight has been draining and there's still hours left. You want nothing more than to walk out of here, go home and crawl into bed, just like you used to back in your village when you were dismissed. But this isn't my village and it's not the same thing, a little voice whispers in your mind. No sooner than that truth dawned on you did a flicker of stubborn defiance rear it's head.

Why should I leave? I am a free woman and as such I should not retreat and hide like the lowly slave I was. These people will think what they want of me unless I prove them wrong. And I can begin by walking back in there with my head held high. A new determination takes root. This is going to be hard but when were things ever easy? If you truly want change, you have to make it happen. Taking a long, slow breath, you tilt your head to the navy night sky, losing yourself in it's shimmering constellations and the many stories behind them. After several more minutes, with your heat rate slower and your head much clearer, you return to the banquet and take your place at Marcus' side. You can sense Marcus' eyes on you without having to look at him. "Are you alright?" he whispers, softly, hesitantly. "Yes, thank you," you reply with a forced, barely there smile, while focusing on the conversations around you.

A man in your company is talking very loudly and confidently, but what strikes you the most is that he dosen't appear to be of Roman origin, and yet here he stands, dripping in wealth and station. He is very obviously respected and of high class. Julia Domna is standing bedside him, showering him with the same affection she did Marcus earlier. "Oh, here she is," Julia exclaimed, her plastered on smile not fooling you anymore. "Macrinus, you haven't met Alia yet," she glances between you both. "Alia, this is Macrinus, another dear friend and a very successful arms dealer. He's even providing some of the best gladiators for the gemes. Macrinus, this is Alia, all the way from Gemania."

With a slimy grin and overinflated air of granduer Macrinus steps forward, taking your hand in his and brings it to his lips. "It is indeed an honour to meet the heroine we've heard so much about," he says after placing a light kiss on your hand. You fight the urge to pull your hand away. There's something disingenuous about this man. His smile, his voice, even his posture all seem... rehearsed. Forcing a polite smile, you reply, "It's very nice to make your aquaintance, Sir." Macrinus releases your hand but you feel the lingering touch and it makes your skin crawl. "Manners..." Macrinus grins broadly. "I see General Acacius has taught you well." A quick glance at Marcus reveals a tightness to his jaw. He steps closer to your side, eyes fixed on Macrinus. "She needs no instruction there." Macrinus' mouth ticks up at one corner. "Of course, Sir."

The night continues with food, wine, small talk and entertainment. You answer respectfully when people address you and hold yourself with the same poise as the women in attendance, determined to not give anyone here a reason to criticize you. The interactions between you and Marcus - little though there was - were simple and cordial. You're angry with him, yes, but you don't want that to be obvious to the public, so for appearances sake, you smile and play along. When the time came to leave you were more than ready. Speaking to so many people in such a short space of time has worn you out. Just as you were leaving Julia and Macrinus approached you and Marcus. His smile warmed for Julia but faltered slightly towards Macrinus.

"It was wonderful to see you again, Acacius," Julia beamed at him and held out her hand. Marcus gently took hold of her hand and placed a kiss on the back. A slight twinge in your chest caused you to avert your eyes. "And you, My Lady," Marcus smiled. "Please, call on me anytime." Julia turned her attention to you. "How was your first banquet, Alia?" Oh, how you want to be honest. "It was very... exuberant, My Lady," is the best you can manage. Julia chuckled, "Yes, you could say that. Well, I bid you both goodnight." "Goodnight, My Lady, Sir," you bow your head. Marcus said goodbye then escorted you out of the hall. Julia's saccharine smile dropped instantly, her eyes boring into the back of your head as you leave. Macrinus now also regards you with distaste. "Have your people keep a close eye on her, Macrinus. I'll not have some doe eyed Germani whore ruining our plans."

Series Masterlist Ch1 Ch2 Ch3 Ch4 Ch5 Ch6 Ch8 - coming soon

@bbyanarchist @myownwholewildworldwhole @imherefordeanandbones @picketniffler @h0w-1-wanna-l1v3 @chrissy-forfucksakes-wakeup @meetmeatyourworst @yorksgirl @joeldjarin @echo-ethe @whirlwindrider29 @abbyanarchist @suzyface @missadangel @evyiione @longlivekingminnn @heramj @javiismyhsbnd @kxthxrinx0310 @inept-the-magnificent @liciafonseca @marrowfrog00 @moompie @anoverwhelmingdin

[gildedsilk]

Before Midnight ❀

• Wakatoshi Ushijima x Reader | Wc: 800+ | Slight angst, Fluff | PG-13 ༻

༺ Masterlist

The night had been a blur of half-hearted smiles and missed glances, tension thick between you and Ushijima. The fight earlier had been small—something trivial, really—but it lingered, a quiet storm cloud over what was supposed to be a joyful celebration.

“You could’ve told me sooner,” you’d said earlier, your voice sharper than you intended.

“I didn’t think it mattered,” he replied, his tone steady but distant, the way he always handled conflict. It frustrated you, how composed he stayed while your emotions simmered just below the surface.

Now, as laughter and countdowns filled the air, the tension between you hadn’t completely dissolved. You stood at opposite sides of the room for most of the night, both stubbornly avoiding the other even though your eyes met across the crowd more often than not. His gaze was steady every time, but you looked away, the weight of unresolved feelings prickling at your skin.

Chatter buzzed around you, drinks were passed, and yet you could only think about how off-balance you felt. Normally, Ushijima’s presence anchored you. Tonight, though, it felt like an invisible line tethering you to a frustration you couldn’t quite shake.

“Hey, you good?” one of your friends asked as they passed by.

You forced a small smile and a nod, but your eyes drifted back to him. Ushijima was quiet, sipping on a drink and leaning against the wall. He looked like he belonged in a different world—still, strong, and unbothered by the chaos around him. But his gaze flicked to you, lingering for a moment before he stood and crossed the room.

“Can we talk?” His deep voice was gentle but firm as he reached you, drawing a few curious glances from the people nearby.

You hesitated, then nodded, following him out to the balcony. The cool night air hit your face, a stark contrast to the warmth of the party. Ushijima turned to face you, his expression unreadable as he studied you.

