#The Emperor or wretch

[ash-and-starlight]

modern au and esen’s honkers are haunting the instagram feed

[horuslupercal]

ok fine but if we DO accept that one of the twins was never lost and stayed in the palace (I don't believe this and I am going to read their novel soon yippee!) what the FUCK is going on between them and horus. there are a few options ranging from very evil to very funny

1) alpharius (/omegon) was completely isolated by the emperor. no one knew. he was a secret entirely. that's sad, man, your son is not a jumping bean you cannot keep him alone in a plastic box

2) everyone just lied to horus constantly. he was the only one who didn't know. idk where your microwave burrito went, kid, I guess it disappeared into thin air. sorry

3) horus knows but is just lying to all of the other primarchs constantly. I find it hard to believe that he'd wholly hide a sibling to the point of hiding the fact that he was already kind of aware before the big reveal but I suppose it's an option

4) horus thought alpharius was his imaginary friend

[elminster-big-naturals]

you just know i was sucking those things down like an octopus mukbang

[gods-chosen-emperor]

Hi! I'm not an expert, but don't most emperors claim to be descended from God? Why did you pick chosen instead? Is it just because of the literal, biblical meaning of your name, or does it have other significance?

Hmm. I only chose it for the meaning of my name; but... It's very fitting, don't you think?

[romanceyourdemons]

the contemporaries of emperor wu of han were all so so interesting. i wanna write about them. unfortunately for me everyone else for the past 2100 years has wanted to write about them too

[rahabs]

Oh no! Other squid for me to love!

[3gremlins]

this is how video games are supposed to be played right? cowering under the stairs, shooting the boss' knees and ankles? :3

[witchblade]

the seulo beam hit this album hard

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Prima Nocta

Marcus Acacius x Virgin!F!Reader oneshot

{ Main Masterlist }

Rating: E (18+ only)

Summary: Tomorrow, you will marry your husband-to-be. But tonight - it belongs to his father.

Word count: 6k

Warnings: DUB CON only due to nature of prima nocta, both parties enthusiastically consent, twist on prima nocta, unspecified age gap, loss of virginity, dirty talk, oral sex (F receiving), fingering, dry humping, unprotected sex, unrealistic descriptions of first sexual experience, all manners of historical inaccuracies and linguistic anachronisms sorry not sorry, ignores the events of the movie so you can consider this an AU, Marcus is widowed and has a son, shall we call this bfd: Ancient Rome version lmao

Notes: I'm a bit rusty for sure, but I had the absolute best time writing this oneshot. It's a departure from my usual themes to say the least, but once this idea took hold of me it never let go. I know prima nocta is meant to be invoked on the wedding night, but I like the idea of it being the night before so I made it so 🤷🏻���♀️ Gorgeous dividers by @firefly-graphics as always.

He thought he had gotten away with it. Having lived more than fifty winters in the capital and outlasting eight emperors, he regrets to confess that he is still none the wiser. 

It would have been such a clever manoeuvre. Palming off a generous but very much unwanted gift from the emperors, and marrying off his son in one fell swoop. 

He should have been suspicious of their swift assent to his proposal. In his eagerness to bow out of their audience, it had been convenient to dismiss the flash of malice in their eyes.

And in the snake pits of Roman court, no misstep goes unexploited.

He is not proud that he is caught off guard by the emperor’s closest advisor who intercepts his walk home from the armoury, even less so of his ineloquent response to the missive handed to him.

‘What is this?’

‘Urgent word from the emperors, sir.’

Cold sweat prickles the back of his neck as he stares unseeingly at what is scrawled on the parchment.

‘I cannot,’ he blurts out, indignance rising fast and hot in his chest. ‘I will not.’

‘You think it wise to twice refuse the emperors’ generosity, general?’

General. To him, the culmination of a lifetime of service and sacrifice. To them, an instrument of bloodshed in war, a plaything in peacetime.

Desperate, he tries a different tact. ‘The right of the first night belongs to the emperors. I dare not commit sacrilege.’

‘It is not sacrilege if it is freely bequeathed upon you, general.’

There is no mistaking the warning lilt in the last word, and he has no answer.

‘The hour grows late. You had better not keep the bride waiting,’ says the advisor with an air of finality before retreating into the shadows.

Marcus shudders at the cold that settles into the empty space, fingers stained with ink from the now crumpled dispatch. 

He remembers nothing of the remainder of his short journey to his quarters. As the front door swings open, he realises there is something in the night air that is out of place.

Sea salt.

You are here. 

Would you be demure? Frightened? You are of royal lineage, a lady of the small but proud coastal kingdom strong-armed by Rome into an unequal treaty for its profitable trading posts, in return for the mercy of not being razed to its fertile grounds.

And now, you are lowered to marry a general’s son. 

Worse, lowered to have your virginity taken by his father.

Candlelight spills from the crack underneath the door to his bedchamber. Marcus takes a deep breath, and pushes it open.

You hear him. The swish of fabric, the slide of leather soles on marble.

The general is here.

Your hand in marriage is part of the terms of the treaty, and the missive that sent for you announced your match as the widowed hero general. You had him cast on the wretched journey from your home as one of the domineering, brutish soldiers now garrisoned at your family’s kingdom - only to be told on your arrival that you will be marrying his son instead.

Relief at the news that your future husband would not be decades older than you is instantly snatched away by furtive whispers of prima nocta.

Your future father-in-law will take you first.

The humiliation is bitter on your tongue. You are Rome’s to marry off, hers to give to whomever she pleases -

But she won’t break you.

The door creaks. You stand tall and hold your ground.

He sweeps into the room with an air of well-worn authority, the cloak on his back dark as the shadows that nip at his heels.

The candles flicker when he sheds the heavy robes with a smooth sweep of his arm.

You stare, in a manner that would have had your lady-in-waiting tutting. But you are alone, very much so, with this man not ten paces from you.

General Marcus Acacius. 

He is older, certainly old enough to have a son your age. But you had not imagined him so - strong, for the lack of a more imaginative word. His shoulders are broad under his wine red tunic, and you can see the muscles in his arms flex as he clenches and unclenches his fists at his sides. From where you stand, you can hardly see any silver in his dark curls.

Marcus unflinchingly assesses you right back. 

No, you are decidedly not demure. Or frightened. Far from it. 

You are defiant, even as you observe him with evident curiosity. Your head held high, a telltale sign of your noble breeding, mouth set in a stern line while your eyes burn bright with a proud fire. 

Judging the silence has gone on long enough, he breaks it with a formal, ‘My lady.’

‘General,’ you answer steadily.

The door slams shut belatedly behind him, and you flinch - the first glimpse of weakness you concede. 

Marcus breathes in, delivering his next sentence with as much composure as he can muster. ‘I expect you have been informed of the - formalities that we are to perform tonight.’

You grind your teeth so hard you are astonished that your jaw doesn’t crack.

Your virtue is just a formality.

