#HIS OUTFITS ARE ALMOST IDENTICAL

[goldenorder]

i love how lantern rite pretty much confirmed that zl did absolutely nothing to change his appearance when he "died"

[puppyeared]

(guy who has never played cotl) haha au time

[radarchives]

[mukuberry]

i hate shidou's cloak prison uniform but i like to imagine he takes it off and puts it over the other prisoners like a blanket when they're cold and/or napping

[dimiclaudeblaigan]

"yuri lowell is a manly heterosexual"

yuri lowell:

[vincenteuniverse]

Ken's progression OUT of color

This is kinda a cornplate thought that I had nowhere else to put but I love how in the Barbie movie(SPOILERS), Ryan Gosling's Ken's outfits symbolically showcase his "descent" into full patriarchy mode over time.

At the beginning of the film Ken's beach outfit (his default) has an equal balance of pink and blue. Pink is obviously Barbie's color, and shows Ken as fitting well into the femininity and style of Barbieland, while blue could be argued to be Ken's color (a scene later when he's especially confident features him wearing all denim blue, and the stereotypical gender of these colors, especially when found in kid's toys, supports these basic binaries as associated with these colors).

When Ken decides to leave Barbieland with Barbie to delve into the outside world, his color scheme goes full pink, desperate enough to be with Barbie that his attire reflects how dependent his identity is on hers at this stage.

However, it isn't long before Ken's exploration of the real world leads him to exciting new discoveries about the patriarchy and what it can do for him. Here he is introduced to a newfound sense of self independent from barbie, and while he still carries a pink scarf around his neck, the rest of his outfit has devolved into black and white while hers has remained colorful. As he pursues this new-to-him idea further, his worldview is becoming less unique, pretty, and vibrant(in addition to becoming much more masculine).

It is only his scarf that ties him to Barbie now, and upon making the choice not to follow her to Mattel, he becomes fully independent, losing the scarf and any trace of pink in his attire the next time we see him in his mojo dojo casa house coat and beach off outfit underneath.

In his most masculine moment during "Just Ken", he and the other Kens all wear a uniform of the most traditionally male ben shapiro outfit ever: A T-Shirt, belt, and dress pants. All black(and no white either to contrast like the previous 2 outfits). It's fitting that the Kens, in their destructive warpath, imagine themselves as perfectly cleaned up yet violently masculine dancers in their heads, their outfits devoid of all of the flair and character of Barbieland.

(excuse the shitty picture) After Ken has his little self-growth moment, his new sweatshirt reflects the changed and much more balanced man he has become, much more accepting of himself and a life where he can co-exist with Barbie without being with her. This outfit is again an almost perfect balance of pink and blue, both sides of Ken now a bit more at peace, his colors not pushed out by the LITERALLY black hole of toxic masculinity.

The color scheme also matches the roller blading outfit, so perhaps it shows a somewhat intermediary stage of Ken's development wherein he is still attached to and at peace with Barbieland, but where he is starting to become more independent as well. anyway these are all fun and i genuinely have no fucking idea why Mattel didn't cash in on literally making dolls of all the characters and their outfits these would be so fun to own

[drluvsick]

𝐆𝐈𝐅𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌 𝐀 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐈 𝐏𝐋𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐒 — 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐬

you hand make them a replica of themselves in the form of a plushie! 📝 gn! reader. btw relationship is mutual pining. would’ve made the headers as the hashira’s plushies but… coloring would’ve been ughhh. maybe i'll post it separately!

word count : 1.6k+

𝐆𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐈 𝐇𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐉𝐈𝐌𝐀

“for me?” he’s surprised before it melts into a smile. with the plushie in hand, he rolls it around feeling the details from his hair to outfit, getting a general view of what it could look like.

“this is very kind of you. i will cherish this for the rest of my life.” he puts a hand on your head, gently petting you as you hug him in return. he’s happy at the action, his large body engulfing yours as he hugs you back. you’re relieved that he’s blind so that he’s not able to see your blush, but with your heart beating unusually fast and loud, you’re sure he can hear it and deduct it himself.

gyomei thinks that perhaps you may hear his heart beating abnormally as well in the moment.

𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐍 𝐔𝐙𝐔𝐈

he thinks it’s perfect. would’ve added more glitter, but then he thinks that maybe it’s better off that the entire plush isn’t covered in the tiny monsters. (he held the gift for a few seconds and then BAM, glitter EVERYWHERE on his hand)

he loves how flashy the doll is. it seems to shine and sparkle even in the dark of night.

he obviously treats you to a shopping spree or restaurant “date” with him after (after both of you furiously wash your hands from all that glitter).

absolutely takes mini tengen with him when he’s with you. you both brainstorm ideas for him and his little comrade to match outfits (off to the fabric store!).

this small gift secretly makes him scream inside. when he gets home from the interaction, you BET he’s going to be humming the entire rest of the day, unable to sleep because his thoughts are all filled of you.

𝐆𝐈𝐘𝐔 𝐓𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐎𝐊𝐀

so surprised that you would give him a gift. why would you want to waste so much time in giving him something? something you handmade, to be precise? he asks this, and when you reply saying that you just wanted to, he swears he fell harder than before.

he’s beyond happy, though. you get the grace of seeing him unconsciously smile at the present as he notices the attention to details. how much time did you spend looking at him to remember all these features? the thought makes him a little lightheaded.

you’re too sweet to him, he thinks. now whenever he’s feeling down and you’re gone, he holds the little plush to his heart for a small sense of comfort that helps him to live another day. and he doesn’t dare take it on missions or anywhere, really. he’s too afraid to lose or destroy something you worked so hard on to make for him.

god forbid you tell shinobu one day that you made a plushie for giyuu. she’d never let him get away without teasing him for actually getting someone to like him well enough to make something for him.

will subconsciously hide behind you when she does start with the teasing as you softly grasp his haori sleeve, making his heart flutter tenfold at the small action.

𝐎𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐈 𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐎

(you’ve seen his face without the bandages)

when you hand it to him, he’s on cloud nine. you even made kaburamaru! the snake seems to appreciate it, happily leaving obanai’s shoulders to rest on yours instead.

he practically begs to take you somewhere as thanks and to spoil you, because this gift from you has his face heating up and he wants to draw your attention away from it. and when you do agree (albeit reluctantly), his snake looks at him with a “lmao dude you’re freakin’ whipped”.

while walking, he notices that the bandages on the plushie are removable, asking you if it’s intentional.

“see for yourself,” were your words as he reluctantly removed them. he saw the bottom of the face littered in scars almost identical to the ones underneath his own bandages, with the words on the side of the bandages covering the doll’s face reading: “you’re beautiful, scars or no scars. and from what you’ve shown me, it’s the same on the inside.”

he swears that he could just faint right there and then.

𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐌𝐈 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐙𝐔𝐆𝐀𝐖𝐀

“tsk, what is this?”

you smile as he inspects it; watching his lips twitch, fighting the urge to curve upwards. “it’s a plushie of yourself.”

“you made this? for me?”

“yep!”

he looks anywhere but at you, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand as warmth bristles through; his ears turning red as he says, “it’s nice, i guess.”

“just ‘nice’?” you reply back, teasing his quick response. “maybe i should’ve just made a plushie for someone else, liiike… giyuu.” you grin, aware of the facade he’s pulling.

“don’t you dare. it’s amazing, i love it.” he spits out gruffly, but wholly truthful. “…thank you.” he thinly smiles, if not for you observing him you wouldn’t have noticed it.

“aww, you’re welcome!” you snicker.

he turns his head the other way, his face beginning to feel uncomfortably hot.

𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐎𝐊𝐔 𝐊𝐘𝐎𝐉𝐔𝐑𝐎

his plushie literally radiates sunshine, just like the original himself. when he receives it, he shouts the loudest thank you you’re ever going to hear.

talks about all the details and how much it embodies him. he adores it. then he asks if you could make one of you, so that they could be a pair together (AHHHH).

hugs you so tightly that you start to sweat from his body heat. but he means well!

eats with the plushie when you’re not with him. it reminds him of who made it and it just makes his food taste 100x better.

probably keeps it in his pocket and shows it to people like, “look what (y/n) made for me! :D” so that now so many people know who you are.

and when you make that replica of yourself for him? he just can’t get enough of how adorable it is. keeps it with him in his pocket too, it makes his day so much better whenever he sees it because it just radiates you.

𝐌𝐈𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐈 𝐊𝐀𝐍𝐑𝐎𝐉𝐈

squeals, she’s just so so so happy. her face turns this cute red and all she can do is just smother you with a hug because of her overwhelming excitement.

she dances around with it at first, screaming about how cute you made it and absolutely loving how you designed the doll to be just like her. you got her into the whole craft business, her new determination to make a doll of you to present to you! she hugs you one last time before rushing off with her new plan.

she quickly realizes that if she gives… whatever she made in her first attempt to you, it’d come across as an insult. so she spends countless days and nights (in between missions, of course) to perfect her gift to her beloved. and when she finally does…

…she gives it to you like a child showing their parent their artwork, except mitsuri’s present was better than just any children’s project.

she’s so giddy when you praise her for it, finally able to collapse from exhaustion when she gets home. but when you kiss her on the forehead, she knows that there’s no way she’s going to get a blink of sleep, especially not when that moment keeps replaying in her head throughout the rest of the day.

𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐁𝐔 𝐊𝐎𝐂𝐇𝐎

she’s calm and collected on the outside, having an emotional breakdown and desperately trying not to just tackle you and hug and kill you with kisses on the inside. her logical mind prevails unfortunately.

she dearly thanks you for the gift with the sweetest soft tint of pink on her face.

she takes it for walks around her estate, visiting patients, and when she needs to calm down. it just takes a few minutes with the plushie in her hands for her to think of you to become more relaxed.

she doesn’t take it in her lab, though— worried that something might happen to it. so instead, during those periods, she keeps it in her room in a secret place that only she knows about, because she’s a little paranoid that something may end up destroying it with all the people in the estate and all.

the next time you’re out on a mission? expect a parcel from her delivered by crow with your favorite (non-perishable) food, some trinkets and items you might enjoy, and a note that vaguely suggests her true feelings towards you.

she secretly prays that you’ll take the hint and ask her out.

𝐌𝐔𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐎 𝐓𝐎𝐊𝐈𝐓𝐎

(reader is either same age or muichiro is aged up)

despite his flawed memory/memorizing issues, muichiro does a huge effort to not forget the plushie you gave him.

he’ll write himself notes, bring it with him everywhere, and he finds himself replaying moments with you and daydreaming in his mind more often about you with the doll around.

definitely falls asleep with it gently in his arms, held close to his chest. it helps him fall asleep faster and more comfortably knowing that something resembling your presence was so nearby.

his crow’s definitely jealous by this btw. but she respects you both so she doesn’t lay a claw on the plushie.

one day when you find him hugging the plushie close to him as he was walking around his estate, you decide to go up to him and hug him from behind. let’s just say, he got a lot more clingy after that, hugging the gift at night tighter to try to replicate that warm feeling your hugs always gave him.

overluvsick | please do not repost, translate, and/or claim my works as yours !!

