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ebodebo · 5 months ago

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Hey, Waiter!

NSFW CONTENT

—you meet jason at one of bruce’s charity galas and you fuck

—jason todd x f!reader

—2.7k+

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"Honey, cross your legs."

"Honey, sit up straighter."

"Honey, we're at a gala, not a summer blowout in the Maldives."

These were just a few of the many phrases your mother chirped at you since you arrived at this stupid gala. You didn't even want to go, but your mother preached something about how, "we needed to be a united front since your father was going for reelection as a New York senator" or something like that.

It was stupid. Nobody gives a shit about familial ties; they care about your values, goals, and accolades. But there's no arguing with your mother; she's as stubborn as they come.

So, you'd sit pretty, legs crossed, with a pristine posture, biting your tongue when she says you could be sitting straighter or you could smile more. Granted, it was only a couple of hours, and if it kept your mother from turning the world around you into hell personified, you'd gladly plaster a rictus smile to appease her.

"Oh, there's Bruce!" Your mother quietly says between you and your father. "Let's go say hello," she says, gripping your hand and pulling you out of your chair, gesturing for your father to follow along.

Somewhere along the way, your parents move in front of you, sequestering you behind them. So once you all reach Bruce, he only takes notice of them, issuing a polite welcome and thanks for their attendance. Your mother swivels her head to see you tucked away behind her, bringing her hand out, gesturing for you to come in front.

"Hello, Mr. Wayne," you politely say, sticking your hand out, before introducing yourself. He grasps your hand with only a slight hesitation.

"Pardon my shock. I just haven't seen you since you were two," he confesses. You smile, pulling your hand back before your mother steps next to you and places her hand on your shoulder.

"She's grown quite a lot since then, Bruce. Still a little air-heady, but I'm hopeful the more she ages, the more my personality will rub off on her," she laughs, carefully wiping a piece of loose hair away from your face. You should feel offended, but the way her joke landed so poorly, making Bruce lightly cough the awkwardness away, made you feel pity.

"You know Selina," he says, filling in the silence, gently placing his hand on her waist as she delicately sticks her hand out for your father to shake.

Who wouldn't know Selina Kyle? She was drop-dead gorgeous but as sharp as they came. She was dressed to the nines in a designer black floor-length dress. It must have been Celine or Givenchy, so it was definitely over five thousand dollars, which is just pocket change to a guy like Bruce Wayne.

"Pleasure," she coos, pulling her hand away. Her gaze shifts to your mother, slightly narrowing her eyes. It seems your mother is oblivious to Selina's adversary towards her because she eagerly sticks her hand out, ready for Selina to shake.

"Selina. So good to see you." But, instead of shaking your mother's hand, she crossed her arms over her chest

"Mhm. I wish I could say the same," Selina sharply replied before Bruce put his hand on her shoulder in warning. You gave Selina a small smile, smothering it with your hand. She covered her own with her champagne glass as she took a sip.

"She's joking," Bruce amends, signaling for a waiter going around with glasses of alcohol. "Champagne?" He asks, reaching for two glasses from the waiter before handing them to your parents.

Before any more conversation can occur, a man calls for Bruce. "Bruce," The man says, "When do you want to start?" The man questions. Bruce picks up his arm, turning his wrist to check his watch.

"He said he'd be here by now," Bruce sighed, rubbing his temples with his fingers. His eyes were scanning around in search of something—rather someone. He does, however, spot Alfred, who he calls over and asks if he'd seen a guy named Jason.

"It was humorous of you to assume Master Todd would abide by your schedule, Master Wayne," Alfred remarks, his face stone-cold. Bruce checks the time on his watch again, then scans the crowd again.

"Just start the silent auction. I suppose Jason will come when he comes," Bruce suspires, clearly agitated. "See you at the auction," he chimes to you and your parents as he sticks his arm out for Selina to take.

"See you," your mother cheerfully says, though you know the cheeriness is just a facade because once Bruce and Selina walk away, your mother instantly drops the smile.

"Can you believe that woman? She was a criminal for God's-sake. She should be thankful that people like us even mingle with her." Your mother scoffs at your father. He hums along, paying relatively no mind to what she is saying.

While she goes on a tangent about how Selina is just using Bruce to get to his billions, you notice a dark figure heading toward the fire escape that you assume leads to the roof. You don't know why, but your brain is fluttering with the idea that you must follow it. So, you do just that.

"I have to use the bathroom," you interrupt, gently touching your mother's hand. You turn your head away from her, not bothering to turn back when she calls your name.

You walk around a corner to see the fire escape latch slightly ajar. Reaching out, you grasp the lever and push it out, quickly feeling the chilly Gotham air touch your cheeks.

Once your foot touches the stone with a 'clack' from your heels, you see the dark figure lying down, smoke clouding around him. He glances at you, taking a drag of his cigarette and huffing out a string of smoke.

"Didn't think pretty girls would come up here." This mystery guy's voice is deep, and judging by his figure, you can tell he's lanky.

"You know the latch and all."

"Are you calling me incompetent?" You cock a brow, hand on your hip with your purse in hand.

"No, I'm callin' you pretty," he says casually, taking another drag of his cigarette, not sparing you another glance. You hate to admit it, but this guy is pretty smooth, but you wouldn't tell him that.

"Who are you?" You ask, taking a few steps toward him and only turning your head to look at the night sky, which is aglow with billions of little stars. You see all the high-rise buildings, light illuminating the dark streets. It's a shame Gotham is so corrupt and unlawful.

"I should be askin' you that, seeing as you’re on my roof," he tentatively says. You can just feel the smugness in his tone, making you roll your eyes.

"You're a Wayne?" You question, arms crossed, slowly stepping closer to him.

"Somethin' like that I guess," he shrugs, which makes you let out a light laugh.

"You guess? You don't know your own family lineage?" You joke, moving to sit not completely next to him but close enough that you could feel the smoke in your nose. You could also see the outline of his face—strong jaw, pretty eyes, fluttery lashes, and nice lips.

"Why are you so curious?" He glances at you with a sly smirk on his lips. You look at him, then at the cigarette in between his fingers.

"You know smoking kills," you inform, pointing towards the cigarette. He lays his head back on the roof, his lips curving into a smirk before retaking another drag.

"You know what else kills? Poking your head around where you don't belong," he puffs out the smoke as he speaks. You turn your head away from him, trying to conceal your smile. This guy is something else, you think.

"Jason," he adds.

Your eyes widen, and your lips quirk. "Ah, you're Jason." You drag out the 'you're,' getting Jason to turn his head towards you. An inquisitive look is plastered on his face.

"So you've heard of me?" He cockily says.

"I know enough about you to know you're flakey," you raise a brow. He lets out a soft laugh.

"Mr. Wayne was looking for you, and so was everyone else," you clarify.

"Oh, please don't tell on me," he fake pleads, clearly being sarcastic. "Especially to Mr. Wayne."

You roll your eyes, though your lips threaten to smile. "I'm sensing some sarcasm."

"Well, aren't you just a modern-day Poirot.”

You widen your eyes, raising your hands. "Wait, wait. You read classic literature?" You gawk, hand coming to your chest.

"I dabble," he shrugs nonchalantly. You eye him, lip quirking.

"Well, aren't you just full of surprises?" You say, holding your two fingers out, gesturing to his cigarette. "Let me take a puff," you insist.

"Ah, ah," he tuts. "What happened to 'smoking kills?'" He raises a brow, taking a puff of the cigarette himself.

"Sue me, but I'm curious," you shrug. He eyes you, wondering if you're joking. He gives you his cigarette anyway. You take a long drag, feeling the smoke cloud your lungs.

"Easy, easy," Jason warns. "Don't take too much, or you'll—" Before he can finish, you start violently coughing, feeling your eyes well up with tears. "Cough," he finishes, taking the cigarette from your hand as you go to cover your mouth.

"You like this shit?" You say through harsh coughs.

"You get used to it," he answers, not paying attention to the question. He's more concerned about you. "You okay?" His tone isn't condescending—it carries empathy.

"Ya, ya. Took too much," you shyly smile, hiccuping a little, turning your head to look directly at him. He laughs lowly. His laugh is deep and gravelly but still sounds kind. You gulp. God, were you getting turned on by a laugh?

You were facing him head-on, and even in the shitty lighting, you could see the way his Adam's apple bobbed up and down and the way his jaw clenched. Your eyes slowly drift down his face, falling on his lips. He had stuck his tongue on his lips to wet them, giving them a glistening sheen.

"Are you thinkin' about me?" His voice is dry. You sharply move your eyes to bore into his, sticking your tongue out to wet the seam of your own lips.

"And what if I am?" You challenge. Suddenly, you can feel your own heartbeat, and your hands are clammy. You can see the gears in his brain working, trying to figure you out.

"Well, are you?" He asks roughly, putting his cigarette out on the roof. You search his eyes, gently biting your lip. His eyes follow you the whole time.

"Guess," you quipped. You hadn't realized you had scooted closer to him, close enough to where he could if he wanted to touch you. This little banter you guys had was getting you wetter by the minute. It was odd. You'd never even met this guy, but you would let him kiss you, maybe even more.

His gaze drifts from your eyes to your lips. "If I were to put my hand under your dress, what would I find?" He gruffly says. Your eyes drift back to his lips, and you bite your own as your chest rises and falls rapidly.

"What would I find?" He urges a little more assertively this time. You rapidly avert your eyes back to him, taking note of the blue hue in his eyes, which has seemingly grown darker.

"Maybe you should find out, Jason," you encourage. Once you give him the go, he's quick to move closer, crushing his lips to yours roughly. It was unlike anything you've ever felt before—like a ton of dynamite just erupted in you, leaving you feeling a buzz on your skin.

You reached up to grab the back of his neck, pushing him further on your lips. He groans as you sink one of your hands into his hair, gripping your waist in his hands and pulling you so you straddle his lap.

"Do you hook up with every girl you just meet?" You murmur into his lips, slipping your tongue between the seam of his moist lips.

"You hook up with every guy you just meet?" He imitates, in between breaths, gripping your waist tighter as you tug on the roots of his hair harder.

"Touché," you whisper, breathing labored as he presses deep kisses down your neck. He works his way down until he is kissing the top of your breast. Slowly, he brings his hands up to slip the strap of your dress down, exposing your breasts.

He kisses a straight line down the top of your breast to your sensitive nipple. His mouth is hot on your skin, especially in a place so sensitive. You moan as his mouth fully encompasses your nipple, lightly sucking, sending goosebumps down your skin.

You reach for his tie, grab it with your hand, hurriedly untie it, and throw it to the side before carefully undoing the few buttons on his jacket.

"It's a shame no one got to see your suit," you murmur as Jason returns his lips to yours, pressing feverish kisses into them before slipping his tongue into your mouth.

"Ya? Why's that?" He mumbles against your lips, as his hands fumble with his zipper trying to pull it down. You slid the jacket off of Jason's shoulder.

"Because you look fucking hot," you say, looking into his eyes, noticing the way his pupils dilate, hunger written all over his face. He quickly slips his slacks down, along with his boxers. Fumbling with the pocket of his jacket, he grabs a condom.

"Really?" You scowl, as he rips open the gold packaging with his teeth, slipping it on himself.

"What? Don't give me that look," he urges, pooling your dress up around your waist, sliding your panties to the side, as he guides the head of his cock inside your glistening cunt.

"Don't act like it didn't come in handy," he appeals as his cock slips inside you easily. You both groan at the contact, gripping each other tighter.

"Fuck, you were wet. Just slipped right in," he grits as you rock yourself against him, desperate for more friction. His hand is in your hair, pushing your face towards his to share messy, hot kisses as his other hand helps you set a pleasurable pace.

You throw your head back as he thrusts into you, eliciting a moan from you. "Fuck, Jason," you mewl as you feel his lips back on your breast, sucking and nipping with his teeth. Your hands grip tighter in his hair, hoping this will give you some kind of stability.

"Feels so good. So fuckin' good," Jason groans as he feels you clamp around him. You press your lips back to his, aching to feel the vibrations of his groans against your face. He grips the sides of your face to deepen the kiss, his teeth clashing with your own.

You continue going up and down on his cock, occasionally he thrusts himself into you to satisfy his urges and lets you grind against him to chase your own high. He takes your nipple into his mouth one last time before you moan so loud you're surprised the Gotham City Police isn't called, and Jason is spewing curses and groans as you both come.

Your bodies are both buzzing and twitching. Chests heaving so heavily you're suprised your hearts didn't just bust straight out of your chests. Jason pulls out once you aren't panting as hard, guiding you off his cock as you fix your dress. He slips the condom off, groaning at the touch, before tying it at the end. Then, he slips his jacket back on along with his slacks.

You haphazardly stand, holding onto Jason's shoulder to keep your balance. Once you gain stability, you awkwardly cough out a bye, unsure on how to make this any less weird and head back towards the fire escape. You only turn when you hear him say something. Turning on your heels, you look back at him, still in the same spot.

"I, uh, never caught your name?" He yells, his hand scratching the back of his neck.

"Didn't throw it, Jason," you shout back, making a lopsided smile grow on his face. Then, turning to go back through the fire escape, you catch a smile spread across your face as well.

Maybe being forced to attend one of Bruce Wayne's galas wasn't so bad.

a/n: jason todd = thought daughter

reblogs & comments are encouraged!

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somnoir · 12 days ago

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Prodigal son beyond time - Part 1

Ra's Al Ghul had a son. No, it's not Dusan we spoke of right now. Ra's Al Ghul's first born child was a peculiar boy that was forged by the Lazarus Pits—or so what he says.

Talia has never met her brother.

Her brother, it has been years since she's found out about him yet her father never gives them a name—he thinks them unworthy of it. Even if he was not present, her brother continues to be the favorite, to be the child their father praised most. His absence is a glaring hole in her father's heart (though she is not sure if he has one).

It is no secret amongst the league that Ra's nameless son was unofficially the heir, even when Damian was born.

Talia has doubted her brother's distance many times, and yet she finds evidence of him over and over again.

Her father writes letters, strange ones that vary in language, dialect, grammar, writing styles. She did not mean to read one when she was young, but she couldn't help herself when she had seen it.

My dearest, son of mine,

It has been an age since last I beheld your presence. I find it most disquieting that you have not seen fit to visit, though I am not ignorant of how poorly time aligns itself with your affairs. Yet still, I dare to hope that you might bestow upon me a portion of your time, if but briefly.

Your siblings have inquired after you once more. Yet I am acutely aware that it would be unwise to bind you to this mortal realm for too great a span. Their hearts, tender and unfortified, lack the endurance I possess to weather the long absences your path necessitates. Nevertheless, I am not blind to the hope you carry—to one day stand before them, whether that moment lies near or far in the veiled expanse of time.

She could not finish the lengthy letter before the letter vanished from her hand, a burst of green and strange liquid slipping from her fingers. Talia had been startled, too young, assuming that this was Lazarus water that has stolen her father's letter.

And she found her father looming behind her, his expression stern get there was amusement in his eyes.

"Your brother is a curious person." Her father hummed, "He's powerful."

"We are not... Allowed to meet him?"

"Not yet. Until you steel your hearts." Ra's nodded, "Your brother does not stay in one place for long. But he is soft hearted and loyal to the family. You give him reason to stay and he will stay."

His hand, firm and guidind, pressed against her shoulder in a tight grip. "And I will not let any of you weaken him."

On that day, Talia realized that her father truly did love her brother. In his own strange way.

The next time she reads a letter, Damian was but a babe of one, cradled in her arms as a letter written on green paper rested in her father's hand. It was open, the wax seal carefully sliced from the envelope.

"Father."

"Talia." He replied nonchalantly, eyes flicking to Damian, his eyes softening momentarily as a longing look slipped to the letter.

Talia's heart tightened, resentful that her father was beginning to see his favorite child on her own son. She could not allow that...

"Your brother has written to me. It has been... Almost a year... Since the last." Ra's hummed, turning to Talia, then Damian, before flicking yet another letter to her. It startled her.

"From your brother." Ra's sighed, "I made the mistake of writing about Damian and now he wishes to meet you first. Not Nyssa, not Dusan—you."

"My brother?" Talia hesitantly accepted the letter. "I do not even know his name..."

Ra's clicked his tongue, "He signed it in his name. You will know from that letter." He paused, glancing back at her. "You have yet to prove yourself worthy, Talia, but... Damian's birth will surely being your brother back home."

Talia's heart palpitated in her chest.

The prospect of her baby, her son, her child—the mere thought that her baby would be the thing that successfully brings her brother home was... Outstanding.

"Read it in your own time... After that, seek me out."

Talia does not know... What to particularly do...

But she takes Damian, watches as her father leaves, and hurries along to her own quarters.

Talia tucks her son into the crib, narrowing her eyes at the nursemaids that were hired to nurture her son. She dismissed them immediately, watching as they silently leave the room. It is only when silence reigns does she takes a seat on her bed as Damian slumbers in his crib.

(Her hands tremble as the letter rested in her hands. It was light, not heavy, her her hands tremble as if she could not handle the weight.)

She takes in a deep breath, takes a dagger and carefully slices it away from envelope. It's intricately made.

The letter is written in the same green paper that her father received.

The letter read as thus:

My Dearest Talia, It would seem that I am now to be regarded as your brother, for Ra's has deemed me his son. Admittedly, this turn of events is of my own doing, as I endeared myself to him centuries past and found solace in his companionship, coming to view him as a father in truth. Yet you, his daughter by blood, remain a stranger to me, as do Nyssa and Dusan. How peculiar it is that Father should act in such a manner, withholding such introductions with his customary inscrutability.

She takes in a deep breath, awes by her brother's penmaniship... And then suddenly the writing style changes. Morphing from the olden age, the formality of a noble, to...

Anyways! Since you're my sister, I don't think I have to keep writing to you the same way Ra's does. It feels awkward to me, y'know?

She was not expecting that change but...

I've always wanted to meet you all. But my duties to my realm are hard. I can't freelt leave. It's especially worse since my world's time doesn't correlate to yours.

You might find the change of writing styles weird, but in all honesty, I'm from the 21st century. It's just that time never did agree with me. Had to comply with the old man on writing like that since he likes it. Weird, right?

But anyways! I heard you had a son! Congrats by the way. I'd like to meet him too, actually. Aside from that, I heard from Ra's you don't know my name.

Well, he's decided to call my Danyal as it's the Arabic version of my original name "Daniel". Though I often go by my nickname Danny. But it has been a delight to write to you, Talia. Hopefully, I'll be able to meet you and your son in the future.

Since you have my name now, you can write me letters too! It'll find me eventually.

Your brother,

Danny

Her brother's name was Danyal... Her brother went by Danny.

Talia blinked.

Her strange brother was a being that traversed through time, a person who was born in the 21st century... Her brother could be somewhere in the world in that moment and in another time the next.

She pressed the letter to her lips, unable to hold back her smile.

She had quite the silly brother...

And amongst her siblings, Talia was the first to know her brother's name. That bit about being able to write letters to him made her finally understand why her father was so possessive of a name.

(In the Infinite realms, High King Phantom received a letter from his estranged younger sister. He really didn't mean to find family in the Demon's head, but he found it anyways.)

Part 2 | Masterlist

#Prodigal son beyond time #dpxdc #dc x dp #danny phantom #danny fenton #talia al ghul #ra's al ghul #he's a decent parent to danny #Bad ending with the Fenton's reveal and now Danny's ghost prince traversing time #he ends up meeting Ra's #who sees this eldritch boy and decides to practically adopt him #Al ghul wants to save the world from itself #well thats how ive always interpretted things #part 1 #Talia gets an older brother out of Danny who's like her father about looking younger than he looks #ghost prince danny was a very sad child who was disowned by his parents and got traumatized by the GIW #the poor thing ended up tumbling through time and latched on to the first parental figure that he fot #it just so happened to be Ra's al ghul 600 yesrs ago #ghost king dannh is upset that he can't meet his siblings yet #he wil soon!

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dwaekkicidal · 8 months ago

Note

What is stray kids favorite position to have sex? What do you think? This been on my mind for while

the way I was actually thinking about this a few days ago LOL hope you enjoy <3

OT8's Favorite Positions (Rough+Soft Ver)

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ warnings: gender neutral, not pure smut but mentions of specific situations, Seungmin and Jeongin are mean in their 'rough' parts, switch mentions in Felix's part

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ notes: these were SUPPOSED be short but i got a little carried away.. lol. also very poorly proofread cause I'm having sleep issues atm, once I sleep at least a few hours I'll come back to proof read (and probably tweak some things)

DO NOT republish or translate+post my work!

𝙱𝚊𝚗𝚐 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚗

Rough

If he's fucking you during his Daddy/dom moments, a nice downward dog (flat doggy basically). As long as he can tower over you and fuck you until you remember your place, he's happy! Specifically downward dog because he can use those muscles he's been working so hard on to hold you down against the bed and be rough with his thrusts, all while not adding any extra strain to either of you. Runs his hands roughly up and down your back, leaving smacks to your ass before squeezing it right after. If he's in a particularly rough mood, will grab a handful of your hair to pull at and guide you.

Soft

I think he would be a big missionary person when he's making love to you. Likes to be able to see your face and leave kisses all over your frontside while he fucks you. Even more so if he's extra moody/sappy, so he can sloooowly fuck into you and keep his thick lips locked with yours, hands caressing up and down your body as he whispers all sorts of sugar coated praises to you. "You're doing so well for me." "God, I love you so much. You're fucking perfect."

𝙻𝚎𝚎 𝙺𝚗𝚘𝚠

Rough

Good ol' doggy style for because he loooves the control it gives him over you >.< Has a hand between your shoulder blades (or on your lower back) to hold you down, all while his other hand holds your hip to pull you against him (or to land slaps to your ass cheeks). Even better for days he wants to be mean or is just lazy; instead of doing the work he can just make you fuck yourself against him while he degrades you and lands smacks to your ass. Calls you a greedy slut for needing him in your hole so bad and smirks when you clench harder and moan into the sheets

Soft

Also doggy because he can lean over you, controlling the pace to be slower or softer while his chest is pressed to your back. Will slide one of his hands against your stomach in order to hold you against him so he can leave kisses to your cheeks, behind your ear, and against your neck.

𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚋𝚒𝚗

Rough

I think he'd love carrying you while fucking up into you. I discovered the name for the one I had in mind being: 'Aquaman's Delight' or 'H2Ohh Yeah' I absolutely hate the names but it's when you're facing him and he's holding you up, your legs off the floor and resting against his inner elbow. Loves it because he gets to show off how strong his is to you while simultaneously being able to bury deep when he lifts you, then drops you onto his dick. This position also allows you both to be intimate when necessary, loving gazes and messy kisses being exchanged as he fucks you against him like his own personal fleshlight

Soft

Big fan of face off (face to face & upright riding) for when he wants to be extra intimate. Will take advantage of the closeness this position allows. Holds you tightly against him as he fucks up into you, and will keep your lips locked against his as much as you allow him to. When you aren't kissing, his face is shoved into your neck as he moans against the skin there, placing kisses when he's not busy being distracted with how well you take him (mr. can't do 2 things at once)

𝙷𝚢𝚞𝚗𝚓𝚒𝚗

Rough

Likes taking you from the back; likes to bend you over every surface he can think of so he can watch your ass jiggle from his hips slamming against it. Likes it also because he can trap your hands against the flat of your back with one of his big hands OR can pull your hands back towards him and use it as leverage to fuck into you even harder than he was before. Def grabs handfuls of your ass any chance he gets. I could see him preferring to finish on your ass so he can watch his dick paint your ass cheeks like he does with his canvases. Some dirty talk here and there like "Yeah? 'M in your guts? But baby.... that's just. how. you. like. it." and thrusts between the last syllables

Soft

Any position he can be embrace you with, but specifically can see him being an (open legged) spoon lover. Something about holding you as close to him as physically possible while still being able to rut/grind his hips against yours nicely. Bonus points for open legged because it gives him easier access to play between your legs. The intimacy goes CRAAZY, his hands holding you in place while he fucks into you nice and slow. Def leaves wet kisses and hickies all over your neck. Only downside is when he strains his (and your) neck when he wants your lips on his. But when his hands are all over you like this, how can you say no to those pillowy lips? >.<

𝙷𝚊𝚗

Rough

A "Pretzel Dip" enjoyer. This is when you're laid on your back and he's straddling one of your legs as he holds the other up to his chest. Goes nice and deep like this, and can fuck into you roughly while still getting to see your face scrunch up. Uses it to his advantage if you try to hide your face from him or try to muffle your moans, will grab your wrists and use his grip on them to pull you into him as he thrusts forward roughly. It completely stops you from hiding from him and gives him the chance to see your mouth part and spill the prettiest whines at how deep he hits.

Soft

I had to google the name for this lol Likes rocking horse: kind of hard to explain but it's when he's sat with spread legs and you sit facing him, your legs spread and slotted on each side of him. Likes it because it lets you both stare into each other and grind your hips against each other at whatever pace feels good at the time. Some days it can be just messy, desperate grinding while others can be slow hip thrusts from both of you. This position also allows him to embrace when he wants you close. Will make out with you any chance he gets when he's not moaning and groaning.

𝙵𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚡

Rough

Basic bitch 69 enjoyer. Allows both sides to push for/give up control before any penetration takes place. If you like the back and forth, he'll be on the bottom and roughly rut his hips into your mouth while you grind down into him. Or if you want to avoid the fight, he'll immediately concede and let you ride his face until you're satisfied OR he'll take control and grab a handful of your hair, using it as leverage to control your head movements. Will land a playful slap or two to your ass, but loves squeezing/massaging the flesh there more than anything.

Soft

Another name I had to google lol Perch/Seated rear entry Specifically for moments when he's gaming. If he knows he won't be finished soon and you're too needy, he'll shove his shorts and underwear down and make you sit on his dick facing forward so you can keep yourself entertained. Mainly uses it for cock warming, but won't complain if you grind yourself down onto him or start riding him.

𝚂𝚎𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚖𝚒𝚗

Rough

Another doggy lover, BUT I'm gonna say cowgirl not only for the sake of not repeating so much, but also because he likes be a little mean with it. It lets him boss you around when you've given him full control (and lets him smack you around when you aren't going fast enough for his liking). He can lay back and smile at you all cockily while you ride his dick desperately, and depending on what your limits are he'll spew mean comments here and there. He's a little shit™ so I can see him smacking your ass to watch your hips slow and stutter, then have the audacity to go, "What are you slowing down for? I never said we were done."

Soft

When his in softer moods, another face off enjoyer: it allows him to hold you close and thrust himself up into you whenever you start getting tired. If his lips aren't against yours, then your foreheads are resting against each other so he can watch you melt into a puddle for him up close. His hands roam all over your thighs before going up to your hips then finally resting on your waist as he hugs you there and pulls you closer

𝙸.𝙽

Rough

Seashell!!! This is the name for when he has you folded, back against the bed and ankles by his head while he leans onto you, albeit this position does eventually hurt depending on your flexibility. (this is also the position used in the teasing fic I wrote for him) Sorry not sorry but still on my big dick!Jeongin agenda. This position lets him go deeeep.. so he always takes advantage of it to bully into you as much as possible. Makes him feel all dominant when you can't form sentences properly and basically drool while looking up at him so helplessly. Little shit™ #2 and will laugh in your face when you start crying from how deep he is. If it's within your limits, and will definitely mock you and tease about, "I thought you said you can take it? Why are you suddenly babbling like you have no brain?" and "Are you that cock dumb already? We just started haha." Straight up laughs at you & doesn't shut up

Soft

When he wants to be softer, missionary (aka still seashell but without the muscle strain). It allows him to be close to you, placing soft kisses all over your face while he fucks into you. Also does not shut up here, and will whisper chants of "Jagiya" against your neck as he sucks hickies there. If/When he praises you, I think he'd still be a little mean about it; "Fuck, Jagiya... Finally taking me without crying about it" teasingly and chuckles. Also a "You're doing so well for me. Keep squeezing me, Jagi. Yeahhh... just like that.."

Taglist:

@jiminssluttyminx

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endearng · 17 days ago

Text

Firsts

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Summary: You and Spencer navigate through your firsts throughout your life as childhood friends.

WC: 6k

Warnings: death, grief, use of drugs to cope with grief, uhhhh i guess that's it

A/N: HELLO!!! It's been so so long and I'm sorry I took forever to update — uni's kicking my ass but now I'll try to write a bit more during holidays season. I hope you guys enjoy this one <3 Feedbacks are highly appreciated!

| masterlist

"Do you think we'll stay friends?"

"I'm sure we'll stay friends."

For a genius, your best friend, Spencer Reid, never seemed to notice some of his speech patterns — he would echo you sometimes, which you honestly found adorably funny, and he also had a tendency for rambling, even if it wasn't that appropriate at times. When you two were alone, you didn't mind; in fact, you encouraged him and let him talk to you all the way. When there was someone else, like either of your parents or a teacher (these were your regular companions), you would try to tap him on the arm subtly so he would know when to stop. Although it broke your heart, he said himself once that he appreciated when you helped him look more normal.

Right now, things are everything but normal. Spencer had graduated high school at the age of 12 while you were still in seventh grade and he was leaving to study at Caltech. You didn't dare to compare yourself to him, but you would definitely miss him around, since he was the first person you saw everyday (besides your parents, of course) and the one who walked you to school and then went on the way to his. Right now, you are sitting on the floor of your front porch, while Spencer is laying his head on your lap and you have your hands on his hair. You always said to him that he's got nice hair, no matter how he styled or decided to cut it. He blushed every single time.

"You know… I'm gonna miss you, Spencer."

"I'm gonna miss you. But you'll still be in my life."

"Will I?"

"I'm leaving, but I'll try my best to keep in touch. We can call each other. I'll spare a couple hours of my week so you can talk to me." A small grin stretched on his lips when he mentioned talking to you. A crease made its way between your brows when you thought you'd only talk to him weekly.

Trying to play it cool, you asked, just to be sure, just to check if the pang in your heart felt less intense, less hurtful. "Will you?"

"Yes, I will."

Despite having him in your lap, you couldn't see his eyes, for they were closed in delight from your gentle touch. You saw him smile softly and you could see just how relaxed he seemed with this big change — honestly, if you were him, you'd be terrified. Quickly trying to get rid of your sad and fearful thoughts, as you ran your hands through his hair, you poorly fought the urge to chuckle when you thought about braiding his hair. He felt the air that left your lungs hit his face when you did.

Curious, as he always had been, he inquired, "What is it?"

"You'd look good with braids."

"I'm not letting you braid my hair," even if his tone was one of mock offense, a chuckle made its way out of him.

"I didn't ask to."

You saw as he bit back a grin. Little did you know, but he's is heaven, here in your presence. In dire need of some place safe to just be, without the expectations and the big things that are expected from him and to happen to him. As you unknowingly soothed his thoughts with your gentle touch, he thought about how strange it is having someone touch him and not being utterly opposed to the idea. He also thought about how, for one time in his life, he didn't know something, which was the feeling spreading on his chest. Nevertheless, there was a ghost of a small, shy smile on his face as his shoulders relaxed.

He was happy.

—

As you made your way home from your sixteenth birthday dinner, something felt odd. Looking out the window, the city lights seemed to run from how fast your dad is driving. In the backseat, all alone, you tried to figure out what made you feel so empty all night long. As the car went over a bump, you instinctively looked to the side, and then everything made sense. Spencer wasn't there. Usually, after whatever family celebration you'd go to, he would be there (because you'd insist on taking him with you), by your side in the backseat of your dad's car, laughing at whatever funny thing had happened during the event. He was your company to every single thing you did, and you had been missing him quite more often as the contact between you two became more and more scarce.

Turning to look out the window again, your mom saw the frown on your face and sighed quietly, knowing precisely why you weren't chatting like you normally did. The specific pair of ears that you wanted to be listened by were not here. And she didn't blame you one bit.

As you got home, your frown was quickly replaced by a hopeful feeling on your chest and in your features when you found a voicemail addressed to you.

Hey! I hope you get home before midnight so that you won't think, not even for a minute, that I have forgotten about you. I'm so sorry I couldn't make it! I'm really stressed right now because there are too many things happening at the same time and I'm here all by myself, so... I guess you know, better than myself, how I feel. You… You know me so well. It is nice to be known by you. Anyway... Um... I'd like to wish you a happy birthday and, ah, I also would like you to know that I wish I could have been with you today. I'm really sorry because I know how much you love your birthdays. I'm sending you a gift, but I'm not sure if it will arrive on time. I miss you. I miss you and whatever Taylor Swift song you were always humming when we were walking back from school.

Anyway, er... I miss you—hah—I don't think I'll ever be able to tell you how much I miss you. And how much I miss our time together. Uh, happy birthday!

You didn't know when, but you had teared up at some point listening to him. You didn't know whether the cause was hearing his voice again or because he remembered you or because he told you he missed your time together or that he remembered the silly songs you'd sing when you were walking back home together. Before going to bed, you let your bedside table lamp on, as you always did before so Spencer knew, from the house beside yours, that you were up or you didn't care if he called you in the middle of the night. Either way...

You were happy.

—

Underneath the Christmas tree, the glow of the warm white fairy lights you and your mom had picked out was almost blinding. Yet, you and Spencer couldn't care less. You were both too infatuated by the blinding brightness that punished your eyes to care about having problems later. Closing your eyes, you smiled to yourself, happy to be doing something so ordinary, so dumb, with your best friend. Behind your eyelids, the light was not as relentless and it granted some relief from the current sight, which sort of looked like a kaleidoscope of... white. You heard when Spencer turned his head to look at you, but you missed his soft grin.

"It was overwhelming me," you explained.

"I know." He replied, still looking at you.

Your profile, under the yellowish glow, looked almost ethereal. The slope of your nose, the curve of your lips, everything was forever ingrained into his memory. By now, Spencer could map out every single freckle on your face — especially the particular one on your lower lip. He sighed at the sheer thought of your lips. You were now seventeen and so was Spencer. Puberty had been way gentler on you than it was on him and he noticed with a blush that you were growing up, just as he was. You were a little taller, for sure, and you had put on some weight in all the right places, not to mention your style that matched your personality. As for him, he had that voice pitch swing that he hated greatly, still wore thick glasses and overall went with the nerdy stereotype that everyone picked on him for… while you looked like you were glowing.

You opened your eyes and turned to look at him. You were so close that it almost hurt. Inches separated Spencer from what he thought would be the best feeling of his life. From the person that had him lying awake for hours, tossing and turning on his bed until the sun began to rise. "I can't wait to give you your gift. I think you'll love it!"

He grinned. "I'll be happy with anything." From you, he meant to say, but he didn't finish.

You closed your eyes again, a grin of your own on your face. He wondered... What if he got closer? What if he kissed you? What if you pulled away? What if you didn't pull away? What if you cut him off?

Almost unconsciously, he inched closer and closer to the point your breaths mingled together. You didn't pull away, not even for a second. Instead, you leaned in, getting ever closer to him than you ever had been before. The fairy lights made you look even prettier than before. You looked like a dream.

"I was thinking..."

"About what?" He asked. Despite his gaze being lost in you, he was acutely aware of the words coming out of your mouth.

God, your mouth.

"It's stupid..." You muttered, looking away from his eyes.

"You know you can talk to me." It's not stupid if it's you.

"Okay... okay." You breathed in. "Me and the girls were talking about first kisses. And I felt so, so embarrassed because I haven't had mine yet."

Spencer felt dizzy. Even if he wasn't the best at social cues, if he was reading this right, you wanted him to kiss you too. He exhaled softly, trying to clear his thoughts. His voice was weak when he asked, "And?"

"Have you had yours yet? I know we talk about everything and all that, but... have you?"

He chuckled at your question. How could he, the scrawny little nerdy boy have had his kiss and you hadn't? "You're joking right?"

"I'm not! I'm genuinely curious."

He didn't know, but your heart was in your throat, too scared of a positive answer.

"I haven't had my first kiss yet."

Somehow, that did nothing to calm your racing heart. Inching even closer, you muttered, "we could have it together."

If Spencer didn't pass out with your words, he was sure he would be unshakable for the rest of his life. Whatever life threw at him, it wouldn't matter as much as this moment of sheer strength and self-control, because he didn't pull you in immediately. "Are you sure?"

"I'd be fine with kissing you. You're my best friend. I—I know you won't judge me and you know I won't judge you either. And—and... even if things are... embarrassing... i—it will still be a good memory in the… future." As your soft voice reached his ears, he felt like he was in heaven.

Your arguments for kissing him made him wonder if you had spent that much time considering it as he did. "Okay, you've got a few points. I'm—I'm not... opposed to the idea."

Your heart burned. You both inched closer and closer, a hair width separating your lips. As your eyes fluttered closed and you placed one of your hands on the back of his neck, both hesitantly and surely, Spencer mimicked you and pressed his lips to yours with the lightest pressure as his hand found your waist tentatively. Your lips felt so soft and sweet. He knew he would feel you for days — and hoped you'd feel him for days, too.

Encouraged by him, you pressed your lips a bit harder against him. He gasped softly and you took the opportunity to capture his lower lip between yours and kiss it gently. Spencer could feel his heartbeat drumming on his ears and he tightened his hold on your waist the tiniest bit. Internally, he thought he died and went to heaven and that's how he was welcomed there. Your lips fit together so nicely and he felt his heart burning for you and he knew back then that he would do anything you asked him to in a heartbeat.

You pulled back to lick your lips and fitted them into his again. He sighed, again, moving to your accord as he tried focusing on how good it felt to be kissed by you rather than how you could regret it later. Distancing yourself, your eyes slowly fluttered open, finding his dazed ones already looking back at you. You grinned at him. Another secret between the two of you; but this time, it wasn't an embarrassing one.

He smiled back.