“I didn’t mean to make you upset earlier,” he began, his tone calm but carrying an edge of something softer. “I didn’t realize it mattered to you.”

“It’s not just about what happened,” you admitted, crossing your arms. “It’s how you brushed it off. Like it wasn’t important.”

He was quiet for a moment, his brow furrowed in thought. “It’s not that it wasn’t important. I just didn’t know how to handle it.” His honesty caught you off guard, the simplicity of his words diffusing some of your lingering frustration.

“I just… I hate when we fight,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

His gaze softened as he took a step closer. “Me too.”

The door behind you swung open, letting a wave of noise spill onto the balcony as someone called out, “The countdown’s starting!”

You followed Ushijima back inside, the two of you standing closer now, his arm loosely draped around your shoulders. The room was electric with excitement, the countdown echoing in every corner.

“Ten… nine…”

The tension from earlier still lingered, but it felt lighter now, like a weight you were finally ready to let go of. Ushijima leaned down slightly, his lips brushing your ear. “Are you okay?”

You looked up at him, your heart squeezing at the concern etched into his features. “I’m okay,” you said, offering him a small smile.

“Five… four…”

He shifted, turning fully toward you, his broad shoulders shielding you from the chaos of the party. His hand rested on your face, thumb brushing against your cheek as he leaned down, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Three… two…”

“Come here,” he murmured, and before the final cheer erupted, his lips found yours.

The kiss was steady, grounding, and full of quiet reassurance. It wasn’t rushed or showy—he kissed you like he always did, with intention, as if nothing else in the world mattered but you. His other hand rested on your waist, drawing you closer as the distant sound of fireworks erupted outside.

When he finally pulled back, his brow rested gently against yours. “Happy New Year,” he said, his voice soft but firm.

You smiled despite yourself, the tension between you dissolving like snow under the sun. “Happy New Year,” you replied, your hands sliding up to rest on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingers.

The night felt brighter now, the lingering frustrations replaced by quiet understanding. With Ushijima’s unwavering presence grounding you, you knew that whatever the year brought, you’d face it together.

[cheeseatlantic]

GALA APPLE (OF HIS EYE)

sugardaddy!graves x fem reader

“You look stunning,” Phillip’s voice was low, rough, and for a moment, you felt the weight of his gaze on you—like he was scanning you, taking in every detail. His approval, though subtle, was there. You could always feel it.

You ran your fingers over the fabric of your black gown, the smooth satin falling in soft waves around your body. The dress clung in all the right places, a deep V neckline revealing just enough to tease, and the slit along your leg gave glimpses of your thigh with every step. The high heels were unforgiving, but they made you feel powerful, confident, as if you too belonged in this room of high stakes.

The shadows. They were always with you. Always watching. You didn’t need to look to know that Graves’ men—the Shadows—had positioned themselves in the corners of the room. You’d never seen their faces, only the vague outline of their presence as they blended into the background, lurking in places that felt too close for comfort, ensuring the security of their boss. They were silent and invisible, moving like whispers through the room, eyes always alert, always following.

You didn’t mind it, though. You knew the game. You knew the rules. Graves was no stranger to dangerous work, and neither were the men who followed him, his most trusted, shadow-clad soldiers. They were his private army, his ghosts. And tonight, they had a simple task: protect you.

“Relax,” Graves murmured against your ear, his fingers brushing the nape of your neck as he led you toward a velvet-draped table where high-profile guests sat. The air was thick with power, the kind that could suffocate you if you let it, but you thrived under it. You were his baby, after all—the one who got to flaunt her sugar daddy in front of the world.

“I am,” you replied, taking a deep breath as you placed your hand on his arm, pretending to look more composed than you felt. It wasn’t just the power of the room that made your pulse race, it was the dangerous tension you felt when you were near Graves—like everything could slip into chaos at any given moment.

A voice interrupted your thoughts, smooth but laced with an edge. “Graves, you made it.”

You turned to see a tall, broad man in a sharp suit, his smile calculating. His eyes flickered over you quickly, as if sizing you up, before returning to Graves with a nod of respect.

“We made it,” Graves replied, his hand tightening around your waist, subtly pulling you closer as if to mark you as his own. The gesture was possessive, commanding, and your heart fluttered with a mix of excitement and nervousness.

“This is my…,” Graves trailed off, his voice lowering just slightly as he glanced down at you, the hint of a smile playing at his lips. The shadows were always there, surrounding him, but you didn’t need to ask. He didn’t need to finish his sentence. “My girl. My baby.”

The words sent a thrill down your spine. You loved when he called you his, even in front of these people, especially them. It was like a badge of honor—proof that you were his and no one else’s.

The man in front of you smiled knowingly, but his eyes were calculating. “You’re quite the arm candy, Graves,” he teased, his gaze lingering a moment longer than necessary before he turned to take a sip from his drink.

Graves’ lips twitched, a silent warning in his eyes. “Watch your tongue, Hudson. You wouldn’t want to be misinformed about what’s mine.”

The tension between them thickened, but it was brief. You noticed the way Hudson’s posture stiffened at the subtle threat. Graves wasn’t the type to be underestimated, not by anyone. And you? You were his. He was protective, and the way his fingers tightened on your waist proved it.

Another figure approached the table then, cutting through the crowd with the same menacing grace you’d grown accustomed to—the Shadows weren’t just men; they were ghosts in the flesh. This one was tall, with an intimidating presence. He looked at you once before focusing on Graves.

“Everything’s secure,” he said, his voice low and rasping, eyes scanning the room with the precision of someone who had seen too much to care about small talk. His eyes flickered over you for a split second, and you knew he was appraising you—just as he had with Graves’ last “projects.” But his gaze softened slightly when it returned to you. You were his boss’s property, after all.

“Good,” Graves responded, his voice cold but calm. You could sense the authority in his tone. “I trust you’ve taken care of the details, Bishop?”

Bishop gave a sharp nod before turning, retreating back into the shadows, as his name suggested.