[logansgaar]

the gross mischaracterisation of Steve Harrington's music taste is an unbearable crime goddamnit, this man has never even heard a pop song in his life! All the music he plays is either rock, new wave or indie music, we see this at his party and so the music playing in his car (which you can find lists of on what-song and similar sites).

someone on reddit noticed Steve is also wearing an outfit identical to one Freddie Mercury wore the same year season 4 is set. In fact, Steve regularly dresses similarly to Freddie Mercury, the more I look the more I see there's definitely influences of Freddie's casual fashion (not his show looks) in Steve's style; some of them, like the yellow jumper look the redditor noticed, are almost like for like. Why is this unusual? Maybe because Queen had tanked in America at the time, America's radio stations found them insulting in fact, so it's a big deal that Steve had Queen playing in his car, it means it wasn't on the radio by chance... he owned a copy himself

I'll have to rewatch but I'm pretty sure the only times Steve has mainstream 80s disco, dance or synth pop anywhere near him it's either someone else's party he's a guest at, and therefore has no say in the music, or he's referencing it to make fun of it (ie Tammy Thompson, and even then it was still pop rock).

Steve is a rock, by the looks of it mostly British bands too, I wouldn't be surprised if he knows The Clash just as well as Jonathan does and it's time people realize that and respect it

(edit: my dumbass misread post-punk as punk, feel free to throw rocks)

Stop making his Vecna songs disco, synth pop music and make it something he's actually shown to listen to

[willow-wispwolf]

The lore implications behind Martyn’s new rat are actually driving me insane. I've been obsessing over his rat for like an hour or five.

So, I know his rat is a part of his VTuber story cause of the scars

If you look at the designs, the scars are the same, except there are more as they go on. (I wonder if the eyepatch will stay for the rest of the lore)

The idea of him being back in the Rats world makes for a really interesting story cause I'm not sure if he'll see it as the same game or a sequel game. What makes it even better is that there are repeat characters from Rats 1. He doesn't look terribly different from his Rats 1 character, with the same hair, ears, and color scheme, so feasibly, characters like Trash Rat, Bek, El, Shelby, Will, or Tubbo could possibly recognize him. How will he interact with them?

I mean, it's clear that he's still the pun master, like his Rats 1 title. His favorite food being pie this time is cause he's a pie rat. Then, obviously, there's fishing and phishing. Phishing is clearly the punny synonym for his looting specialty from his previous Rat.

Then, the fact that he's a PI-RAT makes this even more interesting. Martyn's clothes look almost identical to his Pirates smp outfit. Maybe something happened because Doc wasn't responding, and so he got sent to the next world with some Pirates data still with him?

Oh yea and let's not forget the fact that he's the only rat who shares an occupation, and it's with REN

Y'all, I'm so ready for Rats smp 2

I wonder how many jokes about how in Pirates, we were rats in his boot, and now he's a pirate rat there's gonna be. We're gonna be flees in his boots.

[isaadore]

SPOOKY SEASON CHARLES LECLERC

pairing dad!charles leclerc x mom!reader

SUMMARY amélie never misses an opportunity to be just like her dad. word count 0.3k words

warnings pure fluff, short

note it's been a while since i posted anything, so i'm glad to be back 🙏 i hope u guys enjoy this blurb of amélie and charles during halloween <3

It was Halloween morning, and the house was buzzing with excitement. You were adding some last-minute touches to the decorations when Charles and Amélie came racing down the stairs. Well, Charles was walking, but Amélie, at four years old, was practically bouncing, dressed up in a miniature Ferrari jumpsuit, her curly brown hair tied back into pigtails.

“Look, Maman!” Amélie announced proudly, grinning from ear to ear. “I’m Papa!”

You stifled a laugh as you noticed the matching outfits. Charles wore his signature red Ferrari racing suit, and Amélie, his little shadow, wore an almost identical version of it, down to the number 16 on the back.

Charles beamed, clearly as proud as Amélie. “She insisted, you know. Said she wanted to be just like Papa this Halloween.”

You chuckled, bending down to fix Amélie’s collar. “And she does look exactly like you. Only cuter, of course.”

Amélie tugged at her racing suit and looked up at Charles. “Papa, can we practice like we’re at the race track? I want to do a pit stop!”

Charles laughed, picking her up and spinning her around. “Of course, mon ange (my angel)! Let’s go. You’ll be the fastest on the track tonight.”

The two of them ran around the living room, pretending to pit-stop every few minutes. Charles even brought out a small replica steering wheel he had customized for her, and they spent most of the afternoon running around the house, “racing” through the kitchen, dodging ghosts on the stairs, and stopping for quick “pit stops” that Charles managed to sneak a snack into.

Later, as the evening approached, the three of you headed out for trick-or-treating. Amélie held Charles’s hand tightly, practically buzzing with excitement in her little Ferrari suit, a mini version of her father’s confidence on display.

As you strolled through the neighbourhood, you caught glimpses of people smiling as they recognized Charles, but it was Amélie who caught everyone’s attention. She was radiant, proudly announcing to everyone that she was “just like Papa.”

After the last house and a bucket full of candy, Amélie held Charles’s hand, looking up at him with sleepy but happy eyes. “Papa, this was the best Halloween ever,” she whispered.

Charles knelt down and kissed her forehead. “For me too, papillon (butterfly).”

‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎MAIN MASTERLIST ✷ AU MASTERLIST

[badathumanemotions]

My Little Vampire

Spencer Reid x Fem Reader Happy Halloween! MDNI Masterlist Category: Smut CW: Smut, Biting Kink, Bite Marks, Oral Sex (m rec), Vaginal Sex, Riding, No Protection, Aftercare/First Aid. WC: 3,268 It's Halloween Eve, Spencer is running around worrying about making sure everything is perfect. You need a way to wear him out. (Not Proof Read)

"Seriously, you can't see the difference between these two shades of red?" Spencer held up two almost identical pieces of cloth to the light, his eyes squinting with intensity. His glasses perched on the tip of his nose, and the smudges on the glass only added to the endearing chaos of the moment. It was Halloween eve, and the living room of your shared home had been transformed into a whirlwind of cardboard skeletons, cobwebs, and plastic pumpkins.

You couldn't help but smile, watching him from the couch where you were lounging. Spencer's costume was sprawled out in front of him—a meticulously crafted Sherlock Holmes outfit, complete with a deerstalker hat and an intricately tied cravat.

"I'm pretty sure the trick-or-treaters will be more concerned with the candy than the decor, Spence" you teased, sipping on a cup of spiced cider that warmed your throat with its sweet taste.

Spencer looked over his shoulder at you, his eyes wide with feigned innocence. "But what if they're not? What if they judge us based on our aesthetic commitment to the holiday?" His voice was light, but you knew the underlying stress was real. Spencer was not one to leave anything to chance, especially when it came to Halloween.

You set the cider down on the side table and padded over to him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "They're going to love it, and if they don't, well, we'll just have to eat all this extra candy ourselves," you whispered, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. He rolled his eyes but couldn't help the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth.

His dedication to Halloween was admirable, adorable, and something you loved him for. But you knew he could get too wrapped up in the details, so you had to come up with a way to get him to relax. An idea struck you, one that was sure to get his mind off the decorations. You stepped back and looked him over, your eyes lingering on the soft skin of his neck.

"You know what, Spence?" you said, your voice dropping to a seductive murmur. "I think I have the perfect way to distract you." You took his hand and led him away from the chaos, into the bedroom.

Once inside, you closed the door firmly behind you, cutting off the sounds of the TV playing a classic horror movie in the living room. Spencer looked at you questioningly, his eyes glancing at the bed and then back at you. You smirked, walking closer to him and standing on your tiptoes to whisper in his ear.

"You're so adorable when you're all worked up like this," you murmured, your breath warm and tickling the skin of his neck. "It makes me want to just… bite you."

Spencer's eyes widened in surprise, but before he could react, your teeth sank gently into the meat of his shoulder, just enough to leave a faint pink mark. He gasped, his body tensing for a moment before melting into your touch. You felt his pulse quicken beneath your teeth, and the sweet taste of his skin filled your mouth. It was a sensation you couldn't resist, a kink that had grown between you, a secret thrill that added spice to your relationship. You pulled back and admired the small mark you had left, feeling a sense of possessiveness wash over you.

He looked at you with a mix of shock and excitement, his cheeks flushing. "You're incorrigible," he murmured, but his voice was laced with desire. You stepped closer, your body pressing against his, and his eyes darkened with lust. You knew that look, the one that said he was ready to give in to whatever game you had in mind.

Spencer lifted his arms slightly, allowing you to help him out of his shirt. You took your time, your hands lingering on his shoulders before sliding down to his biceps. The fabric of the shirt whispered against his skin as you revealed his chest. You couldn't help but trace your fingers over his torso, feeling the muscles tense and relax beneath your touch. He had a lean, almost delicate build, but you knew from experience that he was stronger than he looked.

With the shirt discarded on the floor, you stepped closer, your chest brushing against his. You leaned in and kissed him, your teeth grazing his bottom lip. He gasped, and you took the opportunity to slip your tongue into his mouth, tasting the sweetness of his candy sweetened breath. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer, his fingers digging in.

You could feel the heat building between you, the electricity of your bodies touching sending sparks through the air. Spencer's hand began to wander, tracing a line down your back before coming to rest on the swell of your ass. You moaned into his mouth, feeling his desire against your thigh.

Breaking the kiss, you stepped back and began to strip off your own clothing. He watched, his breath hitching as you revealed your skin inch by inch. Your eyes locked on his, you slowly removed your shirt, revealing a bra that matched your panties. His gaze was hungry, and you felt a thrill of power knowing that you had such an effect on him.

"You know I love it when you're like this," Spencer said, his voice coming out hoarse.

You smirked and took a step closer, allowing your fingertips to dance along the waistband of your jeans. "I know you do," you purred. "And I love leaving my mark on you."

With deliberate slowness, you unzipped your jeans and pushed them down, revealing the matching panties. His gaze was like a physical touch, making you shiver with anticipation. You stepped out of the jeans and kicked them aside, leaving you in just your bra and panties.

Spencer's eyes were glued to your every move, his pupils dilated with desire. You reached behind you and unhooked your bra, letting it fall to the floor. His breath hitched as your breasts were freed, and his hands followed the path your own had taken, tracing the curves of your body. You stepped closer, pressing yourself against him.

His thumbs brushed over your nipples, eliciting a soft gasp from you. You leaned into his touch, your head tilting back as the sensation rippled through you. Spencer took the opportunity to kiss your neck, his teeth grazing your sensitive flesh.

"I need you," you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. Spencer's eyes met yours, and in them, you saw the same raw need reflected.

He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss that made you whimper. His hands roamed your body, his touch leaving a trail of fire wherever it went. You felt his fingers tug at your panties, and you stepped out of them eagerly. His own clothes were off as you both sank onto the bed, a tangle of limbs.

Straddling him, you ran your nails lightly down his torso, feeling the muscles quiver beneath your touch. You loved the power dynamic here, the way he looked up at you, eyes filled with hunger. You decided on his collarbone, a spot that always made him squirm. You leaned in, your teeth scraping gently against his skin. He arched his neck, offering himself up to you. You took a deep breath, savouring the moment before you bit down.

Spencer's moan was caught in his throat, his hands fisting in the sheets as you marked him. The sensation of your teeth sinking into his skin was intoxicating, causing him a heady mix of pain and pleasure that made you wet. You released him, watching the reddened skin slowly rise back into place.

With a seductive smile, you began to grind your pussy against his cock, feeling the heat and hardness of him against your slick flesh. You were already soaking wet, and the friction made sparks of pleasure shoot through you. You felt his cock twitch and knew he was just as turned on as you were.

Spencer's eyes fluttered closed, and you took that moment to lean down and begin marking his chest with love bites. You started at the base of his neck, working your way down to his collarbones, leaving a trail of pink marks in your wake. He squirmed beneath you, his moans growing louder with each bite.