Refusing to dignify his question with an answer, you nod once. 

He watches you wordlessly, and you meet his gaze. You thought you would find something else there, not the regret that you see.

Turning away from you, he reaches for the amphora on the table. 

‘Wine?’

‘Yes, please.’

The wine is drunk in silence and moderation. Him at his desk, you perched on the end of the bed.

As you sip, pacing yourself, you observe the general discreetly from across the small distance between you. 

To say that you are disconcerted by his behaviour would be an understatement.

You assumed that he asked for this - for the perverse pursuit of deflowering his son’s bride-to-be while eschewing the unwanted responsibility of a wife. 

Yet, watching him stare pensively into his goblet, lips pursed in a pout that is almost sullen, you are not so certain anymore. 

When you bring your drink to your mouth to find it empty, you clear your throat. ‘I have to wake up early tomorrow morning - for the wedding.’

The general starts before collecting himself, drawing himself up to his full height as he sets down his cup with a heavy clunk. ‘Understandably, my lady.’

Then he moves, charting a course across the room, licking his thumb and index finger to douse the candles dotted around the space.

The thought comes to you unbidden - he has thick fingers. And big hands. 

Your cheeks tingle with heat.

Soon the chamber is cloaked in darkness, save for the candles next to the bed, the warm light pooling in the most inviting manner on the soft surface despite your trepidation. You long to rest your aching feet. 

He comes to a standstill on the other side of the bed, as if waiting for you to take the lead. You cannot decide whether you are thankful for him not imposing on you, or frustrated at him for not taking the lead in what is very much unfamiliar territory.

In the end, the desire to get off your feet wins out, and you gesture at the bed. ‘Shall we…?’

‘Certainly.’ He bends down, you assume to take off his sandals. You do the same, toeing off the soft leather slides the maids had you change into when they dressed you.

Once barefoot, you climb in with as much grace as you can summon, acutely aware that you have an audience. Your knees sink into the mattress, and you’re relieved that it is stuffed with feathers, luxuriously giving under your weight. Shifting primly, you find your back against the headboard, cushioned by equally soft pillows.

The general follows suit, the frame creaking as he eases onto the suddenly too small bed, strong shoulders brushing yours as he settles next to you.

You stare hard at the back of your hands, the only way to stop your gaze from wandering to the span of his fingers splayed wide on sturdy thighs, or lower to the bony ridge of his knees - gods, you must be unwell, since when have you been drawn to knees?

You are still questioning the state of your sanity when the general, who has been nothing but unperturbed and composed since he stepped into the room, stumbles over his words in a manner that is neither, as if he had held the question behind his teeth for too long.

‘Are you - are you absolutely certain - in no doubt - that you are… untouched?’

His question stings like salt in a festering wound. Indignant doesn’t even begin to describe the retort you spit at him. ‘Yes, I am. Are you?’

Peering at you sideways, his eyes widen at your outburst, and fear briefly flits across your heart that you have overstepped.

 But then, he surprises you with a smile. ‘You bite, don’t you?’ 

You let your shoulders sag, too far gone to hold onto your facade. 

‘It’s been a long day, sir,’ you admit. ‘To be frank, I just want to get this over with and forget it ever happened.’

He pauses at your confession, as if weighing his options. Then he shifts, and says, ‘The reason I ask if you were untouched is because, if you were not - we could have just pretended we did this.’

You frown. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I did not invoke prima nocta, it was imposed upon me. The emperors are displeased that I turned down the betrothal, this is their way of punishing me for my ungratefulness.’ 

Oh.

As much as you didn’t want this either, your pride suffers to hear him describe it as a punishment.

‘I know…’ you stumble, halting to steel yourself. ‘I know I am nothing like the women here in Rome. I spend too much time in the sun, and my hands are rough from working with horses -’

‘Why do you say that?’ he interrupts you.

You look away. ‘That is why you do not wish to marry me, is it not? And why you do not want this - why you do not want me.’

The general sits up, palms on the mattress to support his weight, the lines on his forehead deepening with a frown. ‘No, that is not the reason. You are young, you deserve a husband who can build a life with you in the years to come. Not a washed-up widower.’

The bitterness in his voice turns your head. 

‘You’re not washed up, from what I hear.’ Somehow, you find the courage to add boldly, ‘Or from what I see.’

Letting your eyes trail unabashedly over his broad frame, a thrill chases through your blood when you notice his Adam’s apple bob with a tight swallow. He’s so close that you know you’re not imagining the heat seeping into your bones.

Silence stretches between you, charged with a consciousness that creeps in and spreads. Two souls from different worlds and stations put in a situation in which neither of you had a hand. This may not be how you imagined giving away your virtue - far from it - yet your stomach twists in anticipation.

You glance upwards, only to find him already watching you.

Something has shifted when you so bravely reached out and tipped the balance with your words. He can tell that you are not one for flippant flattery, and it takes him a moment to collect himself, harder said than done with the blood roaring in his ears.

When he speaks, it comes out in a much lower register than he intends, so much so it sounds like a secret. 

‘You say you just want to get this over with. But I can - I can make it good for you. It doesn’t have to be something you want to forget.’

Your eyes widen and your lips part, and heat blooms almost uncomfortably in his chest. ‘You would do that for me?’

‘I will serve you in whatever way you ask of me tonight, my lady.’

Never have mere words, albeit delivered in such a delicious baritone, moved you so. You came in expecting to have your virtue stripped from you, the same way Rome callously stole you away. Where you thought humiliation and dishonour awaited, this man is offering deliverance and devotion - if only for one night.

Your throat tight with emotion, you nod in lieu of a spoken answer.

Marcus is deliberately slow in his movements, wanting you to feel safe in his presence. ‘How much do you know? So I know what I need to teach you.’

Despite yourself, shyness rears its head and you mumble, ‘I’ve - I’ve heard stories. I know what… happens… between a man and a woman in the bed chamber.’

He nods reassuringly, making you feel less of a fool for the juvenile answer you gave. ‘And has anyone touched you before?’

There’s no mistaking the lurch in your stomach as your heart hammers violently. ‘No. No one. Never.’

The protector in him stirs, summoned to duty, warring with the desire that seethes under his skin like the unholy flames of Vesuvius. He fears it is a quickly losing battle. 

Reading the desire in your endearingly open face, Marcus reaches over you to settle one hand on your hip as he leans close, his breath warm on your cheek.

‘Have you ever kissed a man?’ he rasps. 

You shake your head, eyes fixated on his mouth, framed by a tidy moustache. He is so close that you can see his beard is flecked with silver.

You swear the general is leaning into you, and every inch of you is on tenterhooks, enraptured by his proximity -

‘You should save it for your husband.’

You barely forestall the whine of protest that teeters on the tip of your tongue, pinching your lips together, but his lopsided smile tells you that he knows. 

‘I can kiss you elsewhere though.’