You knew what he meant by details. You knew the Shadows took care of anything that threatened their operation. Tonight, the PMC gala was simply another moment to flaunt their success, and you were the perfect centerpiece—beautiful, dangerous, and utterly tied to Graves.

As the night progressed, the whispers around you grew louder. Men and women in tailored suits and expensive gowns eyed you with curiosity. They couldn’t help it. You were Graves’ possession, and everyone knew it. What they didn’t know—what they couldn’t see—was the tension that pulsed between you and him.

The night was growing darker, both outside and in the room. The lights dimmed, and the sounds of the party melted away into a low hum. Graves leaned closer, his lips grazing your ear as he whispered. “You’re mine tonight, baby. No one else’s.”

Your pulse spiked at the commanding tone in his voice, the possessiveness wrapped in dark velvet. You nodded, knowing that nothing in this room would deter him from showing you off, from making everyone else see just who you belonged to.

And as the Shadows moved around you, blending with the dimming lights, you couldn’t help but feel the thrill of it all—the danger, the power, and the unspoken agreement between you and Graves.

You were his, and tonight, you would let the world know just how far he was willing to go to claim you. No one would dare try to take you away from him.

fun fact im allergic to apples cause of pollen food allergy syndrome but i live them, gala apples are my favourite hence the title ;)

[ugotnojamzzz]

Chapter 8

Genre: Mafia!au , Slowburn, Angst, Hurt, eventual smut, TW (it is a mafia!AU, after all)

Pairing: Mafia!Jungkook x reader

Wordcount: 1.4k

Masterlist

Chapter 7

—

Jimin hopped towards the new arrival, his arms wrapping around his friend in a tight embrace. “It’s about time,” he exclaimed, his voice unusually warm. The young man returned the hug, patting Jimin on the back. 

YN’s eyes were drawn to him, her gaze traveling over his figure with keen curiosity. This was her first proper look at the guy who had barged into her bathroom the night before. No longer covered in blood, sweat and rain, his appearance was now starkly different yet no less intense.

His attire was a jarring contrast to the others’ casual, brighter clothing—black combat boots laced tightly, dark cargo pants and a black teeshirt that, despite its looseness, couldn’t hide the outline of an athletic physique.

He looked like he belonged somewhere else: a battlefield, perhaps, but certainly not framed by the pastel towers of cakes and pastries that adorned the breakfast table. 

YN’s eyes traced the sharp angles of his face. His black hair, slightly tousled, framed his face in soft waves, contrasting sharply with his stern, almost brooding expression. The most striking feature, however, was the single eyebrow piercing that glinted under the dining room lights.

His posture was rigid and controlled. His dark gaze scanned the room with a predatory vigilance, it locked on hers for a fraction longer than comfort allowed, a flicker of something unspoken before he tore it away.

Namjoon went to sit at the end of the table, and the breakfast resumed, the atmosphere growing livelier with the new arrivals. Hoseok’s bright energy filled the room as he animatedly recounted more stories from their mission, punctuated by regular eyerolls from Soyeon.

Seated with an air of composed authority, the girl made a subtle gesture indicating the seat next to hers. However, Jungkook, without acknowledging the gesture, silently took the seat next to YN and began grabbing some food from the lavish spread.

YN glanced at him briefly, then returned her focus to her own plate. The two ate in silence while the buzz of conversation around them continued.

“So,” Jungkook spoke eventually, his tone stern, “I hear you’re the reason they took all the knives and cables out of my floor.”

YN sighed, unsure whether that statement warranted a response. She didn’t like his attitude. «  I’m not exactly slap happy about it myself, » she eventually muttered, eyes still focused on her food. 

Around them, the conversation continued. Namjoon, seated at the head of the table, was deep in discussion with Hoseok and Taehyung about the latest developments from their mission. Soyeon, clearly unimpressed with Jungkook’s choice of seating, sipped her tea with a cool detachment.

Y/N wasn’t sure whether to feel offended or unnerved by how utterly indifferent they all seemed to her presence. The conversations flowed as though she were invisible. But what unsettled her most wasn’t the casual way they ignored her—it was the content of their discussion.

They were openly talking about business. Not in hushed tones or veiled euphemisms, but out in the open, as though the sensitive nature of their operations meant nothing—even in the presence of a raven. It made her uneasy. Were they so confident she wouldn’t understand? Or were they confident she’d never leave this place to use what she’d heard?

Then again, most of it was useless to her—snippets of code and vague references to missions that offered no real insight into their plans. And the few scraps of tangible information were trivial, irrelevant to her clan’s concerns. 

What truly confused her, though, was how natural it all felt. They weren’t only discussing operations. There was banter, a stray joke punctuating a serious exchange, even the occasional nickname tossed into the mix. Namjoon and Hoseok laughed at something Taehyung muttered under his breath, and Jimin chimed in with a teasing jab aimed at Soyeon.

It was jarring. Y/N wasn’t used to this—this strange, almost familial atmosphere. In her own clan, the air had always been charged with authority and purpose. Conversations were orders. Names were titles. Discipline was king. 

But here, the contrast was stark. There was something unpolished, almost human about it all. It wasn’t just a group of operatives at a breakfast table—it was people. People who seemed to—for some reason— genuinely enjoy each other’s company, despite the dark, dangerous undercurrents that clearly tied them together.

Y/N hated that she couldn’t stop watching, couldn’t stop being fascinated by it.

Jungkook’s expression, however, seemed to darken with each passing minute, and he appeared lost in thought as he listened to Namjoon. The others didn’t seem to notice the change in his demeanor until he set his glass down on the table with a loud slam. Their conversation tapered off into awkward silence.

Soyeon raised an eyebrow, her eyes darting between YN and Jungkook. « Jesus, » she said dryly, « cheer up, Kookie. »

Just then, he abruptly stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. The sudden movement caught everyone’s attention. He shot a look at Namjoon, his eyes filled with unspoken frustration, and then turned on his heel, stomping out of the dining room without a word. Yoongi was the one to break the stunned silence.

“What’s wrong with him?” he asked, his eyes flicking towards the door.

