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barbieaemond · 9 months ago

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And I dream of a grave

Header by the lovely @ewanmitchellcrumbs 💕💕

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Warnings: angst (!), smut, too many references to graves/burying, mentions of Blood & Cheese, miscommunication, Aemond's coping mechanism is violence and sex, in this order (good for him)

Word count: 3.8k

Author's note: the gif is self explanatory. This is a prequel to A Curse for a Curse, but can be read as a standalone. Big thank you to @irenadel for giving me the idea and being one of the most supportive souls <3

Taglist: @ladystarksneedle @arcielee @multyfangirl

MASTERLIST | English is not my first language

This is more than tempting the Gods. This is forsaking and impudently turning their backs on them.

As she sits down at the banquet, her mother’s words echo through her mind like the vexing sound of the wind on a storm’s night. It sets an unpleasant weight on her lungs, the close and yet shapeless feel of something dreadful. She’s almost grateful, looking around, to ascertain she’s not the only fool dreading this whole act.

The Dowager Queen sits at the table, barely able to contain a grimace. Queen Helaena, she is certain, has never looked so pale, her eyes so vacuous and yet so full of something unknown, elusive, smoke clouding and clearing her unnatural stare. The Hand has conveniently made himself absent. She can’t blame him. Actually, she envies him. If only she too could have been spared such a farce. But as the wife of the King’s brother, the very one they’re all supposed to celebrate tonight, she cannot do that, can she?

To cheers and the blaring of trumpets, the King enters shoulder to shoulder with his brother, tall and proud in his stride, wearing dark green velvet for such a special occasion, and such a special title.

“Do you know how they’re going to call you from now on?” the Queen Mother had asked when he came back from Storm’s end, dripping rain and mud and war.

“I do, Mother.” Aegon had answered, twisting a knife from his seat at the head of the table; she had never caught that glint of satisfaction in his eyes, not like that; it wasn’t dimmed by wine or flesh, but sharp as the blade in his hand. “A title he should be proud of.”

Pride was ever the easiest thing to wear for Aemond, the softest glove gliding on his skin, born out of a pit so deep and full of insecurities and negligence that that same endless depth had grown out of proportion in order to fill itself. To even try scratching his pride was like trying to climb the highest mountain with bare hands. She had cut her palms open to do so.

“What happened, Aemond?” she had asked once alone in their chambers.

“You know what happened.”

“What really happened?”

His good eye had pierced her as if she were made of crystal, but his jaw was too set, on the verge of breaking his own teeth if he carried on keeping the guilt, and truth, trapped inside.

“I didn’t want to.” He whispered, coming down from the peak, “I didn’t want to kill him. I only wanted—”

“Revenge? Well, you had it. Did it make you feel good? Did you bring that boy peace at last?”

It took him a lifetime to say no; a whispered sound, choked even, as if he had bitten off his tongue to get it out of that pit where he had never looked again.

He was biting his tongue in the council, the faintest clench in his jaw but here, here in the council, here in the world, he had to keep that pit buried and stand straight on the highest peak, looking up and up, never down, never back. How could he, how could he admit he had lost control. It was easier, safer, to let them think of him a monster, rather than just human.

“I salute you, brother.” The King had said, raising his cup “True blood of the dragon! We shall have a feast in your honor!" Otto had merely lowered his head in defiance, going unnoticed in the eyes of his King and grandson, drunk with power and finally free of his mother's leash, unaware that a golden noose now held him in check.

He had summoned jesters, musicians, even some dancers to coddle his brother, and raise him higher and higher. She imagined she just had to wait for the fall. Or perhaps pray to the Seven to overlook the insult, to keep a mortal up there with them for a little more. But then again, they shouldn’t ask the Gods for mercy. Someone more unforgiving, more bloodthirsty. Someone who, just as her husband and his brother and each one of their cursed dynasty, did not listen to either Gods or men.

“A toast!” the King says at one point, turning to his left. “To my brother Aemond and a long overdue justice, is it not?”

Out of courtesy and duty, she grabs her cup and raises it, but as everyone at the table sips their wine, all she tastes is contempt, and the cup hits the surface untouched. But not unseen.

“Brother, wine may cloud my judgment, but it seems to me that your beloved wife does not share the sentiment of this fine evening. I wonder why.”

She holds the King’s demanding stare with a firm one, aware of Aemond looking at her even if his eye is fixed on the table. He has ignored her for the whole night, not sparing her a single glance. Because she owns the truth, doesn’t she, and it’s a knife pointed at his back.

“May I speak my mind, your Grace?”

There’s the slightest shift in Alicent’s posture, as if she were desperately waiting for her, or anyone, to cease all of this, to say this isn’t right.

Aegon pulls a thin, lazy smile and tilts his silver head, swirling his cup. “Why, of course, Princess. My brother tells me you have a habit of doing so.”

“Did he, now?” she resists the urge to scoff; such a despicable habit for a woman in this world.

“Fret not, good sister, I’m certain he holds no grudges against you for your silver tongue.”

“Oh, I’m quite certain too, your Grace. I know for a fact that he likes it.”

A few lords can do very little to hold their snickering, Aegon himself does not hide his malicious smirk, petty at the edges. It must run in the blood.

“Careful though, you don’t want to spend too much time talking, lest you leave my poor brother without any heir! It’s been a while since you two lovebirds tied the knot, isn’t that right?”

She glances beside her, surely Aemond won’t let that slight insult pass, but he stays still and silent like a statue. She can’t quite believe what she’s witnessing. This is the same man who would call the crowned head at the table wastrel, depraved, disgrace.

So much for a disgrace, now that he fosters your pride and lies.

“I can assure you, good brother, that the talking is well outweighed by other activities that involve very few words.”

Aegon plasters a big grin on his face, yet she’s not finished. “But perhaps the Gods are sparing me the burden of bringing a child in such troubled times. A realm at war is not the best place to live in, is it not?”

“It depends on which side you’re on, Princess.”

There’s suspicion in his tone, but she just blinks at him. “My apologies, I was not aware that my loyalty to your House, and my husband’s, was to be questioned.”

“Come now. We are bound by what if not words?”

“I was under the impression that the Crown should fear his own kin more than a simple foreign girl from the West.”

At that, Helaena lets out a strange noise, something close to a wince, and silence falls all over. It is only now that Aemond undoes the stone he walled himself in and acts as he always does when he feels belittled, or worse, threatened. He shuts her out.

“I’m afraid my wife is growing tired, brother. ’Tis best for her to retire.”

She bites her tongue and turns her head. There’s no mistake in his tone, that is an order. She stares at him and he stares back, blankly, and then, just as it is expected of her, she obeys.

She goes without saying a word, aware of Aemond’s eye on her, of Aegon’s little victorious giggle. He snaps his fingers and two dancing girls flock to his brother. She knows this because she can’t resist but turning before disappearing. The girls are said to come from Lys, no less. But he’s not sparing them a single glance. His eye follows her out of the hall, and even after.

Candles almost extinguished, casting a soft glow in the bedchamber, dim but enough to make the shape of her body visible under the covers.

“I know you’re pretending to be asleep.” He says, placing his dagger and eyepatch on the nightstand.

She doesn’t bother to wait a single moment to fly her eyes open. “Was I not supposed to pretend I was tired?”

When she gets no answer, she turns to face him, finding him on his feet near the bed, undoing the buttons of his doublet. His eye is on her, though, wide, as someone ready to hunt but seeing traps everywhere.

“Did you enjoy your feast?” she asks with piqued interest. “Such a shame that I missed most of it. I was eager to watch the girls from Lys dance. How were they?”

“Enough. You should thank me for dismissing you. You were bordering on high treason.”

“Since when telling the truth is considered high treason?”

“Is that what you were going to say? The truth? To make me look like a fool in front of the whole court?”

“I was only going to say that the feast was an insult and a challenge to the Gods or any common sense. And I know that beneath all the pats on the shoulder and the endorsement on your brother’s part, you are of the same mind.” she hopes to see the barest glimpse of validation on his face, at least here, where he can leave behind his pride and admit he made a mistake. Is that what you call starting a war?

But his expression is as closed as ever, wary.

She wishes it would hurt less than it does. “Of all the people ready to betray you, how quick you are to assume I’d be the first.”

“We’re bound by words, are we not?”

“Take your brother off your mouth.” She says absentmindedly; she tries to not let it sting, but it does anyway. It is a low blow, and she knows he does not believe it. He has raised the walls, coiling like a snake, and there’s no point trying to climb and risk cracking her skull open on the ground. She will have to wait for him to come down. “Then perhaps I should consider my father’s proposal.”

She leaves the bed and grabs a letter lying open on the desk. “He wrote me this letter. That is why my mother came all the way here, apparently to see how her daughter was faring.”

Aemond eyes it with the barest twitch in his lips, then looks up into her eyes and, with a sigh, she clears her throat.

“My dearest daughter,

It is with great concern and sadness that I write you this letter.

Words have reached me about the recent events involving Storm’s End and young Prince Lucerys’ demise. My spirits are low when thinking of the fate you’re enduring. But I want you to think carefully of this: annulments are rare but possible. Even more so since you bore no heirs yet. You cannot remain married to a Kinslayer, it is the highest of sins. I only need a word from you, daughter, and I shall hastily consult with a High Septon.”

She can barely register his arm moving, only sees his hand snatching the letter out of her grip, crumpling the paper between his fingers. Nostrils flaring, eye widening, she reads insult all over his face. About time.

“Is that it, Aemond? Is that the reason you’d think I would betray you? Because I didn’t bleed on a birthing bed yet? Is that how you measure my loyalty? What of all the times I drew your bath, washed your hair, pulled the boots off your feet? What about that curtain—“ she adds, pointing to the windows “and the fact that I told the maid to keep that side always closed so the sun will not bother your eye? Do you think I did all of this because of some empty words?”

He looks as if she has just slapped him. Mistrust and bewilderment run together all over his sharp features, trying to win one another, and she waits and waits, and she begs as all the purest things must be pleaded, wordlessly.

Come down. Come down. Lay down with me. In our bed, a grave, it matters not. I'll take the shovel and do the burying.

But he stands still on his high and cursed perch, the grip on the letter loosens, his shoulders slump a little, because this, this comes so easily. Violence. It’s the other glove he wears like second skin.

“You will write to your father and tell him if I hear another word about annulments, I will have his head for treason. And as for you… you tell a living soul what you know, and you shall join the Silent Sisters. You won’t even have to vow your silence, for I shall take your sharp tongue first.”

She watches him go, standing in the middle of the room like a fool; her hands bleeding still and a plea, unheard, choking to death in her chest.

Her hands heal, stay whole for so long. She feels she cannot reach him this time, no matter how hard she tries to climb. She finds no footholds, no inlets, until she stops looking for any.

She finds she has no strength to do it anymore. They’re all dead anyway, each of them in their own way, their own burial.

The king drinks and rages and drinks and rages. Helaena rocks on herself all day long, chasing the highs and lows of her laments. Jaehaera stares at her mother with her small lips sewn, her eyes wide and the Queen Mother weeps and weeps, wondering if the little girl is watching her mother go mad with grief or yet again her twin brother’s head rolling on the ground like one of her toys.

And Aemond…she does not know where Aemond chose to bury himself. He spends the day out, trying to escape the smothering grip of the Stranger’s claws, his curse…or is it only retribution?

Sometimes he’s in the training yard, sometimes that same yard becomes theater for revenge. He kills whoever helped Blood and Cheese enter the Keep, man or woman, he doesn’t care. He tortures them, and she wants to beg him to stop, to tell him that torturing one, two, or one hundred men won’t stop guilt from torturing him.

So, he wanders restlessly, basks in small and big cruelties, until the sun sets and she’s aware, as the bed dips under his weight, that she is his own burial. He takes her at any time, in any place, be it the bed, the desk, or bent over the vanity, she cannot do anything to stop him. She doesn’t want to and yet she aches to do it. Because it’s always sudden, and harsh and hurtful when he pulls her hair, when he spares no time to stoke her desire, when he keeps her bent with her back turned and a firm hand on her neck like some kind of punishment.

It never used to be like this. It had been playful, teasing, painfully slow as if he were separating salt from water, and then fast, urgent, unraveling for two inexperienced newlyweds.

But it had never been like that. There was no joy in it. Only a duty to be fulfilled. Some twisted way to gain control, while anyone else kept slipping from his hands. Just as Vhagar slipped out of his control on that fateful night of storm.

He remembered that dark thrill pounding in his veins, the laughter gushing out of his throat like poison. He couldn’t bring himself to stop. He didn’t know whether Vhagar was fueling his fire or the other way around, perhaps both. Just a little more, he’d thought, as Arrax batted his wings frantically, desperate, mirroring his young rider, to escape the gaping jaws of the Queen of All Dragons.