‘Oh,’ you inhale shakily when he dips to mouth at the side of your neck, landing on your pulse point in a suckle. Your whole body arches off the bed, hands gripping the sheets, head spinning at all the sensations that are new to you - the burn of his stubble, the cool trail his lips leave behind -

Then the palm on your hip pulls you into him, sprawling you against the wide cage of his body, your breasts pressed against his broad chest. The dress they put you in is thin, and the fabric rubs against your pebbling nipples as his kisses travel daringly low.

‘Am I going too fast?’ he pauses, voice strained.

Breathlessly, you shake your head.

‘If you want me to stop, or wait, you say the word. Understood?’

‘Yes, general.’

Two words he hears daily from his men, and yet from your lips, they unleash a dangerously feral side of him.

More. Is the only coherent thought that remains. 

Impatient hands reposition you so that you are astride him, and he groans when you slot flush in his lap. He watches your eyes widen at what you feel between your legs. Your dress rides up, and his blood rushes south at the bare expanse of your inner thighs on his skin. 

‘I want to see you,’ he speaks plainly, palms squeezing the dip of your waist. ‘May I undress you? Please?’

All decorum flees you, and you might have chanted yes, yes, yes to his question.

Dropping your chin, you watch his thick fingers nimbly undo the knot holding the front of your dress together. The silk capitulates like water, tumbling down in delicate drapes around your waist, baring you to his heated gaze.

‘You are beautiful,’ he declares with a solemnity that steals your breath.

And it is easy to believe him, the way his dazed eyes trail over your breasts, before his hands follow. Calloused palms, which you are sure have held many a sword in triumph, now cup your tender flesh in reverence. 

Your head lolls to the side as he teases you, but when he rolls his hips upwards, your eyes snap to the pained expression on his face. You’ve heard ladies in court whispering over wine about length and girth, but nothing could prepare you for the thrill of feeling a man’s undeniable desire for you.

Instinct guides you, moving your hips so that you are grinding against his length, seeking relief from what is building deep within you.

‘Do what feels good,’ the general murmurs encouragingly, palms on the small of your back to let you take control.

And just like that, you are thrown back to one summer’s day in your youth. You were bathing in a rock pool, under the spray of a waterfall in perfect solitude when you accidentally slipped forwards on the smooth stone surface. The unexpected sensation between your legs ripped through you like lightning on a clear day. And you chased that feeling, hips undulating until you shuddered and cried out. Knees trembling in the aftermath, you never dared to seek it out again, but neither did you forget.

And now, years later, you finally know what had transpired. Pleasure. And this time, under the general’s hooded gaze, you pursue it with single-minded determination.

Marcus wishes you knew how beautiful you are in this very moment. Breasts swaying in tandem while you rock back and forth on his clothed length, eyes glazed, every whimper from your swollen lips making him throb harder for you.

‘Good girl,’ he rasps, throat tight. ‘Take your pleasure. Take what you need.’

And when he sucks your nipple into his mouth, you wail, tipping forward at an angle that unexpectedly takes you apart.

The waves that wash over you are more intense than you remember, and you are sure that has to do with the man holding your hips to his as you buck, and the warm swirl of his tongue against your breasts, sucking and nipping as you come down from your high.

‘That was not your first time,’ he states as a matter of fact when the white noise in your ears finally fades.

‘It happened once, a long time ago, and I didn’t understand then -’

‘And now you do.’

‘Yes, general.’

This time, he lets loose a moan at your words. ‘I can feel your wetness through your dress.’

Confused, you look down, and your cheeks burn when you spot the dark patch on the delicate fabric. ‘Oh, I -’

‘It’s natural,’ he assures you. ‘The wetness makes it easier for -’

It dawns on you when you feel his hardness twitch under you. Oh. 

‘It - you feel -’ you stutter, struggling to comprehend how the girth of what you are sitting on could possibly fit inside you.

Taking your hand, Marcus presses a chaste kiss to your palm, eyes warm and open. 

‘We will take it slow. I will use my fingers first, to prepare you for me,’ he explains patiently. ‘I promised I would make it good for you, did I not?’

‘You did.’ 

And you have complete faith in him.

Your knees knock into each other hopelessly when he slides you off his lap, and he has to bodily prop you up against the pillows. Sinking into the soft feathers, you watch him kneel between your parted legs, and you feel so safe even as he towers over you. 

‘May I disrobe you?’

You bite your bottom lip, and nod. 

Except it’s not a disrobing, it’s nothing near as civil as that. The general rips the rest of your dress clean down the middle, rendering you completely bare beneath him.

Marcus knows should be ashamed of his brash behaviour. But how could he when you react so viscerally, jaw slack as your chest heaves in unmitigated desire? 

His gaze shamelessly trail over every curve and dimple, from the breasts he has tasted to where your knees are demurely closed, and knowing that he is the first - the only - to have laid eyes on you makes him impossibly hard. 

It matters not that you are not his to keep. This will always be his. 

‘You are exquisite,’ he professes, voice tight. 

You duck your head, more shy of his compliments than being nude before him. ‘You don’t have to.’

Sliding a finger under your chin and tilting your head until you meet his gaze, he assures you, ‘I mean every word.’

Then he moves down the bed until he can rest his weight on his elbows, and you startle when rough palms glide over the outside of your thighs, stopping at your knees. 

He pauses to give you time. ‘Are you certain you wish to continue?’

Your answer is a confident yes.

Then, as if opening the shell of Venus, he delicately pries your knees apart, and his breath hitches as you are revealed to him.

He is aware that he’s staring like an imbecile, words failing him. As the silence stretches on, you become self-conscious.

‘General,’ you demur, moving to cover yourself.

Shaking his head, he finally says, ‘Forgive me, but you are perfect.’

Then he looks up at you with such intensity that has you struggling to catch your breath, and without breaking eye contact, he bows his head - 

And closes his lips over you there. 

You are wholly unprepared - no one has ever gossiped about this in court. Your hips buck violently off the bed, but Marcus holds you down with reassuring hands, suckling on the pearl between your thighs with gentle laps of his tongue.

‘Oh, oh, oh,’ you stuttter, torn between watching the man wreak the most devastating pleasure on you and averting your gaze.

You’ve only ever known worship to be pious, and yet, this most vulgar adulation is the closest you’ve been to the gods.

His beautiful curls brush the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, catching the candle light as he moves, and the crook of his nose - so proud even with the scar on its bridge - draws patterns on your skin as he stakes his claim where no one has ever touched you. 

You quickly realise that what you felt just now in the general’s lap was insignificant and thin in comparison. This pleasure is all-consuming, something divine that has you weak and trembling all over. All you hear are slick, wet sounds of tongues and lips, and your own whimpers between garbled groans.

Marcus feasts on you, unapologetically. Flattening his tongue, he tastes you in broad sweeps, moaning into your sweet cunt as you writhe above him, your needy mewls driving him to the edge of madness. You taste like fig - the earthiness of the purple peel, ripe sweetness of the pink flesh.