Later that day, Spencer sat on his bed, touching his lips, feeling the tingle yours had left behind. Smiling like an idiot, he wrote that date on the wood of his nightstand, black marker holding the evidence that tonight had actually happened, if he were to ever forget. If anyone asked, well, he would have to come up with something to hide the fact that he was relentlessly in love with you, but he would replay the best memory of his life in the back of his mind as his mouth stuttered out a little white lie.

He was so confused. And screwed. And so utterly happy.

—

At Caltech, at the ripe age of eighteen, on a working day, as usual, Spencer typed aggressively on his keyboard, writing an academic paper on a topic that had come to his mind during one of his classes and later inspired fully by a conversation with this one professor. Looking at the time on his computer screen, he cursed. It was already time he was supposed to be on his way to class, which was unlike him. There was a reason, though.

Last night, he had gotten home late. He had lost track of time talking to a girl whose name was Alex. They were both at the university library, and they hit it off immediately talking about Literature and then more mundane things — he had found out that she was a high schooler having classes with grad students, just like himself a few years back. Getting home late, his entire schedule for the day ahead had been ruined, so everything felt odd as he tried to navigate through his last obligations. He had gone to bed later than usual and overslept for some reason unknown to him.

As he got up abruptly, he knocked his knee on the desk, which was now getting very small for the size he had grown into. Shutting his eyes and suppressing a whine, he breathed in. As he opened his eyes, his line of sight caught glance of one of the two only photos he had hung up on his wall. The first was him and his mother, Diana. The second was you and him.

It was short after your fifteenth birthday, and he finally had had the time to go visit. You had greeted him with a very warm hug. That very same day, you had dragged him to your bedroom, which now didn't have the pink walls and the posters of the bands you liked so much anymore. Now, the walls were a cool tone of sage green and your walls were cleaner, the posters being replaced by photos of you and your friends from school. He had felt a tinge of jealousy, noticing just how much he was missing out on your life. Despite the lingering feeling, he tried to not let it get to him.

You thanked him so much for the gift he had given you, one of those polaroid cameras. He had spent so much time saving money to get you that present. The excited, happy tone in your voice during the phone call you had made to thank him made him feel like it had been worth it to spend that much.

"Hey, here she is! I named her Marie. From Marie Curie, of course." You explained, holding your camera carefully as you both entered your bedroom

"You named 'her' Marie?"

"She has a special place on my heart."

He chuckled. "You're so material, sometimes."

"You gave it to me!"

"I gave it to you." He whispered, a hint of a smile dancing around his features.

You smiled. "Come on, let's take a picture. It's her first. I waited a whole month so you'd be here to take this photo with me. It's only fair you're the first person to be photographed with me by Marie."

"Oh... okay..."

Holding the camera with both of your hands, you held it out so that it would capture the two of you. "Smile." You said, and, without checking his pose, you pressed the button, a big grin on your face, for the photo, of course, but also from being so madly happy that you were with him again. Spencer didn't know what do to, frozen on the spot because you were so, so close. He just looked at you, dumbstruck gaze on him as he watched you smile so beautifully at the camera.

His heart was doing somersaults.

After the flash in your face, you blinked rapidly, chuckling to yourself. "Oooh. That's uncomfortable, heh." You open your eyes and the first thing you see are his beautiful hazel ones, looking straight at you, as if he didn't even blink upon the bothering aftermath of the light on your faces. You nearly had to gulp under the intensity of his gaze. Then, you quickly regained consciousness and started fanning the small piece so that the picture would appear faster.

The result was the one now stuck to his wall: you, with the biggest smile on your face and he, lovestruck, dumb, lost gaze as he looked at you.

Sigh.

Spencer quickly shook his head, not meaning to be later and even more stressed than he already was. He missed you, though. And he let himself relish in that feeling of longing for a minute. Glancing at the photo, he couldn't help but think you were already eighteen. And that he had loved you from the first time he saw you — when he was twelve.

He sat on his bed, having removed the photo from the wall. As he held it delicately between his fingers, he thought of you. He always did. In spite of being late, in spite of everything telling him he had to go through his days, he felt something tugging at his heartstrings, a longing feeling that he should be somewhere else, something that told him something, so he knew.

It was time to go.

—

Back in his hometown, even the air felt different, despite exuding an aroma that reminded him of his younger days. It had been some time since he had visited, and the distance between you and him only grew further. Driving past your house — the state of California had finally issued his license —, he saw a somewhat big crowd of people, all dressed in black.

He felt like the noise around him didn't fully reach his brain. Like he was under water.

Robotically stepping out of his car, he approached the house cautiously. Almost as instantly as your mom welcomed him, he saw you across the room, dressed in black. Bloodshot eyes found him instantly, and a flicker of relief passed your expression — unable to muster up a smile, but oh so willing to show him that you were grateful for his presence. You felt frozen to the spot and had been standing in that corner for hours. A man placed his hand on your shoulder and that's when you looked away from Spencer. He noticed it, of course, and was obliged to acknowledge the blonde man by your side. You didn't smile at him either.

Spencer approached, somewhat relieved that you were okay, but so confused and overwhelmed by the entire situation. Almost unwilling to believe whatever bad thing had happened, because he had been so happy with you in that house.

Once he was within your earshot, you greeted weakly, "Hi."

"Hi."

Silence.

"Can we talk?"

Something about the look in your eyes told him that you desperately wanted, no, needed, craved it from him, his presence. With a subtle nod, you excused yourself from the man and lead him to the backyard. Sitting on the same bench you did when it was too late and you talked about the stars together, you reveal softly as you stare into the distance, "Dad's gone."

Spencer felt like he had been punched and all the air had left his lungs after your confirmation of something he was suspecting already. Finally, he blurted out, sitting down by yourself, "W—what?"

"He didn't wake up."

"He didn't wake up?"

"No... Last night, Spencer..." You begun, your voice thick with emotion, "he said that everything was alright." You frowned, tears streaming down your face, "That he... loves... loved me and mom... and that... that had been his role on Earth."

He stood quiet, waiting for the rest of what you had to say, still shaken by the news. Your broken voice and distant gaze were enough to skyrocket the pain he felt. Spencer absolutely adored your dad, and he was one of the few that Spencer confided in wholeheartedly when things got too rough for him to bear by himself. Even though your dad was the quiet type, Spencer would go as far as saying that he was somehow his dad as well.

With your silence, he had a little time to see past the pain. Analyzing your figure, he knew. He knew you had to leave. If you decided to stay, you'd be rooted to the spot and you wouldn't be able to grow any further, forever stuck into the never ending, relentless force of grief. Spencer knew that because, besides knowing you better than anyone else, he had left in hopes to escape the person he thought he was doomed to become. Your voice brought him out of his reverie. "I laughed. I thought he was joking."

"Maybe he was joking."

"Maybe he knew he was leaving."

Silence.

You look up at him. Asking for answers. For something. For comfort.

Sitting down beside you, he held your shaking shoulders as you let tears fall freely and you lost your breath and you choked on your own saliva. An ugly, guttural, desolate crying. Spencer held you through it all — he was ready to scream at anyone on the garden if they had the nerve to go there, but, actually, in that moment, you didn't care that somebody could see or hear you. The effect of the pills your mother had given you had started to wear off and you felt things way more intensely than when she first broke the news.

Dad's gone, was all that you could hear her voice say as Spencer turned his body to fully embrace you, placing your head on his shoulder and sobbing your pain as an effort to quell the ache of your loss.

It took every single ounce of self-control for Spencer not to break down with you, because in that moment, he preferred to swallow his own pain so that he could be your safe space instead. As your sobs slowly subsided, you sighed, squeezing your eyes shut as if that would make the pain that invaded your whole body go away.

"I think..." you started, but never finished.

Silence.

"I think you should move away."

You looked at him, baffled, puzzled, hopeful.

"What?" You whispered softly.

"I think staying won't do you any good. And you know I'm right." His gaze never faltered.

You took a deep breath. "M-my mom... Spencer... she doesn't have anyone else. I-I can't do that... to her..." You gulped. The meer thought of leaving felt exhilarating, but you had to stay. You were rooted.

"Your brothers are always around." He replied.

"Not anymore. Much has changed since… since you... left."

"I didn't leave." He said, defensively.

"I didn't accuse you. At least I didn't mean to. I'm sorry."

He pressed his lips into a thin line. "Would you consider it? Leaving, I mean?" Please, say yes. Please, say yes. Come with me.

"I would... I don't know, Spencer." Your voice was broken. "Too... too much is going on. I can't just... go."

"Do you wanna talk about it?"

"There's dad. And now mom. And that stupid college... I don't know where I fit." You fit next to me, he wanted to scream at you, but he realized it wasn't fair of him to demand anything from you at that moment. "I don't know what path to take without my dad here to guide me." A wet chuckle made its way out of you. He hugged you again.

On a sudden wave of boldness, he stated, "If you stay, this will be your life. If you go, you'll have somewhere to come back to if things go wrong. I—I… I know, um, that I sound very insensitive right now, but that's the truth. Why do you think I went away?"

"I can't." And your tears began again, even harder this time.

He sighed, holding you against his chest once again. Despite the unbearable pain of not being able to help, to persuade you, he decided to respect your decision.

��My father's in a casket. I have got no plans.” You muttered softly. His heart broke for you all over again.

“You've got me. And I've got you.”

Looking up at him, your eyes glimmered with hope. Desperate to believe him, desperate to leave. With him, if he'd have you.

But that wasn't how it worked.

You buried your face on his chest again, willing the tears to stop, to have some control over yourself again.

He held you through it all. He was there for you.

Spencer's stay didn't last long, even though it was filled with an unspoken, desperate beg for you to come with him, even if he didn't quite know how things would work once you accepted. After some thinking, he realized he was asking too much of you for the sake of trying to protect you from what he knew was going to happen. Losing his own father, albeit for a different reason, had changed him permanently and he was scared that you, losing yours, would turn into a different person too. The mere thought of losing you to grief was too much to handle, even if he understood that his pleas were unfair to you, not to mention absurd.

Spencer's brain was turned into a whirlwind of thoughts, all of them desperate to find a way out of this situation, to find a way out to get you out of that place — both physically and mentally. As he stood by your side during your dad's burial, he let you squeeze his hand as if that would somehow make the pain less intense for you. It didn't, but it felt nice to have someone to carry the weight with you.

—

Spencer had joined the FBI at the age of 23, when you were graduating from college. The difference was staggering and it made you laugh the same as it had when he was going to college and you were going to seventh grade. It had been years since you had last met in person, after all, Diana was the main reason he'd go to Vegas, and he didn't go there much because he was often too busy with his studies and his career. Once, he had confided in you, saying that he secretly wished that it would be enough of a good excuse to avoid seeing his mother in a facility and saving them both from the pain. Tonight, though, that would change. You were visiting him in Virginia.

A little nervous, you knocked on his door. Once he answered, you took in his appearance and your heart swelled at the sight. In your eyes, he'd always looked the prettiest, but now… It's like something had shifted: Spencer was all that you saw. And you didn't want to look at anything else anymore.

“Hi,” you greeted in a weak voice. Perhaps the intensity of your smile stole away your will to speak properly.

“You're here.” Spencer muttered, eyes filled with many emotions, but that you decided to read as relief.

“I am.”

“God, it's been so long,” he says, closing the gap between you and him, wrapping his arms around your torso, resting his head on your shoulder, not so subtly trying to smell your perfume. And failing to hide the overdrive when he noticed it was the same from all those years ago, from when you had first kissed.

Pulling away slightly, you cupped his cheeks with both hands and took in his shiny eyes, the ones that you adored so much and now met yours with a new perspective on everything. Once entering his apartment, you found that the place screamed his name, from the scattered books and the endless piles all over his living room. His TV had a documentary in a foreign language on, and you smiled to yourself. Spencer had never changed and, at his core, was still the boy you were once close friends with.

Spencer filled you in on the things you missed. You knew they were mostly about his job because he wasn't one to step out of his comfort zone — not that you'd judge him for it. “I miss having you around, tapping my arm so I know when to stop,” he revealed softly as you two shared a tub of ice cream.

Forget germs, forget pathogens, forget viruses, forget everything. She is here.

You giggled. It set his heart on fire. “Ah, Spencer… You know I only did it when other people were around. Other people are just other people. You're you. And rambling is part of who you are. Don't let that disappear.”

He smiled. You were still you.

“In fact, I have something to tell you.”

His heartbeat fastened, thinking of every possible scenario, reliving every single one of your experiences in the back of his mind. “You… you have something to tell me?” He echoed. He was still him.

Chuckling softly, “I'm glad you're still you, Spencer. I still say your name when people ask me who's my best friend. It's an excuse to relive our favorite stories as I tell them all about you.”

Spencer was left speechless, bashfully looking away from you as he resumed to talk about his days at the FBI. He told you all about his team, the people and what they found on a daily basis. “Do you think it's weird that I study what I do study?”

“No, Spence. You've always had a curious mind. Why do you ask?” You inquired back.

“I don't know… sometimes I think that people find me weird.”

“You're not,” you said, simply. “Your interests are very diverse, and anyone who talks to you will find that out. Being a profiler is not weird.”

He grinned. Your words or arguments about his insecurities throughout your friendship weren't always the most complex, but he always felt better by talking to you. He was never ashamed, never too scared of admitting something or voicing his needs. You made him feel like it was okay to speak, to want, to be. Whatever his limitations were and whatever words he left unspoken, they were never your fault. You'd never frowned at him, not once.

As the night progressed, he filled you in on what he had been doing for fun, mentioning his current readings — one of them on his nightstand. Giddily, you went over to his bedroom to find the novel that he was talking about, so that you could hear him talk about it and recite, by heart, quotes that illustrated his points and interpretation from the book. Upon entering his bedroom, you smiled to yourself. So Spencer. The sand-colored walls, the neat and clean floor, his slightly wrinkled bedsheets, a pile of laundry on top of his bed, a few scattered items on his nightstand — which, by the way, was the same in his mother's house. You had always found it amazingly pretty, the light wood and the black paint that covered the iron of the drawer pulls.

As you reached the piece of furniture and removed the book, you found something scribbled right under where the object had been lying. You were ready to give him a piece of your mind and you opened your mouth, ready to tell him not to ruin the perfect nightstand, but as you turned on the lamp to try and find out what was written there, the writing in black ink made you shiver. You fell silent. It was the date of your first kiss.

Time stopped. Why was that date written there? And why did the possibilities both scared and thrilled you so damn much? You felt someone behind you. “So, you found the book or what?” The question made its way out of his lips in a teasing tone. But, as you turned around softly, the book still clutched tightly in your hands, your eyes questioned him back. Not accusingly, only… curiously.

When he realized what you had discovered, the air left his lungs and he tried desperately to come up with an excuse. It turns out that he hadn't been asked by many people about the meaning of that date — and it's not like he had many visitors, anyway. “I… You… You… Did you… see it?” You managed to nod, weakly.

“What does it mean?” You asked, eyes never leaving his.

Looking away, he replied, “I was scared to forget.”

“Forget?” You inquired, shifting your weight.

“About it…. That night, I mean. about… us.” You gazed at him understandingly once he answered.

“About us?” Funnily enough, now you were the one parroting him. It would have made you chuckle if the situation wasn't that serious.

He breathes out, “Yeah, us.”

A beat of silence. You take a step towards him, and his breath hitches. “Have you forgotten?”

He searches your face. Upon finding nothing but support, he reveals, “There's not a single day I don't remember that moment.” You gulp and he takes a step closer, which makes your grip on the book tighten even more. You closed your eyes — a silent invitation, but it makes him falter once he doesn't have your eyes to navigate him through what he's supposed to do.

I'm glad you're still you, Spencer.

Encouraged by the memory of your words from moments ago and the presence of you, he closes the distance between you, once and for all. There's nothing that could hold him back from loving you once your lips touch and press together in a kiss that makes the book fall to your feet as your hands find their place on the back of his neck.

On any other day, Spencer Reid would be pissed upon seeing someone drop a book, let alone a considerably heavy one, on his feet — that's absurd. That moment, though, he couldn't care less as he squeezed your waist, as if trying to convince himself that you were there, that it was real, and that he finally got to do what he has always wanted.

Spencer and you had been through many firsts during the time you've known each other; some good firsts and some pretty bad firsts. But, there was a quote, from ‘Doctor Who’, that you always reminded him and yourself whenever things got too tough:

"The way I see it, every life is a pile of good things and bad things. The good things don’t always soften the bad things, but vice versa, the bad things don’t always spoil the good things and make them unimportant."

As long as he had you to soften the bad things and had your company during the bad things that made the good ones unimportant, Spencer figured that life would be a pile of more good than bad things.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x you #spencer reid angst #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid one-shot #spencer reid fanfic #cm fanfic #doctor spencer reid

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stylesispunk · 3 months ago

Text

"Shadows of the love under the laurel"

Marcus Acacius x fem!reader

Summary: In the shadows of the Roman Empire, you, a devoted servant, discover love with the honorable General Marcus Acacius. You both navigate the treacherous current of social expectations when a looming marriage comes to risk everything.

w.c: 13k.

warnings: themes of slavery and servitude, forbidden love, mentions of anxiety, mentions of blood, angst, fluff, poorly written smut, no proofreading.

a/n: I don't know what to write in here, but this one was a request by @negrita2345 i hope I did it justice and I hope you all enjoy it and share your thoughts with me because I really love to read your comments and thoughts. They make my day, so thank you in advance! Reblogs and comments are always appreciated 💌 happy reading 💌✨

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

The sound of the iron gate clanged shut behind you, a cold finality to another day of servitude. You knew that sound well, it was the only sound you had known since you were born, clamoring as a death knell, just reminder of your place in the world. You didn’t even own your freedom, yet you belonged to everyone who had put their hands on your skin or had thrown daggers at you. As a servant, your life was nothing but an endless circle of command shouted from faces that never bothered to learn your name. They simply called you “girl.”

In your twenty-three years, you had learned to endure the sting of insults, the cruel hands that shoved you from one task to another, and the stares that stripped all your dignity. Respect was something that didn’t exist for someone like you, born in the shadows of Rome’s grandeur. You were a property, a tool to serve, to scrub, to clean, and to remain unseen.

And today was no different. You had been sold again.

The place you now found yourself in was the biggest you’d seen. The walls were taller than the marble floors polished to a gleaming white that made your hesitant to step across them. A legion of other servants moved like silent specters, each one avoiding you gaze as you were ushered through the grand halls. It was as though no one acknowledged the arrival of new blood. In their world, new servants were as replaceable as the jugs of wine they carried.

As you moved through the villa, you hear whispers-murmurs of the man who ruled this place. General Marcus Acacius, a name that belonged to a man who had gained respect and admiration. He was no ordinary master, it seemed. He was a warrior, a man who had earned his position through conquest and battle. A man who stood close to the Emperor himself.

Your stomach knotted at the thought. Men of power, you had learned, were often the cruelest. The more they gained, the more they needed to remind those beneath them how little they mattered. You could only hope that Marcus would be indifferent—that he would not notice you at all.

“Girl, this way.”

A sharp voice broke your thoughts. One of the older housekeepers, her face lined with age and wear, beckoned you down a side corridor. It was darker here, the sunlight from the Roman skies barely reaching the shadowed walls. The keeper’s voice softened as you walked.

“You’ll serve General Acacious directly,” she said. “He’s… not like the others.”

You glanced up, surprised by the odd tone in her voice. You weren’t sure if the keeper meant it as a warning or a reassurance, but you nodded nonetheless, keeping your eyes lowered. You approached a set of heavy doors, carved with intricate symbols and flanked by tall, stoic guards. The keeper gestured toward them.

“The general is inside. Speak only when spoken to. He does not tolerate foolishness.”

With a final nod, the keeper disappeared down the corridor, leaving you alone. You stood for a moment, the weight of the moment pressing down on your chest. There was no telling what awaited you on the other side of those doors. You swallowed hard, brushing a strand of dark hair from your face before you stepped forward.

The guards opened the doors without a word, and you found yourself in a large, open room filled with the smell of burning incense and leather. It was dimly lit, the sunlight creeping through narrow windows high above, casting long shadows on the ground. Your gaze lifted, and then you saw him.

Marcus.

General Marcus Acacius stood by a table, bent over a map with a furrowed brow. His armor was still strapped across his broad shoulders, and the crimson cloak draped over his back gave him the appearance of a man who had just come from battle. He was taller than you had imagined, his presence commanding without a single word. His dark hair was cropped close, and his sharp features bore the marks of someone who had lived a life of discipline and war.

For a long moment, he did not acknowledge your presence. You stood still, your heart pounding as you waited for his command, for the words that would decide the course of your life here.

Finally, he looked up, his dark eyes locking onto yours. There was something in his gaze that startled you, not precisely cruelty, but something else. Something you couldn't quite name.

"You are the new servant?" His voice was low, measured. He didn’t shout like the others.

"Yes, General," you replied softly, lowering your eyes to the floor as was expected.

He watched you for a moment longer, and you could feel his gaze lingering on you, almost burning. It was as though he was seeing something in you that others had never cared to look for.

"Good," he said at last, turning back to his maps. "You will serve me directly. Be quick. Be silent. That is all."

His words were not cruel, nor were they kind. They were simple, matter-of-fact. You let out a quiet breath, your heart still pounding in your chest. You turned to leave, but something held you in place, a curiosity that stirred within you, a question you did not dare ask aloud.

What kind of man was General Marcus Acacious?

As you left the room, the weight of your life as a servant settled back onto your shoulders, but there was something different now, something you had not expected. It was faint, a flicker of warmth in the cold corridors of your mind.

In the days that followed, you learned what it meant to serve Marcus Acacius. His world was orderly, precise, and unyielding. He expected his servants to move with quiet efficiency, anticipating his needs before he voiced them. There was no room for error, but unlike you previous masters, there was also no room for cruelty. Mistakes were met with silence, not blows. It was a strange sort of mercy, one that left you both relieved and on edge.

You were tasked with attending to the general’s quarters, a task that placed you in close proximity to him every day. You polished his armor, prepared his baths, and ensured that the scrolls and maps he studied late into the night were neatly arranged. He rarely spoke to you, and when he did, it was brief and to the point. Yet, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he noticed you in a way no one else had.

It was in the quiet moments between orders that you caught fleeting glimpses of the man behind the title.

One afternoon, as you were cleaning his quarters, you heard a faint groan of pain. Startled, you looked up to see Marcus standing by the window, his hand gripping his side. His face was tight with discomfort, though he said nothing.

You hesitated, unsure if you should speak. “General… are you hurt?”

His eyes flicked toward you, the sharpness in them softening just slightly. For a moment, you thought he might ignore your question, but then he spoke.

“It’s nothing,” he said, his voice strained. “An old wound. It… flares up from time to time.”

He didn’t offer more, and you knew better than to pry. Yet, something in his tone—a vulnerability you hadn’t heard before made you want to help.

Without thinking, you set aside your cleaning cloth and moved toward him. “I could bring you something… some herbs. For the pain.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow, surprised by your boldness. “You know of such things?”

“My mother… she was a healer,” Your replied quietly, your eyes downcast. “Before…” You trailed off, not needing to finish the sentence. The silence filled in the gaps—before you were taken, before you became a servant.

He watched you for a long moment, as if weighing your words. Finally, he nodded. “Very well. Bring it.”

You hurried to the kitchens, your heart pounding. It was the first time Marcus had allowed you to do anything beyond your usual duties. As you gathered the herbs your mother had once shown you, the ones that could ease any pain and swelling, you thought of the strange connection you had felt in that moment. It wasn’t just your desire to help him. It was something deeper, something unspoken that passed between them.

When you returned to his quarters, Marcus was seated at the edge of his bed, the tension in his shoulders evident. You approached cautiously, mixing the herbs into a small vial of oil, then holding it out to him.

“You need to apply it to the wound,” you explained, your voice barely above a whisper. “It should ease the pain.”

Marcus took the vial from you, his fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment. His touch was warm, surprising you. Your eyes met, and in that fleeting second, you felt an unfamiliar flutter in your chest—a burn you quickly buried.

“Thank you,” he said, his tone sincere. It was a small word, but coming from a man like Marcus, it carried weight.

You bowed your head, stepping back as he stood and moved to apply the oil himself. You returned to your work, quietly cleaning the room, but your mind was elsewhere. You had never thought much of men, especially men of power. To you, they were all the same: cruel, indifferent, obsessed with their own glory. Yet, Marcus was different. He was distant, yes, and bound by duty, but he was also… something else. There was a complexity to him, a quiet pain that you couldn’t quite understand.

As the days passed, you found yourself watching him more closely. You noticed the way he carried the weight of command, his posture rigid, his eyes always alert. He was a man constantly at war, not just with the enemies of Rome, but with himself. You saw it in the way he would stare out the window late into the night, lost in thought, his fingers drumming against the hilt of his sword as though preparing for a battle that had not yet come.

And then, one evening, everything changed.

It was late, the rest of the household quiet, and you were tidying the general’s quarters as he sat by the hearth, reviewing maps of distant lands. The flicker of firelight cast shadows on his face, making him appear both weary and resolute. You were just about to leave when he spoke, his voice low and thoughtful.

“Tell me,”He said, following by the use of your name for the first time. “How did you come to be here? In this life?”

Your breath caught. No one had ever asked you that before. No one had ever cared to. You hesitated, unsure if you should answer, but the look in his eyes was not one of command. It was curiosity. Genuine, quiet curiosity.

“I was born into it,” you replied softly. “My mother… she was a healer in a small village outside of the city. But when the soldiers came, they took us. I was just a child then. I don’t remember much before it.”

Marcus’s gaze lingered on you; his expression unreadable. “And your mother?”

“She didn’t survive long after that. She grew sick, and no one would help her.”

There was a long silence after that, the crackling of the fire the only sound in the room. You stood there, your hands clasped in front of you, waiting for him to dismiss you. But he didn’t. Instead, he sighed, a sound so faint you might have missed it had you not been standing so close.

“Life in Rome is rarely kind,” he said, his voice distant. “Even for those who believe themselves fortunate.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. You simply stood there, watching as the general seemed to wrestle with thoughts he could not or would not speak aloud. Finally, he shook his head, as if clearing his mind, and looked at you once more.

“You may go,” he said, his tone once again that of a man in command. But there was a softness to it now, something that hadn’t been there before.

You bowed and left the room, your heart pounding. As you walked down the dark corridors of the villa, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted between you, that the lines separating servant and master had blurred, if only for a moment.

Weeks passed, and Your role in Marcus’s household became routine, yet far from ordinary. You had served many masters before, but none like him. There was a strange rhythm to your interactions now, a wordless understanding that passed between you in brief glances and moments too fleeting for anyone else to notice. Marcus was still the general, the powerful, untouchable figure, but there were cracks in his armor that only you seemed to see.

The changes were small at first. A few words exchanged at the end of the day, a subtle shift in the way his eyes lingered on you when you thought he wasn’t looking. It was during one such moment, late in the evening, that your quiet bond deepened.

You were clearing away the remains of his evening meal, the room lit only by the soft glow of a single oil lamp. Marcus sat at his desk, writing a letter, his brow furrowed in concentration. You moved silently, careful not to disturb him. But as you turned to leave, your hand brushed the corner of the table, knocking over a small cup.

The sound echoed in the stillness.

Your heart leaped into your throat. You had been so careful, always careful. You froze, waiting for the rebuke, the sharp words you had heard from other masters a hundred times before.

But instead of anger, Marcus’s voice came, calm and even. “It’s alright. Leave it.”

You paused, your fingers trembling as you stooped to pick up the cup, determined not to disobey. But as you did, Marcus spoke again, his tone softer this time.

“Do you always expect punishment so quickly?”

You straightened slowly, unsure how to answer. “It’s what happens when mistakes are made, General,” you replied quietly, your eyes still downcast.

Marcus stood, his towering frame casting long shadows in the flickering lamplight. He approached you slowly, the silence between you thick with unspoken words.

“Not here,” he said, his voice low. “You don’t have to fear that here.”

His words, though simple, carried a weight that you weren’t prepared for. For a moment, you dared to look up at him, meeting his eyes. There was something in his gaze—a gentleness that you had never expected to find in a man like him. It made your chest tighten, and you quickly dropped your gaze again.

Marcus sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. “I don’t know what kind of men you served before, Mea Columba, but cruelty… it does not make a man stronger. It only makes him feared.”

He was quiet for a long time after that, standing just a breath away from you. You could feel the heat of his presence, the nearness of him unsettling but not unpleasant. You could sense the tension in the air, something unspoken hanging between you like a thread stretched too tight.

“You deserve better than that,” he said finally, his voice almost too soft for you to hear.

Your heart raced, your thoughts a tangled mess. How could he say such a thing? You were nothing more than a servant, a slave, how could someone like him believe you deserved anything at all? But in his words, you heard the truth of what he felt, and it terrified you as much as it filled you with something dangerously close to hope.

Before you could reply, before you could make sense of the moment, the door creaked open, and a soldier entered the room, interrupting them. Marcus immediately stepped back, his expression shifting into the impassive mask of the general once more.

“General Acacius,” the soldier said, bowing. “The emperor has requested your presence tomorrow. Urgent matters to discuss.”

Marcus’s jaw tightened. “Very well. Inform the Emperor I’ll be there.”

The soldier bowed again and left the room, leaving you and Marcus standing in the silence. The air between you had changed, something fragile, something delicate had passed between you, but neither dared acknowledge it.

“You may go” Marcus said, his voice once again composed, though you could sense the tension beneath it. “Get some rest.”

You bowed quickly and left the room; you heart still pounding in your chest. As you walked back through the dim corridors, you replayed his words in your mind

“You deserve better”

and wondered how dangerous it was to believe them.

You hadn’t expected him to say your name, less to hear a name with such affection from him It startled you, but in a way that made you feel seen, in a way that sent warmth through you despite the cool evening air.

“It’s all I’ve known,” you whispered, barely able to speak the words.

Days passed in a quiet blur, and the memory of that evening lingered between you, heavy and unspoken. Marcus was the same outwardly, maintaining his stoic demeanor in front of his soldiers, the senators, and his household. Yet, when he looked at you, when your eyes met across the room during your brief encounters, you could feel the shift in him, the way his guarded exterior faltered for just a moment.

It was in these fleeting moments that you began to understand the gravity of what was growing between you. You had never been close to a man before, not like this. Your world had always been one of shadows, of quiet obedience. But now, Marcus’s presence lingered in your thoughts, his words echoing in the stillness of your nights.

"You deserve better."

You couldn’t stop hearing it. And it frightened you. How could someone like him, someone with power, command, and the loyalty of an empire, care about someone like you, a servant who had spent her life in the background? The idea felt dangerous, as though it could upend everything you knew, yet it was there, undeniable.

The tension between you simmered, growing with each passing day. You never spoke of that moment again, but it hovered between you, thickening the air whenever you were alone.

One afternoon, you were attending to the general’s chambers when he returned earlier than expected from the training grounds. His tunic was damp with sweat, the edges of his dark hair clinging to his forehead, and a fresh bruise marked his arm.

He entered the room quietly, not saying a word at first, watching as you busied yourself, you’re your work. You tried to remain calm, to focus on your duties as you had always done, but the awareness of his gaze unsettled you. Finally, Marcus broke the silence.

he said your name, almost sounding hesitant.

You turned to face him, your heart quickening at the sound of your name. He had been saying it more often lately, and each time it carried a weight that made your pulse race. “Yes, General?”

For a moment, Marcus seemed to struggle with himself, his expression hard to read. He took a step closer, the air between you humming with tension. “You’ve been quiet lately,” he said, though the statement felt more like a question. “Are you… well?”

You blinked, surprised by the question. “I am, General. I—” You hesitated, unsure how to respond. The truth was, you had been keeping your distance, afraid of what might happen if you let yourself grow any closer to him. “I’ve just been… busy with my tasks.”

His eyes searched yours, as though he could see past your words to the truth beneath them. “You don’t have to keep your distance, mea columba,” he said quietly. “Not from me.”

The words sent a shiver through you. You wanted to step back, to remind yourself of your place, but something in his gaze held you still. There was a tenderness there, a vulnerability that you hadn’t expected to see in him.

“I’m only a servant,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “You… you don’t have to concern yourself with me.”

Marcus’s jaw tightened, and he took another step toward you, closing the distance between you. “You’re more than that,” he said, his voice firm but soft. “You’re more than what this life has made you.”

Your breath caught. You didn’t know what to say, how to respond to the depth of his words. You had spent your whole life believing that your worth was measured by your service, by how invisible you could make yourself. But Marcus… he saw you. And it terrified you as much as it filled you with warmth.

“You deserve more than this life, mea columba” Marcus continued, his hand lifting ever so slightly as if he wanted to reach for you but stopped himself. “More than this… than the way others have treated you.”

Tears burned at the edges of your eyes, but you blinked them away, refusing to let them fall. You couldn’t let herself believe in what he was saying. It was impossible. He was a general, bound by duty and honor to Rome. And you were, no, you had to be nothing to him. Anything else was too dangerous to even imagine.

“Please,” you said, almost pleading, “don’t say such things. I can’t…” You trailed off, your words caught in your throat.

Marcus’s eyes softened, the hard edges of his face relaxing just slightly. “I know,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I know we can’t… but it doesn’t change how I feel.”

The admission hung in the air between you, raw and real. Your heart pounded, your mind reeling from the weight of his confession. You wanted to step forward, to reach out and touch him, to tell him that you felt the same—that his kindness, his quiet strength, had stirred something in you that you had never thought possible.

But she couldn’t. The world wouldn’t allow it. He was a man of power, and you were a servant. Their lives were too different, their paths too far apart.

And yet, standing there in the quiet of the room, with only the soft flicker of candlelight between you, it felt as though the rest of the world had disappeared, leaving only the two of you in the stillness.

Marcus reached up, his hand trembling ever so slightly as it brushed against your cheek. You gasped at the touch, your skin tingling under his fingertips. It was the first time he had touched you like this, softly, tenderly, as though you were something fragile and precious.

“I wish things were different,” he murmured, his thumb gently caressing the curve of your jaw.

You closed your eyes, leaning into the warmth of his hand despite yourself. You knew you shouldn’t, knew that this moment could only lead to heartache, but you couldn’t stop herself. “So do I,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

For a long moment, you stood there, suspended in the silence, the weight of your unspoken feelings pressing down on you. But then, just as quickly as it had begun, Marcus pulled away, his hand falling to his side. The mask of the general slipped back into place, his expression once again composed, though his eyes still burned with the emotions he couldn’t voice.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, stepping back. “I shouldn’t have—”

You shook your head. “No, it’s… it’s alright.”

But it wasn’t. You both knew it.

“You should go,” Marcus said, his voice rough with regret. “We… we can’t.”

You nodded, though your heart ached. “Goodnight, General.”

You turned and left the room, your heart heavy with the weight of what had just happened.

The days that followed were unbearable. You tried to go about your duties as usual, but you couldn’t shake the weight of Marcus’s words, the feel of his hand against your cheek, the unspoken desire that lingered between you. It haunted you in the quiet moments, in the stillness of night when you were alone with your thoughts.

And you could see it in him, too.

Every glance you shared, every brief exchange, held a tension that had not been there before. Marcus’s eyes lingered on you longer than they should, his gaze filled with something he dared not speak aloud. You could feel the conflict within him, the struggle between his duty and what lay deep in his heart.

One afternoon, as you were preparing the general’s chambers for the evening, you heard footsteps behind you. You didn’t need to turn to know who it was. You could feel his presence, the energy in the room shifting the moment he entered.

“Columba” he said softly, his voice different from the tone he used with anyone else. There was no command in it, no expectation—just a quiet plea.

You turned to face him, your heart already racing at the sound of your nickname on his lips. He stood in the doorway, his posture rigid, yet his eyes betrayed him. They were filled with the same turmoil that had been building between you for weeks.

“General,” you said, your voice steady though your heart was anything but.

He stepped forward, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. “Marcus,” he corrected, his gaze fixed on yours. “When we’re alone, please… call me Marcus.”

The intimacy of his request made your chest tighten. You had spent your life addressing him with titles, always reminding herself of the distance between you, but now… now he was asking you to cross that distance, to meet him as something more than a servant.

“Marcus,” you repeated softly, the word feeling foreign yet familiar on your tongue.

A small smile touched his lips, but it was strained. He walked slowly toward you, his movements careful, as though he was afraid to shatter the fragile space between you. When he stopped just a step away from you, you felt the air grow thick, the unspoken emotions pressing down on you both.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” Marcus said, his voice low and rough with honesty. “I’ve tried… I’ve tried to bury it, to remind myself of who I am, of what’s expected of me. But every time I see you, every time I hear your voice… it’s like I can’t breathe.”

Your breath hitched in your throat. You had never imagined a man like Marcus, a man of such power and command, could feel this way about you. You had always been invisible, always kept in the shadows. But with him, you felt seen. And that terrified you.

“Marcus, we can’t…” You shook your head, your voice trembling. “You know we can’t. You’re a general. You serve Rome. I’m nothing more than a servant.”

“You are not nothing,” Marcus said sharply, his eyes flashing with a rare intensity. He reached out and gently grasped your wrist, his touch sending a jolt through you. “Don’t ever say that. You are everything I—” He stopped himself, his jaw tightening as if he were trying to restrain words he couldn’t say.

Your heart pounded in your chest. You could feel the heat of his hand on your skin, the warmth of his breath as he stood so close. Every instinct told you to pull away, to remind him of the impossibility of this, but you couldn’t. You couldn’t deny the pull between you, the feelings that had been growing in your heart, no matter how forbidden they were.

“Why me?” you whispered, your voice fragile as your heart. “Why would you care for someone like me, when you could have anyone?”

Marcus’s gaze softened, his grip on your wrist loosening but not letting go. He lifted your hand slowly, his thumb brushing over your palm in a gesture so gentle it made you ache. “Because you see me,” he murmured. “Not the general, not the man who leads armies or answers to the emperor. You see me.”