That’s what he wanted. He wanted to relish in his nephew’s dread, he wanted to drink it. He wanted him alone, desperate, hopeless, just as he had been.

And then he felt it, the shift in the ancient fire pit he was riding, like a boat tipping over and there was no helm to grab onto and bring it back to land. He had sunk his own family into the bleak abyss of Daemon Targaryen’s soul.

He had come to collect, thoroughly. A son for a son, yes, but he had taken much more than Jaehaerys. He’d taken Helaena as well. Even Jaehaera.

Will she ever be able to speak again?

Will my Mother ever forgive me?

Words never spoken, stuck on his tongue and then gagged and swallowed. He cannot look down, cannot look back. He must look up and forward, like soldiers do. To the next battle, to war.

But there’s this woman. And the sight of her in his bed that makes his breath hitch and for two reasons entirely opposite to one another. The first is the most ancient one. But she’s also a thorn in his side, for she knows. She knows everything. She knows all his peaks and depths, every brick in his walls and how to dismantle them; she knows he’s strong and weak, that he’s scared and guilty and worthy of his mother’s contempt, but he cannot bear any of this in front of her.

He flees her presence during the day, only to impose himself on her for the whole night. She cannot refuse him. And he cannot have her prying and dismantling his well-crafted walls and lies, so he takes her and takes her and takes her until he works themselves up to exhaustion and she’s a rag doll in his hands. It serves the purpose, though. As long as she has his cock in her mouth, as long as he harshly pounds into her, cutting her breath from the inside, she cannot ask questions. As long as he keeps chasing his pleasure, and his rugged breaths muffle his own ears, he cannot think straight.

He's close now and it’s the second time already. The sheets are damp beneath their bodies, his back glints with sweat, damps his forehead as he thrusts inside her one more time. They’re lying on their side, but he keeps her caged against him, his arm has slipped on the mattress and under her neck to keep her still, with her back to him. With his cheek glued to hers, he croons praises in her ear, falling mindlessly from his lips but like drops in the ocean. Once, she would redden, smile blissfully, or challenge him, to go deeper, or harder, or both, but she’s a limp thing now. A mere body panting upon being fucked by another, that’s all.

This is possession. Or a desperate attempt to. Each night, he holds her as if it’s the last time and she could slip away from him at any moment, turning her back on him. She can feel it now, in the way he’s gripping her shoulder, the way his nails dig in her skin, carving into her bones: stay with me. Please. Don’t leave. Please, don’t leave.

But it’s him keeping her away, turning her own back on him.

Don’t you know, she wishes to tell him, that I won’t, ever. I won’t. No matter how cursed you are. I won’t. I won’t.

He grabs her thigh, resting it on his hip, spreading his long fingers on her skin, spreading her legs so he can find the perfect angle and picks up the pace. She shudders with every thrust, gasping with her throat dry, feeling the long bridge of his nose sinking in her cheek, his grunts growing rougher and deeper; some strange choked sound at the back of his throat.

He comes quietly, panting shallowly against the damp fabric of her nightgown. And he stays there, claw gripping her shoulder, head sunk between her neck and collarbone, and deep to the hilt buried in her.

A tear rolls down her cheek. She doesn’t know where it comes from, who she is mourning, she can’t tell these days. Perhaps she’s mourning him, who he was, who he is now and who he is forcing himself to be. She doesn’t know where the deception lies anymore. She wishes she could push it back in, prays that it goes unnoticed, swallowed along with all the others, but she should know by now, the Gods are not in her favor anymore, if they ever had been.

“Why are you crying?”

She turns her head, and her breath hitches. The gemstone glints, yes, but she’s too struck by his eye to even notice the sapphire. There’s something raw there, bare, more than his very skin now. It’s the first time she sees that look on him, torn, heavy lidded and not by pleasure.

This is the burden of grief.

She wonders if that’s the reason he’s so keen on fucking her with her back turned, so she can’t see him. Perhaps she didn’t look hard enough. She thought he had risen too high, out of her reach, of anyone’s. She thought he would never fall, not in every sense of the word.

Hence, she’s at a loss for words, slightly pulling herself up, when he slowly comes down; he curls into himself, into her lap, resting his head there like a child. No Kinslayer, no Dragon Prince, no son, no brother. No husband. Just a human, bare in the skin and soul.

Aemond wraps his hand around her knee, gently, and then tighter and tighter, shutting his eye. He’s on land now, but the room is spinning, the whole world is spinning and he doesn’t know how to stop it. He feels he started it all, he threw a spinning top and got sucked into it. And she’s the only firm thing he can hold onto.

“Do you think I’m cursed?” he whispers, the barest flutter of his long eyelashes against his cheekbone.

But she has no answer. All she has are her hands, sliding on his naked skin, through his loose hair, gently, as if touching the thinnest glass, sealing the cracks. Her palms slice open again.

“Aren’t we all?”

And I dream of a grave, deep and narrow, where we could clasp each other in our arms as with clamps, and I would hide my face in you and you would hide your face in me, and nobody would ever see us any more."

- The Castle, Franz Kafka.

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sideysvault · 21 days ago

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⋆˚࿔ Handmade 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Cregan Stark x fem!reader ₊ @hotd2025bingo. ₊

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱ • ⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

wc. 1258k

tags. [sfw] arranged marriage, slowborn, fluffy, family life, they are both shy and dumb, mutual pining.

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Most days, the woman was deeply intimidated by his presence, by his way of being. Cregan Stark had impossibly gray eyes, which reminded her of a winter storm. Whenever she walked behind him, his broad back would obfuscate almost all of her view. Not to mention his God's forsaken honor. It all made her uncomfortable.

It was like the North itself was rejecting her. No matter how hard she tried, she never seemed to be worthy enough for it, honorable, brave enough.

The prolonged exposure to the weather seemed to use all of her body’s stored energy. Most days, the Princess felt tired, with her facial muscles fighting to move against the freezing breeze, her cheeks were perpetually red, in a constant state of burning. And, the people of the region? Despite her best efforts, they still saw her as nothing more than an outsider. Someone not built like them, not educated on their rigid values. A liability at best, and a foreign spy at worst.

And the only thing more righteous than the frosted soil? The lord of Winterfell himself, Guardian of the North, Lord Cregan Stark. Her husband.

It is not like she could not admit it. It was intoxicating, that beautiful honor of his. Even after consummating the marriage, even after sharing the same bed in the cold of dawn, he called his wife by title instead of by name. She supposed it was to be taken as a sign of respect. But the majority of the time? It felt like a polite rejection.

The Princess did not need to corroborate the date to know what it was. She was turning a year older, alone, in a strange land with strange people. And even if she knew that she had no right to complain —After all, a young, kind, and distant husband is every woman’s dream— she had still hoped for marital love.

You see, beyond the tales of honor and horrifying efficiency, she had heard stories of families in the North being formed out of love and loyalty. Even rulers had this privilege, often growing to form meaningful connections with their arranged spouses. Perhaps the ardent patriotism they felt to their land seeped into their crops and fed them with devotion. Or so had the Princess thought. But it had been months now, and all of her efforts had been rendered futile.

In defiance of her pride, when he saw Cregan Stark, she couldn’t help but to waver under his charm. Feeling the inexplicable need to gain his affection at whatever cost. Cregan was a stern and formidable man and a good friend to even the Night's Watch, the most forlorn amongst the realm.

And Dear Gods, was he a handsome man. A long, steel-strong face, auburn brown hair, and unbelievably tall. Her husband did not need the heavy furs he usually wore to keep out the fur to look stout and robust, but they definitely made him look irresistibly personable. She had always thought that a Lord rarely wearing precious metals or jewelry was rare. Further, speaking on her husbands' rejection of traditional power structures. She had sin with a lack of modesty in the past, but now she viewed elaborate decoration as ostentatious and unnecessary, specially when their people were struggling.

Cregan was loud, just and had a strong moral compass. How could she compete? How could she ever complement his values?

She had a recurring dream, at least as of late. The woman had begun to wish for only two things: For her husband to perceive her as fair enough as to fall in love with her, and for the crimson red between her legs to stop appearing altogether. After all, who, amongst all men, could be a better father? A kinder husband?

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Regardless of the land's greatness, it could not be argued that the North was considered one of the poorest regions in Westeros. He tried to ignore his shameful instincts. But whenever he saw her, he couldn't help but feel like a brute. He did not have much to offer; a busy life, an inherited, dangerous prophecy, primal worship of the Old Gods, a struggle for survival, and his people, who were stern by nature.

He felt a pinch of superficial guilt in seeing his beautiful wife dressed in the North's dour clothing. The shades of blue and gray danced behind his eyes, covering her warm skin in the musky colors of the winter climate.

Cregan knew that this was merely an easy mark to avoid unraveling his true grievance with the situation. He could not provide what she deserved, and his wife still woke up besides him every morning, with a kind smile on her face.

This would be the first birthday his wife would spend on her new home. And Lord Cregan was trying to reclaim what he felt ashamed of. Determined to transform the grouches, into something she would like.

But how could he possibly thank her for her kindness if he just had all the work done by someone else? Making it himself would be the least she deserved. The Lord of Winterfell wanted to gift her a costumed jewel that would remind her that she deserved to have a little comfort in her life. He did notice how hard she had tried to follow the North's austere ways, specially his own. And while he endlessly appreciates her tact, he wanted her to let go of the idea that being married to him implied she had to restrict herself so severely. It was a weird thing, he thought. How fond he had become of her and how little he had been able to show it.

While he was gilding the hot metal, Cregan’s mind trailed off to her naked, sweaty back, and the way she turned back to look at him with lustful, doe-eyed eyes, he remembered the times she prepared them a glass of wind, ideal for them to share at night, talking till dawn about nothing in particular. The truth was that the Northerner was not particularly fluent with words, but he would love to hear her silky voice telling him stories and teach him facts that he would've never thought to be so fascinated by. He craved learning every detail about her, no matter how mundane. Cregan Stark adored her for travelling with him and learning about the winter soil and its costumes, meeting people with a strong, confident gaze that remained resolute, even in spite of her skin, which always cracked under the freezing cold.

He loved seeing her play with snow when she thought no one was watching, he liked how kind she was, that his wife was never scared of petting the wolves; He felt fascinated by how quickly they would trust her, as if they could also perceive the brave openness in her soul.

A smile appeared on his face as he realized that he wanted a family. Not for the continuation of his surname, but he wanted to create a home of their own, with who he considered to be quickly becoming his closest friend. Having a babe that carried their mother’s laugh within them, her wit, her curiosity, It would make him the happiest man in Westeros.

He tried to infuse in every dent all the words he was too ashamed to say, a cowardly way, yes, but perhaps the safest way of expressing the deep love he had developed towards her. The love she was too shy, too stupid to express with his own voice.

────────

notes. This is my first time writing for Cregan! I'm still not super sure about how to characterize him, but this has been stuck in my mind since I saw the prompt on the hotd bingo. Personal updates? After two years, I'm still in love with my ex (yay!). This is a bit slppy and rushed but i missed posting and the comfort writing can provide<3. Anyway, take care.

All credits from the idea of Cregan calling you by title instead of name goes to @sylasthegrim’s wip. Thank you sm for the inspo! go support them rn

-Sidey xxxo

#hotd fanfic #hotd #hotd s2 #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of dragons #house of the dragon #hotd fic #hotd spoilers #hotd fanfiction #cregan stark #cregan x reader #hotd cregan #cregan x you #cregan stark x reader

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missadangel · 5 months ago

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The Heart of Rome (Marcus Acacius x OC)

All Chapters List

I. Heal the Heart

Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, nescio. Sed fieri sentior et excrucior. I love you and I hate you. Why I do this, I have no idea. But I feel it happening and I’m in agony. [Catullus]

Following the conquest of Egypt and its incorporation into the Roman Empire, there was a growing interest in its ancient culture. Over time, many in Egypt began to express a desire for greater autonomy and control over their own affairs. Dissatisfaction with Roman control over Egypt became part of the Egyptian psyche.

This is precisely why, immediately following the death of Emperor Septimius Severus, preparations for revolt began in Egypt. His emperor sons, Caracalla and Geta, were mainly focused on quarreling with each other, drinking, and enjoying themselves, while their subjects faced starvation. They organized games, watched gladiators fight, and took pride in their activities. Even when informed of the revolt in Egypt, they continued their indulgent ways, showing little care for anything beyond their own pleasures and daily pursuits.

The Egyptians were, of course, aware of their limitations; they knew they could not be as strong a soldier as their emperor father. They were confident that the day would come when, with the help of the Greeks, they would overthrow the Roman governors in Egypt. After all, they had been preparing for this since the death of Severus. Among them were also Jews, all eager to establish the sovereignty of ancient Egypt. However, there was one crucial factor they did not consider or pay much attention to.