As you got lower, you made the marks darker, your teeth pressing a little harder, leaving behind small, purple bruises. You knew he liked the feeling of your teeth on him, the way it made him feel claimed and desired. You traced your way down to his nipples, flicking them with your tongue before giving them a gentle nip. He gasped, his body arching off the bed.

You continued to explore his torso with your mouth, leaving a constellation of marks. Each bite was a declaration of your love and lust, a brand that was uniquely yours. When you reached his navel, you paused, looking up at him. Spencer's eyes met yours, and he nodded, giving you the silent permission to continue.

With renewed fervour, you trailed downwards, making the marks darker and more pronounced. Each one a testament to the passion that surged between you, a visual representation of the intensity of your desire. By the time you reached his hipbones, you had created a canvas of love bites that stood out starkly against the pale landscape of his skin.

Then, you found a particularly sensitive spot on his right hipbone. You bit down hard, your teeth sinking in just enough to elicit a sharp gasp from Spencer. His body jolted, and his cock jumped. The sight made your own arousal spike, and you felt a rush of wetness between your thighs.

You trailed down to his cock, being gentle, kissing and licking it. Your teeth grazed the sensitive skin, and he moaned, his hips moving slightly as if begging for more. You teased the tip with your tongue before taking him fully into your mouth, feeling his length fill your mouth.

You held back, using just enough pressure to drive him wild. Spencer's hands found your hair, his fingers threading through the strands as he tried to guide you, but you resisted, keeping the pace slow and deliberate. His hips bucked upward, trying to increase the tempo, but you remained unfazed, continuing your slow, torturous exploration of his body.

The tension grew palpable, a silent battle of wills as you teased him with your teeth and tongue. You felt him growing more and more desperate, his breaths coming in harsh gasps, his body straining against yours. You watched his face, the way his eyes squeezed shut tight and his brow furrowed with need. Each moan that slipped from his lips was music to your ears, and you felt a thrill of power knowing you could elicit such a reaction from him.

With a wicked smile, you released his cock and slid your hand down to fondle his balls. They were warm and heavy in your palm, and you began to massage them gently, keeping the pace slow and languid to match the rhythm of your kisses. You felt him tense, his thighs flexing, but you didn't relent. You enjoyed watching the way his body responded to your touch, the way his hips rolled slightly as he tried to push into your hand.

You took his cock back into your mouth, your teeth scraping along the shaft before you took him deep again. Spencer's eyes rolled back in his head, and his fingers tightened in your hair. You swirled your tongue around the tip before pulling away, licking up the pre-cum that had gathered there.

With a smirk, you kissed along the length of his shaft, feeling him pulse against your lips. You knew he was close, his body wound tight as a spring. But you weren't ready for this to end yet. You took his balls in your mouth, one at a time, sucking gently before releasing them with a soft pop. His thighs tensed, and he moaned, his hips jerking upward.

Spencer had reached his breaking point. "Please," he groaned, his voice filled with need. "I can't take it anymore. I need you."

You chuckled, loving the way he squirmed beneath you. But you knew when to give in. You positioned yourself over him, aligning your wet cunt with his erect cock. His eyes widened, and you felt his entire body go taut with anticipation as you sank down, taking him inch by inch.

With a gasp, you sat down fully on his length, feeling him fill you up. Spencer's eyes rolled back in his head, and he let out a strangled moan. You didn't waste any time starting up a brutal pace, bouncing up and down on his cock with a ferocity that had him seeing stars. His hands gripped your hips, guiding you, his breath coming in harsh pants as he matched your rhythm.

He bent his knees, trying to get leverage to fuck up into you. The bed frame creaked under the force of his movements, and the headboard thudded against the wall with each thrust. You leaned back, giving him better access, and he took full advantage, slamming into you with an urgency that was almost animalistic. Your breasts bounced with the motion, and you watched as he stared, transfixed by the sight.

It was as if he was channelling all of his anxious energy into fucking you, and it was the most intense experience you had ever shared with him. His eyes were glued to where your bodies were joined, watching as your juices coated his cock with each deep plunge. You could see the fascination in his gaze as he observed the way your pussy lips gripped him, as if he was trying to burn the image into his brain.

Leaning forward, you moaned, the new angle causing your clit to grind against his pelvis. Sparks shot through you, and you threw your head back, the sound of your pleasure echoing in the room. Spencer's eyes snapped to yours, and the look of pure lust in them sent a shiver down your spine. He took the opportunity to lean up and kiss you, his teeth grazing your bottom lip before he bit down, hard enough to make you groan.

The pain was delicious, and you ground down harder on him, feeling the sparks of pleasure intensify. His cock hit you just right, and you felt yourself approaching the edge. Spencer's hands found your breasts, his thumbs circling your nipples as you rode him with abandon. You could feel your orgasm building, a pressure that was almost painful in its intensity.

"Fuck, yes," you hissed, your nails digging into his skin as the pleasure built up. Spencer's eyes were locked on yours, watching the play of emotions that danced across your face as you got closer to the edge. The way he studied you was both thrilling and a little intimidating, but it only served to push you closer to the brink.

And then it struck you. You let out a scream, your body convulsing around him. In that moment of pure ecstasy, your teeth sank deeper into his skin than ever before. You hadn't meant to bite down so hard, but the sensation of your teeth breaking the barrier was like a lightning bolt of pleasure that shot straight to your core.

Spencer's eyes went wide, his own orgasm hitting him like a freight train. The sudden, intense pain mixed with the pleasure was a cocktail that sent him spiralling over the edge. He roared, his body spasming as he came, filling you with his hot release. You felt his cock pulse within you, the sensation sending your own orgasm into overdrive.

You collapsed onto him, your teeth still latched onto his skin, your body trembling from the aftershocks of pleasure. Spencer's grip on your hips tightened, his fingers digging into your flesh as he panted beneath you.

Slowly, you pulled back, looking down at the dark mark on his shoulder. You felt a twinge of guilt—you hadn't meant to bite so hard—but the desire in his eyes told you all you needed to know. He loved it. You kissed the bruised skin gently, tasting the faint metallic tang of his blood.

The moment you could feel your legs again, you were dragging him into the bathroom, adrenaline still pulsing through your veins. You grabbed the first aid kit from the shelf, your hand shaking slightly with the aftermath of pleasure and the sudden rush of worry. Spencer followed, a slightly dazed smile on his face.

In the mirror, his body was a canvas of your love, each mark a story of the passionate moments you had shared. But his gaze kept being drawn to the deep purple bruise on his shoulder, a stark reminder of the intensity of your desire. The sight of it made him shiver with a mix of pain and pleasure. He traced the outline with his fingertips, the tenderness of his touch making his cock stir.

You rummaged through the first aid kit with trembling hands, your heart still racing from the intense climax. Spencer watched you, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. You found what you needed: alcohol wipes, a tube of antibiotic ointment, and a small bandage. You turned to him, a look of concern etched on your face. "Let me take care of it," you whispered, your voice filled with tenderness.

He offered his shoulder without a word, his eyes half-closed and a sleepy smile playing on his lips. His skin was flushed from the passionate encounter, and he was so soft and pliable after his orgasm that he could only give you a sleepy grin in response. You carefully cleaned the bite, watching the skin around it redden and then pale as the alcohol stung. He hissed but didn't pull away.

"It's okay," you soothed, your voice gentle as you applied the ointment, hissing a little as the coldness of it hit the sensitive skin. His eyes fluttered shut, and you placed a gentle kiss beside the bruise. "All better," you murmured, pressing the bandage over the mark. Spencer's arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer, and you felt his cock, still half-hard, against your stomach.

"You're still worried," he whispered, his voice a low rumble. You nodded, unable to find the words. He leaned down to kiss you, his tongue delving into your mouth. "I liked it," he assured you, his voice husky. "I liked it a lot."

You pulled back, looking into his eyes. "You're not just saying that?"

Spencer's smile grew. "No, I'm not. I love how passionate you are." He leaned in to press a soft kiss to your forehead. "You're my little vampire," he whispered, his voice filled with affection. You couldn't help but chuckle, the tension you were hold dissipating.

You both cleaned up and slipped back into the bedroom, the smell of sex lingering in the air. Spencer lay back down on the bed, his chest rising and falling with deep, contented breaths. You lay beside him, gently running your fingers over his chest.

As the clock struck midnight, Spencer opened his eyes and turned to you, a soft smile playing on his lips. "Happy Halloween," he murmured, pulling you into his arms. The warmth of his embrace was a comforting cocoon, and you snuggled closer.

"Happy Halloween," you sleepily reply.

[konigsblog]

OCTOBER 31ST — CREEP!KÖNIG. Halloween parties are only fun when everyone's drunk and tipsy, too inebriated to think clearly. Nobody bats an eye when König stumbles into a frat party wearing a mask, dragging an intoxicated woman off alongside him. (NON-CON)

Note: Happy Halloween! 🎃🦇

Photo credits xbruised_peachx on X/🐦

TW/CW: RAPE/INTOXICATION. MDNI 18+

2024 KINKTOBER MASTERLIST. (DAY 31)

Halloween is the one night a year you get to wear practically nothing, get ridiculously drunk, and get away with it. You know you'll find yourself hanging over the edge of a bucket, spewing your guts out in the middle of the night, full of nausea from drinking too much.

However, things are slightly more sinister and taboo for König, who takes advantage of this day in the most wicked way you could think of. This is the one night a year he can wear a mask without question, hiding his identity from those around him. The only night that you don't suspect a real monster to be lingering around. And König has his perverted, predatory gaze on you. A thirty-something year old man stumbling into a frat party, his eyes preying on an inebriated slut wearing nothing but a pair of animal years and a tiny, skimpy skirt, doing nothing to spare you some dignity.

No one would bat an eye at two dressed up strangers pulling each other into the bathroom, practically tugging at each other's clothes in front of everyone. And you're too tipsy to fight back or think clearly, not defending yourself as his calloused hands spread your thighs apart before you can even fully open your eyes again, the smell of booze pungent in the air and burning your nostrils. Disgust overwhelms you, but his reassuring voice is almost claiming, sickeningly sweet as your body reacts to his wet tongue against your hole, your gut feeling warning you to protect yourself before he overpowers you. The door is locked shut, and your back is pressed against the bathroom wall before you're forced over a counter, your vision blurring with your tears and unconsciousness.

“Verdammt, du weißt, was du tust. Du trägst so einen kleinen Rock. Du hast darum gebeten.” A gravelly voice announces from behind you with each sloppy thrust, spoken through gritted teeth and behind a deep and hoarse grumble. You don't see his face, concealed by a dark veil, with two holes for his eyes. You weep through the agony of the stretch, your eyes barely making out the crimson coating your bare skin, dripping from you like a leaking faucet. Your eyes quickly form tears, becoming bleary, your once perfect Halloween makeup now ruined and smudged, the colour of your lipstick staining the girth of his cock.

You're awoken several times, different positions, different horrifying acts being inflicted onto you. He holds a sharpened knife to your nape, whether it's a prop for his costume or not, you're not sure, but you're not willing to test him. You lay there, gagging at his actions and the deep thrusts meeting your rear, the prickliness of his pubes scratching your thighs and the agonising, concerning stretch that feels disgustingly unfamiliar. Your pussy sobs around him; drooling, leaking. Your head throbs, and your throat aches and burns, his seed spurted deep within you earning him a mortified cry.

Oh, you'll regret wearing such a skimpy outfit, won't you? Especially when you're hunched over, panting and coughing up last night's drinks, your entire body aching and his greedy touch staining your skin.

[holylulusworld]

Not alone any longer

Summary: You try to believe in your blooming friendship with Clark.