His words made your chest tighten painfully. You had always tried to stay invisible, to keep your head down and avoid the eyes of those who held power over you. But with Marcus, it was different. You saw the man beneath the armor, the one who carried the weight of duty and responsibility on his shoulders but longed for something more—something real.

“I can’t stop what I feel for you,” Marcus continued, his voice filled with raw honesty. “Even though I know it’s wrong, even though I know what the world would think if they knew… I can’t stop.”

You felt your resolve crumbling. You wanted to tell him that you felt the same, that his kindness, his gentleness, had woven its way into your heart. But the fear of what could come from this, the danger of their impossible love, held you back.

“I feel it too,” you admitted softly, you voice barely above a whisper. “But we have no future, Marcus. You know that. You’ll be expected to marry—”

“I know,” he interrupted, his voice tight. “I know I’m bound by duty. I’ve spent my whole life doing what Rome asks of me. But for once, Livia, I want something for myself.”

His words hung in the air, thick with longing and pain. Your heart ached for him, for the man who had given so much of himself to an empire that would never give him the freedom to love who he chose. And yet, even as you felt the weight of his confession, you knew the truth.

“Even if we want this,” you whispered, “Rome will never let it happen.”

Marcus’s face tightened with frustration, his hand still holding yours as though he couldn’t bear to let go.

You stood in silence for a long moment, the weight of your love pressing down on them. Your heart pounded in your chest, torn between the desire to give in to the feelings you had tried so hard to suppress and the reality of the world they lived in.

Finally, Marcus spoke again, his voice heavy with resignation. “I don’t know what the future holds,” he said softly. “But I know that for now… I need you here. By my side. Even if that’s all we can have.”

You swallowed hard, tears burning at the edges of your eyes. You knew he was right. Your love, if it could even be called that, would never be allowed to flourish in the light. But in the shadows, in the quiet moments you shared, it was real. And maybe, for now, that had to be enough.

You nodded, your voice barely audible as you whispered, “I’ll stay.”

Marcus’s shoulders seemed to relax, and for the briefest moment, a small, sad smile crossed his face. He gently released your hand, stepping back, the distance between you once again restored. But the bond you shared remained.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice filled with emotion. “For staying.”

It was a few days later, and the weight of your shared confession still lingered in the air. The nights had grown heavier with unspoken feelings, and each day, the tension between you and Marcus became harder to ignore. You told yourself to be content with what little time you could have by his side, though it tore at you, knowing that it would never be enough.

That evening, you were cleaning his quarters, your movements methodical, when the door creaked open behind you. You turned and saw Marcus step in, but this time he wasn’t the composed general you had grown used to. His tunic was torn at the shoulder, a dark patch of blood staining the fabric. His brow was furrowed, his jaw set in pain. He tried to stand tall, but there was no hiding the wince as he moved.

"Marcus," you gasped, forgetting all formality in the moment, rushing toward him. Your heart hammered in your chest, worry washing over you at the sight of him.

“It’s nothing,” he said gruffly, waving off your concern, though the tightness in his voice betrayed him. “Just a training injury.”

You moved closer, eyes searching his. You had seen him injured before—he was a soldier, after all—but this felt different. There was a vulnerability in the way he looked at you, as though he had allowed himself to come to you in a moment of weakness.

“You should sit,” you said softly, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice. “Let me prepare a bath for you.”

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded, walking slowly toward the bed and sitting on its edge, his movements stiff and labored. His dark eyes followed you as you quickly went to work, preparing the bath with warm water and fragrant oils to ease his wounds and the tension in his body.

When you returned, you found Marcus removing his tunic, the fabric peeling away from the gash on his shoulder. His skin was marred with bruises, old and new, the marks of a warrior who had seen countless battles. But it was the fresh wound that made your heart ache, the sight of him in pain stirring something deep within you.

“Let me help you,” you whispered, kneeling beside him. He met your eyes, his expression unreadable, and then he nodded, allowing you to step closer. With trembling hands, you gently unfastened the remaining clasps of his armor, your fingers brushing against his skin. You tried to keep your touch professional, but each time your skin met his, a jolt of electricity shot through you.

Once he was bare to the waist, you guided him to the bath. He lowered himself into the warm water with a sigh, his muscles relaxing as the heat enveloped him. You sat on the stool beside the tub, gathering a soft cloth in your hands. You hesitated for a moment, the intimacy of what you were about to do settling heavily in your chest.

When you began to gently scrub his skin, the water rippling with each movement, Marcus closed his eyes, leaning back slightly. His breath came in slow, deep draws, and for a moment, it was as though the world outside the room no longer existed. There was just you, him, and the quiet sound of water.

Your hands moved carefully over his skin, your touch tender and cautious, tracing the contours of his shoulders, his back, the lines of his strong arms. You could feel the tension in his body slowly easing, though your own pulse raced with each moment that passed. The intimacy of the act was overwhelming, but Marcus made no move to stop you.

As you worked, you couldn't help but steal glances at his face, at the way the flickering candlelight danced across his strong jaw and the softness in his expression that he only ever showed when you were alone.

He opened his eyes after a long silence, catching your gaze. “You don’t have to do this,” he murmured, his voice husky from the warmth of the bath or perhaps something more.

“I want to,” you whispered, barely able to meet his eyes. “Let me take care of you.”

The vulnerability in your voice, in the gesture of your care, seemed to affect him deeply. Marcus’s eyes softened, and he reached out, his fingers brushing against your wrist in a silent gesture of thanks. The warmth of his touch lingered on your skin long after he pulled away.

For a long while, you continued in silence, the only sound the gentle splashing of water as you washed away the blood, the dirt, and the exhaustion from his body. Each stroke of the cloth felt like a confession, a quiet way of telling him what you couldn’t say aloud. That you cared for him. That you wanted to protect him in whatever small way you could, even though you knew you couldn’t keep him from the dangers of the world beyond these walls.

When you reached the wound on his shoulder, you were as delicate as possible, your touch light and careful. Marcus winced slightly, but he didn’t pull away. His eyes remained on you, dark and intense, watching every movement of your hands as though you were something precious.

“You’re always so careful,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why?”

You paused, your heart tightening at the question. How could you explain it? How could you put into words the way your heart ached for him, the way you wished to offer him comfort in a world that demanded so much of him?

“Because you’ve given me more kindness than I’ve ever known,” you whispered, barely able to say the words. “I want to give some of it back.”

Marcus’s gaze softened even more, and for a moment, it seemed as though he might say something, something that would change everything between you. But instead, he closed his eyes, leaning back into the water, his hand slipping beneath the surface and resting on the edge of the tub.

You continued to wash him in silence, your heart heavy with the knowledge that these moments, these stolen moments in the shadows, were all you would ever have. And yet, they felt so real, so profound, that you couldn’t bring yourself to regret them.

When the bath was finished, you helped Marcus stand, wrapping a towel around his broad shoulders. He stood before you, his body strong but weary, the weight of his duties ever present in his posture. You couldn’t help but reach out, your hand brushing lightly against the wound on his shoulder.

“Does it hurt?” you asked softly.

He shook his head, but his eyes told a different story. “Not as much as other wounds,” he said quietly, his gaze meeting yours. “Not as much as the ones I can’t show.”

Your heart clenched at his words. You understood. The wounds of battle were visible, but the wounds of the heart—the ones inflicted by duty, by honor, by a world that wouldn’t allow him to follow his desires—were far deeper.

Marcus’s hand reached out, his fingers gently curling around yours, and for a moment, he held on as though you were the only thing keeping him grounded. His eyes searched yours, filled with emotions too complex to name

Marcus’s fingers curled around yours, and in that moment, the air between you seemed to shift. The world outside his chambers fell away, leaving only the two of you, standing so close, bound by an unspoken connection that had been building since the moment you first laid eyes on him. The intensity in his gaze sent a shiver through you, and you felt your breath catch in your throat as his thumb gently brushed over the back of your hand, a simple touch that carried a weight neither of you could ignore.

His hand lingered, holding yours as if it was the only anchor he had left. His eyes were darker now, filled with emotions too complex to name—longing, conflict, something deeper that neither of you had dared to speak aloud. The space between you felt fragile, like a thread stretched too tight, and yet neither of you could pull away.

“Mea columba” he murmured, his voice rough, barely more than a whisper. The way he said your name sent warmth coursing through your veins, and you felt yourself trembling beneath the intensity of his gaze.

You opened your mouth to speak, to say something—anything—to break the silence, but the words wouldn’t come. You didn’t need them. Everything was in his eyes, the way they searched yours, as though he were trying to find an answer to a question he hadn’t yet asked.

Slowly, cautiously, Marcus took a step closer, his hand still holding yours. Your heart pounded wildly in your chest, the pulse in your ears deafening as the space between you closed. His breath was warm on your skin, mingling with your own as he stood so close that the air felt charged, thick with something unspoken.

He reached up with his free hand, his fingers trembling slightly as they brushed a strand of hair from your face. The touch was so tender, so careful, that it made your heart ache. His thumb lingered on your cheek, his palm cradling the side of your face, as though he were afraid to break the moment, afraid to shatter the delicate connection you shared.

“I’ve tried to fight this,” he whispered, his voice filled with a quiet desperation. “I’ve tried to remind myself of what’s right, of my duty, of all the reasons why I can’t—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. You already knew. You knew the weight of the world that rested on his shoulders, the impossible choice he faced between the life he was bound to and the feelings that had grown between you.

But in that moment, as you stood in the dim light of his chambers, none of it seemed to matter. It was just the two of you, and the pull between you was too strong to deny.

“Marcus,” you breathed, your voice trembling as his name passed your lips, a quiet plea for something you both knew couldn’t be undone.

He hesitated for just a moment, his gaze searching yours one last time, as if waiting for a sign, for permission to take that final, forbidden step. And then, with a soft, broken sigh, Marcus leaned in.

His lips brushed yours, so softly at first that it felt like a whisper, a question, a promise. The world seemed to still around you, the moment suspended in time as he kissed you with a tenderness that made your heart ache. His hand tightened around yours, holding you close, as though he were afraid to let go, afraid that this fragile moment would slip away if he loosened his grip.

And then, slowly, the kiss deepened. His lips pressed more firmly against yours, and all the emotions that had been building between you, longing, desire, love, poured into that single, desperate kiss. It was as though every unspoken word, every hidden glance, every touch that had lingered too long was finally allowed to come to life.

You kissed him back, your hand finding its way to his bare chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath your fingers. It beat in time with yours, fast and hard, as if it, too, was caught up in the storm of emotions swirling between you. His other hand moved to your waist, pulling you closer, his body warm and solid against yours.

For a moment, nothing else mattered. Not the rules, not the expectations, not the world outside these walls. There was only Marcus, his lips on yours, his hands holding you like you were something precious, something he had longed for but never thought he could have.

“I don’t know how we’ll keep this secret… but gods, I can’t stop myself. I don’t want to stop.”

You felt the same. You didn’t know how you would hide this, how you would keep it from the eyes of the world, but in that moment, you didn’t care. You had already crossed a line, and there was no going back.

“I don’t want to stop either,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “But we’ll find a way… we have to.”

Marcus’s hand slipped from your waist to your cheek once more, his fingers brushing softly against your skin. He leaned in again, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a moment as though he were trying to hold on to the peace you had found in each other, but as soon as your eyes connected in unspoken pleas, his lips found yours again, this time his kiss screamed desire for you.

The way his right hand slipped down your arm, his touch soft but filled with purpose, sent a shiver through you. His fingers trailed along the curve of your waist, pulling you closer as his lips remained firmly attached to yours, deepening the kiss with a slow, deliberate intensity that made your head spin.

His body pressed against yours, strong and warm, as if he were trying to merge your very beings into one. The world around you seemed to melt away, your senses consumed by the feel of him, the taste of him, the warmth of his breath mingling with yours. Each moment felt suspended in time, the quiet intimacy of the moment holding you both captive.

You could feel the heat radiating off his body, his chest rising and falling in time with yours as the kiss grew more passionate, more desperate. His hand at your waist tightened, pulling you flush against him, as though he needed to feel every part of you, to confirm that this wasn’t a dream.

Your own hands, trembling with the weight of the moment, slid up his arms, feeling the strength beneath his skin, the tension coiled in his muscles. You had never been this close before, never allowed yourself to imagine being this close to him. And now, here you were, pressed against him in a way that defied everything you had been told about your place in the world, everything you had believed about what you deserved.

His lips moved against yours with a hunger that matched the fire burning in your chest. It wasn’t just desire, there was something deeper, something raw and unspoken that neither of you had been able to express until now. Every kiss, every touch, was a release of all the feelings you had kept locked away for so long.

As his lips parted from yours for just a moment, his breath hot against your skin, Marcus whispered your name again—so soft, so reverent that it felt like a prayer. His forehead rested against yours, his eyes half-closed, his voice thick with emotion.

“I can’t…” he whispered, his hand still resting firmly at your waist, holding you close as though he couldn’t bear to let go. “I can’t stop this.”

Neither could you. You didn’t want to. You were lost in him, in the warmth of his touch, in the way he held you like you were the only thing that mattered. You could feel the conflict within him, the weight of his duties and the forbidden nature of what was blossoming between you, but none of that mattered in this moment.

His lips found yours again, this time slower, more tender, as though he were savoring every second, memorizing the feel of you in his arms. His hand slid up your back, pulling you even closer, as if he needed to feel the beat of your heart against his own. You melted into him, your own hands finding their way into his hair, threading through the dark strands as you kissed him with a longing you had kept buried for far too long.

No long after, his fingertips caressed your shoulders, slipping the strips of your dress down your arms. None of you stopped locking your gazes as you felt you dress slipping down your body. You were completely bare in front of the man who had made your heart race like never before.

You had never felt like this before, and the fire in the pit of your stomach was a new sensation for you. There was fire everywhere.

Marcus swept his eyes down your body, clearly reacting to the sight in front of him. The dim light of the moon danced across your skin. Marcus couldn’t believe it. You were the most beautiful woman he laid his eyes on, and under his stare he could swear God had made you just for him to find you, to find love in your eyes and in the way they looked at him now.

He placed his right hand on your neck, before trailing the path down to your neck, your breasts, your stomach as if you were the most delicate map he had ever touched in his life.

Goosebumps arise on your skin as you gasped under his touch. The way he unbraided your hair and swept it, looking at you with adoration. He wasted no time to devour your lips with his, stealing the moaning sounds out of your mouth, when his fingers slipped into your entrance. He worked his was in and out, your mouths attached, and his tongue caressed your swollen lips.

Your hands made their way to his back, his chest, his stomach. A groan came out of his throat when your fingers found his cock. Before you could even react, he carefully laid you on your back, his eyes bored into yours. Your lips were parted by the surprise of his sudden movement, and yet you looked beautiful under his stare, and you could feel beautiful too. It felt like a dream, to had found love in someone like him.

Marcus reached out and cupped your breasts. Your nipples hardened at the touch, and he duck down taking one in his mouth. You whispered his name making his cock throb at the sound of you pleading him, clearly enjoying the was your stomach trembled under his body. He then spread your legs to find the place where you needed him the most.

“Marcus” you whispered; voice weak “please.”

He grumbled and buried his entire face on your cunt. Your legs tightened in surprise, but he kept them open by draping one over his shoulder. He'd done this before, but with you, it seemed different. This time, he couldn't contain his thrill at the thought of making you pleased. He wanted you not only for this reason, but also because you cared for him and he for you, and he desired to prove thar by making love to you and waking up next to you for the rest of his life.

He continued sucking on your clit until you gasped for air. You felt hot under his tongue, and the flavor of you drove him crazy.

“You’re so beautiful mea columba” he whispered, pushing your thighs further apart and took his cock to press the head into your cunt, pushing it with pressure. You both moaned. He dropped his head to your shoulder, inhaling your exquisite scent.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, voice trembling at the thought. You were tight. He knew for the way your eyes looked that you never had done this before, so he tried to be as careful as he could.

“Marcus” you moaned, whimpering. He was all the way inside you. He felt embarred as how weak he seemed because of you. He tried not to come so fast, while glancing between you every second to make sure he wasn’t hurting you.

When he felt himself getting close, he tried to lift your back, holding onto your waist, his chest against yours, lips devouring each other.

“I’m in love with you, mea columba” he whispered, while pounding into you with a steady but delicate force it made you squirm.

your lips and bodies moving in perfect harmony, the rest of the world slipping away as you both gave in to the feelings you could no longer deny. The weight of the consequences lingered at the edges of your mind, but in that moment, nothing seemed as important as this. As him. As the way his hand cradled your waist, the way he kissed you like he had been waiting for this his entire life.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathless, your foreheads still resting together. The silence that followed was heavy, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was filled with the quiet understanding that you had both crossed a line, and there was no turning back now.

Marcus’s eyes flickered open, his gaze locking with yours, the intensity of his emotions shining clearly in the dim light of the room. His thumb brushed lightly against your waist, a touch so gentle, yet filled with a quiet urgency that made your breath catch in your throat.

“I meant it,” he whispered, his voice low and rough with emotion. “I’m in love with you.”

His words hung in the air, thick and heavy with a truth neither of you could deny anymore. And then, without hesitation, he leaned in and pressed his lips to your forehead, the kiss soft and lingering, filled with a tenderness that made your heart swell.

You felt a rush of warmth flood through your body, his confession sinking deep into your chest. You had heard it in his voice before, seen it in his eyes, but hearing those words—words you never thought someone of his stature would say to you—made everything feel real. His love was dangerous, forbidden, but it was also undeniable.

Tears burned at the edges of your eyes, not out of sorrow, but from the overwhelming emotions that surged through you—relief, joy, and the painful knowledge that this love, as real as it was, lived in the shadows.

“I…” your voice faltered, barely above a whisper. “I never thought I’d hear you say those words.”

His forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with yours as he closed his eyes, his hand tightening around your waist, pulling you even closer. “I’ve tried to fight it,” he murmured, his voice filled with quiet anguish. “I’ve tried so hard to push it away, to tell myself it can’t be. But I can’t… I don’t want to fight it anymore.”

You felt the trembling in his voice, the vulnerability in his words, and it mirrored the storm of feelings inside you. You had spent so long burying your own emotions, convinced that someone like Marcus could never see you as more than a servant, more than someone beneath him. But here he was, his love laid bare, his heart in your hands.

A tear slipped down your cheek, and before you could speak, Marcus lifted his hand to your face, his thumb brushing the tear away with the same care he had shown you so many times before. His eyes were filled with something so raw, so real, that it made your chest ache.

“I love you,” you whispered, the words escaping you before you could stop them, but you didn’t want to stop them. They were the truth, and in this moment, you had no reason to hide.

Marcus closed his eyes again, his lips parting in a quiet, shaky breath, as though the sound of your confession had taken away the last of his restraint. His hand cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a tenderness that made you feel like you were the only person in the world.

“I’ll protect you,” he said softly, his voice filled with quiet resolve. “Whatever happens, whatever comes next… I won’t let anything take you away from me.”

His words were a promise, one that felt as fragile as it was powerful. You both knew the risks, knew the world wouldn’t accept this love, but in his arms, in this stolen moment, you believed him. You believed that somehow, against all odds, you might be able to hold on to each other.

As the night deepened, the warmth of Marcus's arms around you became a cocoon of safety and comfort, unlike anything you had ever known. The intensity of your shared confessions, the raw emotions lingering between you, began to soften into a quieter, more intimate connection. His hands, once rough with battle, now caressed your skin with the gentleness of a man who had found something worth protecting, something precious.

You remained in his embrace, the two of you sitting on the edge of his bed, the flickering candlelight casting soft, golden shadows across his quarters. Marcus's thumb traced slow circles against your back, his touch reassuring and grounding, as though he was afraid that letting go would make this moment slip away into a dream. His forehead still rested gently against yours, his breathing steady but deep, as if he, too, was caught in the weight of everything you had just shared.

“I never imagined feeling like this,” you whispered, your voice barely breaking the silence of the room. You weren’t sure if you were confessing to him or simply speaking aloud the truth of what was in your heart. “I never thought I’d ever know this kind of closeness, this… love.”

His grip on you tightened slightly, his lips brushing the top of your head. “Neither did I,” he murmured, his voice thick with sincerity. “Not like this. Not with you.”

For a while, neither of you said anything. The quiet sounds of the night outside his window drifted in—a soft wind, the distant murmur of soldiers on watch, the occasional flicker of torchlight from the corridors. But none of it touched the stillness that enveloped the two of you in this space. Here, with Marcus, the world felt far away.

You felt the exhaustion from the day, from the intensity of everything, slowly creeping into your limbs. Your eyelids grew heavy, and despite the swirl of emotions still lingering in your chest, a deep weariness began to settle over you.

Marcus must have sensed it too, because his hand moved to your cheek, lifting your face gently so that your eyes met his. His expression softened, the hardness of the general gone, replaced by the tenderness of a man who cared deeply for you.

“You’re tired,” he said quietly, his voice filled with concern. “You should rest.”

You opened your mouth to protest, not wanting to leave his embrace, not wanting to lose the warmth of his presence. But he only smiled, his thumb brushing across your cheek in a soothing motion. “Stay here. With me.”

It was more than just an invitation. It was a promise, a reassurance that you didn’t have to return to the cold solitude of your small, servant's quarters. Tonight, you could stay here, beside him, and find some peace in his arms.

You breathed in the scent of him, your heart finding a slow, steady rhythm against his, and in the safety of his embrace, you finally let go.

Marcus’s hand continued to stroke your hair, even as sleep pulled you under. You could feel his heartbeat beneath your palm, strong and sure, and it lulled you into the sweetest, most peaceful sleep you had known in years.

And just before the darkness of sleep claimed you completely, you felt him press one last kiss to your temple, his lips soft and warm against your skin.

“Goodnight, my love,” he whispered.

And with that, you fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, wrapped safely in his arms.

The days that followed were filled with an eerie calm, the quiet before the storm neither of you could ignore. You and Marcus fell into a rhythm of stolen moments—brushed hands when no one was looking, lingering glances that spoke more than words could ever say. In the dim light of dawn, in the safety of his quarters, your world shrank to just the two of you, the outside concerns held at bay for a little while longer.

But the world, especially one as ruthless as the Roman Empire, couldn’t be held back forever.

It began with hushed whispers from the servants, news of political maneuvering at the highest levels. You heard it first while fetching water from the well. Two women were gossiping, their voices low but clear enough for you to overhear.

“The Emperor’s orders,” one of them said, her tone almost gleeful. “General Acacius is to marry Lucilla, they say. It’s all but decided.”

Your stomach dropped, the bucket in your hand suddenly too heavy. You froze in place, the weight of those words sinking into you like a stone. Marcus is to marry. The Emperor’s will was absolute, and any personal desires, any feelings, would be swept away like dust in the wind.

You barely remember how you made it back to Marcus’s quarters, your mind a blur of emotions—dread, anger, helplessness. Your heart pounded in your chest, each beat echoing with the terrible reality you were trying to push away. By the time you arrived, your hands were trembling, your breath shallow as if the air itself had become too heavy to breathe.

When Marcus walked in later that evening, you could see it in his face before he even spoke. The weight of duty, the burden of decisions not his own, bore down on him like a heavy cloak. His eyes, once so full of warmth when they met yours, were shadowed with the knowledge of what was to come.

You tried to speak, to find the words to ask him if it was true, but they caught in your throat. Instead, you stood in silence, waiting for him to tell you.

“They’ve ordered it,” he said quietly, his voice strained. He didn’t meet your eyes as he spoke, as if doing so would make it all too real. “The Emperor has arranged a marriage.”

Your heart shattered at that moment, but you willed yourself not to show it. You had always known this was a possibility—he was a man of power and status, and the empire would always demand his obedience. Still, knowing didn’t soften the blow. You felt like the air had been knocked out of your chest.

Marcus took a step closer to you, his expression pained. “I didn’t want this,” he murmured. “I don’t want her.”

He reached for you, his hand hovering just above your arm as if unsure whether he still had the right to touch you. The distance between you felt insurmountable now, the shadow of his impending marriage looming over everything you had built together.

You pulled back, just enough to break the unspoken promise of his touch. “But you must,” you said, your voice trembling. “You have no choice.”

Marcus’s eyes finally met yours, and the anguish in them was more than you could bear. “I swore I would protect you, that I wouldn’t let anything take you from me.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing yourself to stay strong even as the tears threatened to fall. “And I swore I would stay by your side, no matter what,” you whispered. “But Marcus, this… this is the world we live in…I can’t stay here just to watch you being married to a woman who is not me.”

“I can’t lose you,” he said, his voice breaking. “I can’t pretend this marriage means anything to me. It’s politics, nothing more. You are what I want.”

You felt your resolve crumbling, the enormity of what you were facing pulling you under. “But once you’re married…” The words felt like poison on your tongue. “Once you’re bound to her…”

He shook his head fiercely, stepping closer again, this time not hesitating as he took your hands in his. His touch was warm, familiar, but it couldn’t erase the reality pressing down on both of you. “I won’t let her come between us. I won’t.”

Tears filled your eyes despite your best efforts to hold them back. You couldn’t stop the ache in your chest, the knowledge that your love would now have to exist in the shadows of Marcus’s new life—hidden, secret, and forbidden.

“What kind of life is that for us?” you asked, your voice breaking. “A love hidden away, always in the dark?”

Marcus’s jaw clenched, his eyes blazing with desperation. “We’ll find a way,” he insisted. “Even if the world says we can’t… we’ll find a way.”

You wanted to believe him, you wanted to hold on to the love that had grown between you, but the cold reality was seeping into every corner of your heart. This marriage wasn’t just an obstacle—it was a wall that you couldn’t break through.

You stepped away, pulling your hands free from his grasp. The distance between you felt like a chasm now, one that neither of you could cross. “I don’t know if love is enough,” you whispered, the weight of the world pressing down on your chest. “I won’t have my heart broken every day of my life just for you to see me from afar.”

Your words hung heavy in the air, each one a dagger piercing both your hearts. Marcus's face fell, the determination in his eyes flickering like a candle in the wind. He reached out once more, but hesitated, his hand hovering between you as if unsure whether he still had the right to touch you.

"Mea columba, please," he pleaded, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Don't say that. Don't give up on what we have."

A tear slipped down your cheek, and you quickly brushed it away, straightening your spine to muster whatever strength you had left. "I'm not giving up," you replied softly. "But I can't live a life where I'm constantly in the shadows, hiding what I feel, watching you build a life with someone else."

He shook his head vehemently. "My marriage to Lucilla will be in name only. It means nothing compared to what I feel for you."

"But it changes everything," you insisted, your voice cracking under the weight of your emotions. "She will be your wife. She will stand beside you in public, share your home, perhaps even bear your children. Where does that leave me? Sneaking around in the dark, pretending I don't exist whenever others are near?"

Marcus's expression crumpled, pain etched into every line of his face. "I would never ask you to diminish yourself like that."

"But that's exactly what this would be," you said, stepping back further to put some distance between you. "I deserve more than to be a secret, Marcus. And deep down, you know that."

He opened his mouth to argue, but no words came out. The silence stretched between you, filled only by the distant sounds of the bustling city beyond the walls—a world that seemed determined to keep you apart.

Finally, he spoke, his voice hoarse. "What are you saying?"

You took a shaky breath, gathering the courage to face the truth you'd been avoiding. "I'm saying that perhaps it's time for me to leave."

His eyes widened in alarm. "Leave? No, you can't. I won't allow it."

A bitter smile tugged at your lips. "You can't keep me here, not like this. Not when staying would mean watching you live a life, I can never be a part of."

Desperation flashed across his face. "I can speak to the Emperor. I can refuse the marriage. There must be a way—"

"And risk everything you've worked for? Your honor, your position?" You shook your head sadly. "You and I both know that's not possible. The Emperor's command is absolute. Defying him would only bring ruin upon you."

"I would risk it for you," he insisted, taking a bold step forward. "For us."

"And that's precisely why I can't let you do that," you replied gently. "I won't be the cause of your downfall.” You inhaled “Because you would end up despising me for it.”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in every movement. "So, what then? We part ways? Pretend none of this ever happened?"

You felt your heart break a little more at the pain in his voice. "I don't want to forget," you said softly. "I will cherish every moment we've shared. But sometimes, love isn't enough to overcome the obstacles before us."

Marcus's shoulders sagged, defeat washing over him. "I can't accept that."

"Neither can I," you admitted, tears welling up once more. "But it's the only way we can both move forward without destroying each other."

He looked at you with a profound sadness, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hope. "Where will you go?"

You offered a small, sad smile. "I'll find somewhere. Perhaps another household, or maybe I'll find a way to make a life for myself beyond these walls."

A tense silence settled between you. Finally, he spoke, his voice barely audible. "When?"

You swallowed hard. "Soon. Before the marriage takes place."

He closed his eyes briefly, as if trying to steady himself against the inevitable. "At least allow me to ensure you're safe. Let me arrange for you to be placed somewhere you'll be treated well."

You considered refusing but knew it would ease his mind. "Alright," you agreed quietly. "Thank you."

Marcus stepped closer once more, and this time you didn't pull away as he reached out to cup your face gently in his hands. "I love you," he whispered, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "That will never change."

A sob escaped your lips, and you placed your hand over his. "And I love you. More than you could ever know."

He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours, and for a moment, the two of you stood there, memorizing every detail of each other's faces—the warmth of your breaths mingling, the softness of his touch, the sorrow in his eyes.

"Promise me something," he said softly.

"Anything."

"Promise me you'll find happiness," he murmured. "That you'll live the life you deserve."

You nodded slowly. "I promise."

A single tear rolled down his cheek, and he pulled you into a tight embrace, holding you as if it were the last time—as indeed it might be. You clung to him, wishing you could freeze time, keep this moment suspended forever.

After what felt like both an eternity and a mere heartbeat, you pulled away, knowing that if you didn't leave now, you might never find the strength again. "Goodbye, Marcus," you whispered.

He reached into the folds of his tunic and pulled out a small object—a simple silver pendant engraved with a laurel wreath. "Take this," he said, pressing it into your hand. "So you'll always have a part of me with you."

You looked down at the pendant, your vision blurred by tears. "I will treasure it always."

With a final, lingering glance, you turned and walked away, each step heavier than the last. As you left his chambers, the weight of your decision settled fully upon you, but beneath the pain, there was a quiet resolve. You were choosing your own path, difficult as it was.

Behind you, Marcus remained standing, watching you go until you disappeared from sight. The echo of your footsteps faded, leaving him alone with the emptiness of the room and the ache in his heart.

The days that followed were a blur. True to his word, Marcus arranged for you to be placed in the household of a kind widow on the outskirts of the city. The woman, Julia, welcomed you warmly, unaware of the depth of your connection to the general. To her, you were simply a skilled servant in need of a place, and she was grateful for the help.

Life in Julia's home was peaceful, a stark contrast to the turmoil of your emotions. Each day, you performed your duties diligently, but your thoughts often drifted back to Marcus—the sound of his voice, the warmth of his embrace, the intensity of his gaze as he declared his love for you.

News of his impending marriage reached you through whispers in the marketplace. The union was to be a grand affair, solidifying political alliances and elevating Marcus's standing even further. You tried to steel yourself against the pang of jealousy and sorrow that accompanied these rumors, reminding yourself that this was the path he was bound to follow.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of gold and crimson, you found yourself standing on a hill overlooking the city. The distant sounds of celebration drifted up to you—the marriage ceremony was taking place. Clutching the silver pendant around your neck, you closed your eyes and whispered a silent farewell.

"May you find happiness," you murmured into the evening breeze. "And may our paths cross again in another life."

As the first stars appeared in the sky, you took a deep breath and turned away from the city. There was a whole world beyond Rome's walls, and perhaps, in time, you would find your place in it—where you could heal and maybe even find joy once more.

Weeks passed, each one heavier than the last. You had settled into Julia’s villa , trying to find peace in the simplicity of your new life. But the ache in your heart remained, the thought of Marcus and his looming marriage never far from your mind. Each night, you clutched the silver pendant he had given you, hoping it might somehow tether your heart to his, even from a distance.

It had been months since you had last seen him, and you had resigned yourself to the reality that Marcus’s life had moved on, even if yours still felt frozen in time. But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

One late afternoon, as you were tending to the garden outside Julia’s villa, you heard the distant sound of horses approaching. You looked up, wiping your hands on your apron, and saw a group of soldiers in familiar Roman armor riding up the path. Your heart skipped a beat. Could it be?

When they came to a stop, your breath caught in your throat. There, dismounting from his horse, was Marcus—his eyes searching frantically until they landed on you.

Your heart raced, and before you could even process what was happening, Marcus was striding toward you, his face a mix of determination and relief.

"Marcus?" you whispered, barely able to believe your eyes.

Without hesitation, he pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly, as if he had been afraid you might vanish if he let go. His warmth surrounded you, and for the first time in months, you allowed yourself to hope again.

"I found you," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I told you we'd find a way."

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him, confusion clouding your thoughts. "But… your marriage? Lucilla?"

Marcus shook his head, his gaze locked with yours. "It's over. The Emperor himself annulled it."

Your breath caught in your throat. "What? How? Why?"

A faint smile touched his lips, though his eyes were serious. "Lucilla… she didn’t want this marriage any more than I did. She petitioned to me, and together we spoke to the emperor. She’s in love with someone else, someone who she could never marry while bound to me." He paused, his thumb gently brushing your cheek. "And the Emperor, surprisingly, agreed to release both of us."

You stared at him, stunned, unable to fully comprehend what he was saying. "So, you’re free?"

He nodded. "I’m free, mea columba. I can choose my own path now. And I’ve come to ask you to walk it with me."

Tears welled in your eyes, but this time, they were tears of joy. "Marcus, I…" you stammered, overwhelmed by the sudden rush of emotions. "Is this real? Are you really here?"

He smiled then, the first genuine smile you’d seen from him in so long. "Yes, it's real. I love you. I don’t care what anyone else says or thinks. I want you by my side, not in the shadows. I want you to be with me—openly, proudly."

For a moment, the world seemed to stand still. Everything you had feared, all the obstacles that had once seemed insurmountable, had fallen away. And standing before you was the man you loved, offering you the life you had once thought was impossible.

You smiled through your tears, your heart bursting with happiness. "I love you, Marcus," you whispered. "And yes, I’ll walk that path with you. Wherever it leads."

With that, he leaned in and kissed you, a kiss full of promise and hope, sealing the future you would share. At that moment, everything felt right. The shadows of the past no longer held power over you, and the weight of uncertainty had lifted from your shoulders.

Marcus took your hand when he finally pulled away, lacing his fingers through yours. "Come," he said softly. "Let’s go. There’s a whole world waiting for us."

A few months later...

The soft morning light filtered through the open window of the villa, casting a golden glow over the room as you slowly stirred awake. The cool breeze carried the scent of wildflowers from the hills, filling the air with the promise of a new day. You lay in bed, nestled in Marcus's strong arms, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing.

For months now, you had known peace, a life far removed from the chaos and expectations of the Roman court. Marcus had retired from the military, choosing a quiet life with you in the countryside. The villa had become your sanctuary, a place where you could live freely, without the burden of secrecy or fear. No more hiding in the shadows—your love had found the light.

Gently, you shifted in Marcus’s embrace, your hand resting over your growing belly. A small, soft smile spread across your face as you felt the faint flutter of movement inside you. Marcus stirred beside you, his arms tightening around you instinctively, as though even in sleep, he wanted to protect you.

You gazed down at your hand, marveling at the life that grew within you—a symbol of the love you and Marcus had fought so hard to protect. This child, your child, was the future you had once feared might never come.

Marcus’s eyes slowly opened, and he smiled sleepily as his gaze met yours. "Good morning," he murmured, his voice deep and warm.

"Good morning," you whispered back, your hand still resting on your belly. His eyes followed the movement, and his expression softened as he reached out to place his hand gently over yours.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice filled with tenderness.

"I'm well," you replied, your smile widening. "The baby’s been very active this morning."

Marcus’s face lit up, and he leaned in to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “And he will know freedom.”

His gaze lingered on you, filled with a deep, unwavering love. "I still can’t believe this is real," he said quietly, his thumb gently brushing your hand. "After everything, we’re here—together—and soon, we’ll have a family."

You felt tears prick your eyes, not of sorrow this time, but of pure happiness. "It’s everything I never thought I could have," you admitted softly. "But now, I can’t imagine life any other way."

Marcus leaned in, his lips brushing yours in a tender kiss, one that spoke of all the joy and gratitude you both felt. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, as if savoring the moment.

"I love you, Mea columba" he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "More than words can say."

"And I love you," you replied, your heart swelling with happiness. "For always."

Together, you lay there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the weight of your journey behind you and the promise of a bright future ahead. The child you carried was a testament to your love, a symbol of the life you had built together despite all the odds.

Outside, the world continued to turn, but here, in this quiet, peaceful place, you had everything you had ever dreamed of, Marcus, your love, and the family you would soon welcome into the world.

The future stretched out before you, filled with light, joy, and hope. And as the first rays of sunlight touched the horizon, you knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, you and Marcus would face them together, stronger than ever, bound by a love that had defied the impossible.

Your love had triumphed. And now, the greatest adventure of all was about to begin, the creation of a family, born out of that love.

