#a true tast of India | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pedgito · 2 months ago

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𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑 | Marcus Acacius x f!reader

summary | A female gladiator plucked from the arena by the most powerful general in Rome, convinced to serve under his command. You learn that his taste for blood might not be so different from your own.

author's note | the horny demons strike again. this has a little plot, thanks to the beautiful minds of @ovaryacted and @kedsandtubesocks who deal with my crazy so generously.

content warning | 18+ mdni, set pre-gladiator ii, description of war & mistreatment of women in roman society, female gladiator, dark-ish!acacius, reader has minimal backstory, but is revealed to be nameless (uses monikers given to her: medusa, fury, minerva), fighting, m*rder, blood tw, gore tw, sa warning (i have it annotated further below with content, but nothing graphic) acacius covered in someone elses blood as he fucks you, copious smut, biting as a little treat

word count — 8k

“How much?” Acacius inquires, tapping his finger against the iron bars holding you prisoner, staring back at the men. The ginger twins and a man—no, a general. Dressed in a toga of thick material, embroidered with intricate designs, gold bangles at his wrist, a telltale sign of high honor.

“Oh, she is…” The older one, Geta, teeth digging into his bottom lip as he shakes his head, “priceless—quite the fighter, too.”

“Does she have a name?”

Geta smirks to himself, “They call her Medusa. She favors beheading, it seems.” Geta waggles a finger through the bars and smirks, nose scrunching as he addresses you, “Correct?”

You ignore him, responding with a stare—much like your given moniker; if looks could kill.

“She’s bested them all,” Caracalla boasts from beside his brother, Dundus fiddling with his hair from where she was perched on his shoulder, “even our lion that we’ve had since kids.”

“It was a stupid idea, your fault,” Geta retorts, “but—again, she’s not for sale.”

“I’ll conquer India within the next few nightfalls, a handful of new gladiators fresh for the choosing, for your entertainment—how does that sound?”

Greedy as they were and entirely too incompetent, Caracalla agrees before his brother can open his mouth.

“Will you bring her back to visit?” Caracalla inquires with an underlying excitement—the poor brother was nothing but a dunce, erratic and impulsive, but all too easy to manipulate. “The others may miss her.”

“Indeed,” Another swift but convincing lie, Caracalla and Acacius shake hands on the deal before Geta can retort, fuming with rage as he stomps away.

He’d taken a liking to your fighting style despite his distaste for the arena. Strategic and skilled, brute strength and a drive that was built around pure survival but somehow all while maintaining the perfect amount of gracefulness that men did not. Constant calculation, finesse, it was like an art.

He’s gone through several guards over his rule, some from sacrifice but others out of pure ignorance. He needed a strong base, malleable but resistant. He could shape you into a leader, he thinks. He knows.

Your hard stare is like ice as the keys jingle into the lock, a defining click a resounding echo of freedom and General Acacius extends his palm.

A gesture of freedom, a new life, trepidation fills you despite your yearn for a way out of this prison. Here it was, served up on a platter covered in intricate facets of white and gold, stubble brushing his cheeks and soft brown eyes offering kindness.

This was not a man of sheer violence, not the tales they tell about him—this was a man of trouble, conflict, and an instinct to protect himself. And he’d chosen you.

Your hands slips into his, a similar roughness to match his own and scars that Acacius knew well enough of—you were a true fighter, a warrior.

The two boys—calling the men would be too easy, they often acted like spoiled children, were already off to their own chambers, and Acacius had only dropped his hard facade slightly, still under the watchful eye of Rome’s guards, he led you onto your new life.

“I cannot accept,” You argue, as respectful as you could manage, hands crossed firmly over your front, near your waist as you spoke to General Acacius in his private office at home, a place few have stepped foot into, but yet somehow, again, you were given a free pass.

“Are you refusing my order?” Acacius counters, there’s pillowyness to his tone, almost taunting.

“Sir—er, General,” It was all new to you, formalities, structure, rules, “I…am a woman.”

“I am not blind,” Acacius squints his eyes slightly, before leaning back in the creaky chair, “my men—they will not question my choices. They listen, they do their duties. They need strong leadership. Gladiator, I believe you can bestow that upon them.”

“I am a stranger to you, you know nothing of me,” You tell him, a full truth, “General, I fear you may have made the wrong decision, I am not what you think I—”

Silently, Acacius fingers curl around the handle to a drawer hidden behind his desk, pulling out a sharp knife with a handle carved of bone, twisting it in his grip before he’s rearing his arm back, throwing it in your direction.

It zips by with force, the tip of the knife snagging and burying itself deep into the wall behind you, your head whipping to the side to follow it, the sharp blade barely missing the skin of your ear.

Quick reflexes. You turn back to a smirking Acacius.

“I am positive, had I thrown that between your eyes you would have caught it without overthinking the consequences—most of my men would do the same,” Acacius lectures, standing with his brutish frame and walking toward the wall, the soft flow of a breeze kissing at your fists.

“Though, I have another proposition,” Acacius says lightly, twisting the knife in his hand, the pointing spinning against his fingertip as he circles around you, “—attack me.”

“Sir,” You argue, “that surely defeats the purpose of—”

His fist balls up tight and aims for your side. Acacius sees it, the anticipation as you block his hand. He chuckles underneath his breath, “Please, continue,” He teases, twisting out of your grip to pull another punch that you block with ease—he was going easy, you think.

Natural reaction takes hold and his test quickly turns into a full-out brawl, twisting and slipping underneath his grip until you have him pinned against a nearby wall, teeth bared with his forearm pressed against his throat, struggling to grip his free arm.

The real test is here, as Acacius bares the knife near your neck, an immediate reaction to protect yourself rather than go for the kill shot, knowing that anyone of normal skill would be too full of bloodlust to think of anything other than killing you. Protection and defense came first, taking the small nick of a cut to your own forearm before you’re knocking the knife out of his hand and wrestling him to the ground with a swift kick to his leg, rendering him helpless.

“Indeed, you are exactly what I think you are,” Acacius says with finality, “I want you to lead my personal guard. Whatever it is I must do to obtain that, my lady I will do—riches, bribery—”

You push away from him with a heavy exhale, standing and adjusting your clothes, brushing your hair away from your face, “No need, I will do it.”

Acacius rolls to his back, hand extending once more.

This time, it is you offering the help as he uses the leverage to rise to his feet before speaking to you with a triumphant tone.

“Commander,” He grins, “let us plan.”

–

He often asks of your lineage, your home. But, there is nothing to offer. A long conquered piece of land now under the rule of Rome and a home that was never a home. An orphan you had always been, nameless, taking greedily whatever name was bestowed upon you.

In the arena it was Medusa, the tale of a vicious woman with god-like power. Caracalla had told you of the story, the boys having taken a liking to you in different ways. Geta was fiendish, hungry, often seeking you out for his own pleasure to which you wouldn’t deny. Couldn’t. He could be rough, but he wasn’t.

He seemed lonely, the poor boy.

Carcalla was only searching for a friend despite his unruly, chaotic nature. When he wasn’t ruling with tyranny over Rome, terrorizing the townspeople, he was telling you stories.

Other times it was only she. Or her. Or just girl. The girl.

You were only what people assumed of you, expected you to be.

“Medusa, ay?” A greasy looking man confirms, one of the six men who were to be under your command, “The gladiator?”

“You will respect her,” General Acacius had warned them, “or an apology will be your dying breath.”

It had struck most of them with fear. Most of them.

And for many nights, countless, it seems—the transition of leadership was smooth. You had an unyielding grip on them, awaiting direction, following your orders. It was the kind of rush most would only dream of, and as a woman, it was an unforeseen privilege.

“They address you as Medusa, too,” Acacius notes during a roundtable session as the other men wander off for dinner, “do you wish for them to address you differently?”

“I have no name, General,” You admit, “I am whatever I must be. If they think of me as so, that is what I am. Though, I would love to turn a few of them into stone, given I was granted her powers.”

“I believe you could manage that feat without them,” Acacius jokes, “—but, nameless? Even at birth?”

“I know nothing of my birth parents. They told me I was found wrapped in cloth under the bridge that led into the town your army eventually turned to rubble,” A bittersweet feeling, speaking unusually out of term, facing him with the facts, “though, it does not matter. I enjoy the fear they have of me, keeps wandering hands at bay.”

Such an enigma, Acacius eyes you curiously. It was the most you’ve opened up to him since retrieving you from your cell, and even then, still forcing him to face the consequences of war.

The guilt followed him at every waking moment.

“Do you need anything further of me, General?” You ask politely, “You have spoiled my appetite as of late and your men are greedy with the stew.”

“You are dismissed,” He speaks distantly, turning over the thick, coarse paper with a drawn out map of the territory they were to invade soon, a lingering well wish leaving his lips, “sleep well, commander.”

Unfortunately, you’ve turned to sleeping with a knife under your bedroll—with a lingering ache of betrayal, you weren’t allowing yourself to lower your guard.

The attacks do not start at night. Rather during the day, when the General is off and away, scouting ahead further when half of his army while the other half sticks at camp, keeping claim.

That is when the insults come, the disbelief, the mockery.

Most of his men settled with the idea, having accepted your position even if it displeased them.

But, there was one. Like a bull—hardheaded and stocky, fists and arms like clubs, testosterone radiating from his body in crashing waves. He wants you to fear him, submit to him.

You feel it. You see it. And you’ve been through it before, other large and brutish gladiators thinking with their muscles rather than their brains. It wouldn’t take long for them to meet their demise, but this one was…different.

He approaches you with a smile than anyone could see right through, a finger brushing your cheek as he pushes a strand of hair behind your ear, leaning in to brush his lips against the shell of it.

“They are hungry,” He drips of vicious intention, “—I say, you give us a show. Entertain us, Medusa.”

Your eyes snap to him, staring him down.

“Pitiful Acacius isn’t here to save you,” He warns, “though, I have reason to believe he is as weak as most men—spread your legs and he’ll be begging for a taste, too.”

“I will gut you where you stand,” You warn, reaching for the thick machete at your waist, “you’re like a pig. Brainless and greedy for whatever you can get. Touch me, I dare you.”

The rest of the men are relatively quiet, but they do not stop him. Smirks and half-smiles hidden behind their cups, lounging on a log near their tents, enjoying the entertainment.

It was nightfall, the fire crackling between you and them, a towering presence at your backside.

And as he dares to, his hand slides up your waist.

Without hesitation you flip the weapon in your grip, grabbing at his wrist and slicing at his arm—a featherlight touch, it was merrily a glorified papercut, but his eyes widened in shock.

“Let us see how well you touch without fingers,” You threaten, flipping the machete until it is pointing in his face, death grip on the handle if he dared to take it, taunting him with the sharp end of your blade, “hands?”

That deep, rumbling sound of hooves approaches through the darkness, everyone slowly falling back into their paces as you welcome back your General with a forced smile.

Acacius hands off the reins to another rider, taking scope of the situation that seemed to be defusing in front of him, but still—he notices. His eyes trade glances between you both before he nods at you to follow him.

Speaking under his breath, “The others have coined you as fury,” He laughs softly at the pseudonym, “little fury, they tell me. Like the Furies. I cannot say I disagree with them. Has he been pestering you long?”

Your brow furrows at the reference, lost on your ill-informed mind.

“Long enough,” You answer honestly, “though, he was bestowed a parting gift this time.”