Pairing: Clark Kent x fem!Reader

Warnings: angst, loner reader, introvert reader, flirty Clark, low self-esteem, fluff, Lois bashing, Lois is the worst, destruction of a car

Catch up here: Alone again - Naturally

“Clark, you came,” you gasp as Clark stands in front of your home. He’s got a bouquet of daisies in his hands, offering them to you. “I mean, you’re early.”

“We have a date,” he half-laughs. “You remember we wanted to go on a date.” Clark nervously looks at you. “Did you change your mind?”

“No!” You hastily say. “I didn’t change my mind. It’s just…uh… I didn’t know what to wear.” You drop your gaze. “It’s been a while since someone asked me out. I didn’t know where we were going and tried on so many outfits that I forgot about the time.”

Clark flashes you a soft smile. He seems almost shy when you take the flowers out of his hand, and invite him in.

While you look for a vase, Clark looks around your small apartment. It’s nice, cozy and inviting. You’ve got fluffy pillows on our couch, and lots of plushies keeping you company while you try to write.

“I read one of your articles. Uh-the one about the missing cat, and how the owner did everything to find them. It was heartwarming how you described their reunion.”

You awkwardly look down at your shoes. Embarrassed about your meaningless article, you sigh deeply. “You shouldn’t have read that crap. No one does read it.”

“I liked it very much, Y/N,” Clark softly says your name, making you feel warm. You can see the honesty in his eyes when you finally look at him. “You’ve got talent, Blossom. Never let anyone tell you otherwise.”

You shrug. “I’ll never win a Pulitzer Prize, or be as famous as Lois,” you sniffle. “She’s a star, and I’m the dirt under her shoes. Let’s be honest. Out of all the people I know, I’m the loser among them.”

“Y/N, that’s not true!”

You raise your hand and shake your head. “It’s okay, Clark. Why do you think none of my so-called friends stayed in touch?” You wipe your eyes. “Lois only invites me to rub her success and fame in my face. She didn’t even recognize that I left the party. If not for you, I’d be dead, and she wouldn’t even care. No one does.”

“I care,” Clark steps closer to grab your hand. “Not only because I saved you, Y/N. Before, during the party, you caught my eye. You looked as lost as I felt. I sometimes don’t know why I live here, among people who’ll never understand the burden of my powers and origin.”

“Oh, Clark.” You suddenly wrap your arms around him to comfort Clark. The strongest and bravest person you ever met. Running your hands up and down his back, you murmur his name. “I babble about my unimportant life and ignore that you must be struggling too. Hiding your true nature must be exhausting.”

He smiles and wraps his arms around you. Clark holds you close to his warm chest, feeling his heart beat a little faster. He hasn’t felt a connection with a person for a long time.

“It’s easier now that I got someone important in my life,” he whispers against you. Clark buries his face in your neck and sighs.

“Oh, who’s that? Did you meet someone nice?” You innocently ask, dipping your head to look up at Clark. “I hope they are nice.”

“Blossom, I meant you,” he smiles and presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “You know about my secret for weeks, and didn’t try to take advantage of it.”

“Why would I? You’re a hero, and it’s an honor to know about your secret identity,” you shyly glance up at Clark. “Even though, flying still scares me.”

“I promise to fly carefully with you in my arms.” He smiles when you shy away. You didn’t think Clark wanted to see again, let alone, fly with you again. “I’ll not drop you.”

You giggle when he tells you. “What if you sneeze, and I slip out of your hands? I’ll end up as a pancake on the ground.”

Something flashes in his eyes. Not the red you saw in pictures or videos on the news. No. Worry, fear even. “I never get sick.”

“You never get sick?” You wonder aloud. “Oh, that’s good. I think. I mean, you’re from another world. Makes sense that our diseases can’t harm you.”

“Sometimes I wish that I was a normal guy, with normal problems and a normal life. No one would believe that Superman lies awake at night, dreaming of losing his powers.”

“You do?” you whimper. “I didn’t know you were lonely and sad too.” You hide your face in his chest. “But we are friends now. So, you’re not alone anymore.”

“Yeah,” he hums. “We are friends now…”

“Lois, what’s wrong?” You gasp watching your friend storm into your home. She huffs and throws her locks back while brushing past you. Lois looks around your living room, sneering as her eyes land on the daises Clark got for you.

“You know exactly what’s wrong,” she twirls around to glare at you. “Your life must be extremely shitty if you must go out with my boyfriend!”

“Your boyfriend?” You frown deeply. “I thought you’re single. And I don’t know who you are talking about.”

“Clark Kent!” She spats. “You had to date my boyfriend, didn’t you? Just you know, he only feels sorry for you. Pathetic little Y/N, always so lonely and sad, standing in the corner to lure sweet Clark in.”

“He’s not your boyfriend,” you’re getting angry. “You broke up with him over a year ago. And, when he talked to me, I didn’t even know he was your ex. What Clark and I do is none of your business. We are friends and like spending time together!”

Lois wrinkles her nose at the word friends. “Does he know you’re a frigid, emotionally disabled and whiny little bitch? I guess not.”

She raises her hand to slap your face. You flinch and prepare for the impact when something outside your window explodes. Dropping to the ground, you press your hands to your ear as Lois screams in terror. She needs a moment before running toward your balcony.

Ever the investigative journalist, she steps onto your balcony to look down at the sidewalk to see her car got destroyed. It seems like it got cut into two halves. “No, what…” She shakes her head. Lois knows there’s only one person in this world able to cut her car into two halves within the blink of his eyes. “Why would he do this?”

Superman floats high above the sky, unseen. Watching Lois yell at you, he got angry. Even more, when she raised her hand against you, he couldn’t hurt her, so he did the next best thing. Clark sent a warning to her.

“You destroyed her car,” you glance down at the people in the streets. They look like ants as you float above the city. “Why?”

“She wanted to hurt you,” Clark holds you safe in his arms as you cling to him. You’re still scared of flying around with him, but he asked you to come with him so sweetly, you couldn’t deny him. “I’m sorry for scaring you. I got so mad and… I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry.”

“I’d smashed her car too if I had any powers,” you give him a cracked smile. “She was vile and mean without a reason. Lois only got mad because we are friends now. She is like a kid wanting her toy back after she threw it away.”

“I’m a toy?” He looks at you in his arms.

“No…that’s not…” you sigh. “I didn’t mean it that way. She’s just…”

“I know, Blossom.” Clark presses his lips to your forehead. “What she said was mean. I couldn’t let her hurt you even more.”

“She’s not wrong,” you sniff. “I’m not good with dates and such. Men usually run for the hills after one date because I get nervous and anxious easily.”

“Y/N, I like you the way you are,” he whispers. Clark dips his head to press a soft kiss on your lips—a short and sweet one to test the waters. You giggle as your cheeks heat up. “I like you a lot, Blossom.”

“I like you a lot too, Clarkie,” you smile at Clark, feeling your heart flutter. “Can you…” You giggle, “Kiss me again?”

You don’t have to ask twice. Clark kisses you again, soft and sweet, while you float about the city. You forget about Lois and the rest of the world. It’s just you and Clark, and that is enough…

Part 3 - FIN

Tags in reblog.

[monst]

Escalation

Tim Drake x Reader

Summary: Tim had been orbiting you for a while now. It’s been weeks of him trying to get your attention, not that he hadn’t managed to grab it, you were just really good at pretending to be oblivious. Why were you being purposefully oblivious when you clearly fancied him? Well? He was prone to escalation.

Warnings: 18+ content (MDI), Snapchat, M. Masterbastion, Unsolicited video, Dubious phone sex (Reader calls Tim and doesn't know he's getting off but is into it)

WC: 1.1k

    He thought he was slick. But he was surprisingly more predictable than you originally thought, that or he was starting to get really desperate. Your first clue into his most recent scheme was his story, his story on Snap of all places. It wasn’t often that Tim used the app nor was it often that he posted his current location. Said location turned out to be a dive bar in the fashion district with his civilian friends. You let out a low whistle when you caught a glimpse of his outfit for the night. You couldn't lie it was a cute setup. 

    So, it really wasn’t a surprise when you received a snap a couple hours into the night. See Tim had been orbiting you for a while now. It’s been weeks of him trying to get your attention, not that he hadn’t managed to grab it, you were just really good at pretending to be oblivious. Why were you being purposefully oblivious when you clearly fancied him? Well? He was prone to escalation. And you were morbidly curious to see what scheme he’d cook up next.

    When you first caught on to his feelings for you it was by his change in style, some stronger cologne, and him just barely entering your personal space. It was ridiculously flattering catching him in the act of getting into the perfect pose for you to walk in on. But as if that wasn’t enough for him he’d also gotten very flirty, every other sentence an innuendo you had to pretend to miss, and very interesting pictures of him had begun to fill your shared group chat. Now you would have given him a sign much sooner had he not pulled that stunt two weeks ago. Jeez, he was practically throwing himself at you and at Tam’s birthday party no less. If you had to guess it was that, that had you playing pretend. You wanted to see how far he’d go till he had no choice but to just come out and say it. 

    But back to that unopened snap. You figured it’d be some staged ‘randomly drunk shenanigans’. If you had to take a guess, considering the bar he was patroning he was probably going to be grinding on a pole, pretty face flushed a rosy pink, glossy lips muttering the song lyrics, his sultry blue eyes half lidded gazing into whichever camera was catching the roll of his hips against the metal, probably running pale hands down his glitter covered skin, see through shirt clinging to his muscles as his shapely legs gripped onto the pole. He was surprisingly good at pole dancing and the thought of it being a free show had you sat on your couch to watch. 

    “Okay Timmy” You snickered “Let’s se-

        Your breath caught in your throat, your eyes moving across the screen rapidly as you took the sight laid out before you. 

       “No way” You couldn’t see anything in the room save for what the blue light of his computer screen revealed. And reveal it did. You heard yourself swallow, as your eyes followed his tongue swiping against his plump bottom lip. They parted out of frame when his head slipped back, the long column of his pale neck a stark contrast against his black gaming chair. It was the faded scar on his neck that confirmed his identity for you. Your eyes went lower, watching as his chest rose and fell, pebbled pink nipples almost distracting you from the bead of sweat cutting a line down his pecs. 

    “Ungh f-fuck” You nearly jumped at the groan. Eyes widening as you were provided with audio. His panting could be heard from your phone speaker, and movement had your eyes slipping further down his body. 

        “Jesus” you exhaled. You knew Tim was pretty but his cock had no right in sharing that with the rest of him. You felt your cheeks warm at the sight parted thighs, his palm squeezing the base of his surprisingly generously thick length.

    He let out a tantalizing whimper as he tugged his hand upwards, bucking his hips into his fist. The wet slide made easier with how much precum his reddening tip leaked. His other hand was gripping the arm of the chair tight, blue veins popping against his fair complexion. 

       “Mmm just like that.” He moaned. He suddenly paused and you brought your phone in closer. He leaned forward the lower half of his face back in frame as his slickend fingers grabbed his phone from the desk. You let out a shuddered breath at his unabashed moan when he pulled the device to his face to pick up a call. His palm came down to squeeze at his heavy sack, once again bucking into his grip. 

     His teeth caught his bottom lip. As he placed his phone in the crook of his neck, his other hand coming down to tease the head of his drooling cock, resuming a slow pace.. He huffed out a laugh in response to whoever was speaking. 

     “Me?” He gasped, voice a pitch higher. He coughed “W-working out… Ngh… Weahights lifting rigght now” He lied. 