#marcus acacias x reader #marcus acacius fanfiction #marcus acacius x f!reader #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius x reader #general marcus acacius #marcus acacius fic #marcus acacius #gladiator 2 fic #gladiator 2 #gladiator 2 fanfiction #pedro pascal #marcus acacius smut #general acacius x you #general acacius

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21280 · 1 month ago

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warnings for nsfw! implied age gap (it's always age gap when it's older pro heroes), swearing, afab reader, she/her used, fingering, dom! aizawa (?), poorly written smut. this is my birthday gift from me to me! mdni.

shota aizawa and birthdays are not a great mix. he's as emotionally available as a pet rock, so it takes him a while to actually care for such dates.

but when yours comes around, it's an entirely different situation. he somewhat cares, and he's thoughtful enough to consider buying you a gift. key word being consider. it's usually something small like buying you lunch from the cafeteria, or gifting you something practical for your hero suit. and it's very subtle; he gives you his 'gifts' with nobody around so there's no speculation about his bias for your special day.

this year, he made two tiny mistakes.

one, getting noticed by hizashi yamada.

two, buying you something entirely different than before.

so when he's attempting to wrap a small chocolate box in crinkly wrapping paper, he can sense his workmate's eyes lingering on his figure. thinking little of it, he continues.

shota should've known there was something going on the second he stepped foot in the teacher dorms and it was empty. the only sign of life were your huffs and groans coming from the kitchen as you measured flour and some other dry ingredients.

"y/n? where are the others?"

"they said they had to go prepare some stuff at the faculty lounge for my secret party" you laughed, "can you believe i'm stuck baking my own cake?"

shota's eyes slightly widened as he walked towards the elevator, explaining how he had a small present for you. taking advantage of the solitude, it was better for him to deliver his present now than later. a few minutes went by until he returned with a small bag, inside being a box wrapped in crepe paper.

"oh my gosh, you really didn't have to, aizawa" you giggled, your hands steady on the kitchen counter as you jumped to take a seat. you slowly tore away the paper to reveal a simple, black box with golden lettering. they were chocolates, and not the cheap kind. "these look so good, you wanna share?"

he shook his head in response. "they're for you, y'know." you tilted your head to the side, "and if i want to share?"

he scoffed, "alright, but don't be complaining later when i eat the whole—"

there was a loud sound coming from a speaker. shota knew that mic bought it to have ambiance music during dinner or during cooking, but he never knew it could turn on by itself. more importantly...

the speaker wasn't playing pure background noise. it was playing a song.

shota sighed as he recognized the familiar tune, which was one he had heard during his younger years. and he knew that you recognized it too, from the way in which you held in your laugh. "is this your doing, aizawa?" he shook his head as his phone pinged, and to his surprise, it was a text.

Yamada 19:05 AIZAWA BUDDY Hope you like the surprise!!! We won't look at the kitchen cameras for the rest of the night We still want you to be at the lounge for Y/n's party at 9 tho so move along!!

Shota 19:07 Are you fucking serious?

Yamada 19:08 It's her birthday so you know she wanna rii-ii-iiide out Seriously we're gonna be upset if you waste my good music for nothing bro.

"it's mic's doing" he grumbled, to which you laughed. "is this his attempt at setting us up?" he asked. "probably. is it working?"

"i don't know a single person who enjoys this song unironically. do you seriously want to do this with yamada's playlist?"

"something's better than nothing, aizawa" you smiled, "wanna sing along to birthday sex with me?"

shota took the chocolate box from your hand, picking a small tablet and placing it between his teeth. he moved closer, his hands slightly parting your thighs as he positioned himself between them. though his voice came out muffled by the chocolate, it was obvious what he was saying.

"come on. eat."

your fingers grasped the fabric of his shirt as you pulled him closer as you leaned in to take a bite. before you could, though, shota took the chocolate from his mouth and threw it somewhere on the counter, connecting his lips with yours. your hand cupped his cheek as your back slightly arched, wanting to close the gap even further. shota's hand was on the small of your back as he slowly dragged you to the edge of the counter.

his hand lowered towards your ass, causing you to gasp. shota was quick to slide his tongue inside, earning a whine from you. your lips are intoxicating to shota. they're addictive, and he tries desperately to keep nibbling on what he deemed heaven itself.

but alas, air is not only something he needs, you need it too. you pulled away to catch your breath, your hand moving from his cheek to under his shirt, softly tracing the skin on his lower back. "you do know this is probably mic's sex fantasy, right?"

he stifled a laugh, "something's better than nothing, right?"

shota's fingers ghosted over your thighs. "this okay?" he asked, to which you nodded. his fingers traced the hem of your shorts, sneakily pushing the fabric to the side as the tip of his finger lazily drew circles on your clothed cunt. "y'know, i could just fuck you like this, no prob. the shorts make it easy."

and his touch is enough to give you goosebumps. you trembled as he slowly, and carefully peeled your panties to the side, slipping two digits inside. he chuckled as you gripped his shirt in response. "you're this wet already? but we're just getting started."

the way his fingers thrust inside you made your grip on him tighten. you wondered if he had any previous experiences—he’s old, so he’s had to have some—there’s no way he’s naturally good. his fingers curled up inside your walls, and it was enough to have your hips jerk towards him, your head on his chest as your breath quickened. shota's thumb drew circles on your clit as he leaned in to whisper.

“does it feel good?”

you try to answer as coherently as you can, but it’s no use. “it—aah—s’good, aizawa.”

without warning, he slips in one more digit. the moan that escaped your lips was so raw—so lewd, it was almost enough for shota to cum on the spot. “that’s not my name, it’s shota. try again.”

“fuck—shota—so good.”

“that’s better” he growled, his free hand moving under your shirt. shota aizawa is skilled, because in one swift movement your bra is unclasped, your shirt is lifted, and his lips and nibbling and suckling on your hardened nipples. shota aizawa knows your sensitive spots. he either guessed them first try, or has known you long enough to know.

you were a moaning mess. you clung onto him so hungrily, with so much desperation. the only sounds that left your mouth were incoherent thoughts and screams.

“sho—want you ‘nside—now.”

he let out a low chuckle, “you need to cum for me first. think you can do that, y/n?”

shota didn’t have to tell you twice.

#stealth ops.#bnha x reader #bnha smut #aizawa x reader #aizawa smut #shota x reader #shouta x reader #aizawa shouta x reader #aizawa shota x reader #bnha x you #mha smut #mha x reader #my hero academia x reader #boku no hero academia x reader #shouta smut #eraserhead x reader #shouta aizawa x reader

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hyomaslut · 1 year ago

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──★ ˙🍆 ̟ !! casual conversation between friends. 18+!

☆⌒(ゝ。∂).ᐟ ᴀsᴋɪɴɢ ʙʟʟᴋ ʙᴏʏs ғᴏʀ ɴᴜᴅᴇs ᴘᴛ. 𝟷

✿ ─ characters: isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, chigiri hyoma, reo mikage ✿ ─ cw: smau!, extremely suggestive/borderline smut, aged-up!characters, college!AU, gn!reader, no pronouns, unestablished relationships/mutual pining, use of foul language, descriptions of genitalia, suggestive themes, you and chigiri are talking about npc college drama, proofread??? ✿ ─ notes: honestly the smau aspect was so hard cuz im a perfectionist and wanted read reciets and everything. all the apps for them suck. i managed :))) and i rlly hope you guys like it :)) feedback appreciated. i put chigiri's at the end cuz its so long. part 2 is here!!!!

ISAGI YOICHI...

your fingers fly across the keyboard to tell him that yes, you were very serious. isagi literally jumps out of bed to go shower and everything. he has been crushing on you since forever and god knows he’s not blowing this chance you’ve given him by sending a shitty picture. you get an image attachment 20 minutes later, yoichi standing in front of his foggy bathroom mirror, the phone in his hand covering half of his face. he’s barely out of the shower, hair dripping wet and towel hanging extremely loose around his hips. his other hand sits at the base of his dick, acting as both a size comparison and a way to draw your attention to it. it’s obviously of decent length as far as you could tell, but the girth. you cant even pretend your mouth doesn’t start watering at the sight.

ITOSHI RIN...

you don’t have time to feel all that bummed about it though, because within a few minutes you’re shocked to get a picture from rin, the camera facing downwards towards his legs. nothing would be all that out of the ordinary if it weren’t the obvious tent in his shorts. the fabric around his crotch looks stretched by his hard dick fighting against the confines of his soccer uniform. it’s not exactly what you asked for, but you can’t find it in you to complain, because it’s way more than you actually expected to get. your mind starts racing. he’s hard from just a few suggestive texts? that means one of two things. either he really is a virgin like you thought he’d be, and the littlest of acts gets him riled up. or he’s just that into you. both of those possibilities sounded like fun. and the idea of those possibilities made you greedy. enough to push your luck.

MIKAGE REO...

two pictures come in quickly and you laugh at the idea of him rushing to take these for you. he sends the first one, taken standing in front of the full length mirror in his boxers, dragging down the waist band of them so you can see the first few inches of his shaft, phone in front of his face. he’s perfectly clean shaven, zooming in closer, maybe he waxes it? you can’t help but be impressed by his attention to detail. it’s so reo that it makes you smile. second one is sitting down in some fancy looking suede armchair, underwear gone, cock in one hand while the other splays over the bottom half of his face, poorly covering the wide self-satisfied smirk. you assumed he set up his phone with a timer considering he wasn’t holding it. as you stare at it, the initial evaluating that everyone does when they receive a dick pic fades away, and you feel heat creep up your face. reo was really hot, and just this once you figured it wouldn’t hurt to tell him you thought so.

CHIGIRI HYOMA...

you get through the stressful minutes waiting for his response by chewing on your nails. maybe you really just fucked it all up. but then, to your surprise, a photo loads in. its hyoma sitting on his bed in front of his mirror, his fingers buried in his hair to push it out of his face in possibly the sexiest way you’ve ever seen. his other hand holds his phone, his pretty face in full view with his gaze locked on the screen. your eyes can’t help but travel down to the only part of your crush you haven’t seen. and boy was it worth the wait. his dick curves up towards his abs and its a lot bigger than you expected. long and a perfectly pink tip. you bite your lip at the thought of it stretching you out, and then feel slightly guilty for thinking of him that way, as if you haven’t done it plenty of times during your so-called dry spell. if the whole soccer thing doesn’t work out, you’re sure he could be a pin up model. or maybe a greek god.

hyoma's got long again ;-; mb,,, but can you blame me??? i want to do a part two with at least nagi and bachira, but idk who else i want to include. open to suggestions ♡

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kumkaniudaku · 3 months ago

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Stay A While (5)

Summary: Terry and Patrice enjoy each other with the promise of bright future.

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC

Word Count: 4.9k

Part: 5 of 5

Warnings: Smut (18+), NSFW

A/N: Thanks so much for joining me on this ride. I hope the journey turns out to be worth it.

Chapters: One. Two. Three. Four.

“Uh, my name is Terry, I’m from North Carolina, and I wanna dedicate this one to my lady over there in the orange dress. You look good, girl.”

“Oh no.”

“Sing your song, baby!”

A mix of encouragement and admiration at Terry’s public display of affection rang out in a poorly lit karaoke bar in the French Quarter. Liquor, good food, and good people were the perfect mix for a good time with the vestiges of Summer break rapidly slipping away. Terry stood on stage with a goofy grin and low eyes, pointing everyone toward his favorite audience member.

Patrice had never been so embarrassed in her life. When she’d dared him to do something crazy on the last night of their spontaneous vacation, she thought he’d finally get that tattoo of her name on his ribs like he promised way back when. Singing in front of a crowd of rowdy strangers wasn’t on her bingo card.

Her hands covered her mouth to muffle her near-uncontrollable laughter.

Terry couldn’t sing. At least not well enough to give a tipsy rendition of Patrice’s favorite Usher record. She still remembered forcing Terry to listen to Raymond v. Raymond over and over again in her cramped bedroom, many times not getting past Track 3 without gushing over how she hoped to marry the R&B heartthrob one day. Terry secretly carried a deep disdain for Usher up until his mid-20s, but couldn’t dodge the memories any time “There Goes My Baby” would play and take him right back to that cramped bedroom with his dream girl.

He started just as Patrice expected. Though he knew the words like the back of his hand, his pitchy tenor was a far cry from the vocals needed to properly serenade an audience. He didn’t care though. As long as he could pull a belly laugh from Patrice he’d make a fool of himself in public every time.

Between the second verse and bridge, Terry decided to take his antics up a notch. He abandoned the stage to make a beeline for Patrice with the mic in hand for a personal show. She was sure to play into the bit with playful hoops and fake screams between giggles. When he was close enough to touch, she pretended to fangirl like she was front row at one of Usher’s Vegas shows.

“Baby, lovin’ you feels better than everything, anything. Put it on my heart, you gon’ get a ring,” he sang, spontaneously remixing the lyrics so far off-key that, if not for the levity of the ordeal, he’d surely offend every music lover in a 50-mile radius. “And I promise, our time away didn’t change my love.”

Completely enamored with the absurdity of the moment, Patrice ran her fingertips across Terry’s abdomen underneath his shirt like a crazed fan and winked. Terry acknowledged the dangerous line she was toeing by flashing her a flirtatious grin to match the seductive sparkle in his eyes.

Their connection overrode Terry’s awful singing performance enough for the crowd to show support through an assortment of cheers and supportive hollers only a city full of spirited Black people could provide.

Always the perfect gentleman, Terry bid Patrice farewell for a moment with a peck on the cheek before returning to the stage to cap a truly unexpected performance and receive thunderous applause.

“Oooo-weee. That’s your man, love? I’m talking official official?” The middle-aged tourist’s question and her thick accent interrupted Patrice’s daydreaming while she watched Terry’s every move with part of her bottom lip caught by her top row of teeth.

“Yeah,” she answered, finally tearing her gaze away to acknowledge the woman while fiddling with the opal necklace he’d gifted her at dinner. It was the necklace symbolizing their first real date and the end of their friends only arrangement. “That’s him. Ain’t he somethin’?”

“Somethin’ ain’t the word. I might need to head on up to North Carolina and get me one of them. My God today!”

“He’s got a cute little single friend out in Percyville if you down with our Asian brothers. Former Marine too.”

“You got a picture?”

The two women fell into conversation about Ken’s availability while Patrice waited for Terry to rejoin her side. He soon returned with two shots of tequila in hand and a smile fighting to be freed from behind his poker face.

“What was that about,” he asked, nodding at the woman who’d begun to show her friends photos of her potential beau as he placed a shot in front of Patrice.

“Might’ve gotten Ken somebody to take him out of the streets. You know he like ‘em thick and fine.”

“I taught my boy a few things.” He used the hand closest to Patrice to breach the split in her dress and grip her inner thigh. He maintained contact, waiting for her to get shy and shoo him away.

But she didn’t. She met his show of dominance with one of her own and crossed her legs to keep him in place, keeping him close to the pulse at her center. Two could play the secret foreplay game.

“What’s that about,” she asked, pointing at his gift of top-shelf reposado and ignoring the flutter in her stomach once he began rubbing slow circles on the top of her thigh with his thumb.

He smirked. “A little something to toast with.”

“Oooh. What’re we celebrating?”

“Being free, being together, and…” He lifted his shot glass, prompting Patrice to follow suit.

“And what, TJ! C’mon!”

“And…I got the job.” He followed his surprise by taking his shot, finishing with a quiet laugh while watching Patrice sit in unblinking shock. He squeezed her thigh again. “Don’t let me drink alone now. Bottoms up.”

Shock gave way to a soft squeal and tiny, animated hand claps before Patrice took her gulp of tequila. Excitement had her rushing to swallow so that she could pull Terry into a series of quick kisses across his face.

“I’m proud of you,” she complimented against his lips. “Tell me about it.”

She stole another kiss to taste the remnants of buffalo sauce and alcohol on Terry’s tongue. He let her explore uninhibited until she’d had enough. If she wanted to put on a show, he’d be a willing participant. Even more so in the privacy of the Airbnb that belonged them to until sunrise.

The sexual tension had reached a tipping point and the clock was ticking. Images of her body beneath his were starting to be the only thoughts Terry could concoct.

Terry’s face was completely flushed, usually even caramel skin now red from lust and one too many drinks. A slow, tipsy grin put all his teeth on display before he ran his tongue across his bottom lip.

“We can talk about that later. Can we get out of here right now, though.”

“Yeah? Why?”

Patrice assumed they were having a good time with at least one more stop on their self-guided nightlife tour. His eagerness to abandon plans was uncharacteristic.

Terry continued to smile then leaned forward to whisper in her ear. “I really wanna make you cum tonight. You been waiting too long.”

A shiver hit Patrice’s spine as she tried to maintain some level of composure in a room full of people. Terry easily pushed her thighs open to free his hand, being sure to brush against her lower lips with the tips of his fingers.

Terry didn’t need to speak when he stood to pull her chair back from the table. Patrice allowed him to tug her to her feet and out of the bar, waving goodbye to her new friend who gave her a congratulatory thumbs up.

However, any morsel of confidence she had while they made out like teenagers in the backseat of a taxi had waned once they reached their dwelling for the night and the reality of their situation set in.

Their first time together was her first time. She was young with too many influences in her ear telling her that the only way to make a man love her was through her body. No matter how many times Terry assured her that they could spend that truly imporable hour of alone time in her hotel room catching up, she insisted that they test the boundaries of their affection.

Now, with history repeating itself, she couldn’t help but feel a deep pit of nervousness and uncertainty growing in her belly.

Patrice stood in the bathroom mirror, tussling with her hair that had gone from pressed roots to a mess of frizz and curled ends. She suddenly hated the way her cotton slip dress fit and how the lace bra and panty set seemed to bunch in all the wrong places. The only thing she wanted to do was look like the woman of his dreams, but her confidence was waning with every second she spent judging her appearance while Terry waited patiently in the bedroom. Frustration was building and bringing the sting of fresh tears to her eyes.

On the other side of the door, Terry spent his time adjusting and readjusting the pillows on the bed. His bare back and shoulders glistened under the soft, warm light emanating from the floor lamp across the room, partially from the heat, but mostly from sheer nervousness.

“What the fuck are you doing,” he whispered to himself, suddenly embarrassed.

Terry forced himself to take a seat at the edge of the bed to calm his nerves. The last time he’d been on the brink of having her in this way, he was a young man with no clue how to love a woman. Now, all he wanted to do was prove that he’d earn every morsel of her trust back if she let him.

He never told Patrice that their first time was his first time. He was scared out of his mind, wanting to give in to his fantasies but afraid to send the wrong impression. The memory of that summer afternoon never left him. But, it was time to start anew with a title and the promise of a different result on the horizon.

Taking a deep breath, Terry wiped his sweaty palms against the soft fabric of his briefs and sighed.

“You okay in there,” he called out, concerned as the minutes ticked by with no communication. “I don’t wanna rush you. Just checking in. Tell me to leave you alone if I’m doing too much.”

“I’m okay. One second. I’m fixin’ my hair.”

“Take your time. I’m sure you look…”

The soft sound of the door opening stopped Terry mid-sentence. Patrice stepped out, one foot in front of the other, until she was past the threshold and under his doting gaze.

“...gorgeous,” he finished, the word coming out in one breath. “You are absolutely gorgeous, Treece.”

Patrice had decided on a bun on top of her head with tendrils in the front and back that couldn’t quite reach the rest of her hair. She’d traded her light makeup for a bare face still glowing from her nighttime skin routine. Her slip dress clung and dipped in all the right places without the lace from her lingerie interrupting the smooth fabric. She looked at him through long lashes, her expression reading as the same timid girl from all those years ago.

Terry stood to his full height in reverence of her breathtaking form. The most skilled artists and creators from around the world couldn’t have dreamt of a more captivating marvel in his opinion. She was the pinnacle of beauty.

Patrice watched him draw closer, her head slowly tilting up as he began to dwarf her with his stature. He reached out to trace her jaw before lightly gripping her chin between his thumb and pointer finger.

“Hey.”

“Hey, yourself.”

Goofy smiles and giggles followed their awkward introduction to ease the anxious energy in the room.

“Is Terrence James Richmond nervous behind little ol’ me,” she teased with a tickle to his sides.

“I got a few butterflies, I’m not gon’ lie,” he laughed. “Just wanna make you happy, is all.”

“I was gonna say the same to you.”

“You have no idea how happy you make me.”

His voice came in just above a whisper, nearly drowned out by the chirping of crickets outside.

Their noses brushed against each other as Patrice stood on her tip-toes to rest her arms around his neck. Her fingers traced circles at his nape, making the hair all over his body stand at attention.

A tentative peck connected their lips and gave way to more needy, hungry kisses that transformed them into eager teenagers making out for the thrill of physical contact.

Euphoria wasn’t enough to explain Terry’s headspace. He was high off every kiss, lick, and bite Patrice allowed. He couldn’t get close enough. It wasn’t sufficient to pull her closer with a firm grasp on her ass. He needed to taste her, to be consumed by her, to consume her in every way possible.

“Put me to work. Tell me what you need,” he whispered, breathless as blood began to rush south from the slight pain of Patrice’s fingernails digging into his shoulder blades.

“You. Fold me, bend me, flip me, I don’t care. I just need you.”

Patrice was far beyond playing coy. She’d drop to her knees and beg at his feet if he asked. Whatever she had to do to feel him from the inside was on the table.

Terry didn’t make Patrice go to extremes for his affection. He preferred to acknowledge her request by carefully sliding the straps of her dress down her shoulders and arms.

He watched her skin become more and more exposed with intense focus, taking note of the way her nipples seemed to salute him once they met the bedroom air. He acknowledged both of them with a soft caress that earned a whimper from Patrice as she watched him handle her with care.

Never in her life had been methodically unwrapped like a present on Christmas morning. Her heartbeat had gone below her waist, throbbing in an almost painful cry for her lover’s attention. Terry kept her yearning at bay with a slow kiss while he pushed her garment past her hips and to the floor.

Patrice disrobed him with an equal measure of care, offering quick kisses across the expanse of his chest while she slid her hand past his Calvin Klein waistband. Round, doe eyes looked back up at him to catch the precise moment when Terry’s eyelids blinked closed from the sensation of her fingertips brushing past his sensitive tip.

Her soft palms worked his shaft - up and down, up and down - until his member was proud and bobbing from the weight of itself without something keeping it at bay.

Fearing what might happen if he let her continue, Terry pulled her back to his body for sensual openmouthed kisses on her full lips. The soft smack of their lips and tongues created perfect harmonies in the still room, communicating more desire than either of them could effectively vocalize.

The intensity began to rise at exponential rates, sending them in a clumsy frenzy to the bed for somewhere stable to fully experience one another. Terry’s back hit the cool cotton sheets first with Patrice collapsing on top with a surprised yelp that made them both laugh.

“Don’t fight it,” Terry instructed, pushing a stray piece of hair from her face while he stared up at her lovingly. “Let go. I got you.”

His reassurance made her heart do a backflip on the way to its new home between her legs. She needed him in the worst way.

Terry leaned up to kiss her lips once, twice, and once more to linger. His fingertips traced a blazing path from her waist to the bottom of her ass to partially push her forward in a silent plea to kiss her where he missed her most.

“Let me taste you. Is that okay?”

Something about the way he asked for permission with eyes those stormy eyes robbed Patrice of her ability to respond with words. He prompted her to move forward again with a soft tap on her backside, finally convincing her to lift her hips and scoot toward his face.

Cautiously, she hovered above his mouth with thick thighs flanking either side of his head.

He moved slow with sweet kisses and lazy licks to mix spit with her wetness in a one-sided love song to his favorite girl. He was effortlessly sexy, combining broad strokes of his tongue between her lips with expertly timed sucks at her clit to elicit filthy words that fueled his best oral performance yet.

He ignored every plea for mercy and her cries for a break to compose herself. There was only one objective. Two if he were lucky to push her into a water show for the ages.

Animalistic instinct had them trading moans in time with each other, fully in throws of passion. Every grind against his nose and call of his name made Terry want to show her the full extent of his skill.

His face glistened beneath her with his eyes still low but open enough to get the full visual of her undoing.

“Terry, that is - oh…shit.”

Full sentences became senseless babble as she clamped her eyes shut to brace for that familiar feeling pooling in the pit of her belly. Patrice struggled to maintain focus on herself while Terry enjoyed his new favorite meal.

The velvety smoothness of his tongue took broad passes from her entrance to her clit, stopping every so often to chase wetness that had escaped to her thighs. He wanted every drop and then some.

His moans and groans as he feasted vibrated against her most sensitive spots, turning her mind into television static. Seeing her unravel with every soft suckle at her clit and agonizingly slow, broad lick across her swollen lips drove him to near-obsessive levels of lust.

Her chest heaved in a fight to keep her heart rate level as his efforts to make her cum for the first time became more targeted.

“Fuck, baby” she moaned, finally taking a look down to watch the master in his element. “Look at you. You gon’ make me cum, huh?”

Terry seemed to smile at her admiration. If he could get her to talk back, her eventual undoing when all was said and done would be that much more satisfying.

Taking her challenge, he began to push her to her limit. She was putty in his mouth as he brought her closer and closer to the edge, soft sucking turning into a talented tongue making moans devolve into nonsensical utterings until she was squirming for release while his arms kept her locked in place for a wild ride.

Almost there. Almost there. Then a brief pause to start from the top. More lazy passes and passionate kisses to rev her up to the point of delirium and practically screaming to finish.

Just when she thought she may have to threaten him on the third revolution of his torture, he delivered on his promise from the bar.

Colors emitted smells. Sounds became vivid pictures across her eyes. She could taste the stars as she erupted in a way she’d never done before. The prickle of his facial hair on sensitive skin felt like shockwaves on her skin.

“Oh fuuuuck! Yesyesyes!”

Her hips jerked without her permission, taking Terry’s face on the ride of his life. He kept up through it all with no objections. If death came from her thighs cutting him off from the oxygen needed to breathe he’d wear death like a badge of honor in the afterlife.

Another string of expletives fell from her lips in tandem with Terry’s muffled groan as she gripped the sheets below her for dear life. This was Heaven. She was sure of it.

Terry took one last deep inhale with his nose pressed against her pussy before kissing along the warm skin of Patrice’s inner thigh while she came down. She caressed what she could reach of his head in appreciation and beckoned him to release his suction on her pussy.

She rushed to get back to his lips to taste herself on his mouth and he welcomed her with open arms.

Kissing. Grinding. Skin-to-skin friction. None of it was enough for Terry. He desperately needed to be inside her to satisfy the near-painful stiffness he was experiencing.

His attempt to flip Patrice on her back was futile once she pressed her weight into his legs to keep him in place. He roughly nipped at her shoulder before trying again with the same result.

“C’mon,” he pleaded, almost begging for the go-ahead to fill her to the hilt in one smooth motion.

Still, she denied him pleasure. Patrice shifted to straddle his waist, slowly dragging her hands up and down his torso while his stomach clenched from the warmth of her core on his body.

“Lay back,” she breathed out, partially lifting her hips to reposition herself on top of his length. He hissed at the sensation of her gingerly dragging her wet, warm entrance against his shaft. “I’mma handle this one. Relax, baby.”

If there was a thought to be had, Terry couldn’t piece it together to save his life once Patrice completely enveloped him inside her slick walls. His jaw tightened then fell slack once she began to work her magic. A slow bounce and grind combination in his lap kept her breast rolling in a lewd show with Terry as the lucky winner of a front row ticket.

Patrice kept her head thrown back like a cowgirl, feeling perspiration gather on her forehead while he gave him all she had. His hands giving her firm smacks on the hip and ass acted as a round of applause each time she buried him deep and pulled back up with expert precision.

Her right hand slid from its spot on his chest to his throat for a barely there squeeze just as a quiet gasp made her aware of another incoming orgasm.

The feel of her thumb gripping his esophagus made Terry expel a sound that he wasn’t aware he could make, somewhere between a whimper and a growl awakening each of his senses.

The sight brought him the beautiful visual of her eyes shut tightly in concentration while she glowed like a heavenly body from the lamp’s light. Her hair had slipped out of its bun, leaving a lion’s mane of coils to toss wildly in the wind.

Smell brought with it the earthy scent of sweat and the lingering musk of her pussy. A smell that could awaken a deep longing in him in even the direst circumstances. If he could bottle it and wear it as fragrance, he’d do so proudly just to have her with him at all times.

Hearing pulled in the sound of their skin slapping together in time with the intermingling moans in the room. He’d never been so loud before, so unabashedly in the moment with another woman. He cursed, called her name, and praised her with equal ferocity.

Touch was satisfied by the handful of ass he used to ease the stress on her thighs while she bucked wilder than ever before.

Something akin to a growl erupted from his throat as he strained to hold back release. “You doing so good for me, baby. You know I love you right?”

“Yes!” she cried out, hips starting to sputter out of control with Terry gently stretching her on every stroke.

He wrapped his arms around her waist tighter as he fucked into her in search of their shared release. She sagged forward for the ride, her brain turning into mush while her mouth hung open with no sounds.

“Good.” His voice came through clenched teeth. “Because I’m about to fuck you like I don’t.”

She put up no resistance as he paused his pounding to flip her onto her back with a dancer's grace. Having her laid out beneath him, body open, leaking, and waiting for him was as exciting as the first time. He was reinvigorated. Any onset of sore muscles and tired hips was gone the moment she keened for his attention.

Terry’s eyes were blown wide with excitement while he decided where to put his mouth first. He quickly settled on one of her legs, slowly lifting it by the ankle to lick and kiss the birthmark by her Achilles. His tongue traced an invisible map past her heel, to her pedicured toes, and back to her calf before closing his lips to cap his display of affection. He propped the leg on his shoulder and then pressed forward to bring his chest down over hers.

Patrice’s small mewls from the burning in her hamstrings became caught in Terry’s mouth as searched her mouth with sloppy enthusiasm. Her whining grew louder still once his tip pressed past her entrance.

“You can take it,” he affirmed, pushing deeper. “I know you can. I’m so proud of you.”

Affirmations and appreciative pecks across her face overrode aching muscles. She wanted, needed, to please him.

They released content sighs in tandem once they were pelvis to pelvis. A snug fit made every long stroke intoxicating as Terry set an even pace.

The repeated squeak of the bed added to their symphony of sounds growing more rabid by the second. They were off to the races on the way to an explosive finish line.

Terry was relentless as he kept her in place for a proper and precise fuck that reached all the way to her heart. She’d begun thinking up baby names and nursery themes when he split his attention between earth-shattering penetration and the addition of his thoughtful stimulation of her clit to cover all bases. She was just along for the ride and hoping that she could keep her volume at a reasonable level when the inevitable took over.

Patrice was the first to cum just as Terry intended. Her back arched off the bed in near levitation while she called his full name and the Lord’s to the ceiling.

“That’s what I like, beautiful. Give me everything.”

He smiled down at his work, obsessed with the sight and sounds of her much-deserved orgasm. She couldn’t hold back if she wanted to. Wetness coated both of them as her hips circled to feel him fill her to the brim while a rush of endorphins flowed through her nervous system.

At the crest of her wave is where he came undone.

The involuntary clinching sent Terry into a tailspin of frenetic strokes and broken sentences with his face tucked firmly into Patrice’s neck. She comforted him through it all, speaking directly into the shell of his ear and punctuating every few words with a soft kiss.

“I wanna do this for the rest of our lives. Don’t you want that, baby?” Terry forwent a verbal answer in favor of a short grunt as his pace became erratic. “Fill me up. Let’s try for that son you used to tell me about.”

“Fuck, Treece.”

“Maybe we’ll name him after you. He’ll have my eyes and your smile, hm. Think you can do that for me tonight. I know you wanna cum. Do it for me, baby. Go ahead.”

The magic words. He came with a gruff groan and a slew of profane words that would otherwise be offensive to any outside of the bubble they’d created in those walls. His toes cramped, eyelids clamped shut, and ears rang while every breath came out shaky and labored. Patrice joined him throughout the ride until he returned to the Earth’s atmosphere.

Neither of them moved, preferring to hear the other’s steady in and out while their chests rose and fell together.

“One year,” Terry started, keeping his attention focused on bringing Patrice’s ring finger to his lips as he lay on her chest.

She paused the imaginary circles she was drawing on his shoulders and looked down at him. “One year what?”

“Gimme a year and you’ll be coming down the aisle or standing in front of the judge, whichever one you want. Where you wanna honeymoon?”

“Mmm, how about Puerto Rico?”

“Done. Summer wedding?”

“Early fall.”

“10-4.”

“Yeah,” Patrice questioned, giggling. “And what else? What’s next?”

“Making our parents grandparents, hopefully. I’m trynna be an honest man. Take me out the streets, please!”

Patrice’s cackle at Terry’s antic invited him to join at full volume. “An honest man, huh? I can do that for you. I’ll make an honest man out of Terrence Richmond, no problem. It’s the least I could do.”

“Mhmm.” Regaining some strength in his body, Terry kissed his way from her chest to her mouth, only stopping when he had her arching into him for more contact. He spoke with his nose pressed to hers. “Patrice Nicole Richmond. Sounds good, right?”

“Sounds perfect.”

Terry hummed his approval, preferring to get back to the worship he had planned from the moment they set off to New Orleans.

Every second in their lives, together and apart, had brought them to a new beginning that neither of them could’ve imagined. If tonight was day one of forever, they vowed before each other and God to make it glorious one day at a time.

Terry had lost a lot. Money, family, himself. But under the white glow of a full moon and the touch of the one he cherished most, he’d gained so much more. Something he’d been searching for without the word to call it by its name until he got back to her front step one afternoon.

Love.

----

TAGS: @planetblaque @wvsspoppin @thatone-girly @avoidthings @slutsareteacherstoo @eilujion @amyhennessyhouse @yaachtynoboat711 @jenlovey @pinkpantheris @blowmymbackout @onherereading @hrlzy @becauseimswagman1 @thiccc-c @urfavblackbimbo @blackburnbook @ashanti-notthesinger @xo-goldengirl

#terry richmond #terry richmond x oc #rebel ridge #aaron pierre

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platinumshawnn · 5 months ago

Text

to strangers | benjicot blackwood x fem!bracken reader

a/n: yes i am fully aware i should be writing him as davos out of respect for the accuracy of the show and character but i'm still mourning what could have been. also leave it to me to write a little prequel tying this to my own fic a little bit by writing what this guy was really up to on his "hunting trip" lol. have some poorly written smut anyways, if anyone sees that I accidentally called the bracken’s estate “hedge stone” instead of “stone hedge” no you didn’t shut up it’s been fixed

synopsis: benjicot likes to rile up the women he likes i guess

Content warnings: MDNI — 18+, adult language, mentions of blood, violence, and war; era related sexism, smut (fem p in v sex, unprotected sex, degradation) [not proofread]

Word count: 5.5k words

you had never been one for conflict — especially not that of drunken councilmen who became red in the face, knocking over cups and irate over matters of politics as they shouted. despite your father’s efforts to maintain diplomacy and restraint during meetings, it almost always ended in a screaming match at the table these days — even your uncle could not bear to sit through them, and often doubled up on the amount he drank just to sit through them, barely able to walk as he stumbled out.

you were almost always met with apologies from your father as he found you outside the doors of the hall, given a squeeze of hand, and ushered to bed. you did not care for politics, but there was no escaping the recent events — it affected everyone, reaching beyond stone hedge’s walls, but your father the most. he appeared to have aged significantly over the past days, eyes exhausted and on edge whenever she greeted him.

but this particular night had been…a lot more than usual. your cousin, aeron, had come back, shaking as he’d returned from a survey of the lands with your brother; having got into another squabble over the boundaries with some blackwood boys who had dared to come too close to their land, in aeron’s words. the whole thing dripped of theatrics — “that filthy…cunt, benjicot”

your head popped up from the handkerchief you were working to embroider, your mother on your right as the pair of you sat in one of the several cabinet rooms that your father had designated for your lessons as a child; having since used it as an escape from the noise. even your mother had been alerted by the commotion as the boys clamored into the hallway, looking out through the door that had been cracked open to provide some airflow in the room. there, your cousin stood, his nose bloody and still dripping as your father summoned the maester while ranting to your uncle, attempting to shush the boy-knight who was on the border of shouting. your interest was only peaked by the name, sitting up and turning your body towards the three men, ceasing what you had been doing and placing the handkerchief in your lap to listen.

your father had made eye contact with you as aeron continued, grabbing him by the shoulder and reaching to close the door before you could hear as he dragged your cousin away. your mother had encouraged you to continue, the look she gave reminding you of proprietary and of your place — with a curt nod, you had returned to your task.

that had been at midday, and since then, there had not yet been a break. you could hear the shouts from your room, and you could picture your father amidst it all, trying to bring order and peace — a task he was successful in every so often, silence falling over the room and quieting to hushed whispers that would only last a short time before the yelling continued.

sometime before midnight, the silence had ended finally, stood at the top of the stairs as the councilmen dispersed; other members of your house trickled out. you had stayed up, waiting to approach your father, in hopes to get some sort of information on the outcome. but the exhaustion was clear on his face, being met by a soft, “on the morrow, not tonight, my dear.”

he had pressed a kiss to your head and brushed past you, receding to his chambers for the night, leaving you at the base of the stairs. as you went to retreat to bed yourself, you heard the cursing mutters of aeron who had finally exited the great hall doors behind you, still seething after several hours — you were relieved at least to find that his nose had since stopped bleeding.

“aeron,” you called out, turning to descend down the four stairs you had climbed just as he stopped in the hallway towards his own chambers. his eyes found you. you approached him, hand reaching out to grab his face between your fingers, turning to assess his face for any additional injuries you may not have noticed earlier in the day. however, much to your relief, he was otherwise unharmed, “you really ought to stop antagonizing those men— you’re going to get yourself killed.” you scolded, sighing and dropping your hand.

aeron winced slightly, more from the reprimand than any lingering pain. “I can’t just let them insult our family, you know that.”

you shook her head, a mix of frustration and concern in your eyes. “I know, aeron, but there’s a difference between defending our honor and looking for trouble. what good will it do if you’re dead?”

He avoided your gaze, jaw clenching. “I just can’t stand the way they look at us, like we’re nothing and like they can do whatever it is they please. Like they own the riverlands. someone has to stand up to them if your father won’t.”