You raise your blade, his blood still painting the weapon.

He raises the curtain to his tent, allowing you to enter before him.

“Do you know nothing of the Furies?”

“I was not privy to bedtime tales, General.”

He nods, thoughtful as his lips pull together in a thin line, slowly removing his armor as he sits, directing for you to take a seat opposite of him, a few feet away on a decaying stump.

“Goddesses,” He states simply, “of vengeance, striking the wicked down. You have…fire, deep within you. Do not let them put it out, it is your weapon.”

You nod obediently, feeling the humidity stick to your skin, clothes glued to your body as you sit in the uncomfortable heat. There was no world in which you felt safe enough to strip down, quell your body of this unbearable summer weather. You would rather suffer, thick garb covering your body.

Acacius tilts his head, but does not comment.

“I require your protection tomorrow, we must scout an additional day and I fear danger is imminent—relay this to them,” He instructs, “and my lady, if you fear they will visit you at night, that they might strike when you’re vulnerable, you are welcome here.”

He already anticipates your response—he knows, but the gesture was an offer. A kindness.

“If they try, you will be searching for new men by sunrise, General.”

Acacius smirks in amusement, nodding to your words.

“It would not be difficult to replace them,” He notes, “though, little fury, you are irreplaceable.”

General Acacius wasn’t an easy man to protect, but you managed. Over the few weeks that you had taken point within his guard it has leant you plenty of opportunities to prove your worth, slaughtering opposing soldiers like cattle for the glory of Rome, his booming voice pronouncing vie victis as the dead are laid rest under fire and smoke.

But, conflict comes when you are faced with a decision as the camp was raided under complete, utter darkness. It was your shift to guard the General, perched outside of his tent with constant, roaming eyes. Eventually, you drift. It was peaceful, nature taking hold and pulling you under, awoken to the sound of blood curdling screams, the ground painted with the innards of both Acacius’ men and the others.

You were forced with a choice—defend the camp, something Acacius would have told you to do in a moment of desperation, a self-sacrificing man himself. Ironic, given your position, that you even think otherwise. Of course, your feet pull you toward him, whipping the flowing fabric of his tent door back.

There was a knife at his neck, a man towering over him. He’d snuck past—taken advantage of your exhaustion and your mistake was putting the General’s life at risk, his face stoic as he pushed back against the blade with his palm.

Without thinking, you rush toward the man, pulling back at his collar to plunge the knife pointed at Acacius into his own throat, a silent death through the notch of his neck, the blood flowing out like a river, tossing the lifeless man to the side before you’re reaching for your General.

“Do not worry,” He assures you as he rises, still groggy from sleep, “go—protect our camp.”

“But, General,” You plead, not realizing that your hand was grasping on his own, or that he had initiated the touch as a gentle push, a confirmation that he was truly alright, “it is my fault.”

His eyes peer behind you and to the man lying lifeless on the floor, blood pooling around his body.

“Though, it seems you have done your duty,” Acacius comments, head turned down as he stares at the body before his eyes peer up at you under his dark lashes, pensive, “now—kill them.”

You had lost a hundred or so men, nothing to the army of five thousand, but any loss was felt within General Acacius’ army—men of honor, with families or not, deserved a proper farewell.

Covered in the blood of many, some of your friends and some of strangers, hair matted and reeking of death, you approach General Acacius who was sending off a group of men to begin digging the mass grave to dispose of the bodies.

Your body ached, bruised and nicked from battle—you had killed at least five hundred men alone. Pure rage and fury, not a memory of it as you approached him now, a blank stare void of emotion that concerns Acacius, his hand reaching for your wrist as you begin to pass him, heading for your own tent to collapse in exhaustion.

“You did well,” He notes, catching your gaze as he turns his head to infiltrate your line of sight, “wash off before you turn in, you…reek. There’s a river beyond the bend—clean, warm.”

You nod despite only paying half-attention to his words, walking mindlessly toward the river before you are faced with the unfortunate crowd of men, undressed to their natural state, avoiding the watchful eyes and preying gazes, stripping your armor off down near the empty end of the river, pulling at your tangled hair, pulling off each remaining piece of clothing despite your body’s protest, screaming for relief.

It wasn’t unfamiliar, the looks—you bathed alongside all the men under the arena without a thought, knowing most of them were vying for freedom and wouldn’t dare risk it by allowing their cocks to work overtime, forgetting rational thought.

But, to them, you were a trophy. Someone—something, to be conquered.

The thin, flimsy undergarments come off last, stepping into the water and sinking down slowly. The blood washes away as you scrub, back turned as you dip your head into the water before committing entirely, plugging your nose as you dip underneath the water, finding peace in the silence.

“I had my doubts, Medusa,” A voice bellows from behind as you rise, your eyes peeling open with a quickly growing annoyance, “of you being a true woman, but—”

“Careful,” One of the men warned, a stable boy, “she will run to the general.”

It was the same man from many nights ago, big and brutish, always looking for a fight, even with the other men. He hadn’t learned his lesson, clearly.

“Acacius is busy,” He retorts, “so—what say you give us the show you owe us?”

You stand frozen in place, staring daggers at the man who seems only more amused as the anger in you builds, permeates.

(sa themes below: noncon touching, reader is naked in front of several men)

“Get out of the water,” He demands, “unless you prefer I come get you.”

You survey your choices, knowing that staying in the water wasn’t a safe option. They can and will wait you out. Your eyes track toward your clothes, further away than you had left them. Your eyes track the scar on his forearm and you smirk, teething peeking out behind your lips, “How beautiful,” You tell him, his eyes slowly following your own, “quite the scar, is it not? Fancy another?”

You spot the knife sheathed in his leather belt, taking your chances despite the vulnerability that remains with your naked frame on full display as you retreat from the water, he nods with confidence as you approach, a faint whistle in the distance that you’ve heard before. The oaf seems to ignore it, though. His large hand comes to your breast in an instant, body dripping wet and a sickness churning in your gut as the sticks of torch and fire approach amongst the murmuring crowd of men, less than subtle about the rowdiness that was ensuing.

He pulls you into his body with a greedy hunger as his opposite hands gropes at your backside, following the curve of your ass as your hand snakes toward the blade, but the voice that rips through the crowd is enough to wake the dead, silence falling over the area in an instant.

“Remove your hand,” Acacius voice travels, the same booming voice he uses to declare victory over a new territory, “or I will remove it myself.”

“General,” The man addressed in a drunkish manner, inviting, “she was offering—Medusa, tell him.”

Your silence is expected, his hand wandering toward your other breast, biting hard enough at the inside of your cheek that it draws blood—Acacius sees your hand wrapping around the blade and speaks again, approaches closer as the mud sticks to his boots, “I will tell you once more. Remove it.”

The man eyes you with disdain, dropping his hands away as you relinquish your hold of his weapon, allowing the breath caught in your chest to escape, but it doesn’t stop the touch that follows, taunting with its intention as his palm curls around the back of your head, tilting your head to the side as he squeezes, “I forget—you are the General’s property after all.”

(end of sa themes)

“Take him,” He orders the other lingering guards, men who’ve never shown you anything other than respect—they value their lives and limbs, as any sane person would, “and start the fire.”

Acacius looks around at the lingering eyes, “I suggest all of you return to camp. Now.”

That was all it took, most of them scrambling for their own clothes and armor as they retreated like scurrying mice or dogs with their tail between their legs, leaving you under Acacius' careful gaze. He reaches down to fetch you dirtied clothes, looking them over with disgust.

He removes the black cape around his shoulders without a word, opening it as an offering. Desperate to cover yourself, you slip your arms in the sleeves with his help, his eyes wandering no further than your face as you turn to him, tucking the cape around yourself. He reaches for the hood, pulling it down.

“Come,” He demands, “I would like you to witness.”

–

The screams are audible as you approach camp, a few feet behind Acacius as he rounds the fire and separates the crowd to create a path, approaching the man bound at his feet, one arm roped at his side and secured away, leaving him to fight the men that held him down.

“General, gen—general, I am sorry,” He pleads, “she—you do not understand, she taunts. She is poison, not a leader,” He continues, despite Acacius lack of response, making a motion with his hand to remove the man’s weapon and hand it to him, pulling it from it’s leather cover and examining the blade, he makes a soft sound to himself, “Acacius—you have known me for years. Do not let this woman trick you.”

“Gag him,” He ignores his pleading, leaning down to grip the hand of the man bound below, “your humility is amusing, but your greed is what is costing you. She has shown you mercy, but I will not.”

The cut isn’t a clean slice, either. It takes several swings before the limb detaches, blood spurting out of the appendage as the man screams in pain, dragged helplessly toward the fire before they’re cauterizing the wound—your body unreactive as you watch but silently stewing with frustration.

He had spared the man, sure. But, making a show of it? A mockery?

“Commander, with me,” General Acacius demands, waiting for you to snap back into reality, your eyes meeting his face, blood covering his armor and hands, somehow avoidant of most of the mess.

When you are alone, you don’t hold back.

“I would have handled him,” You tell him, “killed him myself.”

“This is not the arena, we do not go around slaughtering our men without reason,” Acacius retorts, “he will be demoted and replaced and be a reminder to the others that you—”

“I do not need you defending my honor, General.”

“Men will not change, this—society, it does not cater to your safety. To them, women are nothing but vanity and pleasure—”

“And property,” You remark, “lest you forget how you obtained me, General.”

Acacius approaches you near the table at the center of his tent, only a foot away as he removes his armor plate, pulling it over his head, “Had I not, you would have paid for your own freedom eventually. I needed a leader—strong, smart, powerful.”

“By punishing that man, you are sending the message that I need my battles fought for me,” You argue, “and as if these men did not already think I was the General’s plaything, what will they think now?”

Acacius sighs through his nose, pulling at the fabric of his tunic that bares his chest, “I believe they will behave,” He tells you, “because you will not be as kind when you take their heads. He was an example and a pain in my ass for years, he deserved more than that.”

“And what will they think of me now? I am naked under this cloak, your cloak. I must walk the path back to my tent surrounded by men deprived of the things your bestial minds crave.”

Acacius chuckles to himself, “I have been thinking,” He begins, “that you deserve a new name. Something indicative of all that you are. Some of the men award each other with monikers of war. Medusa seems to have become more of a taunt, in light of recent events.”

He unties the leather bands at his wrist, eyeing you with a mischievous gaze as he keeps you waiting, “Have you heard the tale of Minerva, my lady?”

It isn’t a surprise, but you shake your head.

“A goddess of many things—strategy, warfare, victory, and justice…but mostly importantly, wisdom. I have seen the way you command the battlefield, it is not lost on me.”

“You have…many stories, General.”

“My mother told me one every night as she tucked me, it seems they have stuck with me.”

Tell me more, the words linger in the back of your throat.

“I am barely standing, General. I must retire for the night.”

“Indeed,” He agrees, shamelessly stripping down to his undergarments to walk toward the clean bowl of water and wash away the drying blood, “and Minerva,” the name is completely foreign, but you respond with a hum, “your position is yours alone. You have earned it. Do not let them tell you otherwise.”

Like Medusa, the name sticks.

And thankfully, you were a few weeks away from a much-earned break from war, returning to Rome as a free woman for the first time, having finally fallen into a comfortable rhythm with the rest of his personal guards—a mutual respect that had been missing, men waiting for your command.