     “‘Course” he let out a breathless laugh and it was then that you clocked it. 

     “He’s crazy” You breathed out. “Absolutely shameless.” As you squirmed you couldn’t help but remember that call, you really had hung up none the wiser. You really shouldn’t have found it as hot as you did. You bit your lip when the call dropped and he let his phone fall. His hand furiously working his throbbing length. He gaped, his head falling back again, his dark locks sticking to his flushed cheeks. 

     “Need you so fucking bad” He whined. His pink tongue peeked out from his pretty lips, pleasured mewls flowing freely. He leaned forward one hand gripping the edge of the desk while turning his head into his arm. “Mm god yes, wanna come inside you please” The muscles in his arm trembled as he came with a whimper that could arguably be your name. You watched in silence as he caught his breath, his skin flushed all the way down to his shoulders. Then abruptly the video ended. You let out a shaky breath, staring at the snap, eyes glued to the words Opened. 

      You’d really like nothing more than to save it to the chat or better yet replay it in bed. 

   “Well damn,” It’d be difficult to play this one off but you were crafty. Surly you’d figure something out.. Pretend you couldn’t open the video? But then again did you really want to? Well.. maybe just a bit longer. Tim’s always been the type to outdo himself. You can only wonder how this time. 

[vroomvroomwee]

Aziraphale's vest

I'd like to take a second and talk about his vest because I think it's a really good metaphor for Aziraphale's internal feelings.

At first glance it's obvious the vest is quite old. Really old in fact if you note the way it's practically disintegrating.

And it got me thinking a bit. The way the white practically bleeds from the edges of the neck, shoulders and buttons, going further and further, one day if he's persistent enough to wear it, it might even take over the entire vest. You could say that that, somehow, mirrors Heavens influence over Aziraphale. Slowly, slowly, biding their time, until it has completely ridden him of any colour. Until it has completely washed him of his identity, of his originality, of his character.

Take a look at his clothing when he's up in Heaven.

Completely and utterly white. Every piece of clothing he's wearing is pure and untarnished white. Upon entering Heaven, against his own accord, it has stripped him of his uniqueness, of anything that might distinguish him from any other angel who blindly follows orders and who's sole purpose is to do Heavens bidding.

Now, he could miracle the white patches on the vest away easily. But he doesn't want to.

The thing is. He likes the imperfect. He likes partaking in human activities and pleasures, like food, music, etc. Likes to indulge himself in earthly things Heaven would label as sinful or "sullying." And as someone who bas been on the receiving end of Heavens ridicule and passive aggression for millenia, as someone who for centuries has been told that he's underperforming and needs to do better, as someone who is all too aware of his own impurity by the standards an angel should hold and of the quite frankly unholy behaviour in performing immoral temptations and directly going against Heavens orders no more than a few times throughout the eras, it's no wonder he finds comfort in the imperfect.

He keeps the deteriorating edges because they are a perfect representation of his own internal feelings and image. After all, there's no rule that says he can't. And a big kudos to the costume department, for the patches perfectly encapsulate his religious trauma. Without it, he would probably be a very different person. He wouldn't be the same Aziraphale we know and love. The same way he likes being old-fashioned with his clothes and how that is a part of who he is, his trauma is a part of him as well, along with Heavens influence that has shaped him into who he is today, whether he likes it or not.

Every part of the vest illustrates Aziraphale's character and internal feelings, which brings me to another point I want to draw attention to, and that is the BACK of the vest.

It's DARK. And I don't think I'm mistaken when I say that most of us didn't expect it to look like that from behind. We all just assumed that it would be the same beige colour as the front, which is in tune with the rest of his attire. After all, seeing him wearing a dozen different outfits all throughout history, all of them some shade of white, it was the logical conclusion.

But no.

It's not white. It's a dark, slightly viridian or a dark blue colour. "Dark blue suggests a more mysterious depth or ominous quality. Power and authority: Dark blue signifies power and responsibility. "

Not what we would have expected that colour at all. Similarly to how one wouldn't expect an angel to perform temptations or be gluttonous, or envious, or slothful, or hedonistic. Not at first glance anyway.

Not unless you look carefully.

Not unless you know him.

The coat almost acts like a cover. The light over the dark. Almost as if it's trying to hide something. The only times we see Aziraphale not wearing the coat is in his bookshop. Which is logical, of course. You wouldn't wear a coat indoors, obviously. Except he DOES. He wears the coat when he and Crowley are drunk, he wears it when he's reading Agnes Nutter, he wears it when Gabriel and Sandalphon pop in, he wears it when he's talking to the Metatron, he wears it when he's listening to Shostakovich, he even wears it at the Ritz where it would be custom to take off your coat while dining. And it's worth noting that during the events happening (at least in the first season), the season is summer. Which would make it quite ridiculous to be wearing so many layers everywhere you go and therefore risk boiling. But he still wears the coat.

The only times he doesn't wear it is in the first episode after the sushi, when he's all ALONE, and in season 2 at the bookshop when Crowley comes back and in 1941.

And there's something oh so personal about that.

I don't think it's a coincidence that the darker part is specifically the back of the vest. There's always been this natural human instinct to protect yourself by never ever turning your back on a foe. And I don't think this is a conscious effort on Aziraphale's part, but rather genius writing, directing and costume design, and anyone who's watched and read Good Omens knows that almost nothing is coincidental.

Note this is probably the first time Aziraphale has called Crowley his friend, seeing how uncertain and doubtful he was to even say the word in this scene and how quick he was to deny their friendship in the Shakespeare scene. And the camera immediately cuts from Crowley to Aziraphale, who is turned away, whose back is turned to Crowley oh so casually without a care in the world. Just before he calls him his friend. His back is turned, and so is the dark part of his vest.

The dark part he only shows in his bookshop, when he's alone and there's no one there. The part that he now only shows to Crowley as well. Crowley who knows him so well and who's been with him through everything. "I won't tell anyone if you won't." And "you said trust me""and you did". Just this small motion of Aziraphale depicts exactly how much trust he has in Crowley not only that he'll keep him safe and protected but to accept him just as he is, to not judge him, to not demean him for his imperfections as an angel. Practically mirroring Crowley's self-protection mechanism that is reflected in his motions to hide his eyes with his sunglasses (there's a wonderful meta on this by @simply-brightly-zee here )

And it might just be clothing, or it might just be genius symbolism, but note how self-aware Aziraphale is of his looks when Gabriel pops up.

The desire to impress is almost unconscious in this scene, and how does he go about doing it? By making sure he looks presentable. Presentable, despite the white patches and the vest that is falling apart, he doesn't even realise it. Therefore, it's clear Aziraphale puts thought into his clothes, whether consciously or unconsciously.

I personally dont think any of this (the coat, the patches, the way he turns his back, when, where and around who he's most comfortable) is a deliberate and intentional act on Aziraphales part but rather creative brilliance from the directors and producers. So him being shown to expose the back of the vest only in scenes with Crowley (and the one in s2 infront of an amnesiac Gabriel with the intelligence and awareness of a squirrel) is a master move on the costume department's part. The symbolusm being so small and imperceptible, but holding so much meaning. This small metaphor shows how much Aziraphale trusts Crowley and how comfortable he is around him. Crowley who knows about Aziraphale's transgressions, sins, unholy behaviours, lack of interest and dedication to his job, and overall "incompetence" as Aziraphale might put it and how he's "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing". Crowley, who will accept him and love him no matter what. Not despite those things, but because of those things.

They have found their "own side".

Edit: Not that important, but I just want to mention how, despite being tattered and falling apart, the vest is still in perfectly good condition. No matter the white seeping in and draining its colour, the vest doesn't have a single seam torn, not a button lost, perfect as the day it was bought. No matter what it's been put through, it's still kicking, whether by miracle or sheer willpower. Very much like the person wearing it.

[littlemisspascal]

Creature Comfort

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Female Reader/OFC

Word Count: 7.6k

Summary: 

Waiting out there is General Marcus Acacius. A real man of flesh and blood, strength and power. The legendary Atlas Lion himself.

Your husband-to-be.

Rating: M / 18+ only

Warnings: Language, at least a million historical inaccuracies, referenced smut, references of blood + war + death, weapons, too many lion/animal references and metaphors to count, reader has self-esteem issues, arranged marriage, domestic life, cameo of reader's parents, switching povs,

- Reader has no name and no physical traits described in detail. Reader wears clothes such as a toga + wedding outfit

Author Note: This started as me simply wanting to write a fic where Acacius is compared to a lion and Reader's his wife and then it quickly led to me having a complete emotional breakdown that caused me to quit writing entirely for several months. Not one of my finest moments, but 🤷‍♀️ that's life I guess. It's nice to finally toss this fic out here, hopefully someone somewhere enjoys it 🧡

Special thanks to @wheresarizona for putting up with my emotional highs and lows and answering some questions about Rome for me and for just being an overall too-nice-for-this-world person I'm lucky to have met on here 💗

The morning of your wedding you can barely stomach your breakfast. Nerves are natural, your mother assures you, watching with a critical eye as the female servants of the house help dress you.

Your impending ceremony has severed your protection of your family’s household gods, leaving you spiritually defenseless until you’re officially wed to your husband. Maybe that is the true source of your worries, dark spirits playing wicked games with your heartstrings. Or maybe it’s your mother’s looming presence coupled with her stubborn determination to see you safely married off, analyzing every inch of your bridal outfit to root out the tiniest of imperfections, that has your stomach tied up in knots. 

The wreath atop your head is thick with summer blooms, their scent potent and almost sickly sweet, tickling the inside of your nose. You’d sneeze if not for the veil covering your face, attached to a headband beneath the tangled greenery, its deep yellow color identical to the slippers donning your feet. 

You’d personally woven your tunic on your family’s loom, a task expected of every new bride, intertwining every fiber into tangible proof to show your husband you were ready for the responsibilities of managing his household. Linen had been your initial choice, but your mother insisted wool was the better material to repel the forces of evil. The garment is heavy beneath your matching white stola, but rather than irritating there’s something oddly comforting about the weight. Almost like a warm embrace.

It’s tradition for weddings to take place in the home of the bride’s father. You can hear the arrival of guests now outside your room. Friends and relatives and other miscellaneous people here to witness and celebrate the union. Every minute brings you closer to a new stage of your life, and if not for the servants’ steadying hands, your weak knees might send you crashing to the floor. Fainting would surely be interpreted as a bad omen, derailing the whole ceremony before it even truly began.

You suck in a quiet breath, shoving down the worst of your anxieties. This day–your wedding–has been on your mind practically your whole life. You’d learned from a young age the importance of marriages arranged between families for political and financial purposes. You’d also learned you wouldn’t be the one choosing your future husband, that decision would be made by your father alone. 

Of course, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t imagine marrying someone who was your own choice. Someone kind and handsome and as loyal as your household’s guard dogs. Someone who loved you above all others.

But waiting for you out there isn’t the imaginary stranger who's starred in your most intimate dreams. Waiting out there is General Marcus Acacius. A real man of flesh and blood, strength and power. The legendary Atlas Lion himself.

Your husband-to-be.

When the pronuba arrives to accompany you to the ceremony, the servants disperse but your mother lingers a beat longer, running her fingers over your shoulders to smoothen out non-existent creases. Neither of you mention the shiny gleam of her eyes or the trembling of your hands. 

Then, with a firm nod of her head, your mother declares, “She’s ready,” and leaves without another look to join your father’s side.

Your mother is not prone to lying. If she says you’re ready, then ready you must be.

You take another deep breath before linking your arm through the elder matron’s, but it’s the gentle patting of her hand on yours which calms you most. A reassurance of good things to come.