“standing up to them doesn’t mean getting into brawls. use your head, aeron. we need you alive, not battered and bruised,” you said, your tone softening.

aeron had sighed and muttered something unintelligible, only able to make out a ‘yeah’ before he withdrew to his own rooms.

you had tried to sleep — you did. but at some point, the heat, humid and sticky, had made it impossible to; instead, turning and tossing in your bed, growing increasingly frustrated before you stormed from the bed with a huff. the conversation between you and aeron had been stuck in your head, the sight of him bloodied haunting you — how did benjicot look then? was he unscathed and unharmed?

you knew he had always been stronger, a fiercer opponent but you couldn’t help the worry that plagued you.

you had quickly changed as best you could in the dark, without falling over in a way that would alert the guards; pulling your dress on and watching underneath the door as you smoothed out the fabric, doing your best to be silent in opening the door. peaking your head out and checking that both ways were clear, you slipped out and closed the door behind you, walking on your toes as you snuck through the house and out a backdoor that led into the fields.

you did your best to stay low and out of sight as you bolted through the fields towards the boundary stones, trying to remember who would be on surveillance — you couldn’t for the life of you remember, despite your best efforts to eavesdrop on your cousin's conversation earlier.

hell, you weren’t even sure you would see him.

sometimes you did, other times you didn’t — weeks would pass sometimes before you saw him again. sometimes it was hours before you saw him, sat, pulling at grass as you waited, knees to your chest.

today felt like one of those days, as you approached the river, out of sight from any prying eyes and sat by the edge, your eyes straining to see through the dark. the moon did little to penetrate the dense patch of trees. as the hours passed, your head had begun to drop against your knees, dozing off. there would be no way of keeping yourself awake all night, after a long day, opting as a last ditch attempt to awaken your senses by dipping your toes into the stream as you kicked off your shoes.

the water was a nice welcome in the heat, a content sigh leaving your mouth as you kicked your feet; splashing the water upwards. the wait seemed to drag on forever, growing impatient and trying to decide on whether to return home or not.

you’d give him another hour at most. If he didn’t come, then you would go home.

your gaze scanned the river, serene and peaceful as the rushing body of water sloshed around your feet; cool and refreshing. you’d have time.

you stood back from the water and fumbled to strip down to your chemise, discarding the dress to the grass by your shoes before easing down and into the water, letting out a hiss. slowly, wadding into its shallow depths, you moved forward until the water touched your thighs, lapping at your body as you cupped some of the water between your hands and tossed it up in front of you.

“you’re far from home, lady bracken.”

your head whipped toward the sound of a voice from the treeline, water sloshing around your legs as you faced the boy who the voice belonged to. the ends of your skirt had been released in the turn into the water, feet tangling in the soft sand of the river’s floor, just catching yourself from falling into its rapid rush by the luck of the Gods; the ends of the fabric now soaked by the flowing water that swirled around you. there he stood, barely peeking out from the cover of the trees as if that would somehow conceal his identity, hugging close to the trunk of one while he watched you from his shaded spot. there was hardly any way of seeing him in the night, the moon’s light not quite reaching him but his voice -- you would know that voice anywhere.

you stepped forward, halfway across the shallow depths of the river that flowed between the two lands of bracken territory and blackwoods, the cold water just reaching mid-thigh as you looked up at him, “as are you.” you quipped, heart rate rapid as your heart thrummed against your ribs.

despite the limited visibility, you could see his mouth quirk up in a half-smile, his amusement clear as his head tipped to the side while his eyes continued to watch you closely like some sort of prey. the limited sense of vision allowed you the ability to hear as he inhaled through his nose, breathing outwardly before he finally stepped forward to the edge of the water, his hand at the hilt of his dagger on his hip as his eyebrows rose, “and do you always take moonlit strolls through my land?”

you stilled, hands resting at your sides as your fingers dipped into the cool water below you, the cold nipping at your fingertips, “only when called for— the night was too beautiful to resist.” you replied, chin lifted to look up towards where he towered over you, “and what’s your excuse?”

he snorted, boots shifting against the dirt with as he moved to widen his stance, “the same perhaps,” he said, eyes glancing up to the sky above the riverlands that was littered with stars, “or maybe I was hoping to find a curious lady wandering too close to my territory.” he said, his voice a low rumble.

there was nothing threatening about his tone, however, his body language said otherwise — his eyes scanning their surroundings before looking back to your face, his body suggesting that he was on edge. as though he expected bracken men to burst through the trees behind you any minute. you took another languid step forward, closer to enemy territory, the thrill of it never failing to excite you.

“are you suggesting I’m trespassing?” you asked, your words steady as you bordered taunting the man who eyed you.

you could see as he squinted, narrowing his eyes at your words, “just…observing that you’re quite far from where you’re supposed to be at this hour, my lady.”

you hummed, eyebrows raised as the water continued to lap at the fabric of the cream coloured chemise that had been worn underneath the dress of typical bracken colours of yellow and brown having been discarded at the edge of the grass. you could see the moment his eyes lowered to scan down the length of the fabric, disappearing into the water and drifting higher up your thighs, bordering translucent against your skin, slow in dragging his eyes along the length of your body, “but i suppose the river doesn’t care for borders, does it?” he suddenly asked, his eyes returning to meet yours.

your mouth curved upwards, a wry smile on your face as his gaze emboldened you, “no it doesn’t, but neither do I, it seems. I don’t believe the assize said anything about the river.”

benjicot tutted condescendingly at her, smug as his hands shifted over his dagger, “careful, you're starting to sound like your cousin, bracken.” he warned, tone sharp, “do you not ever worry about what might be lurking in the shadows? his words came lighter now, the tension gone from his voice.

you let out a dry laugh, beginning to feel the effects of the frosty water that reached your hips the further you wadded, a cool breeze causing your skin to prickle with goosebumps. you shivered, sucking in a deep breath through clenched teeth, “only when they carry a dagger and a half-smile, I suppose.” you said.

his hands twitched, the grasp at his blade loosening as he seemed to contemplate reaching forward to drag you from the water at the sight of your shivering frame. however, he stopped himself and instead lifted his chin, mouth pressing into a tight smile, “then its a good thing I’m in a benevolent mood tonight.”

your head lowered to look down at the water, using your fingers to skim its surface, “I will take my chances.” you confidently said, lifting your gaze after a moment of pause.

he let out a ‘hmph’ sound, watching as you slowly closed the gap between the two lands to stand directly in front of him, the water shallow once again and only meeting mid-thigh. the now soaked gown did nothing to provide any ounce of modesty, sheer and clinging to your lower half as you stared up at him. your eyes followed his movements as he crouched, bringing him eye-to-eye as an elbow planted against one of his knees, “well, I suggest you be careful, my lady. the night is full of dangers.” he said, his voice low and quiet.

“and so is the day, but I’ve never been one to shy away from either.” you said, voice matching his volume before you stepped forward until you stood against the ledge, your other hand planting in the grass just between his boots as you lifted your right hand toward him, “are you going to help me or shall I call for my men?” you taunted, a grin on your face.

he rolled his eyes, smile broadening as he stood upright and bent to grab your hand, using his strength to pull you up and over the ledge, out of the waters with ease. you were brought to your feet, stood face-to-face with him, his face leaning close to yours as he spoke, “you wouldn’t dare.” he muttered, “how do you plan then, to explain your presence so close to blackwood land at this hour? alone, in a nightgown, with the heir?”

your chest brushed his as you leaned in towards him, “I’ll figure something out— you underestimate me.”

he hummed with a nod, his nose bumping yours in the close proximity. though his mouth did not yet make contact with yours, his breath fanned over lips, his eyes scanning your face, “oh, I’m sure you will. but do you think they will believe you?” he asked, the lazy smirk on his face laced with arrogance, “do you think there won’t be whispers? said whispers, questioning your maidenhead?”

“they’d be foolish to make such accusations against the daughter of amos bracken.” you countered, shoulders squaring with pride.

the man in front of you let out a sardonic chortle, releasing the hilt of his dagger and finding your hip, gripping the fabric of your chemise in his fist, stepping back and forcing you with him, “oh please.” he mocked, his hand dropping from your hip to reach down to your thigh and begin to hoist the soaked fabric upwards towards your waist, leaving you bear to the elements, “if only they could see their lord’s daughter, out parading herself like some whore on blackwood land. What do you think they would say then, hm?”

“‘Tis not their business what I do, nor my father’s.” you muttered.

“oh but i think they might say otherwise. you’re a noblewoman,” he jeered, his knuckles brushing against the bare skin of your belly as his hand dipped below your naval, “a highborn womb.”

you knew benjicot did not share their views -- in the very few occasions he had opened up during your late night escapades, red in the face with anger, rambling on about the audacity of his councilmen as he dressed. he had ranted about what the very outlook had done to his mother, that women were more than for breeding. but he enjoyed knocking you down a peg sometimes, humbling you back down to earth during these moments. he liked to mock the sanctity of your womanhood, even if for a moment, but then he would go back on himself and praise you once all was said and done — praise the very thing he mocked. However, on this particular night, something about his words lit the flames of pure, feminine rage, staring eye to eye with the man you had visited countless times over the past months.

“I am more than that.” you muttered, trying to keep your voice steady.

he let out a melancholic hum, “you think so?”

he spoke to you like you were a child, who lived under the guise of a delusion — like a childish dream that you were expected to grow out of. the tone of his voice, paired by the sudden feeling of his hand between your thighs bred a slew of confusing emotions to spread within your chest; shamed and desperate, humiliated and seething as his fingers found the sensitive bud between folds that were slick with arousal that had you hot with embarrassment, fingers gliding up along your folds as you gritted your teeth, “how dare you—!”

the nature of his words stung when you knew how much he despised when other men looked down on women the way you had grown accustomed to; somehow after he had entrusted you enough to open up to you, he still had the nerve to throw it in your face—

he caught your hand that came up towards his throat, eyebrows raising as if to warn you, a grin on his mouth as his hand between your thighs stilled, “no need to be so hostile, sweet girl.” he said, guiding your hand down to your side as he moved to drive your back towards a tree, that hand coming to hold your chin in the space between his thumb and fingers, “I know you are a brave, resilient woman…” he quietly muttered, face coming close to yours and trapping you between his body and the tree, a knee coming between your thighs.

despite the rage that still burned within you, scorching like a wildfire, the warm contrast of his fingers on cold skin was welcomed; jolting up as his fingers pressed against you, fingers circling the bud and earning a soft sigh of a moan as you reached out to grab him, pulling him closer as though you were trying to crawl underneath his skin and become one. His mouth finally made contact, attaching itself to your throat and placing open-mouthed kisses to the skin, nipping the delicate skin with his teeth as his fingers worked against you.

“my clever, beautiful girl.” he praised, mouth reaching your collarbones.

you belly clenched, another moan elicited by his words as your hands fisted the cloak around his shoulders, his hand moving briefly to tug the fabric of your gown back up and out of his way as it dropped from its place around your hips. benjicot had a way of leaving you breathless and desperate, a flustered mess under his touch, the only man that could draw out the carnal sounds of pleasure; broken sighs and crying out as his middle and ring finger pushed themselves into you.

by the roots of his hair, you brought a hand to the back of his head and tugged him towards your mouth, his lips encapsulating yours in a feverish kiss; all teeth and tongue. you cried out, muffled by his mouth, as his thumb continued the prior pace, rubbing blind shapes into your clit as your mouth dropped open, too distracted by experienced fingers that slipped in and out of you with ease to reciprocate the kiss, “oh—, fuck.”

“yes, just like that,” he encouraged, voice soft. “just relax, my love.”

the weeks of pent up hunger and anticipation for this moment curled within you, settling into your lower belly, thighs attempting to clench around his hand. though you were stopped by the firm, strong thigh that had been planted there to prevent such from happening, his hips pressing into yours.

“ben, please…” you cried out, beginning to become overwhelmed between his mouth that returned to your throat and his hand, his pace increasing.

rather instead, he knelt suddenly, head buried beneath the thin chemise that draped over his head as he leaned into you. his shoulders brushed your thighs as his mouth replaced his thumb’s task, latching to the bundle of nerves and leaving you gasping, gripping his hair as your chest heaved. a low groan vibrated through your core from the man below you, reaching every end and nerve of your body as you struggled to keep up on your feet as your peak washed over you. his arm wrapped up underneath your right thigh, holding you against him and pressing against your hip as if that would somehow ground you as you nearly collapsed against him, your entire body alight as your walls squeezed around his fingers, clenching so tight it could restrict movement.

he was barely any gentler as he reemerged from your skirts, your head slumped back against the tree as he stood to tower over you once more, using the fabric of your gown to hold you up and practically manhandle you up against the tree that scraped your skin with each move. loose strands of hair had freed themselves from the half done up style, hanging in your face as you panted, mouth agape as you looked up at him; lips glistening with the reminisce of you — your cheeks heated with embarrassment, reaching out to touch his cheek.

he was beautiful, especially with you on his lips.

you dropped your hand and pulled him towards you by his hips, using the belt to your advantage to jerk him forward, his own lazy smirk mirrored by your tired smile as your hands fumbled to undo the laces of his pants. he aided in the task, skillful fingers pulling them with ease and shoving his pants down just enough that they sat high on his thighs, freeing his hardened cock from their confinement, your hand instinctively coming down to wrap around the length and stroke him. his lips parted above you, hands coming to cup your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as his nose nudged yours.

you could have stayed there forever, in that moment — with the sight before you, a flush in his face as he appeared fucked out already, hair in a disarray from your fingers.

he reached across his chest to undo the clasp of his cloak, dropping it from his shoulders; getting rid of the only shield that hid you from any potential prying eyes — if anyone burst through the bushes then, there would be no hiding the act and it would be without any doubt what was happening.

‘parading herself like a whore on Blackwood land’

benjicot would be correct. if your cousins had dared to wander close to the borderlands again, you would be done for. there would be no protecting any ounce of your dignity and modesty at that point — you would be shamed by your entire family, and even worse, your father…he would be beyond furious and nothing less than gutted.

the thought and feeling of sheer shame it brought had you clinging close to the man in front of you, his body easily capable of concealing yours as one hand went above your shoulder to the tree, too blissed out to put an end to this and go home right then as his mouth pressed to yours in a sweet, affectionate kiss. you moaned against his mouth, his hand replacing yours around his cock to glide it up along your slit; gathering the slick as a means to lubricate the head of his cock, that already leaked pre-cum that mingled with your own arousal, the tip red and angry.

you braced against the tree, trying to regain footing, nearly slipping into him. he steadied you with the arm above your shoulder, wrapped around your ribs and forcing your chest against his as he slid into you, earning a gasp, breaths mingling as your own arm wrapped around his shoulders; clutching to him like your life depended on it — and in some ways, it did.

he held you up against the tree, having to shove the fabric of his tunic and doublet high up on his hips out of the way as he thrusted up into yours. each movement of his hips, shallow due to the position, his pelvis brushed against your clit, providing enough stimulation to leave you struggling for air as you fisted his clothing in your hands.

“fuck…” he rasped, lips brushing your own as they parted, each breath from his mouth sucked into your lungs as you relied on him for the strength to stay upright, slumping into him.

you were a jumbled, incoherent series of sounds as any paranoid thought of fearing your cousin's appearance went out the window, all consumed by him. your leg lifted by his hand guiding it by the back of your knee, thigh hooking around his hip and pulling him further, deeper into you and releasing a sob. you felt so full, it physically ached, walls clenching down around him and eliciting a hiss of air from him.

the sound of a branch cracking somewhere in the distance of the bushes caused you to jolt against him, eyes peering over his shoulder, wide and panicked as the thought crossed your mind again just how open you were to being exposed. you had done this time and time again, but never with his own men just several feet from the bush you were hidden among, and never during a war that had everyone on edge. the looming war had your father in particular paranoid, leading to an increase in fleets that surveyed the boundaries of bracken’s land and the thought instilled again, that fear that you could be caught.

as if he sensed your worry, his mouth caught yours in another kiss, forehead pressing to yours, “my love…” he muttered, bringing your attention back to him.

and he was successful, your gaze doing one last scan and straining into the dark before you were faced with his tired, lust-filled face, his cheeks flushed and striking even in the dark. the sweet name swelled your chest with adoration, your breath quick as you let out a moan, spiraling into bliss against him as his hand came between you to once again rub against your clit.

“ben, i can’t— please—“ the sound was weak and feeble, choked out and gasping for air as your body burned.

it was met by deaf ears as he gently shushed you, his mouth grazing yours, cock relentlessly rutting up into you with desperation — seeking for release as your walls fluttered around him. the groan he released was animalistic, deep from within his chest and carnal as you clutched onto him, struggling to keep yourself up against him and pulling him into you; seeking some kind of anchor to keep you grounded as his hand on your clit worked in unfaltering shapes that had you weak.

a final sob of pleasure left you as you clamped down around him, body tense and slumping against his as you released yourself around him. the final plea of his name and your walls were followed by a few sharp, final thrusts as he released his seed into you; fucking it deeper into you with a deep sigh of your name, a hand coming to your throat as he glanced down, his forehead resting against your chin.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

you stepped up onto the riverbank of your family’s side; thighs still aching while benjicot’s hand supported you from behind before he too crawled up behind you, not seeming to care that he was now soaked from his thighs down. He stood back, allowing you a silent moment to wring out your dress of any water as best you could, hands twisting the fabric and letting out a grunt of exertion before letting it drop back down to your feet. You bent to collect your dress, benjicot finally stepped forward to help in your task of redressing, hands smoothing the fabric over your hips and straightening your shoulders with a gaze down, not daring to make eye contact.

you both knew this could have been the last time you saw each other, the dawning realization casting an awkward, tense silence over the two of you as you eyed the fabric of his doublet; making a mental note of its ridges, the pattern of the woven article of clothing. he tensed as you lifted a hand to touch the fabric with your fingers, too intimate a gesture as fingers ran across his chest and up towards his shoulder before stilling there, your palm coming to place over his heart.

“when are you to marry the…” he began to ask, his face screwing up in disgust at the idea as he spat out the name, “Lefford boy.”

you gaze only briefly lifted towards his face when he spoke, a small snort leaving you at his reaction and smiling softly at his antics. The smile dropped after a moment, though, inhaling and sighting out a breath as you straightened out his own clothing with gentle tugs, brushing over the fabrics, “two nights from today.” you quietly replied.

he made a sound of disapproval, his gaze on your face as you finally looked him in the eye again, his hand rising to capture your wrist in his hold. You had heard the whispers as well throughout the halls of stone hedge, trying to picture it as you looked at him, “I hear rumors you’re to be married, too.” you pointed out, his face twitching.

he released your wrist, stepping back and looking towards his feet as he fixed his sleeves, “My father plans to betroth me against my will.” He admitted, his words a grumble as he shook out his arms and looked up at you again.

you nodded, “who? has he said anything of his intentions?”

“some girl.” he admitted, shaking his head with a shrug of his shoulders, cheeks expanding with a sigh, “the lord paramount’s granddaughter, I suppose.”

you smiled, tilting your head as you looked at him, “serra tully, right? that’s her name, yes?”

“unfortunately.” he grumbled in complaint.

“she’s quite beautiful, I hear.”

he shrugged again, letting out another grunt.

“well, you should probably be on your way,” you said, hands folding behind you as he looked across the river, the sun already beginning to come up. “your men will be looking for you soon.”

benjicot nodded, stepping forward and reluctantly reaching out to your waist, fingers gently pressing into your sides as he leaned forward to press a sweet kiss to your mouth, “I will see you soon.” He said as he withdrew from your mouth, face still hovering close.

you raised a hand and pressed it to his cheek, smiling as you looked up at him, “yes. maybe.”

his eyes rolled as you lifted a hand as if to gesture ‘just as I suspected’, looking over you as a sharp whistle sounded from somewhere beyond the trees from his camp, hands dropping from your sides and straightening the belt at his hips; you watched as his fingers went to the dagger at his right hip, removing it from its sheath, much to your confusion. He withdrew it and used his free hand to pull one of yours forward, pressing the blade into your palm and looking at you, “a wedding gift.” He quietly said.

you looked down at the blade, frowning and blinking rapidly a couple of times before looking up at him, mouth opened in a stutter, “benjicot, I- I can’t accept this. you might need-”

“I have plenty back home,” he assured, wrapping your fingers around the handle of it and licking his lips that were then pressed into a line that resembled an amused smile, “have it…in case that Lefford boy ever pisses you off.”

you let out a laugh, a smile coming to his face as your hand dropped from his, the dagger clutched by your side, “very charming of you.”

He chuckled and pressed another quick kiss to your forehead before he brushed past you, hurrying into the river with a splash and sloshing back in the direction he had come from. you watched as he climbed out of the water, entering back out onto blackwood territory and giving one last glance as he retreated back into the trees.

#davos blackwood #benjicot blackwood #davos blackwood x reader #benjicot blackwood fic #benjicot blackwood x reader #kieran burton #house blackwood #benjicot blackwood imagine #ben blackwood #reed writes !

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hatsukeii · 3 months ago

Text

think fast / childhood bsf!tsukshima kei x reader

genre(s): childhood best friends x soulmates???? past lives and normal people by sally rooney coded im a sally rooney MEATRIDER!! angsty, gut-wrenching longing, bittersweet / hopeful ending so it's not all bad!! nostalgia is going to carry this fic so hard it's going to be a fun, fun time...

warning(s): eventual smut!! all characters are aged up to 21!!MDNI (at least up until the observatory)!! unprotected sex here remember to wrap it before you tap it!! (sorry kids), female leaning anatomy because smut but pronouns are gn all throughout and honestly you could read it as gn anyways:)) dead dad warning (my dad is NOT dead this was just convenient to kick off the thing), i fw the timeline of the world??? pretend flip phones were still in use in like 2012 or something idk

wc: ~6.3k

tldr; time has a way of reminding Kei of its presence, and its escape. you are the reminder it has been sending to him for six years.

Fate: A power believed to cause and control all events, so that one cannot change or determine the way things will happen.

It is a sunny afternoon when you step foot into Sendai, Miyagi. A beautiful day of golden warmth beaming onto petals of pink, red, and white, wrapped in coffee-stained newspapers and tied together with a spool of twine. The bouquet lies on browning grass, a contemptible reminder of the time that has passed since your last appearance here, six years ago, and you crouch down to the ground. Now face to face with the engraving of a full name on a slab of polished granite, you hesitate. Your father lived in a language that you can no longer speak, died in a country you no longer call your home. When you whisper blessings and apologies at the gravestone in broken Japanese and slurred syllables, you sound like a stranger. A stranger who sits in a graveyard at noon, with nothing but a bouquet from the nearby florist in hand, and a promise, stuttered out in half-decent Japanese, to return again the next year.

When a second bouquet falls to the ground behind you, and you turn around, Tsukishima Kei thinks this is what English speakers like you would call fate. He’s a little taller now, and bulkier too, and you have to crane your head higher than you remember just to meet his eyes. You don’t recognise the glasses he dons anymore, the black rectangles from his teenage years swapped out for rounded squares and silver frames. But he has a towel in his hand, a towel that has his initials poorly stitched into the corner with red string. You wonder if the matching one he made you, eleven years ago, is collecting dust somewhere in your dormitory, halfway across the world.

“You’re back.”

“It’s been a while, Kei.”

You can no longer differentiate Japanese syllables clearly, and your statement jumbles into nonsense in your head. Kei hears the English woven into your accent in the way you roll your tongue like foreigners do, and in the odd intonations that don’t exist in your mother tongue. You don’t even remember your father’s dislike for white flowers. London has truly done a number on you.

“Why? Why now?”

You bite your nail, a persistent habit that Kei frowns at. He picks up his flowers, and steps towards the gravestone, just close enough for your knee to brush against him for a moment. The bouquet in his hand is wrapped in plastic and filled with red and pink, the white from your own sticking out like a sore thumb when he places his flowers gently on the grass beside yours. He tosses the towel in his hand, opening it up against his palm, and you take it from him. If you cannot get the language right, or the flowers, this is the least you can do. Cobwebs stick to the fabric as you sweep at the granite slab, watching soot and dust fall to the grass. The curves and dips of the gravestone are familiar once again, and you dig the towel into every nook and cranny. You feel Kei’s body shift, before his knee is touching yours and his face is finally level with your peripheral vision. He glances at you, waiting. His knees bounce in anticipation.

“Never had the chance, college has been a lot.”

Your phone rings as you finish cleaning. The ringtone is familiar, unchanged from when you used to have a flip phone, in fact. Kei hums along to the jingle for the four seconds that the call is left unanswered, before it cuts off into a flurry of English. He catches something about research, and a thesis, his shabby English unable to fill in any more than that. He’s never known you were interested in research, let alone what it is that you’re researching. All he’s known is your aspiration of becoming a librarian when you were six, and his promise to borrow books from you for the museum that he swore he would one day work at. Now, he works at the museum, sorts antique scripts and yellowed books into cabinets and display shelves. He does not borrow books from you. Now, you talk, but nothing makes sense to him.

You end the call, mumbling foreign curses as you shove your phone back into your pocket. Clicking your tongue, you turn to Kei, who stares at the flowers on the ground. He pushes his glasses up when they slide down his nose, and you resist the familiar urge to nag him about buying the right frames for his face.

“Yeah, college has been mostly phone calls like that.”

He nods, a half-hearted chuckle huffing from his nose. He’s forgotten what it’s like to sit at a graveyard with somebody else, the annual reminder of a lonely death replaced by another this year as you dust off his towel, and drop it onto his thigh. He swipes it from his leg, folding it into quarters and sliding it into his pocket.

“So you choose to come now, without a word? Not even a heads up? Six years after leaving?” Kei’s voice rises at each question, the same way it did six years ago when you broke the news of leaving Japan to him. This hurts him to ask, that much you can still recognise.

“I would have come sooner if I had the chance. I’ve missed everyone so much.”

You pluck a petal from a white flower in your bouquet, then another, until all that remains is the naked bulb, and scatter them onto the ground beside you. Perhaps the next person that’s been buried under six feet of dirt used to have a liking for them. Kei remains unmoving, throat bobbing as he swallows thickly. His knee stops bouncing.

“How long will you stay for?”

“Today, then Friday and Saturday too. Flight back is Sunday night.”

Six years of waiting, and this is what it amounts to. A weekend and a bit. Despite that, Kei still thinks this must be fate, in all the languages that it exists in. Six years of life, and love, and hurt, all to be condensed into four measly days. Yet as Kei pushes himself off the ground, dusting his trousers off, he still thinks that this unlikely, yet conveniently timed visit must be the answer to his pleas for your return. That this must be some heavenly reward, good karma for visiting your father’s grave annually on your behalf. You watch him turn to leave, and he calls out to you as he walks away from your father’s grave.

“Everyone’s at Hinata’s old place tomorrow. You should come by if you can.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Change: to replace (something) with something else, especially something of the same kind that is newer or better; substitute one thing for (another).

All it takes is one coincidental exchange of panicked glances at the first throw up of the night for you and Kei to leave together. Hinata slurs a drunken farewell, tries to embrace you as you slip your sneakers on at the door, and you make a note to yourself that you really do not miss most of the people here, spare for the volleyball team. Kei waits at the door, holding it open for when you finally shake Hinata off of your back, and step through. The night is chilly, the warmth in your skin from the indoor heating system emanating into the midnight air. You kick rocks along the pavement as you walk, scattering pigeons that remain awake and active at this time, and Kei smiles at your antics. You still hate birds, and you still remember the trick he taught you when you were nine for chasing away pigeons that flocked around you for food.

“Who are you staying with?”

“My mom’s.”

The road leads the two of you to a high school. Kei has not come back to Karasuno since graduation. You squint in the dark, scanning the school, and you don’t recognise the new building that stands in place of the old auditorium. He watches you crouch at the plaque next to the front gate, tracing the letters engraved on it with the pad of your thumb. Some part of him blames Karasuno for being a bad place to you, the other parts blame himself for not being good enough to outweigh it.

“It’s changed.”

“Everything has.”

You rattle the locked entrance, the chain and padlock hitting against cold metal. It won’t open, so you look up through the gap of the gate. Six years ago, on that rooftop, was where you stood over a cold lunch box and emptied convenience store drinks, back against the wire fence, saying to Kei, I’m leaving tomorrow. On that day, you had packed yakisoba for his lunch, and nothing for yourself. He could barely respond to your announcement, only dropping his chopsticks and asking you, why? You told him something along the lines of being an expat, and a better school for what you wanted, all in the fluent Japanese you once spoke. Nothing made sense to him anyways.

When you turn back to him, his hands are in the pockets of his jacket, and his nose is red from the cold air. You stand beside him, staring aimlessly at Karasuno from outside its barriers.

“Do you still play volleyball?”

“Yeah, Sendai Frogs.”

You hum, and then wonder why you only asked tonight, and why you’re surprised. He shrugs, clouds of white puffing from his mouth when he breathes out. He tries to blow a wisp of hair away from his face, and you suddenly realise that his hair has grown too, along with his height. It fails, and he tries again. You reach up to swipe at his bangs, before running your fingers backwards through his hair. It parts itself as you lift your hands from his head, and falls into place neatly. A cold breeze whizzes by, and undoes your work, sending strands of gold into his face once again. You snicker a little.

“You know, you could ask my mom to trim it for you like she used to.”

“Nah, I prefer this.”

It isn’t until you turn to look at him properly that you see how much time has passed. He likes his hair longer these days, the choppy hairdo of his teenage years now nothing but an old preference, and you wonder if he is still a loyal customer of your mother’s salon. When he pulls his hands from his pockets and blows hot air into them, calluses line the bases of his fingers, the blisters of his high school years hardened by trials of time and effort. There are bags under his eyes, eyes that are now a little rounder, and softer too. When he speaks, monotone and tired, you realise his snarkiness has dissipated into general frustration. You stare until his eyes dart to you, and turn away quickly, ashamed. Leaving Karasuno has taken your hand and led you to a purpose that you never knew you were capable of. You wonder what the hell it has done to Tsukishima Kei.

“It looks good.”

He breathes in sharply, then exhales with a huff, shoulders relaxing as he stuffs his hands back into his pockets. You suddenly realise that your fingers have gone numb from the cold of the night, fingertips tingling like a million frost-bitten needles poking into your skin. You also stuff your hands into your pockets, rubbing your fingers against each other to generate some heat. Then, Kei’s looping his arm around yours, and pulling you away from Karasuno High School. He keeps on his straight path, and you stumble along behind his leaping steps. When you round a corner, the night breeze grows into something less imperturbable, and more vicious, pushing the two of you forward from behind in slashes of cold. The sea is near.

“Is this the beach we used to go to?”

“You still remember it.”

He drags you down a flight of stairs to Fukanuma Beach, and the misty sea air rushes to your head. When he leads you to the shoreline, you hesitate. The sea has been off limits since the two of you were five, a regulation put in place in remembrance of the Great Sendai Earthquake. An earthquake that saw Kei and yourself hunched beneath the same table in the middle of class, huddled next to each other as you cried for your parents. Now, in your final years of college, as the water slips beneath the soles of his shoes, pushing and receding in layers of aqua and bubbles of white, it seems that time has slipped by just as easily too. Time, that saw the fading of the earthquake’s devastation, despite the loss of thousands, including your father. Time, that frayed the string connecting yourself to Kei as you moved through life halfway across the world from Japan. Time, that passes through you like sand spilling between your fingers on a beach you once thought you knew, but has changed like the unprohibited water that seems to push further up into the shore at each tidal wave.

“They lifted the ban?”

“A few months ago, yeah.”

You step into the next wave that fizzles into foam, and the water crashes into the toe of your shoes. Crouching, you push mounds of wet sand into a cylinder, flattening the top and pushing divots in equal intervals. Kei joins, moulding shorter ones beside your own and drawing windows into the side. You finish, and he stands, smiling at the creation. You cover the top, afraid he will stomp on it, a trademark of Kei’s whenever you built sandcastles with him in childhood. Instead, he laughs, and walks further into the water. When you get up to join him, the hems of his trousers are soaked, shoes also covered in a sheen of wetness. You hop over the castle, and the next wave that comes sends its foundations crumbling back into the sea.

“We used to do that. You’d destroy it every time.”

Kei chuckles, and looks back to see the half destroyed castle. Clicking his tongue, he returns to the rubble, and you watch his hands push mounds of sand towards what is left standing.

“I’d always build a better one for you afterwards though.”

He dusts his hands off when he finishes, and the waves fizzle out just before they hit the two-tiered sandcastle. You sniff, holding your arms close to your chest. When Kei looks up, he feels like the summer of being seven years old again, smiling at you with his missing front tooth when you sniffle and laugh at the improved castle he’s put together for you. Now, it is winter. He only grins with the corners of his lips. You only sniff because it’s cold.

“Kei.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s really been a while. How have you been?”

He steps over the castle towards you, careful not to break it. Your hair blows in your face from the beach breeze and your eyes squint from the sand that flies into the air, and Kei takes it all in when you’re face to face with him. When he opens his mouth, some selfish part of him thinks about casting his words into shackles of regret, so heavy that they weigh you down and keep you in Japan, in Sendai, on this beach, somewhere close to him.

“Do you want to stay the night? Like you used to?”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Nostalgia: A sentimental longing, or wistful yearning for a return to or of some past period or irrecoverable condition.

Kei does not take you to his family house. He leads you up stairs that make no sense, and hallways that stretch on forever, until you finally reach his flat. He wipes his shoes on the doormat, throws his keys into a glass bowl upon entry, and hangs his jacket on a hook mounted to his front door instead of the coathanger that used to stand beside it. You look around, searching for the shells you once collected in a jar for his tenth birthday. When your eyes land on a jar filled with conches and cowries, you let go of a breath you were unaware of holding. They sit on the top of his bookshelf, above textbooks and file organisers. A knot forms in your throat at the realisation that the jar sits alone in its compartment, with nothing beside it. You’ve done the same to the jazz vinyl Kei gifted you at the airport before your departure. You don’t realise that he’s disappeared somewhere as you stare at the shells, until a shirt and a pair of shorts are thrown into your chest. He stands at the entrance to a hallway, donning sweatpants and an old hoodie, one that’s clearly a size too small. The pocket is lousily sewn on, a result of a mishap that occurred when you had borrowed it once. He doesn’t know that you spent the night learning to sew fabric just to fix it.

“Change. It’ll be more comfortable.”

You scurry through the hallway to his bathroom, pulling the shirt and shorts on hastily, before balling up your clothes and returning to the living room. Kei sits at his couch, now bound in leather instead of fabric, and clicks at the television. You join beside him, legs splaying across his own subconsciously. He doesn’t move. He stops at a movie, one you’ve seen hundreds of times before at his old house. It drones on in the background as he watches in silence, his arms now draped over your knees. The first time he watched this movie, it was in his old home, cross-legged on the carpeted ground with you on the couch behind him. Your hands used to press into his shoulders from above, shake them whenever your favourite scenes came on, squeeze them when you laughed until tears rolled from your eyes. Now that his new flat lacks a rug, he’s willing to settle with your legs on his own. Flashing lights illuminate the dark room in sequences that you can still recall perfectly from memory. He watches the movie. You watch him.

“Have you been doing good, Kei?”

Turning to you, he pushes his glasses up into his hair, leaning further back. You shuffle closer, legs bending as your shoulder digs into the leather couch. A strand of blond falls into his face, and you lift his glasses to tuck it back, before smoothing your hands over his mess of hair, combing and pushing with your fingertips.The words from the television melt into gibberish when he hums in satisfaction, what is unspoken between you two is more glaring than ever.

“I’ve been okay.” He cuts off, then finds himself thinking of what to tell you first, amongst the recollections of life that rush through his head. “Started working at the museum a couple years ago.” He wishes that you still remember the building, where the marble floors squeaked beneath your slippers, and glass panels lined the walls, hiding away treasures and artefacts that have withstood centuries, maybe even eons of erosion and weathering.

You nod, mind filling with the many museum visits you had with him there. He’s always liked the dinosaurs more than the shells. When you breathe out a chuckle, he knows you’re recalling the time he almost pissed himself at a life-sized, moving tyrannosaurus rex model.

“What about you?”

“Research. I’ve been doing research about…” you sign in the air, searching for the Japanese words that have slipped from your mind. Surrendering, you whip your phone out, searching for a translation.

“Archaeology?”

“Yeah, that. No more librarian dreams for me. More dinosaurs, though.”

A smile finds its way onto Kei’s face, one that softens his cheeks and flattens his eyes into crescents. He wonders if amongst the silver plaques and digital displays, your work is engraved in there somewhere. If each time he explains something to some bright-eyed child, who scuttles around the museum as you and him once did, he is unknowingly speaking in your language, translated until he can decipher the thoughts that run through your mind in your research, your memories, your dreams too.

“Maybe it’s in the museum somewhere. I’m willing to bet.”

“I hope it is.”

Your conversation fizzles back into silence, and the characters on the television do too. The two on the screen sit in a field, mere inches apart. The two of you look at each other, your knees now leaned into Kei’s chest and one of his arms draped along the back of the couch. When he pulls his glasses back to his eyes, and studies you all over again, it hits him that you really haven’t changed all that much, even after your six year separation. Six years older, with the exhaustion of a functioning adult, but you still gnaw on your cheeks, and tilt your head as you ask questions. Six years apart, and you are still you, who taught him to build sandcastles, and introduced him to his favourite movie, and fixed his hair whenever it stuck up in stubborn peaks of gold. When you let your eyes close, and drop your head onto his shoulder, you wait for lost time to tick backwards, until you’re on the rooftop with him once again. In this version of time, you blush when you tell him that you’ve chosen to stay in Japan instead. Pushing your head further into the crook of his neck, Kei’s chin reaches over to rest on the top of your crown. The credits of the movie roll in the background, and you mumble into the skin of his pulse.

