#the violence of devotion. the ache of almost and could have been

[rockingbytheseaside]

Hey 👋 there just wanted to say I really like your art and how you flesh out the characters of the fatui.

Especially pierro

I was wondering if you’re taking requests, if you could make one about how reader is deeply injured to the near point of death and the fatui (separate)

Have different reactions to seeing their beloved almost dying and find the culprit or culprits involved and have them tortured or whatever their reaction is. And they later on stay by their side making sure they return to full health not knowing what they did for them.

(but in way I like seeing their cruelty for their reader getting hurt come to light and how they would feel.)

You don’t have to acknowledge this ask but it’s just something I think about

This request was asked by several anons and @ghost3029 ages ago. Apologies if I can’t tag all the lovelies here

✦ Someone hurt you, and how they take care of the matter

(Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Pantalone, Tartaglia) 

(Slight tw: mention of injuries, blood, violence.) 

To be the enigmatic beloved of a Harbinger means to have eyes on you - some in awe, while others with ill intent. Luckily for you and your dear Harbinger, privacy is paramount no matter what his job entails. However, what happens when you venture too close to harm’s grasp, whether by accident or by someone’s design?

✧ When Pierro saw the dangerous glint in your eyes, he knew two things were happening: you had just been embroiled in a lethal fight, and you would faint in any second due to immense fatigue. He doesn’t call out your name or contort his expression into shock or trepidation. Because in split seconds, he sprints towards you, catching your collapsed form right into his arms. 

Limp and marred with wounds, even your unconscious state looks worn out as The Jester swiftly lifts you in his arms. He was undeterred by the sight of your blood slowly seeping out onto his immaculate white suit. No, the Fatui Director is a calm but unfazed man. 

“You always took matters into your own hands, my divine. Ever so willful, always overexerting yourself.” - Pierro murmured to himself, before turning to face the monstrous culprit who dared to harm you, a remnant of Abyssal Corruption. “However, for someone to raise their hand at you is a sin. My beloved might be merciful when granting death, but I – don't.” 

You didn't hear or register anything; the last thing you remember is Pierro's hand shaking as he held you tightly. When you woke up groggy, wrapped in the ache of healing wounds, you weren't shocked to see yourself clad in clean clothes, resting by a spacious, comfortable bed. Beside you was Pierro; unmoving, sitting. He never once left your room.

“For… How long was I out?”

“For a whole day, dear. Do not fret, the best doctors and healers in Snezhnaya worked swiftly to patch you up.” – his palm gently rested on your forehead, brushing your hair aside as he ensured your temperature was stable. Even his gaze, so often sharp with command, had softened, devotion etched into every touch or glance.

“A-and the Abyssal monster I fought? Is everyone safe…?”

“Hm? You still concern yourself with that? This dread is not yours to bear, my divine. How many times must I remind you that it is not your duty to dirty your hands? Rest easy instead. No filth will tarnish the peace I have built for us.”

✧ Il Capitano is aware you can defend yourself. He respects your might; he doesn't doubt your cunning strength. However, can he stand idle when the clash of steel begins and the threat of violence dares to draw near you? Can his heart bear witness as you endure blow after blow, even in triumph?

No, he cannot, and this is his weakness. His body cries out to quickly shield you whenever an enemy gets too close. Even when you're amidst the roaring chaos of a battle, he intercepts those who venture too close with relentless force. You were expecting that, but you groan in frustration either way:

“Capitano, this is not your battle. I can manage myself!”

“I will not let you barge into danger recklessly,” – he retorted. The Antumbra held steadily in his hands. “You're moving too fast.” 

He refused to move between you and the onslaught of corrupted abyssal monsters. For a man who often reprimanded you about being reckless, your beloved hypocritically used his body as a shield whenever you were in danger. 

“Thrain-!” 

He rarely hears your stern voice. But the call of his true name rendered him motionless for a minute, a tense silence riveting between you. Before either of you could add another word, an abyssal mimic wielding the form of a Ruin Guard aimed straight at Capitano’s back. However, you were quicker in blocking the massive creature, taking the blow instead.

After the waves of monsters dissipated, the battlefield was left in ashes. A few of the Harbinger's soldiers scavenged the aftermath in search of any injured. You, however, clutched your disheveled wounds. Turning to face Capitano, you were met with his eerily silent and pitch-black expression. 

“Listen, Capi,” - you began quietly, voice laced with guilt. “I'm sorry for… raising my voice like that. I only meant t-”

Before you could finish your mumbles, Capitano hoisted you up onto his broad shoulders and started moving away. 

“Hey, hey! Put me back! I was in the middle of an apology,” - you thrashed, wiggling against his back while he kept a very resolute grip on you. Being slung like a sack of potatoes after a harsh battle only doubled your shame. Especially when he gave you a tap on your hip to keep you still. 

“Shush. I've heard enough. I am dragging you to the infirmary myself,” – he added sternly, one hand holding you while the other carrying his sword. “And if it means throwing you over my shoulders and reminding you how to be inert, then so be it. Either your recklessness will kill you, or my heartache will end me instead.” 

✧ For a man like Il Dottore, dissecting near-lifeless forms beneath sterile light was a ritual long devoid of novelty. But when fate laid his beloved upon that same table, the clinical detachment in his gaze curdled into something far more lethal.

Your cuts were sutured and your bleeding staunched by the deft encirclement of his bandages. As your shallow breathing mellowed down, teetering on and off your consciousness, you scarcely perceived the taut silence in the lab, or the meek voice of the Fatui soldiers that brought you back: 

“We have delivered them safely, Lord Harbinger. As per orders.” 

“Brought them you did, indeed. But safely…?” – his gloved grip retracted from your bandaged limbs, like a coiled snake slithering back. “Spare me your excuses, this is nothing but a horrendous job done. One command, and you botched it: return them to me unharmed.” 

The Fatui soldier stood rigid, hands clasped behind his back, though his head hung low. The Harbinger's eyes remained hidden behind the gleam of his mask, but the venom in his voice alone was enough to conjure the hell that would follow should any wretch dare to utter defiance.

“Tell me, if I shattered one of your bones for every drop of their blood spilled, would that seem just? Or maybe,” – he drawled, each syllable an iron weight, “For every stitch I had to use on their skin, and every roll of bandage used, you compensate by skinning your own limbs-”

The murderous tension was interrupted when your coughing echoed in the room – “... D-dottore?”

A single word, a call of his name, yet one that made The 2nd drop all his threats in an instant, kneeling on the cold stone floor beside your medical cot. “Yes, my dear, yes. Shh, I am here now. You're safe.” 

Your eyes fluttered toward him, the weight of exhaustion rendering your limbs motionless. Yet even then, you smiled faintly, reassuring him to keep his anger at bay, your fingers meekly reaching for his hand. You didn't say much, too drained to squander air that your body so dearly needed for healing. And Dottore didn't mind. Holding your single palm in both hands, he clasped it close and brought it to his lips. 

Like a heretic clutching an unworldly relic, he stayed there and held your wrist close to himself in a reverent prayer. As long as he could feel the quiet thrum of your pulse beneath his fingers, he would call down ruin upon Teyvat itself for every wound carved into you.

✧ Pantalone leaned closer in his seat, hand deftly reaching for the vial of saline as he pressed a dampened cloth to your wounds with deliberate tenderness. The Harbinger, ever composed in his peculiar cheer, wore his usual merry smile, opting to dismiss the servants and tend to your injuries with his own hands.

“Walk me through it again, darling, how ever did you end up with such dreadful scrapes?”

“Well, I'm telling you!” – you began with animated exasperation. “I was on my daily expeditions, doing my usual exploration around Jueyun Karst. A nice farmer on the way pointed me to where to harvest fresh Qingxin flowers. So I went on, but a group of Treasure Hoarder bandits ambushed me.”  

As Pantalone listened patiently, he continued to clean your wounds, ensuring even the smallest cuts were secured underneath a band-aid, his thumbs softly gliding over the bandages to ensure they seal onto your skin tenderly.  

“And- And then…! I went Pow! And then slash! I defended myself because they tried to steal all of my Mora. Thankfully, some local heard the ruckus and came to my aid. So, all in all, I got out of it with barely a scratch, in my humble opinion.”

The Harbinger shook his head, tidying up the bandage wraps before reaching to pat your hair – “Tsk, tsk, tsk. This won't do, you silly. You must be more careful when adventuring in the wild like that. No matter how minor the danger may seem.”

You could only exhale a sigh of reluctant surrender. You knew he had a point, and you did feel the fatigue catching up on you now that you were back home safely. Thus, with a loving embrace and a goodnight kiss, you decided to retire for the night. Pantalone waved a cheerful goodbye, watching your personal servants following dutifully in tow as you left his study room. 

You’d sit and sulk, like a child reminded for the tenth time to be careful when playing outside. Even when you reminded Pantalone of the time you'd bested a Stonehide Lawachurl single-handedly, he'd merely sigh wistfully and kiss your cheek.  

“Oh, I know, I know, my love. But still, take it slow for a couple of days, will you?” - he kept his thumb gently running down your cheek, his smile imbued with quiet reassurance. “I’ve no desire to see you crossing paths with bandits again. Rest easy, darling.”

And the moment you departed? His charming smile immediately vanished. 

Without turning to face the bowing servant, he ordered courtly, his voice lacking the usual innocent warmth he used with you – “Report. Now.” 

“The intel came in from the operatives we stationed on route. The treasure hoarders they spoke of are being tracked as we speak, Lord Harbinger.” 

Pantalone drew in a measured breath, quelling the fire rising in his veins. Before you even made it back home to his arms, he had already received news of the attack. How was he informed so quickly? Simply because he stationed the best spies to blend into the backgrounds and keep track of your safety, so-called invincible bodyguards all bound by oath and coin to the Regrator himself.

The nice farmer you met in Jueyun Karst? The kind local who noticed the commotion when Treasure Hoarders dared to attack you? All Fatui Agents, steeped in stealth, honed in combat, disguised perfectly to serve as his eyes while you kept living the best of your life. Even the personal maids who help you with your usual nightly routines – the best of Fatui Operatives from the House of the Hearth, ordered personally to function as your closest bodyguards by the 9th.

Pantalone was no fool. He would never let his suffocating devotion eclipse your freedom, especially when you sought nothing from the Fatui. You deserved joy, unshackled and luminous, filled with wild adventures and quiet victories of your own making. He would never command the course of your life, instead, he would love you as you are, unperturbed by his status as a Harbinger.

But you don't deserve this worry. He would shoulder this dirty burden on his own.

“The Agents acted sufficiently,” – he noted dully, his ringed fingers intertwined elegantly. “Instruct them to continue tracking the Hoarders. It's clear they tried to use my beloved as leverage to get to me. Ensure each and every single one of them disappears. Make it quick and make it clean.” 

✧ Smash. Tartaglia raised his arms up, the club-like piece of wood was but a crude piece of a fence he grabbed on the go. Smash. He didn't even register when he picked it up instead of his Hydro Riptide swords. No, his set of weaponry would've been much more precise. Too clean for this job. Smash. This club is slow and would deliver a much messier message. Smash.    

When did blood get on his face? 

The Harbinger had already forgotten the face of the person he had just clubbed to the ground, their limbs broken; crimson blooming in grotesque contrast against the pristine white of snow. The cries and pleas went unheard, like a static buzz behind his temples, drowning out everything but the pounding pulse of rage. All he could think about was how warm the vivid red looked against white.

That is until your voice pulled him out of his haze – “Childe… Childe!”

He turned to face you, disoriented as to why you're looking at him in exasperated horror, your eyes widened, and your voice breathless. Ah, he remembered now. Someone called you the 11th’s lapdog, had dared to treat you like a gutter-born wretch, and seized your wrist with rough, presumptuous fingers. That's why he chose a random piece of a wooden log. And that's why he delivered a slow, painful message to this person over a merciful end. 

“... Oh.” – Harbinger stated simply, leaving the club to sink into the snow with a dull thud. “I'm sorry, sweetie. Did I take too long?”

Walking away, as if the whimpers of a bleeding man on the snow did not reach him, Tartaglia smiled at you. The luster in his eyes is still absent. 

“I apologize, sweetheart, you shouldn't have seen most of that. I got too distracted.” 

You remained speechless. Your silence clung to you like frost, your body still trembling not only from what happened, but from the visceral sight of it. Even when your beloved noticed that, trying to soothe you by wrapping his arms around your shoulders, he failed to realize you were probably shaken from the blood around his hands. 

“Come here, let's go home for now. I'm sorry, dearie, I'm sorry.”

Red, he thought again, warm like you against his cool skin. 

[dyingswanpavlova]

"Your girl" - Part 19 | The Salesman x Reader

Summary: You make a mistake. And for some reason you're almost sure, he cannot forgive you this time.

Warnings: dead dove do not eat, kidnapping, mentions of sexual abuse and other traumatic events in the past, numbness, helplessness, violence, threatening, mentions of blood, mentions of murder and rape, body issues, trauma talk, stockholm syndrome, forced relationship, unhealthy relationship, depression, manipulation, mentions of sexual activities and desires, mentions of pregnancy/pregnancy issues like nausea and puking/abortion, kidney failure, poisoning, not beta-read, if I've missed any please tell me! mdni 18+!

"Your girl" - The Salesman x Reader Masterlist

One question.

Was one question truly enough to make your whole world crumble, the peace you had so hard worked to earn?

The fragile ghost of happiness that had surrounded you for a while, it slowly died. And what was left was the same loneliness you always felt.

Only this time, you weren’t alone. Your hand involuntarily wandered down your chest and stopped just short of your abdomen. There it was. Your child, your love. The life growing within you, the only thing you ever truly loved, except for him.

Him.

And did he love you still? Or did he simply endure you, because you were now with child - his child?

How silly you were. A silly little girl, trapped in the body of a woman, that served as the battleground of cruelty and time. To believe things would turn out warm and perfect in the end, simply because you carried his child.

How wrong you had been.

How terribly wrong.

It was all the worse, because in the beginning it truly looked like things would work out in your favor for once.

The man in the wardrobe wasn't your concern. He made sure of it. He took care of the matter somewhere else, keeping it out of your way. Whenever you'd come up with it, he'd shush you. There was no trace left of him in your home. Instead, it was filled with warmth and safety. Your mother was nowhere in sight.

Of course, there were still countless things in your way. There was no peace, no love and no happiness without a price to pay – life always did that. It made sure you paid in time.

But for this one time, you had managed to push through. Somehow you even found the strength to ignore the ache in your chest that followed every time you remembered the godforsaken word.

Transplant.

There is was, inside of you, rotting away and ready to kill you. The remnant of what was left of your own mothers hatred for you. She hated you, despised you even, you had always known that. But to hate you enough to try and end the life she had created?

It would never cease to make you sick. How could one hate so much, what he was supposed to love and protect and cherish? How could tenderness and devotion be replaced by coldness and fury? By the desire to murder.

How could she have looked at your tiny form, your innocent smile, your small hands smudged with crumbs and chocolate and think you detestable?

No matter how much you fought against it, you always felt tears well up in your eyes.

And he always came – the only refuge you had ever known. The only warmth. The only love.

“No more tears, mama. We wouldn’t want to upset our little one now, would we?”

A small tilt of your head, a warm hand against your cheek – and you were done for. It was always enough to bring you back from the depth of your sorrow. What was it that helped you through it? Was it the guilt of not wanting your unborn child to feel your pain? Or was it him?

Him.

The life before him seemed like nothing more than a distant memory. The life before this – before you, before him, before the life that was growing inside you, reminding you of the hope you carried silently, the quiet strength.

Maybe this was what you had been born for all along. To be his, to be the mother of his child.

And you clung to that hope with every fiber of your being.

Every night that you jumped up and scurried to the bathroom, holding back only enough until you reached the toilet. Dropping to you knees and throwing up took up more of your time than you ever wished for, but to your relief, he was always there.

His sleep had always been light, but ever since you had gotten the news, it seemed like he wasn’t sleeping at all. The moment you raised your head from the pillow, he was there. He never had the time to even ask what was wrong, but for most cases it was always the same. He was there in an instant, holding up your hair in a gentle grip, his free hand softly roaming over your back.

“Shh. Let it all out. It’s okay, let it out.”

The first few times had been rather hard on you. No matter how pointless or even embarrassing, you didn’t want him to see you like that. In your head, you had made up a version of your life with him, a version in which he desired you. And would he keep desiring you if he knelt by you, while you spat down, holding onto the edge of the toilet seat?

To your surprise though, he didn’t recoil in disgust. You had never thought him to be that supportive. But he was.

He was there, every night. Helping you rinse your mouth and flush the toilet, before he gently guided you back. He sat by your side, a wet cloth on your face and he didn’t dare sleep. He never fell asleep before you.

The sickness was relentless. It came every day, every night and of course, it didn’t only come in the morning, like you had hoped. It came always to all times, it seemed. When you woke up in the morning after not having eaten all night, you practically felt your blood sugar levels drop and the dizziness was nearly worse than the sickness itself. But he was always there, always jumping at the slightest of your stirring. He came every morning, carrying a tray with buttered toast, unsweetened tea and a smoothie of all colors and all fruits.

When he did it the first time, you didn’t quite believe it. By the second time, you were still trapped in confusion. And when he came in by the time the third morning rolled around, you felt tears sting your eyes.

“Why are you crying?” He had murmured, while he sat down beside you and gently lifted the teacup to your lips. “Aren’t you feeling well?”

You choked down a sip of the hot liquid and shook your head.

With a soft sigh, you leaned back against the pillow and looked at him with the softest eyes you had ever shown him. “I just love you.”

His smile was something you had grown used to by now. Of course you still needed to separate. There was the twisted smile – the only one he had ever shown you in the beginning. And then there was the genuine one.

When you spoke of the life you had before him, he forced the twisted smile.

When you kissed him, he beamed.

It was enough to make your heart leap. The way his eyes shone in the warmth of the apricot colored walls.

Everything was indeed perfect. His smile, his voice, his gentle touch and the way he was there, before you even you knew that you needed him.

His touch became gentle, his possessiveness soft. His voice cut through the silence in a way that was more soft-spoken than harsh, like he was afraid to startle you.

A part of you ached. Was it because you carried his child? Or was it because of you?

Was it, because he wanted to be better for you? Good even.

You would never know. And there was still the other thing.

The thin, barely-there wall that stood always between you. He was your kidnapper no less, a fact you couldn’t forget. He was your bane, your pain, your silent curse – the answer of the darkness to all your prayers.

But did you truly mind?

Did you mind that after all you still didn’t know his name?

No matter how gentle he was, no matter how loving. You did mind. You were still hurt.

Because you trusted him. You trusted him enough to risk your life in order to carry his child, to give birth to the tiny wonder that was half you and half him.

You trusted him in any matter, in any way – there was no a part of you he did not know yet. And still he didn’t trust you. Not fully. Not enough.

Until one day you snapped. You didn’t intend it, you wanted to blame your doubts, your fears on your condition, your hormones.

He was about to get ready for work, looking as dashing as ever. His work shifts got shorter and shorter. He blamed it on the work itself, but you knew that wasn’t the truth. No, he wanted to be there. He was afraid. Afraid something might happen in his absence. Something horrible, something that might take you away from him – both of you.

His shifts, once starting at six, now began around eight and he never arrived after eleven. Whatever job this was, it indeed had odd work hours.

Whenever you tried to gently prod his mind and find something out, he found excuses. So far you had always feared his wrath, but ever since he knew of your condition, your fragile health, your careful hopeful, he did his best. It was hard, you could tell. He dug his nails into his palms until they bled. More than one time you had been forced to gently sit him down and take care of his bloodied hands. The first time, you had hardly made any progress, because he found himself eventually locked away in the bathroom, to calm down. You knew better, you knew it was so he couldn’t cause any damage. Any damage he couldn’t undo. But you didn’t mind. At least, for you he tried. The next time was easier. He sat down willingly, held out his hands, but he didn’t look at you.

“It’s just a little blood.”

You didn’t respond, instead gently wiped his palms clean and tended to him with such softness that it brought a strange sense of comfort to both of you. No one had ever done that for you and most certainly, no one had ever done that for him, either.

The way he tensed and battled with himself, as if expecting a blow. You had never noticed that before. How vulnerable he was under his anger. How his fury served to protect him in most cases. But the softer he got, the closer he allowed you to come, it became clear as day. He didn’t hate you, didn’t resent you, didn’t even want to hurt you – unless he did, of course. But in these moments, there rare seconds he allowed you to glance under the stoic mask of his forced, tight-lipped smile, he was there. Lurking. Brooding. Holding up his hands, protecting his face, his gut, his heart. When his lips quivered in rage, it was because he expected pain to follow.

There even were the rare moments when you saw a flicker of something else. Something akin to fear. In most cases, it happened in his sleep. The rare moments you shifted and stirred, quietly waking before he could, you got a few minutes to yourself to simply watch him. On most days, he was dreaming. Having a nightmare, probably. You saw it in the way his brows furrowed and his peaceful expression was clouded by sweat and quick breaths. You touched his face, held his hand and sometimes, it helped. On other days, it didn’t and he was forced to endure the cloud and haze of whatever it was that was hurting him. Hunting him. And forcing him to re-live some horrible memory you couldn’t come close to understand. Not yet.

Maybe he would let you in someday.

Until then, you made do with the rare hints of vulnerability he showed you. There was a clear difference. He was able to be gentle and treat you well. Treat you the way a husband would treat his wife. But that didn’t mean that he was open or soft. The wall was there. Intact. In place. And high as ever.

Your outings became more and more frequent, your weekly visits to the doctor a routine on its own. The progress of your tiny, little kidney was enough to keep you alive, enough to keep your child alive and so far, there was no need for a dialysis. At least something, you thought.

By the time the first ultrasound rolled around, the wall crumbled ever so slightly. You found yourself in the chair, your feet pressed against it nervously. He stood behind you, his hand squeezing yours gently. A part of you had almost wanted to beg to find another doctor, a female one at that – but you knew it made most sense to stick with the same doctor who also checked your kidney progress. So, you stayed, but by the time you learned that the first few ultrasounds would be done internally – unlike it was shown in movies and shows – you had a strange feeling in your gut. Akin to fear. Would he get angry? Would he be furious, because another man got to see you like that?

His hand indeed tightened on yours in a way that was near painful. You swallowed and squeezed his hand back, expecting his fury and rage, but he only kept it up until suddenly the sound of a heartbeat cut through the silence. You both froze, staring at the monitor with wide eyes. You were sure your heart stopped beating in your chest. A heartbeat that wasn’t yours, but was still as steady and fierce as ever.

“Look at that.” The doctor smiled as he looked up as well. “Someone to steal horses with.”

By the time you looked up at him, he was still staring at the monitor, incredulous and soft. Eyes softer than you had ever seen before. And his grip on your hand loosened.

“It’s really in there.” He murmured absentmindedly. You smiled and looked back at the ultrasound. There it was, tiny and helpless, but real. His child. Your child. The manifestation of his love for you.

The visits to the doctor always ended with either ice cream, a walk or a trip to the supermarket to find something you could finally eat. So far, it seemed like everything disgusted you. Things you once loved turned into shakes of your head and the sound of your stomach churning.

Something you especially loved and could always eat, made your stomach drop with nausea – pasta. There was no way you could eat pasta. Any form of it made you feel like you had to throw up.

And so all you did end up eating was bread, ice cream, a little rice and eventually your morning smoothie. Everything else made you sick.

He kept bombarding the doctor with questions to make sure your lack of proper nutrition wouldn’t harm neither you nor the baby – but he assured him, once three or four months passed your appetite would most likely return. The baby took what it needed. And you just needed to make sure that you ate the things you wanted as far.

He tried to come up with recipes and ideas, taking you out to eat until it felt normal. The warmth of the sun, the smell of the rain, the stares of passers-by. It never felt truly normal. A part of you always expected him to lock you away for good. But you slowly got used to it. To the normalcy. To the way he forced himself to make life feel beautiful for your sake.

Safe.

He made you feel safe.

Until your fear finally became a distant call, a memory. Something you never anticipated, something you hardly remembered.

No, he was real. He was good. And he was yours.

But he didn’t trust you, did he? Not the same way you trusted him.

And so, you snapped. You snapped against your better will, against your better knowledge.

Neither of you expected it, he was just getting ready for work, all in all innocent.

You watched him, leaned against the doorframe, as he adjusted his tie. He didn’t see you at first, that was until you stepped forward and reached for his tie with gentle fingers. His eyes lit up with surprise and delight, his handsome smile highlighting his features in a way that made your chest tighten.

“Thank you.” He murmured.

You forced a strained smile. “When will you be back?”

He glanced at his watch and hummed. “Not after eleven, I think. Just try and relax, okay? I’ll be back before you know it. I left some Hotteok in the fridge, just in case you feel like you can eat.”

He was perfect. So perfect. It increased the ache of your heart tenfold.

If he was so perfect, why couldn’t he be real?

The snap in your mind was nearly painful. But you needed to know.

“What is your job?”

He tensed before you, but that didn’t stop you from fidgeting with his tie. You kept your gaze glued to it.