Stepping out into the atrium, you’re met with a packed crowd, locals and soldiers mixed as one, craning their necks for a glimpse of you. Their clothes resemble yours and the groom’s, another tactic to confuse evil spirits, but human eyes only need to spot your yellow veil to recognize you as the bride. And as for Acacius…

Well. To mistake the Atlas Lion for another would be as foolish as mistaking fire for water. He is unique in all the world.

You see him standing at the altar with the high priest, clad in a purple toga embroidered with a lion’s head in golden thread. A reward in honor of the general’s triumphs in warfare. The placement of the lion above his heart is deliberate, you suspect. A warning of what lies beneath the surface. A guarantee all the tales of his savagery and blood lust passed from mouth to mouth from the battlefields to the city streets are true.

Is it terrible that a part of you–an inane, minuscule scrap of a thing you’ll never verbally acknowledge, not even under oath–is fervently captivated by the notion? You should be listening to the high priest’s prayers to Juno, paying attention to the omens he reads in the entrails of the sacrificed ram upon the altar. But Acacius’ brown eyes, burning with the radiant June sunshine and something else distinctly dangerous, put a flame to your focus and narrow your vision to one central, all-encompassing point.

Is it terrible that you can meet a lion’s stare without a modicum of fear? You wonder how many have been able to say the same, if anyone else at all.

The priest deems the relationship blessed by the gods, carrying on with the proceedings, oblivious to your state of mind. He asks Acacius to make certain his intentions, if you are an acceptable wife. 

Acacius draws himself up to full height, an immovable mountain firm in his convictions. “She is mine to me,” the timbre of his gravelly voice drags over you, eliciting a shudder down your spine you pray the elder matron does not notice. “I will want no other.” 

Then it is your turn, and your voice is only a little hoarse when you confirm, “He will be my husband. My only choice.”

The slightest quirk of a smile curls the corner of Acacius’ lips. Instinctively, you return it with a small grin of your own. And even though he can’t physically see your face behind the veil, you think, somehow, he does see you.

It’s only after signing the marriage contract with crimson seals that the pronuba places your right hand in Acacius’, officially uniting you as one. The general’s palm is callused, fingers thick and gnarled from past wounds, but you can’t find it in yourself to hate them, or recoil, or do anything else than keep holding on.

“Raise the veil,” the priest says.

You swallow, the fingers of your left hand spasming against your side, then slowly reach for a fistful of the yellow fabric. Pulling it up over your head, you carefully watch the lines of Acacius’ expression, heartbeat fluttering at the way those brown eyes widen, taking you in for the first time. Absorbing everything like it might be his only chance. Like you’re something wondrous worth memorizing.

Acacius starts leaning forward, sending every last thought in your head scattering with his nearness. He’s massive, radiating such intense warmth, thumb stroking a line of heat along your wrist. There’s a fire igniting in your chest, lungs choking on the smoke, yet you’re trembling when he cups your face, the quietest of whines escaping your parted lips.

Please, you start to beg, the whooshing of blood thundering in your eardrums, plea–

Acacius swallows the silent plea with his own mouth, kissing you like a starving man. This isn’t love–no, it’s too soon for such sentiment–this is carnal passion, roaming tongues and clashing teeth like you’re no better than animals committed to the hunt of this new territory, this new taste. 

The eruption of applause yanks you back to reality. You tear yourself away with a choked gasp, and it’s satisfying seeing the heave of Acacius’ broad chest with each ragged inhale as you both struggle to catch your breaths. You did that. You’re the reason for the flare of lust in his eyes and smear of spit across his bottom lip. 

You’ve heard people say no man’s looks can compete with Adonis’ striking beauty. A fallacy, you realize in that moment upon seeing General Marcus Acacius in purple and gold, dark curls caressed by the gentle breeze, a constellation of freckles along the tendons of his neck, hardened by violence yet holding your hand so heartachingly sweet.

The rest of the world can have Adonis. 

And as for you–boldly and selfishly, you’ll keep this man. The legendary Atlas Lion himself.

Your husband.

~~

The wedding feast afterwards is a blur of lavish food and wine, the jovial notes of flutes accompanying fescennine songs with interjections of salutations shouted from inebriated lips. Every touch of Acacius’ hand against your arm, your waist, everywhere sends sparks skittering along your nerves. It’s as bewildering as it is thrilling, like you’re balancing on the edge of a precipice, and you wonder if this is what Icarus felt moments before he flew too close to the sun. Falling, falling, falling…

You can only hope you meet a different, kinder fate.

When the sky begins to change and darken with the promise of encroaching evening time, you find yourself standing in the middle of your childhood home, trying to etch into memory everything from the slope of the roof to the tiny cracks in the stone floor. All the noises and voices seem to fade away, granting you this moment to yourself.

Once you step outside, there will be no familiarity to cling to. You’ll be escorted by the crowd of guests to Acacius’ secondary home—smaller, but no less grand than his main domus in Cosa. A port city to the south you’ll have to learn to navigate from square one—and then, once alone with the general, taken to his bed. His body will be another, far more intricate labyrinth you’ll need to learn and recognize the details of.

A new city, a new spouse, a new chapter of life with new expectations…

It’s overwhelming to say the least.

Your eyes cut to Acacius across the room, widening when you catch him already watching you. Something in your chest aches upon realizing you don’t know him well enough to read his face. If he’s angry, pleased, or just totally indifferent. But you can’t look away. Caught and cornered.

Like prey, you think, loathing the thought as soon as it forms. A lion cannot have a mouse for a wife. Imagine the shame of being an unworthy partner of one of Rome’s highest-ranking generals. Your name dragged through the mud, an embarrassment to your family and a blight on Acacius’ esteemed reputation—to say nothing of how the gods would react to your ruining of a blessed union. You’d be as insignificant as the fleas on a dog’s pelt in their eyes.

You must be stronger. Braver. Better.

Where Icarus fell, you must fly. 

Maybe Acacius senses this change stirring within you, or maybe he grows impatient with this lengthy staring contest, either way he suddenly draws closer, weaving between bodies until he comes to a stop in front of you. Purposefully within grabbing reach. The ache in your chest lessens at that, replaced by a spike of adrenaline as awareness dawns.

“Is it time to leave?” you ask.

“It is,” he answers. Then, quick as lightning and just as unexpected, he pinches your waist. 

You jerk away at the teasing touch, gaping like a fish. “Do you touch all women in that manner?”

“No.” A smug smirk spreads across his handsome face. Relishing his next words. “Only the woman who belongs to me.”

Possessive brute. Your eyes narrow even as heat envelops your body, toes curling in your shoes. 

“You haven’t taken me yet. My body has no claim.”

Acacius’ jaw clenches at that. Like he’s holding onto his restraint by a mere thread. It’s practically tangible, a siren song tempting you to flex your claws.

“Answer me this, general, because it remains unclear to me.” Tilting your head, exposing the column of your neck for his hungry gaze to feast upon, your tone is deliberately provoking. “Are you a passionate man of action? Or merely a man of empty words?”

“Bite your tongue,” his tone is low, closer to a snarl than actual speech. You almost believe he’s angry, if not for the glint in his brown eyes, aroused and impressed by your antics in equal measure.

“I’d rather you bite it.”

The fragile thread snaps.

Acacius is on you at once, his large hands seizing hold of your arms. You wrestle against his grip, delivering a solid kick to his shin that draws an irritated hiss. He puts up with your struggling for a bit longer, unaffected by your inexpert blows to his torso, then ends it with a harsh tug, pulling you flush against his brick wall of a body. He sticks his face in your neck, breath hot and ticklish, mouthing at your thrumming pulse with blunt teeth. Oh gods. You slump against him, letting his thick muscles take the brunt of your weight, mind sinking like a stone in the overflowing well of new and overwhelming sensations. Desperate for more, more, more.

The deep rumbling of his chuckling vibrates through your bones, and you have the deliriously greedy thought of cutting out a piece of yourself to store the sound there. 

“You’ve caused quite a scene,” he murmurs into the underside of your jaw, sounding just as wrecked as you feel. But beneath the raspiness, you detect the unmistakable lilt of amusement. 

“It’s tradition,” you breathe, conscious of the numerous stares watching your every move, including your mother’s. Your pretending of resistance must have been satisfactory enough for her to not intervene.

Acacius leans back just enough to look at you, cradling you in the cage of his arms and chest. You place your hands upon his waist, absently clutching the purple-dyed wool between your fingers.

“Tell me how to call you.” It’s not a request.

“What?” Yet another tradition to appease household gods is meant to happen later after you had arrived at the threshold of Acacius’ home and smeared the doorway in oil and fat. He would ask you your name, to which you answer, taking your husband’s and modifying it: where you are Marcus, I am Marcia. And at last, excluding the event of a bad omen occurring, he would carry you inside. Your brow furrows, not understanding why he’s changing the order of things. “Shouldn’t we—”

“Not the name tradition wants, nor the one your parents and the gods assigned you,” he interrupts. “Tell me how I will call you when we’re alone.” 

Oh.

You bow your head to hide your smile, pleased to have a choice. Your eyes fall upon the golden lion head.

Oh.

“Where and when you are Leo,” you tell him, trailing a finger along the perfectly stitched mane before tapping the spot where his heart resides. “There and then I am Leaena.”

~~

{His bride is too innocent, too unaware of the ruthless nature of the Empire’s politics to endure what is expected of her as a general’s wife. This marriage should never have been blessed by the gods.

Still, Acacius can’t stop his gaze from following her every movement, intrigued to know the thoughts running through her head. Can’t stop himself from touching her either, drawn to her warmth, the rightness of her body in his hold. The ceremony was mere hours ago, yet seeing her in his bed, flesh bare and soft and trembling beneath him, the woman has already become the most important treasure of his life. His to worship and protect for the rest of his days.

“Gods, you really are massive all over,” she blurts out, seemingly without thinking, feeling the press of his hard cock against her. Then immediately averts her eyes with a nervous giggle, insecure of her own inexperience. “Could–could we take it slow?”

“That’s fine, my leaena,” he assures her, kissing the corner of her mouth, addicted to her taste dangerously fast. She won’t last, he thinks, scraping his teeth along her neck. They’ll swallow her whole. “I’ll make you feel good. I’ll take care of you.” And he sees it, the exact moment the apprehension slips aside and trust rises to take its place in those big, expressive eyes. She wants this—wants him.

It’s an impulsive, raw need that has him leaning down to kiss her, licking deep into her mouth, craving something he doesn’t know the name of. Repentance, maybe, for the hell coming her way in the coming months. Or maybe he’s just a selfish man who wants this, wants her, more than he deserves. 

She rips him out of his thoughts by grabbing fistfulls of his curls, tugging until they’re even closer pressed together, opening up for him impossibly wider. 

Maybe he’s wrong in his initial assumptions of his bride.

Maybe she’ll be the one to take care of him.}

~~

Cosa matters a great deal to the Empire. A strategically defendable port with close connections to sources of timber and other supplies necessary for maintaining a vast army of fleets. The city itself was built upon a hill, high enough that on a clear day one could see miles of the Tyrrhenian Sea’s coastline. The crashes of the blue-green waves against the limestone cliffs.

Accompanying Acacius into the forum provides you with opportunities to observe the city’s layout. Enclosed within an imposing circuit of walls, the community has put careful thought into every corner of limited space, separating private houses from the sacred temples and civic buildings. Necessary architecture only, no spare room for the entertainment of a theatre. 