“Can you take me there? I’ve missed it.” Your words send vibrations down his spine, sending his head into a frenzy as he pushes his hands against the couch harder.

“The museum?” It will be closed for the weekend, but Kei nods anyway. He’s sure he can find his way in through the back. Maybe he’ll take you to the fossils again, let you run your fingers along smooth amber and stone engravings. Perhaps he could show you the new exhibitions, ones that you won’t miss this time, as you have for the past six years. For now, he thinks he will let you sleep on his shoulder, listen to your soft snores, tremble at every hot breath that fans onto his neck.

The credits roll to the end, and come to a stop. Kei removes his arm from the couch to grab the remote from his coffee table. He rewinds the movie to the start.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

思慕 [しぼ, shibo]: yearning; deep longing, especially when accompanied by tenderness or sadness.

On the final night of your stay, you learn that Kei still giggles when he breaks rules, as he drags you through the back entrance of the closed museum. He maneuvers through hallways of antique paintings and repurposed junk, slips into dark stairwells illuminated by the flashlight of his phone, traps your wrist between his fingers and chuckles to himself, shaking his head as he takes you higher, and higher, and higher. You’ve lost count of how many flights of stairs have gone by when he taps his keycard against a sensor by a backdoor, and pushes it open. The museum observatory, once a mess of bamboo scaffolding and green covers, now allows silver moonlight through its glass dome, boasting billions of iridescent stars nestled in a blanket of hazy midnight. A decade of your anticipation has resulted in a circular space, hundreds of plush recliners lining the circumference of the room, and you wonder how many eyes have watched the stars from those seats before you ever had the chance to. When Kei leads you further into the observatory, you step foot onto the north star plastered on the ground in the centre of the room, where nothing but a telescope remains in a ten-foot radius. He takes a spot on the ground, back pressed against the cushioned edge of a seat.

“I figured this is the best spot. Better than any of the seats, actually.” He plants his feet on the ground, bending his knees and spreading them just wide enough for you to sit in between. You cross your legs, wagging them up and down as your hands hold your shins, and he lowers his legs, stretching them out in front of him. Leaning back, your spine hits a spot between his ribs, the same way it did when you were thirteen, and fourteen, and fifteen, staring at stars from the grass of his backyard. You pity the visitors that have yet to discover the simplicity of stargazing from the ground, hands pushed into the ground for stability, dirt and moisture seeping into the fabric of clothing. Pushing further into him, his breathing is heavy against your back, chest rising in rhythmic ups and downs. For what feels like hours, you sit in silence, eyes trained on your fingers that pick and fiddle. At the realisation that you haven’t looked at the stars in years, something bubbles in your stomach, pervasive, relentless. When you finally loll your head backwards to fall on his shoulder, and the tip of Kei’s nose grazes your cheekbone, you wonder how long he has not looked at the stars for as well.

“Why’d you stop calling?” His sudden question sends a haze rushing into your head.

You swallow thickly. If the passage of time were a sin, you’d burden it with all your explanations. Telling him that now would seem like some lousy excuse.

“It stopped going to your line a year after I left.” You pause, searching for the right words to use amidst the sea of Japanese and English that you must now sort out. “I only stopped trying after another month, the voicemail just said your number was no longer in use.”

Kei wishes he could dig his fingers into his chest and rip his heart out. If only he hadn’t stupidly broken his phone that night, five years ago during volleyball practice. If only he had checked his pockets before entering the court, just as he has done hundreds of times before. If only he had this, if only he had that, he might just torment himself for the rest of his life. His breath hitches, shoulder freezing rigid. Time does not differentiate between the knowing and oblivious. It slips and leaks beneath the noses of all that it encompasses, and it is but the cautious few that know to grab it, and join in on its journey. He knows now that he is not one of them, not after he’s cursed at the passage of time over and over and over for his own blunder.

“I broke my phone in a game. Got a new one so the number changed as well, fuck me.”

You laugh dryly into the empty observatory. The occasional twinkling of the stars above do nothing to make his explanation any easier. You think you’ll blame it all on doomed fate that you’ve spent five years trying to find somebody that felt the same as Kei did, to no avail. Blame it on cursed luck that you’ve clawed and grabbed at anything familiar enough, archaeology, jazz vinyls, old DVDs of the movie shared between two, all to remind yourself that he too, was once within grasp. You say nothing, because you don’t see a reason to. Instead, you push your head into his neck, drown in the scent of his cologne, ease yourself into his now grown body. You don’t see him wipe a hand across his mouth, then rub his eyes with pinched fingers.

When Kei decides to speak again, it is what feels like another hour later. He’s readjusted his posture about fifty times by now, arms removed from the ground and draped over your shoulders. The sensation of your hair against his skin is suddenly more prominent than ever when your hands find his own, holding them closer to yourself.

“If I didn’t find you at the grave, would you have looked for me?” His question is heavy, weighing his chest down as the words leave his throat in a hesitant cluster. You turn to look at him, and your eyes linger on his own when you squeeze his hands once, twice, then a third time.

“I’ve been looking for five years. Nobody else could take me home.” Your heart rushes to your mouth at your confession, and the bob of Kei’s throat does not go unnoticed. One of his hands comes up to hold your shoulder, pushing it towards himself until your body twists, rubbing against his. You let go of him, pressing your fingers into the ground between his legs instead, and he breathes out shakily, his windpipe suddenly cleared of its uncertainty.

“You’re leaving tomorrow.”

“Yes, I am.”

His fingers slide down to grab your wrist, before going numb completely. His unoccupied hand peels itself from the floor and settles on the side of your waist. Your mouth goes dry when Kei breathes, hot and heavy, his eyes travelling to every inch of you. A bout of heat rushes from his chest to his head, and his legs, and his arms too. The air between the two of you is thick, and it sends your head into a feverish blur. The ground collapses beneath your knees as they shift to press into the floor, and you come face to face with Tsukishima Kei, who prefers his hair parted in bangs on the sides of his face, and wears silver frames instead of black ones. Tsukishima Kei, who has been visiting your father’s grave on your behalf for six years, and still plays volleyball even in his adulthood. Tsukishima Kei, whose eyes are finally finished with their ventures across your figure, that is pushed up against him on the ground of an observatory, and is learning whatever he can about you when his fingers tighten around your wrists and he kisses you without a warning.

Once, at the young, innocent age of seven, Tsukishima Kei kissed you in this museum. You had run a little too fast, stepped on your loose laces and fallen onto the ground face first. You sulked at a bench facing some random painting of melting clocks, red dots scattered across a purple patch right beneath your eye. When he kneeled in front of you to grab your face, and pressed his lips onto the bruise for a fraction of a second, he must have kissed the pain away, mending the leaking capillaries beneath your skin as he separated from your cheeks with a pop. Now, he pulls against your wrists to push himself closer, traps you in the embrace of his legs around the back of your thighs, wheezes and stutters against your lips at the lack of oxygen in his lungs. His head is running in circles instead of straight paths, and everything is spinning. When your hands reach to grab at his shirt, and palm at his chest, he pulls away only to rip his glasses off and toss them to the ground. Beneath the glow of the moon from above, everything but your flushed cheeks and swollen lips is a blur. You take half a breath in, before it is interrupted by Kei’s palms pulling you in by the sides of your neck, and his mouth on yours again. At seven years old, he ripped bruising pain away from your face with a kiss. At twenty-one, he forces his pain, and grief, and regret rushing into your heart by pushing himself against you, fingers tangling themselves into your hair as he kisses you, desperate, almost distressed. Every tug at your lips is a confession left unspoken, every time Kei opens his mouth apologies spill out into you in choked groans and sighs. At the sensation of his hand leaving your neck, your arm searches for him aimlessly, before he’s palming at you through your pants. He swallows your sudden gasp, and your fingers grip his wrist until your knuckles go white.

“Did you ever like me?” You can do nothing but choke out a question against his lips, one you’ve pondered about, day in and day out, since your departure from Japan.

By the way that Kei nods frantically, you’re certain that this is what six years of separation has amounted to.

Sparing no time, your fingers tug at the hem of his boxers, pulling them down just enough to release himself from the fabric constraints. He does the same, hands roaming until they find the waistband of your pants to push them down, fingers tugging your underwear to the side with a flick. He grabs you by the waist beneath your shirt, yanks your body towards him until something feels right and he can’t help but let out a trembling sigh into your shoulder. And when you finally begin to sink yourself onto him, agonisingly slow, you wish that you had never left Japan in the first place. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, and you wish that you could spend the rest of your life in this observatory with Kei, your hands wrapped around the back of his sweat-slicked neck.

When he pulls you down to push further, more pervasively, you fall into him, head hanging over his shoulder and arms squeezing around his neck. His inexperienced hands rock you back and forth against his hips, pulling a flurry of gasps and moans from your throat. He lets himself learn how you taste when his teeth tug at the hem of your shirt, pulling it down to expose your bare shoulder. His lips latch onto your collarbone, biting and sucking a trail of red marks up to the side of your neck. You shudder at his advances, and he studies the way your walls flutter around him, the erratic pulses that draw stars around his head, how your nails dig into his shoulders, and send his mind into a senseless orbit.

When he pushes and pulls at you a little harder, you whimper his name into his ear, reduced to nothing but a babbling mess that nibbles at his neck and kisses up his jaw feverishly. First friend, first kiss, first love. The notion that this is another first that Tsukishima Kei has brought upon you sends your mind spiralling. He should have been your first prom date, first roommate, first dance too. If only you hadn’t left him first. You push your head off his shoulder, hands moving to hold his face instead. A wave of pleasure washes over you when his palm presses against your stomach, and you hang your head low again, a shaky sigh released from your chest.

When you look up, there are tears in Kei’s eyes. He rolls his head back onto the plush seat behind him, hands lifting you off himself fully, just to push you back onto him again. You collapse into his body, palms pressing against his heaving chest.

“I- fuck! I fucking loved you! I still do!” He speaks it into the glass ceiling as one hand reaches for his face. He wipes his palm across his eyes, only for more tears to form. They are uncontrollable, relentless as he turns his head away from you. He isn’t sure how he will live again tomorrow, not when he’s finally come to a reckoning with the pang in his chest at every thought of you. He thinks he could die the second you step onto that flight back to London, ripped away from him once again. The reality that he cannot stay buried inside you for any longer than the next couple of minutes haunts him to no end, the idea of being separated from you a second time unbearable to even imagine. When he turns back to see you, head on his chest and fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt, he decides that reality can wait until he’s finished with you.

“I love you too- shit, Kei! I never stopped!”

You rut against his hips senselessly now, chasing some unfamiliar high as your vision fades to black and you scream his name until your throat goes hoarse. Kei barely gives you time to breathe, before he’s coming undone from right beneath you, shuddering and groaning as you relax against his body and go limp. He holds you against him, one hand pushing your head against his chest and the other wrapped around your back. He tucks your damp hair behind your ears, places kisses along your temple so he can hear the hums of satisfaction that sound from your curled lips.

“Can you stay forever?” He mumbles into your hair, and you turn to press your ear against his chest. His heart pounds as he pushes his cheek into the crown of your head, and your hands crawl up his chest to wrap around his neck. When he looks up through the glass ceiling, the stars have not moved one bit.

“I’ll find you again, wherever you are.”

Time may slip away from Tsukishima Kei like petals that fall off the buds of flowers, water that seeps beneath the soles of his sneakers, stardust that hovers above the atmosphere. Yet he has learned that it has a way of always coming back to remind him of its presence, and its escape. You are the reminder that it has been sending to him for six years.

author's note:

ERM! never writing nsfw again that's for sure but this piece defs had some stuff that i was very, VERY proud of coming up with!! sorry to my minor moots who probably won't read this in its entirety bc of the big MDNI warning... but I honestly don't know how to feel about this piece as a whole... i was super excited to write it but i think i got a little impatient towards the end esp since im always writing at like 3am LOL but i hope you guys liked it anyways!!! i tried really hard to make the dynamic work and i hope it did!!!!!

also ps they exchange numbers again js a little extra bonus that i didn’t get to put into the actual thing

anyways tags!!

@staraxiaa @chuuya-brainrot @akaakeis @laughingfcx @writingsofanomnivore @t0rchknight @bailey-reeds @wyrcan @hiraethwa @fiannee @catsoupki @anonymity-222 @wishi-selfships @kuroppiii

ok love u guys thank u for being patient

401 notes · View notes

dilf-rot · 4 months ago

Text

Roadkill

Old! Logan gets hit by a car right outside your apartment, and since his healing isn’t as fast as it use to be he begrudgingly agrees to let you take care of him for the time being

Word Count: 3009

Tags: Old!Logan x Reader, Logan Howlett x Reader, Wolverine x Reader, Fem!Reader, age gap (obviously), kinda pervy logan, blood, description of injuries / mild gore, Car accident, wound dressing, alcohol consumption, bed sharing, P in V, Fingering, Some dirty talk, creampie

AN: Okay so I did a poll about what you guys would want next, and a "Funny Old Logan" fic won... so like the concept is the funny part (at least to me), But I tried to make it rather light hearted because I hope it wasn’t a misleading poll choice. Maybe the length of it will make you forgive me for my poor sense of humor

If you enjoy my work consider sending me a tip at https://ko-fi.com/rotwrites (Not required by any means, writing requests are still free!)

MDNI 18+

—--------------------------------------

It was rather late at night, your street barely illuminated by the poorly maintained street lamps. You sat by your window, watching the empty street. The autumn air wispy through the trees, dead leaves skittering across the concrete. You liked looking outside at this time of night, reminding yourself of how quiet and peaceful things can be.

An older man was walking along the edge of the sidewalk, his head hung down, his gait slow and particular. You were surprised to see someone out walking at this time, but thought it not too unusual. As he began to walk along the curve of the road, as if materializing from thin air, a black vehicle sped around the curve, colliding with the man and sending him falling over into the pavement, the screech of tires, the sound of impact. You could hardly think as you rushed down the stairs and out the door.

The vehicle had disappeared much like it had appeared, and the man lay unmoving on the cold concrete. There was a small puddle of blood forming beneath him.

“Are you alright? I’ll call 911.” You shouted as you approached him, holding out your hand.

“Don’t,” He groaned, pushing himself over so that he was laid on his back. The blood was seeping through his shirt around his abdomen, but it seemed not to bother him. “I’ll just be on my way.”

He breathed heavily, trying to stand from the ground. Cursing to himself. He couldn’t seem to sit up.

“Here, let me help you.” You leaned down and helped him to his feet. He winced in pain as he tried to stand up straight. Looking at you in a peculiar way, as if he had never expected kindness from a stranger. You were young, and bright, and despite the suddenness and seeming severity of his situation, came rushing in to help. Great contrast to his old, dark, and brooding disposition. “Are you sure you don’t want 911? If your worried about ambulance costs I could always drive you to the hospital.”

He tried to laugh, but ended up coughing and a splatter of blood spewed from his mouth. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. Just need some rest.”

“Why don’t you come inside, I’ll help you,” You gestured towards your building, the window of your apartment the only one light up in the night.

“Really, it’s no big deal-” He started, only for a little more blood to dribble from his mouth, he wiped it away with his hand and before he could protest any further, you slowly led him up to your apartment. Careful not to take the stairs too fast, or pull too hard on his arms.

Despite his current state, he was rather well built. You could feel the lines and curves of muscle under his jacket as his arm rested across your shoulders. His face wasn’t all that bad either, minus the blood staining his graying beard, he was rather handsome and you suddenly felt rather embarrassed by your choice of bringing him into your home.

You brought him inside, and helped him sit down in the living room. Tossing the decorative pillow off of the chair so that he may lean back comfortably. He looked around your apartment, it was nicely decorated, a little girly, but not too extreme, and there were some pumpkin and mushroom themed items here and there for the fall season. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Listening to you frantically search your cabinets for first aid materials.

When the searching had stopped you managed to find a first aid kit, a washcloth, and some pain meds.

“Can we take off your shirt and jacket so I can see the damage?” You once again held out your hands to him. He grumbled and nodded, helping you remove them. The fabric luckily wasn't sticking to the wounds, despite being drenched in blood. “I’ll wash them for you.”

He watched your face as you took in the sight of him. He was much more in shape than you would expect for an older man, not that you could guess how old he was, but he seemed to be the active kind based on his physique. You shakily reached out with the washcloth, gently dapping away the drying blood, trying to get a better look at the wounds. They didn’t seem too deep, but the lacerations and road burn were rather gruesome. You decided it would be best to apply some antibacterial and wrap them in gauze. You were worried that you wouldn’t have enough, but as you wrapped the last bit around him, you were relieved to find it had been the perfect amount. He didn’t have the energy to argue with you, nor to explain that by the morning, or at least the late afternoon tomorrow, he would be mostly healed up and able to leave.

“Could I see your hands?” You took them in yours, looking at his palms, happy to find them not all that scrapped up. He huffed when you put them back down. “Can I get you something to drink?”

He perked up a bit, “You got any whiskey?”

You pull up a step stool and search through your liquor cabinet, you had a modest amount of choices for when friends came over. But your whiskey selection was rather poor. He watches you as you try to balance while you move bottles out of the way.

“I only have Screwball and Jack Daniel’s” you call out over your shoulder.

He groans and rolls his eyes, he should have expected that from a young girl like you. “Daniel’s.”

You get the bottle down from the cabinet and grab him a glass. As you go to pour it he stops your hand, “Just give me the bottle sweetheart.”

You oblige, and sit on the couch across from him. Watching as he takes a swig from the bottle, swishing it around in his mouth before swallowing. You are almost entranced watching him, something about him draws you in. Admittedly it was strange for you to be ogling a complete stranger, whom you had just witnessed get fully hit by a car, but you couldn’t help yourself. You shift on the couch, trying to find a comfortable position.

“What’s your name?”

He sighs, placing the bottle down, “Logan.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the Doctor, Logan?”

“I’ll be alright.”

“No offense, but you just got knocked on your ass by a speeding car.”

“Been through worse.” He says, and you believe him. “I’ll be good to go tomorrow, don’t worry your pretty little head about me.”

You nod, and resign to not ask him any further. Instead just watching as he drinks, and wondering what someone like him was doing in the neighborhood anyway.

-sit watching him, as he starts to get sleepy, you offer to bring him to your bed to sleep

“You invite a lot of strange men into your bed?”

“No.”

“I’m the first?”

You don’t answer, helping him lay down and get comfortable. Taking his shoes off for him and asking if he needs anything else.

“I’m alright.”

“Ok, I’ll be on the couch if you need anything.” As you walk away, he can sense how you sigh. Knowing you probably can’t sleep on that couch, he gets a little smirk on his face.

“Why don’t you stay with me, Princess?” He can hear your breath catch in your throat and your little kind heart starts to race. “Make sure I stay breathing, ya know?”

You nod, feeling silly for how quickly you want this attention from him. But you can’t help yourself and you crawl into bed with him. Trying not to bump him as you get under the blankets. You face away from him and close your eyes, trying to fall asleep as fast as possible, the adrenaline of the whole situation quickly fading. He shifts in the bed, you can feel his warmth radiating from him. He places his hand on your waist and pulls you closer to him. His mouth against the back of your head, your back pressed against his chest. He whispers something to you, but you can barely hear it over the sound of your heart hammering away.

You aren’t sure how but you were able to fall asleep like that, Logan holding you against him, and you hiding your face in your pillow hoping you could get through this without any more strange feelings bubbling up in your stomach.

When you woke up, Logan’s mouth was pressed to your neck, softly mumbling against you. The scruff of his beard scratching against your skin. When you shifted he pulled away, but his arm remained around your waist. You patted him and tried to squirm out of bed.

“Mmm...” he groaned. “Morning.”

He stayed in bed as you went to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. He watched you, your pj shorts riding up, and the tank you wore hugging tightly to you. You felt a little sweaty, probably due to having something so warm in your bed for once. You lean in the doorway to the bedroom watching as he slowly sits up.

“How are you feeling?”

“Could use a shower,” He groans as he stands from the bed, stretching and feeling all the aches slowly coming back.

You lead him to the bathroom, bringing him a towel and washcloth. You help him unwrap his bandages, and as you do you are surprised to see them mostly scabbed and scarred over, only a few of the deeper ones were still periodically dripping with blood.

“That’s quite impressive,” you remark, tracing your finger lightly over one of the scars.

“Not as good as it used to be,” He shrugs. You turn your back to him as he gets into the shower. Once the curtain is closed you grab his clothes and as he showers you wash his clothes and your bed sheets, grateful to have the luxury of in unit laundry.

You hear him drop some stuff in the shower and check on him, he says he's okay and that his shoulder is just stiff. You return to your spot on the couch, wondering how he managed to heal so well overnight, maybe he just had good genetics. His muscles and features already seemed unfair to be on a man of his presumed age, so perhaps he just had quicker blood clotting than your average person.

You hear the shower shut off, and a few moments later he steps out. Wrapped in only a towel, your breath catches in your throat at the sight of him. You couldn’t help but imagine being pressed up against him, much like last night, but without the barrier of injury or clothing. The way the towel clung to his waist, droplets of water stuck to his skin, his hair wet and dripping. You shook the thoughts out of your head and offer him the biggest bathrobe you have while his clothes are drying.

You make a pot of coffee and sit next to him on the couch. He seems much more relaxed this morning, and maybe even a bit more interested in your company. He reaches his hand out to you, placing it right above your knee, “I appreciate you going through all this effort for an old man.”

“Of course, I couldn’t just leave you on the street.” You squirm a bit as he rubs his hand gently back and forth.

“Anything I can do for ya, you know return the favor?” You could see a bit of a smile spreading as he looked towards you. God he was much more attractive in the light of day.

“Oh-” You feel heat rising to your face and you look away towards the window. “No. No, it’s no big deal.”

He smirks, he can hear your heart racing. Hell, he can even smell your desire pooling between your thighs. Sweet girls like you always seem to be affected by him. He drops his hand from your knee, leaning back into the couch, “Come on, be honest with me Sweetheart,”

You scoot a little closer to him, your thigh pressing into his.

“That's it, I don’t bite.” But deep down he would, if you begged him too. He’d rip those pjs off you and treat you like a doll. Make you squirm and scream until your mind goes hazy and your eyes water.

You lean closer against him, your shoulder pressing up against his, trying to build the courage to ask him for what you really want. Before you can find the words he brings his hand up to your jaw and turns you to face him. He searches your eyes for a moment, giving you space to protest, and when you don’t he closes the gap and kisses you. Gentle and soft, you can taste the coffee on his breath but you don’t even care. He pulls away and you whine involuntarily.

“Needy, are we?” You nod and push yourself closer to him, he kisses you again, dropping his hand down to trace along your arm, until he reaches your waist. He pulls you in, his hand against the small of your back. He kisses you deeply and passionately, savoring the taste of your mouth as he slips his tongue inside. Feeling pleased by the soft whines and moans you’re making against him.

He slips his free hand down between your thighs, groaning when he feels how wet you are through the fabric of your pajama shorts. Practically smiling into the kiss when he slips his hand under the waistband and realizes you weren’t wearing panties this entire time.

“Bringing me into your house, and you didn’t even have panties on?” He brings his fingertips to rub your clit in little circles. You whine, knowing that you could never expect your night to unfold the way it did. His hand is so rough and calloused but his movements are so gentle, teasing you so softly. You press your head into the side of his arm wanting him to be rougher, wanting to get there faster.

He pulls his hand away and you groan at the loss of contact. He pulls you into his lap and removes your shorts. With you resting on his thighs he leans you back against him and brings his hand back to toy with you. His touch is electrifying and you rock your hips up against him trying to get more, but he keeps the same languid pace with just a small bit of pressure.

He uses his other hand to wrap around your waist and hold you in place. You can feel him pressed up against your back, the soft fabric of the bathrobe you gave him gliding along your skin. As you shift and whine he keeps you steady, not giving you enough to make you cum, but just enough to make you feel dizzy as the frustration starts to build.

“Logan… please,” You plead with him and he kisses your neck.

“What do you need, baby?”

“More…” He laughs against your skin as you try to press yourself up against his hand again, but he just keeps you in place, his grip tightening.

“I’ll give you more.” And he does. Finally speeding up the motion of his hand and adding more force. You’re so happy that you hardly notice as your orgasm quickly washes over you. Your thighs trembling against him. You don’t even register it as he flips you around to face him, using both his hands to hold your hips and lower you down onto his cock.

When you come back to earth, you’re met with the feeling of being utterly full. You hadn’t gotten a good look at his dick before, but just based on the feeling of it, you knew you were in trouble. It was thick and stretched you open, making you shiver as he bounced you slowly up and down. The way it dragged along your walls, the way the tip of it brushed against that sweet spot inside. You were reduced to moans and whines, and hardly any thoughts could form in your brain that weren’t regarding Logan fucking you. He kissed you while he continued to fuck into you. His pace picking up and making you see stars.

“Fuck… that pretty little pussy of yours feels so good.” He groaned into your ear and you shivered around him. “Were you gonna hide this from me?”

You shake your head, and try to say no but all that escapes your mouth is another choked whine. He grins as he admires your fucked out expression. You can feel yourself getting closer and closer to release, as he pounds into you, hitting that spot and pressing against you. You’re breathing becomes ragged and your whines and moans blend into nothing but noise as you clench around his cock and come undone.

“That’s it, Doll. Cum all over this cock.” He fucks you through your orgasm and you drop your head onto his shoulder. Whining and moaning and cursing under your breath as he doesn’t stop. He’s getting closer too, his thrusts start to falter and his composure starts to slip. You feel him twitch and in moments warm, thick cum floods your insides. He holds you there, and kisses the top of your head. Murmuring about how good you feel, how you’re such a good girl for taking all of him. Your fuzzy little head can’t even reply.

When your brain finds its way back to you, and you can breathe in a regular manner, you feel his cock slide out of you, and his cum seeps from you, coating your thighs and his. He shifts under you and you stiffen.

“Do you have to leave?” You aren’t sure why, but you don’t want to let go of this strange man just yet.

“I can stay a little longer for you, Princess.”

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett smut #wolverine smut #wolverine x reader #Old Logan x Reader

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marthawrites · 10 months ago

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Could you write smut for Aemond targaryen with the prompts 17,40,44,47,53 and 54 maybe with a targaryen reader? Just something gentle, sweet and soft <3 btw I’m talking abt this prompt list

I absolutely can! Apologies for making you wait since January for this. I hope you're still around to see (and, fingers crossed) enjoy it!

"Vok" (Perfect)

Aemond Targaryen x sister reader

Word count: 2.6k+

About: You and Aemond pledged to each other long ago. Tonight, beneath the blanket of darkness, you revel in each other's adoration.

Includes: SMUT. Featuring brother x sister incest, Aemond is soft but only to his little sister, dirty talk, female masturbation, guided masturbation, praise, unprotected vaginal sex, and a splash of breeding kink

Note: Hello lovely reader! It's been a hot minute since I've wrote Aemond - the posters and trailers have me going (affectionately) insane! Triple warning: this fic is brother x sister targcest. If you do not like that KEEP ON SCROLLING. This is my first time writing this dynamic. Reader is implied to have silver hair, pale skin, and purple eyes. Everything else is up to you! As always, I hope you enjoy this fic! ❤️

To the realm, Aemond Targaryen was the cruel prince. Aloof, stoic, unforgiving.

To the realm, he was an ambitious and willful young man who rode Vhagar, the largest and oldest dragon in the world–the same dragon who helped Queen Visenya conquer Westeros.

To the realm, he was the second son of King Viserys. And, as such, would play the game of nobility by putting duty above love–marrying outside of his Targaryen lineage to seed dragons further into the world.

To you, his little sister and second daughter of King Viserys, he was your protector.

Your secret.

A poorly kept secret in some corners of the castle; nosy servants and their obnoxious fucking tendencies. But, with Aemond’s less than idle threats about cutting the tongue out of anyone’s throat who would speak about it, it ended up being a well-kept secret.

The second son and second daughter of the Dragon King; who better to love, and cherish, and pledge to, than each other?

Aemond would sooner die than see you marry off to some lowly lord of a “great” House. You were the blood of Old Valyria. Everyone–no matter their feats–was lowly in comparison to you. And you, his sweet sister, deserved only the best.

Barely a year separated your ages. Neither of you remembered a life without the other.

Long before you gave your maidenhead to your brother you gave him your heart. And your heart he held.

The night was late. These dark hours were some of the only unadulterated times you had together. Aemond kissed you slowly, passionately, gently stroking along your cheeks with his thumbs as he did. You were tangled in his bed together. You, stripped down to only your shift, and him, stripped down to only his sleep trousers. One of your shift’s thin straps kept sliding down your shoulder, and each time it did Aemond’s warm mouth kissed over the smooth lovely skin. You panted soft sounds–each feminine simper jolting right to his cock–as he lavished you in affection.

“You’re kissing me silly, lēkia (brother). My head feels full of bees and I’m hot. So, so hot,” you whispered against his kiss-swollen mouth. “Will you not feel for yourself?” He hadn’t yet made a move to touch you where you really, truly, wanted him; something that had you whining and pouting. While his hands alternated between stroking your face and groping your body–waist, hips, thighs–yours were buried in his hair. It was all down and free. The silken sheet of it spilled over his shoulders, spilled over you, and you relished the feel of it inside your hands. Against your bare skin. “Please?”

“Please what, hāedar? (little sister)” He asked, voice mellow with just the right amount of rumble from his chest.

“Please touch me,” you answered, back naturally arching to press your soft body against the hard planes of his own.

Another low sound came from him. He pressed a warm, wide palm up the perfect curve of your back until he squeezed into the nape of your hair. “Such a pretty word from a pretty mouth. Have my kisses made you ache with need, byka zaldrīzes (little dragon)?”

“Yes.” The single word, its single syllable, rolled off your tongue before your brain even fully registered his question. You stared at him desperately. One eye was so beautiful; so ancient in its color and proclamation, just like your own. The other reflected faceted edges of the sapphire he wore in place of his missing eye. You didn’t know which was more enchanting.

“How long can you go, hm? Without me touching you?”

“W-what?”

He laughed. A rumble beneath his pale, taut chest. “How long before you succumb to madness by me not touching your perfect cunny?”

“Aemond…,” you whined. Pitiful. “Not much longer! Please, lēkia, I need you, please.”

A serpent’s grin curved his mouth and darkened his eye as he shifted positions with you. Now, he sat upright with his back against his headboard and pulled you to sit in front of him.

You nestled between his legs, your back flush with his chest, and his stiff cock rested against the small of your back. A blush bloomed beneath your cheeks. You knew lust ran as wild in his veins as it did in yours.

“Tell me, sweet sister…,” he started, whispering by your ear. Both his hands cupped and squeezed over your breasts. Their softness melted against his palms and he groaned at the sensation. Perfect. You were so fucking perfect. “Have you touched yourself to peak before?”

A stammer replaced the little mewl in your throat. “H-how do you mean?”

He laughed again, pinching your nipples. “Mm… are you sure?”

Lust and need and fire roared in your blood to the point of almost drowning everything else out. “I d-don’t understand,” you admitted. But, it was a lie. You knew what he meant. You could only hope he’d go easy on you so you wouldn't have to admit, prove, or say you knew what he spoke of.

“Why are you playing shy with me, hāedar? I think you know exactly what I mean. There is no shame in it,” he spoke sly, hands pushing the hem of your shift up until he held the material in a fist upon your abdomen. With his other hand he tugged your smallclothes down your bare legs, tossing them off. The flats of all his fingers ghosted over your exposed cunt. Testing you. Feeling you. He hissed an inward breath. “Fuck–”, he growled. “‘Tis a good thing I was born a prince. Gods know if I had this wet little cunt between my thighs I wouldn’t get anything done. Ever. For how often I’d fuck myself silly on my own fingers.”

Aemond’s vulgarity sent a coil of tension wringing in your belly. Slick arousal pooled hotter beneath his touch. Your clit throbbed–the little pearl silently screaming for attention. “Yes,” you breathed, shuddering.

“Yes, what?”

Your older brother wasn’t going easy on you. “Yes. I… I know what you speak of. And.. yes, I do. Sometimes…,” you admitted with a wave of embarrassment.

Somehow he grew harder against the small of your back. He throbbed. “Show me,” he demanded.

“What! Aemond, no. Please, please, please no. Don’t make me show you.” Mortification replaced your previous embarrassment. Yet, your spine quivered with another rush of liquid arousal.

“I would love nothing more than to see how you bring yourself pleasure. Do you think of me when you do, byka zaldrīzes?”

You nodded. Dizziness warbled your brain.

“Such a sweet perfect thing,” he cooed. He'd felt that nervous energy tense you. He also saw the exquisite thrum of your pulsepoint beneath your neck, too. Two sides of the same coin: carnal desire. When he spoke again it dripped with wicked passion. “Don’t be nervous, I'll guide you through it.”

It had been quite some time since you last brought yourself to climax all on your own. Aemond was always more than eager to give you pleasure. Tonight, however, something was different. Idly you wondered what it could be. Before you thought about it too much, Aemond guided your dominant hand to that delicate space between your thighs. You gasped at the sensation of your own touch. Torture never felt so divine. Your little bud sang as you circled it, rubbed over it. You sighed sweetly. “How did you make me so wet?”

It took controlled effort to not spill himself across your back at that very moment. “Spread your legs for me, princess. Let me see and hear what you’re doing.”

You obeyed. With your legs spread wider, now, it was all the easier to resume your previous motions. Flicking and rubbing over your bud felt divine–excited little sounds already spilled from your mouth. You ached inside, too, wanting–needing–to be stretched around something. The memory of Aemond's long fingers pumping into you while his thumb claimed your clit had your face hot. You couldn't reach those same spots he could. You bit your bottom lip, whimpering.

Aemond watched from above with a hungry lecherous eye. Beneath your shift he could see your breasts, slope of belly… and then further below, your creamy thighs spilled wide open. Fuck–he was so hard his back hurt. Your girlish sounds sent his desire blazing. “Your little clit is so achy, isn’t it? I know how much you like it played with,” he said by your ear. “Do you ever go inside?”

You nodded, allowing your head to fall back against his shoulder. You stayed on your pearl, still, legs tensing with bliss as it warmed and tingled your blood.

“Show me,” he growled again. “Be a good girl. And afterward? Don’t worry, I'll take care of you. Promise.”

Without hesitation you pushed two of your fingers into your warmth. Your body squeezed around the intrusion, inner walls flexing, trying to pull them in deeper. A gasped moan left your parted lips. “I-I’ve never done this before.” You’ve never shown anyone this before is what you meant. Aemond knew what you meant.

“I know. Shh… it’s okay, I'll guide you through it.” He gently touched the top of your hand and relished your little tendons flexing with the effort of your self pleasure. He pushed–coaxing your fingers deeper, silently urging you along. More.

Soon the wet sounds of your hand against pink swollen flesh mingled with your moans. Lewd. Dirty. You tried to stay quiet. You really did. But it felt too good, and Aemond’s hand on yours guiding you along had your toes curling. Of course he would help you. Of course he wouldn’t let you do it all on your own. “Aem..!,” you whimpered, hips rocking with your movements. “‘M close.”

“I got you,” he whispered, voice heavy.

As soon as your fingers found that little patch of hidden nerves along your walls, you weren’t able to hold on much longer. The bliss, all at once, became too much. Tension snapped in your belly as colors flashed behind your closed eyelids. Your legs trembled at the tip of your peak, and as you crested downwards Aemond held you tighter against him.

“Vok (perfect),” he said as he watched you. How perfect you were with your silver hair framing your face. How perfect you looked when ecstasy became too much. How fucking perfect your eyes were as they opened and locked on his, bright and glassy with excitement.

You carefully pulled your fingers free and began to turn around to face him. Before you could, however, he held you tighter against him. Confusion furrowed your brow and whatever you were about to say was cut off by his impatience.

“I’m greedy, byka zaldrīzes. Go on, one more time. I know you can do it. Show me again how you peak.”

Without arguing you again settled back against him. You planted your feet along the outside of his legs, spilling your thighs open wider than they were before. You angled your hips to the perfect position and this time a third finger joined your previous two. This time you fucked yourself without shame–not that you held on to it long in the first place.

Aemond all but snarled behind you, absolutely ravenous at the sight of three of your little fingers pumping and curling up into your body. He moved a hand downward, too, and the pads of those fingers worked over your clit in time with your pumps.

“Gods! Aem–!” You quivered against him. The addition of his lascivious attention had your hips squirming. Wanton moans, no longer trying to stay quiet, had your mind blanking. Nothing existed outside of you and Aemond. Nowhere existed outside of the spaces in which your bodies touched. Climax found you faster this time. Your second orgasm had you crumbling against him. Sweat sheened your brow. Your face bloomed. Sated. You were wholly sated.

“Good girl,” he praised. “Such a good girl. Giving me exactly what I wanted,” he kissed you, stealing your lips in a kiss that had you floating all over again. You could have fallen asleep right there in his arms and been the happiest thing in the realm. Breaking away, he added, “now I’ve a promise to make up to you, hm?”

Honestly, you’d forgotten about it. But, now that he mentioned it, your belly did a silly little flop.

With great care, Aemond moved from behind you and stood. Offering a hand to you, he said, “take your clothes off and lay on your back.”

And with that, you both finally shed the last pieces of your clothing.

Laying like he said, you leaned back on your elbows to prop yourself up to still see your brother. Spilled messy hair, tall lean body littered with nicked scars, sapphire eye on full display…hard cock blushed angry red with need. They say Targaryen’s are closer to Gods than men, and with the hearth’s orange light reflecting on his ivory form, you believed him to be a God.

Aemond thought the same about you as you laid there bathed in the moonlight and hearthlight.

“Spread your legs for your lēkia, I want to see you.”

As soon as you did–proudly showing off the slick mess of two climaxes, Aemond pumped along his rigid length. Despite butterflies twirling in your belly, your smile up at him was purely feline.