Long nights of planning spent in Acacius tent, surrounded by the other guards until they filter out one by one, growing curiosity and questions lead to many hours of conversation that you, for many months, had been deprived of in the arena.

“You did promise my return,” You remind him, “they will be expecting you to keep that.”

“They are young, fickle men,” Acacius berates with amusement, “I am sure they have moved on.”

“Do you fear them? The emperors?”

“They are spoiled brats,” Acacius responds, an answer in itself.

“They would visit me often,” You admit, “Caracalla seemed to be—it seems the syphilis in his loins was truly affecting his brains, often he would not even make sense. Or he would come to me, complaining of his brother.”

“You had built quite the rapor,” Acacius notes with a smile, sipping at the broth from his stew as he invites you to sit on his fancy, expensive bed cot. Much nicer than your own, cushioned and wrapped in velvet, “What of Geta?”

“He liked my breasts,” You begin bluntly, “and my—”

“He forced himself upon you?”

“I was property of Rome, Acacius,” You didn’t often say his name in such a relaxed way, blaming it on the full belly and exhaustion, “therefore I was his. I have suffered much worse than a lonely man searching for comfort.”

Acacius seems thoughtful, pensive as he stirs at his quickly diminishing stew. He does catch your lingering gaze on his face after a while, mesmerized by the scar underneath his eye, he encourages you.

“Ask, if you are so curious, my lady,” He places his bowl to the side, empty.

“Your scar,” You nod, pressing your finger in a mirroring way under your eye, “is there a story?”

“Nothing to be told with boast,” He chuckles, “a wound of battle, is all. Like many of the scars on my body,” He tells you, raising his naked forearm to display the various scars, noting the few that paint his clavicle, “and you, Minerva?”

It seems to have become a particular quirk of his, a lilt to his voice as he calls you by your given name—the others have become accustomed to it, too. But, with Acacius, it felt special. Treasured.

You raise your eyebrows at his question, quietly unlacing your top to pull it down your shoulder, sliding a hand over your breast to respect the dynamic between you both—him being your general and you, his subordinate. His eyes squint as he examines the jagged and staggered scar on the side of your breasts—not quite faded, healed but relatively fresh.

“He is a biter,” You warn him with amusement, “Geta.”

Only one scar, given by one of the emperors, somehow untouched from real battle. It was miraculous. You readjust your top, feeling the heat from your neck rise to your face at what you had just willingly offered over to Acacius. Unfortunately, he had a way of lowering your guard.

With that talk, it seemed like a true breakthrough in your partnership with Acacius.

He always allowed you to speak for yourself, never overstepping the boundary you had argued with him over, leading the charge with an iron fist and handling the younger, fresh faced soldiers who just seemed…lost.

It was hard to ignore the lingering glances over time, often during meetings as you spoke, not a look of attention but rather…ravishing. Hungry, but in a subdued manner. You weren’t sure where the lines had blurred, but they had.

Possibly somewhere within the long nights of conversation or the lingering touches that shouldn’t have been as charged as they were, handing over a piece of armor or blade and his calloused fingertips would circle your wrist, pause, before his brain would catch up to his actions.

“Go on,” He encourages after a final night of victory and triumph, many of the men howling and singing tunes around the fire, drinking from their cups and enjoying the pleasures of alcohol and comradery, “you are missing the fun,” He was unnaturally quiet, subdued to his quarters, leaning against the outside of his tent as he watched with amusement but subtle dismay.

A younger man approaches with his hand extended, a gleeful expression on his face, “Minerva, please—come, you must enjoy the party, too.”

The general gives you an expectant look as you let the young man lead you away, curling his fingers around your own and pulling you with vigor, cheering loudly to blend in with the energy of the men despite how you worry about the man several feet away, your eyes tracking his disappearing figure as he slips into his tent, eventually pulled away by another man, one of the guardsmen who adored you, asking for a dance.

You agree hesitantly as the crowd roars louder, eyes searching for the exact reason as you see a few men leading a line of women into camp, little clothing to allow them modesty, a less than subtle shushing come from the men as they lead them deeper into camp, and the fear in you tells you to run to the General.

“It is not what you think,” The young man tells you, “they are dancers—no harm will—”

You bypass him, straight toward the men leading the path, stopping them cold.

“They are not here against their will, my lady.” He assures you, though, that could be argued.

“Minerva, Acacius has made it clear that harming women, you—is far worse a crime than anything else. Truly, it is not what you believe it to be.”

“I am telling the General, informing him of their presence,” You admit, “so I suggest you and the rest of the cattle be on your best behavior?”

They both give crisp, curt nods.

As you make the direct line for Acacius’ tent, you are ignorant to his silent plea for privacy at the tied rope, intertwined with gold fabric, pushing apart the fabric doors without much of a thought, reality hitting you as you catch a glimpse of his naked frame, patting down his body with a clean cloth as he washed himself, other hand curved around his cock as he stretched his neck up and back, the water splashing as he dipped the towel into the basin, only aware of your present when you make a small, unrecognizable sound as a result of your own stupidity.

“I—General,” Your eyes widen as they take on a mind of their own, straight down the valley of his chest as he turns to you, quickly spinning on your heels, “I should have—I apologize, uh, the men…they are—”

“I was informed,” He assures, “and they have been warned, I assure you.”

“Yes, hm—um,” It was the only time Acacius had seen you flustered

“I assumed the rope was a clear message,” Acacius teases, “but—it is not your fault. I should have informed you of their…antics.”

He pulls the tight, fabric shorts over his hips, clearing his throat, peering over your shoulder you breathe a sigh of relief, “General, I would like to apologize for—” You swallow, watching as he turned barefoot on his heels, the fabric of the immodest undergarments curving around the stretch of his cock, half-hard under the fabric and the outline of thick head pushing against the linen.

You don’t realize how long you’re staring until he’s approaching with a tap of his finger on the underside of your chin, “There is no need for that,” He assures you, your nose scrunching up in confusion at the sudden touch, feeling the subtle shift as he reaches behind you for the clothes folded on the table at your backside, “surely you must return to the party,” He encourages, “celebrate a well-earned victory.”

“Why?” You counter, “When you will not.”

“Minerva,” He warns.

“You are distracted,” You note, watching as Acacius now avoids your gaze, “it is worrying me.”

He cannot admit the reason why. That it may be you.

“Acacius,” You call his name, hoping that will break through to him.

“Leave me,” He asks, rather than demanding, “I need to rest.”

It was a lie, but you do not fight him on it.

–

Silence blankets the camp in the early morning hours—the witching hours, as you’ve come to know them. Sleeping securely in your tent, bedroll tucked under your head as you drift. Unaware of the creeping men planning your untimely demise, assuring that the entire camp was asleep before they strike, arms and legs rendered useless as the third shoves a piece of cloth into your mouth and ties it around the back of your head, screams muffled behind the fabric, stripped of your weapons. Helpless, they think.

During the struggle, one of them grows frustrated, banging the hard rock against your skull and plunging you back into darkness.

When you come to, you are unclear of where you are, but it was outside, arms above your head against the thick limb, feet bound tight as well, a sting and a string of wetness running down the side of your face as your blurry vision becomes clear.

“Little Minerva,” the voice begins mockingly, all too familiar to your ears, “he has named you—you must feel special, ay?”

He kneels in front of you, the one hand he has left curling around the forearm of what was left of his other appendage, “And you expect to return back to Rome as a free woman,” He laughs, snorts wetly through his nose, “I assure you that will not happen. Rather, you will be a dead one.”

The other two lingering figures join in on the laughter.

“How did you say it?” He taunts, “I will gut you where you stand?”

“It took three of you to capture me,” You retort, “your confidence is lacking sorely.”

He clears the back of his throat, rearing up a ball of saliva in his mouth before he’s spitting at you.

“I will slaughter all of you with my hands,” You promise, “untie me, unless you are fearful.”

Driven by ego, it doesn’t take much for him to agree.

But, as he had underestimated you the first time, and the second, he would regret the third.

The two men come at you first, enough tussling and your teeth ripping into the ear of one of them, searching blindly for a thick, heavy and sharp edge branch that would handle the weight of piercing through skin and muscle, finding the right weapon at the perfect moment—the attacker rearing back as the other approached, driving the make-shift stake through his chest as the other tackled you to the ground, a poor miscalculation on his part as you get your legs around his neck, arms pinned at an painful, awkward ankle until his neck snaps from the force, the ox-like man awaiting in the shadows like a coward, blood spilling from your mouth as you scream.

The heavy hooves approach like roaring thunder and the instant your attacker catches on, his attempts to flee are ruined by the barricade of men at all angles, General Acacius at the head of the charge, a rageful expression on his face. Feral unlike you have ever seen.

He jumps off of his horse, ordering the men to capture the surviving man once again, looking around at the lifeless bodies beside you, assuring his men he would handle you and the mess, demanding they return to camp at once.

You look around aimlessly, blood staining your face as Acacius struggles to capture your attention, eventually resorting to a strong, demanding hold on your face, cradling your head with his hands.

“Are you wounded?” He asks, then notices the trail of blood from your scalp, pushing away the hair to reveal with gash from the rock they had attacked you with, grimacing as he runs his finger over the wound in worry.

Suddenly, you are stricken with a need, “Give me your sword,” You tell him, eyes flicking up to meet his own, “I need your sword.” His movements are too slow, still concerned with you that you reach for the weapon yourself.

Pulling away, you approach one of the dead men with the sword, swinging it up over your head and down with force, beheading him in one go, before switching to the other man, less finesse as you swing—again and again, until there is nothing but a pool of blood, bone, and brain—Acacius steps in eventually, tossing the sword away as he holds you arms in his fierce grip, letting the screams rip from your chest as he sways with you, eventually falling to your knees in exhaustion. He uses his bare hands to wipe the blood away from your neck, your face, feeling the soft shake of your body as you sob in silence, overcome with an emotion you so rarely let surface.

–

The public execution follows the next morning, everyone rousing from their tents to the loud, blaring horn from the ship just off shore—Acacius had assisted you back to camp on his horse, slumped against his back as you rode until the trampling finally stopped, sliding off the horse and into Acacius’ arms as he led you inside his tent.

He didn’t sleep the entire night, watching over you instead—he rarely blinked, staring off into nothingness as he tried to keep the vicious rage at bay, by morning, he was itching.

“You may stay,” He tells you, “your head—I cleaned it while you slept.”

You shove his hand away as he attempts to help you sit, slowly dressing yourself, eventually putting together the fact that Acacius had undressed and bathed you at some point throughout the night, not a speck of blood or spit remaining.

“Are you ordering me to stay?”

Acacius shakes his head, his hand still hovering close by.

“Then I will attend.”

He doesn’t argue against it and there is, despite your weariness to admit, a relief of your chest as Acacius rears back his blade, silencing the final scream the man lets out, pleading for his life. The blood sprays over his face, a strong grimace at the sheer strength it takes to behead the man, but the general manages it with one strike of his blade.

His speech follows, a deep and unsettling warning to all of his men. A final one.

Men, wide-eyed with fear, agree without resistance before he sends them off to ready the ship for departure and a meal before they begin their long trek back to Rome—he is less than gentle as he grabs your wrist without warning and pulls you alongside him, back to his tent.