General Marcus Justus Acacius.

They say, you can feel the ground shake when he walks on it. He makes his opponents feel certain of their own death at the very moment he draws his sword. A daring commander with few who could stand up to him. It is unclear whether this is an exaggeration or not, but it is still rumored that he cut a lion in half in the Colosseum.

A beast in every sense of the word.

More than that, he is a leader who manages his legions very well and spurs them on to achieve success during the war, a man who has not yet tasted a failure and has well-earned the title of general in every way.

Since it was obvious that no one else could succeed in suppressing the rebellion, he was immediately sent to the region with the intervention of his Empresss Julia Domna, the mother of the two emperors.

Just like she guessed, he had succeeded in putting down the rebellion; of course, no doubt, as soon as his name rang through, the rebels, along with all the inhabitants of Egypt, knew that they were already defeated.

Some were forced to surrender, those who resisted and fled were found and killed by the Roman soldiers, but not all. The general didn't kill the surrendered ones, he took them as captives which was pretty fair for a beast. In contrast to him, the ones who fled were not, they were so desperate that they didn't know what to do and they started attacking everything and everywhere like rabid dogs.

They even attempted to violate the laws of war and mapped out a plan to kill the General and his soldiers, and even all the medics, in the night at their camps. It was a suicide mission, but they were on the verge of success.

"Has anyone seen the General? He’s not in his tent!" A burly soldier entered, gripping his sword, which was stained with the blood of the rebel he had just killed. He quickly searched through all the tents, wearing a look of concern on his face.

The clinking of swords echoed in the darkness as the soldiers cut down the last remaining rebels to death with their swords.

Soon, the soldier ran to his General, relieved to see him, but he was wounded in the abdomen moments ago. As he gently pressed his hand to his injury, a small amount of blood emerged, shining like rubies under the moonlight as it dripped from between his strong fingers onto the grass. His attackers were no longer alive, they were all lying on the ground, were literally cut to ribbons. They attacked him in his sleep when he was wearing nothing but his tunic, catching him off guard. He nodded to the soldier, demanding assistance as his white tunic transformed into a crimson hue. He had been wounded many times before, countless times, but this was nothing like before and was undoubtedly the worst injury he had ever sustained. "I think I… got…," he groaned; it hurt much even when he spoke, feeling like beneath the wound, his blood was boiling. "…poisoned." These were the last words spilled from his lips before his enormous body slumping to his knees, collapse altogether to the ground.

The woman with waist-length with black hair was dragging you along with her as she walking across the meadow, you were struggled, couldn’t control your feet, as if the ground was sliding under. She had her hands outstretched at her sides, even though her back was turned, it was not difficult to see her smile by the sunlight reflecting the curve of her chin. She abruptly ceased her movement and bent down to gather a few herbs in a meadow. She plucked them, gathered them in her palms, and kissed them. You heard the whispers between her lips and the harmony of the wind rippling through your ears. It was clear that she was blessing these herbs. When she turned to you, you staggered backwards, hypnotized by her face, so beautiful, mesmerizing, her eyes hypnotizing yours, it was impossible to look away, no escape from them.

Perhaps even more surprising than anything else was that her face and eyes were identical to yours. It really was truly astonishing. She handed you the plants like they were rare jewelry. You could see her arms shone in the sun, and her skin looked like fine marble. It was impossible to believe that it could be human skin; it must have been that of a goddess, but why did her face resemble yours?

'Heal the heart, child,' her voice sang through the meadow like a gentle breeze. You couldn't move your lips, but she heard you anyway.

‘Heart?’

A warm wind blew, and the silhouette of the woman came closer, startling you. Her hazel eyes were turning green under the sun. As she slightly opens her lips, you locked your eyes on them and waited eagerly for the answer.

‘The heart of Rome,’ almost whispers, ‘Serve it,’ a little loud now like commanding, ‘Heal it...’ again whispers then gently puts the herbs on your hand.

A strong wind blew, and the silhouette of the woman danced with the wind. The sunny sky burst into a starry night as the wind embraced the silhouette and rose to the sky, to the stars. You felt the ground under your feet, but your eyes were drawn to the enchanting sky.

As the wind finally gave way to the silent night, you looked at the herbs you were holding in your hand. These kind of herbs you were used to seeing almost every day, but what you were not used to seeing was that they were sparkling like diamonds between your fingers. It was as if you could feel their healing power on your skin.

Abruptly, you heard the voice again, echoing across the meadow. Your ears were once more caressed, blessed, but this time, the words were different.

‘Cure him…’

You barely heard your name being called and your body was shaking, slowly opened your eyes, you saw a familiar but worried face.

‘Wake up, please, you need to get up now,’ the concern in the man's voice brought you back to reality, the effect of the dream disappearing like a cloud of dust between the stone walls and dissipating into the air.

‘Uncle?’

You had rarely seen this face of your uncle who had taken you in when you were an orphan, who cared for you, protected you and raised you well more than any other father or mother ever would.

You sat up from the firm mattress you were lying on, ‘I thought we were travelling tomorrow night?’

‘No, no, that's not why I woke you up,’ he put your big dark cloak over your head. ‘You need to hide.’

You were startled to hear shouting and footsteps coming from outside the wooden door of the room. This was not the sort of noise you would normally expect to hear in this Valetudinarium (hospital, clinic) at this late hour.

‘What is going on?’ You rub your eyes with your fingers, trying to figure out the situation.

Your uncle tucked your hair deeper into your cloak.

'The Roman soldiers are gathering all the medici (psychians). I have to go with them.'

'Roman soldiers? I thought they left after they put down the rebellion, and slaughtered thousands. Besides, they must have a medicus in their camps, why would they-?'

He grabbed you by the shoulders, his anxiety evident.

'I heard that some rebellious individuals killed the Medici in their tents, and then-'

A soldier's voice was heard from one of the nearby rooms. You both turned your heads in that direction, startled, and then looked at each other again.

'Their general was targeted. The rebels attacked him in his sleep. He managed to fight back, but he was poisoned. Now, they want me to save him.'

“Poisoned? But Uncle, he might already be dead! If you can’t cure him, they’ll blame you or punish you!”

“Don’t think about that now. You need to hide. Remember, as a woman, you aren’t allowed to be here. You have to conceal yourself and wait for my return.”

The soldiers’ voices were heard nearby.

"No, I’ll come with you. If it’s aspis venom (a venomous snake found in the Nile region), we’ll use the same techniques as we did with the boy last time. It would take too long to make the antivenom alone. Let me help you."

"It’s too dangerous for you, my dearest, to go among the soldiers. Even if you wear men’s clothes, we can’t hide the beauty of your face."

You walked over to the cauldron in the fireplace and ran your hands over the soot that had accumulated beneath it.

"It worked before," you said, rubbing a bit of soot on your cheeks.

"That was only at the market. This time it’s more dangerous. I’d never forgive myself if I couldn’t protect you there."

"I was going to give this to you tomorrow, as I promised last time, but there's no time now. If anything happens to me, you will open it. Everything about your true family is in here."

You took the envelope from him with shaky hands. It had been sealed by the former emperor himself, and you wondered what was written inside.

Your uncle grabbed your shoulders and shook you to ensure you understood the importance of the letter. "No one should ever see this. Do you understand me? No one! After you open it, hide it. Do not let anyone see it. But don't lose it; hide it as if your life depends on it. You'll understand why."

You nodded firmly and swallowed hard, tucking the letter into the bag hanging around your neck. You hid it at the very bottom under the medicine bottles, causing them to rattle in the process.

"Aya, you’re going to have to choose," he said, looking at you intently before leaving the room.

"Choose what, uncle?"

"To run or to stay. It’ll all make sense when you read the letter," he said, glancing down the hall before grabbing your wrist. You were confused, but you knew you had to think about this later.

"We have to get out now; soldiers are outside. Quick!"

'I was going to give this to you tomorrow as I promised last time, but there's no time now. If anything happens to me, you will open it. Everything about your true family is in here.'

You took the envelope from him with shaking hands. The previous emperor himself had sealed it. You wondered what it meant.

Your uncle grabbed your shoulders and shook you, making sure you understood how important this letter was.

‘No one should ever see this. Do you understand me? No one! After you open it, hide it. Do not let anyone see it. But don't lose it, hide it like your life depends on it, you'll understand why.’

You nodded firmly and swallowed hard. You tucked the letter into the bag hanging around your neck and hid it at the very bottom under the medicine bottles, making them rattle in the process.

‘Aya, you’re going to have to choose,’ he looked at you before leaving the room.

‘Choose what uncle?’

‘To run or stay. It’ll make sense when you read the letter,’ he checked the hall and grabbed your wrist. You were so confused but you had to think about this later.

'We have to get out now, soldiers are outside, quick!'

The soldiers had gathered all the medici they could find at the army camp headquarters near the tents. There were seven of them, but they were unable to find a solution for the General's injury. As you and your uncle were next in line, a burly soldier of higher rank approached you both. You kept your head down, avoiding eye contact. Everyone was in a rush, nearly all mobilized to save the General's life. Your gender didn't matter to them at that moment. Just as you were about to follow your uncle into the tent, the soldier raised his hand to stop you.

‘Only the medicus.’

‘My aide, sir, let him in. He's as expert as I am.’

As your uncle is their last hope, he let you in but did not follow you inside, standing guard outside the tent. The General's squire stood next to him, looking at you with tears in his eyes. It was a heartbreaking sight. The sorrow had enveloped everything inside the tent, and you could feel it deep in your bones.

The General lay on a mattress in the west corner of the tent. He was unconscious, but you noticed his lips moving as if he were murmuring. You stepped forward to take a closer look at his face, which you had been so curious about.

His face was exactly as you had imagined, yet somehow different. He had numerous scars, as if he had been born with them, and his light brown skin embraced them. His mustache and beard were partially gray, and his nose and chin were perfectly shaped, as though Prometheus himself had spent extra time crafting this man. His face was stunning, causing your heart to race. You had never felt this way about any other man, though you had never had the opportunity to do so.

You were somewhat disappointed to see his eyes closed. You longed to know what they looked like and were eager to see his expression when he opened them. You were momentarily surprised by the desire to touch his face. For an instant, you forgot why you were there. Meanwhile, your uncle had picked up the sword with which the General had been wounded and was examining the blood on it. You moved over to help him, keeping one eye on the General, who lay there with his imposing build and half of the white tunic he wore stained red.

Your heart constricted with pain, and the dream you had came vividly to mind.

‘Cure him.’

"We need to check his wound!" Your uncle's loud voice startled you, and you squinted at him, feeling ashamed.

As your uncle gestured for you to come closer, you saw that the wound was not deep, but the skin around it was turning pale from the venom, and the edges were curling inward.

"He doesn't have much time. Let's start making the antivenom now," he said, swallowing hard. The situation was worsening, and you knew you had to cure him no matter what. Perhaps this was why the gods had shown you this in your dream; they had warned you in advance that your life depended on it.

The process of making the antivenom took slightly longer than you had anticipated, but you persevered admirably. Your uncle cleaned the wound to neutralize it while you sweated through your clothes. Finally, when the antivenom was ready, your uncle carefully applied the antidote to the wound, but he was exhausted, his fingers shaking. You stepped in to help despite feeling weary yourself. Your eyelids felt heavy, but you managed to see your task through to the end.

The soldier from earlier entered the tent to check on the situation. You bowed your head and stepped back.

"We've cleaned the wound, and once it's neutralized, we applied the antidote. We just need to wait now," your uncle informed him, wiping sweat from his forehead. "We need to give him some time and ensure he drinks water soon to avoid dehydration."

As the soldier examined the wound, you turned your head to look at the squire boy, who had been sobbing just moments ago but had now already fallen asleep. Poor boy, you thought.

The soldier then ordered you to leave the tent and wait outside.

You felt your arms and legs go numb with fatigue and collapsed to the ground, sitting cross-legged and trying hard to stay awake. Your uncle was in the same state, but he still struggled to resist sleep. In the end, he couldn't keep his eyelids from closing.

You woke up to the sound of soldiers shouting and arguing. Turning your head, you couldn't make out what they were disagreeing about, but their noise was overwhelming.

"You better go in and make sure the General drinks some water. He needs to stay hydrated," your uncle said firmly, likely keeping an eye on the soldiers outside.

The tent was empty except for the General. A soldier from earlier was outside, reassuring the other soldiers. You approached the General to check on him. His forehead was covered in sweat, and his body was fighting off venom. You quickly grabbed a damp cloth and pressed it gently against his forehead. Then you touched his lips with your thin, fragile fingers. An intense feeling grew inside you. As a secret medicus, you had touched the faces and bodies of many men and women to heal them. However, touching this man's face and lips felt different from the others.