“What?”

You nodded. “What do you do? Why can’t you tell me?”

He exhaled slowly and caught your wrists in a touch that was gentle, yet firm.

“I told you. That is nothing for you to worry about.” He said with finality.

“Fine.” You nearly spat out. “Then your name.”

His eyes darkened. “What is this about?”

“What would it be about?!” You hissed, surprised by the depth of your own anger. You had been silently resenting that part of him ever since you found out you were pregnant – and he still didn’t let you in. “I want to know your name. I want to know the name my child is going to carry for the rest of its life.”

He closed his eyes and took a slow breath, obviously ready to explode. But he didn’t. Instead, he took his hands off you and dug his fingers into his palms again. They had hardly healed. It filled you with a strange feeling of protectiveness, of guilt even – but you didn’t want to back down.

“Is it really too much to ask?” You nearly pleaded. When he shot you a glare instead of answering, your anger returned full-force.

“Fucking Hell!” You exclaimed furiously and let go of his tie. “What is wrong with you? I’m pregnant, pregnant with your child and I don’t even know how to refer to you when I speak to the doctor about you!”

“You’re not supposed to speak about me to anyone!”

You groaned in annoyance. “You know what I mean. You’re nothing but a ghost. All I want is your name or – or anything! Don’t you trust me?! Do you still not trust me?!”

He stared at you with a mixture of longing, pain and anger of his own. Before you knew it though, he pushed past you and grabbed his briefcase, ready to leave.

You gasped and rushed after him. “Stop! Wait!”

“I have to go.” He grumbled. “We’ll talk later.”

“Did you ask him to abort the child?” You froze in horror over your own words. You had never meant to ask them out loud, never meant to accuse him of such a vile thing. A part of your mind had always asked itself. What did he say? Why did he speak Korean? Why did he rush outside, like the Devil himself chased him? But you never dared ask that. Especially not, after he took such good and gentle care of you.

Not, after he loved you so thoroughly.

But the doubt lingered in your mind, the thought that he was still dangerous. Unpredictable. And cruel.

He stood with his back facing you, but you saw the way his body went rigid. His grip on the briefcase tightened until his knuckles turned white. You swallowed and immediately regretted the question. Not because you feared that he might harm you – even though, a part of you still expected him to. No, you felt guilty. You felt sick with guilt.

He turned around, impossibly slow and his eyes were blazing in a way you had never seen before.

“What?”

You swallowed again and took a step back. Your heart was racing in your chest and your hands felt cold and sweaty.

“I-“

He slammed the briefcase down on the table and approached you with quick steps. You stumbled backwards until he had you pressed against the wall. You stared up at him with wide eyes, silently pleading him. Suddenly you didn’t feel so safe anymore.

“What?” He hissed out. “Say that again.”

You swallowed thickly. “I didn’t mean-“

“Yes, you did.” He barked out. “You did mean it.”

Tears clouded your vision and you wrapped your arms around your torso, as though you feared you might crumble into yourself.

“I-“

“Is that how you see me?” He growled. “Is that really what you think I am?”

He caged you in with his a hand on either side of your head, his breath hot against your face. You had never seen him that angry before. Never.

And he still held himself back for you. His whole body was shaking in rage and he still held back.

You had never felt so guilty in your life.

“I’m sorry.” You cried out. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I-“

“I asked him to check my blood type.” He gritted out.

Your forehead ceased in a frown and you stared up at him with confusion. “What? Why would you-“

“I have ways. I have connections. I could get you a kidney tomorrow if I wanted.” He hissed. “But I knew you wouldn’t want that.”

You froze, before your frown deepened and your heart nearly burst in terror. “What are you talking about?” It came over your trembling lips, the ghost of a whisper.

“You know what I’m talking about. I know people. And I have the ability to save your life.” He gritted out. “But would you want that? Would forgive me for that? No. You’re too righteous for that. Too good.” He spat the word out with such disdain, it felt like a curse and it made your stomach ache.

“Please-“ You whispered, but he cut you off.

“So, I asked him to check my blood type instead. To see if we match. And guess what?” He smiled mirthlessly.

The room tilted, nausea rising within you. “What?” You whispered shakily, your face damp with tears.

He nodded, but his eyes stayed cold. Colder than ever before.

You knew you had fucked up. Worse than ever before. But the only thing you could think about was how terribly you must have hurt him.

You didn’t care, didn’t hear what he was saying. Didn’t care about whatever unholy business he was involved in. Suddenly you couldn’t have cared less about his name – or if his blood type matched yours.

You just wanted him back. To forgive you. To love you again.

“I’m so sorry.” You choked out. “I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have-“

“But you did.” He gritted out and took a step back, eyeing you up and down in nothing short of disgust. You choked back a sob and your chin dropped to your chest, unable to meet his cold, dark gaze any longer.

He smiled again, the scary smiled that never reached his eyes.

“Congratulations, darling.” He spat out in a sneer. “Congratulations. We have the same blood type. You have a kidney on the way.”

_______________________________

Tag list 1:

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Author's note: Hey guys! I'll be honest, I had some real issues considering whether or not to continue the story the way I had planned, but in the end I decided to trust my instinct. It took quite some convincing of myself and a few people who support the idea of the pregancy trope. I'm really sorry if that is disappointing to anyone. I've received a few messages of people who think it's rushed on the story/makes no sense and so on. To that I'd like to say: Absolutely. I totally agree. For those two to have a child is probably very irresponsible, especially considering her health issues. But, just like in real life, that's their decision to make. If it's a mistake, it's their mistake to make. And just because she is pregant, doesn't mean their problems will disappear and everything will be perfect out of nowhere. That being said, I hope the people who hoped for an abortion in the story can forgive me - that's a trope I just couldn't go through with. Sorry for the long text, but the thing has been weighing on my mind pretty heavily these last few days. I've even been feeling guilty, until a few very kind people reminded me that I have no reason to. It's just a story, right? Still, I hope the ones who hoped for a different outcome, can forgive me. I'm not saying anyone pressured me!!! I pressured myself, because I wanted to please everyone. But I learned that's impossible, unfortunately.

I love you, guys.

Eternally yours,

Lana 🤍

Ps. Besides the sequel, I'll be doing a "bad ending au" where things take a different and darker turn. Someone requested that and I loved the idea. I didn't answer the ask yet, but I will by the time I publish it. 🤍

[painted-flag]

A VICTOR, part three (final) - Commodus

𓃮 emperor commodus x fem!reader 𓃭 masterlist. part one | part two | part three (final) 𓃮 warnings: 18+ descriptions of violence and smut (fingering, pinv, slight biting kink and nipple play, possessive behaviour) 𓃭 As a longtime and loyal servant working in the underbelly of the palace, your emergence into the light catches the attention of the emperor.

It had been a long, excruciating week. You had managed to avoid Commodus in that time. Attius was still insistent that you complete your duties despite the injuries, but you had managed to do them all in the lower levels of the palace. In the few instances where you needed to get work done in areas Commodus could be, you chose to do them very late into the night. 

There was not a word you could use to express the heartache you had felt at that time. It is funny that a person could be stamped so permanently onto your ribcage in such a short time of knowing them, but the emperor was a man you would never forget. 

In your dreams, you could still feel the touch of his calloused hands and the warmth that only he could provide – no other form of warmth like fire or the sun could compare or compete. 

The swelling in your face was gone, but you still sported a cut lip and the bruises were still prominent. Each night, you would go to Cassius to get a poultice to put on your wounds, which soothed the skin and removed some of the aching pain. 

While you had been smart in dodging Commodus and staying on the lower levels of the castle, you had to fetch rosemary from the gardens and it could not wait until night. So you found yourself, in the heat of midday, picking some rosemary in a secluded area of the palace gardens. 

It was calm, with a gentle breeze that kissed your skin. You held a woven basket with the handle tucked into your bent arm. With a small knife, you would cut off bundles of rosemary that looked ready to harvest and placed them in the basket. The motions were soft and serene and you found some peace with it. 

Footsteps alerted you to a presence behind you. You wanted to turn, but at the sound of their voice, you knew who it was and could not afford to face them. 

“You are not sick,” Commodus spoke from behind you, his tone full of contempt. 

You stopped your current task but still refused to turn around. Keeping your back to him was incredibly disrespectful, but you feared what he would do if he saw the markings on your face. How quickly would he cast you aside? 

“I have… recovered quickly.” You excused. Commodus scoffed from behind you and stepped closer. He was only a pace or two away from you and his close proximity had your knees weak and resolve crumbling. 

“You were never sick. I am not stupid…” His tone then switched to something that sounded almost insecure, “Have I done something to incur your indifference? Why do you avoid me? Whatever it was, name it and I shall work towards absolution. Shout it at me, insult me even, I give you permission for that. So long as you speak, so long as I can hear you talk because I have learnt that nothing… nothing hurts more than the absence of you.” 

His small speech could have knocked you off your feet. It sent your mind reeling. A strong urge to drop your basket and fling yourself into his arms washed over your body. How much you dearly missed the comfort of his embrace. He sounded vulnerable, not something you ever thought would come out of his mouth.

“It is not you, Caesar.” You hoped the honorific title would make him display more mercy toward you, but you failed to notice the depths of his devotion that had built up long before he invited you to his chamber so many nights ago. 

“Commodus.” He corrected what you addressed him as, “You of all people do not need to call me that. What is it that burdens you so?” He questioned. 

You knew there was no point in trying to keep it hidden. Your clothing thankfully covered most of the bruises, except for the one on your face. Slowly, while looking at the stone ground, you turned to face him. Your face raised and made eye contact with him, finding some solace in the green of his eyes. His look of desperation for your attention quickly morphed into simmering rage. You could see the bump in his throat move as he swallowed and his jaw set. 

He took the final step to get closer to you. Commodus raised his hand and hovered it right over your bruise, eyes scanning it over and over as if it was not real. 

“Who?” His voice was oddly calm. It was as if his mind had shut down, unable to fully process what he was seeing. 

“I am fine and–”

“Who did this?” Commodus interrupted. He gently traced over the bruise with the tip of his fingers, mapping the way it marred your face. 

“I have neglected my duties as of late. Master Attius did only what was necessary.” You tried to reason. His nostrils flared at your words. 

“It was him that did this to you?” You wanted to answer, but there was a sob that threatened to claw its way through your throat. You did not wish to cry in front of him, but the stress of everything had hit you. He saw the tears that welled in your eyes and pulled you in for a hug. However, his sudden touch on your arms caused you to flinch.

Commodus looked down immediately, grabbed your wrist, and pulled up the sleeve of your dress to see the bruises that littered your forearm and disappeared under the top of the fabric. His breath became laboured. 

“Nothing must go unpunished, he told me.” You bit your lip to hold the sobs back. Commodus let out a long sigh and rested his forehead against yours. The two of you stayed like that for a few moments, letting the warm breeze hit your bodies. 

He eventually moved, lifting his head and planting a kiss on your hairline. His hands reached up and rubbed your shoulders gently, trying to provide comfort while also not wanting to make your pain worse. 

“You are not to do any more work today. Go to my room and wait there.” He instructed you. 

“Wait for what?” You asked. He did not answer you, only giving your temple one last chaste kiss before he turned around and left the garden. You could hear his harsh footfalls as he got further away and you were scared at what he was capable of. 

Commodus was angry and that was dangerous. You worried about what his wrath meant for anyone in the palace. Yet, you could do nothing but stand there as he left, bracing for the coming aftermath of whatever he had planned.

You swore that you would wear down the marble flooring in Commodus’ room. For the last few hours, you had paced back and forth. Sometimes you would sit in a chair for a few moments before becoming restless again and resuming your short march. There had been no word from Commodus or anyone as to what was going on. 

You surmised that was the best outcome. He had not gone on a rampage and caused chaos, which was good. It had only struck you recently that perhaps you had been terribly stupid this whole time. The way he looked at you in the gardens and his vulnerability at thinking he had done something wrong to you. There you came to understand the depths of the situation and that the feelings you held are in some capacity reciprocated. 

That was why you paced so relentlessly. He harboured feelings for you, which in itself felt surreal. You were nothing and would remain nothing, but somehow that was enough to catch his attention. Had it been that festival you sang at so many years ago? Was it that moment when the fates decide to entwin both of your paths?

The door on the other side of the room opened and you stopped pacing. You stood still, hoping to see Commodus. It was hard to conceal your disappointment when another man walked through the doors. He was old and hunched over slightly, but his face appeared kind. He carried a bag with him and set it down on one of the tables. 

“Excuse my brash words, but where is the emperor?” You questioned. 

The old man smiled and began to take items out of his bag; vials and bandages, “The emperor has not been in the palace for hours, my lady.” 

“I am not a lady,” You spoke. 

“I have been instructed by the Caesar to look over his lady that awaits in this room. I am correct in assuming that is you?” He teased you slightly and you felt a little more relaxed around him. You approached the table and looked down at the healing supplies he had laid out. 

“Yes, uh, that would be me.” You shrugged. You did not want to question why Commodus had referred to you as his lady but knew it was not something to take lightly. Whatever he said goes and there was no reversing those words. The more you thought of it, the more it warmed your heart. 

“Well, I am Cosmo, fair lady. Might I check over your injuries?” He questioned. 

You nodded with permission and he moved towards you. While he tended to your wounds, all you could think about was Commodus; where he was and what he was doing. He was not in the palace and Rome was a large city. A sinking feeling of worry and dread washed over you.

After you had been tended to, more servants came in to bring you new attire. The dress you wore was nothing you had ever come close to having. The tunica, stolla, and palla all matched with the vibrancy of orange and black. Commodus had picked it out for you and you could not help but wonder if he chose it because it was similar in colour to your favourite animal, the tiger.  

When you had gotten ready, guards escorted you to a waiting carriage. Each time you tried to ask what was happening, you only got the same short response; Caesar awaits you. By now, slight fear had entered your heart. He had been gone that whole day and the last you saw of him was when he became consumed by rage. Had he hurt others? Had he hurt himself? 

The large imposing figure of the Colosseum entered your vision as the carriage approached. There were not many times in your life when you had time to visit, but each memory had been ingrained in your mind. The sun was setting and cast the stone in a delicate golden light. The heat of the day waned and you became grateful for the clothing wrapped around you to shield you from the occasional cool breeze. 

You do not remember there being a gladiatorial game scheduled for that day and your suspicions got worse as you were led out of the carriage and into the Colosseum. There was no shouting, no screaming, or bounds of cheer. Nothing but silence greeted you as you walked up some stairs and found yourself at the cloth-covered entrance to the emperor's viewing box. 

The guards escorting you grabbed the silk curtains and pulled them away, allowing you to enter alone. The viewing box was grand, filled with seats for the senators. A large stone chair, like a throne, was placed up front in the centre. There, leaning against the stone railing, was Commodus. He had his back to you, but you could see he wore a regal outfit of black armour with silver and gold accents. A gold laurel crown rested over his touseled dark locks. 

Your heartbeat picked up at the sight. 

“Commodus?” You questioned. At the sound of your voice, he turned around and smiled. He raised both of his arms like one would do to welcome someone with a hug. 

“Ah, you’re finally here,” He approached you and placed one hand gently over the healing bruise on your face, “How are you?” His other hand rested on your waist to pull you closer. A flush fell over your body. 

“The healer says I am doing well. There are no complications.” You answered. You had no idea what to do with your arms, so you pressed the palms of your hands against the chestpiece he wore, feeling the bends and grooves of the detailed pattern and the coolness of the metal. 

“And how is your mind?” His thumb swiped back and forth across your cheek. 

“I am alright. It hurt for a while… everything is fine now.” You reassured him. During your week of avoiding him, you had missed his comfort dearly. While he had originally gone to you for solace, you became attached to him and learned that you wished to lean on him as well.

“Not quite, darling.” Commodus took your arm and guided you to the big throne. He sat down comfortably. While you looked around for a chair next to him, he pulled you down so you sat on his lap. The movement was abrupt but sent heat through your body. 

“Nothing can go back to normal until you see justice for the crimes you have suffered,” Commodus wrapped an arm around your waist to keep you securely in his lap. The armour he wore was almost cold, but his presence provided a warmth that erased that feeling.  

“Attius was well within his rights to punish me and–” 

Commodus grabbed your chin and turned your head to look at him. There was a quiet rage within his eyes, though not directed at you. 

“I’ll not have you speak like that, do you hear me?” He told you. You nodded which made him smile and leave a chaste kiss on your cheek, “Good. Now, I have prepared a show for you.” 

“A show?” You questioned. 

“More like a trial,” He motioned with his hands to a set of guards standing within the arena. They began to march towards one of the entrances and he continued to speak, “I will not have my lady wronged. Nothing must go unpunished.” That phrase clicked in your head, the one that Attius had used against you. At that moment, you understood what was happening.

The doors to one of the entrances opened and out came the person you were expecting. Your master, Attius, had his hands bound by shackles in front of him. He was led in by multiple guards, crossing the sandy terrain. You sucked in a breath when they got closer and you could get a better look at him. He was dressed in rags, but his arms and the lower half of his legs were exposed, showing the gnarly bruises that littered his skin. Splotches of blood, some aged more than others, consumed the brown cotton he wore. 

What shocked you the most was the bruise on his face that was almost an exact copy of the one he gave you. 

Commodus chuckled lightly to himself when Attius almost stumbled over. You now understood where he was for those hours of not being at the palace. While undeniably barbaric, something about his protective nature and thirst for vengeance on your part was, in a twisted way, attractive. When Attius got within speaking distance, Commodus tightened his hold on you as if to assure himself you would no longer get hurt. 

“You have committed an egregious crime,” Commodus spoke. Your hands placed over his that rested on your stomach and began to carefully thread your fingers through his. He had gotten tense and you were doing what you could to calm him down, if only slightly. 

“Caesar, please! Mercy! Show me mercy!” Attius was shoved down to his knees by the guards, kicking up some of the sand. 

“Mercy from me? No, it is not me that you wronged,” Commodus turned to you, his face of indifference and hate towards Attius morphing into adoration for you, “My lady, do you grant him mercy?”

For a moment, you wanted to. You may have many weeks ago, but lately, you had come to understand that violence was often necessary; all thanks to Commodus’ guidance. You thought of everything Attius did towards your fellow servants over the years. Each indignity, each strike, each time he would show no clemency. 

You wanted him to feel that fear. 

“No mercy,” You answered. Commodus smiled at you and his eyes twinkled with something akin to excitement. He surged forward to capture you in a heated kiss. You matched the fervour, pushing back and feeling the softness of his lips against yours. He hummed with satisfaction, tasting the fruit you had eaten a while ago on your lips. 

He pulled away and whispered, “You’re perfect,” He then turned to face Attius again, losing all sense of warmth in his gaze, “It is, with my fair judgement, deemed that the offended parties will fight until death.” Your brows furrowed at his words. He did not mean that you would fight, right? 

Attius looked just as confused as you, “Caesar, surely I will not fight her?” 

“Of course not,” Commodus scoffed as if the mere notion was the worst idea ever proposed, “No, you will not be fighting my lady. Moreover, my lady’s favourite animal shall fight for her.” 

While Attius was still perplexed, your face dropped. You looked around the arena, suddenly aware of a looming threat. Commodus would not, would he? But then again, this kind of violence was in his nature. You understood why he picked out your outfit for that night, how the colours matched that of a tiger. The same animal he had seen you weaving into the pattern of a carpet. 

Suddenly, growling could be heard, looming ever closer. With a loud thundering snap, a section of the ground was pulled back quickly. There was no time to spare as a tiger, large and snarling, lept out from the depths. A chain was linked to a collar on its neck but did little to disrupt its movements. 

Your eyes were glued to the scene, stuck in a state of both stupor and intrigue. Commodus was smiling madly and he rested his chin on your shoulder. You revelled in his warmth while you watched Attius fail to fight back with nothing but a short sword. 

The fight did not last long. Even if he was not beaten and frail, there was no winning against the ravenous beast. It lunged and sunk its teeth into his side. You could see the tiger's jaw clench down and elicit screams of pain from Attius’ mouth. When he fell, the tiger took it as an advantage and aimed for his throat, cutting off his wails. As the beast fed, Commodus leaned back in his throne and used a hand to turn your chin to face him. 

“Do you see what I have done for you?” He began, “Take it as a vow. All those that lay a finger on you will be eaten like scraps. That was the fate of that filthy vermin that marked your arm, the fate of your master, and the fate of anyone who dares come after you now. You belong to me and me alone. Right, darling?” 

You nodded, too lost in the trance of his eyes to speak. His thumb brushed your lower lip before retreating. From a small round side table, Commodus lifted a woven laurel wreath that was as green as his eyes. He placed it on you and adjusted it so it sat along the crown of your head. 

“It appears you won the fight. Congratulations, my victor.” He kissed you on the cheek before gently tracing the bruise on your face. There was still an air of contempt that he held while looking at your injury, but Attius’ death gave him more satisfaction. 

“Thank you, Commodus.” You said. 

“We shall celebrate,” He squeezed your hips as a signal to get up and you did. He stood up after you and held out his hand, “Come,” 

You placed your hand in his, warming at the familiarity of his touch. Taking one last glance at Attius’ still body, you followed Commodus out of the viewing box.

You had been eating at a table in Commodus’ chambers since the two of you arrived back at the palace. It was a private dinner, but still grand in the assembly of food laid out. The two of you ate and talked like you once did before you avoided him. It felt right to go back into that routine like all was finally right with the world. 

The sun had long set and the both of you finished eating and only talked after. As the night got older, you began to unwind. Commodus stood off to the side, facing away from you as he took off his armour pieces. You occasionally glanced towards him while sipping on wine – not remembering the amount of cups you had. By the time he had gotten down to his underclothes and was unfastening his forearm braces, you decided to voice a question that had been burning you inside. 

“Commodus?” He turned to give you his attention and hummed. You took another quick sip, “Why did you choose me?” He paused for a moment, as if your question did not entirely make sense.

“I’ve already told you. At the very least, part of it,” He took off his braces and placed them next to his other armour pieces. His footsteps echoed off of the marble flooring as he came back to you. Commodus rested his forearm over the top of your chair as he leaned over you. 

“You sang at that festival and I felt warmth for the first time. It followed me in my dreams ever since. Admittedly, I did not know if you were still in the palace as you did not frequent above the lower levels. I should have hanged Attius for keeping you from the light.” His fingers reached out to trace your arm, moving up the length, across your shoulder, and towards the exposed collarbone. 

All of a sudden, his posture went rigid. You could see the bump on his throat move up and down as he swallowed nervously. After a few tense seconds, he lowered himself to your eye level, crouching slightly. The gesture alone was incredible. Never would you have predicted an emperor would lower himself to your level, both literally and figuratively. 

“I am correct in assuming these feelings are reciprocated?” He asked. You understood why he had become so nervous. While naturally ruthless, Commodus was an insecure man who looked for approval in the faces of everyone around him. Whether one could consider that a weakness or a strength was up to them. For you, none of that mattered. 

It was almost comical the way you shared that same worry for a while. You too were scared that the depths of his dedication and care were shallow, but if today had taught you anything, it was that a notion like that was far from the truth. 

“You are correct, Commodus.” You responded, “I deeply care for you.” Those words washed over him and you could see how he instantly relaxed. His eyelids fluttered for a moment, scanning you up and down as if to see if you were real. 

He surged forward and captured your lips with his, an ecstasy of heat. You melted into the feeling and relished in the attention. His hands gripped your waist tightly and pulled you up from the chair until your lower back dug into the table. He lifted you to sit on the table, the plates and cutlery jostling with the movement. Commodus was devouring you and at that moment you realized you did not mind it at all.

His movement to pick you up and place you on the table caused you to gasp, which he used to his advantage. His tongue entered your mouth, exploring and dominant. Your breathing became laboured and your body felt fuzzy – as if all the sensations around you that were not Commodus faded into the background. 

He kissed you a few more times before gently biting on your lower lip, pulling away and letting it go. You opened your eyes and saw him staring right at you. His chest was heaving slightly and he kept his forehead resting on yours; completely unwilling to be further from you in any way. 

“That…” Your whispered voice trailed off. Commodus smiled at how dazed you were and was happy to see his power over you. 

Glancing out the window near you, you saw just how dark it was and understood that it had to be closer to twilight. Your mood instantly died. You would need to go to bed immediately. Already you had lost out on valuable sleeping time and knew it would cause you to lack in your chores tomorrow. 

“Commodus, there is nothing I would like more than to stay with you, believe me. But I need to go and rest. There are many tasks I have to get to tomorrow.” 

He looked at you like you had said something incredibly bizarre, “Did you not hear what I told you in the arena? You are mine and because of that, you will do no more work. From now on, my room is yours. You are my lady, the emperor’s lady.” His hands rubbed up and down your thighs, as he pushed himself to stand between them. Even sitting on the table, you did not reach his height. 

“And what will people say?” You questioned. 

“They’ll say nothing if they favour their heads.” Something in the way he said those words made you more eager for him. Deciding to take charge for once, you grabbed the fabric of his tunic and pulled him towards you for a kiss. Commodus moved with you as he was eager to participate, but remained gentle to not hurt your bruises.