–

He ties the rope with a stiff tug, before turning to you, stumbling on your feet as pull off his cape, having offered it to you for a second time, assuring that dressing in your usually armor wasn’t needed today, not as you began your travels, a flowing dress tied at your shoulder and waist that you were used to wearing during the showings back in Rome, parading you around like a prize.

“Acacius, perhaps you should sit,” You suggest, watching his hands curl into fists at his sides before he’s spinning on his heels and toward you, cradling your face like he had the night prior, but even this close, it felt like he was trying to keep you at a distance, “—I am sorry, if I did something—”

“I crave you,” Acacius admits, “you must know.”

Your lips part, gearing up the courage to speak, but falling short.

“Nights I have spent,” He breathes, shaking his head, the curls tickling your forehead as they meet, “thinking—wondering—”

“Acacius, why now?” You question him, “As we are homebound, back to your wife. Surely, she would have my head.”

Acacius shakes his head with a soft, but fond laugh.

“Our marriage is complex,” He explains, “Something I do not care to explain in great detail at this moment, you see—,” His hand curves around the side of your neck, tilting your head up, lips grazing against his own as he speaks, “I had no such intention for things to get like this, but you have proven to make things…difficult, for me,” He breathes out through his mouth, his eyes opening slowly to meet yours, “and I need you, should you have me.”

You could easily deny him, knowing he would back off in an instant. But, like this, clearly driven by adrenaline and instinct, riding the high of such a charged execution, he was craving something deeper than an outlet to release the built up tension.

He craved connection—through little moments of conversation and touches, someone at level-ground, an equal. You were his equal. He’d given you so much since, and you would be lying to yourself if you denied the thoughts that had riddled your mind too.

“I do not much prefer a soft touch,” You finally reply, “or gentle care.”

He silences you with a kiss, bruising and tense as he licks into your mouth, hungrily searching for more areas to taste and devour, licking along the column of your neck as the blood of another smeared into your skin, his fingers working quietly to undo your dress, in turn wrestling with his armor and clothes, nearly ripping the fabric of his shirt from his body as you claw at him.

Wet kisses and clashing tongues fill the silent room, a screeching sound as your back hits the roundtable before he’s lifting from the back of your thighs and scooting you onto the surface, naked and bare as he spreads your thighs apart to move between them, clearly restraining himself as he licks, teeth grazing carefully.

“I enjoy them,” You admit, “Do not hold back, Acacius. They are what I will keep with me, if this be the only time.”

Like a dog cut loose of his chain, his teeth sink into the breasts mirror the mark of the other, hissing as his teeth break through the skin just enough for the subtle trickling of blood to rise to the surface before he’s soothing the wound with his tongue, staring up at you through a half-lidded gaze, prowling for more. He dips lower, falling to his knees as he pulls you toward the end of the table, ass hanging near the edge as his teeth sink into your thigh, near the swell of your cunt as you moan, fingers digging into sweaty, matted curls.

“Acacius,” You plead breathily, “I want your mouth.”

Where—it did not matter. But, Acacius fulfills that need as he licks a broad strip through your cunt, nose buried in the coarse curls, still smelling of the fresh soap he had bathed you in, taking delicate care as he washed your body, letting you slump into him, soaking him in the process.

“Yes, that—” You respond airily, eyes fluttering shut as his tongue dips inside of you, swirling your slick around on his tongue and sucking harshly at your clit, staring up at you daringly from his position beneath you, unwavering, “oh, gods above…”

Acacius chuckles below you,the sound vibrating against your cunt as your moans increase rapidly, thick fingers dipping inside your pulsating core, “This high—it feels like—”

He rises to press a kiss against your stomach, climbing, tongue licking over your belly button and between your breasts, “—like…” He encourages, “come on, my lady, do not sell out on me now,”

“Like a battle high,” You admit with a faint laugh, “though, different, but….”

He understands, driven by unbridled need, uncapped adrenaline.

“Well, vae victis,” He taunts, “now—come here,” He squeezes at your hips and pulls you to him, his cock stiff, throbbing between your legs before he is twisting and spinning you around, feet planting against the ground as he bends you over, fisting himself tight as he rubs his thick cock head between your folds, watching as your wetness coats him, sinking into your fluttering hole with little resistance, a sweet cacophony of noises releasing from your throat as you grip onto nothing, hand curling into a fist as you moan, open-mouthed and shameless.

“Harder,” You beg, forcing the word out between thrusts, blunt fingernails clawing at your hips, attempting to pull you in closer despite your proximity, as if he could consume and even that wouldn’t be enough, “Acacius, please.”

It was like instinct, his hand sliding up the back of your thigh to lift your leg up, pinning it up—up, until you feel the ache in your sore muscles as he holds you in place with a fist between the bend of your knee, heaving breaths at your neck as he fucks you into the hard surface of the table.

It was a pain you would feel in your bones, that would carry with you into the morning, marks that would last for longer, a remnant of this moment, the mess of blood smearing on your own skin as he melts against you, forehead resting against your shoulder as his gaze follows the movement of his hips, slow but powered thrusts that drilled into you, clawing at his skin to leave your own bruises. The hand that brushes against your core is your ultimate demise, feeling breathless as your orgasm pulls you under, muffled sobs into your fist as you bite down, fearful that it might draw attention. Though, Acacius seems preoccupied, still.

His hand seeks your neck, digging in as he pulled you up, “To your knees,” He demands softly, your body moving out a memory, dropping to the floor—though, the sight is much more tantalizing, Acacius fisting his cock tight, feral as he teeth were bared, like a man fresh from the slaughter, he comes with a deep and guttural groan, your tongue sliding against the underside of his bulbous head, thick spurts coating your tongue, his body shaking as you pull away, swallowing all that he had offered with a steady, locked gaze. He assists you upright, steadying you.

“For a man who has such a distaste for unnecessary violence, you wear it well,” It wasn’t a compliment, rather an observation, his eyes tracking your naked frame, fingertips tracing the curves of your body in admiration.

“You are quite inspiring, Minerva,” He admits, gathering your thick dress and helping you redress in silence, tying the material around your body, “not everyone deserves mercy.”

Your smile is rare, but it is beautiful. And he wasn’t a man for such dramatics.

But, it could bring him to his knees, he thinks.

#general acacius #marcus acacius #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius x y/n #general acacius x reader #general acacius x you #gladiator ii #gladiator ii fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal smut #my writing

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onenicebugperday · 10 months ago

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@billionneuronscurious submitted: Cicada excreting fluid.

(Location: Maharashtra, India.)

Ha! Great shot!

For those that don’t know, there are a lot of true bugs (including cicadas) that feed on sap and other plant fluids. As they feed, they excrete excess fluid and sugars via their anus - this fluid is often called honeydew. There are other bugs that will feed on honeydew (especially ants!) and bees sometimes make honey out of it. I have a jar of honey that was made primarily from bees that collected spotted lanternfly honeydew. That one in particular doesn’t taste very good, imo! It has an aftertaste that’s reminiscent of burnt rubber.

#insects #bugs #submission #true bugs #cicada

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secretearthquakecheesecake · 11 months ago

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GOOᗪ EᐯEᑎIᑎG

In every bite of a samosa, you taste the true essence of India. Samosas are like little pockets of love filled with spices and flavors...

Samosa lovers unite: let’s celebrate the joy of these triangular treats on forthcoming Holi festival of colours.

Meanwhile recipe for your practice..Now a days Samosas have become a popular entrée, appetiser, Or snack in the cuisines around the world..

🌼𑜞᭄with ℒℴѵℯ 🌹💞

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weirdly-specific-but-ok · 1 year ago

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i explain india but i'm drunk.

Hello maggots of mine you're all such babygirls and bastards just like Aziraphale and Crowley. I'm so proud of you all for existing. Yes i'm a wholesome drunk you now know this about me. The wine tastes like rotten grapes and smells of battery acid and cost 245 rupees INR. Speaking of INR, thanks to a maggot's ask, I'm here to explain India. I've never set foot outside of this country. But I'm also very very shit at general knowledge.

To any non-Indians reading this, this is a totally legit 1000% everything covered all-inclusive summary. To any Indians reading this, I'm so so fucking sorry.

India, explained.

So there's south india and there's north india and there's north east india. north india is very racist about south india and they're both very racist about north east india. Most of these people are also probably racist either to other countries or they have internalised racism. It's a wild trip.

There are. A lot of languages here. And a LOT of scripts. I can read two scripts, understand four Indian languages and speak in two of them (badly), and those two are not my native tongues. I cannot speak in my native tongues. It's basically English at this point. These aren't dialects, those are separate. Picture like, Europe, but more, in terms of how many languages.

Everyone hates each other which is valid for the entire planet honestly.

In south india we have a lot of coconuts. Like a lot. There are so many coconuts you have no fucking idea guys you cannot escape the coconuts. I was nearly killed by a shower of coconuts when I was 5 I escaped by one second.

There are also cows. People will tell you that you are being racist when you say India has cows everywhere. But it's true. Two weeks ago I had the pleasure to be stuck in a traffic jam. Next to the street barrier thing (what divides a street im too drunk for this) I saw a huge bull fucking HUMPING a cow. The vehicles just had to move around them. They were having sex right there.

If you're a middle class Indian kid, your career options are: doctor, engineer, scientist, CA, lawyer, government official or family disappointment.

Needless to say, I was going to be doctor and am now instead family disappointment. I'm babygirling so hard it's insane. The prodigal son.

It's very ace-friendly and heterophobic in the sense that you are not supposed to be exhibiting any sexuality whatever in a respectable household. Just shut up and give virgin birth already. But be married. That's crucial.

Oh yeah gay marriage isn't legal trans people are constantly othered by society and/or given no respect whatsover and we're just all vibing here this is totally not why I'm finishing a small bottle of cheap wine on a thursday past midnight alone in my room.

Foreigners are like a zoo species you see them you're instantly concerned like what are they doing outside the TV screens and then either people are normal (rarely), they run up and take photos or try to slip into conversation (more often than you'd think, even I've been guilty of the conversation thing as a kid) OR they start talking about how 'this western culture is ruining our culture'. Which is fair but honestly both the 'cultures' these people are talking about usually involve incredible amounts of bigotry and are more similar than they think.

I think the lesson here is that humans just suck as a species. Except for you maggots. I love you all and I will defend you with my life.

THE CHAAT. THE CHAAT IS INSANELY AMAZING. YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND THE CHAAT. I HAVE NO SPICE TOLERANCE SO I HAVE TO BEG ON MY KNEES FOR THE SPICES TO BE REDUCED BUT STILL. THE CHAAT. THE CHAAT, YOU GUYS. YOU NEED IT.

Sorry yes I'm normal. ALSO THE STREET DOGS. THE INDIES. THEY'RE SO LOVELY AND SWEET AND CHAOTIC AND I KEEP TALKING TO THEM. Once when I was crying I made the dog distress while and like five dogs that I didn't know came running to me and comforted me and licked me.

INDIAN DANCE MUSIC. I FUCKING LOVE IT IT'S INSANE. My family were elitist as fuck so I never got to listen to Bollywood music as a kid but it's AMAZING I'm so glad it exists. Bhangra too.

Beaches very very pretty hills very very pretty honestly the nature is fucking beautiful if you can just quickly pretend humans don't exist, which again is true of this entire planet. Yeah. Okay I'm so fucking drunk.