Then your hands wind into his hair, pulling him closer, ankles hooking over his shoulders. He groans harder, the sound rattling in his ribs as you soak his beard. Surrendering any last vestiges of shyness, you rock against his tongue, nails scratching his scalp as you whine louder into the night air. 

Moans that will echo long after you’re gone.

The thought alone hardens his resolve to mark you unequivocally. You’re close, your pliant body quivering and breaths coming in shallow gasps now. He peers up at you, but your eyes are sealed shut and upturned at the gods, your breasts heaving.

Gently, he eases one finger inside you, and he grunts at how easily he slides in. You barely react, and so he pushes back in with two, coaxing a cry from you. Your cunt clenches as he gently thrusts his digits in and out, stretching your tight walls. 

‘Oh gods. Oh gods,’ you pant violently.

You’re close, so close. He wants to warn you of what is to come, but it feels like sacrilege to tarnish the moment with words. When he feels you begin to quiver, he laves at your clit harder, burying his fingers inside you to the knuckle, until he feels you crest and break. 

‘Gods, oh gods - Marcus!’

The cry of his name catches him off guard. He nearly loses control right there and then, as you ride out your high on his fingers, but by some miracle he holds out through gritted teeth. He devotes his attention to kissing his way up your body, from the slick inside of your thighs, to the side of your hip, making you jump when he sucks on your sensitive breasts.

You stare at his mouth with wild, dark eyes, and him at yours, but he vowed to leave your first kiss to your husband. Girding his self-restraint, he asks, ‘Are you alright?’

‘Yes, Marcus.’

His cock twitches at the sound of his name on your lips. He wants to hear you say it in all manners of ways - whisper it, gasp it, scream it. And by the cheekiness in your smile, it’s clear that you know what he’s thinking.

Your eyes drop to where his hardness is pressed against you. ‘Will you teach me how to please you, general?’

He swallows a groan, the animal in him rattling the bars of its cage. He replies diplomatically, ‘I will teach you how to teach your husband.’

In one smooth tug, he shucks off his tunic, then his loincloth, and he tries not to be self-conscious under your watchful gaze. Pulling you against him, skin on naked skin, he smears kisses along the side of your neck, smiling at your answering shudder. In return, you run your lips and scrape your teeth over his collarbone. 

Taking your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm, he slides it all the way down his chest and wraps your fingers firmly around his throbbing cock, his pained moan in your ear.

Eyes wide, you marvel at the size of him in your grip. ‘You are so big.’

Marcus curses through clenched teeth. ‘You are an insolent girl.’

With a wicked glint in your eyes, you correct yourself, ‘You are so big, general.’

If he wasn’t so aroused, he would have chuckled at your cheek. Instead, he growls, ‘Such insubordination.’

Tilting your head to one side, you grin. ‘And how would you discipline me, sir?’

He lets the silence linger for a beat, allowing anticipation to build as one big hand splays over your ass, hot lips brushing the shell of your ear. ‘I would deny you my cock, my lady. Let your sweet cunt weep for me, empty, not knowing how good it would feel to have me deep inside you.’

You are unsure if you are more shocked at the explicitness of his words, or at the gush of wetness that has you pressing your thighs together. If you had to wager a guess, he is just as affected as you by the way his length pulses in your grasp.

Marcus smiles as he takes in the way your body reacts to him. ‘But how can I deny such a lovely, desperate creature such as yourself?’

A sob escapes you. ‘Please, Marcus - I’m yours to take.’

With that, all self-restraint abandons him, and his lips crash into yours. At the back of his mind, he knows you deserve a better first kiss, something gentle and sweet. But to your credit, you seem to take it in stride, winding your arms around his neck with a deep groan as he deepens the kiss. Opening up your mouth, he sweeps his tongue against yours, making sure you taste yourself and the pleasure that he had wrung from you.

When he reluctantly pulls back for air, you hum, ‘I thought you said I should save that for my husband.’

He all but snarls, ‘Damn your husband.’

The possessiveness in his tone sends you reeling, and his resolve wears even thinner when your cunt brushes against him, so wet and soft, begging for him. 

‘I cannot wait any longer,’ he declares.

You bite your lip beseechingly. ‘Please, Marcus, I cannot either.’

He braces himself above you on strong arms, until all you can see is him, backlit by the soft candlelight. Beholding his beauty - the wisps of gray at his temples, the scar lining his cheekbone - your breath catches at the tenderness in his eyes as he stares down at you.

Holding the base of his cock, Marcus notches himself at the entrance of your cunt, trembling as he holds himself back. 

‘I will go slow,’ he assures you. ‘If it hurts, you tell me to stop. Understood?’

Your mouth dry, you can only nod. 

Holding your gaze, Marcus rolls his hips ever so slowly, jaw slack when he breaches you, inch by tortuous inch.

He is barely inside you and you already feel so unfathomably full.

‘Marcus,’ you gasp when it gets impossibly tight, nails digging into his broad shoulders.

He stops, and whispers encouragingly, ‘You are doing so well for me, taking me so beautifully. Just breathe.’

In between his patient, languid kisses, you unfurl, and Marcus gently pulls back, before pushing into you, deeper this time.

When you cry out, he shushes you, brushing the wet corners of your eyes with his lips. ‘Does it hurt?’

You shake your head. ‘No, it’s just - so much.’ 

‘I know, I can feel how tight you are gripping me,’ he mumbles into your neck, throbbing inside you while he holds himself still as you adjust. ‘Brave, sweet girl.’

When you find your voice again, you give him cheek. ‘I am a woman now, general.’

He smiles at you - a warm curl that crinkles the corners of his eyes endearingly - and claims your lips again. Feeling the tension seep out of your body, he thrusts shallowly so you can learn the movement of his hips. When he hits a spot that makes your jaw drop and your hips buck, he pulls all the way back, and drives himself to the hilt in one smooth motion.

And with that, you become a part of his soul, and his yours. His chest swells with the fiercest possessiveness and the greatest honour all at once, despite knowing that the circumstances that brought you together will inevitably tear you asunder at the break of dawn.

‘Marcus!’ you choke on a sob, throwing your head back, your walls clutching his cock in a merciless grip.

‘There she is,’ he grunts, mouth scraping the shell of your ear. ‘Say my name like that.’

And you do, over and over again, as he fucks into you. His pants land harshly in the crook of your neck with every thrust, hands greedily squeezing all the skin he can find - the curve of your ass, the dimple in your waist, your thigh to hitch it over his hip.

Looking down at you, eyes drunk and unfocused as you stare back at him, each squeeze of your wet cunt around him, every breath from your lips feels sacred.

He is seized by a sudden need to know. ‘How does it feel?’

Your eyes soften, and he shudders when you cup the side of his face to bring his nose to yours. ‘Divine.’