You took a deep breath to steady yourself. This was nonsensical.

You opened his lips carefully and dipped a rag into the fresh water in a copper pot. You pressed it against the General's dry, pale lips, squeezing it gently through his mouth.

After doing this several times, you decided you had done enough. Just as you were about to withdraw your hand, the General's strong hand suddenly grasped yours with a firm grip. You were shocked and winced in pain, causing you to open your hand with pressure, and the rag fell to the ground.

You swallowed hard, your heart racing as you gazed at his face. He opened those eyes you had been so curious about and looked at you with a cold, calculating stare, squeezing your wrist so tightly that you felt it might break at any moment. You suppressed a scream and moaned in pain. 'Sir, I'm trying to help you!' You sounded as if you were crying, then he groaned in pain, throwing his head back and closing his eyes.The effort must have exhausted him. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he breathed quickly.

When he finally released your wrist, you threw yourself backwards for dear life, rubbed your wrist with your other hand and stroked it, praying to the Gods to take the pain away. You could have sworn to Jupiter that if he had squeezed your wrist any harder, you would have heard a cracking sound coming from your bones.

How could he possibly be so strong even when exhausted, so close to death?

As the pain receded, you took a deep breath and forced yourself to calm down. Your thin wrist was marked in red, like poppies, as if the shadows of his fingers were engraved on your skin.

You glanced timidly over your shoulder; he was still lying there with his eyes closed. But you had just made a terrible mistake—he must have heard your voice and realized you were a woman. Only the gods knew what he would do when he regained consciousness.

You had to leave immediately. Wrapping your wrist in a clean piece of cloth, you tucked the sleeve of your dress into it to hide the bandage. As you stepped out of the tent, your uncle grabbed your arm and pulled you behind it.

“Uncle, the general opened his eyes for a moment and heard my voice. He might remember when he wakes up,” you whispered, hoping no one had overheard you.

“Gods have mercy upon us,” he murmured, glancing down. Then he grabbed your shoulders. “It’s time to go. You need to leave now. Follow the path through the woods. Some soldiers are having a disagreement about something; I think they have found out—”

“You! Medicus! Come over here!” one of the soldiers shouted at your uncle. He gestured to you with his eyes, silently urging you to go.

“You too!” you gasped as you realized that the soldier was waving his hand at you.

“Sir, he should stay with the General…” your uncle interjected, stepping in front of you to protect you.

“I said come, both of you, now,” the soldier replied, his tone unmistakably commanding.

As you took tentative steps towards the group of soldiers forming a circle around your uncle, your heart raced as if it were about to burst. These were the soldiers who had just argued, fought, and you found yourself wondering whether they had been injured, but you could see no visible wounds on anyone.

On the contrary, they gazed at you with curiosity, and only at you.

“That’s nonsense, Dimitrus; this boy can’t be a girl,” said one soldier, pointing at you with a small knife in his hand.

Your uncle stood beside you, his worst fears realized, his face taut with worry. As the soldier, whom you guessed was named Dimitrus, approached, your uncle stepped in front of you. But the soldier easily overpowered him and shoved him aside. With a scrutinizing gaze, the soldier examined your body from head to toe. You bowed your head and clenched your fists, your heart pounding in your chest as your breathing quickened. He yanked down the hood of your cloak with his large hands, drawing the attention of other soldiers who now gathered nearby for a better look.

When he saw your hair tied up at the back of your head, his grin widened. He drew a dagger from its sheath, and as you caught sight of your uncle's worried face behind the soldier's formidable arm, you began to pray to all the gods.

Dimitrus grasped your bun and quickly cut the hair tie with his dagger, causing your golden-brown wavy hair to cascade over your shoulders. The soldiers laughed and whistled, while Dimitrus looked at them with a cocky smile before turning back to you.

“Such long hair for an aide boy, huh?” he chuckled.

“A girl, indeed,” replied another soldier, looking at you in disbelief.

“I told you I could smell a woman from a mile away,” he laughed, his voice booming.

“Please,” you pleaded, feeling powerless. A wave of despair washed over you.

“What is going on here?” The burly soldier approached, eyes wide with astonishment at your new appearance. Dimitrus grabbed your hair, pulling you closer to him. He then seized your chin and turned your face towards Octavius.

"Look at her! You didn't even notice that the medicus brought a girl with him, Octavius? In our camp? And you're supposed to be the general's right-hand man!"

You struggled to move, but he was too strong.

"Hey, I can’t see her face clearly!"

You closed your eyes tightly as someone threw wine in your face. Dimitrus roughly wiped your face with his big fingers.

“Gods, no ordinary beauty,” he said, looking at you like a hungry wolf. He leaned in closer, inhaling the scent of your hair, making you feel nauseous. You tried to look away, but your eyes met your uncle’s desperate gaze.

“That's enough, Dimitrus. Let her go. Is this what you all think while our General lies there, fighting for his life?”

You rushed to your uncle's side as his hands released your hair. "He's already dead; I've never seen anyone get up after being poisoned," he says, as if he were looking forward to his death.

Octavius unsheathed his sword with a sharp "schwing" sound. "How dare you! Say that again and I'll cut your tongue off!" he barked.

Dimitrus' followers drew their swords as well. Octavius looked at each of them with anger and disbelief. He had been betrayed. "You treacherous filthy rats! I'll kill you one by one!" He waved his long sword at them.

Dimitrus grabbed your uncle by the collar. "Start with this one then. Who knows what he gave the General instead of medicine?"

"Aye, he must be punished!" shouted one of them.

"Punish him, Octavius!"

They were all yelling at him by raising their swords, you were thinking a way out but there wasn’t any.

"If you won't, I shall," Dimitrus pointed the end of his sword at your uncle.

"No!" you shrieked, but your uncle stopped you, raising his hand.

Then, as Octavius raised his hand and was about to lunge at him to prevent him, Dimitrus plunged his sword through your uncle's stomach, the poor man groaning in pain and falling to his knees, and as you ran towards him, he drew back his sword, his blood splashing in your face with the force of the draw. Your body began to shake, and you felt paralyzed as you watched his lifeless body collapse to the ground.

"Dimitrus!" Octavius roared, ‘You've gone too far! What do you think our general will do to you when he awakens?’

You fell to your knees in shock, your body rigid and still, your face expressionless, yet tears streaming down your cheeks.

"General? You failed to save him; you let that medicus get into his tent; you must share his fate! I will let the emperors know that this is all your fault! And I think we must put the general out of his misery-"

Out of nowhere, an axe flew at Dimitrus, piercing his chest. His body shook as he reeled back, then collapsed to the ground, lying backwards and dying in a pool of blood. Everyone looked at him in astonishment and panic. Blood gushed from where his chest had been split open, and when he stopped breathing, he lay there as his eyes remained wide open.

They turned their heads to see who had thrown the axe and were shocked once again. The general could hardly stand near his tent, his eyes filled with rage and his gaze burning with fury. Octavius quickly ran to his side.

"General! Thank the Gods you're finally awake!"

"What's going on here, Octavius?" His voice was like a roar.

“Sir, Dimitrus and others have attempted to mutiny.”

Acacius shot a deathly glare at the other soldiers, who immediately kneeled with their swords turned upside down.

“No, sir, we did not.”

“Forgive me, sir, it was Dimitrus's doing.”

“Sir, please forgive me.”

You gently closed your uncle's eyelids with your fingers as they all pleaded for forgiveness. With your back turned to the General, you felt indifferent about your fate; you no longer cared whether you lived or died. It seemed to you that your whole life was already over.

"If any of you ever dare to do anything like this again," he said as he walked near Dimitrus’ body and pulled the axe from his chest roughly; you were startled by the crunching sound coming from his bones.

"I Marcus Justus Acacius, will make sure that he meets the same fate as this scum!"

He put them in their place, and they all nodded in fear. They stood up at his gesture while bowing their heads, unable to look him in the face.

“Now get ready; we must sail at dawn!”

“Yes, sir!”

They quickly sheathed their swords and hurriedly spread out.

Acacius staggered slightly as watched them move, his wound still painful, but he tried hard not to show it.

Octavius touched his arm. "Sir, the Gods have spared your life, but please rest a little longer."

"Who is this man?"

You were certain he was referring to your uncle, even though your back was turned to him.

"The medicus who cured you, sir. Dimitrus got mad and killed him because he thought he couldn't save you."

"As if we haven't lost enough healers tonight. He was clearly mistaken. This man managed to cure me, and I am standing here because of him." He turned to Octavius. "Make sure this man's body is returned to his family. Inform the governor about this; they should make all the necessary arrangements for the rituals."

Octavius nodded, "Yes, sir, I will."

They both turned their gaze toward you. "What about this one?"

Your body was frozen; you felt as if the time for your execution had come. You never expected your last moments to unfold like this.

"I think this is his aide or slave, sir. Dimitrus discovered she was a woman and that medicus was hiding her," one of them said, bowing his head in shame. You swallowed hard.

Acacius' pain returned, and he groaned. Octavius gently grabbed his waist. "Sir, please rest. You need to regain your strength."

"Sir!" Acacius' squire rushed over, placing his arm under Acacius' shoulder.

It was time for him to turn away from you.

"Since her master has died, take this girl to the other slaves. I don't want any more chaos or mishap," he said in a firm voice.

You wiped the tears from your eyes with the back of your hand as their footsteps faded away. Two soldiers grabbed your arms and lifted you off the ground while others carried your uncle's body. As you turned your head and glanced over your shoulder, you caught a glimpse of the General's curly gray hair and well-shaped nose before he disappeared into his tent.

Your body was filled with rage. What you heard only heightened your pain and deepened your hurt. A slave? How could he say that? The one who had healed him was now considered worthy of being a slave?

As the mid-morning sun began to reflect off the walls of Rome through the haze that filled the harbor, the city was preparing to experience one of the most significant days in its history. Everyone who noticed the navy ships approaching from afar—citizens, subjects, foreign diplomats, merchants, civil servants, and porters—gathered at the entrance of the city. They were waiting to welcome General Acacius and the victorious Roman soldiers. On the deck of the large ship at the forefront of the fleet, the General sighed deeply as he looked out over his city, thanking Mars for his triumphant and healthy return.

The journey from the port of Alexandria to Rome took ten days, and it was a challenging experience for you, traveling alongside captives known as slaves. Most of these individuals were Greeks and Egyptians, and the joyous shouts echoing through the streets of the Roman capital meant nothing to them. On board the ship, they were repeatedly told that the slave market in Rome was quite prestigious. They were assured that young girls would be well cared for by certain families, urged to stop their tears, and encouraged to pray to Jupiter so that wealthy families would notice them and buy them at high prices.

You were not like those slaves; you were not a prisoner of war, and your family was neither enslaved nor poor. Your uncle was a renowned and esteemed medicus, part of an affluent family. He and his wife found you on the banks of the River Nile when you were three years old—that is what they told you. The gods had not blessed them with a child, so they loved you as if you were their own. You knew he wasn't your biological father or uncle, but you were very happy with your life and didn't ask too many questions until he revealed the letter the night before everything changed.

As an orphan, you were raised by your uncle, who taught you about Egyptian medicine. You assisted him in countless surgeries, helping to bring many people back to life, including the general himself. Through this experience, you gained enough knowledge and skill to become an expert in the field. However, no one would refer to you as a medicus because you were a woman. Your talents were too remarkable to ignore, yet despite sharing your skills with those on the ship, no one believed you. Even if they did, there was little they could do to change the situation.

As you looked through the small cracks between the ship's planks, your gaze drifted over the seemingly endless sea. You couldn’t shake the thoughts of the dream you had the night before.

‘Cure him.’

Wouldn't it have been better if you hadn’t cured him? Perhaps your uncle would still be alive. Maybe you wouldn’t be sitting on this ship now, resigned to your fate, wondering and worrying about what will happen to you. Is this your reward for healing the great Roman general?

That man ruined your life, and you only did yourself a disservice by saving him. Perhaps the gods were testing you, but what was the lesson?

You observed the shadow of the general’s fingers beneath the cloth wrapped around your wrist. The color reminded you of violets bathed in moonlight from days ago. Now, it was an unmistakably bright hue, and the pain had lessened significantly.

As the ship rumbled into port, you realized that it was time to accept your fate. In the dark and damp bilge of the ship, you and a girl close to your age called Decima took turns using the same swing as a bed, you liked each other and in desperation you became confidants, friends. She was in her early twenties and had a lovely charm about her, while you, in your late twenties, had a stunning beauty that really stood out. Her father was a rebel, probably killed by the General's men, and she was taken as captive. You told her almost everything except the letter that you’re hiding in your bag.