To Aemond’s credit, his voice only broke slightly when he said, “get on your hands and knees.”

You did. You dipped your spine as low as it could comfortably go, propping your ass up for him. As much as he loved fucking you with your legs wrapped around his waist, you knew he loved this position, too. “Māzigon va, lēkia (come on, brother),” you purred. “Keep to your promise.”

In an instant one of his hands squeezed harshly into the fat of your hip while the other spread the meat of your ass apart. He planted one foot firmly on the bed, and the other stayed rooted on the ground. The position gave him more leverage, and power, and control as he loomed above you. With a flex of his entire abdomen he pushed forward; the hot stretch of your body around him had both of you gasping. “I plan on leaving a babe in your belly tonight, hāedar. That way mother will have no other choice than to wed us,” he groaned, pulling backwards only to snap his hips against the smooth underside of your cheeks once again. And again.

You fisted the sheets as Aemond fucked you. You moaned your delight at his words, nodding. “Yes, please,” you panted. “Faster,” you begged.

His thrusts were precise and brutal. The slap of your smacking skin was utterly depraved and you hated–no, loved–how it made you impossibly wetter. Aemond did too. “Already squeezing around me? Fuck–I’m not going to last much longer,” he said, strained.

You began to push back against him, meeting his thrusts halfway with a frenzied need to make him release. “Fill me. Fill me up, Aem,” you still begged, breathing heavily.

He rutted against you with the same need–a primal haze taking over as his stones began to tighten. His fingers dented firmly into your flesh as he continued plunging in and out of you. Instinct to spill his seed built by the moment and soon he became sloppy. He grunted and growled, and with a final shove–cock buried as deep as it could be inside your walls–he spent against your body’s end. Pulse after mighty pulse emptied his spend into you. Stray strands of hair stuck to a sheen of sweat upon his forehead.

You joined him in peak; left boneless and exhausted after three orgasms. Even at the top of your bliss, and his, he never eased until you were both done.

Aemond pulled his softening length out from you and urged you to fall forward upon his bed. You followed his motion and happily laid there. Naked, glowing, and full. You reached a hand out to pull him to you. “Avy jorrāelan (i love you).”

Aemond easily settled next to you, scooping you into him. “Avy jorrāelan tolī (i love you too),” he said between slow, satisfied kisses.

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider a follow, and/or reblog, and/or letting me know as it all makes me vvvery happy! ♥

To be added or removed from the taglist, hit me up!

Masterlist

Main taglist: @watercolorskyy @melsunshine @girlwith-thepearlearring @arcielee @barbiedragon @targaryen-dynasty @succnfuccubus @fan-goddess @schniiipsel

Aemond taglist: @darylandbethfanforever9 @bellaisasleep @aemondsblog @khaleesihel @sirenofavalon @doublesparrows @aemonds-fire @nikstrange @abbyandizzysmum @rafeism @lost-and-founds @castellomargot @avidreader73 @snh96 @boofy1998 @connorsui

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond smut #aemond fic #aemond request #aemond imagine

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theetherealbloom · 1 month ago

Text

IF THERE'S NOTHING LEFT - CH.2

Chapter Two: Hold On For Dear Love

Summary: You, a skilled healer, are brought to Rome by Senator Gracchus under the pretense of treating gladiators and Roman elites. You work with General Marcus Acacius to fight against the cruel reign of the twin emperors. Through danger and shared hope, your connection becomes a source of strength as you both dream of freeing Rome.

Paring: General Marcus Acacius x F!Reader

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, ANGST, Fluff, SMUT, Age-Gap(ish), Ancient Rome, Canon-Typical Violence, Gladiators, Blood, Gore, War, Romance, Politics, Alternate Universe, Eventual SMUT, Slavery, Sexism, Misogyny, Guilt, PTSD, Rebellion, Empires, (Very Light) Strangers-to-Enemies-to-Friends-to-Lovers, Crowds, Shouting, Animals, Duels, Loose Historical Fiction, Kissing,

Word Count: 10.1k

A/N: Chat, I am giving the reader a super vague background, like it won't matter too much, lol. You’re here for the vibes, and so am I ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ So this entire fic isn’t gonna be overly complicated, I don’t think this is the fic for that. I mean, they put sharks in the Colosseum, so… we’re going to take some liberties here and there for funsies. It’s fanfiction, it’s supposed to be fun :> ALSO YA’LL I GOT INTO A GROOVE. I wasn’t planning on updating til next week but the words kept coming to me and suddenly I’m done with chapter two hehe. AND YES YES SHUSH NEXT CHAPTER IS SMUT. MAYBE. Ok enjoy girlies heheh.

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: Hymn To Virgil by Hozier

Previous Chapter → Next Chapter | Series Masterlist |Main Masterlist|

SENATOR THRAEX’S PARTY — DAY

The grand villa was alive with music, laughter, and the heady scent of roasted meats and spilled wine. Senators, high-ranking officials, and Rome's wealthiest citizens mingled among trays of fruit and platters of delicacies, their voices filling the air with a cacophony of conversation and self-indulgent boasts. Courtesans draped in sheer silks wove through the throng, their laughter as light and false as the smiles of their patrons.

You stood to the side, partially hidden in the shadow of a marble column. The position offered a semblance of privacy while giving you a clear view of the room. You made mental notes of the faces present—senators, generals, and merchants, all drunk on wealth and power. Their alliances and rivalries played out in every guarded glance and overly polite toast.

Senator Gracchus approached you with a goblet of wine, his face etched with age but kind. “You look like a soldier observing a battlefield,” he remarked dryly.

You smiled faintly, accepting the drink. “It feels like one. Though I’m not sure which side I belong to.”

Gracchus chuckled, leaning slightly closer. “In Rome, one must always choose a side, my dear. Even if that choice is to appear invisible.”

Before you could respond, a voice interrupted. “Ah, the daughter of misfortune graces us with her presence.” Senator Thraex’s saccharine tone drew the attention of those nearby. He strode toward you, his beady eyes alight with thinly veiled mockery. “I was just telling Gracchus how tragic your loss must have been. Your poor parents—what a terrible end.”

Your jaw tightened, but you forced a polite smile. “Your concern is appreciated, Senator. They are at peace now.”

Thraex clasped his hands, feigning sympathy. “Still, such a pity. A young woman like you, left all alone in this cruel city. Surely by now, you should have found a husband to protect you from its dangers?”

The words stung, though you refused to let it show. Keeping your tone steady, you replied, “I fear my reputation for independence precedes me. Not all men wish to marry someone who refuses to play the meek lamb.”

Gracchus coughed into his goblet, poorly disguising a laugh, while Thraex’s smile faltered. “How... peculiar,” he said, his tone sharper now. “Though perhaps not surprising. It would be difficult to find a suitor for one so... outspoken.”

The room seemed to hum with energy as Thraex’s face, darkened with irritation from your earlier remark, shifted into a mask of forced hospitality when his gaze landed on a man entering the crowd—a towering figure wrapped in silk and jewels, his presence as commanding as it was enigmatic. You followed Thraex's movement as he moved to greet the man, a name rippling through your thoughts: Macrinus.

You had heard whispers of him before. A former gladiator who had fought for his freedom, now a powerbroker in Rome. He supplied food, wine, and oil for the empire’s armies, manufactured weapons, and even maintained a stable of gladiators. His name carried weight, his connections extending into the darkest corners of Roman politics.

As Thraex approached Macrinus, his false charm returned, his arms spreading wide. “Macrinus!” he greeted, his voice dripping with exaggerated warmth. He clapped the man on the shoulder with an enthusiasm that bordered on theatrical. “I knew the provinces could never contain you.”

Macrinus accepted the embrace with a faint smirk, his dark eyes scanning the room with calculated ease. “I’m just here for the games,” he replied, his tone casual, though there was a hint of something sharper beneath the surface.

Thraex chuckled, his grip lingering on the man’s shoulder. “Ah well, you won't be disappointed. Rome has all the games that men like you like to play.”

“Men like me, cracks men like us.” Macrinus shot back, his grin widening. “I know nothing happens in Rome unless you… tasted it first! ”

Thraex laughed at the jab, the sound too loud to be sincere. Their exchange continued, a dance of veiled threats and mutual amusement. You lingered at the edge of the room, doing your best to blend into the shadows, your ears straining to catch every word.

Thraex handed Macrinus a gilded chalice of wine, his eyes glinting with curiosity. “What's this we hear about you being interested in standing for an election to the senate practice?”

Macrinus stiffened, his surprise poorly concealed as he let out a dry chuckle. “Me? You know, I don't even know how to use an abacus,” He sipped his wine before adding with a wry smile, “but I do understand that… it's customary for your guests to make wagers at these affairs.”

Thraex’s eyes narrowed slightly, though his smile didn’t falter. “How large a sum did you have in mind?”

Macrinus tilted his head thoughtfully, the jewels around his neck catching the light. “A thousand gold aureus?”

Thraex’s lips curled into a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Two,” he countered smoothly.

Macrinus glanced at the courtesan draped over his arm, as if seeking her approval. The woman gave a slight nod, and Macrinus shrugged, turning back to Thraex. “Denarius,” he said simply, the single word carrying enough weight to silence Thraex for a fleeting moment.

Macrinus walked away with an easy swagger, leaving Thraex standing alone with his forced smile slipping into a scowl. The flash of irritation on his face, so quickly concealed, didn’t escape your notice.

You couldn’t suppress a small smirk of your own as you turned your attention elsewhere. Rome’s elite might dress themselves in finery and smiles, but it was clear that every word exchanged tonight was a thread in the intricate tapestry of power. Threads you were determined to unravel.

The air in the grand hall shifted, thick with anticipation as the crowd clustered toward the edges of the room. The glint of opulence—golden goblets, silk-draped tables, and jewels adorning the guests—clashed against the dark reality of what was about to unfold. Your eyes lingered briefly on a figure across the way: a man, bound in chains, sitting quietly. There was no fear in his expression, only a smoldering anger that made you uneasy.

The sound of clapping drew your attention back to the center of the room. Senator Thraex, ever the showman, raised his voice above the murmur of the crowd. “Stand back! Stand back!” he called, his tone a mix of authority and delight.

You stepped aside, blending into the edges of the gathering, as the spectators parted to form a circle. The twin emperors, Caracalla and Geta, lounged decadently on their perch, surrounded by concubines who laughed and whispered among themselves. Their indifference to the gathering's undertones was maddening.

Thraex turned toward them with an exaggerated bow. “My emperors,” he began with a grin before addressing the audience. “Lords, ladies, senators—tonight, for your entertainment... the art of combat!”

Excited gasps rippled through the room, the revelers’ reactions equal parts anticipation and bloodlust. You fought the urge to roll your eyes. Thraex gestured dramatically toward the two men brought forward—one was the same figure you’d seen earlier, still brooding but now standing tall.

“And now,” Thraex continued, “the barbarian, versus from my own stable, the mighty Vijay!”

The crowd erupted into applause as Vijay, a towering figure in a yellow tunic, was escorted forward. His opponent, the gladiator from across the room, now squared his shoulders and met Vijay’s gaze.

“It is your gladiator?” Emperor Geta asked, his tone laced with mild amusement, as he glanced at Macrinus.

Macrinus inclined his head respectfully. “It is, your Majesty.”

Chains were removed from both men, their freedom feeling more like a death sentence. Thraex began to set the terms. “Three rounds, hand-to-hand—”

But Emperor Caracalla’s voice cut through. “Swords!” he barked, his grin wicked.

The room fell silent.

“We want swords. A fight to the death!” Caracalla continued, his voice rising with glee. “No quarter to be offered, or given!”

Thraex hesitated, his expression faltering for a moment, but the guards stepped forward, placing swords into the gladiators’ hands. You felt your stomach twist as the two men began circling one another.

The gladiator of Macrinus spoke first, his voice calm but edged with pleading. “Brother, come now. Let us not kill each other for their amusement.”

Vijay’s only response was a roar as he lunged, his sword slicing through the air. The next moments were chaos. Blades clanged as they met, sparks flying from each blow. The room seemed to shrink around the violence as tables splintered and decorations toppled.

The climax came when Vijay’s sword slipped from his grasp in the scuffle. The other gladiator seized the opportunity, driving his blade into Vijay’s chest. A sharp gasp escaped you as the larger man crumpled to the marble floor, his blood pooling beneath him.

The victor tossed his sword to the ground with a clatter, breathing heavily, his face and tunic spattered with blood. Around you, the crowd erupted into applause and cheers, their delight in stark contrast to your quiet horror.

“Remarkable!” Emperor Geta exclaimed, standing as he clapped his hands. He approached Macrinus with an approving nod. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you, your Majesty,” Macrinus replied smoothly.

Geta then turned to the gladiator, studying him with newfound interest. “From where do you hail?”

The man said nothing, his jaw set, his silence defiant.

The tension in the room grew thick. Even you found yourself leaning forward, curiosity mingling with unease.

“Speak,” Geta commanded sharply. When no answer came, his impatience boiled over. “I said speak!”

Macrinus stepped in quickly, bowing his head. “Your Majesty, he is from the colonies. His native tongue is all he understands.”

The gladiator finally raised his head, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. “The gates of hell are open night and day; smooth the descent, and easy is the way: but to come back from hell, and view the cheerful skies, in this the task and mighty labor lies.”

The poetry stunned you, the eloquence jarring against the brutal spectacle that had just unfolded. Around you, the room fell silent for a beat before Caracalla broke into a laugh.

“Poetry!” the Caracalla declared, grinning as he turned to Macrinus. “Very clever, Macrinus. Very clever indeed.”

Macrinus bowed slightly. “To amuse you is my only wish, your Majesty.”

“We are amused,” Geta said, though his gaze remained fixed on the gladiator. His voice rose as he addressed the room. “And we all look forward to seeing your poet… perform in the arena.”

“As do I your majesty's.” Macrinus gestured to his guard. “Viggo,” he said softly, and the guard stepped forward to escort the gladiator out of the room.

As the crowd began to disperse, murmurs of excitement rippling through the air, you remained rooted in place. Your eyes followed the blood trail left by Vijay’s body as it was dragged away. The victor—dripping in another man’s blood, yet unbowed—disappeared through the doors, his haunting words lingering in your mind like a ghost.

LUCILLA'S VILLA — LATE AFTERNOON

The villa of Domitia Lucilla stood as a serene contrast to the chaos of Rome—a sprawling sanctuary of pale stone walls and gardens heavy with the scent of roses and citrus. The late afternoon sun stretched shadows across the courtyard as you entered, the weariness from Senator Thraex’s debauched gathering weighing heavily on your shoulders.

Lucilla awaited you, standing poised near a column. Her cream stola shifted with the breeze, but her sharp gaze was unwavering, as if she had been expecting this moment.

“You’ve returned,” she said, warmth in her voice tempered by the gravity of her expression.

“I have, my lady—”

She waved off the formalities with a flick of her wrist. “Enough with that. How many times must I tell you?”

“Habit,” you replied with a faint smile, though it lacked its usual brightness.

Her lips twitched with amusement, but concern quickly took its place. “And how was Senator Thraex’s gathering? As intolerable as I feared?”

You sighed, the grotesque excess of the night flashing briefly in your mind. “More wine than wit. And blood, of course. Always blood.”

Lucilla’s mouth tightened, her brow furrowing just enough to betray her displeasure. She stepped closer, resting a hand lightly on your shoulder. “Rome devours itself with spectacle. It leaves nothing but emptiness behind,” she murmured.

You nodded but didn’t speak. The heaviness of her words settled heavily on you because they were true.

“And Thraex himself?” she pressed, tilting her head.

You hesitated. “He made his usual jabs about my… unmarried state. Feigned sympathy for my family. And spent an inordinate amount of time with Macrinus, the arms dealer. It seemed more calculated than casual.”

Lucilla’s eyes narrowed slightly, her mind already turning. “Macrinus does not waste his time on frivolities. If Thraex is courting him, there’s more at play.”

“Something to do with the games tomorrow, perhaps?” you suggested. “He seemed eager for them.”

Lucilla’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s possible. His ambitions are endless, and I fear his alliances will be the ruin of many.”

“Rome always finds a way to drag us into its mire,” you muttered bitterly.

Her hand on your shoulder tightened briefly, reassuring. “Then we tread carefully. But not tonight. Tonight, we focus on what lies ahead. The senators will convene soon, and General Acacius is to join us.”

You huffed a soft laugh, though it carried a trace of exasperation. “A grand gathering in his honor, and he doesn’t bother to attend the festivities.”

Lucilla arched a brow, her expression turning sly. “Were you hoping he would?”

Heat rushed to your face, and you fumbled for a response. “I—no, of course not. I just thought it odd.”

“Mm.” Her tone was noncommittal, but her knowing smile made you glance away.

Before you could dwell on your embarrassment, Lucilla turned down another garden path, leaving you to follow. It was there, amid the soft hum of cicadas and the golden haze of the late afternoon, that you saw him.

Marcus Acacius sat beneath a pergola, his broad shoulders bent slightly over a parchment, a quill poised in his hand. A goblet of wine sat forgotten beside him, the scene unexpectedly tranquil for a man of his reputation.

Lucilla glanced over her shoulder with a smirk. “It seems you’ll get your wish after all.”

Your stomach twisted at her words, but before you could form a protest, she disappeared around the corner. Left to your own devices, you took a steadying breath and approached. The crunch of gravel underfoot drew his attention, and he looked up, his dark eyes softening as they met yours.

“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t return,” he said, his voice low and warm, though a flicker of relief betrayed him.

You tilted your head, folding your arms as you came closer. “And I was beginning to think you’d forgotten the party was meant for you.”

Marcus chuckled, setting down his quill. “Crowded rooms filled with drunken senators and empty promises hold little appeal. I prefer the quiet.” He gestured to the bench across from him. “Join me?”

For a moment, you hesitated, the unspoken tension between you filling the air. But then you sat, folding your hands neatly in your lap.

“The games tomorrow will be particularly… extravagant,” you said, glancing at the parchment. “I’m to serve as a healer for the event.”

His brow furrowed. “You’ll be in the arena?”

“Not in it,” you replied quickly. “But close enough.”

Marcus’s jaw tightened. “It’s barbaric. They celebrate death, and you’re left to mend what’s left behind.”

“It’s Rome,” you said with a shrug, though the bitterness in your voice was unmistakable.

“Does it not anger you?” His voice was steady but insistent, his gaze searching yours.

You hesitated before answering. “Every day,” you admitted quietly. “But anger doesn’t heal. It doesn’t save lives.”

His hand moved, resting near yours on the table—not touching, but close enough that the space between felt charged. “You do more than heal,” he said after a moment. “You remind us of what’s worth saving.”

The sincerity in his words made your breath hitch. For a moment, you didn’t know what to say.

“I only do what I can,” you said finally.

“And it’s enough,” he replied, his voice firm.

Silence settled between you, but it was not empty. It was heavy with questions left unasked, with the unshakable feeling that you knew him from somewhere beyond this life.

“You’re different,” he said suddenly.

You raised an eyebrow, half-amused. “Is that a compliment or a warning?”

He smiled faintly. “A truth.”

You studied him, the edges of recognition tugging at your mind. “Have we met before?”

His hand stilled, his expression unreadable. “Why do you ask?”

“It’s the way you look at me,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Like you know something I don’t.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, softly, “Perhaps I’m just trying to understand you.”

“And do you?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, he didn’t answer. Instead, his gaze lingered on yours, as if he were searching for something—something hidden behind the words you didn’t say. His jaw tightened, and then relaxed, his hesitation drawing out the silence until it felt like the whole garden held its breath.

The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting an amber glow across the courtyard. The scent of citrus blossoms drifted through the air, mingling with the faint tang of oil from the bronze lamps. You and Marcus sat across from each other, the heavy quiet between you punctuated by the distant hum of the city below.

“I think,” he said finally, his voice low and measured, “that you’re not as much of a mystery as you’d like to believe.”

You said nothing, the truth of his words settling over you. He wasn’t the first to try to understand you, but he was the first whose attempt didn’t feel like an invasion. Still, you kept your silence, hoping it would shield whatever he thought he saw.

Marcus leaned back slightly, his gaze unwavering, though his tone softened. “You wear your defiance like armor. It suits you, but…” He hesitated, as if searching for the right words. “Even armor cracks under enough weight.”

Your chest tightened. There was no judgment in his voice, just quiet understanding, and that somehow made it worse. You turned your eyes to the horizon, watching as the light bled into dusk.

“And you?” you asked at last, your voice quiet, almost tentative. “What cracks your armor?”

He didn’t answer immediately, his jaw tightening as he looked away. For a long moment, you thought he might deflect or let the question fall unanswered. But then he sighed, his shoulders dropping slightly, the facade of the unshakable general slipping.

“The things I’ve done,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “The wars. The lives I’ve taken. I tell myself it was duty. For Rome. For honor. But when I close my eyes…” His hand curled into a fist on the table, the scarred knuckles white with tension. “I see their faces. The ones I killed. The ones I couldn’t save. Sometimes, I think that’s all there is left of me. Blood and ghosts.”

His words hung in the air, raw and unguarded. You felt the sharp sting of his pain as if it were your own, and it stirred something deep within you—a desire not to fix him, but to let him be broken without shame.

“There’s more to you than that,” you said softly, surprising even yourself with the conviction in your voice. “Let the brokenness be felt, Marcus, until you reach the other side. There is goodness in the heart of every broken man who comes right up to the edge of losing everything he has.”

He looked at you then, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—those fierce, commanding eyes—betrayed a flicker of something fragile. “And if the edge is all that’s left?”

You shook your head. “Then you find your way back. One step, one breath, one choice at a time. You’ve already come this far.”

A faint, wry smile tugged at his lips. “You sound certain.”

“I am,” you said simply. “Because I’ve seen it before. I’ve seen men lose everything and still find the strength to rebuild. You’ve endured so much, Marcus. And yet, here you are.”

His gaze lingered on you, and for a moment, the air between you felt impossibly heavy, as though the weight of both your pasts had settled there. But then, something shifted—just a fraction—and the tension eased.

“Tell me,” he said quietly, leaning forward. “How does someone like you—someone who speaks of goodness and second chances—end up in a place like this?”

You let out a soft laugh, though it held no humor. “A long story,” you said, your tone laced with irony.

He smiled faintly. “I’ve got time.”

The simplicity of his statement caught you off guard. You studied him for a moment, searching for any trace of mockery, but found none. He was patient, steady, like a man who had weathered every storm and learned to endure the waiting.

You hesitated, then began to speak—not all at once, but in fragments. You told him of the choices that had brought you here, the moments of defiance and loss that had shaped you. He listened without interrupting, his focus unbroken, as though each word mattered.

When the story faltered and the silence crept back in, Marcus spoke again, his voice gentle. “You’ve carried much on your shoulders.”

You shrugged, your gaze fixed on the table. “Haven’t we all?”

He nodded, a faint smile playing at his lips. “Perhaps. But not everyone carries it as well as you.”

The compliment startled you, and you looked up to find him watching you with something like admiration. It wasn’t romantic, not yet—but it was real, and it unsettled you in a way you couldn’t quite name.

“You don’t know me well enough to say that,” you said, though your voice lacked its usual bite.

“Not yet,” he agreed. “But I’d like to.”

Something in his tone—a quiet sincerity, unadorned by pretense—made you pause. You realized, with a small jolt, that you wanted to know him, too. Not just the general, but the man beneath the armor.

“Maybe,” you said finally, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “If you’re patient.”

His smile widened, just a little, and for the first time, you saw a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “I’ve learned to be patient,” he said. “For the right things.”

And as the night deepened and the stars began to dot the sky, you found yourself wondering if, perhaps, this was one of them.

The room was dark, the faint glow of torchlight from the grilled window casting long, flickering shadows on the walls. Lucilla stood beside you, her sharp eyes trained on the guards below as they exchanged shifts. She watched silently, her body tense but still, until the last of them disappeared around the corner.

With a soft sigh, she turned back into the room and extinguished the candles one by one. The light died away, replaced by the cover of darkness. Outside, a guard’s voice called up, noting that she must be retiring for the evening.

You remained quiet, holding the lamp as Lucilla adjusted her robes and pulled up the hood, the fabric obscuring her features. The air felt heavier now, laden with unspoken tension. She glanced at you, her gaze sharp even in the dim light.

“Are you ready?” she asked, her voice a low murmur.

You nodded and pulled your own hood over your head. The warmth of the lamp in your hand was a small comfort against the chill of the night.

Lucilla stepped closer, her hands gripping your forearm briefly as she said your name. “You must know,” she said, her voice quiet but firm, “if you do this with us, there is a possibility that we may be discovered. And the penalties—”

“I’m aware,” you interrupted gently, meeting her gaze. There was no hesitation in your voice.

She studied you for a moment longer, then nodded, a faint flicker of respect passing over her features. Without another word, she turned toward a small shrine tucked into the corner of the room.

Kneeling, she rolled back a slab of marble with deliberate care, revealing a narrow passage that led downward. The air that seeped out was cool and damp, smelling faintly of earth and stone.

Lucilla motioned for you to follow, and you descended after her, the spiral staircase winding tightly into the depths. Your lamp cast shifting shadows on the walls, and the faint echoes of your footsteps seemed louder than they should have been.

The tunnel at the bottom was carved with care, though the stone showed its age. Lucilla moved through it with practiced ease, her robes brushing against the walls as the passage widened and opened into a massive underground catacomb.

You stopped short, your breath catching at the sight. The vaulted ceilings arched high above you, their grandeur almost otherworldly. This place was built for eternity, every detail a testament to early Roman splendor. Statues of gods and long-dead ancestors stood sentinel, their marble faces solemn in the lamplight.

Lucilla’s steps slowed as she approached a series of crypts. Each one was marked with the bust of a family member, their likenesses carved into the stone. She stopped before the bust of Marcus Aurelius, her father, and laid a hand on its smooth surface.

“Father,” she whispered, her voice tinged with both reverence and sorrow, “protect us and guide us.” Her fingers lingered for a moment before she turned away, her expression unreadable.

You wanted to say something, to break the silence, but the words escaped you. There was a sacredness here that felt unshakable, a weight you couldn’t quite explain.

ANTECHAMBER — MINUTES LATER

The air in the antechamber felt thick, like the weight of centuries pressed down upon you all. Torches lined the stone walls, their flickering light casting wavering shadows on faces lined with tension and purpose. The damp chill of the underground space only added to the solemnity of the moment.

Lucilla moved forward with practiced grace, her head held high despite the gravity of the meeting. The first man stepped into the torchlight, his wiry frame and sharp features softened only by the faint trace of a smile.

“Gracchus,” Lucilla said warmly, extending her hands. “Old friend.”

Gracchus clasped her hands briefly, his grip conveying both respect and concern. “My lady. I wish we were meeting in better times.”

Lucilla’s lips curved into a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “The sun shone once—it will shine again.”

Gracchus raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth quirking into a sardonic smirk. “And what in heaven’s name does that mean?”

Before Lucilla could answer, a low, resonant voice emerged from the shadows. “It means hope, Gracchus.”

You started slightly, your heart skipping as a figure stepped forward. Marcus Acacius. The flickering light caught the edges of his armor, making it gleam like liquid fire. His presence filled the room effortlessly, his broad frame and steady gaze commanding attention.

Gracchus let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “Oh yes. He is shiny.”

Marcus didn’t react to the jest, but his eyes flicked between Lucilla and Gracchus before settling briefly on you. His gaze held for a beat too long, making your pulse quicken.

“Did I startle you?” he asked, his tone smooth but edged with faint amusement.

You straightened, tightening your grip on the lamp you carried. “Not at all,” you said, though your voice betrayed you.

The faintest hint of a smile touched his lips, but he turned his attention back to Gracchus, his expression growing serious. “We want to take back the city. To restore Rome to what it should be.”

Gracchus’s expression darkened, doubt creeping into his voice. “An exciting venture. When?”

“On the final day of the games,” Marcus replied firmly.

Gracchus raised a skeptical brow. “How?”

Marcus’s jaw tightened, the tension clear as he measured his words. “My army waits for my command at Ostia. Five thousand soldiers loyal to me will enter Rome. I intend to arrest our emperors in front of the crowds at the Colosseum for their crimes against the Senate and the people.”

A long, heavy silence followed. Gracchus exchanged a wary glance with Thraex, who stood silently in the background. The two senators appeared burdened with years of cynicism, the spark of belief long extinguished.

Lucilla broke the quiet, her voice sharp and resolute. “We cannot continue to see Rome damaged, sliding further into corruption and decay.”

Thraex snorted softly, folding his arms. “Does he want to be Emperor?”

Marcus’s gaze sharpened as he shook his head. “I am a soldier, not a politician. Rome will be yours to administer and—”

Gracchus interrupted him, his tone cutting. “Your father spoke of returning power to the Senate. But that was a generation ago. Much has changed. The people haven’t seen hope for years, and—”

This time, Marcus’s voice rose slightly, his frustration bleeding through. “Rome is not yet ready to be a republic, but with time—and guidance—a vote by the people, for the people, would mean—”

Lucilla placed a steady hand on Marcus’s arm, quieting him. She turned to Gracchus, her voice calmer but no less determined. “Rome can live again. Do we have your support, Gracchus?”

Gracchus hesitated, his gaze shifting to you, then back to Marcus. Finally, he nodded slowly, his voice soft. “Lucilla, you are the daughter of Marcus Aurelius. He had my loyalty, and so do you.”

Lucilla allowed herself a small smile. “A political answer, but good enough. Senator Thraex?”

Thraex hesitated, his eyes flickering to you. He seemed to brace himself before speaking. “Politics follows power, my lady. Take back what is rightfully yours, and the Senate will support you.”

The room seemed to exhale as the senators gave their tentative agreement, but Gracchus’s gaze lingered on you. His voice softened. “I vowed to your parents I would take care of you. To give you a life beyond this... chaos.”

Your grip on the lamp tightened as you met his gaze, your voice steady despite the turmoil in your chest. “There is no point in life if the future of Rome is nothing but an abuse of power and position.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Marcus’s expression shift. His gaze rested on you, his brow furrowing slightly, as if he were seeing you in a new light.

The torches flickered, their flames casting light on faces filled with determination and shadows that hinted at the dangerous road ahead. You glanced at Marcus once more, and his eyes caught yours, a faint, unspoken understanding passing between you.

THE COLOSSEUM — DAY

The air around the Colosseum is alive with a chaotic energy that hums through the sprawling crowd. The great amphitheater towers above, its shadow sprawling across the dusty streets. Vendors shout over one another, selling honeyed dates, roasted nuts, and cheap wine. Children dart between the throngs, their quick fingers snatching at coin purses while wide-eyed newcomers marvel at the spectacle before them.

As you approach the towering Capitoline Arch, your eyes lift to the imposing statue of General Marcus Acacius atop a marble plinth. The sunlight gleams off the bronze plaque beneath, bearing the inscription: ACACIUS, VICTOR AFRICAE.

You pause, a faint sigh escaping your lips as you take it in. The statue is majestic, carved with precision to capture his strength and valor, but there’s something about its stillness, its perfection, that feels wrong. The man you’ve come to know is far more complicated than the warrior immortalized in marble.

Pulling your hood closer to shield yourself from prying eyes, you make your way toward the entrance of the Colosseum.

Outside the massive arena, the crowd is dense, funneling into the arched entrances like water forced through narrow channels. The scent of sweat, baked bread, and dust clings to the air.

A wagon lumbers past, its wheels creaking as it pulls into the rear gates of the Colosseum. The iron gates groan shut behind it with a finality that makes you shiver.

Your eyes catch on one of the gladiators stepping down from the wagon. He is broad-shouldered, with a grim expression and scars that tell stories of survival. Recognition flickers in your mind—he was at Senator Thraex’s gathering, one of Macrinus’ men.

For a moment, his gaze meets yours, sharp and searching. You quickly turn away, the weight of his stare lingering like a brand on your skin.

COLOSSEUM UNDERCROFT — DAY

The undercroft is a world unto itself, hidden beneath the grandeur of the arena above. The air here is damp and stale, filled with the mingled scents of blood, sweat, and the earthy musk of the animals kept for the games. Torches line the stone walls, their flames barely cutting through the heavy gloom.

You step carefully, the hem of your robe brushing against the uneven stones beneath your feet. Around you, the sounds of preparation echo—metallic clangs of swords being sharpened, the low murmur of prayers whispered by gladiators, and the distant roar of the crowd above, a constant reminder of what waits beyond.

A sudden shout breaks through the noise, and you flinch instinctively, your hand tightening around the lamp you carry.

“Keep moving!” A guard barks, shoving a gladiator forward.

You press yourself against the wall to let them pass, your eyes following the line of chained men as they march toward their fate. The air feels heavier here, thick with despair and the metallic tang of blood that never quite fades from the stone.

The main chamber opens ahead, a cavernous space carved from the bedrock, with a stone memorial spanning two centuries etched into one of the walls. The names carved there seem endless, a testament to the lives given—or taken—beneath this roof.

You step into the room, your eyes searching for Ravi, the healer who has been your closest ally in this grim underworld. He is leaning over a battered table, his thick canvas coat bristling with the tools of his trade—scalpels, needles, and small bottles of tinctures.

Ravi glances up as you approach, his dark eyes meeting yours. He nods, his expression weary but kind. “You’re late,” he says, his tone more teasing than reproachful.

“I was delayed,” you reply, setting the lamp down on the edge of the table.

Ravi straightens, his hands covered in the telltale stains of his work. “Delayed by a statue, no doubt,” he says with a smirk, nodding toward the hallway you came from.

You sigh, rolling your eyes. “Not just the statue. The entire crowd outside could rival an army.”

He chuckles softly, but his humor fades as his gaze shifts to the tools laid out before him. “It’s a mad world out there. And in here. They’ll call it glory, but we know better, don’t we?”

You nod, your fingers brushing against one of the bottles of tincture on the table. “How many today?”

“Too many,” Ravi replies grimly. “It always is. But if we don’t patch them up, they’ll be thrown back into the arena like lambs to the slaughter.”

You glance toward the memorial wall, the endless names a stark reminder of what happens when healing is no longer enough. “And yet they cheer,” you say softly, more to yourself than to him.

Ravi follows your gaze, his expression hardening. “They cheer because they’re too far away to hear the screams. From up there, it’s just a show.”

A heavy silence falls between you, the weight of his words settling in the space like a tangible presence.

Finally, Ravi breaks it, his voice quieter now. “You could have been anywhere. A villa in the hills, a proper clinic, somewhere far from all of this. Why here?”

You meet his gaze, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. “Because someone has to be.”

Before Ravi can respond, the distant blare of a cornu horn echoes through the chamber, its mournful call summoning the combatants to the arena.

Ravi exhales, shaking his head. “That’s our cue.”

You nod, grabbing the lamp and turning toward the corridor. “Let’s hope today isn’t worse than the last.”

Ravi follows, his canvas coat swaying as he moves. “Hope’s in short supply here,” he mutters. But then, as if to lighten the mood, he adds, “But if anyone can keep these bastards alive, it’s us.”

A faint smile pulls at your lips as the two of you head toward the chaos waiting above. The sound of the horn grows louder, blending with the roar of the crowd—a noise as relentless as the tide.

The roar of the Colosseum was muffled slightly where you and Ravi stood in the shadow of the lower arches, but the sight above was impossible to ignore. Caracalla and Geta had already taken their places in the royal seats, their expressions imperious yet lacking true command. The crowd’s response to their arrival was lukewarm, tepid applause barely rippling through the masses.

Ravi glanced at you, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “They can’t even fake enthusiasm for their own Emperors. Telling, isn’t it?”

You nodded grimly, shifting your gaze to the arena floor where the fight’s Master of Ceremonies stood, clearly tense. He gestured sharply to the musicians, prompting them to play a fanfare in a desperate attempt to rouse the audience.

Through the giant copper horn mounted on a stand, his voice bellowed, “Citizens of Rome! These sacred games are held to honor the victory of Rome over the barbarians of Numidia—”

You winced at the crude remark, the words cutting through the air with their arrogance.

“And to honor Rome's legionary commander, General Justus Acacius!”

At the mention of Acacius, your eyes instinctively sought him out. There he was, emerging in white and gold, a gleaming figure against the harsh backdrop of the Colosseum. His presence was magnetic, commanding without effort. He moved with the same purpose he always did, though you could sense a tension in his posture, a reluctance masked by the pageantry.

Lucilla followed close behind him, her chin lifted with practiced grace. When the Master of Ceremonies announced her name—“Lucilla, the daughter of Emperor Marcus Aurelius!”—the crowd erupted into thunderous applause, a stark contrast to their earlier indifference.

Beside you, Ravi let out a low whistle. “They still adore her.”

“They always will,” you murmured, watching as she ascended to the royal seats under the guise of honor, though you knew better. The two Centurions flanking her were not mere escorts but guards, a subtle display of control that would escape the average onlooker.

From this distance, it seemed she embraced the accolades, her every gesture perfectly measured. But you caught the slight flicker in her expression when she glanced toward Acacius.

“You honor us with your presence. Speak to the plebeians, Acacius,” Geta commanded, his tone laced with condescension.

You held your breath, sensing the reluctance in Marcus’s stillness. He exchanged a look with Lucilla, brief but telling, before his gaze swept across the crowd, searching. When his eyes found yours, something in his demeanor shifted—resolve, perhaps, or a need for grounding.

Finally, he rose, stepping to the railing as the crowd quieted, anticipation thick in the air. His voice, deep and steady, carried over the expanse with ease.

“I am not an orator, nor a politician,” he began, the simplicity of his words a sharp contrast to the pomp surrounding him. “I am only a soldier. Real heroism is not the stuff of games.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd, confusion and intrigue mingling as Acacius’s words sank in.