Marcus loses himself in you, in the wet squelch of your cunt around his length, the way your tightness takes every thrust. Words of praise that he doesn’t even hear tumble from his lips and onto every inch of skin he can reach as you cling to him, scraping your nails down his back and digging into the meat of his ass.

Pitching forward to press a hard kiss to you, he says, ‘I want you to fall apart for me again.’

‘Please, Marcus, please.’

Pushing himself up to his knees, still buried deep inside you, he spreads your thighs obscenely wide over his hips, and he moans at the sight of your cunt so full of him. With hooded eyes, he sucks on two of his thick fingers and brings them between your legs, carefully drawing circles on your clit, knowing that you are already sensitive from cumming twice for him before.

Your face twists in agony as he builds you towards another climax, patiently weaving the web of pleasure that wounds you tighter and tighter until your spine feels like it will snap in two. ‘Marcus, oh - don’t stop, don’t stop, oh gods -’

He bares his teeth as he feels you start to clench around him. ‘That’s it, that’s it. Cum on my cock, let me feel you, give it to me.’ 

Your peak crashes into you relentlessly, and as you are swept away, you can only wail and thrash, while Marcus curses and stutters unintelligibly above you as he spins out of control.

He had every intention to pull out, but it is as if some higher power is determined to foil his plans. With a guttural roar, his hips snap flush against yours, big palms grasp you so hard by the waist that you squeal, and he spills into you in hot gushes, once - twice - and again until he is spent.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

He doesn’t know if he said that aloud or if it was a trick of the mind. All he knows is that he eventually collapses bonelessly onto you, skin fused together with sweat and cum as your breaths become one in the crisp night air.

It is him who breaks the stillness, his old bones creaking when he stirs to relieve an ache in his back. His softened cock slides out of you, prompting you to whine in protest. He grunts when he looks down to see his cum dribble out of your cunt, leaving a pearly trail on the inside of your thighs.

When he meets your eyes, there is no awkwardness in the silence. ‘Forgive me, I didn’t mean to spill my seed inside you. That was reckless.’

Your heart skips a beat at his admission, and you can’t hide the pride in your voice. ‘Do I make you reckless, general?’

He tries and fails to be stern in his answer, the tenderness with which he brushes his nose on your cheek giving him away. ‘I know better than to encourage your insolence with an answer.’

You are far from discouraged though, quite the opposite. Knowing you have this man - who commands armies of thousands - at your mercy is a siren’s call.

Peering at him from under your eyelashes, you curl one leg around his waist. ‘Do you want to be reckless again?’

He huffs, but a smile breaks through. ‘Have you ever been told that you are a cocktease?’

You hum teasingly. ‘I have never heard that word before, but I like it.’

‘You do?’ he breathes against your lips. ‘You like being my cocktease?’

‘Yours, general.’

Marcus is astounded when he feels himself harden again, and he moans as you press open-mouthed kisses down his neck. ‘What spell have you cast on this old man, my little cocktease?’

You grin, letting him ease you onto your back so he can settle between your thighs again. ‘The kind that lasts until dawn.’

Eventually, morning must break, sure as the moon turns and the sun rises. In the golden rays of day, you will wed his son in ironic, virginal white, showered in rose petals. He will look on from the side in his finest ceremonial robes of red, as you walk away from him and into your new life as someone else’s wife.

But in the velvety folds of this night and many more to come, safely ensconced in the deepest corners of his memories, in lands far away, in war and in peace, there he keeps you - where you are not.

More notes: Thank you for reading! As usual, comments/reblogs/asks would be very much appreciated 🥰 I hope you enjoyed this fic as much as I loved writing it!

[allpiesforourown]

Lately i can't stop thinking about shen yuan botched transmigration into pidw.. it's too late in the novel, shen qingqiu arc ended LONG ago and bingge has a harem, so with no body to take over, he just lingers around bingge as a ghost.

Binghe slashing at him with xin mo: what wretched spirit are you!?

Shen yuan floating above the emperors throne: I don't want to be here either!

No one else can see or hear shen yuan, and sy is bound to stay close to binghe. Eventually binghe sees that shen yuan is always praising him and warning him against attacks and giving him important information

Binghe: I see your purpose now, though this lord still does not understand why the heavens bestowed a helper who resembles a ... male whore

Shen yuan bashfully pulling down his shorts to cover more of his thigh: i-i can't help it if this is what I died in!

[ash-and-starlight]

the original comment doesn’t exist anymore but luckily i took a screenshot so. proof of mx parker chan being Thee big titty esen supporter

(this was all in response to this art. for booby context)

[dokitm-arch]

REVAMPED TAGS ... misc video games + my oc, nina ivanova!

🦇 ' ⟪ ch. riku. ⟫ / harbinger of dark dawn. 🦇 ' ⟪ ch. xion. ⟫ / number that never was. 🦇 ' ⟪ ch. vanitas. ⟫ / wretched darkness. 🦇 ' ⟪ ch. ienzo. ⟫ / quiet observer. 🦇 ' ⟪ ch. tatsuya suou. ⟫ / the sun arcana. 🦇 ' ⟪ ch. eikichi mishina. ⟫ / the death arcana. 🦇 ' ⟪ ch. chidori yoshino. ⟫ / hanged man arcana. 🦇 ' ⟪ ch. ryuji sakamoto. ⟫ / the chariot arcana. 🦇 ' ⟪ ch. yusuke kitagawa. ⟫ / the emperor arcana. 🦇 ' ⟪ ch. susie. ⟫ / rude buster. 🦇 ' ⟪ ch. sidon. ⟫ / beloved prince of zora. 🦇 ' ⟪ ch. harleen quinzeel. ⟫ / mistress of chaos. 🦇 ' ⟪ ch. jason todd (red hood). ⟫ / violent vigilante. 🦇 ' ⟪ ch. dick grayson (nightwing). ⟫ / optimistic justice. 🦇 ' ⟪ oc. nina ivanova. ⟫ / queen of sunflowers.

[trainer-from-unova]

three is a crowd

𖤐 bandom blog: @princess-lvcifer 𖤐 english ao3 𖤐 spanish ao3 𖤐 edits 𖤐 kofi 𖤐

ship: geta/f!reader/caracalla

summary: where both emperors want to marry you, and they will

a/n: english isn't my first language

cw: none

word count: 1.1k

It was a calm sunny morning, there wasn't a cloud in sight in the sky and the birds were singing and flying back and forth over the trees of the villa. A young girl was sitting on a bench, quietly embroidering when her mother's voice at the other end of the inner courtyard caught her attention, causing her to look away from her handiwork and crane her neck to turn in her direction.

She was far enough away that she couldn't quite hear what she was saying, but she knew she wasn't talking to herself — beside her and looking in her direction were two men, one taller than the other but both with red hair. And although she hadn't (yet) had the (bad) luck to see them many times, she would recognise them everywhere. How could she not? Her eyes widened like plates and she turned almost without thinking, craning her neck again but pinning her gaze to the ground, processing the moment. Still staring at the ground she could feel their eyes on her, and for a second she froze. It didn't take much intelligence to know what they were doing there — she was one of the most powerful women in all of Rome and therefore desired by many suitors behind her, but she never thought she would attract the attention of the emperors.