As soon as you stepped into the harbor, the discrimination began. The general and his men moved in the opposite direction, while the slave trader standing in front of you ordered you to go elsewhere.

You frowned as you caught sight of his face in the distance, peeking over the shoulders of the crowd. He looked healthy; his body had managed to overcome the venom of the past few days, and his wound had healed. You remembered how you had spent hours with your uncle trying to cure him and how you had struggled to create the antidote while your arms and wrists ached with pain.

Suddenly, the General's face lit up with a warm smile as he waved to his citizens. To your surprise, all your anger momentarily vanished. You turned your head away; looking at him would only cause you pain. He wouldn't recognize you because he couldn't clearly see your face, not just yet. Besides, to him, you were just a slave—nothing more.

However, Octavius recognized you from a distance. He was the only one who had witnessed your hard work. He was an honorable man, he disliked seeing you among the slaves, but he felt powerless, as it was the General's order.

In the evening of that day, after the slaves were taken to the baths and then to the market for sale, you and Decima were brought by the slaver to a separate cell. From outside, the lively sounds of the market could be heard, where slaves were being sold one by one. There was a great deal of interest in these new slaves from Egypt.

The slaver appeared at the door of your cell with a man who looked to be older and wealthy. Decima immediately stood up, but you remained still. The slaver gestured with his hand, turning Decima around in the center of the cell to show off her arms, face, and feet, while squinting at you.

“Look at these strong and beautiful young girls, sir. I wouldn’t show you any poor slaves; they are both virgins and very beautiful. The great Venus has bestowed her beauty upon them. They would fetch a lot of money in the market, but I thought I would show them to you first, sire.” He was being very flattering, but the man's eyes were fixed on you.

“Doesn't she have any manners? Why isn't she standing up?” “You're right, sir, she must be a bit sick from traveling. She will,” he gestured to you with his hand. “Come on, get up, girl.”

You rolled your eyes and got up, he squeezed your arm hard to warn you first, then did everything what he had done to Decima, opening almost every part of your body for the other man to see. It was incredibly disgusting, you felt like an animal being sold at the cattle market.

"The other one is younger, but this one is beautiful, a rare find," he said, grabbing your arm and looking at you hungrily. "How much do you want for her?"

Your eyes meet with Decima in a silent exchange, as it was time to go your separate ways.

"Eight thousand sesterces, sire."

He pursed his lips in thought, his fingers touching your hair while you closed your eyes, praying for a miracle.

"Ten thousand sesterces!"

A familiar voice of a man echoed through stone walls. You all turned your heads to that direction."General Marcus Acacius offers ten thousand sesterces for this girl!" Octavius appeared, his imposing figure clad in armor that clanked with every step. He tossed a large coin pouch to the slaver, who caught it, a wide smile spreading across his face.

"Sold, of course," he said, counting the coins with a happy expression.

Octavius then firmly grabbed the other man's arm, which was still close to you, lifted it, and pushed it away. He frowned. "This girl now belongs to General Acacius, sir. You must not touch her," he warned firmly.

As the general entered the city in his chariot, the people shouted his name. He waved his hand to them, and the streets were filled with a great enthusiasm as everyone gathered to honour the general and his soldiers. The chariot carrying him soon passed under the triumphal arch of Septimius Severus and turned towards the Curia Julia, the Senate building, where the emperors must have been waiting for him. The general's smile faded. He was tired and not looking forward to seeing them, but he would not go to his villa before visiting the emperors.

As General strode purposefully up the marble stairs, Geta and Caracella leapt down from their golden imperial thrones in excitement. As soon as Geta saw him, he opened his arms wide.

‘How can I reward Rome's greatest general?'

'By letting him catch his breath first,' Caracella smiled widely.

Acacius stopped in front of them and nodded, 'My Emperors.'

'We have been eagerly awaiting for your arrival, general,' Geta clasped his hands together, looking at him with admiration.

'Speak for yourself, brother. My legs ache from sitting for so long,' Caracella said, then laughed loudly. 'But it was worth it, indeed!'

‘Indeed!’ They both laughed once more, but Caracella looking at his brother a bit strange way.

It was hard to tell if Caracalla wanted to embrace Geta or if wanted to take his life right then and there. The relationship between the two of them was quite distorted.

The general rolled his eyes, he was used to these two whiny emperors half of his age bickering at each other all the time, he sighed in frustration at having to put up with them when he could easily take both their lives with a single stroke of his sword. Unfortunately, this unpleasant situation had only just begun.

‘We heard that you were poisoned, how did it feel?’ Geta looked at him with wide eyes and smile.

The news must have reached the emperors before the general had even boarded the ship.

'Painful, your highness,' Acacius stated, a shadow passing over his brown eyes as he remembered the pain again.

'I'm sure it was, it must have been an interesting experience.’ Caracella crossed his arms; smiling just like his brother.

‘Cobra or viper?’

‘Aspis, highness, the viper type.’

‘Oh, I won!’ Geta jumped for joy and gestured to Caracella with his hand, imitating a snake.

Caracella ignored him looking at the General.

‘The rebels must have quite a sense of humour, poisoning a Roman General carrying Medusa on his chest with a snake, quite ironic,’ he touched Medusa on General's armor with his index finger.

Acacius frowned while looking at him, ‘They certainly do, they murdered all our medici mercilessly, fortunately the great Asclepius sent his help, my men brought another medicus from city was able to cure me, it is thanks to him that I can stand here in front of you, highness,’ Acacius remembered the memory when he was unsure whether it was a dream or not but he could not get out of his mind the fingers that touched his lips, the owner of those hazel eyes that came to his aid when his throat was dry from thirst. But it couldn't be medicus he thought, it had to be someone with thin fingers, someone with beautiful eyes he had never seen before. Maybe, since he was too close to death, it was a dream or a goddess has appeared to him, he couldn't be sure.

The first thing he remembers is opening his eyes and grabbing her wrist with his survival instinct. He thought it was a strange looking young man in a hood, maybe another rebel had come to kill him again, but then he heard her voice and thought his goddess had come to heal him. He was in so much pain and seeing hallucinations that he couldn't tell if it was a dream or not. But couldn’t get rid of those thoughts since days.

The emperors didn't seem to care much about the medicis the general was talking about, or how he had recovered, and Acacius seemed bored as they continued to joke with each other.

‘Mother,' Geta ran to her as he noticed the Empress approaching, extends his arm for her.

Julia Domna took his arm as she coming towards Acacius, whispering something into Geta’s ear, without taking her eyes off the General.

‘My lady,’ Acacius nodded to her.

Domna's smile was like Caracella's, you could never guess what she was thinking.

‘General, how good it is to see you return triumphant once more. Rome salutes you, and I embrace you,’ she approached him with open arms and put her hands Acacius’ board shoulders.

Caracella sat back on his throne, a bored look on his face.

‘My Lady, the honour is mine,’ the general said, bowing his head.

‘We shall sacrifice 1000 bulls to honor our triumphant mother!’ Geta clapped his hands excitedly, ‘Let's have a great feast tonight!’

‘Highness, let's give the General some time to rest, he must be tired from the battle,’ Domna removed her hands from the General's shoulders but kept her eyes on him.

Caracella let out a high, shrill laugh that echoed through the white marble columns. Geta sat on his throne and scowled.

‘Acacius, walk with me,’ the Empress turned round, gestured to him.

Acacius sighed, he didn't want to be alone with her, but he had to. Domna walked ahead of him, hands clasped behind her back, he followed her slowly.

‘My sons are glad to see you again, even if they have no idea how fortunate they are to have you serving them.’

'It is my duty to serve Rome.’

She paused and smiled, watching the water in the pool shimmer in the sunlight, the glow reflecting off her bright skin, her expression was difficult to read.

'I think you have a talent for survival.’

She sounded dissatisfied. 'After all, you trained under Maximus, you must have learned a lot from him.’

He looked away, 'I owe where I am today to the remarkable fighting skills he taught me, he was an honourable man, the greatest general Rome has ever seen,' Acacius' eyes were fixed on the great Temple of Venus between the eastern edge of the Forum Romanum and the Colosseum.

Domna looked at him with a feeling between admiration and concern.

‘He, like you, lived to serve Rome, even if he had to kill Commodus,’ she said, and even little children could catch the obvious implication in her voice.

Acacius held his ground, his eyes roaming the curves of the statue of Venus.

‘But unlike him, you are loyal to the emperors, I can be sure of that, can't I?

He turned his head towards her, but did not look at her. His eyes were now on the two spoilt emperors who were talking animatedly to each other between the columns. 'As long as Rome is prosperous for all her subjects, I will be loyal to them, my lady.'

Domna laughed loudly, 'Ah, that's why I want you in the Senate, how long will you refuse?

'I am only a soldier, politics is not my business, nor should it be. Consuls in the Senate -'

‘Those old foxes live in abundance and do nothing, the person who has done Rome the greatest service should be in the Senate.’ Domna glanced over her shoulder at her sons. 'I am concerned that Macrinus has no equal in the Senate and that Caracella dominates him, perhaps if you are in there, you will gain his trust.’

'Your Highness...' He looked at her shaking his head as no.

Domna looked at Acacius, this time with a serious expression on her face, 'For the sake of Rome you must be especially careful with Caracella, as her mother even I find it hard to get my way with him, he is not like Geta, he is a hard-headed child.’

Acacius looked at Caracella whose back was turned, of course he knew this very well, for a moment he thought that he was the real threat to Rome, not the enemy soldiers or the others.

‘Anyway, you should go to your villa and rest, you will have time to think about this alone,’ she said with a forced smile, then turned around to go to her sons.

After praying in the temple of Venus, Acacius walked out, and as he descended the steps of the temple, he felt a stinging pain where his wound had been, the poison had completely gone from his body, but it had left its trace behind.

Octavius was lost in thought as he has leaned against the side of the carriage waiting for him, quickly stood up when he noticed him.

‘Sir.’

‘I see you don't miss your home, as you're still here,' Acacius said as he descended the last step. He got into the carriage and climbed in to sit beside him. Acacius was quite tired so he lay down on the seat, the fact that he felt so comfortable with Octavius was because of their long friendship, he was his most trusted man, more than just a friend, like a brother.

'Are you going to tell me what's troubling you?’ Acacius covered his face with his arm, but he could feel the tension in him.

'Sir, the girl.’

'Oh, I see, a girl? Have you fallen in love with a girl?

'No, that's not it,' Octavius felt embarrassed as he remembered your face. 'That poor girl, It doesn't seem fair that she should be with those slaves, sir, you are an honourable man, but your order-'

Acacius lifted his arm from his face and looked at him, the cart swaying as it moved along the stony roads.

'The girl that medicus hid? Why do you care so much for her? Is there something I should know?’

'After all, they worked so hard together to cure you, perhaps you should have at least let her go home.’

‘Together? What do you mean?' Acacius sat up, his eyebrows furrowed.

Octavius bowed his head.

'Sir, I made a mistake, it was my fault for letting them into your tent, I don't know how I could have been so careless even after the assassination, forgive me...'

Acacius raised his hand.

'Slow down, we will talk about your mistake later, you are saying that girl entered my tent and cured me? How?’

'I didn't look closely at her face and I didn't know she was a woman maybe because of her outfit but I made a terrible mistake, I should’ve known, forgive me sir.’ He bowed his head once more but it made Acacius more angry.

'You haven't answered my question, Octavius,' his voice was loud.

'Yes sir, she did her best to cure you, sir, the girl and Medicus worked hard to produce antivenom all night.’

Acacius was surprised when he realized that he hadn't dreamed that night. He was glad to learn that the owner of those eyes was a real person. But then he thought that she might be on the slave market by now, about to be sold to someone else.

‘Stop the carriage!’ He yelled.

The coachman immediately did as he was told and pulled hard on the horses' harnesses, the horses howling and stamping their hooves on the ground.

'Sir?' Octavius raised his eyebrows in surprise.

'Go and find the girl, I want to see her at my villa tonight, do you understand? Acacius tossed him a pouch full of coins.

Octavius smiled, ‘Yes, sir.’

please comment, reblog and like if you enjoyed so far thank youu,

All Chapters List

#fanfiction #fanfic #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal fanfiction #gladiator 2 #gladiator ii #gladiator movie #general marcus acacius #marcus acacius #marcus acacias x reader #ao3 writer #ao3 link #ao3 fanfic #marcus acacius fanfiction #marcus acacius fic #marcus acacius fluff #marcus acacius x ofcreader #marcurelia

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yappingwitch · 4 months ago

Text

Say It Ain't So

pairing - Virgin!James Potter x fem!reader

summary - James busts a fat one. Porn with glimpses of plot. Maybe.

warnings - 18+ mdni, smut, awkwardness, James is a desperate virgin in this one, hence the weezer title, premature ejaculation, handjob (m receiving), one sided enemies to ???, slight m sub/f dom dynamics if you squint, legs

wordcount - 1.6k

disclaimer - english is my second language. Don't hesitate to correct me!