“It reveals itself to us only in the service of life itself,” he continued, his gaze unwavering. “I have seen bravery in men during war, and from women, too—bravery that does not falter in the face of fear but rises to meet it. And even, once, in this arena.”

Your breath hitched, the weight of his words pressing against you. Though his gaze never left the crowd, you felt as though those words were for you alone.

“If you pray,” Marcus’s voice deepened, his tone almost pleading, “pray that the gods will deliver us bravery like that. Because Rome needs it now.”

The silence that followed was profound, the kind that held more weight than applause. Then, slowly, the crowd erupted, their cheers cascading through the Colosseum like a wave.

You watched him step back from the railing, his expression inscrutable as he returned to his seat. But as the applause thundered on, his eyes found yours again, and in that brief moment, you saw it—something unspoken yet unmistakable.

Ravi nudged you gently, breaking the spell. “He’s good, I’ll give him that.”

You nodded, your heart still pounding. “Better than they deserve,” you said softly, though your thoughts were far from the Emperors.

The tension in the Colosseum was recognized as the opening ceremony came to an end. Caracalla and Geta clapped from their royal seats, their applause mechanical and devoid of genuine enthusiasm. Below, the Master of Ceremonies stood nervously, his voice amplified by the great copper horn.

“From the South Gate... fighters from the stable of Macrinus of Thysdrus!”

Your gaze darted to the southern entrance, where the gladiators emerged into the blinding sunlight. You recognized one of them—Hanno of Numidia—whose name Ravi had told you earlier. The crowd greeted them with scattered boos and jeers, a stark contrast to the grandeur of the arena itself.

Hanno walked with measured steps, his expression stoic as he led the small group to the center of the arena. His shoulders bore the weight of more than just the armor; you could see it in his eyes.

“And from the stables of our Emperors Caracalla and Geta themselves: Glyceo the Destroyer!”

The eastern gates creaked open, revealing a towering figure clad in ornate armor, seated atop a great white rhino. The crowd erupted in frenzied cheers, the noise reverberating through the stone walls. The rhino trotted with surprising agility, its hooves kicking up clouds of dust as it carried Glyceo with the ease of a seasoned warrior.

From your vantage point, you saw the glint of weapons strapped to the rhino’s side—an axe, a sword, a mace, and a bola. Glyceo reached for the mace, gripping its heavy handle with a confidence born from countless victories.

The first gladiator dared to challenge the beast, stepping forward with his sword raised. He attempted to dodge the rhino’s charge at the last moment, but the creature’s speed and precision were unmatched. The horn struck him with brutal force, sending him flying across the arena before the rhino finished him off with a savage thrust.

Your stomach churned as the body was tossed aside like a ragdoll. The crowd’s cheers only grew louder.

Hanno stood still, his gaze fixed on the carnage. Then, almost imperceptibly, he crouched and scooped a handful of sand from the arena floor, letting it sift through his fingers. The gesture was hauntingly familiar—a ritual Maximus had performed before every fight.

Beside you, Ravi murmured, “Do you see that? He remembers.”

You glanced at Lucilla in the royal box, noting the flicker of something in her expression—recognition, perhaps, or sorrow. But she quickly masked it, her face hardening as she turned back to the arena.

The rhino charged again, this time with Glyceo’s mace raised high. Hanno sidestepped at the last possible moment, but the rhino’s horn clipped him, sending him sprawling. Dust clouded the air as the beast wheeled around, disoriented by the sunlight.

Hanno was quick to act. He flung the remaining sand into the air, creating a bright, blinding curtain that obscured his movements. The rhino charged again, unable to see clearly, and slammed full force into the arena wall. Glyceo was thrown like a ragdoll, his body hitting the stone with a sickening thud.

The rhino staggered, its massive frame reeling as it struggled to regain its footing. Hanno retrieved his sword and advanced on Glyceo, who was already scrambling to his feet. Their blades met in a clash of steel, sparks flying as Glyceo’s superior strength began to overwhelm Hanno.

You leaned forward, gripping the stone railing as Glyceo delivered a brutal series of blows, forcing Hanno to his knees. The crowd chanted, their bloodlust palpable.

Lucilla gasped, turning away, her hand trembling as it gripped the edge of her seat. Even Macrinus, who had been watching with a calculating gaze, shook his head slightly.

Glyceo raised his short sword, poised to deliver the final blow. He paused, turning to the royal box for approval.

“Shall we spare his life, brother?” Geta asked, his tone mockingly casual.

Caracalla shrugged, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “I wouldn’t mind seeing some blood.”

Geta ignored him, his attention shifting to Lucilla. “Lucilla, shall we show mercy?”

Lucilla hesitated, her voice trembling. “Mercy.” The word was barely audible, choked with guilt and something deeper.

Geta stood, raising his fist. The crowd fell silent, holding their breath as he slowly extended his thumb upward, granting Hanno his life. The Colosseum erupted in cheers, but the celebration was short-lived.

“No,” Hanno said, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade.

The crowd stilled, murmurs of confusion rippling through the stands.

“No mercy,” he repeated, his tone resolute.

Geta’s face twisted in disbelief. “Gladiator, we have spared your life. No one refuses—”

“I will not accept mercy,” Hanno interrupted, rising to his feet despite the blood dripping from his wounds. He turned to the royal box, his gaze unwavering. “I would sooner face your blade than accept Roman mercy.”

The crowd erupted in chaos—laughter, jeers, and shouts of encouragement mingling in a cacophony of sound.

“Fight on, then, fool, and die,” Geta spat, his face reddening with embarrassment.

Glyceo lunged, his mace swinging in a wide arc. Hanno ducked, his movements fueled by desperation and fury. With a final burst of strength, he seized his fallen short sword and drove it into Glyceo’s abdomen. The mighty gladiator staggered, his expression one of shock before he collapsed, lifeless, into the sand.

The crowd roared its approval, chanting Hanno’s name as he stood victorious. From the royal box, Macrinus smiled, his eyes gleaming with intrigue. You couldn’t help but watch Hanno with a mixture of awe and apprehension, your heart pounding as the weight of the moment settled over the arena.

COLOSSEUM HOSPITAL ROOM — NIGHT

The dim light of flickering oil lamps cast wavering shadows on the rough stone walls of the makeshift infirmary. The smell of blood, sweat, and burnt herbs clung to the air like a heavy shroud. Ravi moved methodically among the injured, tending to other gladiators with a calm, steady hand.

You were left alone with Hanno. He sat on a wooden stool, his posture tense despite the exhaustion etched into his features. A deep, jagged wound marred his upper arm, the torn flesh angry and raw. Mosquitoes buzzed around him, drawn to the scent of blood and sweat.

You crouched beside him, your hands deftly inspecting the wound. “This needs to be cleaned and stitched up,” you murmured, glancing up at him briefly. His eyes met yours, dark and unreadable.

He broke the silence. “What’s your name?”

You paused, meeting his gaze again as you answered, giving your name. You nodded toward the other side of the room. “That man over there is Ravi. We’re both doctors—or as close to it as you’ll get here. More men die of infected wounds than in the arena itself.”

Hanno tilted his head slightly, watching you as you prepared the tools of your trade. “This is going to hurt,” you added, your tone both matter-of-fact and soft.

You handed him a small pipe, its carved edges worn smooth from use.

“What’s this?” he asked, examining it with mild suspicion.

“Devil’s breath and opium,” you explained. “For the pain. Breathe it in.”

Hanno hesitated for only a moment before placing the pipe between his lips. He inhaled deeply, his expression neutral as the sharp, bitter taste hit his tongue. Slowly, his eyes fluttered shut, and his breathing steadied.

“The effects are different for us all,” you said gently, noting the way his features softened, the tension in his shoulders easing.

When his eyes opened again, they were hazy, unfocused. “Your voice…” he muttered, blinking at you as if trying to place something familiar.

“What about it?” you asked with a small smile, distracting him as you began cleaning the wound.

“It’s… nice,” he replied, his words slow and slightly slurred. “Kind.”

You gave a soft chuckle, focusing on the task at hand. “Don’t get used to it. This part isn’t going to feel so kind.”

He took another draw of the pipe just as you began stitching the torn flesh with catgut. The needle pierced his skin, and he hissed through clenched teeth, coughing as a puff of opium-laden smoke escaped his lips and drifted into the air between you.

“Where’d you learn your trade?” he asked, his voice rough but steady.

You kept your focus on the stitches, your hands moving with practiced precision. “Why do you ask?”

“You’ve got a light hand,” he said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You glanced up briefly, the corners of your lips quirking. “You don’t strike me as someone who hands out compliments easily.”

The faint flicker of the oil lamp threw warm shadows across the stone walls of the infirmary. The low hum of muffled groans and whispered prayers filled the air, mixing with the faint metallic tang of blood and herbs. His dark eyes, hazy from the drug, remained fixed on you as you worked.

“I don’t,” he murmured, his voice soft and slow. “But I’ve had enough wounds stitched up to know the difference between butchery and care.”

The corners of your lips quirked upward, and a soft chuckle escaped you. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It is,” he said, his tone unusually earnest.

Your laugh echoed softly in the quiet room, and his lips curved in response. Hanno was inebriated now—high on the devil’s breath and opium. He looked at you, his gaze almost childlike in its wonder, as if the haze had stripped away some of the weight he carried.

“What we do in life echoes in eternity,” you said suddenly, your voice a mix of reverence and melancholy.

The words hung in the air, timeless and heavy. You paused, your fingers stilling over the bandage.

Hanno blinked, as if chasing a memory. “I feel I know those words…”

You smiled faintly, your eyes meeting his. “I can’t take credit for them. They’re written on a tomb here, over the bones of a gladiator.”

He let the words sink in, his gaze distant but thoughtful. You returned to your work, your hands moving with practiced precision as you tied off the final stitch and smoothed the bandage over his wound.

“There,” you said, leaning back to admire your handiwork. “I think that should hold.”

Hanno’s eyes drifted to his arm. He reached out, almost absently, and ran his fingers across the crude stitches. His touch was featherlight, as if testing the reality of it.

You stood, gathering your tools and reaching for the pipe still clutched in his hand. But before you could take it, he brought it to his lips again, inhaling deeply. The motion was slow and deliberate, his dark eyes fixed on you through the curling smoke.

You paused, watching him, but said nothing. After a moment, you gave a small nod and turned back to pack away the rest of your supplies.

“Why did you let me take another hit?” he asked suddenly, his voice softer now, as if the opium was tugging him toward vulnerability.

You glanced over your shoulder, your expression unreadable. “Because sometimes, we need the pain to go quiet for a while.”

Hanno held your gaze for a long moment, his lips curving into a faint, lopsided smile. “You understand more than most,” he said quietly.

You didn’t respond, but the weight of his words lingered. As you turned back to your work, his voice broke the silence again, softer this time.

He said your name a tender echo in the quiet room. “Do you believe it?”

“Believe what?” you asked, not turning around.

“That what we do in life echoes in eternity.”

You stilled, your hands tightening slightly around your tools. Finally, you turned to face him, your expression thoughtful. “I think… the choices we make, the lives we touch—they ripple outward. Whether it’s eternity or just a fleeting moment, I think it matters.”

Hanno’s gaze didn’t waver, even through the haze of the drug. “You matter,” he said, his voice low but steady.

The words hit you harder than you expected, and for a moment, you could only stare at him. He wasn’t smiling, wasn’t teasing. He meant it.

Your throat tightened, but you forced a small smile. “Rest now, Hanno. You’ll need your strength.”

He didn’t protest, but his eyes lingered on you as you turned away, your heart inexplicably heavier and lighter all at once.

LUCILLA’S VILLA – EVENING

The villa shimmered under the moonlight, its alabaster walls soaking in the silver glow. Marble columns cast long shadows across the flagstones, and the air hummed with the gentle chorus of cicadas. Somewhere in the gardens, the delicate aroma of night-blooming jasmine mingled with the faint tang of the sea breeze.

You stood at the edge of the terrace, a delicate glass of spiced wine cradled between your fingers. The cool air kissed your skin, but it couldn’t chase away the heat simmering beneath—an ache born of exhaustion, frustration, and something you dared not name. The day had unraveled like a tragedy, the gods watching with cruel amusement as you struggled to hold it together.

Behind you, the sound of soft footfalls broke the stillness.

“You stand there as though the weight of Rome rests on your shoulders,” a voice drawled, smooth and familiar.

You turned, finding Lucilla leaning against the stone archway, her golden hair catching the light of the lanterns flickering nearby. She regarded you with a mixture of curiosity and knowing—Lucilla had a way of reading people like scrolls, unrolling their secrets with unnerving ease.

“Does it not?” you replied, attempting a wry smile, though it faltered before it could fully form.

Lucilla stepped closer, her movements fluid, regal. “Rome’s weight has crushed stronger people than us,” she said softly, joining you at the balustrade. “The key is learning when to carry it—and when to set it down.”

You scoffed, swirling the wine in your glass. “And how often do you set it down?”

Her lips curved into a faint smile. “Far less than I should.” She glanced at you from the corner of her eye. “But I’m not the one standing out here, staring at the stars as though they hold the answers.”

The faint humor in her tone was a lifeline, grounding you. “If the stars do have answers, they’re not sharing them with me,” you muttered, shaking your head.

Lucilla’s expression softened, and she reached out, placing a hand lightly on your arm. “The answers aren’t in the stars,” she said. “They’re in here.” She tapped lightly against your chest, her gaze unwavering. “You’ve already carried so much. Don’t forget you’re allowed to put it down—just for a while.”

Her words settled over you like a balm, and for a moment, the tension in your chest eased. You opened your mouth to respond, but the sound of distant laughter interrupted, drawing both your gazes toward the villa’s golden glow.

Lucilla sighed, stepping back. “The night calls,” she said, her tone laced with resignation. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Lucilla,” you replied, watching as she disappeared into the shadows of the villa, her presence leaving an unspoken promise of strength in its wake.

The door clicked shut behind you, sealing off the night’s hum. You exhaled, leaning against the wood, letting the day’s exhaustion seep into your bones. But the solace was short-lived.

“Finally,” a low, gravelly voice murmured from the shadows.

You startled, your hand flying to your chest. “Marcus!” you hissed, your heart pounding. “What are you doing here?”

He stepped forward, his broad frame illuminated by the flickering lantern light. His tunic was slightly disheveled, and his dark curls fell across his brow, softening the hard planes of his face. Yet his eyes—those piercing eyes—held a fire that made it impossible to look away.

“I couldn’t stay away,” he admitted, his voice low and rough. “Not tonight.”

You crossed your arms, more to steady yourself than to rebuff him. “And you thought sneaking into my quarters was the solution?”

Marcus’s lips quirked into a faint smirk, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’ve been on my mind all evening,” he said simply, the weight of his confession hanging between you. “Do you know how maddening it is? Seeing you, hearing you, but never being close enough?”

Your breath caught, and you shook your head, trying to keep your composure. “Marcus, this—whatever this is—it's dangerous. You know that.”

“Danger is nothing new to me,” he said, stepping closer. His presence was magnetic, and you found yourself rooted in place as he closed the distance between you.

“Marcus…” you began, but your voice faltered as his fingers brushed against yours, tentative and fleeting.

“Tell me to leave,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I will. But if you don’t—”

The unspoken promise in his words sent a shiver racing down your spine. You opened your mouth to protest, but instead, you found yourself tilting your face toward his touch as his hand cupped your cheek.

“I’ve seen you fight for others, care for them,” he said softly, his thumb tracing a gentle line along your jaw. “Let me fight for you. Let me care for you.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, unbidden and unwelcome. “You don’t understand what you’re asking,” you said, your voice trembling.

“I do,” he countered, his forehead nearly touching yours. “And I’m asking anyway.”

His breath was warm against your lips, and before you could stop yourself, you closed the distance, your mouth meeting his in a kiss that was equal parts desperation and surrender.

The world fell away in that moment, the chaos and the danger replaced by the warmth of his embrace. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened, his lips moving against yours with a fervor that left you breathless.

You pulled back, your chest heaving, your hands clutching the fabric of his tunic. “This doesn’t make the world any less dangerous,” you said, your voice barely audible.

“No,” he agreed, his gaze locked on yours. “But I’d burn the world to ash just to feel the heat of you.”

His words sent a shiver through you, a dangerous mix of devotion and desire. And as he kissed you again, softer this time, you realized that perhaps the fire he promised wasn’t something to fear—but something you’d already been consumed by.

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stargalaxxy · 6 months ago

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⋆˚࿔ Boyfriend Scenarios 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ - Ninja Boys - How They Fluster You ⋆˚ʚɞ

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･AAAAA WHAT HAVE I DONEEEE okiii so since I finished the whole introductions and stuff now it's time for the meat and potatoessss I will admit this is suggestive but by golly gosh was I kicking my feet and giggling like a maniac so I hope y'all do to while reading thissssss BUT FOR ZANES PART I WAS REALLY IN MY FEELINGS LIKE NINJAGO WRITERS PLEASE GIMMIE MORE ZANE CONTENT PLEASSEEEE DROP A DISS TRACK AND MY LIFE IS YOURSSSSSS but I hope you guys enjoy I did hah.... No headcannons this time just short stories so it'll be shorter... Everyone is aged up, all of y'all are in your 20's °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

𝜗𝜚Now Playing: You Right x Luxurious by, Doja Cat, Gwen Stefani𝜗𝜚 (*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈) *

♡‧₊˚One Boy a Thousand Feelings♡‧₊˚

♡‧₊˚Lloyd Garmadon♡‧₊˚

‧₊˚ ⋅Shirtless‧₊˚ ⋅

୧ ‧₊˚ 🎀 ⋅ ☆ ˖°

You were outside the bathroom door of the Monastery waiting for Lloyd to come out so that you could do your nightly routine before heading to bed, “Lloyd, c’mooon, I wanna go to beeed” you whine as you try the door again still locked.

You hear Lloyd hack as you could guess was brushing his teeth, the sink goes off as you hear him spit. “Alright alright I’m coming out” Lloyd huffs playfully, chuckling at your impatience as he pictures you rolling your eyes on the other side.

You hear the door unlock as the doorknob turns, “geez Lloyd you’re becoming just as bad as kai” you sass crossing your arms shifting your weight from one foot to the other grinning as you waited for Lloyd to come out.

“What can I say, I have a girl to impress~” Lloyd teases as he opens the door his hand on the door while his other held the door frame.

You stop for a second as you take in his appearance, why did this man not have a shirt on?

Not that you were complaining.

“Uhm-uh” nothing could hide the blush on your face as you admired Lloyd’s build, from his abs to his chest beads of water that dripped from his poorly dried hair.

Slid down his body, your eyes snap away to look at his arms as he shifts his weight gripping the door frame absentmindedly flexing his muscles.

You finally make your way to Lloyd’s lips holding a big grin, you finally snap from your drooling and stomp your feet, “Where is your shirt!” you yell as your face erupts into blush making Lloyd laugh loudly. “you’re sucha prude!” Lloyd jokes as he wheezes, you gasp pretending to be offended as you try to hide your smile. “Shut up, you’re sucha- a!” you try to find your words as you look away still blushing from your teasing boyfriend, you groan as you try to make your way into the bathroom only to be blocked by Llyod’s chiseled, body. You pout looking up to Lloyd. He grinned showing his sharp teeth, “Lloyd, stop teasing” you whine as you look away from his smirk. “Y’know this is for all the times you teased me when we were kids~” Lloyd stares down at you having finally towered over you, failing to hide your smile as you look to Lloyd. “C’mon Lloyd forgive and forget” you hug his torso as you lean your head up, you could smell his body soap and see a bit of toothpaste on the side of his mouth as Lloyd smiles again. He hums as he looks to the ceiling, “I guess I could, how about a truce kiss~” Lloyd abandons the door frame to point to his lips. You fidget as you play with the hem of Lloyd’s pajama pants, nodding shyly as you close your eyes puckering your pink glossy lips for Lloyd to kiss.

Lloyd exhales through his nose a soft smile on his face as he enjoyed your cute face, praising you with a kiss on your waiting lips. He leans in to deepen the kiss as you hummed into the taste of mint, you both pull away sharing a sigh as your face settled with pink blush eyes sparkling from adoration for the blushing man holding you.

“Hey, do you wanna-“

“Get ready for bed yea!” you interrupt Lloyd as you swing behind facing his back as you push him out almost falling on his face,

“Woah! (y/n)-“ Lloyd looks back to your playful grin holding the door as you wiggle your fingers at Lloyd,

“Cya in bed, dork~” you stick your tongue out a finger pulling down the bottom of your eyelid as you mocked him slamming the door before Lloyd could try anything.

Lloyd took a moment to process the few seconds as he huffs stuffing his hands into his pajama pants pockets.

He’ll get you next time~

♡‧₊˚Kai Smith♡‧₊˚

‧₊˚ ⋅Training‧₊˚ ⋅

✧˖°.🍒ֶָ֢⊹ ࣪ ˖🍓₊ ⊹✧

You searched around the Monastery for your boyfriend Kai, Nya invited you to hang out before called for a solo mission, wishing her safety she said that you should go talk to her brother who was training.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get use to this place” you comment to yourself as you opened a sliding door to find a meditation room. Luckily no one inside, you huff as you close the door, you’ve been searching for what felt like forever. With no luck you decided to try waiting out for Kai in his room, making your way there you run into Cole having a towel over his shoulders patting his sweaty forehead.

“Hey Cole” you smile politely walking over to the earth ninja, “Oh hey (y/n), you lookin’ for Kai?” Cole asks as he returns your smile. You nod scratching the back of your head, “Your home is so big with so many doors, I’m surprised you guys don’t get lost” you joke as Cole snickers. “Eh, you get used to it” he points behind him to the end of the hallway with two big sliding doors, “He’s out on the court, just got finished his training actually” Cole looks back to your grateful expression. “Thanks Cole, cya later!” you walk to the sliding doors after Cole waved you off continuing his way, you open the doors as the afternoon heat greeted you.

You look around to see dummies and training equipment with Kai in a fighting stance, you slowly slide the doors closed as you watch him not wanting to be a distraction as you go to sit on the steps.

Kai’s fists were tightly closed as you followed the lines of his muscles of his sleeveless shirt flexing as he gives quick and powerful blows to the spinning equipment. The planks come back around as Kai quickly blocks the quick turning equipment with his arms, grunts slip from his lips after every blow he gave. His eyebrows scrunched as sweat drops from his brow, you watched as he moved, he was so strong. Soon the equipment starts to get faster from each hit that Kai gave, he then uses one of the bottom planks to push himself up into the air performing a backwards flip as he lands on his feet as the equipment spins.

You look to Kai in amazement at his skill you were starting to realize that watching Kai train was starting to become your favorite activity.

Noticing the way Kai’s healed scars on his muscle would tense and release as he grabbed heavy objects, wishing it was you, and continued with his training for a little while. Kai threw the weights down as a sigh escapes his lips finally taking a break. He starts to fan himself using his tank top, letting out a breathy laugh Kai looks to you with a teasing glint.

“How long d’you wanna stare?” his exhausted deep voice sounded like heaven, “Huh!” you finally pop out from your thoughts ripping away from his glorious, scared face and arms.

“Wh-Whatever~” You look away embarrassed a smile creeping it’s way on your red cheeks, Kai starts making his way towards you.

“Was my sister too boring~ Did you need me to entertain you, bunny~?” You look to his cheeky smirk with an unamused grin, “ha-ha, aren’t you hilarious~” you joke as you turn away from your boyfriend. “I was just coming to hang out with you since Nya had a mission, but since your busyyy” you go to walk away with an expectant reaction from Kai to pull you back into his sweaty body. Oh boy was that a mistake.

You gag as you inhale his very worked out body odor, “Kaiii, you smell like burnt charcoal and outside!!” You squeal as Kai holds your struggling form close to his uncomfortably wet body.

“I’m sooo sorry, baby~ Let’s hang out~” Kai swings your body from side to side as if printing his scent onto you. You let out a playful scream as you try to get away, “fiine, whatever, just let go you smelly dog” you complain as you continue to wiggle. Kai laughs as he turns you around to face him, “I’ll let you go for a kiss~” Kai taunts as he comes closer to your face visibly pleased by your blushing face. “Mmm, Kaii” you whine as you scrunch up your nose after catching a whiff of his neck, Kai made no movement of letting you go until he got what he asked for. You sigh in defeat as you shuffle your arms away from your boyfriend’s grip to cup his cheeks you slowly bring him down to your lips as Kai hums into your mouth, he blushes from feeling your lips mold into a smile.

You both part as you try to catch your breaths; Kai lays his head on the crook of your shoulder holding you close.

“Kai, I love you-“

“Me too-“

“But you stink, honey, take a shower.” You say deadpanned,

“yep” Kai lets go finally as he goes to take a well-deserved shower.

♡‧₊˚ Cole Brookstone♡‧₊˚

‧₊˚ ⋅Muscles‧₊˚ ⋅

✩°｡⋆⸜ 🎧

Cole is a sweetheart around the kitchen when he would volunteer his help especially when gathering supplies from the highest point of the shelf or lifting heavy objects like big bags of flour or sugar.

You appreciated his help especially when your father couldn’t be at the shop, you tried paying him for helping you, but he refused saying, “what kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t help my favorite girl?” however, he did say that you could pay him in samples of new recipes and kisses from you. Which you completely oblige to,

It was early in the morning on a Saturday, your shop closes on weekends so during this time you would take time to restock incoming supplies and throw away old ingredients.

Cole would invite himself to help you during these times he enjoyed the quiet of the shop as you played music in the background from yours and Cole’s combined playlist that you both worked together in making. Cole enjoyed spending those times with you, it made him happy to think about having a domestic lifestyle with you.

You held your favorite-colored clipboard with your checklist in hand of things to check for, ensuring all your supplies came in and ingredients hadn’t passed its expiration date.

After the satisfied check you asked if Cole could carry in the big bags of flour to their respected places.

Nodding Cole lifts one of the bags securely on his shoulder and the other under his arm with zero effort. Since Cole has helped from moving and grabbing objects you’ve found yourself staring at his arms. Enjoying the way, they flexed as he moved the supplies at your order, his muscles would tense and veins protrude as he would hold objects in his arms firmly. Why can’t he hold you like that?! You bite your lip to distract your deep desires as you slowly peel your eyes away from his arms.

Soon you hear a chuckle from your boyfriend you snap your head back as Cole doubles over, placing the large bags on the table so that he doesn’t drop them.

“Why are you laughing!” You smile nervously as you had a suspension as to why, “You are so obvious, (y/n), oh my gosh” Cole places his hands on his knees once again going tense as he holds onto them seeing his veins and blushing at the sight. You were losing too much respect for yourself, oml, “What, can’t I appreciate the looks of my man~” you try to play it cool as you grin placing hands on your hips as Cole smiles regaining his composure.

“Hmm, your man, I like the sound of that~” Cole saunters over each step he took was in tune to the music as you blush forcing your eyes to look at him. Cole then wraps his arms around your waist as he pulls you close swaying both your hips to the music that was playing on your phone.

You wrap your arms around him fighting the urge to look at how his arms looked wrapped around you. Feeling tiny under him knowing he could probably pick you up like it was nothing made your heart flutter.

“It’s true, you’re my man~” you smile as you repeat into his neck as he continues to sway you, he slowly spins you to A dip, “I’m so lucky to be yours, babe~” he lowers his head to kiss your lips. You close your eyes to accept his affection-

“ahem” you felt Cole tense up above you as you jumped you both pulling away to see your dad at the door with an unamused face. D-daddy!” you nervously greet him to try and hide any happenings to prevent an aneurism from him.

“H-hey, Mr. (l/n)” Cole waves as he chuckles nervously leaning against the counter to try and act calm in front of your dad.

He huffs as he walks away to pay off bills most likely for the shop, you both sigh with relief more of Cole as he had a hand over his beating heart. “Geez, do you think your dad will ever like me?” Cole asks with a grin; you chuckle as you grab Cole’s hand. “He likes you, he’s just…not thrilled with you” you try and explain your fathers’ thoughts as best as you could.

Cole hums as he places his other hand on the bottom of your chin placing a quick kiss to your lips, “well, these bags aren’t gonna move themselves~” Cole kisses the back of your hand as he lets go to finish his task. Placing your fingers on your lips you smile as you continue your own work as music from Cole’s selection starts to play as you sway your hips absentmindedly to the beat.

♡‧₊˚Zane Julien♡‧₊˚

⋆｡°·☁️His Hands⋆｡°·☁️

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚

Zane was over at your apartment for a date night, you both were cooking dinner as he was frying fish, and you were cutting vegetables and making rice on the side. You enjoyed Zane’s cooking he made everything one hundred times better, he could make toast taste like a delicacy.

You especially liked helping him by passing him things or adding things into dishes when his hands were full. It made you feel like a married couple making dinner together it was so romantic to you, Zane seemed to enjoy it as well as he always had a smile on his face, he seemed to love teaching you how to do things as well.

You remember when Zane was behind you as he guided your hands when cutting into the fruit, you were so focused but on the wrong things. Not on Zane’s voice, not in the motion of his cutting. But his forearm, his muscles visible from each motion as he would talk you into cutting properly. His quiet voice close to your ear your back against his smooth chest. Blush was visible on your face as you squeak when Zane calls for your name, “(y/n), are you alright? Your heart rate has increased” Zane points out as his blue eyes glow in a scanning motion. “D-don’t point that out!” you squeak as you close your eyes from embarrassment, Zane tilts his head to the side as he looks to your face. “You are red, you are displaying characteristics similar to when we kis-“ you interrupt him with a squeal as you duck away from his hold.

That was a month ago, you’ve learned your lesson or so you thought as you finished chopping the vegetable you go to turn off the dial to the rice to let it sit as you look to Zane again. Having tongs in his hand as he lifts the finished fried fish from the pot, and places them on the paper towel to dry any extra grease as the fish sits. You were staring again looking at his forearms as they flexed from gripping and releasing. Watching the muscles on the back of his hand flex as well, “ow!” you flinch back as the grease popped you on your hand. Zane broke from his concentration as he places the tongs down to tend to you.

“Are you alright?” Zane was quick to grab your wrist as he examines your hand, “you are not burned however, running your hand under cool water should ease the pain” Zane explains as he walks you to the sink and runs your hand under the water.

You flinch under the sudden temperature change and sudden pain that danced on your hand, Zane was quick to notice your pull back. As he starts rubbing his thumb on the palm of your hand in comforting motion, each time his thumb would run against your palm his muscles on his wrist would once again show. Putting you in a trance of its movement, you found yourself once again against Zane’s body, blush found its way to your cheeks as you hum against his touch admiring his hands movements.

“(y/n)” Zane calls to you as all you could do was hum a response to him, his touch was so calming and soothing. “Your face is warm, and your heart is starting to pick up speed” Zane was now confident enough in understanding your emotions to tell when you are not harmed but displaying satisfied emotions during your intimate moments together.

Zane smiles as he holds you close closing his eyes as he leans down to the crook of your neck, you mold your hands to hold his as they stayed under the cool water.

“I have noticed how attentive you’ve been of my hands, why is that?” Zane asks as he continues rubbing your injured hand with affection. You blush as you look to him as you rub your cheek onto Zane’s synthetic one, “I just…like them” you spoke quietly as you tried to save any type of dignity you once had by not saying how hot his hands were when he would grab or subconsciously flex them. Wishing he’d grab parts of your body so that you could feel how much power he puts into them to make them flex like that.

But someone would have to torture you to get that information out.

Zane’s smile grows as he traces his nose up your neck, “Is that normal for people to like features such as that?” Zane asks, was he teasing you?

You huff out a laugh as you look away, “it’s what I like, others have different preferences, but hands are a common one.” You explain to your boyfriend, he nods as he hums at your answer still smiling.

“Are there other parts of me that you enjoy?” Zane’s question surprised you as your face exploded into red, your ears were pink as Zane’s lips formed into a grin. “I-uhm, well-“ before you could explain you hear beeping come from your smoke alarm. You both jump from each other as Zane was quick to turn off the stove smoke coming from the oil pan as he transfers it over to a cool part of the stove. You race to open a window as Zane puts on the oven fan and shuts off the smoke alarm.

Once there was quiet again you and Zane let out a sigh of relief, “th-thank you, hah” you laugh as Zane smiles shyly scratching the back of his head.

“I apologize I should have turned off the stove” you giggle as you pat Zane on the shoulder in a reassuring manner, “It’s okay, the important thing is that we’re safe~” you kiss his cheek as you place the fried fish on the table with the rice and vegetables. You look back to Zane who was looking at you with blush on his face,

Smiling you ask, “are you ready for dinner?”

♡‧₊˚Jay Walker♡‧₊˚

⋆˚✿˖°❀See Through Shirt ⋆˚✿˖°❀

🪼⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Jay shared his interest in inventing new technologies for the team with you, his hobby of fixing things around his home and even yours, if you asked him. Which he was so happy to do, it was like a dog wanting to please its owner.

It was adorable to you when Jay would tell you different parts that he was using to fix different things. He was happy to know that you wanted him to show you how to fix things, so you didn’t always ask him in fear of annoying him.

Jay would ease your worry by saying he’ll always be there to help you, dropping anything that he was doing to help you with heart eyes.

In return you would make him food or drinks to which he’d gush thanking you multiple times for the food, you giggle as he would eat the food you made with a smile on his face as if you cured hunger.

Jay has expressed how much he’s loved your cooking several times, ever since you made dinner for him when he came to your house to get away from his brothers.

After that he was hooked, you were sure he was overexaggerating, but he’d always come to your house whenever you invited him.

So now Jay is fixing your car, it was a great price and a dream car of yours, however not even three months later did your car start experiencing problems. No wonder it was a too good to be true, you asked Jay if he could fix your car since you knew finding someone to fix it would cost a fortune. That is why you had Jay over that night working in your garage under the car, you would talk to the chatterbox to keep him company until you left to make dinner.

When you came back to tell Jay that it was done you saw him in his white undershirt wiping oil off his hands, his concentrated brow furrowed as he tries to clean up. You stare at his thin white shirt cover in sweat as it stuck to his body, his rippling muscles showing through his shirt, it almost looked unnatural on his cute face. To see a chiseled chest hand crafted by the gods on your adorable boyfriends freckled face, but there it was. Manipulating his arms to clean the oil from your car,

You stare at him jaw on the floor at his form. Jay satisfied for what he could get off throws the rag in the bucket going inside to tell you what he’s found and how he can fix it just to meet your shocked expression.

“O-oh hey..” Jay waves as he looks to you with a questioned look wondering as to why you looked like you were trying to catch flies in your mouth, “are you okay?” he tilts his head like a puppy. But the cute face was instantly shadowed by his form, “J-Jay, you look…great” you force out any dignity that you had left, you walk over with your hand out.

Jay blushes but stays still wanting to know what you would do; you touch his wet shirt that was protecting his muscles you feel a spark shock your finger as you ignore it for your personal gain to glide your finger delicately down his abs.

Jay squeaks as you continue your nails tickling his stomach as he stares at you with loving eyes as you revered in his body, “(y-y/n)” Jay breaths out as you finally snap out from your trance to look up at your boyfriend. He looks so cute with his flustered expression over his scattered freckles, you smile as you cup your hand on his cheek gliding your thumb as he rests his head on your palm.

“Dinner is ready..” you whisper loud enough for him to hear you as he hums staring at your face, “You’re so handsome Jay, y’know?” you ask as you glide your hand down to his chin so that he’d look at you. “I do now, but c-can you say it again?” he squeaks out as he looks away for a second to land back at your adoring face, you coo as you exhale a smile on your face.

“Of course, blue jay~ My handsome boyfriend~” you grab his face you pull him down to a kiss, separating to continue your praises calling him handsome and yours.

Jay soaks up your words like a sponge, you giggle at his pleased face as you pull away rewarded by a pout. “c’mon silly, let’s get you something to eat” you wink as you bring him inside, Jay chuckles as he looks away, “y’know if I get this from just my shirt maybe I should wear this all the time~” Jay teases as he looks back to your blushing face.

“You’d do that for me?” you bite your lip at future encounters of Jay and his body, Jay’s confidence instantly plummets as he turns to mush from witnessing your face at his comment. You giggle as you pat Jay’s back, “go shower and I’ll have your plate ready” you walk over to your stove to prepare any last touches.

Jay smiles as he goes to your bathroom for a needed shower, once you were by yourself you place a hand on your heart feeling it’s beat increase at your actions. You had to calm your breathing as a smile grows bigger, you were coming to the point of a fangirl freakout, as you fanned your face and squealed soon wrapping your hands around your body.

“Eek, my boyfriend is so hawt!” you squeak as you place your hands on your cheeks that was growing hot by the second, from your freak out.

“Hehe, so this is why you pushed me out the room~” you hear Jays voice as you stop in your tracks, you slowly turn to face your smug boyfriend, “I needed a towel, so I came down to ask for one, I’m so glad I came at the right time to see this” Jay smiles at your embarrassed expression.

You chuckle nervously as you look away, “w-well I can’t help but think that I’m the luckiest girl in the world to have a cute hot boyfriend” you try to explain as you scratch the back of your head. Jay chuckles as he comes over to hug your embarrassed form knowing your reaction all too well,

“I’m the lucky one for having such a loving girlfriend~” you smile as you accept his embrace. “I love you, (y/n)” Jay exhales as you hug him tightly, “I love you too, Jay.”

Okiii I doubt I'll post anything for a while bcs I literally have nothing, I used up every inch of my creative writing juice that I have no idea what to write...ᯓᡣ𐭩 °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ P.s. If you couldn't tell I love guys with musclessss hehehe Love, ⋆˚࿔ Karrots 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

#lego ninjago #x reader #lego ninjago x reader #kai smith x reader #lloyd garmadon #kai smith #lloyd garmadon x reader #cole brookstone #zane julien #jay walker #jay walker x reader #zane julien x reader #Cole brookstone x reader

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