Yeah lots of diversity which is very nice when the humans aren't screaming at each other about it but the rest of the time it's very nice

The garbage and sewer stories? yeah they're all true im sorry

Traffic rules more like traffic suggestions amirite

Well, we still have far better healthcare access than america. so. there is that.

If you speak English well you'll be mocked and isolated. If you speak English poorly you'll be mocked and isolated. Honestly, just be rich. That'll fix it all.

All the conservatives hate each other and don't realise they're the exact same but in like different flavours.

Oh yeah we have auto rickshaws. Look them up. They're so much better than cars I don't get motion sick as easily in them. But the drivers all hate you and never want to take you anywhere.

Eyyyyyyyyyy it's so fucking fun here *drinsk more alcohol* I am so fucking not looking forward to college.

Please someone crowdfund me out of here let's all go chill in Alpha Centauri I've heard it's nice this time of the year.

I will, however, miss the casual live cow pornos. A true highlight.

[I got this peer-reviewed by my friend in India's top law school, just in case, because I'm too drunk and generally dumb. They say I will not be killed. And they've been on Twitter so.]

Irrefutable legal proof y'all. I don't mean to offend anyone except bigots. Fuck you, bigots, if you're not offended then I've disappointed my community.

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eatmangoesnekkid · 10 months ago

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No matter what you may be going through, I can honestly say that when you become devoted to weaving the great beauty of life, tantra, into your daily life, your life naturally and instinctively starts to transform. The fear, doubts, hopelessness, or anxiety starts to fall away. Beauty is truth-- a deeply internal spiritual experience, a cleansing from the field of love. When you allow yourself to plug into beauty, this electromagnetic field, the spark of divine love and aliveness that has been powering and populating the entire planet for eternity, you create more and more energy and your body changes for the brighter. What else you could ever desire other than knowing beauty in the present moment? With divine love, no matter what you are doing, life becomes more energy-giving than energy-taking.Whether making a fresh juice for your family, giving yourself a breast massage, cleaning your floors, picking up your child from daycare, sitting down relaxed while eating a meal, or working behind a computer, taking a moment to calibrate to true beauty in the present moment changes you into a more advanced version of yourself overtime. Slow down. Take a breath. Give yourself over to the unknown. Taste your food. Relax more. Check your posture. Be soft in your tailbone. Think of fuchsia flowers. All of this is true beauty. I’m not saying that you should try to remove all pain from your life because doing so would be inauthentic and pain, when present, plays an important role in our bodies and lives. I mainly want you to know that you have so more capacity for new beautiful narratives but better, energy-giving thoughts and actions are needed in the meantime. Then all the patterns, worries and thoughts that have been making you sad, regretful, afraid, obsessive, or anxious begin to dissolve into an offering of fuchsia flowers. Care enough about your body to be responsible for orienting your energy towards bliss at any given moment. This is true beauty. This is living in divine love. -India Ame'ye, Author

#india ame'ye

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winterlogysblog · 11 months ago

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Fairy Scents ft. Kiane Kids Scent Headcanons

It's well established that each fairy has a scent that is associated with a flower or a herb. So far we have confirmed scents for each notable fairy we have been introduced to.

So after some quick research I found some info about these flowers and their scents

King - Gold Osmanthus

Osmanthus Wine tastes same as I remember, but where are those who share the memory XD

Origins: China

In the language of flowers, they carry the meaning of love and romance, symbolising true love and faithfulness

Smells like a mix of juicy peaches, ripe apricots with soft leather or suede.

Elaine - Lavender

Origins: Mediterranean

Represent purity, silence, devotion, serenity, grace, and calmness.

Biblical meaning of lavender symbolizes purity, devotion, and love

Delicate, sweet smell that is floral, herbal, and evergreen woodsy at the same time

Helbram - White Rose

Origins: Ancient Greece

Symbolize loyalty, purity, and innocence.

Combination of floral and fruity notes, with hints of honey and jasmine

Fun fact: A White Rose is what King used to kill Helbram (the first time) it turned red because of the blood

Gerheade - Mint

Origins: Mediterranean

Symbol of Hospitality and Wisdom

Gloxinia - Ginger

Origins: Maritime Southeast Asia

In many cultures, ginger is considered a symbol of love

Used in religious rituals to symbolize cleansing, protection and blessing.

Warm and spicy, with a hint of sweetness

Lancelot - Lemon

Origins: Unknown (said to be first grown in Northeast India, Northern Myanmar, or China)

Symbol of purity and cleansing

Headcanon Time

Since Nakaba hasn't spoken out about their scents I'll give my thoughts on the matter.

Lancelot introduced fruits into the mix of scents and Gloxinia smells like Ginger which is a root so I went ham with this.

Nasiens - Oleander or Sunflower

Oleander are toxic which is very fitting for our Mad Herbalist

Smells like Vanilla

Oleander symbolizes love, beauty, and resilience

I want one of Kiane's kids to smell like Sunflowers cause you know... Sunflower

Sunflowers also don't have a distinct smell so it's actually fitting for Nasiens since he grew up thinking he's human so there's really no natural fairy-like smell he could have detected from himself

Sunflower represents longevity, lasting happiness, adoration, and loyalty

Sixtus - Peach

Since Sixtus looks extremely like King I think it's only fitting if his scent is close to King's as well

Peaches symbolizes longevity

Belte - Jasmine

Belte gives Helbram energy and he kinda looks like him too so his scent also needs to give Helbram energy

Jasmine stands for purity, simplicity, modesty and strength.

Zana and Zillian - Blackberry and Raspberry

Since they're twins I want their scents to match

Blackberries are mild, sweet and slightly acidic scent, with earthy and woody nuances.

Some believed that blackberries contain properties of abundance and prosperity

Raspberries are fruity, sweet and slightly acidic

Raspberries are symbol of kindness in Christian art.

Tioreh - Pink Hyacinth

Phao - Lily of the Valley

Symbol of purity, joy, love, sincerity, happiness and luck,

Has a floral and green scent, with fresh and slightly sweet notes

I want one of Kiane's kids scents to come from the earth, something underground. There's an underground Orchid but it smells bad so that won't do so I specifically looked for a flower that has an earthy scent. I also want it to be PINK for Tioreh

Sweet, robust, and earthy

Pink hyacinths symbolize playful joy.

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leftoverenvy · 3 months ago

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Tastes Like Sugar (ch. 32)

Summary: India Mae, or Indi, is a music major, struggling to pay bills, tuition, work, and make good grades. Emily Prentiss is a BAU profiler, as well as a DC socialite thanks to her huge family fortune. The two enter into a mutually beneficial arrangement: Emily will pay for Indi's school if Indi accompanies Emily to her social functions for a few months, posing as her girlfriend. As weeks go by, the lines between their arrangement and their true feelings start to blur. But money can't buy love, right?

Pairing: India Mae Banks x Emily Prentiss; OC x Emily Prentiss

Warnings: smut; sugar baby relationships; age gap (16 years - but all over 18)

Word Count: 2.9 k

Read on Wattpad | Ao3 | Previous Chapters

Taglist: @ssa-sapphic 🧸; @5raysofsunshine 🌮; @reidselle🦭; @swiftfiles 🐝💚 ; @scorpsik 🎨

Chapter 32 - Birthday Wishes

A/n: thank you everyone for your patience with updates! If you're still following along, thank you. Your readership means everything to me.

- - -

"Pen!" I protested, pushing my hair out of my face once again. "This fan is blowing my hair around, and I can assure you it is NOT sexy."

"Oh, I assure you it will be, my pet," she purred as she continued snapping photos. "Just do something sexier with your face."

I huffed in annoyance. "Very helpful!" I said sarcastically. "I never should have let you talk me into this," I complained, gesturing around at the makeshift photography studio Penelope had set up to take some boudoir photos for Emily's birthday present. "I'm just not good at being sexy."

"I'll bet there's a certain brunette who would beg to differ…" She raised a knowing eyebrow. "In fact," she started, "You should hear how they tease her at work."

"What do you mean?" I asked in concern.

Penelope walked over to position my arms in what I assumed was a much less awkward pose. "Emily is so…" she trailed off. "So cold, hard." My brows furrowed in disagreement. Before I could protest, Penelope amended, "She's a total badass, don't get me wrong. Like a super spy babe…But when you call…" She trailed off again finding the right words.

With bated breath, "when I call…" I prompted.

"She's a total cheeseball!" She laughed. "She's so head over heels for you, Indi. I guess the team has just never seen her like that before." She paused, letting me soak it all in, but then added, "For example, the other day, she had just taken down this unsub. I'm talkin' heeled boot to the stomach, gun pointed at his head. And she was so focused." I could picture it now. My stomach tightened pleasantly thinking about how wonderful it was to be the object of Emily's focus. "And then when she got back to Quantico to call you, it's like she visibly softens."

I tried to reconcile what Penelope was telling me with my own perceptions of Emily. A wide smile spread over my face, pleased that I caused such a change in her. "And," Penelope continued conspiratorially, "Derek has a theory that Emily and JJ were more than friends, especially seeing how cold JJ is towards you." I gulped, unsure if this was a secret Emily purposefully kept from the team even after they had broken up. "And apparently, she NEVER looked at JJ like she looks at you."

Butterflies flooded my tummy. Even though Emily had told me she loved me, it still never ceased to amaze me that others saw the proof in her eyes as I did. "All the more reason for these photos to turn out well. I can't buy anything for the woman who has more money than god – if she wants something, she just buys it for herself. This is my only option for her birthday present, Pen. And I'm just hopeless at this stuff."

"You landed Emily," she pointed out.

"You know what I mean," I grumbled, pulling at the tight lingerie, uncomfortable and out of my element.

A knowing glint illuminated Penelope's eyes. "Let's try something new," she suggested. "What song makes you feel sexy?"

"I don't know…" I bit my lip, embarrassed.

"Fine." Penelope grabbed her phone and changed the playlist. Deep bass and a slow beat reverberated around the room contrasted with the singer's keening, crooning voice. I had no idea what this song was, but the vibe immediately shifted into something more intimate. I continued worrying my lip, steeling myself to be sexy for Emily.

She seemed to have enjoyed the photos I had taken in front of her standing mirror. But I hadn't let myself think about it or talk myself out of hitting send. I begged myself to get out of my own head, trying to reason with my own insecurities.

"Maybe start without my face in them?" I suggested, trying to find a way to ease myself into this.

"Wonderful idea, Indi! What part of you does Emily like best?" I had no idea. I knew which parts of her I liked best. The smooth lines of her back, the tattoo on her hip, the slope of her jaw as she threw her head back in pleasure…

"Earth to India!" Penelope got my attention.

"Sorry!" I apologized, my face heating in embarrassment. I pulled one leg up to my chest, trying to fold in on myself. "I was just…"

"Fantasizing? Don't think I haven't seen that look in Emily's eyes either." Butterflies swarmed my stomach again, overwhelming joy causing a shy smile to stretch across my face. The click of the camera caught my attention. "Just be yourself," Penelope instructed softly, trying not to break the moment. "You're beautiful when you think of her."

"She's beautiful," I whispered. I could never compare, I thought ruefully.

"Let's try from behind," Penelope suggested. "Look over your shoulder. That way you don't have to think too much about what we're doing. Just keep thinking about Emily."