You hated James Potter.

Your dislike well-known among your friends, none of them dared to ever mention him anymore, fearing another long-winded rant from you. Remembering when the lot of you would stay up after curfew, sharing gossip and talking about your crushes. All of them gasped when you casually shared your feelings about the headboy after they spent what felt like hours gushing about him. Proceeding to list of every single thing wrong with the guy, making your friends regret ever bringing him up.

Did he have beautiful curly hair you just wanted to run your fingers through? Brilliant hazel eyes in which mischief was ever-present? Pretty plump lips, his slightly crooked, overly confident smirk always on them? Well, yes, you could admit that much. But as soon as he opened his mouth, you couldn’t care less about how pretty it was. He'd always disrupt the lessons, the golden boy having no filter or capability to raise his hand, always yelling the answers out or talking loudly with his posse during dinner, unable to control his volume and barely having to face any consquences for his obnoxious nature.

So when Slughorn, who aside from his quirky nature, you quite liked, decided to pair you both together for the last project of the year, you were fuming. At least internally. Your prideful nature and pureblood customs instilled in you by your parents forced you to keep a blank face, only briefly smiling at the teacher when he uttered your name after James', swallowing your rage.

Shortly after class ended, as you were packing your things after quickly finishing your notes, you suddenly heard one of the old wooden chairs in front of you creak. Looking up at the noise, you saw a certain Gryffindor already staring back, a stupid smirk on his face like always, the air of confidence around him ever-present.

“So…,” James started absent-mindedly going through your notes, but you quickly interrupted whatever he was about to say.

“I’ll take care of the project by myself. Can’t have you messing up my grades,” you simply stated, ripping your notes from his hands, frowning at the way he had smudged the last of your sentence. Ignoring your frown, he loudly exclaimed, “Hey! My grades are stellar.” He tapped his finger against his chest, where his perfect badge was. “They don’t give them away for nothing, you know?”

“I also don’t like you,” you said after a moment of silence, standing up and slinging your bag over your shoulder, quickly walking out.

But he wouldn't let up, following you all the way to the Great Hall, pestering you until you finally snapped right by the Slytherin table.

“Saturday, library, after lunch. No word from you until then,” you almost yelled, your face twisting in anger. Noticing the other Slytherins' snickers, you quickly composed yourself, swallowing your anger. He, oblivious as always, smiled widely, ignoring your state and simply basking in the glory of having won this little duel of words.

Saturday approached faster than you would’ve liked, dreading the obnoxious boy's presence already. But you approached the surprisingly empty library anyway, not one to go back on your word. You frowned slightly, looking around, realizing even the librarian must have taken the day off. Sighing, you called out to James; he was already there, notes and textbooks scattered about. He quickly jumped up from his chair, beaming like always, until his gaze drifted down, his usual aura of self-assurance dwindling a little.

“What are you wearing?” he asked, mouth hanging slightly agape.

You looked down; you were wearing a simple skirt and long-sleeved top, not too different from what you usually wore in your free time. Confused, you lifted your head again, his gaze quickly following, being previously trained on your bare legs. Realizing he had been caught, a blush appeared on his cheeks as he plopped unceremoniously down, coughing awkwardly and focusing on the books laying before him.

“Weirdo,” you stated, disinterest evident, just wanting this project to be over with. But what you saw once you reached the table he was sitting at piqued your interest suddenly. Looking down, a prominent bulge had formed in the front of his pants, straining against the material. A book was quickly tossed over it, but it was too late.

“You’re such a skeeze. Who gets hard from looking at a girl's legs?” you asked, amused, not really expecting an answer, just continuing to stare him down, enjoying watching the high-and-mighty golden boy begin to tremble under your intense gaze.

“..they are your legs,” he mumbled, blush only deepening as his eyes stayed glued to the table.

This made you laugh out loud, gasping for air.

“Are you a virgin or something? Bloody hell,” you huffed out between laughs, a single tear escaping your eye at the comical twist your day had taken.

James didn't reply, groaning in embarrassment and continuing to hold the book tightly over his lap.

“Cat got your tongue?” you said, still smirking but finally having calmed down. “I didn’t even know you were capable of zipping it.”

This seemed to push him over the edge; he picked up his bag and shoved everything in with lightning speed, until suddenly he froze, hearing your next sentence.

“I can help you out if you want,” you said, a mischievous smile adorning your pretty face, putting his own to shame.

All he got out was a quick “huh,” as you pounced, wordlessly pushing him back down onto the chair. He looked up through his glasses, his eyes wide, the cute blush still evident on his face. Fuck.

“You are so pretty,” you whispered aloud before pressing your mouth against his. Short and sweet. It was almost romantic, the way he gently started to move his mouth and the lovestruck look on his face once you pulled away.

He eagerly leaned forward again, knocking his nose against yours before trying again, this time slower, aiming properly while the book he had previously clenched in his lap dropped to the floor with a thud. He opted to instead take hold of your hips, almost moaning at the feeling of the warmth of your skin touching his, slightly poking out from the bottom of your shirt. You, in turn, moved your hand that gripped the curls at the back of his neck slowly down his chest, delicate fingers grasping at the painful bulge in his pants. This made James quickly pull away, a loud moan leaving his now reddened lips as he grasped your wrist, stopping your movement.

“I-” he gasped out. “I-I’m waiting for the right person.”

He regretted talking the second the words left his mouth, seeing you roll your eyes at him, laughing a little at the bizarre turn of events, moving to remove your hand nonetheless.

He quickly went to grasp at your wrist again, pulling it toward his crotch once more, his body moving on its own.

“You need to make up your mind, pretty boy,” you said softly, looking at him amused.

“You know…,” you started after he continued to be silent, he in turn looked up at you through his lashes, blushing, his glasses a little crooked and a dorky smile on his lips, hearing your voice again. “Maybe I’m not the right person… but… I could be your right hand,” you finished, slightly averting your eyes, cringing at your words.

He didn't notice, though, too lost in need for release; he eagerly nodded his head. You laughed a little, removing his grip on your arm and moving to open the Gryffindor's trousers, just enough for you to pull his now hard member out, precum already coating his tip, while pressing another sweet kiss to his lips. Disconnecting from him once more, you lifted your right hand, holding it up to James' face expectantly.

“Spit,” you commanded, and the boy obliged without a second thought.

One long, loud moan left his mouth as your hand slowly moved against his cock, brushing your thumb over the head, gently mixing the precum with his spit, spreading it all over his length. You moved to press kisses to his bobbing throat, his head thrown back in pleasure, as you started to move your hand up and down in a steady rhythm, sucking a small purple spot onto his neck, his gasps and groans only getting louder.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” James repeated over and over like a prayer, lost in pleasure. You lifted your head, stopping your assault on his neck, to look at his scrunched-up face, eyes tightly shut, mouth hanging open. You couldn't help but stare, the glaring noon sun shining in through the stained glass and making his skin almost appear to glow, colors of the rainbow dancing around his face, sweat bullets forming on his forehead like little diamonds. Fuck. He really was—

“Pretty,” you mumbled, pushing James over the edge-a string of curses leaving him as he came undone over your hand, specks of it staining your skirt all the way to your pretty legs, the reason all of this started in the first place.

He continued to gasp, trying to catch his breath and gasping out apologies for the mess. You silently tugged him back into his pants, amused at the wet spot adorning his own lower half.

You wiped your hand on his pants before zipping him up. Wordlessly, you pressed a kiss to his cheek, swiftly turning around, ready to go take a shower after the ordeal.

“Wait,” you paused in your steps, glancing back at James. “D-do… you… want… to,” he started, before pausing again, finally catching his breath. “Do you want to go to Hogsmeade… with me?”

You glanced ahead, continuing on your path without replying to the desperate boy, only flashing him a quick smirk.

Maybe you didn't hate him after all.

#marauders #james potter x reader #james potter x you #james potter #james potter smut #smut #fanfic #hp fanfcition #hp fandom #harry potter x reader

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callsigns-haze · 6 months ago

Note

I love your Tyler fics so much, I just love imagining dad/husband Tyler 😭😭 can I please request something where he always introduces her to people as “my wife”? Like they’re newlyweds and he just loves slipping in “wife” whenever he can 🥹

The Weight of a Word

Pairing: Tyler Owens x Reader

Chapter of all fluff

A/N: So I reached 500 followers today and got a few fics done...

The sky above them was a shifting tapestry of dark clouds, a fitting backdrop for the storm-chasing team that had just reunited. The air was thick with tension, the thrill of the chase palpable in every glance and gesture. But amidst the chaos, there was a lightness to Tyler Owens, a quiet joy that radiated from him like sunshine breaking through the storm clouds.

Tyler stood by the team’s van, his arm casually draped over Y/N’s shoulders, pulling her close. They had been together for years now, but something had changed in the past few months—something that Tyler couldn’t quite keep to himself, no matter how hard he tried. He was still basking in the glow of their recent wedding, the memory of saying “I do” still fresh and vivid in his mind. It was a feeling he cherished, a pride that he carried with him everywhere they went.

“Tyler!” one of the team members called, approaching with a wide grin. “You ready for this? We’ve got a big one heading our way.”

Tyler nodded, his eyes flicking from the sky to his teammate, but he couldn’t help himself. He had to share his happiness, had to let the world know how lucky he was. “Yeah, we’re ready,” he replied, a grin spreading across his face as he gave Y/N’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “By the way, have you met my wife?”

There it was again—that word. It rolled off his tongue so easily now, but every time he said it, he felt a surge of pride and love. Wife. The title still felt new, like a shiny badge he got to wear every day, and he couldn’t help but show it off. He turned to Y/N, his eyes sparkling with affection, and she smiled back at him, clearly amused by how much he enjoyed saying it.

The teammate chuckled, extending a hand to Y/N. “Nice to meet you! I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“All good things, I hope,” Y/N replied with a grin, shaking his hand.

Tyler watched the exchange, feeling a warmth spread through his chest. He loved seeing her here, a part of his world, blending into the life he led so effortlessly. And more than that, he loved the way she looked at him when he called her his wife, like she was just as thrilled by the title as he was.

As they continued to prepare for the storm, Tyler couldn’t resist sneaking in the word whenever he got the chance. Introducing her to anyone new, he would say it with that same proud grin—“This is my wife.” Even in casual conversation with the team, it slipped in naturally: “My wife thinks this storm is going to be a big one,” or “We’ve been talking about this since before we got married.”

It wasn’t just the word itself that mattered, though it did make him feel like he was part of something bigger, something more meaningful. It was the way Y/N’s eyes lit up every time he said it, the way she would squeeze his hand or lean into him just a little bit closer. It was the way she made him feel like he was doing something right, just by loving her, just by being proud to call her his.

As the storm began to close in, the team started moving with more urgency, checking their equipment and finalizing their plans. But even in the midst of the chaos, Tyler couldn’t stop himself from glancing over at Y/N every now and then, his heart swelling with affection. They had always been a team, but this was different. This was forever.

“Tyler,” Y/N said softly, drawing his attention as they stood together, watching the sky. “You know you don’t have to keep introducing me like that, right?”

He looked at her, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. “I know, but I can’t help it. I just… I love saying it. I love the way it feels.”

Y/N laughed, shaking her head slightly, but the warmth in her eyes told him she understood. “Well, I love hearing it. So I guess we’re both happy.”

Tyler leaned in, pressing a kiss to her forehead, and then pulled back to look at her. “I promise, I’ll never get tired of calling you my wife.”

“And I’ll never get tired of being your wife,” she replied, her voice soft and sincere.

As the wind picked up and the first raindrops began to fall, Tyler knew they had to focus on the task at hand. But even as they ran to their positions, as the storm loomed ever closer, he couldn’t shake the joy that filled him every time he said that word.

Wife.

It was more than just a title; it was a promise, a declaration of his love, a reminder of the life they had chosen to build together. And no matter how many storms they faced, no matter how wild the weather got, Tyler knew that this was the one thing that would always anchor him, the one thing that mattered most.

As they stood side by side, ready to face whatever the storm would bring, Tyler took Y/N’s hand in his, squeezing it gently. And with a smile that reached his eyes, he whispered one last time, just for the two of them:

“My wife.”

Requests for Tyler are open be free to send in as much as you wish!