There was a heat that bubbled in your stomach, fueling a hunger that you had never felt before. Instinctively, your hips ground against his. Commodus reciprocated, moving the clothed area of his hardening length against your core. The kiss got more intense, a mesh of heated breath and knocking teeth. He clung to you like a last resort, like you were his last chance to arrive in the Elysium fields. 

Your hands roamed everywhere, up his arms and down his chest, feeling the muscles that lay under the fabric of his tunic. The table moved with the force of each of your movements, becoming unstable. Commodus gripped your thighs, pushing them against his sides and wrapping around his waist. You let him pull your arms around his neck and he lifted you off of the table. 

His strength nearly shocked you, but it was not surprising. He pulled away from the kiss long enough so he could walk up the marble steps to the raised dias that held his bed. Before you knew it, you found yourself falling onto the plush silk sheets of his bed; or more accurately what he has now framed as your shared bed. The thought sent a fluttering feeling to the already burning part of your stomach and lodged up towards your chest. 

Commodus leaned down over you and rested on one forearm while he used his free hand to trace across your collarbone and neck, “You’re mine. Not the senate’s, not Rome’s, not anyone’s.” 

You nodded enthusiastically, begging for more attention from him, “Yours, only yours.”

Commodus leaned down and began to assail your neck; licking, kissing, and biting every inch. You trembled under his touch and became reduced to nothing but breathless moans. His hands pulled away at the fabrics that wrapped your form, the pretty assemble being torn off you. You would have been sad about it if it were not for the fact that he could easily buy you another. 

He took away each layer and left you bare under him. Commodus stopped his assault on your neck and pulled back to look at you. Despite the occasional bruise on your arms and legs and a fading one on your stomach, he reached out and gripped your hip and swiped his thumb back and forth as his gaze travelled over you. 

“My Venus,” He whispered. If you were not already unwound below him, you would have melted right there. 

“Commodus,” His name fell like a plea on your lips. You needed him desperately and began to tug at his clothing. He humoured you, smiling softly as he stripped down. Once he was bare, you latched onto his neck and pulled him down into a kiss. You felt the softness of his lips as your tongues explored one another. His chest brushed against yours and the skin contact made you moan. He felt just as hot as your blood, pulsing and begging under the skin. 

One of his large hands trailed down your stomach and brushed over your hip bone before caressing your inner thigh. In an instant, you opened your legs – entirely ready to surrender to him. Sensing how eager you were, he chuckled against your lips. 

“So impatient, my love.” His fingers moved up your inner thigh but stopped just as he got close to your core. You whimpered when he ceased his movements. “Beg, darling. Tell me how much you want me.” 

“Commodus please,” You moved your hips to try and get closer to his touch but he used his other hand to hold you down. He tsked and shook his head from side to side. 

“That’s not playing fair,” He scolded you. While his hands were preoccupied with holding you down, yours were free and you used that to your advantage. He may be able to bring you to heel, but you know you could do just the same. 

“Fuck being fair,” It was the first time you swore in front of him and his eyes sparkled at that, “Fuck me, Commodus, please.” Your hands moved to his lower stomach, lower and lower until you were able to grasp his hard cock. His entire body shuddered and his nostrils flared. Something clicked in him, a snap and his patience was gone. 

Commodus pushed up further on the bed and crawled on top of the sheets, moving right up to you. You had shuffled towards the headboard with your legs bent at the knees and together. His hands gripped your knees and spread your legs so he could slot himself between them. 

“Do you want this?” His warm breath tickled your neck as he trailed his lips across the skin, just barely touching but feeling so right. 

You grabbed his jaw with both of your hands and moved his head to look him in the eyes, “Would I have spread my legs for you otherwise?” His eyes darkened at that and you could feel his jaw clench. 

It was then that you had an idea that may not have been the best. You had seen how possessive he was of you and the violence he was willing to give to others on your behalf. You wanted to test the waters and see how much you could rile him up. 

“Are you going to stop teasing and fuck me or do I have to find someone else?” It was a fake threat. There was nobody else that could ever compare to Commodus; nobody else you would ever want to even speak to. His face fell into incredible seriousness and you let go of him, only for his hand to grip your chin. It was not strong enough to hurt but it held your attention. 

“I know what you’re trying to do, darling.” He leaned down with his lips brushing the shell of your ear, “By the time I am done, you won’t even be able to think about anybody else.” 

In an instant, his warm fingers brushed through your folds. You sucked in a breath at the contact. His fingers moved meticulously, discovering each stroke that made you shake under him and moan. Commodus kissed across the expanse of your neck and chest, dragging his teeth along the skin occasionally. You found it hard to keep your eyes open as you were entranced by what you felt. 

Your hands moved to cart through his hair. When you tugged at the strands, Commodus groaned. It appeared he was particularly sensitive there and you made a note to remember that in the future. He retaliated by latching his lips on one of your nipples, causing your back to arch. You felt one of his fingers slip into you at the same time while his thumb circled your bud. The fire that coursed through your veins was overwhelming and your breathing became erratic. He slipped another finger into you and upped the pace, dragging in and out with the rhythm of your hips moving. 

His name tumbled from your lips over and over again like you were reciting a prayer. His mouth left marks across your chest and neck, some of which you knew would not be able to cover. You had a feeling it was deliberate. In your haze of pleasure, you could feel your body pull taught. The point of no return was met. 

“Com… Commodus, I–” Your voice hitched as his thumb rolled over your bud once more. 

Against the heat of your skin, his voice murmured, “I know, darling. Let go.” It was as if that was the final straw you needed. 

The tense string of your body snapped and you found yourself shattering. He continued his movements, helping you ride out your high. Your head lolled to the side as you shut your eyes. His fingers moved out of you and you suddenly felt sad at the loss of contact. You craved more and wished to spend the rest of your time living in this bed with Commodus. 

“Open your eyes for me,” Commodus’ hands cradled your face. You slowly opened your eyes, staring right into his. His lips turned up, “There’s my girl.” He leaned in to kiss you and groaned at the feeling. Your body was still sensitive and recovering from your orgasm, but you craved more of him. 

“Commodus… please.” There were no other words that needed to be said. His movements were eager, but not rushed. He shifted up so he was on his knees and grabbed his cock that was slick with precum. Slowly, almost painfully, he dragged the tip along your folds. You whimpered at the feeling and lifted your hips to feel more friction. 

The haze of your previous peak was still heavy. You understood then why some people were so provocative in their transgressions. If you could stay like this with him forever you would stake your life to the ground and take that deal in a heartbeat. 

You bit your lip to keep yourself from moaning too much at just the feel of his cock against your folds. He collected your slick on his skin, trailing up again until the head got caught right at your entrance. Gradually, he pushed forward until he bottomed out. You saw his eyebrows furrow and noise leave his mouth that was a mix of a sigh and a groan. He muttered a few curses. 

Commodus did not rush as he was content at the pace he was going because it made you come undone and desperate for anything more. The feeling of being so full made you squirm. You wanted friction or anything to bring back the feeling of ecstasy you had. Your heart felt like it was going to pump out of your chest. Being connected like this with him was the best feeling in the world and you cursed your past self for believing it was a silly fantasy. This was real; real and raw and so good.

He slowly pulled out, dragging until the last moment to make you feel empty. You whined at the loss of his warmth but quickly shut up when he pushed back in, burying himself to the hilt. He repeated that action a few times, each getting faster until he set a steady pace. Your hips matched his movements. His face was buried in your neck with his lips brushing the shell of your ear. You could hear his moans and grunts which only spurred you on further. 

You scratched the planes of his back, digging deeper with each thrust. Even when so deeply connected it did not feel like it was enough. Nothing could ever feel enough to be connected with him. Your scratching made Commodus move faster, picking up the pace. 

The change of speed caused you to release your hold on him, finding little energy to lift your arms. It was like you were under a spell and completely under his influence. 

“That’s it, gods, good girl,” Commodus murmured into your ear. You moaned back with small babbles of his name as your brain was unable to form a single thought other than him; his presence, his feel, him, him, him. It consumed your mind and left you a squirming mess. 

He took your hands that had fallen, grabbed your wrists, and pinned them above your head. Your legs wrapped around his waist and it changed the angle at which he was thrusting into you. The tip of his cock hit a soft spot in you that had you chasing stars at the back of your eyes. The stretch that he gave you was a good ache, one that spread out from your core and burned through your body.  

Commodus began to mutter words with each thrust, “Mine. My girl. My Venus.” He went on and on. Your chest rose against his, pushing for a bit more contact. You wanted to reach out and touch him, but his grip on your wrist was tight. His breath hit the shell of your ear, tickling it slightly. 

The familiar feeling of your build-up hit you and Commodus could tell. He continued the steady rhythm but changed the angle to reach deeper. You nearly shouted at the difference. While he was relentless, his posture changed slightly, becoming less composed as he chased the same high you were experiencing. Both of you could feel the bed moving under you, its sturdy build taking the movement. 

You were wound up again and pulled taught, but this time it felt more intense than the previous. Commodus lost his movement and fucked you with reckless abandon. All manner of control was lost and his perfect posture faltered. It seemed, like you, he had become just as mindless and broken down – doing everything possible to chase pleasure. Despite it all, you could still feel the care that he had for you in the way he muttered sweet nothings into your ear. You squeezed around his length as the build-up in your stomach started to increase. 

“Let go, love. Let me hear you.” Commodus instructed. 

Suddenly, like the waves that crashed against the shores of the home of your childhood, a flood of ecstasy came over you as you reached your peak and descended off of it. Your wanton moans filled the room, matching the sounds the two of you had been making for a while. Commodus visibly relished in it, nipping at your earlobe and kissing your neck. The feeling of your orgasm caused your walls to squeeze and made his movements falter. 

He pulled out suddenly, right as he came. The hot strings of cum coated your lower abdomen. He moved to rest his forehead on yours, eyes closed and face scrunched in the heat of his pleasure. Your legs felt numb. Commodus almost collapsed on top of you. He released his hold on your wrists and held himself up by his forearms on either side of your head. 

The two of you joined in a kiss. This one was a sharp contrast to the quick pace you had. It was slow and passionate, full of trust and care. His hands tangled in your hair, pushing it back with a gentleness unseen. Your hands rested on his broad shoulders, feeling the perspiration that gathered there. Both of your bodies came down from the high, chests rising and falling. 

You thought back to just a few short weeks ago when you were invited into his room. You were incredibly glad he only wanted company then. If not for that, you would have never been able to build this relationship with him. Moreso, you were incredibly thankful your younger self decided to sing at that festival and caught his attention. It seemed that little actions in life led to big changes. 

It still felt absurd now with your change of position. You were no longer a servant, no longer expected to fulfill the duties that had your body aching and mind hurting at the end of the day. 

It was so ridiculous to you, that you could not help but let out a chuckle. Commodus moved his forehead from yours and opened his eyes. You wished to get lost in those eyes. 

“And what do you find so amusing, hm?” He spoke. 

You looked at him with adoration, “Is it wrong to be happy?” 

“No,” Commodus moved to rest beside you, taking a spare cloth from the wash basin placed beside the bed and wiping your stomach down. There was something in his movements that felt almost… domestic. It was not something you ever thought of an emperor doing. “I’m glad you are happy.” 

A beat of silence passed as he laid down next to you on his back and used an arm to pull you flush against him. Your head rested on his pec, hearing the thumping of his heart. 

“Are you happy?” You asked. He squeezed you closer and kissed your temple.

“You made me happy long before all of this.” He answered. Your face scrunched up with wonder. 

“What do you mean?” You lifted your head to look into his eyes, fingers tracing patterns onto his chest. 

“Your singing. It followed me everywhere since that festival. From my mind,” He placed one hand over yours and guided it right above where his heart would be, “to here.” 

There were no words you could think of to respond with. The poetics of his words hit you. You wanted to drown in him, to stay there in that moment for a lifetime. You reached out to trace his jaw, thumb massaging the top of his cheekbone. He leaned into your touch and kissed the pulse point of your wrist. 

“I don’t know how I could ever thank you, for everything,” You could barely imagine what it would be like back in your old life, under the constant fear of your old master, “I may not know what I can do to repay you but–”

“Stay with me.” He interrupted you. There was a shine in his eyes, “You want to repay me? Stay. That is all I need.” 

You stared at him and nodded your head, “I’ll always stay.”

The two of you understood the depths of the promise. It was your own declaration of love, without the words being spoken. A mutual understanding and a promise of forever. It was not traditional to other couples, but again you knew this relationship already did not fit within the bounds of traditionality. It did not matter. 

You kissed him again, sealing the words upon both of your lips. There, you were content to start a new life; a better life.

This was incredibly fun to write! I am 100% open to writing more fics for any characters in the Gladiator films and plan to open up requests. So, if that's something ya'll are interested in, let me know.

Thank you all for the support! <3

taglist: @scrumptiousloser @juliusceasersblog @po1sonddol @cheesecakeluver @oscarisdaddy69

[beforetimes]

Hi, anon again, back for round two on shizun binghe

You mentioned that students wouldn't see Binghe that much for years, and almost not at all in the leading months, until Yuan's transmigration right?

I think one of the major things Binghe would regret after the IAC would be his early continuous absence? That if he was more present maybe he could have taught one more cultivation method, one more trick to help Yuan survive after his fall

The next 5 years maybe he attends classes more as his own form of grieving, but there's nothing that erases the dead look in his eye nor pulls him from Yuan's grave for hours

Side note: What is Yuan's relationship with the other students? Like is Ming Fan nice to him without a shizun inciting violence? Or is he jealous of all the attention Yuan gets and harasses him anyway?

[link to og au here]

ohhhhh definitely. luo binghe is nothing if he isn't critical to the point of driving disciples to near tears and he is more than willing to turn this same eye on himself. he spends so much time after the conference running over the conference itself — every moment where he could've pushed himself to the limits to do more. turns a critical eye on the shen yuan in his memories and sees places where his form could be better, and convinces himself that if only he hadn't neglected his disciples, maybe shen yuan would've gotten away from the carnage and lived before his nature was revealed.

and, you didn't ask specifically, but i think on shen yuan being a demon—? luo binghe would be incredibly torn up. it's like being mad at someone for leaving you even if they died; guilt for cursing someone dead but also righteous upset. i think it'd take a few years for him to come to the conclusion that demons couldn't be all bad, if shen yuan was one, and something he'd struggle with for a long time before he got to that point.

but yes! after the immortal alliance conference he throws himself into his work. instead of retreating to his bamboo house like everyone expects, he doubles down on teaching and drops in on classes whenever he can. drafts lesson plans. almost always haunts the training grounds like a wraith, watching the disciples go at each other with wooden swords with blank eyes. luo binghe is a very devoted teacher after the immortal alliance conference, if not unsettling, and no one is brave enough to say anything about why.

i think rather than stay at shen yuan's grave, though, he'd pretend it doesn't exist. it's too obvious a display of grief, of the fact that he's passed. luo binghe thrives when in denial and he has xiu ya reforged to sit above his bed, treating it almost like a shrine to pray at in lieu of visiting the grave. the energy there unsettles him, the reminder of it makes his heart ache. luo binghe distracts and distracts and distracts himself from the death until he's mechanically going through the motions and knows that as long as he doesn't snap out of this trance, he won't hurt.

as for the other disciples! i think ming fan would take more responsibility. and mature more than he was in canon. because with luo binghe retreating to the bamboo house, a lot of responsibilities previously handled by the peak lord concerning teaching end up on ming fan's shoulders. which gets overwhelming, so he can be impatient / irritable when pushed just a bit too far, but ming fan tries! he tries so hard to do alright! because, like, he's the one greeting new disciples to the peak when they come, making sure they're acclimating, and gets attached. he looks over homework sheets when he's not doing paperwork and is a shoulder for some of the junior teachers to lean on. in my head he's about? 17 than 14/15 as he was in canon. ming fan is definitely less antagonistic when the og shen qingqiu isn't there to lead by example.

shen yuan i think he would be neutral towards. at least until he manages to coax luo binghe out from the bamboo house because? ming fan has been here for years, watching with almost a learned helplessness as his shizun isolated himself just for this random disciple to pull him out of a spiral in barely a few years? it's enough to inspire guilty jealousy in him. guilty because it's better for everyone that luo binghe seems happier but why couldn't it have been ming fan, his head disciple, who helped him?

i don't think ming fan would harass him, but he'd be conflicted enough that he picked avoidance over everything else. besides, even with luo binghe coming out of his self imposed seclusion, there was still a lot of work to do. ming fan keeps a closer eye on the disciples vying for a spot at the immortal alliance conference to keep himself distracted.

masterpost

[nick-writes-stuff]

Devotion

Thanos/Choi Su-bong x injured!gn!reader

summary: After the glass stepping stones, there's only you, Thanos, and Nam-gyu left in the games. Tensions are high, and you are trying to stay alive with a serious injury. Luckily, Thanos is there to help you. (aka, a rewrite of the ending of the first season but with team thanos) ~ 2.7k words

warnings: canon-typical violence, reader is injured, talk of reader dying, mentions of drug use

a/n: i wanted to make this longer and include more lead up, but i have a different idea brewing that would overlap with it, so i figured it would be its own fic. i love writing with thanos, and i have another idea for him, and that will be the next one. i'm so excited about it. hope you enjoy!

You felt your ears ringing after the explosion of the glass bridges. You couldn't really think straight at the moment. You were still reeling over the fact you just witnessed Nam-gyu shoving Min-su into the last tile and to his subsequent death. He just killed your friend. A man who you thought was also his friend. But lately, you were questioning how much Nam-gyu actually cared about any of you. He did that with no hesitation. You hardly recognized him anymore.

The three of you were escorted through the complex stairwells in silence. Thanos and you were quiet due to shock, but Nam-gyu was silent because he didn't feel the need to defend his actions.

It wasn't until you were halfway to the dorms that you felt the dull ache radiating from your side. It throbbed with every step you took. The adrenaline was leaving your system, and as it did, the pain only grew. You didn't even try to see what was wrong yet. You didn't want to draw attention to it in front of the others.

The dorms were almost entirely empty, save for three beds against each of the walls other than the one with the main door.

“Dude, what the fuck were you thinking?” Thanos yelled, getting into Nam-gyu's face.

Nam-gyu shoved him back. “What? Did you want to die?” He yelled with just as much venom.

“There could have been another way.” Thanos insisted. It was weird to hear Thanos trying to save other people's lives in the games. During the first few games, he had been so willing to throw others into harm's way for his own gain.

But he changed a lot. Maybe it was partially because the lump sum he was going to receive was enough to cover his debt and then some. But he changed a lot because of you too. You made him feel a way he hadn't in a long time. With you, he found a genuine connection. A real friend. Maybe when you get out of here, he could find a chance for something more.

Nam-gyu scoffed at him. “The only other way was joining the rest of them at the bottom. We were going to run out of time.” He said. Thanos started to walk off to the other side of the room. Nam-gyu rolled his eyes. “You're welcome for saving your life, by the way!” He snapped.

Thanos whipped around, readying himself to confront him. “Are you fucking serious?”

You finally spoke up. “Can you two just stop?” You shouted, your voice cracking into a sob. That shut them up for a moment as they turned to you. Thanos's eyes were full of concern and Nam-gyu's hate. You were just overwhelmed. You just watched your friend die, your other two friends were in a screaming match, and you were beginning to feel the effect of your injury.

Before anyone else could speak, someone's voice rang out in the room. “Attention Players.”

You all turned to see a square guard alongside a few circle guards. Three of them were holding out a black box with a red ribbon. They were designed to look just like the coffins that eliminated players were thrown into. You didn't show how disgusted that made you.

“We would like to congratulate you for completing the penultimate game. We have new outfits for you to celebrate the occasion. Please change into them while we prepare for your dinner.” He said.

You exchanged glances with Thanos while Nam-gyu stepped forward to grab his outfit and head toward the bathrooms.

“We should probably take turns changing in the women's bathroom while the other keeps watch.” You suggested. You were nervous about Nam-gyu trying to harm either of you.

Thanos made a face. “You want me to go into the girls bathroom?” He asked, exaggerating his concern at the prospect.

You rolled your eyes. “Oh my god, stop acting like a 12-year-old. It's just a room.” You said. Your tone was joking, but there was a sharpness that he hadn't expected. You made your way into the hall.

Thanos went in to change first. He figured it would be best to go first while Nam-gyu was also changing. That way he would likely take your place by the time Nam-gyu was leaving.

Nothing could have prepared you for seeing what was causing the pain in your stomach. A significant shard of glass was protruding from your abdomen. It wasn't bleeding that badly, but it had started to stain your sweatpants. You gasped at the sight, both out of pain and shock.

You didn't dare to move the glass. You knew it was likely stopping the bleeding somewhat. Luckily, they were having you change into black suits, so any bleeding would likely go unseen by the others. You changed as quickly as you could. You packed your old t-shirt around the glass and tied the drawstring of the sweatpants around your waist. You hoped it would maintain some pressure. You tried hard to muffle any sounds of pain that you made. You couldn't let them know about this. While you trusted Thanos, you were just too scared to let Nam-gyu know about it.

You left the bathroom without drawing attention to your injury. Thanos was waiting for you, and you tried to be discreet as you admired how he looked in a suit. How did you mess up this badly? This was no place to catch feelings.

You didn't know what you expected to walk back into, but an elaborate dinner table wasn't it. It was a luxury like none you all had ever seen before. There were three place settings at three tables arranged in a large triangle.

You'd never had a more tense meal than this. Nam-gyu was silent, but his glare toward you spoke volumes. You weren't even hungry. Your injury was too painful for you to even have an appetite. You ate what you could force down, knowing you hadn't eaten anything substantial in days.

You watched the guards come to clear the tables while you still sat there. Then you realized they left the steak knives sitting in front of each of you. Your blood turned to ice in your veins. Your breathing quickened, trying not to hyperventilate as you realized the amount of danger you were in.

You looked over to Thanos, locking eyes with him. You tried to mask your fear, but any facade you had was shattered when you saw the smirk on Nam-gyu's face as he picked up the knife. You grabbed your own knife with shaking hands and moved back to the bed closest to you.

You didn't want to take your eyes off of him, scared he would take any opportunity to kill you. Because he definitely would. You knew he didn't like you. He hated you. You changed Thanos. You made him soft. You took his eyes off the prize money. You made him think about leaving the drugs and the fame behind, and Nam-gyu despised you for it.

You saw through him. Nam-gyu only saw Thanos as a paycheck and a drug supplier. That's all. So when you got close to Thanos, you were threatening Nam-gyu's future. You were ruining his investment. He needed to get rid of you at all costs.

You don't know how long you sat on the bed in silence. Your back was against the headboard. You pulled your knees toward your chest. The hand opposite to your wound was pushing against your makeshift bandage to keep some pressure on it. Your other hand was gripping the steak knife tight enough that your knuckles were white. You squeezed the knife as a way to make sure you stayed awake. You couldn't risk falling asleep. You stared ahead of you, watching the man across from you intently.

You hadn't noticed that Thanos had made his way toward you since he had been in the bed out of your line of sight. “Hey, Y/N?” He said softly.

You flinched, moving away from him and holding the knife toward him momentarily. His eyes widened, and he put his hands up instinctively. “It's just me. Chill out.” He said, keeping his usual demeanor despite how odd it would seem to others. He knew he probably just startled you, but there was also a deep-seated fear that you actually thought he would hurt you.

You took a deep breath, ignoring the burning pain in your abdomen from the action. “Sorry.” You murmured, letting your grip on the knife relax. As a sign of good faith, he took his knife out of his pocket and dropped it at the foot of the bed. You looked over at him before doing the same.

“Mind if I sit with you?” He asked. You shook your head, moving to the side so he could sit next to you. Luckily he wasn't on the same side as your wound, so you didn't have to worry about him noticing it.

He sat beside you, fidgeting with the button on his suit jacket. After sitting in silence for a moment, you spoke. “I think he's gonna kill me.” You said quietly, keeping your eyes on Nam-gyu from across the room.

Thanos laughed, but you could hear the anger behind it. “I'd like to see him try.” He said. You didn't react positively to his attempt to lighten the mood.

You continued. “Right now we would have a majority to leave. If he gets rid of one of us, the game has to continue. He hates my guts, so it'll probably be me.” You said, voice hardly above a whisper.

He nudged you with his elbow, getting you to look up at him. “I'm not going to let anything happen to you, okay? I promise.” He said. The sincerity before his words would normally give you butterflies, but now there was just a bitter irony knowing that you were already badly injured.

He sighed, staring at the man who he once considered a friend. “Honestly, I should just go and kill him now. That fucker deserves it.” He said, lowering his volume as he reached for the knife.

You grabbed his wrist before he could grab it. He looked over to you, trying to ignore the sparks he felt where you touched him. “Don't.” You said with a shake of your head. “Don't stoop to his level. You'll be no worse than him.”

He didn't think he cared about the moral justification, but he couldn't get himself to go against your plea. He leaned back again with a sigh.