Cosa is significantly smaller than the size of your birthplace, drenched in the scents of sea salt and fish, yet there are elements of opulence if one looks close enough. Pearl necklaces adorning necks and solid gold bracelets fastened around wrists. Chairs carved from precious woods, embellished with touches of silver or bronze. Acacius’ curule seat in his tablinum is made out of pure ivory, its legs resembling a lion’s paws. A gift from the Senate after a successful military campaign.

The majority of Acacius’ hours in the public square is split between the basilica, the curia, and the comitium speaking with the aediles and magistrates. Offices of elected officials which exclude women from entry–not that you have much interest in politics anyways. 

The marketplace quickly becomes your favorite place outside of your domus. A variety of stalls clustered together bustling with activity. Haggling becomes second nature to you, and when you can’t get the price you want you make trades with your weavings. 

Still. Cosa is a small enough city where you’re easily recognized as someone new by the locals. More than once you’ve experienced lingering glances, examining everything from your clothes to your hair. More than once those eyes have made your shoulder blades curl with the instinct to somehow fold into yourself like the little crabs that occasionally wash up on the sandy coastline.

A week after settling in, a man in the bathhouse grabs at your palla before you can enter the women’s section, pulling harsh enough to send your mother’s brooch clattering to the ground. You press a hand over your pounding heart, scrambling backwards a few steps, all too aware of the heavy veil of silence that has fallen over the room. 

Acacius calmly appears at your side, soundless in his approach, filling the whole place with his commanding presence. 

A blink. That’s all it takes.

One blink and suddenly the man’s blood spatters the stucco wall as Acacius slams his skull against it repeatedly until he no longer resembles anything human. Just a gruesome muddle of scarlet and bone, life thread severed by the jaws of death. 

Acacius releases his hold, then points a bloodstained finger at you. “She is mine. Anyone who touches her will face my retribution. And I won’t hesitate to add another soul to Dis Pater’s realm.”

~~

Living under the roof of your parents, you’d thought of home as a physical structure. A place to stay in a world full of constantly moving parts. 

Marriage has taught you home is so much more. It’s the soft notes you hum as you spin and weave wool. A kiss pressed to your temple as Acacius moves past. The scent of fresh citrus each morning for breakfast and the sweet taste of fine wines. Plans to visit the coast. A bowl of seashells. Gazing up at constellations when the moon is high. Feelings bubbling up, spilling out, casting shadows on the walls and slipping beneath the bed sheets. It’s the warmth of another body, touching, feeling, familiarizing, until two halves become an inseverable one whole.

Home is learning to be loved and to be in love. 

~~

Acacius doesn’t receive many guests in his tablinum, preferring to settle his business affairs in the public offices, yet he still keeps a cushioned stool in front of his desk. You sit there, elbow propped on his desk and chin resting upon your fist, watching your husband search through his shelf of scrolls. The mosaic floors have been recently cleaned, colors popping vividly in the patches of sunlight sneaking in, and the painted scenes of nature adorning the walls are masterfully done, but you can’t bring yourself to look anywhere else except him.

“Where did your name come from?” you ask, breaking up the quiet.

Acacius pauses, glancing back with a raised eyebrow. “It was my father’s name. And his father’s name. And his father’s father’s name and–”

“You know that’s not what I mean.” Your scolding is softened by the smile pulling at the corner of your mouth. Acacius keeps looking at you, smirking like he finds the whole thing amusing. “The Atlas Lion. A moniker as frightful as that, it must have an origin.”

He chuckles that deep, rumbling laugh of his. “Wondered when you’d finally ask.”

His tone is light, still smirking, but you see through the cracks of the facade. See the hesitation in the lowering of his eyes to the floor, see the slight furrow in his brow that only appears when he’s worried he’s upset you. He’s nervous—it’s so obvious and so dearly human that it aches. It looks absolutely wrong on the face of a man known throughout the Empire for his larger-than-life confidence.

You watch him warily, unsure what to do, what to say beyond his name. “Acacius.”

Your husband faces the scrolls again, and for a moment you’re afraid the fragile moment��s broken, but then he tells you the story behind his name. ‘Story’ is too soft a word though. Stories are for parties and entertainment, full of humor and unfolding drama and moral lessons. Acacius doesn’t tell you a story. No, he tells you his truth. 

Acacius doesn’t mince words, describing the hellish months of military training in grueling detail. He tells you, in an almost detached manner, how he’d been a different man back then. Scrawnier, unused to bloodshed, restless, but above all else, near feral with the need to prove his own worth. 

“It was General Meridius’ idea for soldiers to train as bestiarii.” There’s something about the way he says the name—full of respect. Admiration for a superior. But you think you detect a note of something else laced within the syllables too. Something almost…sad sounding. Grieving, perhaps. It’s gone in the next breath. “Face to face with wild beasts, you either become an expert with your weapon fast or you die an unglorified death in the arena.”

For all the nights you’ve traced meaningless patterns along the large scars gouged into Acacius’ shoulders, you didn’t ask about them. Assumed they were the result of a too-close enemy with a too-sharp weapon. A blade or spear, something man-made. Never occurred to you to think of fangs and claws as weapons too.

Blinking sharply, you sit up straighter, stuttering, “W-wait, are you…is that where…” There’s a swarm of questions buzzing in your head, stinging the back of your throat when you try to voice them. Finally, you manage to choke out, “So, that’s how you got your name? You actually fought lions?”

Acacius finally turns around at that, only to surprise you by shaking his head. “I did fight lions—and bears, boars, even a pair of hyenas once. But that’s not why they call me the Atlas Lion.”

He trails off, tension in the wrinkled lines of his expression your hands itch to smoothen out. You hesitate to rise from your seat, unable to tell if drawing closer would lighten your husband’s mood or worsen it. Moments like this–where he’s loosened the reins of his tightly controlled emotions, offering a glimpse of an ordinary, flesh and blood mortal man who’s been chewed up and spit out a dozen times over– are few and far between. Delicate like fine glass, requiring just the right handling.

“To prove I was ready for the army, I had to pass a test,” he explains. “I fought everything that attacked me. I stopped thinking, stopped feeling. Nothing mattered except the next stab of my gladius. And when they started throwing men into the arena, I didn’t even notice.” Acacius exhales a ragged breath. “I stopped seeing people as people.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, voice barely above a murmur. 

There’s another pause, time seeming to slow down, seconds stretching lazily like a plump housecat, and then Acacius crosses the distance, close enough your knees graze each other, head tilted back to peer up at him. He says nothing, even as his thumb brushes over your chapped lips.

“Acacius.” Your body trembles, edges of your vision starting to blur. You lean into his touch. The center of your universe.

“I mean,” Acacius says, eyes on your mouth. Your lips part unthinkingly, letting his thumb slip inside, pressing lightly against your bottom teeth. “We’re all just animals, my leaena. Red tongues and hands.”

~~

The air is cool this time of night, seems to press against your skin like a damp washcloth. Cleansing you from the inside out with each deep inhale. 

Acacius stands in the courtyard, bronze skin painted in streaks of moonbeams and starlight, hair tousled by fitful hands. His absence from bed had stirred you awake, and a part of you wonders if these midnight musings are a regular occurrence you’ve only just now become aware of. Not all dreams are sweet after all, especially for soldiers. 

“A nightmare?” you ask, a hushed inquiry disrupting the still of night.

“A memory,” is all he offers. 

“Oh.” 

He hasn’t looked at you yet, brown eyes boring holes into the distant moon. Maybe you should return to bed, give him space and privacy to sort himself out. But your bare feet stick to the floor and you can’t pull your eyes away. Noting the rhythmic clenching and unclenching of his hands, the rising and falling of his chest with each breath.

You try to ignore the disappointment gnawing at your heart, hurt that Acacius won’t share his internal burden with you, even in the cover of darkness where it’s just you and him. 

He’s revealed the truth of his name with you. Encouraged you to lick and bite and mark every inch of his flesh as your own. But tonight he’s put up a wall you can’t climb over. 

Maybe that’s why you stay. You’re a glutton for punishment.

Somewhere else in the city, a dog begins to bark. It’s a harsh sound, all teeth, defending its territory from a threat, and you flinch despite the distance. Unsurprisingly, Acacius doesn’t so much as even twitch. 

What is surprising though, is that he chooses then to finally speak.

“There are victories yet still to come,” he mutters, a tremor to his voice you’ve never heard before, like he’s standing on unsteady ground. And there’s this look in his eyes that unsettles you, haunted by something only he can see. “That’s what they always say.”

They?

Stepping closer, you gently bump your hand against his. A knot unravels in your chest when he blinks back to himself, pinky hooking onto yours. A tether securing him home with you.

“Who says that?”

“The Emperors.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Don’t know what words will build his wall higher or what ones will knock it down–if that’s even possible. 

“What are they like?” Your mouth makes the choice for you. “Geta and Caracalla?”

You’ve never been to Rome, never seen the ruling brothers in person. All you really know about them are the stories and rumors from the mouths of travelers gossiping in the marketplace. Sometimes nice things are said, sometimes…not so nice things. 

“They’re…” Dark brows draw together, mouth pulling downward in a frown. Acacius finally looks at you, the brown of his eyes lost in the dark, but not the sharp glint of fear. Tumultuous and excruciating, you feel it cut deep. “They’re fire and water. Two opposing forces unfit to inhabit the same space. It’s only a matter of time before one prevails over the other.”

You swallow, nervousness swelling in the pit of your stomach at the flat, doomed sound of certainty he speaks with. “And then what happens?”

“The Empire will either burn or drown." 

“And us?” you ask tentatively. “What will happen to us?”

Acacius doesn’t have an answer.

~~

A Roman naval ship is spotted just as dawn breaks, drawing a sizable crowd by the time it docks in the harbor. There’s a sense of wrongness associated with the lack of an official fleet, and that unsettling feeling is multiplied tenfold when it’s announced there are numerous injured soldiers aboard.

Acacius attends to them, ensuring each gets medical attention while also gathering information from the head officer in charge. You stand at the back of the crowd, heart in your throat, seeing but not truly processing. Blood, so much red. Expressions of young men scrunched in pain. The grim, motionless bodies of those who didn’t last the final hours of the journey.

“Steel yourself.” A feminine voice warns, and you turn with a blink of surprise upon seeing the high priestess at your side, unused to encountering her outside her temple walls. The sea breeze ruffles the red and white ribbons in her braided hair as she holds your gaze, calm in an almost preternatural way compared to the surrounding commotion. “You are a general’s wife. To express your fear in public is to express doubt of the Empire’s dominance and your husband’s own prowess.”

Her words sink like a stone in your stomach. “I’ll be better,” you promise, the acidic taste of shame burning the back of your throat.

“Stronger,” she corrects, fierce blue eyes rivaling an ocean storm. “You must be stronger than your greatest fear.”

You can only nod, imagining one of the corpses wearing your husband’s face. 

~~

{With every inch of territory the Empire gains, its list of bitter enemies grows exponentially longer. Not every threat rising up in defiance stems from foreign soil though, Acacius was forced to learn that the hard way. He’s seen the effects Rome’s constant warfare and rotting politics have had on its subjects, witnessed people turn against their masters’ hands like rabid dogs hell-bent on stripping flesh from bone.

Rebels are dealt with just like rabid dogs, too. Caught and decapitated in a public spectacle. Crimson rivulets flow from their remains, discoloring the city’s streets reminiscent of a spilled wine stain, seeping into the very foundation itself. 

Then come the speeches in the comitium from Cosa’s magistrates. Addressing the huddled masses with sickly sweet, empty promises of better times to come. Lying through their teeth, scared the next outburst of internal strife will end with their own severed heads tossed into the sea.