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#tyler owens x reader #tyler owens x you #tyler owens fanfic #tyler owens #twisters fanfiction #tyler owens imagine #tyler owens x y/n #tyler owens smut #dad!tyler owens

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mayullla · 1 year ago

Text

Title: Creature's Infatuation

Character(s): Doppelganger (Unnamed character/original work) Summary: The servants didn't know that their abusive noble was switched for a monster that looked like him. You forced to marry him knew tho, that he created everything to have you in his arms. Tags/Warnings: Yandere!monster, fem!reader, yandere!monster x noble!reader, general yandere themes, manipulation, brainwashing, blackmail, forced feminization, noncon pet play, forced intimacy, imprisonment, tentacles, 1.2k words

Author's Note: This is an old one-shot of mine that I didn't post for a long time inspired the yandere viscount so it is similar to it.

You didn't know how dangerous monsters could be… that some could turn into humans and blend into the crowd and you would be none the wiser.

If you were wiser… if you knew what would happen to you… you would hesitate even just a little, even just a second to help anyone who you saw in need. Maybe then you would not be locked up in this horrible mansion after selling yourself to pay off your noble aristocratic family debt.

You were nothing but a slave to him, with his affection and sick love, he kept you by his side. Nobody could know what happened here when everything was covered by thick curtains and dimmed lights. The servants here were nothing more than puppets. Their minds, which this monster had eaten just a little bit, placed itself, done just to get ever so closer to you and keep you locked here. He manipulated their thoughts while letting them think that they were still human.

You glared at the mansion, you glared at him who had caused you this suffering. Yet for the sake of something precious, you would give up that aristocratic pride, swallowing it down as you begged him to spare your family from their downfall. You said that you would give him anything he wants.

And all he wanted was you.

He told you that he would give you everything when he only did the opposite. What he said was nothing more than food that was taken away from you the moment you rebelled over the fantasies he had in his head.

He made you wear many costumes, dresses, and outfits, each and every one an arrow to your pride as he held your waist from the back dreamily looking at the mirror of you and him, telling you his disgusting and vile thoughts he was imagining when he first saw those clothes, how he imagined them on you.

The dresses that you usually wore were taken away the first day you signed the contract that you would be forever his. "Boring and lackluster," he told you. He would dress you with finer fabrics and silks that would make him excited to see, unlike the “dull and humble” dresses that you wore. It was unbefitting for you, he told you the first day, but you did see them later locked in a chest. Why he kept them, you didn't even want to know, not after you realized how perverted he was.

Gems and pearls of all kinds of accessories were also sewn into your new clothes. You were sure they would make a duchess or even a princess green with envy. He had gotten you almost all the latest trends that he fancied, which was almost all except the ones where much was covered.

Maid clothes that were more flamboyant, more revealing with a shorter shirt too short to even be appropriate. He had a particular fondness for lacy details, the more delicate the better.

Sometimes he would make you wear dog ears or cat ears, making you wear a collar as he cooed condescendingly, stroking your hair as he ordered you to get down and put your chin on his knee or forced you to sit on his lap.

Sometimes having you wear costumed shoes with heels too high to walk on. Barely able to walk on them, he would carry you, dreaming of how this was how a prince would carry his pretty princess. You wanted nothing more than to rip them off your feet, but with thick buckles and locks, it was practically impossible to take them off unless you chopped your feet.

To him, you became his pet, maid, princess, and whatever else perverted thing he managed to think up. Everything that happened in the mansion would never go out. The maids and servants didn't seem to care much about you, nor did they ever realize that the noble they served and some adored was a monster.

That the person they once thought to be him was long gone, rotting in some ditch as the monster took on his role just to make a situation that fits.

All they cared about was that their master had changed for the better, so in love with his wife that he shopped for all the violent acts he had done in the past. Not understanding that this was all wrong. Not knowing that he had control over their minds, that in reality, they were nothing more than lifeless husks made to believe that they were alive and that whatever he was doing to you was nothing more than normal.

From how he would lock you in a room as punishment, or how he would force you to feed him on his lap with overly revealing attire unfit for a noblewoman as he continued to be so fond of you.

Some days he would ask you if you loved him, loved him as much as he does to the point of obsession. The hurt in his eyes as he held you tighter asking what you wanted that would make you happy, "Why don't you love me as much as I do?" He would ask, as you watched tentacles move around the desk writing papers that were related to work. Tentacles that were connected to his back.

He pulled you closer to him, arms holding your waist tight, already forced to sit on his lap against your chest to touch his, which forced you to look up at him, unable to look anywhere else. Even if you were able to, it would be a bad decision to do so when he got angry.

Just as much as he loved dressing you up, you also have watched him morph many times, into something or someone else to make whatever fantasy even more real. The doors locked so that no one could come in, the windows shut so that no one could see through, and the lights but only from the flickering candle. "Do you want me to look like your lover? Would you love me more if I looked like him?" He asked, pulling your thigh closer to him, as you watched him morph, becoming nothing more than black goop to the man who you once loved.

The soft smile on his lips and the brightness of his eyes made you think that he finally loved you. It fluttered your heart but also sent shivers down your spine, as you knew that this wasn't your crush.

He was desperate for your love, yet at the same time, he was sadistic, forcing you to love him. There were days when he threatened you to stay by his side, unless you wanted to go out of the room or mansion naked, or face something worse. Your only choice was to stay there or hold his arm like a love-sick wife who loved him just as much as he loved her.

You felt gross, so vile, by this monster parading as a human and also forcing you to love him. But he didn't care, as long as he could see that you loved him and were by his side, playing by whatever whims he had in the bedroom or office. You were the person he had fallen in love with when he sneaked into the town of humans. You were kinder than anyone he had met. He had fallen in love with you that day and would do anything to keep you with him. He would even kill and take over the body of a noble just to get closer to you.

So long as you belonged to him.

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lovebugism · 1 year ago

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omggg im craving a halloween themed , rockstar!eddie x shy!reader at a halloween party , matching costumes and everything & he sees a ton of guys hitting on her & is like ???? my baby?

here you go lovie! hope you like it! — eddie takes his girl to a bar on halloween and gets jealous when guys hit on you like you're not already his (shy!reader, rockstar!eddie, established relationship, 1k)

fictober (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

The world didn’t know you before today.

You’ve been just Eddie Spaghetti’s girlfriend for so long — but now you’re Eddie Munson, up-and-coming rockstar and lead of Corroded Coffin’s girlfriend. The title carries a certain weight with it. You wear it with pride, but it weighs you down just the same.

What’s weird about tonight, though, is you’re not sharing Eddie with the rest of the world like you thought you would. He’s having to share you, because everyone and their goddamn brother’s been all over you all night.

Apparently, your coquettish rendition of The Bride of Frankenstein is making everyone else as crazy as it’s making him.

“God, go save your girlfriend, Munson,” Gareth jokes across the booth, laughing into his drink as he watches yet another guy stop you at the bar. “At least one of these assholes is gonna steal her from you.”

“She’s not property, dude. She can’t get stolen,” Jeff scolds from beside him, then flashes Eddie a sheepish glance. “But, yeah, the odds aren’t in your favor, Eds.”

Eddie pays no mind to his friends’ teasing — or the anger swirling like fire in the pit of his stomach.

“Nah. She’s alright…” he mumbles into the rim of his glass. The whiskey burns his throat going down. It doesn’t match the flame rising in his chest at the sight of his precious girl talking to some douchebag dressed like Elvis Presley.

He wouldn’t say it if he didn’t think you weren’t a hundred percent fine. These bozos aren’t trying anything with you — hell, they can barely make conversation with you. You’re just entertaining it because you’re the sweetest thing on the earth.

It’s laughable more than anything.

He’s humored by it all. Not jealous. Definitely not jealous.

“Yeah, who’s the famous one here, again?” Jeff’s girlfriend jokes. She’d left to go to the bathroom with you but came back alone when you got stuck with dollar-store Elvis. She points to the rest of them with a long, manicured finger. “It’s you guys, right? Because I can’t really tell.”

“Fuck off…” Eddie grouses, forcing a grin while the rest of them laugh.

You return then, with a drink in hand and a frown on your face at the sight of your suddenly grumpy boyfriend. “You okay?” you wonder quietly, smoothing down your skirt when you slide into the booth.

The boy moves over to make room for you. “‘M fine,” he answers with a mumble that makes you assume otherwise.

You reach a hand to his face, smoothing fluffy curls behind his ear. His cheek is warm against your palm. His faded seafoam Frankenstein paint job smears on your wrist.

“‘M sorry for taking so long. Some guy stopped me on the way over. I didn’t wanna be rude.”

Eddie shakes his head. Not a single part of him blamed you.

“It’s okay, babe. Not your fault.”

He’s full-on beaming now. Just because you called that asshole “some guy.” It feels good to hear you say that, to know that that’s all he is to you — just some fuckin’ guy. You won’t remember him later, if you still do even now.

Honestly, you’ll be lucky to remember your own name at the end of tonight.

“He get that drink for you?” Eddie asks, nodding to the frosted glass in your fist.

You shrug. “Yeah. He bought it, but I watched the bartender make it, so it’s fine.”

He nods, proud and sparkling with it. “Good.”

“What is it?” Gareth wonders, squinting across the table.

“An Old-Fashioned.”

“You hate whiskey,” Eddie laughs, licking the alcohol from the plush of his bottom lip.

“Well, yeah, but he asked what I liked, and I didn’t know what to say, so I just told him your favorite drink,” you ramble, all mousy, as you drag the falling sleeve of your corset back up your shoulder.

Your cheeks heat with embarrassment, still a bit overwhelmed by the attention.

Eddie’s grinning something fierce beside you. His chest swells with so much pride he thinks he might burst.

“Aren’t you just the sweetest fuckin’ thing?” he singsongs with a rosy grin, wrapping the ripped sleeve of his arm around your shoulders to pull you closer.

Then he kisses you. Like, really kisses you.

It’s deep and intimate and sloppy. He opens your mouth with his and slithers his tongue inside. He tastes like bitter-sweet alcohol. You get drunk on him accordingly.

The rest of the table gags.

Your lips click audibly when Eddie pulls away. His smile glistens with a mixture of your saliva, lips a deeper shade of pink and slightly swollen. You wipe your chin with the back of your mouth — some of Eddie’s face paint comes with it.

“Where’s he now?” the boy asks with a mischievous squint in his deep chocolate eyes.

You shrug, totally uncaring and just wanting to be kissed. “I dunno.”

“Still at the bar,” Gareth answers for you, snickering to himself. “Giving your girl the sex eyes.”

Your face screws up in disgust. “Sex eyes?” you repeat, nose scrunched.

The group laughs.

“Think you can get him to buy you a round? You know, for the table?” Eddie asks you. His fingers trace shapes on your bare shoulder. You have to fight back a shiver.

“You want me to go talk to him?” you gape, like you must’ve heard him wrong.

“I want you to go get us drinks, sweet thing. Work your magic, you know?”

He’s not in the most right headspace right now. You know this. He’s still high on the post-show adrenaline and mellow on the alcohol. He’s jealous and in love with you and aflame with hatred for bootleg Elvis Presley. He gets rash when he’s raging, risky and unpredictable — a deadly concoction.

“Eds…” you hum quietly, brows scrunched like the idea pains you. “I don’t wanna make you mad…”

“You won’t make me mad, sweet thing,” Eddie assures, squeezing your shoulder. He presses a sanguine peck to your waiting mouth, then his voice gets all low. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll reward you after.”

He smacks one last kiss to your buzzing lips.

You blink at him until your senses return to you. You slide out from the booth and saunter back to Some Guy, who’s seemingly been waiting on your return this whole time.

There’s a sudden sway to your hips now, but it’s not for him.

It’s for Eddie.

The boy with the wild hair back at the booth, missing splotches of his face paint and wearing your lipstick knows this too.

#published by bug #eddie munson x reader #stranger things x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #stranger things #stranger things imagine #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfic #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfiction #st drabbles #eddie spaghetti drabble #event: fictober!

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innerfare · 5 months ago

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Law Relationship Headcanons

Summary: A collection of random Law relationship headcanons.

Genre: Fluff

CW: None // SFW

———

If he meets someone he likes, he’s just going to ask them to join his crew because he literally has no idea how else to get close to you. Will struggle to broach the topic of liking you, too. Might kiss you on a late night in a dark hallway aboard the Polar Tang, but won’t have much to say about it, despite his heart hammering in his chest. If your first kiss isn’t aboard the Polar Tang, it will be somewhere else that’s dark and closed off so he feels comfortable.

A lot of the things in your relationship will be unspoken, which can be annoying but he’s really not so good with words. When he does open his mouth, he keeps things short and sweet. Much more of a stolen kisses than whispered sweet nothings sort of guy.

Victim of near insta-love, fell hard for you the very first time he saw you doing the morning crossword in the newspaper. Quickly became obsessed with the way you smirk victoriously to yourself when you figure out one of the words, even more obsessed with the way you flick him when he answers one for you.