You both sat in silence. You were starting to not feel well. You felt a bit queasy and lightheaded. But you just felt this overwhelming sense of dread. How were you going to continue the game? If you had to wait until tomorrow, who knows how much blood you would lose. Would you even be able to play most of the games?

You finally spoke again, keeping your voice low. “If I don't make it out of here-”

“Don't say that.” He interrupted, looking down at you with a stern gaze.

You shook your head. “No, just listen to me. I-”

“We're making it out of here together, okay? There's no need to talk like that.” He said.

You just looked up at him, trying to stop the tears from forming. “You don't understand, I-”

He rolled his eyes. “What else is there to understand? It's not going to happen.” He tried not to be short-tempered with you. He wasn't annoyed or angry with you. He was just scared. So scared at the prospect of losing you that he didn't want to even acknowledge the fact it could happen. You dying was out of the question entirely. Even if he had to die in your place.

You whimpered slightly as you took your hand off the wound on your side, showing him the crimson in the dim light. You couldn't form any words at the moment. What would you even say?

You could see the faintest hint of fear flicker across his face. “How? When, but-” He stammered, voice louder than he intended.

You shushed him harshly, looking back over to Nam-gyu who perked up at the noise. You turned back to Thanos. “He can't know.” You mouthed.

He seemed to disagree with you, but ultimately nodded in defeat. He knew it too. Nam-gyu would definitely take you out if he knew you were weak. “What happened?” He asked, keeping his voice at a whisper.

You placed your hand back into the wound with a grimace before speaking. “It's a shard of glass. From when the tiles exploded.” You whispered.

He looked shocked. “You mean it's still in there?” He asked in disbelief. The idea of it made him so uncomfortable.

You nodded. “It's keeping me alive right now. If I took it out, I would probably bleed out by morning.” Your voice trembled as you started to cry. The idea of talking about your own death was harrowing. You had done everything right here, but you were so close to dying like the rest. This wasn't supposed to happen. You won that game. Winners don't get hurt.

He noticed your anxiety spiking and wrapped his arm around you, hand gripping your forearm gently. “It's gonna be okay. All we have to do is make it through the night. Tomorrow we'll give them hell until they let us vote.” He said.

You shook your head. “I don't think there's gonna be another vote. They don't want this to end peacefully. They want a show.” You said, trying to keep your voice calm but your panic was showing through.

He shushed you softly, his thumb drawing gentle circles into your skin. “We'll cross that bridge when we get to it, okay? For right now, you should get some rest.” He said.

You shook your head. “But what if he-”

“I'll keep watch. I won't let anything happen to you. I swear on my entire rap career.” He said, clearly playing up his bravado to make you laugh. Which you did laugh weakly.

He was entirely serious, though. He didn't think he even wanted to continue playing the part anymore. He was really only doing it for attention. He did have a passion for writing raps, but the whole stage act of Thanos and all the drugs were just to get people to like him. It worked for a time, but it was never fulfilling in the long-term because it wasn't real. They didn't really give a shit about him.

With you, though, it was different. He didn't have to fake anything when he was around you. He could drop the facade and be himself again. He didn't need to be something he wasn't. And the feeling of being accepted for himself was so addictive.

You looked up at him. “Can you talk about something? Anything really. I just need to calm down a bit.” You asked sheepishly, almost embarrassed for asking at all.

That flustered him more than he let on. People usually found him anything but calming, and the fact you felt so comfortable around him made him feel things he hadn't in a long time.

He started telling you about the place where he grew up. He glossed over the bad parts, focusing on telling you the places he would want to take you. He would take you to the diner that was the area's traditional first date location since it was nice but decently priced. There was the bar where he won his first rap battle. You could even go to meet his mother if you wanted. Surely she'd be happy he found someone like you. He finally wouldn't feel ashamed to visit her.

He eventually noticed your breathing had deepened, drifting off into sleep by his side. He watched you for a while, mesmerized by the fact that someone could trust him so much. He wanted to commit this to memory in case something would happen to you. He didn't want to accept that you could die, but he also wanted to make sure he would be able to have something if these godforsaken games took you away from him.

He kept himself awake by thinking up rap lyrics in his mind. About the situation, about his hatred of Nam-gyu, but mostly about you. How hard he fell for you. How beautiful he thought your smile was. How you brought back a piece of him he hadn't noticed was missing. Every rhyme was a display of his devotion to you. He was going to do right by you. He failed so many other people, but he refused to fail you. You both were making it out of here no matter what.

[sunlightmurdock]

Operation Apollo | 3.0 | Jake Seresin x Reader

previous chapter | epilogue | masterlist

Synopsis: After a threat is made against her life, the President’s grown up daughter gets her security tripled. Her long term detail is about to retire and needs replacing, only — she isn’t the easiest to work with. Ex-Navy and current Secret Service, Jake Seresin is devoted to being the best at everything he does. He isn’t going to let a bratty little girl cost him this job.

Warnings: age gap, power imbalance, enemies to lovers, danger and angst, manipulation, sucky parents, grief and manipulation, lying, distressing themes throughout but especially towards the end of the chapter. Graphic violence, dangerous situations, inaccurate injuries, major character death revenge, wc: 3.8k

There’s no rush to open your eyes. The ache and throb, and painful dryness of your lips brings you no respite from the way things had been before you had fallen asleep. Blacked out. Whatever you want to call it— it hadn’t helped. 

Your nose wrinkles at something offensive. Sterile and sharp smelling. Wrinkling it comes with a crunch, and sharp pain. There’s a dry feeling in your nostrils where old blood still sits. 

The smell is chemical, antiseptic. It’s so strong smelling through all of that blood and pain that it forces your eyes open. That’s worse. That hurts more. Fluorescents above you. You’re left with no choice but to squeeze them shut again— and the sudden realization that you’re not where you were before, at all.

There’s no hard, painful metal chair holding your weight. The burden of being held now falls to something much softer, so soft that it feels like you’re sinking into it like sand. It doesn’t hurt much less. 

Your legs hurt, a prickling static feeling. Your ass hurts from however long you were sitting there like that. Your back hurts, a numb and stiff feeling. You attempt to turn your head and your neck reminds you suddenly not to overlook it— a gasp tears from your mouth and makes your lungs burn almost as much as your bruised throat.

Two voices say your name at once. A chair scrapes across the ground, two sets of shoes hit the floor. People are coming. The gasp, despite your burning throat’s protests, becomes a choked whimper. 

“Don’t— Don’t touch her,” Allen. You’re dreaming again, just like you had been when you heard Jake’s voice. “Maybe we should get the doctor.” 

You try once again. The bright, blinding white stuns your sore, unadjusted eyes. You squint through it, determined as ever. Allen’s weathered face steadies and becomes more clear. His mouth hangs open, watching your bruised face start to move with recognition.

“Stay still, sweetheart, don’t move.” He’s speaking to you. He lifts his hand and reaches. His fingers extend towards you and your skin comes alive, buzzing with electricity like you’re being shocked as you tear back from his extended palm.

He winces as you cough out a choked cry, doubling over in pain from the sudden movement. 

“Doctor Owens?— Doctor Owens!” Your mother. Her voice is further away, growing in urgency. She’s barely recovered herself. She shouldn’t have come.

The monitor beside your bed beeps wildly as your heart rate kicks into another spike, and footfall echoes in the hall as people rush for your room. So many shoes hitting the ground at once that you can’t place how many of them there could possibly be.

“Don’t.” It comes out choked and horse, but loud. “Don’t touch me. Allen. Don’t— I don’t want—“

“Calm down, it’s alright,” He tries, he really tries. The footfall grows closer and you thrash as Allen’s fingers graze the curve of your shoulder. You’re just hurting yourself more. “Stop. Try to stay still, alright? — You’re — Stop. Stop!”

There’s nothing peaceful about the way you’re sent back to sleep, thrashing and crying and screaming as your IV is adjusted and filled. With everything that you’ve been through, they had warned your loved ones that recovery was going to be far from linear.

Over the course of the next two days, you wake three more times and are put back to sleep in a similar fashion. With your stitches and recovering internal injuries, they need you to be still. For now, every time you have opened your eyes has been another fight that your body just isn’t ready to take.

The fourth time comes easier than the rest. Your broken nose has started to heal by now. Under the hospital gown, your ribs are black and blue. Your lungs have stopped making that rattling sound when you inhale deeply now. Still, everything hurts.

The fluorescent lights are off. The curtains are open, the television is on. You blink heavily, your chest aches as you breathe in. 

Allen looks up at the soft rattle of your first breath in. His brows furrowed slightly, green eyes widening as he watches your eyelids blink heavily. 

“Hey…” He whispers cautiously, like he’s afraid to spook you. Your gaze settles on him, the fuzziness of the picture dissipating with each heavy blink. His face is sullen, tired. “Hey, sweetheart. It’s just me. It’s just us, you’re okay.”

Just us. The idea is more comforting than anything you’ve heard in a long time. It’s not really just the two of you, but Allen keeps that to himself. You don’t need to know the amount of security posted around this building.

You want to answer him, but your throat is dry and hoarse when you try to speak. Allen sits forwards, grabbing the underside of the chair with his good hand and pulling it closer.

“It’s alright.” His voice voice croaks. It’s not alright, but you will be. He hopes you’ll understand, when it’s time for you to learn how it all went down. 

Stubble coats his jaw and his hair is longer than he usually ever lets it grow, salt and pepper all the way through. Your fingers twitch and your arm aches as you force it slowly upward, reaching for him. Allen grazes the tips of his fingers over yours. He slides his hand slowly into your palm, and watches your eyes fill with sudden tears.

“What… happened?” You whimper.

“I’ll tell you everything once you’re feeling a little better,” He whispers, thinking back to the strict orders from your mother not to upset you. He lowers his mouth just slightly and presses his lips to your knuckles, squeezing your hand tight. “You scared the shit out of me for a second, there.”

A burning sensation behind your eyes makes you wrinkle your nose, your bottom lip trembling as your chest flares with heat. There’s real fear in his eyes. He shouldn’t even be here, he’s supposed to be retired — there’s no money in this for him.

And yet, he’s the only person at your bedside.

He’s holding your hand, and holding your gaze firmly. Letting you think it’s all okay. Your throat hurts as you swallow softly. 

There’s a news broadcast on the television to Allen’s right. The skyline buzzes, alight behind him. It plays on as he opens his mouth to speak again, he seems to have forgotten that it’s playing.

“Following the events of Thursday evening, we have received word that due to complications, a second surgery would be necessary — which is underway as we speak,” The reporter explains solemnly. She and her co-anchor are both wearing black. “The nation’s thoughts are with you, Mr. President.”

You blink at the fuzzy television screen. The picture they used of your father is from your kindergarten graduation. He’s younger there, his hair dark rather than they grey it has been growing into more recently — he’s got an arm around you, and he’s grinning proudly.

“Shit.” Allen breathes out, sitting up suddenly straight.

 The news broadcast is gone with an abrupt beat. Allen drops the remote down onto the side and scrubs a hand along his salt-and-pepper stubbled jaw, studying the ground.

Your lips flatten into a firm line, your muscles screaming as you lift your head from the pillow. 

Your gaze hardens. “Is he alive?”

Allen swallows. He gives you a small, serious nod. “Yeah. He’s upstairs, in surgery.”

The tone of his voice makes your chest ache. Serious in a way Allen rarely is.

Creeping into his office in your pyjamas. Scolding him for all the times he missed you teddy-bear tea parties. Sitting with him on the swing set in the backyard of the first house you remember. All the times you had told him you hated him as a teenager. How strongly you had meant it the last time.

Your gaze flickers back to the blank television screen, losing yourself in its sudden darkness. 

“How?” You croak out.

Allen hesitates. He presses his lips together and shakes his head softly. “I’ll explain everything when you’re feeling better.”

You turn your head, blinking heavily as you look around the sprawling hospital room. Your parents really spared no expense. Well, your mom— you guess. 

“Jake?” You ask.

“He’s here,” Allen nods solemnly. “He’s sleeping.”

And you can’t see him. It wouldn’t be good for you to see him, not until you’re feeling better.

“Is he—?”

“He’s going to be fine,” Allen sounds sure, and not in a sugar-coated way. He sounds more positive than he had about your father. “You should rest. He comes to see you in the mornings.”

Being on a ward himself, Jake’s been getting on the nurses’ nerves around here, trying to break the rules so he can wander out and see you for as long as possible. His shoulder is just about fine now, he can almost roll it back the way he used to. The doctor says an injury like his doesn’t heal that fast, but Jake has always been ahead of the curve.

He has spread his time between your room on the fourteenth floor, and where the President has been falling in and out of being classed as critical on the fifteenth with little regard for the fact he’s recovering from a surgery on his shoulder himself. With you breathing, he couldn’t care less about being hit himself.

If the bullet hadn’t caught his shoulder, it would have torn through your father’s lungs and killed him right then and there.

You shoot a quick glance toward the darkened hallway. Allen sighs.

“No.”

“I want to know what happened.” You don’t. Not really. You want to pull these foreign covers up over your head and hide and cry your eyes out, scream this whole place down. There’s no easy way to say it, and really, no one knows how you’ll handle it.

You close your eyes for a moment and wait. 

Somehow, you’re safe — you’ll be okay. Jake’s okay. Your father won’t make it through the week. You don’t remember a thing. None of it makes sense.

Jake remembers every detail. He sits awake too, not in his own room but in the hallway of the twelfth floor — as close as he can get to the operating room without being put on his ass by a serviceman. 

In the mornings that he’s able to visit you, Jake likes to talk to you. You’ve been out of the woods for a while now, everyone knows that it’s just a waiting game until you’re stable enough to be awake. Really awake. On the Monday just passed, you had opened your eyes for a few seconds and just blinked at him.

Brows drawn together all stern, your lips pursed, your eyelashes fluttering. He never thought he would be so grateful to see you frowning at him.

He has heard about the past few days. The panic and stress. He has made a strong case for himself to be allowed to be there, but the people who make the calls won’t budge. It’s just not the right time. 

That’s not true. It’s his punishment. 

It’s his punishment, for not being the one in that operating room with his chest cracked open and twelve surgeons fighting to keep his heart beating.

Having spent most of his adult life working in environments where he was the expendable one, Jake had heard a lot of stories. He had heard, most frequently, that time always slows down in the moments that matter.

Not that day. It had been a blur. He had walked into that exchange with certainty; you would be leaving there with him. 

To an extent, he had been expecting Elias to be bluffing. No man on the planet couldn’t be bought — Jake had been expecting a bidding war, and he knew your father had the right amount of money to make this go away.

It hadn’t been that at all.

His stomach twists when he thinks about how they had paraded you before them. The look on Matthew’s face as he studied the dried blood in your hair, and the fresh blood trickling from your temple.

They had hurt you to prove a point. Almost killed you, to send a message. It was too far gone to be about the money.

Jake knows that he isn’t responsible for this, he isn’t the one that put your father in this situation. He’s the only reason that those surgeons are even trying right now — if he hadn’t been there, you’d both be dead. 

He’ll never not be there again.

Jake sits there through the surgery. On the floor with his elbows on his knees, his head rested back against the wall, he sits there for six hours. It should have taken six hours.

At a little after seven, Jake is startled awake by an orderly rushing past him with a rattling metal cart. He checks his watch, which is now settled on the wrong wrist due to his sling, and clumsily pushes himself up from the ground.

“Hey, buddy,” Jake strains, sighing at the ache through his side and clearing his throat as he finds his footing. “How’s he looking?”

The twenty-something year old in scrubs whips around to look at Jake, his eyes wide with heavy blue marks under them. He looks like he’s been up even longer than Jake has.

“You’re the bodyguard.” The kid seems to realize, blinking as his rattling cart comes to a stop. He glances back in the direction of the theater, then at Jake. “Uh… I don’t know. It’s going to be a while before they can say, I guess.”

A muscle in Jake’s jaw ticks. At seven, Jake walks to your hospital room and usually starts to bug whoever is in charge of watching you until they let him visit early.

He glances towards the operating room, and then back at the orderly. This could take hours, something urgent could happen in the next few minutes. He hesitates.

Then, his phone buzzes in the pocket of his sweats. Jake takes it from his pocket and glances quickly down at the screen, with every intention of answering the kid in front of him.

She’s awake. Asking for you too. 

And Jake’s mind is made up. He can’t wait a second longer. His heart feels like it’s in his mouth by the time he’s pushing open the door to your hospital room.

He has seen the bruises fade from blue to yellow, and the IV lines and monitors all around you every day for almost a week. It does nothing to prepare him for the sight of all of those things once you’re awake and staring at him.

“Honey…” His breath catches in his throat, his brows drawing together.

The comprehensive list of your injuries is still typed up at the foot of the bed. Jake could list them off by heart, by now. Fractured eye-socket. Broken ring and middle finger on your right hand. Soft tissue damage to your left foot. Extreme bruising to the abdomen. The fracture in your rib. Every single one of those god-damned bruises.

Your right eye had been swollen shut that first day. Now, it’s wide open. The bruise is yellowed and sore looking, your eyes filled with fear. 

“Jake.” Your voice cracks and your breathing hitches.

It doesn’t matter that Allen is standing right there, sitting back against the window ledge with his arms folded over his chest. Jake couldn’t care less that your mother is watching him like a hawk. 

She has been every single time he has visited.

The security guard steps out of the way as Jake charges forwards. He takes slow, long strides. He’s trying so hard to remember what you’ve been through, and remind himself to be slow with you, but every fibre of his being wants to pull you close and never let you go again.

He stops at the side of your bed and hesitates, just for a split-second. His eyes scan across your face, searching for doubt or fear. As he makes his decision, you make yours too.

 He leans forwards swiftly as you ball your not-injured hand into his shirt, his fingers curling gently around the nape of your neck and pulling you against him.

The room falls silent. Your nose fills with his smell, your cheek presses firmly into the soft cotton of his t-shirt. His thumb strokes at your skin.

For all you care, the other people in the room could have disappeared from the second that Jake touched you. He holds you close, silently. He doesn’t know how much you know yet, whether it’s all or nothing, and he doesn’t care. For now, you’re okay, and you’re with him.

It takes a moment before you notice that he’s only got one arm around you.

Jake watches as you pull back, searching for answers and landing on the blue sling resting around his shoulder, covering his right arm.

“I’m fine,” He assures you instantly, already shaking his head as his palm moves to cup your jaw. He holds your gaze, certain. “I’m fine. It’s superficial. We’re okay.”

Superficial. Allen bites his tongue, but can’t help but disagree. That bullet tore through ligament and bone, and Jake is lucky to be recovering so well. It was far from superficial— the surgery had taken all night. 

“I’m sorry.” Your voice cracks, weak sounding and trembling. You drop your head forwards to rest against his unbandaged shoulder. “This is all my fault. This is all my fault, you shouldn’t ever have even met—“

“Stop.” Jake whispers, turning his face towards yours and trying to coax you back to look at him. He closes his eyes, pressing his mouth to your temple. “It’s over now. I’m never going to let anything happen to you again. It’s over.” 

Your mother watches. There’s a cautious, nagging feeling that tugs at her that she really doesn’t know you at all. There isn’t much that feels familiar about watching you with him — she wouldn’t have a clue how to calm you the way that he does.

“I want to go home.” You whisper, balling your hands tighter into his t-shirt. If he didn’t know any better, he’d guess that you’re trying to pull him right into your hospital bed with you.

“Yeah, a couple more days, honey,” Jake nods his head. He’s been speaking with your doctor. Once they’re certain that you’re stable enough, you’re free to go. “We’ll get you back to the house.”

“No.” You rush out, so fast that it almost makes you hiccup. It’s then that your head turns, your eyes wide and searching as you look around the room. Just as quickly, before you’ve even met the gaze of Allen or your mother, you bury your face into the crook of his neck and squeeze your eyes shut. Just quiet enough for Jake to hear, you whimper softly. “I don’t want to go back there. I want to go with you.”

Jake feels your mother’s gaze burning into his back, and knows what she must be thinking. She’s about to lose her husband and she thinks that Jake’s going to take you too.

“With me?” He murmurs, stroking a hand over your hair. Your mother has been taking pride in maintaining it — she has cared for you in so many quiet ways recently. Jake will tell you all about it, another time.

“Could — maybe we could see your mom again?” It feels ridiculous to ask, and from the second that the words leave your mouth, you’re already worrying about the kind of danger you could be putting them in.

But for Jake, it makes his heart catch with sudden relief.

“Yeah,” He hums. “Yeah, we can do that.”

He perches on the edge of your bed, draping his good arm around your shoulders. Your mother watches as you curl against him, closing your eyes and finally unballing your fists.

The room falls quiet, and stays that way. 

Allen lets the two of you have the peace and quiet. Your mother, simply, has little to say. 

An hour later, a little after eight, there’s a commotion in the hallway. Jake watches the bustle between the security guards silently, a heavy feeling settling in his gut as he braces for what is coming. 

He feels you perk up at his side as their voices grow more hushed, trying to peek over him.

He turns his face towards your hair and kisses the top of your head softly, wrapping his arm tighter around you. “It’s alright.”

He pities the poor guy who opens the door to the room, forced to meet your mother’s gaze with a sullen expression. He clears his throat weakly, hands tucked behind his back. “Ma’am.”

Your mother isn’t a dumb woman. She doesn’t need it explained to her. The doctors had explained the risks, and explained that he might not make it. Her husband is dead.

…

[getaapologist]

The Tension and the Terror...........Part X

Pairing: Emperor Geta x OFC (extremely loosely, character is named but otherwise not described besides hair length)

Summary: Geta asks Letha to read to him.

Warnings: some dire, we-could've-just-died sex, a hint of a breeding kink if you squint, violence and blood, maybe Geta likes blood a bit too much, 18+ only.

Word Count: 3.9k

Part 10 of 15

[ Part IX ]

Series Masterlist

A/N: I don't have anything eloquent to say about this part, just that this was the first thing I wrote when I was exploring these characters. I hope you like it.

“I would’ve thought you’d be in bed by now.”

The sound of Geta’s voice startled Letha, bringing her out of the book. Geta stood in the doorway to the cozy library, his shoulders slumped, his posture slack. He was changed, wearing his robe and little else, save for his laurels. Perhaps he’d forgotten to remove them. She mirrored Geta’s tired smile and closed the book, watching him. It was late, almost an hour after she left him to talk down his brother. He should’ve just gone to bed.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s late.”

She shook her head as he approached, setting the book on the stack of others on the small table beside the couch, making space for him. He sank into the plush couch beside her, his hand falling over one of hers. He took it up, giving it a squeeze, not meeting her eyes. She squeezed his hand back, her other hand wrapping around it too. 

“How is Caracalla?”

He sighed. “He is asleep. I can only hope he feels better in the morning.”

“And how are you?”

He met her eyes, his lips narrowing as he pressed them firmly together. “I wish I could tell you I still feel amazing,” he spoke, a wistful look in his eyes, “but I am conflicted.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked, her heart aching for him. She would carry all his secrets, his sadness, like it was her own if he let her.

“...Can you just sit with me?” he requested. “Read to me or don’t, I just… let me sit beside you for a while.” The desperation in his eyes was intoxicating. She could serve as his distraction. He had done enough of it for her, without knowing it.

“Shall I bore you with Ovid, or…” she examined the stack beside her, leaned over the arm of the couch, “...Virgil, Geta?”

Geta felt his smile slowly returning. “Choose whichever you feel would be best.”

She took a moment, glancing at the books in her hands before making a choice, setting the other down.

Geta took that as his cue, spreading out over the couch, his back colliding with her legs as he tried to lean back. She drew her legs up to give him more room, surely he needed it more than she did. Wordlessly, he corrected her, his hands wrapping around her ankles to pull her legs back out, his touch searing her bare skin. Before she could protest, he reclined, his back pressing into her front, his head resting against her chest, a shockingly intimate position for simply reading.

He turned, his ear pressing into the soft fabric covering her chest, listening to her heartbeat as it raced. His hands smoothed up her now-bare legs, the dress forced up high around him. He began soft, innocent strokes back and forth over the top of her thighs, finally letting out a breath he’d been holding in since the party.

“Geta, what–”

“You offered to read to me, Letha,” he reminded her, interrupting her panicked words, looking up at her with his large chestnut eyes, “so here I am.”

All arguments died on her tongue as she stared down at him, his expression unreadable. She forced herself to look away, choosing instead to devote her attention to the book in her hands as her skin grew hot. Her nerves at an all-time high, she began to read.

She started off a bit shaky, still getting used to Geta’s closeness again, his physical touch, but soon her voice leveled out and she even let herself indulge in the way his fingers moved over her skin. If anyone saw them there, tucked away in the library together, it would be impossible to explain away.

Holding the book open in one hand, her other eventually wound into his soft copper hair, impeded by the golden laurel crown he still wore. She moved lower, running her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, mirroring his own pattern making.

After a few minutes he abandoned her thighs. She barely contained a sound of protest as he sat up between her legs, only really able to once she saw him lifting the beautiful crown from his head. He set it on the ledge of a bookshelf behind the couch. She didn’t have words any longer, his silent actions pulling taut a hot cord low in her belly, reminding her of their earlier encounter. 