She remembered what the streets had been saying about them lately: that they were moving heaven and earth to change the marriage law and marry both of them to the same woman. She remembered talking about the juicy gossip days before with her best friend, and joking that it was bad enough to have one husband you didn't love without having two, and more so if it was those two in particular. Were the gods mocking her for having mocked the poor wretch who had supposedly been the "lucky" one to have the favour of both of them days before? She knew they were out to get her and she also knew that, whether she liked it or not, she had to be obedient and polite, so she left her embroidery on the bench and crossed the courtyard to them, praying that the change in the law was only a rumour and that if she really had to marry it would only be to just one of the two.

"Emperors, it is a pleasure to see you again," she said kneeling subtly on her knees with a sweet but false smile on her lips. "Remember me?" She asked looking at both of them.

"How could we not?" asked Emperor Geta.

"The pleasure is all ours," said Emperor Caracalla, scanning her up and down with his typical playful, almost wicked look and smile. Emperor Geta simply grabbed one of her hands to kiss it, and the other was quick to do the same at the same time with the missing hand, creating a scene that would be comical were it not for the fact that she was co-starring with them in particular.

"To what do we owe this pleasant surprise?" She asked everyone present when they had finished greeting her, wanting to confirm her suspicions as soon as possible.

"We have come to make a proposal of marriage," reported Emperor Geta smiling in the same manner as his brother but more covertly.

Neither wanted to marry the young woman for love, for they hardly knew her nor to benefit from her brilliance, for they shone even brighter, but they wanted to do it so that no one else would. If she married an important senator with her nobility and blood, her new husband was likely to threaten their position. They simply wanted to prevent others from marrying her, but they had to share her benefits to be on the same level as each other and unfortunately they could not divide her in two for each of them, so they abused their power to change the law so that they could both marry her.

"Me?" she asked nervously.

"Who else?" asked Caracalla.

"My mother here is still well preserved in spite of her age, as you can see," she said pointing to her, making her blush and making all present laugh. "And may I know who my future husband will be?"

"Both," replied Emperor Geta.

"Both of you?" She looked at the two of them, surprised at the confirmation of the rumours and her earlier suspicions, and even more nervous and unable to stop herself from feigning a smile. She knew that if she married one she could not avoid being close to the other, but to be married to both at the same time was too much, and seemingly impossible. "Is that even possible?"

"Now it is," the taller one replied.

She was so surprised, nervous and confused that she couldn't think straight or formulate words, so not wanting it to ruin the moment and change the emperors' minds about the marriage proposal, her mother decided to intervene.

"My daughter is so happy that it's hard for her to speak."

"That's normal," said Caracalla.

"It's not every day that one is lucky enough to marry two emperors," said Geta looking smiling at his future wife, and as she felt his gaze on her, she couldn't help but stop dissociating and return his gaze.

Both made her nervous, but for different reasons; she felt that Geta saw right through her no matter how well she acted, and that Caracalla wasn't in his right mind. Not wanting to spend another second with them considering she would soon be living with them under the same roof, she decided to open her mouth to say:

"If you'll excuse me I'll leave, I'm so happy I'm feeling a bit unwell" and she wasn't partly lying, she did feel unwell and needed to leave.

After that everyone around her tried to cheer her up, saying that she was a lucky woman, that she would have more power and that she would go down in history as the first empress to marry two emperors at the same time, but that mattered little to her. The only thing that cheered her up was the idea that she would be left alone after becoming pregnant and having to rest so that the baby in her womb could be formed and born healthy, but then the question arose — who would be the father? As much as they wanted to share her, they couldn't both get her pregnant at the same time, and the first-born would rule the empire in the future. A part of her was looking forward to the wedding night to stop suffering from the nerves that ruled her body and mind even though she didn't want to live that moment.

a/n: And then on the wedding night they blindfold you and don't know who fucks you. The end. I wish I could write the smut but I can't and I swear I really really really tried but my personal life has been a mess lately.

[st4rg8te]

Twisted Affections (GL) (P. 2)

Yandere! Emperor's Mistress X Empress! Reader

✦✧✦✧

The lessons that had been instilled in you since birth resurfaced in your mind: ‘The Mother of the Nation should be dignified, elegant, and composed. She should never show any sign of weakness in front of her subjects.’ 

But you couldn’t help but break in her embrace.

✦✧✦✧

P. 1: x

[tw: adultery, s*xism, domestic abuse, gaslighting, slight description of blood/injury]

✦✧✦✧

"Your Majesty, please forgive me! I swear I had checked the quality of the shoes and dresses before they were sent to Lady Lucia. The measurements were all verified!"

Mary knelt in front of you with her head bowed, her face buried deep in her hands as she sobbed loudly. At the display, you could only sigh wearily in response. 

The doctor’s words echoed in your mind.

There were blisters and cuts on Lucia's feet from the ill-fitting slippers, but her walking all the way across the palace grounds to visit you had worsened her injuries. A strange form of guilt began to eat away at your conscience.

“Could… could it have been deliberate?” your maid muttered. “How could she bleed so much from those shoes?”

“Silence. Prepare some tea and bring Lady Lucia to the drawing room. I will join her shortly."

If that woman had injured herself just to implicate you, then she was far more dangerous than you had imagined.

✦✧✦✧

You couldn’t help but feel as though you had stepped into a trap. 

Unease settled on your shoulders like a heavy blanket. Before you laid an assortment of cakes and other pastries, all neatly arranged on the small round table. Once the servants finished setting them out, they quickly retreated out the door.

Silence enveloped the room as you stared at the blonde woman across from you, trying to gauge on how to proceed with this strange situation.

Lucia sat with her hands pressed against her pink cheeks, staring at you, a bright smile still plastered onto her face as if nothing had happened. 

Thankfully, earlier, you had managed to snap out of your horror-filled daze and called for a physician, which the palace maids were quick enough to comply with. No one wanted to face their Emperor's wrath if he learned that his favored concubine had been injured, and least of all, you.

The one he hated the most.

You set your teacup down with a soft clink, forcing yourself to break the stifling tension that hung between the two of you first, “...How are your injuries now, Lady Lucia?” 

If you didn't know any better, you would have thought that she had heard the happiest news in the world with the way she beamed at your question. Lucia leaned forward so that her entire weight rested on her forearms, her blonde curls falling over her bare shoulders.

"Thank you for your concern, Your Majesty. I'm feeling much better now.”

You nodded stiffly in response, "Good. That's good to hear."

But beneath that facade of yours, there was a burning anger simmering within you. 

You hated her. 

You hated your husband even more, for bringing a woman like her into the palace. You had swallowed your feelings for so long, bottled them up until they festered. And sitting here, watching Lucia try to make conversation, only reminded you of how wretched your situation really was.