Namjoon sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Let’s just say he wasn’t thrilled about having been kept out of the loop concerning the raven operation.”

Jimin nodded in agreement. “To be fair, you kept us all in the dark until she got here,” he added, gesturing subtly toward YN.

“Well, you know how he can get,” Namjoon said, his tone understanding. 

Hoseok, ever the mood-lifter, leaned over and nudged YN teasingly. « Look at you, being the center of all the drama, » he mumbled.

“I, for one, don’t blame him,” Soyeon stated sharply. “You could’ve kept us informed, Namjoon.”

The leader shot her a warning glance. “You know it’s not that simple. We had to move fast, and security was tight.”

She shifted in her seat. “All I’m saying is that this,” she continued, her eyes narrowing as she looked pointedly at YN, “is not exactly a pleasant surprise for any of us.”

Y/N’s jaw clenched, but she didn’t say a word, unwilling to reward the girl’s clear disdain with a response. Like it’s been a pleasant surprise for me, perhaps? Stupid bitch.

“One day, Soyeon,” Seokjin said suddenly, settling down his chopsticks “we’ll find you smiling, and the world might just end.”

The girl rolled her eyes, but didn’t push the issue further. Instead, she turned her attention back to her breakfast, the tension in the room slowly dissipating as conversation resumed.

YN could overhear a hushed conversation between Yoongi and Namjoon about a potential threat. “We need to keep an eye on things up north. They’ve been too quiet lately,” Yoongi mumbled.

Hoseok, sensing YN’s discomfort, leaned in again, his voice gentle. “Don’t let it get to you, it’s nothing personal.”

—

As breakfast wrapped up, Namjoon sent everyone on their way, the atmosphere shifting from casual to business in a matter of seconds. Backs straightening and poker faces on.

 Taehyung fell into step beside YN, ready to escort her back to her quarters. The walk was quiet at first, the echo of their footsteps the only sound in the corridor.

« So, » YN finally broke the silence, « what’s the guy’s deal? »

Taehyung glanced down at her, confused. « My new roommate, » she added with a roll of her eyes. 

« Oh, » he said, « Jungkook, you mean? »

She nodded pensively, “He seemed pretty upset back there.”

 “Yeah, he can be intense when he’s in a mood,” he said with a small shrug. “He doesn’t like being left out of important stuff.»

YN crossed her arms, absorbing this new information. « Is he one of Namjoon’s top guys or something? »

“You could say that,” Taehyung chuckled softly, shaking his head. “He’s more than that, though.”

YN sent an inquiring look his way, to which Taehyung replied with a surprised scoff.

 “Jungkook’s family, » he added casually, « a brother, if you will. »

YN stopped in her tracks, turning to face Taehyung with a look of disbelief. “Namjoon doesn’t have any siblings,” she said, her voice firm.

« So? » he looked at her incredulously.

« So- »

«Chill out, I’m fucking with you, » he interrupted, «Look at you, trying to gather intel, » Taehyung nudged her.

As they reached her quarters, she paused, turning to Taehyung once more, her brow furrowed. « Listen, » he said before she could utter a word, « the mystery of Jeon Jungkook is just not my story to tell, I’m afraid. »

« Well, » she retorted, « if I’m going to be sleeping next door to that guy, I’d like to know what to expect. »

Taehyung stepped back into the elevator and turned back to look at her. “Don’t torture yourself,” he smirked, “He’s really not that bad.” 

YN watched the elevator doors close, her mind whirling with thoughts. She made her way back to her bedroom, replaying the morning’s events in her head.

As she closed the door behind her, the slight click of the latch offered a brief moment of relaxation. She walked over to her wardrobe, her fingers trailing over the clothing racks. The room was silent, the only sound being the soft rustle of fabric as she leaned forward into the clothes as though she was looking for something.

With a furtive glance, first towards the door, then to the security camera, YN reached into her waistband, feeling cool metal slide against her skin. Slowly, she pulled something out, the weight of it in her hand, oddly comforting.

She glanced down.

The polished surface of the cake knife in her hand reflected her troubled expression. The dull edge caught the light, glinting with a dangerous promise. 

It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.

—

Hope you liked it. If some of you are intrigued or interested in finding out more, don't hesitate to interact and I'll start posting some more chapters! Also questions and remarks and feedback are welcome xxx

Chapter 9

Masterlist

Taglist

@princess-sunshyn

@loumin908

[snowrobin-133]

Wiping Tears

Fandom: Wuthering Waves Characters: Geshu Lin x f!Reader (established relationship) Word Counts: 787 Warnings: a bit of angst towards the end – gotta keep up my angsty writing sorry 0w0 – but otherwise just a lot fluff and comfort!!!

A/N: yeet coming out of my supposed writing retirement to write for Geshu Lin bc damn that man is hot :3 tbh this is going off what I know about him, but since there isn’t a lot of information on him I can’t say that this is very accurate sob Anyways not beta read so probably expect some mistakes,,, also I haven't written in a while so idk if this is up to par ;w;

You stand at the kitchen counter, cutting up some veggies for dinner. With a sigh, you put down the knife and glance out the window, watching as raindrops pitter patter on the glass panels.

Geshu Lin had arrived on your doorstep, having been sent on break from battle. You were grateful to see he was alive, having heard about the awful and disastrous result of the battle he faced. But as you helped him settle back in, you quickly took note of the several bandages, scrapes, and bruises scattered all over his body. You were terrified that he wouldn’t be the one to appear on your doorstep again. You were terrified that you’d only find a letter and a notice of death. You were afraid that the last time you had ever seen him would be the last memory you had of him. You were scared and even though he was home with you now, you were still scared of the next time he’d have to leave to battle.

Without realizing it, you were gripping the counter harshly, to the point of white knuckles. You are shaken out of your thoughts however with the feeling of familiar muscular arms wrapping around your waist and a familiar chest pressed to your back. Slowly, you raise your head with a slight turn to look at the man you love hugging you from behind.

“Geshu? Is something wrong?” you ask.

“...Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” he asks in his usual hoarse voice.