And once we got started, it really was much easier. Thinking about Emily got me out of my head. While I didn't think these had a hope of coming out good enough for Emily, Penelope – of course – worked her magic and made me look amazing. She thought of the best poses to look teasing and sexy. I hoped Emily liked them well enough.

_ _ _

I woke up with a start, realizing what day it was. I rolled over and gently pressed kisses against Emily's skin to wake her up. When she finally roused, she smiled and pulled me in for a proper kiss. "Happy birthday," I whispered against Emily's lips.

"Thank you." She flopped back into bed, snuggling back into our warm cocoon. "I'm not much for celebrating my birthday," she admitted after a beat.

Hesitantly, I asked, "Because of your mom?"

She blew out a puff of air, a sound I had come to realize meant she was uneasy about something. "I don't know," she admitted softly. "Maybe."

"Well, I'd like to celebrate you." I snuggled into her side, tracing soft patterns against the tattoo on her hip. "Because you're so special to me, Em. I'm so grateful to have you. And you are worth celebrating."

"I love you, sweet girl," she responded simply.

"I got you something," I started hesitantly.

"Mmm," she hummed, pulling me closer. She turned so we were face to face. "I already have everything I need." She kissed my nose softly, her thumb brushing tenderly over my cheek bone.

I huffed in mock annoyance. "I know you have everything already! Do you know how impossible it was to buy you a gift?!"

She chuckled against my skin, pressing more light kisses to my face. "I don't need a gift when I have you."

"But you have me every day. I wanted to get you something special." I got nervous again, thinking that I wasn't special enough to be Emily's gift. How could I have been so stupid as to think she would want photos of me for her birthday?

She rolled me onto my back and started pressing kisses into my neck. "How about you let me decide what I want as a present?" Thoughts flooded out of my head with each swipe of her tongue on my skin.

"Okay," I breathed. She nipped softly with her teeth at my ear lobe. "Emily," I sighed.

"So where's my present?" she asked.

"What?"

She chuckled again, her soft exhale tickling the sensitive skin at my neck. "Can I have my present now?" I nodded, still dazed from her morning kisses. "And then we'll go to breakfast?"

"Okay, babe!" I agreed, cupping her cheek, stunned at her beauty. "I'm paying though!" She opened her mouth to argue, but I quickly slid my hand over it before she could protest. "No way are you paying for breakfast, my birthday girl."

She grabbed my wrist to hold it steady as she placed a soft kiss to the palm of my hand. "Only if I can have you for dessert later."

My stomach flipped pleasantly, the skin at my neck still electrified from where she had been teasing me earlier. "Okay," I said a bit breathlessly.

"Come on," she said rolling out of bed, "I want to go to that little Benedict place downtown. And then don't forget! The FBI picnic is this evening."

"It's a crime you have to go to a work event on your birthday," I griped. "I mean, what's the point of having a birthday on a Saturday if you still have to go to work?"

She smiled at my scowl, but pressed a kiss to my forehead. "Just how it shook out this year, angel. But, I think there will be cake!"

"There better be cake!" I grumbled.

Once Emily and I had gotten dressed for the day, we made our way downstairs. When she saw her wrapped present sitting on the kitchen island she made a beeline for it. I smirked, noting that even though Emily said she didn't think it was necessary to celebrate her, it seemed to be a distancing tactic she previously used to keep herself from feeling disappointment when her mom let her down.

"When did you have time to do all this?" she asked, gesturing to the present and the balloons and flowers.

Sheepishly, I responded, "When you were in the shower last night."

She wrapped me in a big hug, burying her face against my neck. "You're so special, babe." I wrapped my own arms around her tightly, drawing her closer. "I wish you could feel how much I mean that."

"I do," she whispered. "Thank you, angel."

Nervous, and ready to get any negative reactions about her present out of the way, I pulled out of her embrace and grabbed her present. "Happy birthday, babe. I love you, and I wanted to get you something special-"

"I'm going to love it," she interrupted, sensing my nerves. I handed her the package and watched her carefully take the wrapping paper off.

As the first photo was revealed to her, she stopped breathing. "Oh," she gasped in surprise. Reverently, she traced the lines of my silhouette from the first photo. I saw how her eyes drank me in, eyelids drooping with lust. "Baby, I-" I gulped nervously. "Well I just don't know what to say," she said huskily.

I shuffled my feet, worrying my lip. I also did not know what to say. Carefully, as if the picture frames would crumble, she took the first out and set it on the counter. "Fuck," she whispered revealing the second photo. "You're fucking gorgeous."

My stomach warmed pleasantly, pleased she seemed to like her present. Her hand shook slightly as she placed the second on the counter just as gently as she had the first. When the third photo was revealed, her eyes widened. It was the most revealing, the most teasing. She put the box on the counter and grabbed me roughly. "When do I get the live show?" she husked, her tongue wrapping deliciously around the shell of my ear.

"You want to see me in that corset?" My heart pounded in my chest as Emily's hands kneaded my ass.

"Fuck yes," she groaned, pulling me closer. I wrapped my arms around her neck and kissed her deeply. No matter how roughly she tugged me to her, no matter how her body sloped around mine as she leaned me back on the counter, nothing was close enough.

"Emily," I whined. She pulled me up to sit me on the counter. I groaned as she pulled back to pull my shirt off. My skin, buzzing with the electricity of my desire, ached where she wasn't touching me. "Emily, please," I begged. I needed her hands and lips back on me. I needed her. I felt the frenzy in me grow, the desire sparking to life between us.

She pressed a flat palm in the middle of my chest, pushing me back to lay flat. Her capable hands made quick work of my jeans, peeling them down my legs in no time at all. She put my feel up on the counter, spreading me out in front of her. "Don't tease," I begged, unable to bear the thought of her relentlessly slow pace.

She grabbed my thighs and pushed them apart to make room for herself. She chuckled darkly before she dove in, licking up my slit. "Fuck," I groaned. I grabbed her head, weaving my fingers in her hair. I rolled my hips against Emily's mouth, feeling her tongue caress my clit in that way that made my eyes roll back in my head. "Please," I whispered. "Fuck me, Em, please."

She didn't change anything, and I passively wondered if she heard me. My legs were wrapped pretty tightly over her ears. As if she could read my mind, her hands smoothed down my thighs and yanked them apart. She then slowly slipped one finger inside me, her tongue never breaking its rhythm against my clit.

I sighed, content in the feeling. Nothing compared to Emily loving me, even with the cold marble of the countertop against my skin. My hips began bucking against my will, my head thrashing back and forth. Emily forced me to the precipice faster than lighting. My hands slammed to my side, clipping the side of one of the picture frames. The clatter startled Emily, and she pulled back, her lips releasing my clit with a soft pop.

"Careful, Indi. I would be quite sad if you broke my present." Though her fingers still pushed into me, her mouth was no longer on my clit, and I did not finish.

"I know where to get you another one," I grumbled impatiently. I tried to grab her head and force her back between my legs, but she resisted.

"I'm partial to the original," she teased, her tongue swiping against my clit once. "It has…sentimental value," she continued. Her tongue teased at my clit softly. It was enough to keep me squirming but not what I needed. I needed what she had been doing before. I needed it like air. "Best birthday present I've ever gotten, in fact."

"Emily!" I complained. She chuckled, pleased with herself. She added a second finger, but continued teasing with her tongue.

"You know," she said against my labia. "You're mighty impatient today." I whimpered as she licked against my clit a bit harder. "Shouldn't I get to enjoy you how I see fit on my birthday?" I looked down my body, her eyes sparkling with mischief between my legs.

I quirked a brow, unable to keep myself from teasing back. "I thought you weren't one to celebrate your birthday."

"I'm starting to see the merit," she amended, her mouth wrapping back around my clit how I liked.

"Oh god," I groaned, my head falling back against the counter. She sucked slightly and her fingers hit the perfect spot inside me. "Emily!" I screamed, my hand flying to her head to keep her there. "Please, please, please," I pleaded, my hips thrusting against her mouth in time with my begging. She didn't relent, pleasure crashing over every inch of me. I slumped against the counter, her tongue and fingers slowing to help me ride it out. "Fuck," I exhaled, stroking the back of Emily's head. She looked up at me, love overflowing in her eyes.

"Come," she commanded, pulling back. I sat up, confusion furrowed my brow. She tugged on my arms until I slid off the counter. I leaned up to kiss her, but instead, Emily pushed on my shoulder until I was kneeling in front of her. She looked down at me with eyes dark with lust as her fingers undid her jeans. Her intense gaze never wavered. I licked my lips in anticipation.

I helped her pull her jeans and underwear down her soft legs. She slipped a leg over my shoulder and gripped the counter for balance. Immediately, I pressed my lips to her clit. Gathering up wetness with my tongue, I licked up and down her pussy. "That's it, Indi," she cooed. My pride swelled as I pleased Emily.

Gently she brushed my curls away from my face, gazing down at me warmly. "I love you, angel." I blinked slowly, not daring to slow my pace. She bit her lip, her brow furrowed in concentration as she chased her own orgasm. "My sweet girl," she cooed, "You're doing so good for me. Don't stop," she ordered. Her hips started bucking against my mouth in earnest, her head thrown back in pleasure.

I moaned at the sight, unable to contain myself. She gripped my hair so tightly, I felt the sting of the pull. "Yessss," she hissed, falling more heavily against the countertop, unable to hold up her weight fully. Her chest heaved as she came down from her high.

After a few seconds, she helped me stand up. My knees popped in the quiet kitchen as I stood up, a bit sore from kneeling on the hardwood. She immediately wrapped me in her arms, both of us naked from the waist down. "I love you, Emily," I whispered into her neck. "Happy birthday, my love." She squeezed me tighter, both of us content in the warmth of our love.

#🌬 fics #tastes like sugar #emily prentiss #emily prentiss x oc #emily prentiss fanfiction #emily prentiss smut #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds au #wlw writing #Emily Prentiss x poc!oc

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oct0bra1ns · 6 months ago

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HONESTLY; Indian yandere who knows so many languages and learns your state language, culture, and everything. because India is diverse, and he just wants to appeal more to you. AND if you are from a different religion, well, he could just pretend y'know. it's not like such marriages are uncommon in India, and in the end, he will just kidnap you ! but don't worry, you can still practice your religion. Or if you are Pakistani/Bangladeshi.... well all he will have to do is prepare some cash, pull some strings and you will be on his lap in no time.

SO TRUE

the north/south troupe with yandere is just too YUMMY, like, he'll go above and beyond to learn your culture, language, your favourite dishes and if he can't match the taste, he'll book a flight for you to enjoy it

EXACTLY, if appealing to your parents isn't good enough, he'll settle for whisking you away, not much they can do when registering a marriage is hella simple now a days, besides, who's going to object or question him when he has the entire police in his pockets

AND PLS, i feel that would be a veryyyy last measure, i mean, he'll do everything to gain the approval of the parents, hell, if they want their child to settle abroad, he'll pull some strings and get everything ready, if that's not good enough, he'll even send money everything, as much as they ask :P

#octo answers #yandere x reader #tw yandere #yandere x darling #yandere scenarios #octo writes #zatdummensmadchen

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x--sinner--x · 8 days ago

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I'm originally from Nagaland state in northeast India, but I'm studying in Bangalore.

I've always known about the fetishization of northeast girls in mainland India but, the first-hand experiences have been astonishing.