He was lying between her legs not as an Emperor, but as a man.

“I didn’t mean to distract you,” he spoke quietly, though the rise in his cheeks showed he knew what he’d done. As if on purpose. “Please, continue.”

A few heartbeats more and she did, relaxing once his hot hands returned to her thighs, her own fingers resuming their ministrations, spreading out further now that the crown lay beside him, glittering in the candlelight.

He left out a soft grunt of satisfaction, the sweet sound stoking the flames within her. It was so hard for her to focus now, the words on the page beginning to blur together as she attempted to recreate the sound in her mind.

“We can stop,” he offered, his voice barely a whisper.

She shook her head, though he couldn’t see it, and continued reading. 

This book had never bored her more than it did right now.

Letha couldn’t have said when it happened, but at some point she’d fallen asleep while tucked behind the tall Emperor. Geta didn’t mind at all, also feeling the pull of Somnus on his eyelids.

They laid there together for almost an hour before the attacker stepped into the room.

Letha awoke gently, though she was immediately free from the grogginess that usually followed, sensing something off. The book had fallen to the floor from her dangling hand, rousing her. As she leaned down a bit more to collect it, she froze, her eyes landing on a pair of dark brown, almost black boots.

She followed them up as her fingers wrapped around the book, fear driving her fight or flight response as adrenaline put life back in her limbs. The blade glinted in the stranger’s hand and as he raised it, Geta began to stir against her. She felt a jolt of panic.

The stranger’s eyes left hers and darted over to watch Geta as he moved a bit, beginning to wake. Before she could warn the assassin off of what he was about to do, he lifted the blade, eager to bring it down into the slumbering Emperor.

She moved without thought, lifting the book up into the blade’s path. It sank into the bound parchment, poking through to the other side, perilously close to her palm. Relieved to see Geta so far unharmed, she twisted the book in her hands, freeing the blade from their attacker’s grip. She quickly tossed the damaged book deeper into the library. He watched it go, a bit surprised.

“Leave,” she begged him, her voice shaky. She could feel Geta grip her calf tighter in sleep and she knew she wouldn’t let anything happen to him. Whatever it took.

“Macrinus sent me here for you,” the man clarified, “This is just providence.”

The words were like ice in her veins.

He readied himself for a fight. Letha was forced to push Geta off of her and onto the floor so she could get to her feet in time to meet the assassin’s lunge.

Geta was startled awake, confused at what he was witnessing. Letha’s foot came down startlingly close to his face as she pushed back against the attacker, a loud crash sounding as he was forced into one of the many bookcases lining the walls.

Geta remembered sending the guards posted outside the door away upon his arrival and realized immediately just how stupid he’d been. He would never be safe here, in this city.

He sat up, watching her straining to topple his attacker. He couldn’t deny the rush that overtook him. She was fighting for him. 

The assassin trapped one of her arms, twisting it harshly. Letha cried out, her eyes squeezed shut as the man pressed at the still-healing wound on her shoulder. It was all Geta needed to get to his feet, risking his own safety to wrap a strong arm around the man’s neck, pulling him off of Letha. 

The man reached for his throat, attempting to pull Geta’s arm away, but it was futile. Geta was quite strong, he just never had to make use of his strength, was never shown how to wield it properly. The man pushed back, forcing Geta into a low table. They both crashed down through it, the narrow wooden legs splintering under their combined weight. An elbow to Geta’s ribs got him to loosen his grip and the man rolled away from him, sputtering. 

Letha was on him in a flash, one of his arms trapped behind his back, pinned by the weight of her on his chest, but the other was free to reach for her, finding purchase in her hair, yanking down hard. 

“Letha!” Geta shouted, holding up a sharp piece of the broken table, tossing it to her. It landed beside her and she pulled against the man’s grip to reach over for it, her fingers only barely grabbing on.

She pushed it harshly into his neck, the grip on her hair going slack immediately. Hot, traitorous blood burst out of the high-pressure vessel, splashing all over her face and neck. She leaned all of her weight onto the piece of wood, letting it sink further and further in, watching carefully for any signs of a second wind as the attacker bled out on the library floor.

Geta couldn’t breathe, the sight before him beyond his wildest dreams. His very own Tisiphone in the flesh, red blood dripping down her cheek. 

Letha fell back off their attacker and crawled away, leaning up against the bottom of the couch. Geta winced as he stood, but kept his eyes on her, sinking down to the floor beside her. He watched her come down off the adrenaline, the fury slowly fading from her eyes to be replaced by fear. Uncertainty. They were safe, their attacker lying dead, but it didn’t seem to matter.

She breathed heavily, turning to Geta but not touching him, her blood-slick hands held up between them, unwilling to take hold of anything lest she stain it. She wouldn’t look up at him. Geta thought she looked a little lost, a sliver of vulnerability showing through in her silence.

“Letha,” Geta spoke, his voice full of worry for her. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his hands gripping her forearms as he checked for wounds that might have been made before he’d woken up on the floor.

All she could do was shake her head.

“Good,” he breathed, relieved. He studied her as she calmed down, still avoiding his eyes.

“Did you hit your head?” she finally asked, her eyes meeting his.

“No,” he answered.

“Okay,” she whispered, eyes once again filling with worry.

Every bit of him was screaming to kiss her, to reward her for protecting him without a second thought. His hands moved to her face, lifting it. She closed her eyes in comfort, letting out a sigh. It was the only sign he needed.

He leaned down, his lips finding hers, kissing her as gently as he could. He could taste the iron splashed across her skin, its presence a reminder of what she had done for him, her willingness to protect him, but also her violence. He could still vividly picture her fingers curling over the lip of that chestplate, had dreams about it. He couldn’t deny the way it still affected him. 

They should be out, seeking the Praetorians. He should be furious, questioning how this was allowed to happen, calling on Tegula at this late hour. He should be checking on his brother–

Her bloody hands squeezed his wrists and he could feel the slick of it transferring onto him. All other concerns were washed away. 

He got on his knees, bringing her up with him, their mouths never disconnecting. Her touches grew more desperate, her hands smoothing up to find purchase in his hair, at his neck. He let his own hands fall away, one wrapping around her waist, the other hefting her thigh up as he moved her into his lap, propped up by the bottom of the couch behind her. 

She moved against him, releasing his mouth with a gasp as she felt him beneath her, his hard length hardly hidden by the thin material of his robe. He felt dazed as she pulled it open, baring his chest and shoulders to her, as well as his aching cock.

He inhaled sharply as she experimentally rolled her hips against his, sliding herself against him with intention. It took all his strength to not buck up into her right then. Her skirts had already been pushed up around her waist by their movements, no barrier between them any longer. Her eyes moved up from where they met to check if this was okay, if he wanted her to continue.

Yes, yes he did.

He smothered her unspoken question with his lips, one of his hands diving down between them to prepare her for him. She let out a gasp that morphed into a sob at the feeling of his large fingers exploring her. She was used to her own touch, soft and teasing. His fingers created molten metal wherever they touched, currently circling that pleasurable place his mouth had been attached to earlier–

“Thank you,” he breathed into her skin, a finger sliding into her tight warmth, eliciting a gasp from her as she squeezed his bare shoulder.

“Geta,” she moaned, nails digging in.

He soothed her, his warm brown eyes staring up through hers and into her soul, his finger still torturously passing in and out of her. He watched her eyelids flutter as he added a second finger, her slick coating making it too easy to get carried away. She let her eyes fall shut as she bit her lip between her teeth, her hips moving on their own to try to relieve the pressure he was creating between her thighs.

She was beautiful beneath the streak of drying blood, her small sounds driving him mad. He leaned up and captured her swollen lips with his, his tongue delving deep as his thumb drew unintelligible patterns over her most sensitive spot. He wanted them to melt together into one. He wanted this forever. There was no alternative he was willing to consider. He would make it so.

He felt her clench around his fingers and withdrew them immediately, needing to be inside, to give in to what he wanted so desperately. She whined into his mouth and he stifled the rush of lust that filled him at her reaction. She had a hold on him, her touch met with real love as he looked in her eyes. Her pupils were blown wide and she appeared as if she’d had a few dozen ships of wine from his cup. He felt drunk too, whether it was off the violence he’d witnessed up close or her, he couldn’t say. 

“I need you,” she admitted, her fingers finding the nape of his neck, pressing her forehead down to his. 

He was powerless to resist her. His Venus. She had been distilled into this form, just for him. Sent to him by way of divine intervention. There was no other explanation for how he caved to her, would put himself in danger for her. Felt love for her.

He reached down and lifted her hips, using the couch for support as he passed his tip through her slick folds, using her wetness to coat himself before he pushed up into her, a blade finding its sheath.

She sucked in a ragged breath, her bloodied hands finding his cheeks as she acclimated to the presence of him buried so deep. She nodded to him, burying her face in his neck as she urged him to move with a gentle roll of her hips, forcing them both to gasp.

He knew she’d been so close a moment ago, and he knew he wouldn’t last, not long enough for what she deserved. But he hoped desperately that there would be more chances to come together like this. 

He withdrew and pushed right back inside her, moving painfully slowly, her moans strangled against the blood-streaked skin of his neck. 

Letha wrapped her arms around his shoulders as she met his next thrust with one of her own. She wondered if this was Elysium. Maybe the assassin had been successful and she’d never know the pain of dying, only this. 

She could stay wrapped up in Geta forever. Now that they had joined, she would never let them unjoin. He could hold council here on the floor of the library, indecent, the both of them bare for all to see.

She could hardly breathe as he made good on all his threats, his teasing glances, his stray hands. Seeing him this way filled her with a new appreciation for the cocky Emperor. One she was hesitant to put words to. For all she knew, this one moment would finally satisfy him. The mystery would be gone and he would move on to the next shiny, flitting thing. She knew she would never move from this place, this moment.

But even deeper still, part of her knew this was important to him, too. She didn’t know exactly when, but she’d come into possession of a piece of him. A sliver of his trust. She just wished desperately that she didn’t have to betray it.

“Letha,” he panted, his cheek pressed to hers, “I need to–”

A flush passed over her as she realized what his words meant. As she started to lift herself off him, his grip pulled her back down, his look desperate.

“Stay,” he breathed. 

She nodded, bringing their mouths back together. She moaned into him as his fingers returned between them, rubbing gentle swirls, urging her on. Her walls clenched around him, forcing a grunt from his throat, her release so tantalizingly close.

“With me,” he whispered, begging. She listened, the idea of what he was asking of her all she needed before she began seizing up around him. Rhythmic contractions pulled at him as white hot heat pulsed through her, forcing her eyes shut as she moaned into his skin, body trembling in his arms.

She heard him grunting, his breathing erratic as he bucked up into her, a soft warmth filling her as he finished, his forehead falling to her uninjured shoulder.

In the silence she became aware of sweat running down her spine, the undersides of her thighs, could feel it under her hands as they smoothed over his skin, smearing new stains over his shoulders. She crushed his cheek to her chest. She didn’t want to give him up to the world. Just a minute longer.

Eventually she was able to lift her head and meet his eyes, finding tenderness there.

He spoke first. 

“You saved me, again,” he smiled, his voice low, fatigued. “The scale of your eventual celebration grows each day, Letha.”

His jest filled her heart and she couldn’t hold back her own smile. “I don’t need a celebration. You’ve been so good to me.” 

“Are you happy here?” His words were loaded with meaning. She could see him searching her eyes for an answer.

“Very.”

The answer comforted him, more than he would ever let on. “Good.”

He squeezed her hip, shifting slightly beneath her. He tried to get up but she grabbed at his leg, trying to keep him close. She didn’t want it to end.

The sound of armor clinking and boots stomping filled the hall outside the room, shattering their sanctuary. There wasn’t time to extricate himself from her, so he simply did his best to cover her bare lower half with his own body, her chest still covered by her bloodied dress. 

“Emperor, are you hurt? We heard…” 

The Praetorians took in the scene, the shattered furniture, the dead man on the floor across the room. Books and scrolls toppled from shelves. Their Emperor bare as the day he was born, kneeling on the floor in front of a couch, looking over his shoulder, another sitting before him, a woman, with blood on her cheek–

“Avert your eyes,” Geta instructed. They obeyed immediately.

“Emperor, are you hurt?”

“I am fine,” he insisted, his tone sharp. “Find out who paid this man. Interrogate the whole Senate, if you must.”

“Yes, Emperor,” the guard bowed, careful to keep his eyes off the woman in Geta’s lap.

“And get out!” Geta shouted, waving them off.

They wasted no time, two of them bending low to drag the assassin out of the room as the rest of them quickly made their exit. 

Geta sighed, his eyes meeting hers, the tender moment shattered. “I can draw us a bath,” he offered.

“Us?” Letha questioned, a cautious smile pulling at the corners of her lips. 

Geta lifted an eyebrow, keeping his smile hidden. “Do you think I’m letting you out of my sight now?”

The notion filled her with a nervous excitement. She would take all she could get. “Okay,” she agreed, eager to scrub her skin. And Geta’s, she thought, noticing all the smears of blood over his shoulders, his neck, his arms. Her doing. 

As she moved to try to stand, she winced, going slack in his lap. “I… I might need you to help me up,” she admitted, embarrassed.

“Already making demands of your Emperor, hmm?” At his teasing, Letha looked over to where he’d laid his laurels. He followed her eyes. “Come on,” he urged, lifting her up off his lap. She pushed off from the couch, allowing him to move out from under her. 

Geta stood, his long legs and narrow waist on display as he reached down for Letha, helping her to her feet. It was a lot for her to take in, but she looked away quickly so he couldn’t accuse her of staring.

��Are you okay?” he asked, watching her for signs her legs might give out. She nodded, avoiding looking at him. Satisfied she was stable, he picked his robe up off the ground, throwing it on and holding it closed. He took a moment to pull some of her dress back down, ensuring she was covered.

“We should check on Caracalla,” she suggested.

“It’s on the way to the baths.” 

Letha assumed he was already planning to check in, even before she asked. Of course he was. 

“Can you hold on to this for me?”

At his question Letha turned, looking up at him. He held the golden laurel crown in his hands and set it reverently on her head, his hands falling to his sides once he was done placing it.

It meant nothing, she told herself. It’s just a symbol, a symbol of a kingdom she wasn’t a part of. But she was, wasn’t she? She was here. There wasn’t exactly anything to return to, even if she wanted to. 

And here was this man, treating her well, looking out for her. Offering to slay a man responsible for so much direct harm in her life. Placing a crown atop her head, and looking down at her as if he meant forever.

Gods, it stung.

“Geta, I need to tell you something,” she spoke, her heart pounding.

“Let’s check that my brother is sleeping soundly first.” 

His smile was so pure, so pleasant. How could she shatter his worldview now?

The morning. She could tell him in the morning. Just enjoy the rest of the night before it all gets ripped away.

[ Part XI ]

[atinystraynstay]

Checkmate - Park Seonghwa

Synopsis: Jealously is a dangerous game.

Pairing: Biker Bf!Park Seonghwa x fem reader

Really got inspired by this gif set because when I sent it to a friend, she said that Seonghwa was giving biker bf! vibes and I just have been drooling over that idea ever since.

Genre: Angst, on and off relationship

Contains: mentions of sexual intercourse (use protection babes!), alcohol consumption, vulgar language, attempted spiking of drink (be cautious when you go out, babes - hand your drink to a friend, take it with you. Better to be safe always), description of physical violence

Word Count: 3k

Heartbreak was not in the forecast for this week, but sometimes things changed. Yet, you were familiar with the rollercoaster of emotions so it almost was routine, always expected like those in the Pacific Northwest anticipate rainfall. It was part of your normal.

Deep down, you knew you were in love with your boyfriend, Park Seonghwa. He was someone who added excitement into your life and could be the absolute gentleman. At least when you two weren't arguing.

The arguments between you were not frequent but more explosive. You two often approached situations defensively, almost refusing to see the other's perspective unless the other came in apologizing immediately. You two were stubborn which led to your cycle of being on and off.

Almost everyone in town knew you were Park Seonghwa's girl. Even after the ugliest of arguments, you found your way back to Seonghwa one way or another. Some might say that your souls are carved out of the same material, so you're bound to be together one way or another.

Seonghwa was the type that was fiercely protective of you. To him, you were capable of standing your own ground. He just didn't trust the motives of other people, so he always had a watchful eye over you.

That was ultimately led to the recent argument between the two of you. Seonghwa wasn't suspicious of your best friend's new boyfriend. He was a part of another biker gang in town who didn't quite carry the best reputation. Seonghwa thought he was being reasonable by asking you to limit your interactions with the individual.

However, you took it as Seonghwa didn't want you to see your best friend anymore. You were running on high emotions when you exchanged venomous words you would never use to actually describe your beloved. You called him a monster, self-centered, and insecure.

You were also hurting from the impression it seemed that he couldn't trust you.

Time and time again, you have shown your dedication to Seonghwa. Or at least you thought you had. You were constantly there to take care of any bruised knuckles or black eyes he might obtain from altercations. You poured so much love into him to help him be the confident man he is today.

Hell, you guys have been on and off for three years. Isn't that enough to prove your devotion when you always come back?

Apparently not.

"If you want to be a slut, kitten. I'm not going to stop you," Seonghwa growled at you. "Go on. Go someone else's whore."

His words cut deep. It shattered your heart into a million pieces that no argument had been before. Sure, Seonghwa might call you his slut behind closed doors. The word doesn't bother you as there was often a tone of possession behind it.

Yet, to be called a whore? By the man you love? That just aches.

You had no argument left in you after he said that. Whore. It just repeated in your mind like a broken record.

So you went to the only place you could think of to escape from the ache. Alcohol. You were currently sitting at the bar. You were wearing a black silk skirt that had a slight slit that exposed your knee. It was Seonghwa's favorite on you. He always claimed how angelic yet tempting you looked. You wore a black top that showed off your cleavage nice well.

Might as well fulfill what Seonghwa wants from you, right? He made it clear you were no longer his lover.

"Well isn't it Mrs. Park," a voice called out to you. "We're filing for divorce," you murmured.

While you might not know the particular person speaking to you, you had to make it clear. You were not linked with Seonghwa anymore. He made that very clear, and you were convinced there was no going back this time.

Not when it seemed his view of you was tainted, that he was disgusted by you because you were some common whore to him. You weren't his angel, his lover anymore.

"Can the lady get another drink? Put it on my tab."

Your interest undeniably peaked when the stranger offered to buy you a drink. You found your posture sitting up before turning around to face your suitor.

Your eyes widened. No fucking way. It was your best friend's boyfriend.

"Oh hi! Is y/bff/n here?" For the first time that night, you had a bit of hope in your eyes. Maybe not all is completely lost. You never liked to say you were dependent on Seonghwa, but your whole world was created when you got together with him. Without him, you felt like you had no true direction in life. You could always count on Seonghwa to guide you, to cherish you. But now what? The only remanent from your past life before Seonghwa was your best friend.

Her boyfriend shared an apologetic look before shaking his head. "Oh. I guess she didn't tell you. Um, we broke up last week." "Oh fuck, I'm sorry. She and I were meant to catch up but we both just had let life get in the way. I'm sorry to hear that." "It's okay. Maybe it isn't too bad? I mean, after all, we are people trying to overcome heartache."

As if on cue, the bartender delivered your drink in front of you. You smiled as you exchanged your ice-filled glass for the fresh cocktail. You raised your glass in the air as he followed suit with the beer bottle that accompanied his.

"Cheers to that," you laughed.

Clink!

After taking a proper sip of your drinks, you both set them down on the bar top. You looked out towards the crowd, seeing dancing bodies as the bass from the stereo rattled your bones. It was the perfect opportunity to forget reality.

"So, if you don't mind me asking, what happened? I mean, I don't think Seonghwa is as dumb as I think he is."

In any of your past relationships, you were all on board to bash your exes. Not Seonghwa. He had given you the world, and somehow, you gave him the impression you weren't genuine. Even though you were hurt by his words, you still felt the need to protect him.

"I think I messed things up," you sighed. You tried your best to blink away the tears, taking another sip out of your drink to ease your nerves. "I don't even know at this point. We were just arguing in circles and somehow, I pushed the man I love away and I don't think he's ever going to welcome you back."

Your best friend's ex-boyfriend looked at you sympathetically. You didn't deserve any pity. You were the one that ruined the relationship. There is no way Seonghwa would say such a word if he didn't mean it. You just couldn't calculate how he got that impression you would cheat on you.

"His loss, y/n." His hand rested on your knee comfortingly, giving it a gentle squeeze. "You don't want to get mixed up with the wrong crowd anyways. Seonghwa and his biker gang are all trouble, you know that."

It felt odd to have another man touch you, even if it wasn't particularly intimate. Seonghwa was the only man you trusted within your bubble because he was yours and you were his. At least, that's how it was until tonight.

Seonghwa initially joined the biker gang when he was 18. He felt lost in this world. There was no traditional career path that sparked any interest, so going to college seemed pointless. Especially when there sometimes can be such a hefty price tag.

Hongjoong, one of his classmates, had talked about the gang. It helped Hongjoong feel important, like he had power in a world that often casted any strays to the side. Seonghwa wanted to do something meaningful in his life, and the bikers allowed him to do that. His gang, in particular, viewed themselves like the Robin Hoods of your town - trying to make wrongs into rights. They were the good guys.

"And what? Your gang has a clean record?" You teased.

He chuckled and put his hands up in defense. "You got me there, pretty girl. But I can still see Seonghwa is a complete jackass for letting you roam free. Never know what can happen," he sighed.

"But at least I'm here with good company," you said. "Unless you hurt my best friend? I mean, she didn't call me crying but still." "Yeah, I know, kitten. That's your girl. Don't worry. Things just fizzled out between us. I think we thought we could give each other what we needed, but I realized it wasn't enough." "Ouch. Not sure what type of heartache is worst." "The type where you feel sorry for yourself."

You nodded, even though you didn't completely agree. You didn't feel sorry for yourself. If anything, you felt guilty for pushing away the best man you've ever met. You really thought eventually, the on-and-off carousel would come to a stop but where you two would get off together. Maybe get married. Have a house in the suburbs. A girl can dream.

"Another drink?" Your friend's ex offered.

You smiled and nodded. If he was paying, why not take him up on it. There seemed to be no strings attached, so who knows. Maybe this is the start of a new friendship, a new chapter, a new life for you.

Although, you couldn't quite shake off Seonghwa's warnings about the individual beside you. Maybe Seonghwa's been overreacting this whole time? I mean, the guy seems harmless even for being in a gang.

Buzz buzz. Buzz buzz. Buzz buzz.

You looked at your phone to see Seonghwa's name pop up. You rolled your eyes and declined it immediately. There were no words to be exchanged between you and Seonghwa. Not when the message was loud and clear from him. He was done with you.

Buzz buzz. Buzz buzz. Buzz buzz.

Seonghwa. Decline.

Buzz buzz. Buzz buzz. Buzz buzz.

That's it. You looked at your new friend and muttered a quick apology. "I'll be quick, ok?" He nodded before turning towards the bartender to order another round.

You grabbed your phone, deciding to hop off to take the conversation outside. At least maybe you could hear him clearly and get all the pent-up emotions off your chest. While you were wishfully thinking that Seonghwa would beg for you to come home, you also had to be realistic.

Seonghwa was a well-known guy in town for the wrong reasons. His gang made grown men quiver in fear. Someone probably saw you were out alone, talking to someone from a rival gang. Specifically, a person whom Seonghwa viewed as public enemy number one. It didn't look good, but how bad could things get for you? Seonghwa wasn't your boyfriend anymore. That fact alone kept you at rock bottom.

Finally, when you were at least in a hallway of the bar, your thumb hit the green accept button.

"Hwa-" "Stay where you are."

Your eyebrows furrowed at his command. It wasn't an ask. His tone was fierce, firm. You knew there was no room for arguing, even though you wanted nothing more than to scream at him for what he said.

"How do you even know where I am, huh?" "I always keep track of my belongings, baby girl."

Your heart fluttered at the pet name. What was going on though?

Before you could question, just to get more details, you heard grunting from his side of the call. The fluttering in your heart came to a quick halt, especially when you heard grunting.

Was he okay? Was he hurt?

You noticed that the music at the bar came to a screeching halt. Quickly, you picked up on the sound of fists flying, grunting, and shouting. Even though you knew better than to stay where Seonghwa told you to, you had to investigate. At least to make sure he was okay.

Cautiously, you emerged from the hallway into the main floor of the bar. Some of the members of Seonghwa's gang were beating up the members of a different gang. The one your best friend's ex belonged to. Most of the bar had cleared out the moment fighting broke out it seems. Either out of fear or not wanting to be present when police arrive.

It was then you noticed where Seonghwa was. With the call still on-going, you noticed his cellphone was on the bar top. Yet, Seonghwa stood over your friend's ex as he remained seated. Seonghwa's fists were gripping onto the collar of the poor guy's shirt. Oh no.

You came rushing over, trying to get Seonghwa to ease up. Jealousy never brought out the best in people.

About to speak up, you found everything came to a halt the moment you heard Seonghwa.