You look back down at the cutting board before slowly relaxing into his warm grasp and closing your eyes. You spend a few minutes just basking in his touch and presence, not knowing when the next time is that you’d be able to feel this again.

“...” Geshu Lin stays silent as well and snuggles into you even more, burrowing his neck into the top of your head. He breathes in your shampoo and tightens his hold on you. 

Slowly, you place your hands over his, “...I’m scared.” You finally confess before explaining, “I’m scared that you won’t come back next time… I know that you’re an amazing warrior, a resonator, and you’re amazing, but I, I’m still so scared.” Your hand grasping his tightens, as you look down, not meeting his gaze.

Geshu Lin raises his head and contemplates, not really saying anything. After a couple of minutes, he begins to speak, “You’re right, I’m a strong warrior, and while I admit that I’m not invisible,” he pauses for a second, “but as long as I know that you are here, waiting for me, I will do whatever is possible to come back to you”

Your eyes tear up as you listen to his heartfelt confession, but you stay silent as he continues. 

“Even if the gods refuse to let me come back, I will cut them down and the fate they created for me. Even if a Threnodian were to appear and cut down hundreds of my own soldiers, I will not surrender. I will fight until I can come back to your doorstep.”

As he talked, you turned around in his arms to look him in his eyes. The tears had begun to fall by that point. You gently place your head on his chest, wrapping your arms around him, trying to avoid his wounds.

Sniffling, you take a minute to compose yourself, “...In that case, I will be here. I’ll be here when you march through the city and people celebrating your victories. I’ll be here when you come back from countless hours of reports and meetings” you huff out a small laugh, “and I’ll be here to patch you up whenever you come back with injuries.”

Geshu Lin smiles gently, the scar on his lip stretching a bit as he gazes into your eyes. He chuckles at your own proclamation before placing a gentle kiss on your forehead, wiping away your tears “Thank you,” he spoke your name in a gentle tone. Although your tears still fall, you relish in this fleeting moment of being in his arms and his rough fingers wiping each tear drop.

Despite his promises, you end up learning less than a year later that even the strongest of warriors can’t always keep their promises. You open the door, expecting and excited to see Geshu Lin, but instead, you find a young man with teal hair standing before you. Your heart drops at the sight of him and slowly, your eyes drop to the letter in his hands. You don’t even need to hear the young man’s words. You know what happened to Geshu Lin. Falling to your knees, tears begin to fall once again, but Geshu Lin is no longer here to wipe them for you.

a/n: Hope you enjoyed this!!

[yanderejustforyou]

Hii can you please do Sofia Falcone being self conscious and nervous about her body scars but her girlfriend comforts her? Maybe worships each scar

Sofia stood in front of the mirror, her blouse halfway undone, revealing the intricate map of scars that decorated her torso. Each line was a testament to survival, a history written in flesh. Yet, tonight, they felt heavier, uglier. She traced one with her finger, a jagged line that curved along her ribcage, and frowned.

"You okay, Sofia?" Your voice cut through the silence like a gentle breeze, pulling her out of the swirling depths of her thoughts. The concern woven into your tone was palpable, hanging in the air between you.

Sofia froze in place, her fingers stilled mid-trace, hovering over the smooth surface of the table. “I’m fine,” she replied, but the weakness in her voice was unmistakable—a telltale sign that her bravado was crumbling.

As you stepped into the room, you noticed the way the light played off her reflection in the window, and a wave of worry washed over you. “No, you’re not,” you said softly yet firmly. You approached her, your heart aching at the sight of her, and you placed your hands lightly on her shoulders, offering a grounding presence. “Talk to me.”

Her jaw tightened, and she struggled to compose herself. “They’re hideous,” she admitted at last, her gaze still glued to the mirror, as if searching for something beyond just her reflection. “These scars—they make me look... broken.” The vulnerability in her words struck you hard, and you could see the darkness shadowing her light.

You frowned, instinctively turning her body to face you fully. “Sofia.” You said her name as if it were a precious gem, deserving of reverent treatment in the midst of utter chaos. As your hands moved down her arms, you felt the tension in her body, the way she seemed to be trying to shrink away from herself. “They’re not hideous. They’re a part of who you are—a part of what made you the incredible woman I love.”

Shaking her head, she tried to deflect the truth of your words. “It’s easy for you to say that. You don’t have to live with them.” The weight of her shame hung heavily in the air, an invisible barrier that separated her from the comfort she desperately needed.

Without a word, you guided her gently to sit on the edge of the bed, the soft fabric meeting the hazy cloud of her distress. Kneeling in front of her, you reached for the buttons of her blouse, meeting her gaze as you paused, asking for permission. “May I?”

Her breath hitched at the intimacy of the moment, yet she nodded, granting you access to the vulnerability bubbling beneath the surface.

With deliberate care, you began to undo the buttons one by one, revealing the scars she had kept hidden for far too long. As her shirt slipped off her shoulders, exposing the delicate contours of her skin, you let your fingertips brush over the marks etched across her body. Each scar told a story of battles fought and won, and you traced them with a gentleness that sent a shiver through her.

“See, Sofia?” you murmured, pressing a soft kiss to one scar near her collarbone, your breath warm against her skin. “These aren’t flaws. They’re strength.” You followed with another kiss, this time to a scar that ran along her ribs. “They’re resilience.” Your lips hovered over a faint mark on her stomach. “They’re survival.”

Her hands moved instinctively to your shoulders, gripping you tightly—holding on as if you were her anchor in a stormy sea. “You don’t have to do this,” she whispered, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her uncertainty.

Looking deep into her eyes, your heart swelled with love and fierce determination. “I want to. I want you to know how beautiful you are, every single part of you.” The sincerity behind your words hung in the air like a promise.

Tears gathered in her eyes, pooling as she fought to maintain her composure, but you gently caught her chin, tilting her face back toward you with tender care. “You’re perfect to me, Sofia. Scars and all.”

A shaky breath escaped her lips, her defenses crumbling in that moment of honesty. “You make me feel like I could believe that,” she admitted, her voice thick with emotion, each word a fragile bridge to her true self.