Not to mention, she had successfully gotten what she wanted—that was why you two were sitting here in the first place, having tea together like it was perfectly normal to do so. 

But the Mother of the Nation should be-

You were tired of dealing with this pretense of politeness. Of two people spewing scripted lines at each other without any real meaning behind their words. 

You were utterly exhausted.

"Your Majesty, I have a request..." 

Lucia's voice pulled you back from your thoughts. 

"Yes?" 

"...I admire you a lot, Your Majesty. I grew up from a humble background and don't know much about the etiquette of nobles. I truly want to serve His Majesty well, but..."  

She trailed off for a moment, fiddling with her hands nervously. "I have nobody to teach me. If you are willing—"

"I have to refuse your request," You interrupted before she could finish her sentence, "But I will arrange a tutor for you, Lady Lucia."

"Your Majesty—"

With a strained smile, you rose from your chair and signaled for Mary to come along, missing the stricken look on the blonde woman's face.

"Thank you for the tea invitation, but I'm afraid I have to go now." 

Before you could take another step towards the door, a pale hand shot out to grab your arm tightly. Your head whipped back in surprise, only to meet a pair of blue eyes filled with anger.

Anger?

Why was she the angry one?

"Lady Lucia—"

“...This is not how you’re supposed to act.”

But as swiftly as those words had escaped her, Lucia's face softened into an expression of wounded innocence. The sharp, menacing glare from before had vanished, as if it had never existed at all—like a figment of your imagination.

“...Excuse me?”

"Your Majesty... Do you hate me?" There was a tremor in her voice, an underlying desperation that made you pause.

"Please let go of my arm." You said coldly, tugging against her grasp, "Here’s your first advice for etiquette, Lady Lucia; this behavior is unbecoming of a noble concubine."

Lucia's grip tightened even further, sharp nails digging painfully into tender flesh. "Please! Please tell me if I've done anything to offend you or make you uncomfortable."

"...I know that things aren’t right between you and His Majesty because of me, but it hurts me—"

Her plea was cut short, replaced by a strangled gasp as you yanked your arm out of her grasp violently. She staggered backwards, her injured legs colliding hard against her chair and sending her toppling to the ground.

"Offend me?" You spat, voice laced with venom.

You hated how easily you had lost control, hated how much satisfaction it brought when you saw the hurt in her eyes. 

"The only thing that offends me is your stupidity. I knew my husband had brought home another woman, but never did I expect it to be some brainless wench who didn’t know how to behave."

The doors burst open then, and the familiar figure of your husband entered the room. 

"Lucia!"

His expression darkened immediately upon seeing his lover on the floor. And in an instant, he was at the fallen blonde’s side, cradling her in his arms.

"What the hell is the meaning of this?!"

"Your Majesty! Please don't blame the Empress. It wasn't her fault. I made her mad..."

Lucia's words only made your husband angrier. She curled into his embrace, and you couldn't help the snarl that formed on your lips at the sight. 

"How dare you hurt her! Have you no shame?" His words were laced with heavy contempt.

He's never been this angry with you before.

At best, it was subtle remarks; about your looks, or your behavior, and at worst, he simply ignored you completely for days after an argument. You had always been able to brush those off. 

This was different.

You never expected the slap that came next; the one that made your cheek bloom red with pain and eyes well up with tears. You felt your head ache slightly as the world spun around you.

Through hazy, panicked voices, you heard his deep voice call out: 

"Get a doctor immediately! Lucia's legs are bleeding!"

And then, you lost yourself.

✦✧✦✧

[A/N]

I want to explain my absence here. Big apologies for those who have been waiting for the second part of this series. These past few months have been hell for me as I am dealing with a ton of stuff in real life. And as a result, I haven't been posting anything. I'm very grateful for all the support, and I still intend to continue this series, along with publishing other yandere works. I just hope that you are all understanding enough to be patient with me.

PS: The next part will be more in depth about the Empress' background, as well as a glimpse into Lucia's perspective!

✦✧✦✧

[fulgrims-big-naturals]

I feel like the players in my game haven’t really got that yet because our artisan (the only human in the party) has just been hanging out with the other PCs and this one apothecary that is wayy to attached to her (he’s here for combat balance reasons), like, so far she’s been either completely ignored or very condescended to, and all my players are acting like this is horrible awful treatment. Which, sure, I get that, I would find it very frustrating to be regarded by my companions as a soft little puppy that needs protection or just a glorified speaker but girlie it get so so much worse.

You space marine fans out there, i need to remind you all how inhuman astarties actually are, they are terrifying creatures so genebulked that if they wana go undercover (for some reason) they either have to pretend to be some strain of mutant or a bulked up servator, transhuman dread is a thing in 40k for a reason even their allies find them terrifying, especially when you couple this with the fact that most astarties chapters intentionally abandon their individual humanity in exchange for greater Tactical prowess, I desire more stories where one of the emperors angels shows up and the loyal imperial population they just saved starts screaming in fear, because to me that would be a more than reasonable reaction to something of their size moving at the speed they can.

[willowed-wisp]

gladiator [ könig ]

part two

König would make the perfect Ancient Roman gladiator, and you happen to be the daughter of his trainer.

You thought it was barbaric- absolutely heinous. Yet, what were you, a woman, supposed to do in a patriarchal society where women only had one use.

So you had to sit on your hands, your mother hated the habit. You weren’t even allowed to argue with her, lest your father get involved…

Your parents weren’t terrible people- just unfortunate enough to be wrapped in a system too big for any family to endure.

The Roman Empire, grand and faulted. Corruption laid thick and violence ran rife.

Thats why conformity was a must and keeping your heads down was a close second.

Which was impossible in the wealthy echelons… blood knew blood until it had to be spilled.

Bloodshed was senseless. You were only watching onto the warring combatants in the arena below you because your father trained them- forcing you to acquaint yourself with the way of life.

Not squeamish in the slightest- you just thought it was abhorrent and you also had… other reasons.

Joining your father since you were a teenager- watching gladiators come and go.

Traded off or killed.

No in between for those poor souls.

Though, your father painted them out to be wretches, only training them to avoid execution by order of the emperor. For so long you thought the same.

Until HE arrived… a couple years older than yourself. You didn’t know much about the handsome, expressionless boy.

That didn’t mean you weren’t intrigued. Grappling your curiosity by the neck and choking it down. He was a dead man.

That didn’t exactly happen, he was fast for his build. The tallest man you had ever seen and not to mention what he had you feeling as a seventeen year old, bound for an arranged marriage. He grew to become successful and quite renowned in the Roman Empire as unbeatable.

They called him ‘Rex’, meaning ‘king’. And he ruled the Colosseum. Whatever he was faced with, with upside triangles in paint beneath his eyes, he conquered it. You pondered how he hadn’t bought his freedom, or had earned it. He would make an impressive military general…

You had shared looks. It was purely because you were around the same age. Not because of the half-lidded gaze he faced you with or how statuesque his body stood… let alone in the heat of combat.