I'm always getting special treatment around the campus and I use that to my fullest advantage😘

I always dress more provocatively than needed to show the guys here what they've always fantasized about. My milly thick thighs and bubble butt are often on display, which the other girls don't like...jealousy much. But I've noticed that the guys like my boobs the most, especially when I don't wear any bra. Their eyes are often on my girls whenever they're talking to me and, I enjoy the attention.

The best part is often getting random DMs from the guys in my college using throwaway accounts which are either r#pe threats or, asking me my rate. Speaking of rate, I feel like an actual prostitute whenever I go out. From random dudes to the auto drivers, they're always brazenly asking my rate. Maybe it's due to the slutty outfits I wear, or maybe I'm too friendly. All you need to know is that I'm earning often.

Despite all this, no one has dared to gang up and forcefully play with me all they want. I wonder what would push them to their limits. I would never say no to a group of guys who can treat me the way I want to be treated.

Anyhow, don't stop fetishizing us. All those rumors and stereotypes about us are true. We purposefully go to big cities to finally show our true colors.

PS- Yes, most of us have pink/gulabi🩷

I'm glad that you are living your dream of getting fetishised first-hand and I absolutely love that for you. I would definitely love a piece of that pink/gulabi pussy you are rocking underneath your panties.

If I was your friend, I would be the one to totally encourage you to wear sluttier outfits. If you wear something that isn't showing off enough skin, I would make a sad face as you dress up in front of the mirror, making you rip some parts of your clothing that shows off a bit more skin. Seeing how the look on my face lightens up, you would keep going until my face is more that satisfied with how your outfit looks. It will take some trial and error, but I'm sure the process will be worth it.

Men will come to you and put money between your cleavage or even between your thighs and I'll act like your manager and when we are alone, I'd fuck and taste the shit of your pink northeastern pussy and would feel great about it.

I'd make sure to set your rate so high and demand upfront payment from the dicks that try to get with you, while I'm enjoying your booty when they can never even get to touch you. Should see the look on their jealous cocks.

And don't worry, this fetish is never gonna stop and we all know about the pink northeast gulabi supremacy.

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fatehbaz · 2 years ago

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Because most medicines were produced from [...] plants [...] these early “pharmaceutical monopolies” required full control of the production and trade of a species. Russia successfully managed the rhubarb trade in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, while Spain controlled the distribution [...] from Spanish America, mainly cinchona from Peru, in the same period. “True” cinnamon grew only on Sri Lanka, so whoever controlled the island could dominate the cinnamon trade. The Portuguese were the first to create a monopoly on the cinnamon trade there in the early seventeenth century. That monopoly was later optimized by the Dutch in the late eighteenth century [...].

“True” should indeed be in quotation marks here - the term reflects the historically contingent tastes of Europeans, rather than any botanical category [...]. The rarity of cinnamon in the early modern period made it one of the most coveted spices of that era, and European countries without direct access to the cinnamon trade tried to imitate, substitute, steal, smuggle, or transplant the “true” product from Sri Lanka. [...]

---

In the early modern period, cinnamon was also important both as an exotic commodity and as an important therapeutic substance. The Dutch East India Company (VOC), which controlled Sri Lanka between 1658 and 1796, was well aware of this. The VOC vigorously exploited the Salagama - [...] specialized Sri Lankan cinnamon peelers - to supply enough cinnamon, which for a long time was gathered from forests. Only after the peelers rebelled, leading to a war that lasted between 1760 and 1766, did the company revise its production policy.

Experiments with “cinnamon gardens” (kaneeltuinen in Dutch) led to enormous successes, and the company eventually grew millions of cinnamon trees on plantations in the final decades of the eighteenth century. Meanwhile, competitors of the Dutch had come up with their own solutions [...]: Spain had started growing other Cinnamomum species on plantations in the Philippines, while France and Britain succeeded in transplanting cinnamon to islands in the Caribbean. But the Dutch monopoly was not simply threatened by outside competition. Smuggling, by peelers or VOC personnel, was strictly forbidden and severely punished. [...]

---

Hendrik Adriaan van Rheede tot Drakenstein (1636–1691) was the VOC administrator on India’s Malabar Coast when he started experimenting with cinnamon oil in the 1670s.

He concluded that the oil, which he extracted from the roots of local cinnamon trees, was of better quality than oil from cinnamon trees on Sri Lanka. Van Rheede reported these results in his entry on cinnamon in volume 1 of the Hortus Indicus Malabaricus, the twelve-volume book that was produced by a team of local and European scholars, and supervised by Van Rheede himself.

Van Rheede’s assessment of cinnamon - in fact, the very publication of a multi-volume work about the flora of Malabar - infuriated the governor of Sri Lanka, Rijckloff van Goens, who had secured the cinnamon monopoly of Sri Lanka for the Dutch. Van Goens insisted that Van Rheede stop his medical experiments, claiming that the monopoly was at risk if the cinnamon trade was extended beyond the island of Sri Lanka.

But Van Goens was not so much concerned about the therapeutic efficacy of cinnamon from either of the two regions. He was motivated by an imperial agenda and regarded the natural products of Sri Lanka as superior to anything similar in the region.

The experiments of Van Rheede, who was his former protégé, threatened not so much the botanical quality of the product, or the commercial interests of the Dutch East India Company, but rather the central position of Sri Lanka in the Dutch colonial system and the position of Van Goens as the representative of that system.

---

Even when Sri Lanka still only produced cinnamon that grew in the wild, the Dutch harvested enough to supply an international market and were able to dictate the availability and price level throughout the world. The monopoly, whether defined in commercial or pharmaceutical terms, was not easily put at risk by efforts like Van Rheede’s. Those involved in the early modern cinnamon trade were motivated by various reasons to defend or undermine the central position of Sri Lankan cinnamon: botanical, medical, commercial, or imperial. These motives often overlapped.

---

All text above by: Wouter Klein. “Plant of the Month: Cinnamon.” JSTOR Daily. 17 February 2021. “Plant of the Month” series is part of the Plant Humanities Initiative, a partnership of Dumbarton Oaks and JSTOR Labs. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Presented here for commentary, teaching, criticism purposes.]

#dutch imperialist infighting #abolition #ecology #imperial #colonial #ecologies #multispecies #tidalectics #archipelagic thinking #geographic imaginaries #agents of empire #indigenous #indigenous pedagogies #black methodologies #sandalwood and cinnamon

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elysianightsss · 1 year ago

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Baker!Techno x reader

Wont ever stop plum.

Warning: beware of the honeycomb, PTSD, hinted drugging, mention of gunshots.

Your eyes blink open taking in the sight of the white sheer curtains flowing softly in the warm breeze, the feel of the gentle cotton sheets against your body did nothing to pull you out of your hazy sleep.

Things you don’t remember, places you’ve never been, a true dream if you’ve ever had one full of fiction and mistrustful information. It could never be true so you don’t dwell on the fragments of you in the desert that are fracturing your already fragile state of mind.

Your delicious baker always tells you not to think too much, with everything you’ve been through all you should be doing is relaxing.

But what had you been through is the real question.

You breathe deeply taking in the breath taking smell of cinnamon sweet buns downstairs, ears twitching at what you think is the radio playing in the background. Someone muttering something about India, hotel alpha victor echo, hotel echo Romeo, you don’t know not paying attention to such frivolous matters.

Instead you roll over onto your side eyes going to the French doors that are open giving you a full view of the blue sky, sun shining but not high enough for it to be midday. You recon it’s nine, possibly ten. The smell of fresh cut grass tells you that Techno had been up since about six am to do all the chores before you could even offer.

He was very passionate about you finishing the last two books of your favourite series and you can’t do that if you’re distracting yourself with silly things like chores. His words, not yours.

Breathing deeply once more not wanting to spike your heart rate, somehow your man always knows. It’s rather strange but it’s another thing on the list of things you shouldn’t dwell on. Catching a wiff of rain in the air, you can tell that the vineyard, you have as your beautiful back garden, got the drink it desperately needed last night.

Finally thinking you’ve given your baker enough time to ice those sweet buns you pull yourself from the sheets however groggy, you manage to slip on a silk robe and stagger your way through your home.

Your kitchen was Techno’s pride and joy, besides you of course, he designed it and got some friends of his to help build it. It is the definition of a baker’s dream, equipped with a state of the art pizza oven and four electric ovens for his exquisite bakery dishes adding a crisp texture, to delightful cookies and puffs.

Your tired eyes scan the kitchen quickly latching onto the sight of sixteen sweet buns waiting for you. You pad over ready to reach for one of the freshly iced cinnamon buns only to be stopped by your baker.

“Ah ah ah, this first.” A smooth piece of golden honeycomb appears in front of your face instantly making you salivate. You take it putting it to your lips, taking small licks before sucking on an edge missing the way Techno groans under his breath.

“Take such good care of me.” You mumble mouth a little full, eyes fluttering shut with a soft hum.

“Won’t ever stop plum.” His lips skim your forehead. He’s so sweet and so sincere. He’s genuine and loving. Everything he is always is. Not even a hint of darkness swirling in his eyes. Not even a spec.

Gunshots and the smell of dusty sand echo through his senses as his darkening orbs dart around your face while you suck on the sweet honeycomb.

“How’d you sleep plum?” He asks an arm curling around your waist pulling you against his warm body. With no shirt covering his hairy chest and a bit of pudge from all the taste testing. Wearing a simple pair of basketball shorts you whimper at the feel of him pressed up against you.

You nod eyes still closed, taking more of the honeycomb into your mouth to suckle on laying your head on his chest too. “Maybe you could use a bit more of it hm?” He hums in your ear before sucking your earlobe into his mouth, raking his teeth over it. “I think that’s a good idea, why don’t we cuddle for a while hmm?”

You nod, feeling disoriented letting Techno guide you to the bed you’d just left. His thick fingers stroking your head gently as he slips in behind you, holding you tight. “Let it happen plum.” He whispers, and you do eyes fluttering shut. All memories of that desert that had started to form in your head, gone.

#squishycheekanon #squishycheekanonanswer #asks are appreciated #beefy!techno #squishtalks #squishysneekpeaks #squishyreblogs #baker!techno x plum #baker!techno x reader #baker!techno #military!techno

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sadprose-auroras · 2 months ago

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'Reclusion' Chapter 1 - Benedict Bridgerton X OC

A/N: Hi! This has been gathering dust for at least a year. I completely forgot about it until just now, but felt inspired to continue it given how much background thought and work I put into the entire story. That being said, I would appreciate any thoughts/feedback, and do let me know if you want another chapter! Considering we're between seasons I'm not sure how many people are reading bridgerton fics but we shall see! xx

Word count: 2.4k

Rating: 16+

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Lady Whistledown

1814 Society Papers

Dearest Gentle Reader,

It is often said that while loneliness is the poverty of self, while solitude is the richness of self. That one must turn away from everybody else, in order to seek their own inner truth. With the return of one Miss Evalina Stanton to London from the country, alongside the scandalous Sharma family, this Author must question if her time away was the former or the latter. Only time will tell when she joins the Ton in her debut, if she has in fact enriched her soul, or deprived it of its ability to follow the rules of high society. One thing is for certain, Dear Reader: all eyes will now be on Miss Stanton, for Mayfair is a far cry from her life as a recluse.

“Eva! Oh my!” came the delighted yell, followed by a bone-crushing hug. Pulling away, Miss Kathani Sharma, Evalina’s dear old friend and the closest thing she had to a protective older sister, beamed at her.