Standing, you pulled her into your arms, enveloping her in warmth and reassurance. “Then let me remind you every day, until you truly do.”

"Real love is a protector, a defender, a ride-or-die connection that stays with you for always and in all ways. It is raw and it will roar for you if required. It will stay with you in quietness and be your comfort."

Sofia melted against you, the barriers she had built around herself dissolving in the cocoon of your embrace. As she rested her head on your shoulder, she finally allowed the cascade of her vulnerability to wash over her. In your arms, the weight of the past faded into insignificance—she didn’t feel broken; she felt whole.

"In time those scars will be silver trails to a better future, a road map of survival and triumph, a story that can bring you pride and inspire."

"You are loved."

"I LOVE YOU"

Real love is truly the greatest blessing that heaven can bestow upon us. It is the kind of love that enriches your soul, inspires you to be your best self, and roots you in a sense of belonging. It transcends time and space, creating a bond that lasts beyond the ordinary.

So, embrace it!

[ticklishraspberries]

OOOH OKAY

how abouttttt 67 with percabeth??? maybe lee percy? (but you decide okok❤️)

drabble prompts!! // thank you for the request!! xo 67. "Wow. Never thought I'd witness this."

Annabeth apparently made it her mission to embarrass Percy the moment he'd arrived at Camp Half-Blood; even while caring for him in those first few days, the Minotaur's injuries leaving him weak and groggy, she had still had the wit to comment on the fact that he drooled in his sleep, sending his face aflame.

Now, they're friends. They've gone on a whole quest together, defeated monsters and faced the gods and he's seen her embarrass herself quite a few times, like her terrified shrieks when she saw those spiders. But even then, she had composed herself quite gracefully, explained her fear with logic and reason, and moved on.

Percy's embarrassment used to feel white-hot, like when he couldn't answer a question correctly in class or when Gabe spit insults at him, the flush in his face felt burning, suffocating, and shame was usually replaced by anger.

Annabeth doesn't make him feel that way. Her little quips are always clever, usually harmless. Even her nickname for him, "seaweed brain" doesn't annoy him as much as he pretends it does. Annabeth, as well as his friends at Camp Half-Blood, don't make him feel like an outsider.

Percy has become flustered around Annabeth for a whole new reason, though, much to his horror. She had snuck up on him in her stupid Yankee's cap, invisible, and grabbed him from behind to scare him. However, his shout (which she described as a "squeal", which he vehemently denied) was less about fear and more due to the fact that she had grabbed his sides and squeezed.

"Are you ticklish, Seaweed Brain?" she had asked once the cap was off and she'd revealed herself, with that mischievous grin painted on her face.

Percy scoffed. "No," he said, unconvincingly.

And the rest was history.

He still won't admit that he's ticklish. It's ridiculous, because he so obviously is, but it's some weird pride thing that Percy can't shake. Now, every time she tickles him, she asks him again: "Are you ticklish?" and every time, no matter how hard he's laughing, Percy tells her no.

Annabeth has taken every chance she's gotten to tickle him, and he's been on edge ever since. Unfortunately, those demigod battle instincts didn't seem to protect him in the case of a one-sided tickle fight, and he didn't stand a chance trying to strategize against a daughter of Athena.

So, he jumps at every little sound and often keeps his arms wrapped around his middle just in case of an attack, which Grover finds incredibly amusing.

It's a sunny day at camp when Percy lets his guard down, too busy chatting with Grover by the water to remember his absolute pest of a friend and her shenanigans, when Annabeth creeps up behind him, not even bothering to turn herself invisible this time, and latches onto his ribs, and he nearly goes tumbling into the water.

Grover makes an indignant noise at being splashed, but Percy and Annabeth are too busy grappling to acknowledge him.

"Just admit it, and I'll leave you alone!" Annabeth says, giggling. Her fingers on his ribs are unbearably ticklish, and he can't believe how easily she's found his weak spots. Too smart, too methodical for her own damn good.

"Never!" Percy shouts, trying to grab her hands and failing miserably.

It continues like this for a moment, her trying to stick her hands into his armpits and him cackling like mad, but when she finally gets her fingers under his arms, Percy's laughter reaches a new octave, and before he can process what he's done, a small wave crashes over them both, as well as Grover who is still sitting nearby, and Annabeth crashes against his chest, spluttering.

"Oh, you jerk!" she cries, her hair sopping wet and dripping onto his face. For a moment, he worries that he's actually upset her, but she just begins tickling him with twice as much vigor.

"No, I'm sorry! Okay, okay, I'll admit it!"

Annabeth stops. "Wow. Never thought I'd witness this," she grins. "Go on then. Admit it."

She's still sitting on top of him, looking down at him with smug look on her face. Her hands are poised above his belly, like she'll strike again if he hesitates.

So, Percy swallows his pride. "I'm ticklish," he says, and instead of that white-hot humiliation, the embarrassment he feels is more akin to butterflies in his stomach. He briefly wonders if that's because of the confession, or the fact that she looks so pretty sitting on his legs, hair wet and smile beaming, but he quickly pushes that thought away.

Satisfied, Annabeth gets off of him and takes her seat beside Grover, talking to him about something completely unrelated, and as Percy watches her speak so passionately, he figures that being teased by her isn't so bad at all.

[mangofresca]

cloudburst

He taps his fingers when he’s bored.

Not that Spain blames him. Not that Spain isn’t also just as bored, dulled, yearning and longing and aching for the willowed shade of broken sunlight through blooming Juniper trees, warmed by humid air and clouds so soft he could pull them from the skies, if only he had the will to lift a hand to them, to try.

His boss will likely scold him for not paying attention, but Spain can’t be bothered today, too unfocused to listen to off-handed bickering made worse through obligation, not when he can still hear the thumping of rain on the roof, pattering against the windows.

Not when he can watch Romano skate his nails against the table, pressing the soft of his fingertips up and down as if he were writing something, composing something, following the tune of a melody only half-constructed and–

Spain sits up a little straighter, squinting.