Towering over you- swamping you… no.

There was just something about Rex that left you intrigued.

That night you agreed to a soirée from some socialites in your family’s circle. Meeting place- the ruins that were by your villa on the outskirts of Rome.

The only catch was to wear a mask- and so you did. Weaving through backstreets and the footpath down the grassy hill. Met with torchlight and… naked bodies. Not uncommon for the majority but irregular for you. Stuck out like a sore thumb in the sea of flesh.

Heart leaping from your chest- two hands on your shoulders, “You shouldn’t be here, little miss Silvanus…” How did somebody recognise you? Face met with a broad chest… you’d know that maimed, chiselled frame anywhere. Appearing in your dreams… never this close before in reality.

How had he gotten out of the jails beneath the Colosseum? “Rex… how- ?”

“I slip the guards some money and they let me out until sunrise,” You could get him in trouble punishable by mutilation or death. Warmth from those lips against your neck, “Now how did YOU end up here? This isn’t the place for someone like you…” Your cheeks were inflamed, his smirk spoke as much looking down at you. Normally so stoic and unspeaking, must be the wine.

Palm against his chest- cut nails grazed slightly. Light teal peered down at your hand. Aching in your chest as those eyes met yours.

You had meant to push him away, now finding yourself reeling the gladiator back in. “I’m going to leave, I don’t know anyone here,” with care his hand caught yours.

“No, live your life. And you know me, I’ll be your escort for the evening…”

“Don’t be a fool. We’ve never spoken before- we don’t know each other…” a shining look beamed down at you.

Holding out his looped arm- scattered blanched lumps amongst his veins, “Trust me. Nothing bad is going to happen, unless I have a death wish…”

You had been dubious, but the wine rushed to your head… stripping any clothes you had on. Remembering the dancing with Rex, his hands on your bare waist. The only thing between you and him was the loincloth he wore.

You were just eighteen then… and accompanied your father to train on the daily from then on. Passing glances between you and Rex grew more frequent.

He hadn’t been inappropriate with his hands, even in your wayward state. That left you with many questions not enough answers to fulfill them about the famed gladiator.

You needed to get some air, away from the crowded stadium. Navigating the maze, bumping into rock… “Fuck!” relieved seeing his helmed face, blood dripping from a cut on his neck. “Thank God, it’s just you. Are you alright?” Not able to help but reach up. Thumb nearly touching the wound, he clasped your hand in his own. Dropping both to the side.

“Just a cut…” It wasn’t just a cut but you knew he could take care of himself- he’d survived this long. Rex’s neck craned- lips brushing your ear… a reflection of that night. “Come to the ruins at midnight…” Soft against you- a hand at your waist for that glimmer of a second. Then you acted like strangers.

You had become adept at scaling your balcony and down the ivy in relative silence. Your parents none the wiser as their daughter appeared as a wisp in the wind- flowing sheer material tousled on the hill.

So you found yourself stargaze on a slab of crumbled slabs, balmy flurries on your skin. “The Lion…” Hefty palms so forbearing when guiding your pointing hand along the stars above you.

“Thank you, Rex…” You didn’t see the wince when you spoke his name.

He did drop your hand from his, “That’s the name they gave to me when they took me away…” Revenant and hallowed…

“You’re not from Italia?” Body on its side, looking down at that face. So at peace but trouble all the same.

His head shook, “The Romans call it Noricum. When they arrived at my village, they thought I’d make a good gladiator… so here I am…” It wouldn’t take a genius to note the dejection in his tone…

You took his hand in yours, finally looking your way instead of up- away from the tragedy that was mankind and their conquests, “So what IS your name? Where you come from, what do they call you?” A solemn look on his face- maybe hindrance. But he trusted you.

“König… it means ‘king’…” So not entirely different from the name he was given in the Colosseum. They meant the same.

You didn’t say that to him, not even a word. Thumb brushing against the new wound on jawline- avoiding after one swipe. Your face all he saw, “Well, I’m glad I’ve met you König…” Lips pressed against his, chapped but nothing that bothered you. Taken aback when he sat up, mouth agape and he swept in. Deepening the feeling, a pang in your chest while steadying yourself on his solid middle.

His brandished hands were intoxicating against the soft skin of your jaw, anchoring you where he needed you. He broke the symmetry you shared, “You’re an amazing woman…” Hooking a leg over his hips, oh… that’s how he yearned for you. “It’s wrong, isn’t it? A peasant with a noblewoman…” Nails scraping along his glorious skin… all yours for the taking then and there. You were on top of him, felt his intention and he could see the lust in your eyes.

“I’m just Y/N, and you’re just König… not a noblewoman or Rex the gladiator…” A sharpe inhale from the man beneath you as the straps of your stola dropped. As if he’d never seem a pair of breasts before. Another tone dripped from him with your hand reaching past the fabric to his hardness.

Whatever Gods listened, may they help you… you’d seen many before- men in Rome weren’t afraid to be in the nude but this was a brute.

He knew it wasn’t a good idea, lining yourself up over that large tip. The etching on your face, the squeak of your voice… “Gods be merciful…” You could take it. He remained still while you sucked him in constricted walls.

“Relax,” Fingers rubbed your thighs, tingles spurring down to your core. Looking into his eyes was the main help- his face… the sweat caught on his brow, down into those thickets of blond that had grown up since you’d met him. “It’s just me, my love…” You sank down further after hearing that… tears prickled… finding some kind of pleasure in that overwhelming burn.

That night you saw more than stars, raging breath matching your panting. Stilling yourself against König, limp in his capable arms. Picking up the pace when you begged for it.

Moaning obscene nonsense as his came inside of you, going for another round against the desecrated marble pillar. Hands on his broad shoulders. Screaming his name, not the one they had given to him.

You repeated that routine every Day of Venus, the fifth day of the week.

Tongue exploring every inch of your body, fingers collapsing you over the edge. A few more scratches on his back…

It was that way, until he won the sword… earning his freedom. Released from your father’s hands and the city’s.

König, known by all as Rex, was a free man- rich from the earnings he had stored in those five years. Famous and taken on by the Roman military.

You supposed he had forgotten about your times together… not hearing from him for half a cycle. Until one day he was at your family’s villa for a dinner, seated across from each other at the marble slabbed table. Icy sage staring at you, “General Rex, I’m sure you remember my daughter…”

A grin slack on his face, “I believe so, Y/N, wasn’t it?”

He had you against your bedroom door that night, apologising for the absence while rutting into your legs- wide open for his thickness.

Then it was marriage celebrations a mere week later.

Splitting your legs apart, revealing your sex. Ravenous was an understatement, but he had to control himself, “I’m never leaving these legs.” Thrusting his hips forward, “Never.”

You didn’t know if the gladiator had conquered you or if you had conquered you…

König the only thing you could mumble when he split you in two.

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