“Oh, how I have missed you all dearly,” Evalina said with earnest, reaching out to embrace Edwina, the youngest Sharma.

“It has been far too long, my dear friend,” Edwina commented sweetly, “we have too many things to catch up on. Did you read the latest Austen? I rather thought you would have enjoyed her clever wit; the protagonist reminds me of yourself so!”

Evalina chuckled, embracing Mary. When her biological Mother so cruelly abandoned her as a child, leaving her alone with her cold, emotionally distant Father, Lady Mary cared and loved for her as if she were her own. Evalina always considered the Sharmas her only true family, however unconventional their little family may have been.

“I enjoyed it greatly! Though at times a little too… romantic for my tastes,” Evalina jested, letting Mary go as the group began to make their way up towards the front door of the coveted Lady Danbury’s home.

“I found the romance exquisite,” Edwina said dreamily. “And are we not all to be pondering romance, now we are to be searching for husbands this season? Surely you must have found some inspiration within its love story.”

“Come now Edwina, we have all had a long journey, Eva included,” Mary smiled, gently placing her hand on her youngest daughter’s shoulder. “Let us not forget we are to meet Lady Danbury before the ball, we must conserve our intellectuality. If I remember correctly, she has a rather sharp tongue.”

Eva smiled at Edwina, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. Despite the distance between Eva and the women for many years, with their residing in India, and her escaping to the countryside to pursue her novel writing, they always kept in touch through countless letters. Whilst Edwina was always encouraging Evalina to image a future with romantic love in it, Kate, on the other hand, was the more cautious of the two, much like Eva herself. They both meant well, always looking out for their adoptive sister and each other, Kate constantly acting more as a Mother to the two than a sister. Despite Evalina’s age of four and twenty, merely two years below Kate, Evalina felt as if Kate was much wiser and much more mature, beyond her years. Evalina’s felt as if her romantic troubles in the years prior that lead to her fleeing London, while crushing her, did not cause her to mature in the same way Kate’s burdens had.

Mary offered all her girls an encouraging smile, despite her own racing heart at facing Lady Danbury after all of these years, before alerting the footman of their arrival.

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“Lord Bridgerton, may I present Lady Mary Sharma, her daughters Miss Sharma, and Miss Edwina Sharma, and this is Miss Evalina Stanton.”

The formalities of Lady Danbury’s introductions were foreign to Eva. Considering her unusual childhood, receiving more love from her governess and maid than her parents, and her recent reclusion where she barely spoke to a soul, she was yet to put into practice the social rules she learned as a child. Her governess’ voice echoed in her mind.

Lower your eyes when you curtsy, ever so slightly. Keep it smooth.

She did just so, Kate and Edwina doing the same. She felt awkward. She considered Lord Anthony Bridgerton for a moment. He was undoubtably handsome, but his stoic manner and seemingly consistent frown clouded his more appealing features. Perhaps somebody with a stubborn manner such as himself would be suited to Kate, Evalina thought.

“It is a pleasure,” the Viscount said, locking eyes with Kate, then looking away quickly as if he was forcing himself. Interesting. He cleared his throat.

“Miss Stanton,” he said abruptly, causing Eva’s eyebrows to come together in confusion. “May I have this dance?”

“I- um-“ she murmured. “Yes.” She said, very little conviction in her voice. She looked to Mary, who gave her a small nod. Feeling backed into a corner, with Lady Danbury’s piercing eyes on her in particular, she took his arm and they moved onto the dance floor. The music began, and the pair began their dance.

“Forgive me, Miss Stanton, but how many children do you wish to have?” he said suddenly, causing Evalina to momentarily forget the steps. She had been particularly concentrating hard, and it was not lost on her that this was her first-time dancing at a ball. With a man. Whom she was feeling especially indifferent to in this moment.

“I suppose I have not considered a particular number, My Lord,” she answered somewhat honestly. “If I ever do have children, I would consider myself lucky.” It was not exactly a lie. More of a half-truth.

“Do you play any musical instruments?” Evalina could not help but be slightly amused at his incessant questioning and abrupt change of subject. Were they dancing, or was he holding a particularly grilling interview?

“No, I do not, My Lord. Lady Mary tried to teach me the piano forte when I was a girl, but I never quite took to it like Edwina did.”

“And do you read?”

My goodness, she thought. He was certainly not shy about what he was looking for.

“I do. In fact, it is one of my favourite pastimes. Besides writing. I would love to have my novels published.” She could not help but feel slightly more relaxed when speaking of the subject.

“And how would you manage such a career alongside a husband and family?”

Oh my.

This was far too much. Deeply uncomfortable, her eyes scanned the ballroom for an escape. An excuse to get away, perhaps. Thankfully, the dance finished, and Evalina barely managed to mutter an ‘excuse me,’ before departing the dancefloor rather quickly, darting past various people watching her. Right as she found the doorway, looking back to see if anyone, particularly Lady Danbury, were watching her, her shoulder collided quite heavily with somebody.

“Oh, I am so sorry,” she gasped, turning to face them, despite her embarrassment. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of the man before her. He was quite possibly the most beautiful vision she had ever seen. His blue eyes shone brightly as he considered Evalina, an amused half-smile on his lips that seemed to light up his entire face. His dark hair was tousled effortlessly, his dress immaculate.

“I do not blame you for running, Miss…?”

“Stanton. Miss Evalina Stanton.” She said, curtsying, averting her eyes slightly as to not increase the already intense blood flow to her cheeks. What was happening to her? She needed to pull herself together. This was not like her one bit.

“Bridgerton. Benedict Bridgerton.” Eva’s eyes widened. The Viscount’s brother? “You seem to have met my brother. I apologise, sincerely. He can be quite…” he paused for a moment, considering his words, “abrasive, if he wishes to be. Do not take it personally. He is intent on marrying this season. Did he scare you off?”

“Oh, there is nothing to be scared away from, to be sure. I am almost certain I will never marry.” Eva almost stopped herself from continuing, wondering what it was about this man that was making her want to share so much.

“I- I came to London merely hoping to spend time with my close friends, the Sharmas. They are practically my family,” she said with fondness, and Benedict gave a small encouraging smile. “I do not quite belong here, I am afraid. I do not find myself in raptures with most of the marriage-minded people here, particularly the men,” she chuckled. “No offense,” she quickly added.

“None taken,” Benedict laughed, a little more enthusiastically than was perhaps appropriate. “I am inclined to agree with you. I know what it is like to feel as if you do not belong.”

The pair gazed at each other for a moment, then Benedict cleared his throat.

“Might I be so forward as to ask- well I just wonder-“ he hesitated.

“Please, go ahead. It cannot be any more forward than your brother’s line of questioning,” Eva joked.

“Why do you believe you will never marry?” he asked, insecurity all over his face. He was terrified of offending her, but could not help his curiosity. There was something about this woman, something he could not quite put his finger on that made him want to know more about her.

“I suppose I-“ she started, eyes darting away from his. “I only wish to marry for the greatest love match, or not at all.” Feeling uncomfortable with the man’s eyes on her in this moment of vulnerability, she quickly lightened her tone.

“In any case, I shall make my own way in the world and end up an old maid,” she said with a light chuckle.

“Miss Stanton, would you perchance wish to dance with me? I promise you; you do not want to leave unless you desire to catch the wrath of Lady Danbury,” Benedict said, pulling a face that made Eva laugh against her better judgement. Benedict decided in that moment that he had not heard a more beautiful sound in his life. Meanwhile, Eva decided she would never again reveal something so personal lest her conversation partner change the subject so quickly. She supposed he was right about Lady Danbury, and she was far too embarrassed to speak too much for the moment.

“Yes, I suppose you are right,” she said, taking his arm, ignoring how his muscles flexed when she lightly wrapped her hand around it, ignoring how warm his body felt next to hers. And they were not even walking that close to one another.

“So, Miss Stanton,” Benedict began, as the music swelled, and they began dancing. Eva could not help but notice how much more smoothly they danced together than she had with the Viscount, how much more relaxed she felt. “Considering your high standards for marriage, do you have any advice for me in navigating these treacherous waters?” His tone was teasing.

“I am sure you will do perfectly well, Mr Bridgerton. There is a myriad of eligible Misses upon which to make your selection for a wife, if you should please,” Eva said curtly. Benedict raised an eyebrow, his eyes shining with amusement.

“Do you mean to imply that women of the Ton should have no agency in marriage themselves, Miss Stanton? Do you think I should choose a wife without her knowledge or consent? That may be rather awkward.”

“Of course not, I only wished to-“ she began, then stopped, smiling. His tone was so earnest, his smile so genuine, she could not help herself in laughing softly alongside him.

“Perhaps I will forget to inform her for our whole lives,” he joked, as he turned her under his arm, taking her breath away slightly as he pulled her back to him, a little bit closer than last time. She took a small step back while they continued dancing.

“Perhaps you will never meet each other at all,” she laughed. “I cannot tell if I envy, or pity, said woman.”

“I hope you do not think so lowly of me, Miss Stanton.” Benedict said, his tone shifting. The song ended, as they bowed their heads to one another. Eva paused, scanning his face.

“Surprisingly no, I do not, Mr Bridgerton,” she breathed out.

------------------------------------------------------------

After her dance with Benedict, much to her dismay, several gentlemen requested dances with her. One such gentleman, Lord Berbrooke, a rather odd-looking, much older man with a slimy disposition, was requesting to be added to her dance card when she felt two people come up behind her.

“Eva!” Kate’s familiar voice interrupted Lord Berbrooke’s insisting, and Eva felt relief wash over her. “It has been ever so long since I have seen you, my dear friend,” she said, linking their arms together.

“Yes, pardon us, My Lord,” Edwina said, doing the same thing on her other side. “We have far too many things to speak of with our dear Eva. And did you not promise the next two dances to Lord Wordsworth?” The three girls couldn’t help but smile at each other knowingly, at Lord Berbrooke’s expense. Especially considering his ignorance. He was the perfect demonstration that an academic education did not always lead to a smart and perceptive nature, Eva thought amusingly to herself.

“Oh yes, I did. It would be awfully rude of me to decline him. Excuse us,” Eva said, as Kate and Edwina began to whisk her away. “I believe I heard Cressida Cowper speaking of you, Lord Berbrooke. She would appreciate a dance with you, to be sure.” With that, the three girls moved quickly to the other side of the ballroom, giggling to themselves.

“That was perhaps a little too harsh. Poor Cressida,” Edwina said lightly, shaking her head.

“Oh, come now, Bon. The two of them deserve each other,” Kate gave her younger sister a glance, the corner of her mouth quirking up.

“I suppose nobody deserves that man,” Eva reasoned, feeling slightly guilty. “He is quite awful. Oh, look!”

The three of them watched from across the ballroom as Lord Berbrooke offered Cressida Cowper his hand, as she turned her nose up in disgust and stalked off, a whirl of skirts. Edwina, Kate and Eva burst out laughing. At that moment, Eva felt an indescribable pull, like a magnet. Her eyes flitted over to her left, and she locked eyes with Benedict Bridgerton who was at the lemonade station looking equally amused. He flashed Eva a knowing smile across the room, and she tried to ignore how she immediately noticed it was ever-so crooked. Her cheeks flushed as she quickly looked away.

Stop it, she thought.

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