Romano keeps his eyes half-lidded and hazy, looking for all the world like he is two seconds away from drifting to sleep, but Spain can see the way his fingers move, curled, as if cradling the neck of an invisible guitar, other hand almost imperceptibly pressing down into the table, plucking notes Spain can almost hear being strummed aloud, if only he tried hard enough to listen.

Spain watches, head propped on an arm that fell asleep about half an hour ago, too lost and transfixed on the image of Romano shirking his duties in favor of– of writing, maybe, or composing, creating something Spain is already desperate to hear, to mold into his life in the way he molds everything Romano does, every noise Romano makes.

He’s out of his seat seconds before they’ve officially been dismissed, but Romano doesn’t notice, still in that world of tabletop timbres and notes unwritten, of hands born to cultivate.

“What are you playing?” Spain asks, and he smiles when Romano startles, eyes widening and fingers dropping, forming into fists atop pages with not one word written on them.

Not that Spain blames him. His own are the same, after all.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Romano snaps, cheeks ruddy with caught-out indignation, and Spain knows he was right, that he’d formed himself an audience for a performer who didn’t know he was being watched.

“You were playing something,” he says, beaming when Romano collects his papers with more stumbled force than necessary, always too combative, too cagey with his vulnerabilities.

Romano huffs, says nothing, brushing past Spain with shoulders that are a little too tense for comfort.

Spain follows, whistling, doing his best to find the cadence of whatever rhythm Romano had been tapping against the table.

It takes two months for Romano to bring it up again, and when he does, it’s by dropping down next to Spain in the sand, feet and ankles damp with dusk-sweetened sea foam, hands steady and curled around a guitar he had always insisted he rarely used, that sits too comfortably in his lap to be anything less than adored.

“Don’t say anything,” is all Romano says, and Spain can only bring himself to smile, arms pressed atop his knees as he feels the kiss of broken waves and clumped seaweed against his toes. He’s more than content to wait, would always be content to wait if it meant Romano pressing himself into the space at Spain’s side, frown on his lips like he’s shy, wary.

Romano shoots him a look—I mean it, bastard!—but Spain only rests his chin on his arms, watching with slowly blinking eyes and a smile he is sure is horrifically besotted.

Romano doesn’t look at him when he plays, head tilted down so his hair falls across his forehead, curling around his eyebrows and the rounds of his ears. Spain bites back the urge to brush it away, and when Romano begins to hum, the softest accompaniment to a tune Spain has never heard, Spain can feel his heartbeat in the palms of his hands, in the urge to mold himself against Romano’s back, to be close and close and close.

Still, he does not move, waiting until Romano’s fingers pluck the final string, mumbling hums and soft breaths petering out until the only noise left is the swell of the ocean and the rustle of air through grains of sand and surf.

Spain blinks—once, twice—and Romano clears his throat, forefinger and thumb drawing absentminded patterns across the guitar’s body.

“I wrote it,” he says, voice low, deep, barely above a whisper. “I’ve been working on it for…fuck, I don’t know how long. A while, I guess. Mostly when I mi–”

He flushes pink, voice cutting off in a choke, and Spain sits up immediately, thinks he knows, and his delight is immeasurable, second only to grand, enamored infatuation.

“When you what?” he asks, because how can he not when Romano is looking like that, like he’s already cursing himself for speaking, as if Spain wouldn’t lay himself and his heart and his soul bare just to find the words humanity hasn’t created yet.

“Forget it.” Romano is scowling, bristling in that way he gets when he speaks before thinking, when Spain is close enough to hear him—when he’s paying attention—and Spain couldn’t forget this if he was given a millennium, if he was given an eternity and longer.

“When you what?” he asks again, because he has to, has to, would be a fool not to, would die, maybe, if he doesn’t. “When you…miss me?”

Romano shoots him a look so blistering and venomous that Spain knows he’s right, knows immediately and without question he’s right, and his hand is around Romano’s wrist before Romano even has the chance to stand, to run, because of course he’d run, and Spain can’t bear the weight of solitude right now, anyway.

“You wrote a song for me.”

Romano splutters, snarls. “It is not– I didn’t fucking write it for you!”

Spain could kiss him, wants to, wants to. “I can’t believe you wrote a song for me!”

“Are you even listening to me? I just said I didn’t–”

He’s red, so red, every shade the most beautiful color Spain has ever seen, and he can’t find it within himself to temper the need to touch, to be close and closer still, to kiss, fingers following the curve of ocean-misted waves caught on dark eyelashes, tangling in knots around his knuckles.

“My song,” he insists, lips light as they brush the warm of Romano’s mouth.

“Not what I sai–”

Spain swallows the words he knows are only half-hearted, can feel the truth in the press of the guitar into his sternum, in the hand fisted in his shirt, in the lips humming against his.

[pinkkttyeyes]

⋆⭒˚.⋆ not a lot, just forever.

🍂📀🍁

word count : 654

cw: fluff, no actual pronouns used, peter is awkward as hell, idk your vibe, but it’s a good one, peter is a cranberries fan.

a/n: i haven’t properly written something in forever :/ but i’m trying i swear lol. i was also listening to Adrianne Lenker while writing this so that may have influenced this a bit.

the leaves crunch under your converses as you walk, your arms swinging loosely by your sides as you wave your hands in the breeze. you’re walking across campus to your next class, a routine you've grown fond of due to the simplicity of it all. you consider yourself a simple person, you enjoy small things like rocks and the sound of the river that flows under the bridge of your campus.

you’re also noticeably quiet, so much so that your teachers have stopped trying to get you to participate in group discussions. you don’t mind though, you’re content being by yourself.

and so is peter. he’s just as quiet as you, he always has headphones on. you can faintly hear his music, you like the fact that he likes the cranberries, you do too. but he tends to sit away from you, he doesn’t hate you, how could he? the way you skip around campus, the way you collect and paint rocks, the way you sit by the river, the way you’re so freely yourself.

his crush on you is something you’re oblivious too, and he’s too scared to even look at you. he’s read so many books on nature related topics that he might turn into a walking weed, he’s replayed a conversation with you in his head so much he could write a script about it. he wants to ask you to get coffee, he’s seen you sip coffee once or twice, maybe he’ll ask you to see a movie?

he knows you like superheroes, he sees the superman pin on your tote bag. but talking to you seems like his kryptonite, like he’ll die if he tries.

but today he’ll try, he’ll try and push past that fear and talk to you.