"And you dare try to hurt my girl? My world? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

What was he talking about? Your mind was rushing to the numerous scenarios of what could have played out to lead to this moment. Did someone feed Seonghwa the wrong information? Was someone trying to stir drama.

"Listen, man. I was just following orders!" "And you really are that much of a sick fuck to try to spike someone's drink?"

Your eyes darted to the bar top to look at your drink. It seemed to be okay, the usual light yellow color from the pineapple juice mingling with the clear liquor.

But then you noticed the clear baggy. It was small, and easy to be hidden if the man leaned his arm a certain way. Honestly, you probably would have missed it when you returned to your seat.

Seonghwa was seeing red. He was worried you had taken a sip, only arriving right after you slipped away to accept his call. He was fearing the worst case scenario, and he had asked you to stay back so he could come help you once he handled the creep.

"Hwa? I'm okay, baby."

The harsh breathing from Seonghwa slowed down at the sound of your angelic voice. His grip didn't loosen, but his demeanor softened slightly. Yet, he still remained vigilant in case the punks tried pulling a fast one.

"Kitten, I asked you to stay where you were. I didn't want you to get hurt." "I didn't take a sip, I promise. He ordered a new one for me when I slipped away to take your call," you confessed.

You didn't speak in your normal tone. Seonghwa always admired how confident you are. Even during the worst of fights, he was enamored by how you always stood your ground.

Now, though, your voice was soft. Almost timid. You weren't afraid to speak to him, but clearly overwhelmed by the situation. To go from breaking up with your boyfriend, again, to nearly falling for a trap. All you wanted was to be in his arms, your safe haven.

"Hwa, we can take care of him," Hongjoong announced from behind. His hand was on Hwa's shoulders, to show he was fully capable of taking over dealing with the low life. It helped knowing that San was also there to be a the guy to a pulp after retrieving information, of course.

Revenge would be sought after. But not until he comforted you and made sure you were okay.

Seonghwa nodded, taking a small step away from the guy. However, before he could even think of running off, Seonghwa's knuckles met his face. The guy's head went flying back, so he slumped in the stool. Hongjoong and San took Seonghwa's position, leading the guy out back to handle business.

You didn't even notice the fighting in the bar had come to a halt. The bar was nearly empty besides the few members of Seonghwa's biker gang who checked the perimeter, to ensure that it was safe.

Immediately, Seonghwa rushed over to you. Both of his moved to cup your cheeks, his thumbs caressing over your cheeks. He had a hard exterior, but he was undoubtedly soft for you. It was a privilege of getting to experience this side of him. Your eyes fluttered shut in the comfort of his warm touch but also at your settling heart.

"Are you positive you're okay? He didn't touch you?" "No," you whispered. "He bought me a drink and touched my knee, but that's it, I promise."

Seonghwa's blood boiled slightly, but not enough that made him want to jump and join his two friends outside. What was important to him was taking care of you.

His heart shattered as he noticed the tears slipping from your eyes. He pulled back which caused your eyes to widen, fearing he was about to walk away. All he did was coo in your direction as you watched him shrug off his leather jacket, draping it around your shoulders.

Once he noticed your arms had slipped in through the sleeves, he wrapped his arm around you. He never wanted to admit it, but he loved being physically close to you. He just loved how soft and warm you were. His free hand moved up to tuck strands of your hair behind your ear.

"I never should have said such hateful words. God, I am a fucking idiot, sweet girl," he whispered. His lips moved to plant a lingering kiss on your forehead. "I don't view you like that. Like what I called you. I don't even know why I said it, but it's not a fucking excuse."

This happened every time Seonghwa felt guilty after an argument. When he was consumed by the guilt, he couldn't quite put the words together so they came out at once. He never wanted to let something be unsaid, especially when he was trying to make amends.

And all he wanted was to make things right with you.

"I'm done with the arguing, sweetheart. The way we argue isn't productive because I mean it when I say I'm putting a ring on your finger."

He pulled back, so you two could look at each other. Your eyes slightly widened but a smile was on your face. The tears of anxiety and sadness were replaced with tears of joy. "Really?" You whispered. "That is, if you accept my dumbass back as your boyfriend? And that you allow me to work hard to be the man you deserve, not just who you need."

[orions-choker]

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Serial Killers, Murder, Obsessions, Yandere tendencies, Gore, more to be added.

Chapter Ten

A/N: Hi Wanted to give a warning for this chapter! This entire chapter is sex, not only that I rewrote it like three times for some graphic descriptions of gore. However those parts have not been removed, just slightly toned down as that is just my intended nature with this story. I'm sorry if that makes anyone uncomfortable <3 Otherwise please enjoy.

Having a label on whatever this was between them didn’t bring her any source of joy or excitement. She almost wanted to hit herself, she had been yearning for him to stop tip-toeing around their relationship for weeks and now she dreaded it. “Boyfriend,” She rolled the word around her tongue like a heavy bitter candy, a cough drop found at the bottom of your grandmother's purse. It made her gag.

She was analyzing herself in the mirror, stark naked and exposed. Pulling back on her skin she examined each mark left on her skin. Kirk was… bitey. She wouldn’t mind it under any other circumstance. If he was just normal. Instead it seemed like a testament to the fact that maybe he wanted to hurt her for real, each bruise painted into her skin was deep and purple and ached. He wanted to consume her, eat her. Maybe it was literal? She didn’t really know. “Boyfriend,” She spat the word out this time like she could hurl it far enough away that it no longer branded her. Her fingers prodding at the bite mark around her nipple, down to the matching one on her inner thigh. He had been kind enough to ask, she believed that if she said no he would have respected that. It still didn’t make him a good person.

The murders had come to a halt a while ago, the timeline tracked from the moment she had agreed to devote her time to him under the guise of safety. The phone calls and horrific news articles suddenly felt like a long distant memory. The police were no closer to catching the perp and there was no relief that settled over the town even though it had been weeks since another body was found. A monster still lived among them, and had taken the lives of innocent people, daughters. Girls like her.

She was doing a disservice to the lives of the girls lost by sleeping with that very monster. By holding him at night like he had done no wrong, writhing underneath him in pleasure rather than agonizing pain, by loving him. She turned away from the mirror quickly, the very sight of herself made her stomach churn. Quickly she climbed into her shower, letting the cold water pelt against her skin as punishment for everything she felt. She told herself it was better this way than avoiding him. Sure she was spitting on the memories of the victims, but she was saving the lives of any other potentials…right?

The cold water did nothing to relieve her of her sins. When she stepped back into her room the feeling of being watched settled over her again, but she knew the source now. She realised now where it had been coming from all along. Kirk didn’t hide it anymore, he wanted her to know now. She turned to her open window, peering into Kirk’s room only to find him staring back at her with a lazy grin. She wished she could say she forced the smile onto her face, but it came too easily, too gently. Shaking her head she wagged her finger at him playfully before pulling the curtains closed to get dressed.

She took a moment to herself before she prepared herself to walk into the lion's den. For once her room felt safe, closed off, when this was a sanctuary she thrived in before everything went wrong. She heard the thwacking of her dog's tail against the bed and smiled. She wasn't supposed to let her up but she had always been soft. “Hey Mavey Baby.” She murmured as she ran her hands through the thick golden fur of the animal, soothing herself. “If I ever don’t come home one day you can take my bed.” She smiled softly and kissed the top of the dog's head, earning a cute confused head tilt, floppy ears bouncing.

Getting dressed happened slowly, prolonging each moment she had in the safety of her own home, with her parents downstairs who would do anything to protect her from danger. If only they knew how willingly she was throwing herself into the jaws of death every single day. Her mom hadn’t been pleased to say the least when she told her she was dating Kirk and for once her fears were founded, even if she didn’t know. Her dad was…indifferent. Both of them inevitably warmed up to him, if there was one thing about him it was that he was incredibly charming.

She dipped her head around the corner of the kitchen after she had crawled down the stairs. She smiled at her parents. “Hey, I’m heading out now.” She told them softly. “See you guys on Sunday, yeah?” Everytime she told them that she could only hope she kept that promise. It's not like Kirk had made any effort to show her he wanted her dead, but why else had he done what he had done? It felt like a ticking time bomb.

“Yeah, be safe sweetie, we're next door if you need anything.” Her mom hummed without looking up from her book, some god awful erotica posing as a low brow romance novel. The wet sound of her licking her thumb before turning the page sent a shiver up Y/N’s spine. Her dad nodded silently. Slowly Y/N pulled herself away from the kitchen, slipping into her shoes and out the front door. She let herself into Kirk's house in a ritual that had become normal. Greeting his mom kindly before taking the stairs up to his room two at a time. His mom was too sweet, she wondered how it would break her to know what her son did.

Of course Kirk had heard her steps coming up the stairs and was opening his door before she even had her hand on the doorknob. His fingers encircled her wrist and tugged her forward against his chest. She hated the way his warmth still made her shiver. How perfectly her body slotted in against his. “Hey, took you long enough.” He mumbled into the top of her hair. “Thought you were deciding to dip out on me,”

Y/N curled her fingers into the fabric of his shirt, twisting the material tight. “Sorry I was a bit shaken up, I had some pervert watching me get changed through my window.” She bit at him playfully as she tilted her head up to look at him. Her tone was joking but she wasn’t wrong. As she watched his grin crack over his face she wondered if he had any inkling that she knew about him. His laugh surrounded her, sweet and soft. In this moment he looked so innocent like he had never done anything wrong in his life. That hurt. She wondered if in a different universe things were fine, and she could love Kirk without guilt.

“Sorry,” He mumbled sweetly, one of his hands coming to cup her cheek, his long fingers gently calloused against her skin. “You’re just so beautiful and it's such a good view from my window. Can you blame me?” He hummed and leaned down to press their lips together. Soft and plush against her own and she melted against him instinctually. “I have the prettiest girlfriend in the world.” He breathed against her as he pulled back.

He would be such a good boyfriend. It almost made her want to scream, shake him senseless and berate him for ruining it all, running any chance they had to be normal, ruining himself. She never let herself get too lost wrapped up in him, reminding herself she was doing this out of necessity not want. But that wasn't true at all was it. She was an awful rotten person, decaying from the inside out because instead of going to the police she was sleeping with him. Letting bloodied hands caress her, cradle her, because she was selfish and had never felt so loved. Never felt so scared.

“You’re obligated to say that.” She rolled her eyes and pried herself from his arms to throw herself down at his desk chair, the wheels rolling back slightly. “It would be messed up if you said another girl was prettier than me.” She smiled at him as she drew her legs up to her chest and spun herself around in the chair. Slowly coming to a halt facing him once more.

An amused smile played on his lips as he crossed his arms over his chest. “I'm not,” He laughed. “I could be a total dick and tell you some other girl was hotter.” He shrugged as he loomed over. His shadow blocked all light from view, leaving only him. Only ever him. “But I really believe that you’re the prettiest woman to have ever walked this earth.” Dark soft eyes flicked across her with an unmistakable hunger. “Do you need me to show you that?”

No, no, don’t touch me, don't make me complicit in your sin. “Yes,” She breathed out as she stood up, wrapping her arms around his neck and pushing him back until he was falling against the bed with a soft breath. A chuckle leaving him at her eagerness. Gentle hands rested on her hips as she crawled on top of him. Too gentle, a tenderness that would be forgotten the moment her clothes were off. There was a desperate filth that coated her skin because despite it all she wanted this.

The pads of his fingers dug into her flesh as he slid his hands beneath her shirt, pushing it up over her body. She lifted her arms complicity as he removed the fabric from her. “I love you, y’know.” He sighed appreciatively, and for a moment she thought maybe she saw guilt in his eyes. She believed him, he loved her in some twisted fucked up way. His thumb traced over some of the marks he had left on her, some would scar, that was intended by him. She would always be reminded she was permanently marked by him.

“I love you too.” She mumbled as her fingers dropped to the button of his jeans, working it open with too much eagerness for a girl lying to herself that she was with him to survive. He tapped her hip to get her to flip over. She did so complicitly, the soft fabric of his sheets hitting her skin as he stood up beside his bed, shucking his jeans off unceremoniously before he was tugging off her shorts. His knee knocked her legs apart further as he crawled over her on the bed, caging her in. He could do it now, when she was laid bare at her most vulnerable, slip the cold metal into her skin and cut through her like warm butter.

Would he gut her sloppily like he did the others, or would he afford her something more beautiful? Keeping the knife steady as it peeled back the skin and fat from her navel up to her sternum. Pin it back like a specimen for dissection. Would he crack open her ribs, or would he work his hand beneath the bone delicately to wrap his fingers around her still beating heart and tug it free. “You’re so wet.” He mumbled against her neck, briefly breaking her from her stupor. She hadn’t even registered his fingers pressing against her through the thin cotton of her panties. God she was fucked up, she was getting off on this.

She lifted her hips up so he could pull the offending fabric down her thighs. The cool air in his room eased the heat between her legs ever so slightly. Did he fuck those girls too? Lure them in to make them feel safe and warm, give them one last moment of pleasure before he watched the life leave their eyes? She hoped not. She was different, she was special. He wouldn’t make love to them like he did her. She let out a shaky gasp as his fingers pressed deep inside her, rubbing along her walls until he pushed against the spot that had her arching her back, fingers curling tightly against his sheets. “Oh g-god, right there.” She whined. There was no god here, why did she call for him?

It was hard and fast, he fucked his fingers into her like he did his cock. It didn’t hurt as he curled them, his free hand coming to press down just below her navel. The added pressure had her eyes glazing over. Her mouth parted in a string of hot breathy moans as she watched him. The way his tongue darted out across his lips like he was looking at a meal to eat. “Yeah, right there?” He breathed out. Kirk rested his head on her propped up knee as he worked her over, his gaze affectionate, a smile playing on his lips like he wasn't knuckles deep within her. “C’mon I can feel how close you are,” He hummed. “Come just once on my fingers, then I’ll give you what you want.” He cooed at her, his voice so soft and sweet.

Y/N didn’t trust her voice, not with the way he punched shaky desperate moans from her lips with each thrust. She nodded dumbly as she clenched down around him. Her knuckles went white with the tight grip she had on the sheets. “Oh fuck, fuck” She gasped as she felt the tight white hot coiling in her stomach. It was too much and not enough all the same. She tossed her head back like a woman possessed as she cried out his name desperately, thighs trembling and snapping shut around his hand as she came around his fingers. Her body went limp against the mattress and she twitched slightly with the aftershock.

“Good girl, fuck you’re so good for me.” Kirk hummed the praise as he pressed his warm lips to her sweat soaked skin. His fingers pulled from her hole with a wet squelch that left her recoiling at the sound. He seemed indifferent to just how gross it was. “Look at me,” He asked gently. Her heavy eyes landed on him just in time to watch him push his fingers between his lips. The sight knocked the breath from her lungs as his tongue lapped at the slick coating his hand, his eyes closing as he moaned in delight. When he was seemingly satisfied with her taste and the cleanliness of his fingers he swiped his spit across her stomach. She shivered as the air cooled it instantly against her skin.

The bed creaked slightly as he shifted his weight, pressing one hand above her head on the bed to hold himself steady as he reached into his underwear. He fished his dick out, gripping it tight between his lean pretty fingers. The tip was swollen and already leaking. He guided himself, rubbing against her clit and letting out a soft moan. Kirk was so loud and sensitive, it was unfortunately cute, she loved how vocal he was. Y/N wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him in closer as he rocked between her folds, mixing their fluids together and making a mess between her thighs. “A-ah fuck, I could come just like this.” He whined into the crook of her neck as his cock repeatedly bumping against her clit.

She was inclined to agree. It felt good, the pressure just enough to encourage that building feeling in her stomach again. As much as she would enjoy that, the sick part of her wanted him to be inside her already. With a small shake of her head she tilted her hips up slightly, catching the head against her entrance with the needy rocking motions he was making. “N-no, wanna be filled.” Y/N spoke desperately. She was absolutely basking in the soft persistent noises he was making in her ear.

Kirk nodded. “God, you’re so good to me,” He praised her, kissing along her skin, lapping his tongue against where her neck and jaw met. He could feel her pulse beneath the flesh and he moaned again. Slowly he pushed up against her, sinking inside the tight wet heat until his balls were tucked snugly against her ass. Her legs trembled where they locked around his hips, keeping him flush with her body. “Baby,” He whined, broken and desperate. “I love you, fuck I love you.” He chanted hot against her skin.

When he was inside her was when she felt most conflicted. Their bodies interlocked perfectly together. The stretch of his girth had her feeling pleasantly full and when he pulled his hips back and pressed forward again he dragged along her walls in a way that had her breathless and wanting. Yet she knew she could never un-fuck him, she would always be tainted. She will always remember that he had been inside her. When the police eventually caught him she would live with the constant reminder she had willingly let him fill her. Would she be dead by then so she didn’t have to live with the guilt. Would the police ever even know it was him.

Snapped from her stupor once more she let out a high pitched cry, her heels digging into his back as he set a slow but hard pace. His lips against her collarbone as he whimpered words of admiration and praise. “Kirk, s’good, so good.” She moaned. Her nails dug into the smooth skin of his back as he pushed her deeper into the bed. It creaked and shifted with every move and she had half a mind to be embarrassed about how loud they were when his mom was still in the house. “Harder,” She pleaded in contradiction to her worries.

He obeyed eagerly. The jut of his hip bones was harsh against the soft flesh of her ass as he gripped her thigh in one hand, pressing her leg up towards her chest and pressing his cock into her deeper, harder and faster. “So fucking desperate.” He groaned, tilting his head to nip at her calf where he slung her leg over his shoulder. The sound of skin against skin filled the room, he was relentless in his movements, punching the breath from her lungs with each sharp thrust. “Fuck, Y/N, I’m gonna come, you’re gonna take it all right? My pretty girl.” He gasped out.

Y/N preened at his words, the affection dripping from his voice made her forget everything just for a moment. “Mhm,” She mewled. Her hands scrambled to grasp at his face, relishing in the soft skin beneath her hands. He looked innocent and beautiful at that moment. Angelic with his big round dark eyes, his perfect lips parted as he moaned. For a brief second this was pure. Her thumb swiped across the dark mole that kissed his cheek. “I want it all, give it to me.” She nodded softly as she forced eye contact between them.

It was too much, too intense. Kirk's eyes widened and his mouth opened further with a strangled noise. His hips stuttering before stilling completely buried inside her. She could feel each pulse as he finished inside her. Warmth spilled around his cock still plugging her, leaking from her messy hole and down her ass onto the sheets. His expression was soft and filled with awe as he stared down at her, his release washing over him in waves. His arms shook as he held himself over her body. Finally he let his weight press her into the bed. Resting his body against her as his chest heaved with each shallow shaky breath. “Oh my god,” He mumbled into her neck.

She wanted to coo at him. He was always reduced to such a soft whiny mess. Her hands rubbed along his back as he kissed her neck softly. “I love you,” She whispered and she believed herself, she hated that. She was terrified of him even in this moment as she held him close, held close the very thing that would be her undoing. Yet she pulled him closer. Whined as his cock softened and slipped from her, following another sticky wave of his cum spreading between her thighs. She entangled their legs tighter.

“I love you too,” Kirk hummed against the underside of her jaw before shifting his body up the bed, his lean arms wrapping around her and tugging her against his chest. His fingers carding through her hair and gently untangling it as he went. “Please never leave me,” He whispered in a desperate plea. It surprised her and made her want to laugh all the same. Never leave him? Was that even an option on the table, she knew what would happen if she tried. She wouldn’t leave him.

She didn’t have a choice

[pondering-pears]

The Gods Couldn’t Have Made You

Halsin x Tiefling Tav (Unfinished)

In a world full of cruelties, I was certain that you were merely an addition to their numbers. You walked into my life like one of Hell’s host, and to this day that is an image you wear like a cloak of pride against the eyes of those before you. 

I was imprisoned in that Goblin camp and you strode in, cloven hooves striking against stone in time with the rustling of the metal plates you hid your true form in. You were terrifying, a helmeted fiend with horns like an Rothe and eyes that burned through that dark desolate place. Gold, not of honey or sunsets, but a forge’s melting pot. 

You hated everything there, I could smell your wrath like a coming storm and I thought I knew the intentions of your heart. 

“Such dull stones will never cut its pelt.” Although your mask hid your lips, my mind could imagine how they pulled back into a sneer. The Goblins thought they knew you too, believing that one of their True Souls had come to join in their tormenting. The fact that their judgment aligned with my own should’ve been a sure sign of my folly. 

I knew then that I must fight although it would likely be my end, yet even in such a dire moment you were a distraction. You were so confident as you transfixed them that they didn’t even think to flinch as you grasped your flail. I have seen so much violence in my life, yet rarely was it inflicted with the certainty you possessed. 

You had made this choice long before I could even comprehend your existence. 

Your taste in comrades was well chosen for the task of annihilation, and even as I pushed my weakened form into the fray there was little for me to do. You were everything your appearance promised, blunt unrelenting brutality. Yet where you laid one low you in turn dragged an ally back towards life. It was safe to say that you were the sort of fighter I had rarely seen, healer in one hand and brute in the other. 

I caught you there in the middle of it, above it all a shield, although you’d forever deny such a title. I did not love you then, how could I, but it was the first seed. 

“If you are a literal bear, you will be carrying all of these blades back to the Grove.” In hindsight you must’ve thought yourself rather clever with that, but at the time it was another hot iron against my aching heart. 

“You speak of the Grove, did they send you?” In spite of my temper, my age had taught me a level head with adventures like you would always serve us better. 

“I think if Kagha knew that I was here to fetch you she’d have quite the fit.” You spat her name like a serpent’s poison and rid yourself of your helmet so that I could see the true rage on your face. “First, I am going to crush the last one of these True Souls, second you are going to go back to the Grove and get your bitch in line, then finally you are going to get this worm out of my head.” 

You reminded me then something as old as the scars on my heart, the devotion of the gods I had once fought. It should’ve filled me with fear, and in part it did, but I saw then the priority of your wrath. The wildest part of me was glad to  know that the defenseless was first in your heart. 