Acacius’ attendance is mandatory, yet he only pretends to listen while standing on the stone steps behind the speakers. His wife’s shoulder presses against his, their hands firmly locked together, unbothered by the harsh ridges of his battle-hardened palm grazing against her smooth skin. A simple comfort he’d long believed himself unworthy of ever indulging in.

“It tears you up inside, doesn’t it?” His wife’s voice is just a faint murmur, so quiet there isn’t a chance anyone else hears her, but the knowing note in it has his chest tightening with a stiff exhale. “Like a thorn in your soul. Even from Rome, Geta and Caracalla control your tongue.”

“There is a time for a general to speak his mind and there is a time for him to keep his head,” he reminds her frankly, careful to maintain his facade of blank detachment. “It’d do you good to remember your place.”

Her sharp inhale is torturous to his ears. She reacts to his blunt discipline like a physical blow, shoulders sagging, lips pressed together in a thin line, practically rolling over and exposing her vulnerable underbelly. Acacius hates that look. Hates even more he’s the cause of it. He thinks impaling himself with his own blade would hurt less. 

Nudging her shoulder drags her gaze reluctantly back to him. And this is not the appropriate setting for levity, Acacius should bite back the smile curling at the corners of his mouth—but for his wife, his divine leaena, he’s a sinner on his knees desperate to be in the warmth of her good graces again. “You are fond of this general’s face, yes?”

It’s not the offering this goddess deserves, but it’s enough to begin mending what he’d torn, soothing the worst of the sting. She smiles, an amused, uneven little twist of her mouth she once confessed being insecure about before he kissed away all worries from her mind. There’s something undeniably perfect about it, like the first rays of sunlight after a bleak winter. 

“Of course I am. But…” She bites her lip, caught on something. He squeezes her hand, and it seems to be the needed boost to force the words out from the cage in her throat. “Even the Atlas Lion must want to roar sometimes.”

Acacius should be annoyed with her ability to read him–it’s a weakness, and any weakness in his personal experience is a promise of death’s swift arrival. It isn’t safe, for either of them. But she’s done the unthinkable, worming her way into his ugly, greedy heart, treating it like something tender, something lovable. And it was too damn easy how quickly she filled up every vacant space in his head. From the moment she lifted her veil he’s been enraptured by her essence. Starving for every scrap of attention she’s willing to give. His wife has become a critical piece of his life, as vitally essential as the breath in his lungs and the sword hanging at his hip.

It’s dangerous, what she’s done to him.

But it’s far, far more dangerous, what he’d do for her.

Her eyes widen with surprise when he leans in, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead, but he feels the way she relaxes against him with easy acceptance. Believing she’s safe with him, ignorant of the threats closing in on all sides. Every day drawing nearer and nearer still. 

That will have to change, he swears to himself. Her survival depends upon it.

“Yes,” he says at last, and it’s the most honest he’s been with himself in years. “Sometimes he does.”}

~~

Acacius places one hand on your shoulder, the other settles on your hip. There is nothing delicate about his touch, no hesitation about maneuvering your body into a proper defensive stance. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees bent, pugio held in a strong grasp.

“Lower your arm, always aim the blade at your opponent,” Acacius instructs, slipping into his alternate persona as a leader on the battlefield like a second skin, his critical eyes zeroing in on all the mistakes that will get you killed in a moment of danger. “When you hold that dagger, you must hold it with the intent to spill blood, my leaena. Words alone aren’t enough to protect you.”

You swallow, fingers flexing around the hilt. It’s a daunting experience, learning to sever someone’s life thread from an expert on the subject. You’re grateful for the privacy of your domus’ courtyard, concealing your clumsy movements from outsiders who’d undoubtedly laugh at each ungraceful slash and lunge. You resemble a fool, sweaty and fledgling, undeserving of your husband’s calling. The only women you’d seen fight with weapons were gladiatrices at festivals, an exotic and unusual form of entertainment which never failed to attract large crowds. Your mother claimed they brought shame upon womankind, yet when Acacius had asked you to learn, you’d accepted without delay.

She’d disown you immediately if she could see you now. The thought has your stomach churning, a sour taste on the back of your tongue.

“We’re wasting time,” you say, voice hoarse. “I’ll never be strong enough to pose a threat to anyone.”

Acacius clicks his tongue at you. “Never say never, my leaena. You’ll tempt the Fates.”

The courtyard is quiet besides your breathing, and the streets beyond the domus’ walls are empty this time of day. You’re keenly aware of Acacius’ nearness, the slight frown pulling at his lips, like he’s trying to understand your thoughts, and you want to fight him. Howl and claw and lash out like the beast he seeks to bring to light from your depths. But there is nothing there. 

“I’m not like you. I can’t be.” His head tilts, still uncomprehending. You gesture at him with your empty hand, the rippling muscles straining the fabric of his sleeveless tunic. “The Atlas Lion. Devourer of the Emperors’ enemies. Ferocity unmatched amongst Rome’s army of warriors.” You then gesture at yourself, forcing the ugly words past your teeth if only so he’ll give up this futile endeavor. “I’m just me.”

The air shifts between you and him, a thick, cloying tension weighing heavily upon your shoulders. It’s only the knowledge that there’s nowhere in all of Cosa you could hide from your husband that keeps you anchored in place even as your heartbeat gallops away. Acacius’ brown eyes darken, thunder clouds blocking out the sun.

And then his callused hands are on your face, palms rough along the underside of your jaw, fingers pressing into the skin, squeezing. Claiming. An inescapable hold. 

“Do not,” he starts, voice low and gravelly, a snarling darkness you’ve never heard before and never want to again, “ever speak so poorly of yourself again. How can you think of yourself as anything less than magnificent? How can you not know of the power you wield over me? You’ve made me live again. My heart, long cold and numbed by the trials of war, beats again only for you. There is nothing more valuable to me than your wellbeing–not wealth nor fame, nothing. Is it clear to you yet? You have tamed the Atlas Lion body and soul. This general heeds your every call.”

You shudder, dazed and captivated by his close proximity, his devotion. Intoxicated, that’s what you feel. So caught up in a fog of mindless pleasure you fail to notice him guiding your hand up, up, up until the pugio’s blade is put to his throat. 

“All that I am is yours,” Acacius says, hushed now, a secret between lovers. The dagger pierces skin, a thin trickle of blood oozing. You flinch, eyes widening, but his hold remains firm. “Which makes you the most dangerous creature of all. And for that reason, my leaena, you will and you must learn to fight.”

He shoves you backwards a step. It’s not his full strength, more surprising than hurtful, but something inside you uncoils, teeth gnashing. A feeling sparks in your bloodstream, erupting into a wildfire at the look of pride in Acacius’ eye when you reflexively point your pugio at his heart. 

You swipe at him, again and again, driven by this new source of power. And through it all he holds your gaze, the brown of his eyes as sharp as the blade in your hand. Neither one says I love you, I’d take a bite out of the world for you but neither one needs to. 

Actions have always been louder than words.

~~

“Do you ever think about what’s out there?” you ask one night in bed together. Acacius reclines against the headboard, staring at you through half-lidded eyes as you drag your fingertips over his bare, scarred skin in meaningless patterns. 

Would anyone believe this man was the Atlas Lion? A wild, virulent beast compliant and disarmed beneath the gentle stroke of your touch? 

No. You think not.

“Out where?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, thumb catching on a particularly rough patch of damaged skin left of his hip bone. Every battle he fought, every combatant he faced—Mars laid fresh claims to his body with each fresh cicatrix.  

Claims you challenge the only way you know how. Scrapes of your nails breaking skin and tender presses of your mouth licking up the crimson pearls of blood.

“Beyond the Empire’s borders. Somewhere without war.”

Acacius’ brow creases, gaze alert now, looking at you as if you’ve spoken a different language. “Without war…” he repeats slowly. “My leaena, there is no place such as that. Discordia’s reach is far, farther than the Emperors could ever conquer in their combined lifetimes, stirring up strife deep in the hearts of even the mildest of men, and it will always find an outlet one way or another.”

“Oh.” You clear your throat. It’s not the response you had hoped for, but it’s the one you should have expected. Acacius isn’t the type of man to indulge in far-fetched fantasies of softer living. Can’t be, not with all the horrors he’s witnessed and played a part in crafting. 

“But,” Acacius pauses, and his hand covers yours. Not holding or moving it, just staying there. Feeling. “If somewhere without war did exist…” he smiles, a soft and little thing reserved just for these quiet moments. “I’d do whatever it took to get us there.”

~~

The wool for your new palla has been carded and spun into yarn. It stretches and winds around the teeth of your wooden loom, weighed down by terracotta scales. 

You’re alone in the domus. Acacius had been summoned by the magistrates for an urgent meeting, and you try not to let fear interfere with your work, an aggressive wasp buzzing at the back of your mind. Your touch remains light when pulling at uneven sections, its intended shape coming together bit by bit. The whooshing of a racing heartbeat echoes in your ears.

So long as there is land outside the Empire’s borders, the Emperors will expect Acacius to conquer it in their names. His time in Cosa is trapped in an hourglass, never quite knowing when the last grain of sand will slip away, summoned back to the front lines for another campaign. Another brush with death. Another chapter added to his legacy.  

You feel the sand’s effects sometimes, a sinking sensation threatening to drag you down when you walk with him through the market. Coarse and gritty, scratching your skin as you fall asleep in his arms. Piling so high it chokes you, the cursed inevitability of it all.

Another loop of wool around teeth. Tension taut and held firm. The muscles of your arms burn with effort, left foot tingling uncomfortably from sitting too long with little movement. Cosa’s awake and thriving in the warm weather, echoes of voices drifting in with the breeze, but you’ve never felt more alone. A feeling you dread becoming intimately familiar with sooner or later.

Later, you pray selfishly, desperately, achingly to the Fates. Make it later. 

So long as Acacius breathes he will always walk two paths—the path of a general and the path of a husband. And it’s a priority of yours–a requirement as his wife–to find a way to be okay when those paths split and you’re truly left all alone. You must then nurture the tiniest flame of hope one step, one trial, one lonely night at a time. Burning fiercely until every last shadow of doubt is purged from your mind, and the only thing that remains is the steadfast belief he’ll return to your side.

Then you must prepare yourself to do it all over again and again and again…too incapable of challenging the Emperors’ insatiable greed, too mortal to stop the sands of time.

You roll your shoulders once finished, scrutinizing the piece for errors. Later you’ll detach the palla from the loom to cut and tie off the loose end-threads of dangling wool, and later still you’ll take it to the fuller to be washed then to the dyer to be colored. You wonder if Acacius will like the shade of golden yellow you have in mind. If he’ll even be in Cosa to see the finished product or a thousand miles away in the heat of battle. A tremor racks your spine at the thought.

But then the front door opens with a quiet groan, and the cheerfully hummed notes of Acacius’ favorite song float through the house. You smile, heartbeat settling into its natural rhythm with the knowledge he’s here with you. The war has not stolen him away just yet.

“Come, my leaena,” he calls out, and you can hear the grin in his voice without having to see it. “It’s a beautiful day. Should we spend it by the coast?”

There’s an urge to close your eyes, to sink into this moment for all its worth, but sand is rising around your ankles. A reminder of all temporary things. 

Your legs can’t move fast enough, drawn to your husband’s side. 

Just a little bit longer. Another hour, another day. 

You reach for Acacius’ hand, tangling them together, pulling him closer. Always closer.

Another call of my name.

“Let’s not waste a single second.”