~

it’s the afternoon, you’re sitting on a bench and quietly sketching the trees in front of you. your foot lightly tapping on the grass to your music that plays softly in your headphones.

he feels like he’s being creepy, holding flowers for a person who doesn’t even know him. but he sighs and walks up to you, cringing at himself as he taps your shoulder.

“hi uhm, i’m not trying to be creepy but-“ he’s cut off by your eyes peering into his, he feels so small when you look at him with those pretty eyes.

“are those flowers?”

“for you.”

“me..?” you smile as he hands them to you, they’re some sunflowers, they’re fake, but the gesture is nice anyways. “the real ones are super expensive and uh-“

you shake your head and look up at him again. “i get it, it’s okay.” he nervously laughs, mindlessly fidgeting with his fingers.

“could i ask your name?” you reply with your name and he smiles, smiles that you trust him enough already for that. “i’m peter parker, i promise i’m a lot more composed usually.”

you laugh at the self deprecating joke.

“i’ve seen you in class.”

“well i don’t tend to turn invisible, i’ve seen you too. which is why i’m giving you flowers.”

you smile, you appreciate how nice he is and how awkward he is too. “i was- am asking you out by the way, if you’re… interested?” you nod, laughing a bit.

“well don’t laugh at me, i’m trying!” his voice is mockingly whiny as he laughs with you. “but you’re like.. okay with going on a date?” you nod again, stifling your laughter for his sake.

“how does a cafe sound?”

“i like the sound of that, I’m always in a mood for coffee.”

“when do you… wanna go?”

“tomorrow? after class?”

“holy shi- uh- yeah that’s okay.” and with that he stands there awkwardly before clearing his throat and nodding, sighing of relief. “yeah i’ll see you tomorrow! uh, i’ve gotta bounce.” you nod in response and wave him goodbye as he runs off, you can practically hear the smile in his voice.

© spydergaz.tumblr please don't claim my work as your own, copy it, or put it on different websites without my consent. Translations are welcome if you do not post them. ˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

[dont-go-where-i-cantfollow]

ok, but what about some bagginshield?

When the dwarves were captured, Bilbo was not able to remain composed. Would they be harmed? Would they be mistreated? Would their weapons be left or taken so that the prisoners couldn’t even think of escape? And what if someone is hurt and needs urgent help? Bilbo had no idea how elves treated their prisoners, but he was sure that nobody in his company wanted to experience it. 

A group of armed dwarves, led by their king, imprisoned in an elven dungeon and awaiting judgment, isn’t it just wonderful? Warring races always try to put a spoke in one another’s wheel, and when a bunch of armed shorties falls into the hands of the forest elves, it is naive to believe they will be released without a proper investigation. They are not in RIvendell, there are no friendly elves. There are only forest keepers fighting anyone who dares to disturb their peace. 

Bilbo uses his ring once again, becoming completely invisible to the guards. He is aware of how sharp all the elves’ senses are, but he crosses his fingers and tiptoes past two guardians who are cracking jokes and laughing out loud. He is almost caught by a tall elf in white clothes (is he someone important? or maybe he’s even an elven prince? the hobbit does not know him and he is not particularly interested in making acquaintances with anyone right now), who is reprimanding one of the female warriors accompanying the dwarves before. Bilbo has no idea what they are talking about, but he is ready to swear that they are not discussing anything good. 

The keys are stolen (The hobbit starts to understand what the dwarves were talking about; he really is a skilled burglar), and Bilbo makes his way to the prison cells. He hears how dwarves are getting angry, discussing how they would punish all these nasty forest creatures for imprisoning them, and he can finally take off his ring. Asking his companions to remain quiet, so as not to be noticed, he takes the keys out of his pocket and pushes them through the bars. Some of the dwarves are sitting here together, some alone, but all of them are jumping on their feet and trying to exit the cells as quickly as possible. 

When Bilbo approaches Thorin’s cell, he doesn’t even have time to greet the dwarf king. He is pulled by the sleeve so that his face fits neatly between the bars, and he is kissed as if he has just returned from an incredibly long journey. Thorin is holding him by his hand, his other hand touching the soft spot where the neck meets the skull, and the hobbit has no choice but to surrender. He exhales into the kiss, closing his eyes, and relaxes for a few seconds, feeling the warm waves of shivers coming down the spine. 

He was worried about all the dwarves who were traveling with him, but especially about their king. He was afraid that, because of his status, Thorin would be treated differently, forced to talk about their journey, or even tortured, but no. Here he is, standing in front of Bilbo, with leaves in his hair, and trying to squeeze the living hell out of him. He was afraid, too, Bilbo thinks, but he will never admit it; he is too proud to be caught caring for this little hobbit with sticky hands. 

They break the kiss and Thorin looks at his hobbit as if he has grown a tail in these few hours they were separated. There’s no tail, his ears and feet are the same size they were before, but the dwarf king looks at Bilbo with such attention and even… worry? Of course, he will never say this out loud, but this troubled look on his face speaks louder than words, and so does this sparkle in his eyes, similar to the one occurring right before you start crying.

‘’Thorin, let me open the door please, and then we can hug properly.’’

‘’Finally, you stole something worthy! Well done, little burglar!’’ Thorin steps aside and waits for Bilbo to deal with the lock. Before this adventure, Bilbo would have taken offense at such words, but now? Right now he understands that the moment the door is open, he will be enveloped in a hug so tight, he will hear his bones crack. Thorin can’t show his emotions properly, but the hobbit doesn’t ask him to do so: he knows what the dwarven king feels; he couldn’t doubt him even if he tried. 

Tonight, when they manage to get some rest, Thorin will hold him in his arms, cover his face in many kisses, and whisper about how he prayed for his hobbit to be safe while they were imprisoned; but for now, there is a battle awaiting them, and Bilbo hopes that his companions are ready to fight.