“I have been away too long, there is much to set right, I see.” I’d tried to calm your fire, but as often man does, I only breathed air into your hearth. “I will be hard to smuggle about, if you wish I can remain here-”

“Oh, this cup will not pass for your lips.” Your sneer was almost a smile then. “Come, there is work to do.” 

~~~

“Is that to be all of her punishment?” You had come too far to hide your displeasure from anyone, lest of all me. 

“She will learn-” The beach side path we walked together was now a battlefield drawn up between us. Your each step threw up sand from the shear force of your body moving through this world. An inferno raging through the brush land, a column of fire in the wilderness scorching all that dared to stand in your path. 

Your conviction was more impressive to me now that I walked on familiar ground, even if the challenge you laid to my conscious was scalding. I knew all too well what you wanted, an eye for a terrible eye. I would not be surprised if many of the Tiefling amongst the Grove agreed with you, and although you bore none of the marks of a judicial god, who would dare not call you a Judge?

“You are right.” Your path circled in front of me, those molten eyes of yours level to mine as you spoke. “She will learn to let this blister on her pride harden into indignation and that rotted mind of hers will leach into every other slight in your Grove. Tell me, do you trim back your weeds so that their roots might still starve out those around them?” The sunlight caught on your dark curls, each lock a heavy ringlet you had let drape over your shoulders. It made them glow like settled coals against the sharp edges of your face. You barred your fangs, held my stare, and gave up not an inch of ground as I approached you.

Every fiber of your body was coiled tight around this need for things to be right and fair, for if not your justice, then revenge must be served. 

Yet, you were no fool. You stood here with me, instead of in the midst of the Grove, trying even in your fury to sway me instead of cutting a bloody path to what you sought. I recognized that wisdom in you then, even as you wished so terribly to conceal it from me.

[End]

[tapeworrmart]

Hey, I LOVE your art so much man, you capture a feeling of angst there that I really really like, and I love how you draw dynamics between people. I've been looking at a lot of ur GtaV art recently and love how you draw Trevor a lot. I was wondering if you could/would want to elaborate on how you view his character coz ur art of him is so cool and I can tell you've got such a cool understanding of him through that. No pressure, tho.

Hi! First of all thank you so much for your kind words about my art, really makes me happy and I'm glad I can portray that amount of feeling!!

Trevor yapping:

MANNNN oh man do I have a LOT of thoughts about Trevor's character. It's actually really difficult to word it all, hence why I draw most of it, but ultimately it's not a perspective I've ever like.... Taken time aside to really think too hard about. I remember when I first played the game I knew I was going to like his character visually but I didn't expect him to have the amount of depth and emotions that he did. I think that I always really enjoy the darker and more emotional aspects of any character, it's what I tend to look for in characters I enjoy from anything - so it's a pretty good explanation for the way I view Trevor. I really just ended up honing in on the parts of his character that left him used and abused and betrayed. The parts of him that are lonely and angry and confused. The parts of him that are psychotic and unpredictable. I see a lot of ppl (rightly so) talk about his high manic states and his jokes and silliness (which I love ofc) but I've always been edgy lmao and I love characters who suffer. So he has a lot of that to draw upon imo. He's just such an incredibly rich character, and the way he is treated in the narrative gives him so much depth to house a lot of resentment and mistrust - which goes perfectly with his almost childlike devotion and loyalty to people like Michael. Which is what gets him burned. Idk as I say it's really hard to word it, I'm no writer by any means. I just love how full of emotion he is, dangerously so, and I think he covers a lot of those vulnerable aching emotions of self hate, rejection, and mistrust with anger and violence and things he can grasp and feel - violence on himself and on others, scaring people, being loud and vitriolic, using substances, almost BEING a substance himself like gasoline with the way he uses his special ability etc. But inwards there's a lot bubbling up. I found it appealing how he could go from the first scene we see of him - jumping on a man's head and calling him a cunt- to rescuing Tracy from being humiliated in a burst of paternal rage. Going from violent and hateful to having a genuine softness and clear headed opinions about wrong doing and people he deems as arseholes. That kind of depth really just allows for a lot of conflict within himself when these soft silly moments meet the deciet, violence and self hatred. And I also love how he had these outbursts of emotion and lashing out, like when he hits his head out of frustration etc (which is also proof of his self harm tendencies to me). It strikes a chord with me as someone with bpd and mental health issues in general, that he is shown to split and have these moments of rage and turmoil. I just always thought that was really poignant and drew me to him even more as a character cuz it's something I can recognise to some extent. So for example my recent piece of him with lightning in his head was me trying to capture that feeling of outburst and splitting. As an example. Hope this makes sense and answered ur question somewhat lol.

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

Somehow, Through the Storm

Summary:

Living in the slums of the Warehouse District, Kaz and Inej are struggling to cling on to life through a seemingly unending winter. Wrapped up in a stranger's overcomplicated marriage contract that he is convinced is key to solving the merciless weather, Kaz remains busy and distracted for days on end, putting everything else at risk. So when a storm ravages the city and sweeps Inej into danger, the offer of safety, food, and a place to stay is an overwhelming one - no matter the cost. Terrified of mounting threats, Inej signs a contract - not knowing she would land herself trapped at the Menagerie. Kaz signs a contract that states if he can walk all the way through the city and back to the Warehouse District with Inej behind him, never looking back at her, they will both go free. But this is the Barrel, the darkest part of the city where the rules of physics can change with the stroke of a pen; the journey back will not be the same as journey there…

This is a Hadestown-inspired reimagining of the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice, casting Kaz and Inej as our main characters and heavily featuring our beloved Crows, set in an alternate version of the Grishaverse with a different magic system based entirely on contracts.

Tags: @lunarthecorvus @marielaure @multi-fandom-bi @iggy-gotthisaccountunderduress @thelibraryofalexandriastillburns @devoted-people-hater @spraypaintstainonawhitewall

If anyone else would like to be added to the tag list let me know <3

Warnings for this chapter: implied past marital rape, implied past sa, shame surrounding sa, misogyny, forced marriage, loss of parent, grief, non-consensual kiss, non-consensual touching, abuse, implied possible violence, implied child abuse, slavery references (similar to Kerch indenture contracts),

AO3 link:

Somehow, Through the Storm - Chapter 16 - She_posts_nerdy_stuff - Six of Crows Series - Leigh Bardugo [Archive of Our Own]

Chapter 16 - Marya

“How long? How long? How long?” “How long? Just as long as I am your wife! It’s true the earth must die, but then the earth comes back to life, and the sun must go on rising,”

- How Long?, Hadestown 

Marya’s hand was starting to ache, just the tiniest bit. Her travel bag had fabric handles that fed into little wooden grips, grips that were currently tucked as tightly into her fingers as she could possibly manage, hidden beneath the stiff and unyielding safety of her fist. Here she was. Standing on the bank of the canal as though it were the threshold of another world. It felt like a precipice that if she were to slip from it now, she would never stop falling; the water of the canal would grow ever distant and the air would envelope her in ice and wind, she would drift and fade out of existence and the world would keep on moving without her, as though she had never been there in the first place. She peered into the black water below the grass. How very exciting. 

A hand closed around her elbow and Marya straightened with sudden tension bolting through her spine. Her husband didn’t seem to notice the way the muscle beneath his grip had tightened. Either that, or he simply didn’t care. Marya wasn’t sure which she would prefer. 

“Careful,” his voice was disharmonious, almost teasing in its lilt, a gentle rise and fall of flattened notes, “Can’t have you tumbling off the edge - you’ll ruin this pretty dress,”

He plucked a little of the fabric and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger as Marya forced a casual, breathy little laugh. It might have made for a more genuine joke, from another’s lips - or maybe when they were younger. She had a vague recollection of laughing when he said something like that years ago, when they were barely done being children and already waiting for a child of their own. It amused a silly girl who hadn’t realised yet that all these things, the things her husband’s money had bled into, really were valued more than she was. What had she done, then, all those years ago? Laughed, she was sure, and maybe teased him in return. She probably ran her fingers through his hair, she remembered doing that many times when they were young, and pressed her lips against his forehead. 

He’d said it before that, as well, she remembered a little unexpectedly. He had said it back when they were mad, wild little things at the kind of age where you’re balancing on a dangerously thin rope somewhere in between being endearing and being scolded for your childishness, when they clung to each other on that wire and laughed at the world so far beneath them, so far away that it seemed like it would always be entirely inconsequential.

He’d been shorter than her, when they first met. He was only sixteen, after all, and Marya thirteen; she’d had a sudden growth spurt when she hit her teen years, and he’d had his only when he approached their end. It was silly she knew, because of course she knew that he had grown, but sometimes it felt like she was the one who’d changed. Like she was shrinking. 

They had exchanged two or three letters by that first meeting, letters that had been read by their parents before they sent them and replies that had read by their parents before they were passed on, and she had some idea of what he looked like from the portrait miniatures they had shared. It was all just as was traditional - and Marya did not mind his portrait. He had not been painted with unnecessary ostentation, she didn’t think, but it had still captured strength in him. She was lucky, she knew; the Van Ecks were about as high placed in Kerch government as anyone could be, and the boy was only three years her senior. She was going to make her family proud, her father told her every time the subject came up - and it came up more and more these days. But despite the portrait, Marya had been surprised when she saw him that first day. 

He was a spitting image of his father, right down to the identical black suits they wore, but it didn’t look right on him. It was perfectly tailored, of course, and a perfectly nice suit, but it looked strange. Out of place. It wasn’t, perhaps, that he had not grown into the suit itself, for she could never have argued that it didn’t fit him, but that he hadn’t grown into what it meant yet: that was a merchant’s suit, and he was just a boy. Marya had like that. She was just a girl, after all. A girl trapped under a dress and underskirt and chemise, necklace and collar and lace, pins and ribbons and hair, but still a girl, hidden somewhere underneath it all. When she had peered across the hall, nerves buzzing like she had been struck by lightning, wishing to hold her mother’s hand but knowing that she mustn’t, she had seen a boy trapped inside that suit. Trapped inside his box. She had seen him, and she was sure that he had seen her too, and she had smiled. 

The introductions had been long and deeply boring, so boring in fact that Marya entirely stopped listening and did not start again until she realised that everyone was looking at her. She blinked, then registered the panicked and impatient glare of her father, the disappointed and annoyed flicker in the reassuring gaze her mother was trying to construct and realised that they were all waiting for her. She had one job; she had a single line, and she had missed her queue. The world seemed to quiver as she stepped forwards, trying desperately to ignore the displeasured, unimpressed eyes of Mr Van Eck, and curtseyed on slightly shivering legs before she held her hand out to the boy. He was smirking and for a moment her heart caught - but there was no malice in his expression, no judgement or annoyance. He wasn’t mocking her at all. He was genuinely smiling. Marya had made him laugh. 

He pressed his lips lightly to the back of her hand. His fingers were cold where they lay gently on her wrist, but his lips were warm and softer than she’d expected. Not that she’d really known what to expect, though. 

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Hendriks,” he had murmured. 

Their hands were both lowering, but he had not released her. 

“You as well,” she had breathed, “Mr Van Eck,”

He had glanced back at his father, and Marya had felt comforted to see the nervousness in his eyes, and waited a beat for the tiny nod of confirmation to come before he said: 

“I have a gift for you,” 

She knew he would, that was how this worked, but she smiled and thanked him for thinking so kindly on her anyway, as a servant in the Van Eck livery handed him a small box. Marya had expected him to pass the thing on to her but instead he undid the clasp and held it open between them, facing his chest so she could not see what was hidden inside. 

“Will you guess what it is?” he asked, something almost mischievous sparkling in his eye. 

Marya imagined her parents’ eyebrows raising behind her. She glanced at the boy’s father, trying to make sure he was not about to angrily interrupt because the boy had gone of script, but when she saw that he was calm and watching with a patient, ill-conceived smile, and had given her parents a reassuring nod he thought she’d missed - he wasn’t to know, of course, that Marya didn’t miss anything - she turned her attention back to the boy and the box. 

“How many guesses do I get?” 

He mused for a moment, then settled on: 

“Two. But you can ask as many questions as you like,”

“That could leave us here for a while, then,”

Her father laughed, gentle but also clearly intended to make a point, and he laid his hand against her shoulder. 

“Always curious, our Marya. She may drive you mad with all her questions, Jan, I’m afraid,”

“I don’t mind, sir,” the boy smiled at him politely, “I asked her to, after all. We could stay here and talk, get to know each other, whilst you arrange the paperwork if that makes things easier - we won’t be alone, after all,” he added quickly, when her father hesitated, “But it would be nice to talk a while in person, before we start out letters,” 

The same glance seemed to travel round the little assembly, passing from eye to eye to eye, and when it met Marya she smiled the smile that always made her parents relent. 

“They are chaperoned,” her father nodded, “I see no issue, as long as you don’t either Mr Van Eck,”

“None,” the merchant nodded, “Shall we?”

And then they were gone. 

“Well?” 

Marya blinked, looking up at the boy. Her thoughts had wandered as she watched the adults leave the room, but now she snapped back to reality to realise he was still holding the box between them. She twisted her lip, studying it. 

“It’s certainly a jewellery case, but too small to fit a necklace,” she decided, “It could fit a bracelet, maybe, or earrings, or a brooch. Am I right that it is jewellery?” 

“Well-” he broke off, “I supposed I will have to tell you to answer your question properly; there is jewellery, yes, for your official gift. There is something else, as well, that I added. You can guess both, if you’d like,”

“You’re changing the rules,” 

“I couldn’t tell you the real rules when everyone was watching,” 

Marya wasn’t entirely sure if she liked that. She glanced past him, her eyes swishing quickly over the chaperone before they flitted back to the boy. 

“We’re still being watched,” 

The boy smirked. 

“I can fix that. If you want me to,” 

“What do you-?”

But before Marya could even finish her question he had clicked the box shut and shoved it into his pocket as his other hand closed around her own; he was running and she was chasing after him, fingers wrapped around his, as the doors to the garden burst wide and the world opened up before them. 

“Quick!” he shouted, still pulling her with him, and when they’d rounded a corner and were pressed against a wall to catch their breath: “Where’s a good place to hide?” 

“The - the clock tower,” Marya laughed between her panting, “There’s a hidden door, I’ll show you - but you must swear to never tell another soul,”

“On my life,” he grinned, winking. 

“I mean it,” Marya hissed, “Never, never, never,” 

He caught her hand in the air and pulled it to his chest. 

“Never,” he promised, “Now quick before they come looking. Which way?”

Marya took his hand in hers, this time, and pulled him across the grounds through every secret passageway and gaps in hedges that she knew. 

“You’d better make this present worth it,” she told him, “I might be ruined for running off alone with you, you know,”

“I know,” he squeezed her fingers, “But does it really matter?” 

“Yes!” she cried, yanking her arm away, but he only laughed. 

“No it doesn’t, Marya. We’re getting married, aren’t we?”

Marya pouted, folding her arms into a knot and refusing to give him her hand back. 

“We aren’t engaged yet.”

“We’re engaged to be engaged,” he said, “That’s basically engaged, and engaged is basically married,”

Marya had made a disgusted sound and the boy burst into real peals of laughter, but before she could reply she heard footsteps approaching them down the gravel pathway; her hand closed tight over his wrist, and they were running once again. This present had really better be worth it. 

“I hope you know,” she grumbled, “that when we get in trouble for this I’m going to cry and blame it all on you,” 

“I would expect nothing less,”

They clambered up the spiral stone staircase of the clock tower like giddy ten-year-olds who’d eaten too much sugar, trying and failing to keep quiet as they giggled their way to the top floor. The sun was bright enough to be blinding when it tilted through the windows but through the translucent white of the clock face it dimmed into a hazy, dreamlike glow over the boards and the shimmering bell. The boy circled and Marya watched him from the top of the stairs, clinging to the bannister as he looked about her little haven with awe shifting in his eyes. Marya realised with a little surprise that the sparking feeling at seeing how much liked it was pride - pride in her hiding place, pride in herself for being the one to show him, make him smile. 

“Do I get my gift now?” she’d asked. 

“You haven’t guessed it yet,” 

Marya shrugged. 

“You changed the rules,” she replied, “So I can change them too,”

She got the sense he hadn’t been expecting that, but fair to him he conceded with an easy nod. 

“It’s a trade: I showed you the clock tower, so now I’m owed these presents that you’ve brought me,” 

He thought for a moment, then said: 

“I suppose that’s fair trade for the jewellery, you can have that, but you still have to guess the other,” 

“I would have gotten the jewellery anyway,” 

“Yes, but now I got something in return,” he winked, “It’s good business,” 

Marya crinked her nose at him, but accepted the proposition. They sat cross-legged opposite each other, in the dreamy light behind the clock face. Even then Marya liked to count things, keep track of things, and even though the hands of the clock alone would have been bigger than both of them out together she was watching them from the corner of her eye all the time that they were there. She knew, down to the minute, exactly what time he had give her the jewellery case, which contained a brooch of laurel leaves around an undeniably impressive ruby that Marya excitedly demanded he pin onto her dress this instant, and she knew exactly what time, down to the minute, he had finally given up on making her guess and said: 

“I don’t think you’re ever going to get it,” 

She glared at him. 

“Show me, then,” 

For a moment she thought he was going to make her wait, but then he slipped a piece of paper from his pocket and neatly opened it along the tidy creases before he handed it to her. They were plans, she realised, for a room - an extension, beautifully inked Kerch explained in the corner of the page, to be added to the Van Eck mansion. 

“What is this?” 

“You’re an artist,” he said, nodding at the page, “A painter and a musician, yes?”

Marya nodded, slowly. They had discussed this, though not at length, in their letters. 

“I asked to see some of your paintings,” he went on, “They’re magnificent,” 

“They’re silly,” she said, “it’s just-” 

“It’s everything,” he grabbed her hand, taking her by surprise, and pointed at the plans, “One day, when it’s our house, this will be for you. To paint, to play. Anything you want,”

Marya stared at the page. She looked up at him, slowly, trying to study the words written behind his eyes - but they could have been written in Shu for all that she could understand them. 

“What do you think?”

“I think I never would’ve guessed that,” she said drily, shooting him a playful smile. 

He released a short laugh, leaning back and releasing her hand. 

“Thank you,” she murmured, tracing her finger over the plans, “Can… Can I keep this? Or will you need it?” 

“I have a copy,” he told her, “You can keep it if you want. That’s the first design though, it might look the exact same as that in the end,”

Marya didn’t care. She tucked it deep and safe inside her pocket, and it lived beneath the false base to the drawer in her nightstand for the following years, so that she could take it out every evening and promise herself that knew, one day, even when all of these strange promises of marriage and of leaving home came true, that there was another promise to cling to as well. It was going to be okay.

Their letters got more familiar after that, easy and comforting, and a few more meetings followed - but as he grew he got busier and busier in the pathway following his father into the business, and the meetings his father arranged began to run farther and farther apart. They stole their first kiss when Marya was eighteen, under the moonlight in the Van Eck garden, before they strictly should have done. It was the first time they’d seen each other in years, some kind of ball being held for the Merchant Council families and a smattering of other guests. A great honour of a thing to be invited to, Marya’s father had told her, but all she’d really heard was Van Eck. She agreeably nodded her way through a lecturing conversation about manners and a preparatory dance lesson, since she hadn’t practised properly for some years, and twisted her gloved hands in her lap for the entire journey. Even from across the room she noticed that he was taller than her now, even in her heels. 

“You grew,” she’d said, peering at him, when they were finally close enough to alone that they felt they could talk freely. 

Their chaperone was, of course, hovering behind them, and this was far too public an affair to go running - and besides that Marya’s shoes would never have supported it, she almost wondered whether the slender heels or her own ankles would snap first if she tried - but they were pacing the edge of the room slowly, arm tucked delicately through arm, and their parents were scattered about the room with other occupations. 

“What a shrewd observation,” he mused, “Such an analytical mind - Have you ever considered joining the stadwatch?” 

Marya’s grip on his arm tightened. 

“I hope you know that if we weren’t in public-”

“Oh, I know,” he breathed, and when she glanced up she saw that he was grinning, “But luckily for me this incredibly dull ball is going to force you to spare my life, so I can say anything I want,”

“Well, I’m sorry to be trapping you in such an incredibly dull situation,” she hissed, the words slipping between her teeth as she smiled at one of the merchants walking past them. 

“That’s not what I meant,” he corrected, “I meant that without you here, it would be incredibly dull,”

“Oh is that so?” 

A passing servant offered them a tray of champagne and he released her arm to collect two glasses. 

“It absolutely is. I told my father,” he said, handing her the flute of lightly bubbling liquid. It caught light off the chandelier above them and shimmered like molten gold laid delicately between her fingers, “that I would refuse to come if he didn’t invite you,” 

Marya gasped, almost choking on the half a sip of champagne she’d managed so the glass clinked horribly against her teeth as she pulled away from it. He laughed gently, easing her hand to hold the glass level as she checked, horrified, to make sure nothing had spilled onto her dress. 

“Why, Marya, you’ve been an adult for months. I expected you to be better at drinking by now,”

“Careful,” she teased, as they began to walk again, “We may be in public but there are still plenty of quiet places to slip away, I’m sure,” 

A new kind of smile played over his lips, and she knew she’d won something now. 

“There are indeed,” his voice had drifted so low, so soft, that it was practically just a sigh evaporating in the air between his lips and her ear, “Shall we find one?” 

Marya glanced over her shoulder. Her mother was talking to some women on the other side of the room, her father was halfway up the wide, sweeping staircase, and Mr Van Eck was nowhere to be seen - though she supposed he was probably upstairs, and that her father was on his way to him. She smiled.

“Show the way, good sir,”

It had taken a few evasive measures to worm their way free of the chaperone and slip entirely out of sight, but then they were sitting on a pretty, iron wrought bench in a hidden little alcove surrounded by red rose bushes. He picked one, doing a poor job of hiding that he caught his hand on a thorn, and threaded it into her hair. Marya smiled. 

“So tell me,” she said, looking back up at the house behind them, “Where is my art room going to be?”

It was the first time she had been to the Van Eck house, in fact one of few visits to Ketterdam that she’d taken at all. He talked to her for a long while, telling her about the house and his plans and a lot of other things that she’d long forgotten by now. At some point his hand ended up cupping her cheek, and he lifted his thumb to trace the petals of the flower in her hair. 

“So beautiful,”

“Me or the rose?”

He leaned in and pressed his lips against hers. For a moment Marya was taken by surprise, not sure what to do, but then she let herself sink into the motion and prayed to Ghezen that she wasn’t doing it wrong. 

“Does that answer your question?” he murmured, as he pulled away. 

“I’ve never done that before,” was all that she could bring herself to whisper. 

His face fell, recoiling slightly, panic in his eyes. 

“Oh- oh Ghezen, of course you haven’t - I’m sorry, was that-? I shouldn’t have, I mean-”

Marya reached out and pressed a finger against his lips to quiet him. 

“That was fine,” she said, and then: “That was more than fine,”

It made her feel sick to think of it now. To remember that the first time, when he was suddenly against her and the colour was rising in her cheeks, that she’d thought maybe that just meant he loved her. The fleeting fancy of a silly little girl, a girl who was yet to spend nights and mornings trying to fix the redness of her eyes or turning over her pillow to hide the tears that had soaked into it, who was yet to scream for her child and for her world and for herself, who was yet to translate the words behind that boy’s eyes and recoil at their contents. 

“You’re really leaving me,” he pouted now, his hand winding its way around her waist. 

“I’ve already stayed another week,” she told him, delicately enough but with as firm an edge to her voice as she could manage. 

“But-”

“And haven’t I made that week worth it?” she added in a flighty whisper, leaning upwards to trace her fingers through his thinning hair. 

She used to touch his hair a lot. They would sit in the same armchair and she would twist herself so her head was above his own when she pressed her forehead against his, and ran her fingers through his hair. She would whisper things to him and he would move his hands around her hips. That was after they were married. Before the wedding there were just a few more chaste kisses, midnight trysts that made her feel far more dangerous and brave than she had ever really been. It was almost certain that Marya, if she’d been allowed to grow up without him there, would not have chosen this, but there was still a time when she had genuinely thought she loved him. Maybe she even had - or she’d loved what she thought he was. 

His father had died young. It was unexpected, and Marya had watched it slice through his world like a hot knife. He’d crumpled. 

They had to rush the wedding a little, pushing it through after only one month of full betrothal, and then any distance, anything that felt… stilted - well, he was mourning. Marya could only hope to help him any way she could, and she would not push him or force him further than he was ready for. She had only tried to once, when she’d found him working in his office at three bells in the morning and tried to demand he return to bed. 

“Go to sleep, Marya,” he’d snapped, not even looking up from the page. 

He seemed not to notice that she hadn’t left the room until she laid her hand over his own, gently forcing the quill out of his fingers. 

“Jan, please. You need to rest,” 

“No,” he said, impatiently, “I need to finish this. Give me the-”

He reached for the quill but she yanked it from his reach, stepping staunchly backwards and holding it out behind her. 

“You need to stop,” she insisted, “Get some sleep, you can-”

Her words broke into a gasp as his hand closed over her wrist, forcing her towards him, and before she’d even had the chance to struggle grabbed the arm she was reaching away by the crook of her elbow and shoving it firmly downwards. 

“Jan-”

He pried the thing from her fingers as she squirmed, then pushed her backwards with enough momentum to make her stumble. She couldn’t remember the entire argument that followed, now, not word for word. She could remember the clock on the desk ticking onwards, and she knew that it had hit four bells by the time she was shaking her head and watching him across from the room as she said: 

“What happened to you? What happened to the boy who ran up to the clock tower with me? Who promised me an art room, and kissed me in between the roses?” 

“He grew up,” her husband snarled, turning away, “I firmly suggest you do the same,” 

He marched out, leaving Marya standing alone in the middle of the office, trembling in her nightgown, with no sense of what to do but watch the seconds tick slowly on, round and round and round the clock upon the desk. It was barely a week later that she found out she was pregnant. 

“You have most certainly made this week worth it,” he murmured, now, catching the hand near his temple and pressing it against his lips.

Marya tried to smile, and hoped that it was more convincing than it felt. Sometimes she thought that the shame ought to be gone now, almost twenty years they’d been married after all, but it was rising now like a bitter tasting bile in the back of her throat. She pressed her body briefly against his own, then pulled away. 

“I’ll miss you,” 

“Then stay,”

She shook her head. The boat could be heard coming down the canal now, and within a moment it was visible. 

“Marya-”

She kissed him before he could finish speaking, and tried to force the taste of shame back down. 

“Six months,” she promised, “It will pass before you know it,” 

She really hoped that wasn’t true. 

The rest of her bags were already on the boat, so all she had to do now was pick up the bag at her feet and step onto the boat. Why was she not moving? Why were her feet not responding? She wanted this. She knew she did. But, Ghezen, how long had it been since she’d left this place? Marya tensed, gave herself an internal shake, and then scooped the bag up into her arms and held it close against her chest, like she was trying to protect it from something. She let her husband press his lips briefly against her cheek once more, and then stepped away without another word. 

Penelope was waiting for her on the deck, and offered her a hand as she stepped over the slender gap between canal bank and the little boat. She took Marya’s bag off her to put below, and Marya leant over the railing to watch the grass moving farther and farther away from her. Her husband watched from the boathouse until the boat was out of sight; she gave him a slight wave, somewhat distractedly, but other than that paid him little heed. She was watching the house floating into the distance, as though it was the thing on the water and not her, and she was watching the far edge of the wall shrinking, lower and lower and lower. It only occurred to her the other day that she didn’t know how they would cross the wall, but apparently there was a checkpoint along the canal that they could move through without bother. How far away would they have to be from Ketterdam before that thing wasn’t visible anymore? It was every direction, at the minute, but soon they would hit open water and Marya would be able to turn away, to banish it from her view. 

The boat snaked its way out of the city, concrete giving way to grass and buildings giving way to trees, and above her head the sun broke out from between the clouds. Penelope had not moved from the railing, staring upwards in silent contemplation, since they’d crossed the wall, but now she gasped out loud. Marya glanced at her, and discovered she was crying - had been crying for a while, by the looks of the glistening silver on her cheeks. They were catching the sunlight like glitter underneath her skin. 

“What’s wrong?”

The skin around her tattoo was reddened, the ink dark and pulsing. The stadwatch had tested it at the checkpoint, and Marya wondered if it was painful, if she could do anything to help her, but Penelope only shook her head.

“Well, what is it then?” Marya asked, trying to balance gentleness with insistence that Penelope not hide something important from her. 

The girl pointed vaguely over the railing, her voice shaking as she whispered: 

“I can see the sky,”

Marya wasn’t sure what to say to that. She laid her gloved hand over Penelope’s, and listened to the bird song in the distance.

[thorniest-rose]

I’m being completely honest when I say this: I actually think that Prism has changed my life. I don’t want this to turn into a trauma dumping session so I’ll try to keep it short. In 2020-2022 I was in an incredibly abusive relationship, both mentally and physically. My ex manipulated and gaslit me, and made me isolate myself from all of my friends. As I’ve never really had a family, I was completely alone apart from him. Our relationship ended in December last year, when my best friend found out I was still living with my abuser (I had lied, and said I was living with an aunt), and came and helped me get all my things so that I could move into her studio apartment with her. She also gave me the courage and support to finally make a report. The trial was last wednesday, and the verdict came today. Since he admitted to everything, and the evidence was so plentiful, he’s going to prison for almost a year.

I’m telling you this, because I need you to know just how important Prism has been for me. When I first read the warning chapter, I thought I wouldn’t even make it halfway through the first chapter, but your portrayal of abuse is so amazingly accurate that I found myself captivated.

Instead of it being triggering for me, as I was initially scared it would be, Prism has been a story that I’ve been able to see myself in. I’ve found myself audibly reacting to lines about how Steve believes Billy’s abuse will cease if he just gets everything right, if he’s not a burden. It hit hard, like a punch to the gut, but settled into a warm feeling not entirely unlike a post workout ache. I want to thank you for your naked and raw portrayal of abuse, and how victims of abuse often believe themselves deserving of the violence. I read, and I see Steve, but I also see myself at nineteen years old, scared, alone and hurt. Knowing that what’s being done to me is wrong, but still believing it to be deserved. Thank you for giving me this opportunity to process and heal my own traumas through an unconventional (but highly effective (and even endorsed by my therapist!)) way. I look forward to reading future chapters and seeing where Steve ends up, if he gets out similarly to how I did.

Perhaps worth mentioning, as I’m writing this I haven’t yet read the newest chapter, as I wanted to save it for after the trial was completely over to treat myself. Judging from some of your asks talking about a certain bathroom scene, chances are I’ll be giggling and kicking my feet before this night is over, dreaming about my own Prism Eddie sweeping me away (kidding… unless..?)).

THANK YOU again!! Love you💞

— 🐞

Hello darling, first of all I want to apologise and say how sorry I am for taking a few days to answer this, I was on a really busy work trip last week. I got back over the weekend and wanted time to devote some time to answering it, but I want you to know that I read this the moment you sent it in and I cried in my hotel room.

When Az and I started Prism, we joked with each other that only five people would read it because of how different and provocative it is, how painful and unpleasant. And it's far exceeded our expectations, but we said if that was the case and only a handful of people read it, it would be okay because the people who'd read it would love it, and if we could touch just one person with our writing, then it would all be worth it.

So reading everything you put in your ask has deeply touched me, it means so much more than fandom popularity, than writing a fic that everyone is talking about, or writing something flashy and superficial that appeals to a mass audience. Knowing Prism has meant so much to you, and has helped you during such a hard time in your life, will have always made the creation of this fic worth it. And all I can say is thank you. Thank you so much for telling me because I feel like this is the dream of any writer. To know their writing has made a difference in someone's life. It's a blessing to write Prism and for you to have found it, my love.

Secondly, I want you to know how incredibly brave I think you are. Abusive relationships are so consuming and they break you down completely, pulling you into their orbit and destroying everything good in your life. It's probably no surprise that Az and I have imbued elements of abusive relationships we've had in the past into Prism, so I can empathise. Honestly, reading what you've been through pulls at my heart. I'm so, so sorry that you went through all of that, for so long, and that you were hurt and manipulated by the one person who should have looked after you. But for you to have the bravery after all that to leave him? And to make a report? To have the courage to stand up to him and see him put behind bars? God, I'm crying writing this now. I'm just so happy and hopeful for you in this next stage of your life without him, and I might not know who you are but I'm thinking about you, and I think you're incredible. You're beautiful and strong and so completely amazing.

There was part of me that wanted to keep this in my inbox for longer and protect it because it's so special, but I knew you deserved an answer. I hope you see this. If you do please let me know.

Thank you for your ask. Thank you, thank you. You, and people like you, have turned the creation of Prism into such a beautiful and life-changing experience <333

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

omg!! tbh i was shy in sending you this because i wasn't sure if you'd like it, hence the anon ask. but yes... I have thoughts and ideas and feelings. hurt/comfort angsty shit is my thing. i think how he'd feel bittersweet of noticing changes in knight reader's behavior as time goes on, mostly in the beginning. and they get more used to it. violence has always been there, so why would they change? there's a difference when you're part of it as a victim and when you're the one responsible for it, he understands. he notices a certain darkness growing in them. stiff shoulders, scars and rougher hands from restless training. how their eyes are heavier, way darker than before, filled with a promise of harm. a silent warning. he'd take these little observations to himself quietly. like tragic events you can only watch and do nothing about because it isn't in your control. Prince Gojo knows the weight of the responsibility they've chosen. Knight reader has become so efficiently good at it, it's strange to him. the day he realizes what they're capable of unforgivable acts. red filling his sight, he could almost believe that the sky had changed colors as well. a warm atmosphere of thick blood that's difficult to breath in, uncomfortable, unnatural. for a second he saw no light in knight's eyes, which he's so fond of. duty. the promise of protection much louder in knight's ear than the scream of the men ahead that'll soon fall to the ground. those changes certainly make his heart ache. specially when knight reader, who's covered in dirt, sweat and blood denies touching him as to not stain his perfectly clean skin and clothes. or when knight reader says that it's too disgusting to touch and smell, so he should stay far from them. but we know Gojo would not care and indulge in his heart desires, in the hunger to comfort and clean them from such events. as if he could steal knight reader from everything and everyone. offer them all of his truly undying love. away from sharp edges. a place where there's nothing but softness and the brightness of gojo's smile.

@softgirlgonehaywire MICKEYYY COME LOOK COME LOOK WE ARE BEING FED

GOSH your brain!!!!!! your beautiful clever brain!!!!!! yes. just yes. u get them so well!!! i agree w literally everything u said……. U WROTE THIS SO BEAUTIFULLY TOO HHH THAT JUST MAKES IT HURT MORE….;;;;;;; T_T

first of all; im sorry to bring satosugu into literally everything (it will happen again) but like. i think what will always break me is the fact that suguru is canonically compared to a setting sun because all gojo could do was helplessly watch him fade away AND THATS JUST…… yeah. the idea of him failing to protect the One person he loves no matter the universe is so soulcrushing to me.

and the idea of him being forced to watch as his knight grows more cynical, as they start to become more and more infected by duty, duty, duty (if i ever finish the knight!sugu fic im cooking up ill definitely dissect this concept more but to me duty is like. almost a Disease in this world. something that corrupts.)… it’d break his heart a bit. he would definitely pull some strings to try and ease their duties and burdens but there’s only so much he can do :( (more motivation for him to become king so he can protect u properly!! tbh i think king!gojo would be twice as protective maybe a little manic… or maybe it would get him to relax a bit more… who knows who knows (<- thinking many thoughts))

but. gosh. the way u phrased this im literally going rabid……… ”violence has always been there, so why would they change?” / ”(…) filled with a promise of harm. a silent warning.” / ”the promise of protection much louder in knight's ear than the scream of the men ahead (…)” <- THIS ONE ESPECIALLY OHHH U GET IT U DO!!! placing satoru’s safety above everything else…. ruining themselves bc of that devotion…….. ur writing is so pretty btw im in awe

AND GODDDDD u know the way to my heart!! the guilt knight!reader feels, not wanting satoru to stain his own hands w the blood on theirs… they just see him as being so far above, like the sun in the sky, and thats also why i think they would feel some sort of urge to keep their distance… they’d rather die than dirty him, literally or figuratively. (but in reality i think prince!gojo is already a bit twisted and dirtied on his own and thats what knight!reader might not completely realize…) its literally just this:

if u listen closely u can hear the sound of me falling to my knees. both of them are a little sick in the head but they love each other so dearly, not even romantically, just as individuals…. they’re just in love w each other’s existence i think. it’s a very pure kind of love!!!

as if he could steal knight reader from everything and everyone. offer them all of his truly undying love. away from sharp edges. a place where there's nothing but softness and the brightness of gojo's smile.

^ AND FINALLY THISSSSS ohhh u r killing me…. this is exactly it too!!! that desire to just steal them away and make sure theyre safe. he wouldnt do it bc he knows they wouldnt want that, but he rlly does just want them to be happy and safe all the time…. i think gojo is kind and mature enough to realize that hes being selfish and he wouldnt act on those desires but theyre very much there. all he can do is keep smiling for them, trying to get them to realize that its okay to depend on him too 🥺🥺

its so funny bc they rlly do both have a severe hero/savior complex LMAO its like two people-pleasers trying to decide what to have for dinner… nono you choose, you choose, im fine with anything!! you want whatever i want? but i want whatever you want…. silly little geese. i love them!!

[missywritesfor7]

🌙Moon’s Light | JJK🌙

Synopsis: Luna is a young paralegal trying to maintain her new found independence and enjoy life. Too bad her job sucks and her boss is the worst. As if that wasn’t bad enough, she encounters a vampire named Jungkook who changes her life in more ways than one.

Jungkook is a shield and protector of the vampire kingdom of Korealis. He’s trained his entire life to block out any and all distractions and focus solely on becoming the strongest. While investigating a potential threat to the kingdom, he encounters Luna who turns out to be more than he could have ever imagined. It becomes his job to protect her, but he can’t tell if what he’s feeling is his devotion to the job or perhaps something deeper.

Secrets are uncovered. Lives are on the line. Hearts are tested.

Pairing: Vampire!Jungkook x Fem!OC

Warnings: Violence, character death, eventual smut, tragedy, some angst, strong language, MINORS DNI

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|| Ch 26: Challenge Accepted ||

Jungkook barely gets the lock turned on his door before he’s picking Luna up again and laying her down on his bed. He picks up right where he left off, driving his hands up her body. She doesn’t protest at all. She’s drunk on the taste of him and has no desire to stop now.

Their breaths are heavy, and even heavier when Jungkook slides her shirt over her head. His lips move from her mouth to her neck all the way down her chest until he reaches the fabric of her bra. His hands are warm against her skin, sliding all the way up her body then back down taking her bra with them. He flicks his tongue over her right nipple before nearly swallowing it. His hand gently squeezes her other nipple causing a deep breath to escape her throat.

He doesn’t stop, if it were up to him he’d never stop. He slides his tongue down her stomach, pausing right at her bellybutton to give it a soft kiss, then continues to the waistband of her leggings where he curls his fingers under and pulls them down along with her panties.

A chill overcomes her body as she lay there before him completely exposed. He leans back to remove his shirt then stares down at her. This isn’t like the first time. This isn’t a life or death situation. He’s not racing to save her life. He can take his time with her. He can take a moment to appreciate the way she looks laying bare in front of him. He has never been so hungry in his life.

He leans down between her legs and slides a finger between her folds. Another moan escapes her lips and it’s just the fuel he needs to slide his finger inside of her so he can hear her moan more. He’s addicted to the sound of her. He’s addicted to the feel of her. And when he slides his tongue over her aching bud, he gets addicted to the taste of her.

He slides a second long finger into her and begins flicking his tongue across her clit over and over again. His rhythm is almost unbearable.

This isn’t like the first time to her. This isn’t life or death. This isn’t pain being masked by pleasure. This isn’t her trying to focus on how good he feels in order to distract herself from the unbearable pain running through her body. This is all pleasure. This is all him and all her in their raw forms. This is her realizing just how much she enjoys all of him. She can lose herself in the almost overwhelming amount of pressure in her core and makes sure he knows just how good he is to her.

She reaches a hand down to tangle her fingers in his hair while he shows no signs of slowing down. Her moans grow heavier and more desperate as she braces for the release that she’s no longer able to hold back.

“Fuck,” she exhales feeling her orgasm radiate through her body.

The force of her undoing knocks Jungkook back a few feet. She can hardly process what just happened before he’s removing his pants and closing in on her like a predator to his prey. That force that she unleashed just became a challenge for him. If she unleashes her power when she cums then he wants to make her cum so hard he hits the wall on the other side of the room.

He envelopes her body in his and slowly inches himself inside her. Her oxygen is depleted and all she can release is strangled moans as he slowly pulls himself in and out of her. He stops teasing her and himself and picks up speed with each stroke using her voice as his guide to hit the places where she’s most sensitive.

“Don’t stop,” she moans as pressure builds within her again. “Please don’t stop.”

He reaches a hand between them and rubs the pad of his thumb on her clit making her second undoing imminent. His hips don’t miss a beat and he knows she’s nearly about to explode.

“Ah…Jungkook…fuck.” She digs her fingers into his arms and arches her back off of the bed. The force is coming again and she’s powerless to stop it no matter how hard she tries.

“Don’t fight it, baby,” he growls in her ear using every bit of power he has left to bring her to the finish. He knows what will happen. He knows she can’t control it, and after what just happened, he knows he enjoys it. Maybe a little too much. He wants her to hit him with her worst. He wants to challenge himself to hold on. A test of strength in a moment of pleasure.

“Koook,” she moans before her ability to make a sound is stripped away.

Her body is at its limit. The force boils over and hits Jungkook even harder than it did the first time. But this time he was ready for it. She knocked him back only half as far as she did before, but he had to use a lot of strength to stand his ground. He doesn’t let it stop his rhythm though. He quickly swallows Luna’s body with his and inserts her again chasing his own release while she whines and convulses under him on the way down from hers.

Their bodies are molded together and their breaths are heavy. He leaves a few kisses on her shoulder then kisses his way up to her lips. His hardened body goes soft as he pulls out of her and gently rests his head on her chest.

After a moment he lifts himself to give her another kiss then goes into the bathroom for a towel to clean her up with. He gets back in the bed and holds her close to his chest. She rests her cheek on him and she can hear his heart racing.

“Did I hurt you?” She asks breaking the silence.

“Hurt me?” He asks looking down at her. “You could never hurt me.”

“Are you sure? I mean I’m sorry, I really don’t know how to control it.”

“Stop,” he chuckles. “We’ll work on controlling it, but whenever you’re with me,” he lifts her chin with his finger. “I want you to let it all out.”

His voice sends chills through her body. He’s one more raspy sentence away from her putting him on his back and going for another round.

“What if do I hurt you one day?” She asks.

“Then that just means I need to get stronger.”

“Wouldn’t it be better for me to learn to control it so we won’t have to worry about it at all?”

“With more training you’ll learn.”

“Your training did nothing but wear me the fuck out,” she huffs.

“It’s part of the process,” he laughs.

“Bullshit! You’re probably just fucking with me because deep down you don’t want me to have control of my power.”

“Why would you think that?” He smirks.

“Because if I don’t know how to use my power then you can put me in situations that make me lose my shit and knock myself out. Then you can swoop in and play mister hero and save me to boost your ego.”

“You’d think I’d want you to be in harm’s way just so I can boost my ego?”

“Maybe,” she chuckles. “Don’t you like playing the hero?”

“I would much rather you stay out of trouble so I can breathe for once.”

“Well excuse me,” she sasses. “You weren’t forced to look after me.”

“Yes I was,” he snaps. “I was forced by the highest order.”

“Oh yeah? Who is that, Jin? Or the King?”

“No. My heart.” He looks at her staring blankly at him.

“That was so cheesy!” She shouts erupting into laughter. “You really know how to win the ladies over with those smooth lines,” she jokes.

“Yeah, it worked on you, now didn’t it?” He laughs.

“Pffft no,” she scoffs. “I’m here because I was trapped.”

“Oh really?” He rolls her to her back and leans into her face. “Is that why you can’t stop moaning my name?”

She bites her lip too proud and stubborn to admit it. He doesn’t need her to though, he knows he’s right. He’s staring down at her ready to make her moan his name again. Just as he leans close enough to brush his lips across hers, his phone rings.

“Fuck,” he whispers sitting up and answering it. “Hey, hyung.”

He pauses with a blank stare. Luna isn’t sure which of his hyungs is calling him right now, but she wishes she could hear the other end of the conversation.

“Right now?” Jungkook asks looking towards Luna. “Alright, I’ll be there in a few minutes.” He hangs up the phone and grabs her shoulders as if he’s about tell her something urgent. “I have to go.”

“Where?” She asks.

“Taehyung‘s interview with Park Hyungwon was moved to today. They’re leaving now. I have to go with them so we can take him down.”

“Ok. I’m guessing I’m not going along with you for this?”

“No, but I don’t have time to take you back to my mom’s.”

“Well this wouldn’t be the first time you’ve left me alone.”

“Just don’t go anywhere for any reason until I get back!” He demands.

“Yeah yeah I know. Your dad is scary, I’m not going to risk being seen by him.”

“Good,” he breathes with relief. “I’ll be back as soon as we’re done ok? I promise.”

He gives her a quick kiss then looks her over a moment. They’re both still completely naked and he hates that he has to pull himself away from her right now. He wants to completely devour her. He manages to get off the bed and quickly gets himself dressed. He runs back to give her another kiss then heads out the door.

Luna lays back down and stares at the ceiling wondering what she’s supposed to do there by herself for who knows how long. She lays there a bit before finally getting up to put her clothes back on. She wishes she could read through her mom’s journal that she brought back, but she left it at Jungkook’s mom’s house.

The day drags with her on edge every time she hears a sound in the hall. She’s convinced it’s only a matter of time before Minseok comes barging in to kill her or something. By evening she can’t rest any longer. She’s bored and anxious, and Jungkook has nothing to eat in his room. Only bottles of blood and a half empty bag of chips. She finds a pen and paper and scribbles a note for Jungkook in case he gets back before she does.

I’m bored. I’ll be at your mom’s.

She leaves the note on the bed and quietly steps out into the hall. She walks quickly and lightly to hurry outside and far from possibly being seen by anyone. When she’s far enough down the street she breathes a sigh of relief. Now the next challenge is remembering exactly how to get to his mom’s house. She has an idea but she isn’t entirely confident since the place is still new to her.

She doesn’t know how long she’s walked or how far, but after some second guessing and circling the same block three times, she makes it to his mom’s street. She only hopes Sunyoung is there and doesn’t mind her showing up, especially without Jungkook. However to her delight Sunyoung opens the door right up and welcomes her back. She offers Luna something to eat as she had just finished making dinner.

Afterwards, Luna goes into the spare room and grabs her mom’s diary. That was her main reason for coming here despite Jungkook telling her not to go anywhere. She knows he’ll fuss and fight about it when he gets back but as usual she doesn’t care. She starts at the beginning reading her mother’s words and realizes it begins not long after she was born.

Her mother writes about her grief of losing her best friend. Her anger towards Hyungwon for killing Luna’s parents and her fear for Luna’s safety. She had been searching everywhere for information on vampires and how it would affect Luna having been born after her mother was bit.

Luna is entranced in her mother’s diary she almost forgot where she was. Nothing exists at this moment outside of the writing on the pages. She gets choked up reading about the challenges they faced trying to find somewhere safe to live. Her mom was afraid Hyungwon would come looking for Luna. She knows there’s a reason why he did what he did, but she had no idea why. She vowed to protect Luna as best she could. Luna learns that she was actually born in a city 5 hours away from where she ended up growing up.

Things begin to seem more desperate as her mom writes about not knowing what to do about Luna’s increasingly out of control temper and the power that comes from her. They were losing control of Luna until they met Kai. Luna doesn’t remember much about Kai, but she remembers being taken to the doctor and she thought its was odd that his office was incredibly dark. She’s learning now that Kai wasn’t a doctor at all, but he was someone who knew more about vampires than her parents. Her mom had a hard time trusting him because she was convinced he was also a vampire, but the medicine he gave Luna worked. Luna had been on a special vitamin that she had to take everyday for most of her life. She only stopped when she moved out on her own and was too busy working to think about taking a daily vitamin. She wonders if there’s a way for her to find Kai again, maybe he’d know something about Hyungwon and what he did to her.

She continues flipping through the pages going through a range of emotions from sadness to anger to confusion. The one who could straighten all of this out and give her answers is the one Jungkook is currently trying to capture. She only hopes he’s able to succeed.

[angelofprovidence]

Ended

[WARNING: Contains graphic violence]

[Part 3 of Endless]

“…and remember, though our works go yet unrecognized by Her, we Faithful shall continue to build this city in Her Honor, faithfully waiting for the day when She shall walk among us and be pleased with what we made of Her gift. Go now, and may Her boundless magnificence and Her never ending wisdom guide us.”

Rise. Bow. Off to work.

The man attending the sermon picked up his polished masonry hammer and his pristine sharpened chisel the made for his work site as he had done every morning for the past 94 years without fail. His contemporaries likewise did the same. Though his age was now well past triple digits, he felt none of the effects and looked not a day older than that day they all left the old city to burn. None of the other masons in his collective nor their entourage of unskilled laborers had aged either. None of the Faithful had. All thanks to Her.

The mason arrived at the entrance of the construction site. They were to build a mighty tower which was to be the greatest, most prominent monument of them all; a symbol of the Faithful’s devotion to the Fair Lady and to each other. It was to be just as tall as the peak on the mountain they inhabited, tall enough to showcase the artistic vision of the Faithful and the unyielding power of the Fair Lady. It was not to exceed Her height, however, and careful measurements had been taken to ensure the height of the tower would climax just below the elevation of Her temple where She stood overlooking Her snowy, remote domain. The tower was one of the first permanent structures Her Faithful had conceived of (following the construction and completion of Her temple, of course) and it has been under construction for the better part of the past century.

He gave a curt smile to the guard standing at the base of the tower which was reciprocated warmly. The mason’s smile quickly melted as he had to turn slightly to his side to pass by the massive slab of steel the guards called ‘shields.’ Their barbaric club they called a ‘mace’ remained in the guard’s belt as the mason scoffed to himself at the guard and his clunky weapons. Those were not the tools of a mason, after all.

Once past the guard, the mason looked around at the site to find familiar signs of stone piled in various places, the other skilled workers directing the laborers, the cranes and pulleys at work moving large slabs of stone and people higher up the tower, and the general bustle of laborers and workers going to and fro about their business. He sighed as he rested his hand on the head of the polished hammer on his belt as he continued his way past a pile of broken stone and on to his station where he was to reshape raw stone cut from this very mountain into pieces of the tower. Had he known that accepting the Fair Lady’s gift of an ageless life meant that he would still be shaping stone almost a century later, he would have thought about his decision to abandon the old kingdom just a little longer before signing his life away to his craft. Then again, someone had to build Her towers, shape Her walkways, and fix Her walls. Perhaps this life was not as glamorous as he might have hoped, but at least he had his family, his profession, an unnaturally long life free from disease and attrition, and the Fair Lady, whatever it was She may be doing all alone on the summit.

The day passed as any other. More stone to shape. More repairs to be made. More mistakes to be corrected. The mason hardly felt the ache in his hands these days as it was merely a part of his being, and the numbness meant he could work longer. As the man began to pack his tools away to go home and end his day, a shout followed by a deafening crash made the man duck for cover below his workbench. After a brief intermission where there were no further crashes, the mason slowly peeked over his workbench to find that one of the cranes up above had failed and dropped its load. The mason then left his bench with his tools neatly packed away, and walked towards the exit to leave, going past the accident site on his way out. As he neared the site, a crowd of workers, guards, and laborers were rushing over to look for survivors and assess the damage. The mason merely glanced at the blood streaked rubble as he walked past, determining that a handful of workers had gotten caught up in the accident, and their ageless lives had been ended as a result. He did not choose to linger or to help, for the work would surely be there tomorrow if it was not cleaned this evening.

This was the thirteenth major incident involving the loss of a Faithful life on this tower since its beginning, and the seventh accident this decade. The laborers had been getting sloppy, and now they were killing themselves as a result of their carelessness. The image of the crushed workers, the blood dripping and pooling around the accident, and the broken, cracked stone littering the construction site lingered in the mason’s head. Such a waste. The mason was quite certain he had played a part in shaping that massive piece that was dropped, and he was just as certain that he was to be the one they would ask to repair or remake it. And he would do it. The Fair Lady could return to them from Her temple at any moment, and She would not abide by sloppy mistakes and broken stone.

The mason’s numb hands almost instinctively went to his belt where he found his polished hammer and his sharpened chisel resting idly, waiting for the fiasco to further unfold tomorrow. All of that broken stone now had to be fixed. What a waste of perfectly good stone.

-Angel

Thursday, January 2, 2025