Started having nightmares not long after he met you, horrid dreams of you dying in gruesome ways, sometimes at the hands of the Donquixote family, other times at the hands of the World Government. Feels physically ill himself when you catch even a slight cold due to his past and the sheer number of people he knew who were taken from him. Tries to keep you out of danger to an almost comical degree, forcing you to sit down and have a conversation about it.

Will happily answer to both Captain and Doctor and daddy.

If you have long hair, he keeps a hair tie or two on his wrist for you. Claims it’s just because you’re so annoying when you lose all of yours and complain incessantly about it.

Lays in bed when you get out of the shower and watches you brush your hair. Actually got mad at you the first time he saw you brush your hair in a common space (before you two were an item) because it had such a strong effect on him and he didn’t know what to do; accused you of getting hair all over the place or something equally ridiculous; when you tell him Bepo sheds more than you, he starts grumbling under his breath and leaves the room.

Writes you small notes on scraps of paper and folds them into origami- swans, rabbits, flowers, butterflies, you name it; he keeps a mental chart of your reaction to each shape and ranks them accordingly, saving the best ones for hard days. The notes aren’t anything particularly heartfelt or special, just small mundane things such as, “y/n-ah, don’t forget to take it easy today. You’re still injured,” or a book title and page number because he read something he thought you might find interesting. You’ve taken to using the origami notes as bookmarks, which makes his heart swell with pride and something else he knows deep down is love but is hesitant to name.

He also made you a bouquet of origami flowers for you to keep on your nightstand since you complained there’s not enough light under the sea for you to keep a plant alive. Sometimes, he’ll make some new flowers to freshen up the bouquet (you have a box in your desk drawer where you stash the old ones).

When you two are cooking, he gets a bit annoyed when you munch on some of the ingredients. He’s a ‘measure everything to 1/20 of a teaspoon and not a single pinch more or less’ sort of guy. He’s also a ‘no fries in the car before we get home and eat our burgers’ sort of guy.

If he buys you gifts, it’s typically practical things, such as a new notebook because you said you needed one, or a better jacket so you don’t steal his on winter islands (you still steal his, it drives him insane because he can't stop blushing when you wear his clothes and he's trying to look intimidating). Also buys you books he thinks you’ll like, sometimes gets it wrong but you don’t tell him because it took him so long to open up and get comfortable and put himself out there and you don’t want to be discouraging for fear he’ll retreat back into his shell. Has also bought you a few dainty pieces of jewelry, expensive but not flashy.

Is a hand holder, but he doesn’t do it in public. If you pass each other in the hallway, his fingers will always tangle with yours for just a quick second. When the two of you are alone, though, he wants your hand in his constantly. He’ll hold your hand while you’re both reading your books, hold your hand while falling asleep, etc. Sometimes, at meal times, he’ll hold your hand under the table, but that’s only on extra clingy days. (Clingy days are the good days for Law, his bad days being the ones when he retreats into his shell and falls asleep on the sofa in his office without eating.)

Gives hand kisses. Will kiss each of your knuckles, will catch your hand when you pass him in the hallway and press a kiss into your palm, will climb into bed on a late night and place a few goodnight kisses on the back of your hand, will place his lips on your hand every time he gets it in his. Likes kissing up your wrist and arm before pulling you closer and kissing your neck. His kisses are always warm, btw, and not very messy.

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

#one piece #trafalgar law #trafalgar law headcanons #law headcanons #law one piece #heart pirates #one piece x reader #trafalgar d water law #trafalgar d law x reader

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elikajinnie · 14 days ago

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HI!!! can you do the enhypen prompt 16 and 17 with jay?? thank yoouu

P: Boyfriend!Jay X Fem Reader

Warnings: Suggestive Content, Whipped!Jay, we love a man who begs

note: i had time.. so yeah :) This for all my ladies who wear lacey underwear underneath the baggy clothes ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧

16. "Do you want me to beg? Because I will." 17. "One more taste, and I swear I’ll lose control."

Jay absolutely loved seeing you, no matter the occasion or what you decided to wear. It didn’t matter if it was a casual hoodie and jeans, a simple summer dress, or the formal gown you once claimed didn’t suit you—it all reminded him of how breathtakingly beautiful you were. And to Jay, there was no arguing against that fact.

He could never understand why you sometimes doubted yourself, saying things like, “I don’t feel pretty today” or “This outfit doesn’t look good on me.” To him, those words simply didn’t make sense. He saw you through a lens tinted with love and admiration, one that made every aspect of you seem flawless. Your beauty wasn’t just about how you looked; it was in the way you carried yourself, the way you laughed, the way you treated others with kindness even when you didn’t have to.

In Jay’s mind, no other woman in the world could ever compare to you. Sure, there were plenty of beautiful women out there, but they weren’t you. You were the one who made him smile just by walking into a room. You were the one who knew him better than he knew himself sometimes, who made him feel safe, valued, and loved. You were the one he’d chosen, and to him, that made you irreplaceable.

There was also a quiet possessiveness about the way he adored you. Not in a controlling or overbearing way, but in the way he took pride in calling you his girlfriend. When he introduced you to his friends or casually mentioned you in conversation, there was always a flicker of pride in his voice. Jay loved showing you off, not because he wanted others to envy him (though, secretly, he didn’t mind if they did), but because he couldn’t help being proud of the fact that you were his.

And in his heart, Jay already knew he wanted you to be more than his girlfriend one day. He often imagined the moment he would ask you to marry him, rehearsing it in his mind and wondering how you might react. He didn’t want to rush you—he’d wait for as long as it took for you to be ready to take that step. But until then, he was more than happy to call you his girlfriend. To him, the title meant everything because it meant you were his, and he was yours.

Every day spent with you was a reminder of how lucky he was, and Jay never wanted you to forget how much he cherished you. In his eyes, you weren’t just beautiful; you were the kind of special that made him believe in soulmates.

He wanted you to be his forever. The thought of waking up next to you every morning, seeing you smile at him as the sunlight filtered through the curtains, was a dream he was determined to make a reality. Jay had no secrets when it came to you. He was like an open book, willingly laying himself bare in front of you, no matter how vulnerable it made him feel.

He trusted you with every corner of his soul, even the parts of himself he once thought were too messy or complicated to share with anyone. With you, there was no hesitation. If something was weighing on his mind, he told you. If he had a silly thought or a random idea, you were the first to hear it. If he made a mistake, he admitted it without shame, knowing you would never judge him harshly.

This honesty, though, also meant that his feelings for you spilled out in the most unfiltered ways. He would often find himself confessing just how much he loved you, even in the smallest, most casual moments. You could be doing something as mundane as scrolling through your phone, and Jay would blurt out, “I love you.” He couldn’t help himself really. His emotions for you were always bubbling just beneath the surface, waiting for the slightest excuse to overflow.

But there was more to his honesty than just his love—there was his desire, too. Jay wasn’t shy about how much he was drawn to you, how you had this effortless ability to captivate him in ways no one else ever could. It was in the way his eyes lingered on you a little too long when you weren’t looking, or the way he would lean in just a little closer than necessary when you spoke.

Sometimes, his words would betray just how deeply he craved you. It wasn’t always something he could control, especially when the thought of you consumed him in the best of ways. You could feel it in the way his hands would gently brush against yours, as if he was trying to be close to you without seeming too eager, but you both knew better.

“I can’t get you out of my head,” he’d admit sometimes. It wasn’t an exaggeration. He often found himself lost in thoughts of you, even when he should have been focused on other things. He would catch himself daydreaming, imagining the soft curve of your smile or the way you looked when you were nestled against him, your head resting on his chest.

Jay was always ready to voice what was on his mind, he wasn’t one to hide his thoughts, especially when it came to you. He didn’t even try to filter his reactions, which made everything he said feel honest.

You had just finished drying your hair after stepping out of the shower, the warmth of the dryer against your skin leaving a pleasant feeling while the bathroom smelled of the shampoo you liked. You stood in your simple, comfortable clothes, the fabric of your loose clothes falling over your skin, paired with a pair of lace underwear that you had bought on your birthday months ago.

It had been tucked away in the back of your closet, forgotten until now. You had never gotten the chance to wear it before, so when you found it still in its bag, the tag untouched, you decided today was the day. You had ripped the tag off without hesitation, and slipped it on, and now you found yourself rediscovering exactly why you had bought it. The way it felt against your skin, the way it hugged your curves, and the way it made you feel undeniably feminine—it was all so perfect.

You stood there for a moment, lost in your own thoughts, admiring the way it made you feel. But you were quickly pulled from your thoughts by the sudden knock on the bathroom door. “Are you finished in there?” Jay’s voice called out.

You quickly turned off the blow dryer and put it away, brushing a few stray strands of hair out of your face as you made your way to the door. You opened it to find Jay standing there with a laundry basket in his arms, his usual smile gracing his face. But when his eyes met yours, they flickered down for a brief second and up. Then, in a split second, they darted downwards again, clearly noticing the lace peeking out from under your clothes.

For a split second, he didn’t react—his eyes widened, and you could see him processing the sight in front of him, almost as if his brain couldn’t quite catch up with his eyes. His gaze lingered for a moment too long, and it was impossible not to notice the way his expression shifted slowly. His lips parted slightly, his breath catching as his eyes darted back up to yours, now a little more intense.

“Is that... lace?” he asked, his voice low, almost a whisper, like the question wasn’t one of curiosity, but more of surprise.

You could see his mind working, his thoughts clearly running wild as he took in the sight of you standing there. He swallowed hard, and for a moment, you both just stood there.

It wasn’t often that you saw Jay lose a bit of his usual composure, but now, his hands tightened around the laundry basket, his knuckles white as he tried to remain cool.

“You know,” he finally spoke again, his voice slightly more strained than before, “I was going to help with laundry, but I think I need a moment.” He was trying to regain some composure, but the way his eyes never left you made it clear that the sight of you had ignited something he couldn’t easily ignore.

Jay placed the laundry basket down slowly, the sound of it hitting the floor almost too loud in the silence that hung between you both. His eyes never left you, and his body seemed to move on its own, drawn to you like a magnet.

Without a word, his hands found their way to your waist, pulling you closer until his body was pressed against yours. The sudden closeness made your breath hitch, as his hands trailed around your waist, fingers grazing the fabric of the lace, the sensation sending a wave of warmth across your skin.

“God…” Jay groaned, the sound low and strained as his fingers gently ran along the edge of the lace, tracing the delicate pattern against your skin. His touch was tender and slow, as if he wanted to savor every second of feeling the lace beneath his fingertips.

You could see the struggle in his eyes, the way he fought to hold back, but there was no mistaking the desire that pulsed in him. “You’re killing me right now,” he murmured, his voice thick with longing. The words came out almost like a confession, so unfiltered, as if he couldn’t hide what he was feeling any longer. His breath was warm against your ear as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against the side of your neck, the feeling sending a shiver down your spine.

His hands moved down, caressing the lace at your hips before pulling you even closer. The way his body responded to the touch, the way his groan escaped him, it all showed just how much he wanted you. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, his voice barely above a breath.

Unable to resist, Jay leaned down, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was gentle at first, testing, exploring. But it didn’t stay gentle for long. The kiss deepened as he lost a bit of his composure, his hands gripping you more firmly, pulling you closer to him. The heat between you both surged, and you kissed him back just as eagerly, matching his intensity.

Jay guided you across the bedroom, your bodies moving together in sync. He broke the kiss for just a moment, his breath ragged as he led you toward the full-length mirror at the foot of the bed. As he spun you around, the sudden shift in perspective made your heart flutter. Now, you were facing the mirror, your reflection staring back at you, and Jay stood behind you, holding you close, his chest pressed against your back.

For a moment, you both just stood there, breathing in sync, before Jay’s lips found your shoulder, kissing it softly while his hands slid to your waist, holding you tight as he whispered sweet compliments in your ear. “You’re perfect,” he murmured, his lips brushing your skin as he continued to kiss along your neck. “So incredible... everything about you…”

You tried to glance away from the mirror, feeling suddenly self-conscious, but Jay wasn’t having it. His fingers gently but firmly grabbed your jaw, guiding your face back so that your eyes met your reflection once more. You could feel the intensity of his gaze as he held you there, making you face yourself again.

“Look at yourself,” he whispered, “don’t look away.” His words were like a command that made it impossible to do anything but meet your own gaze. His hand remained firm on your jaw, gently guiding you while his other arm stayed wrapped around your waist, holding you securely against him. “You see what I see?” he muttered, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, his breath warm. “Do you see how beautiful you are?”

Your reflection stared back at you, and though you felt shy under his attention, there was something about the way he held you that made you feel secure. The way his hands moved—one tracing lazy, gentle patterns at your waist while the other stayed steady at your jaw—was grounding.

He dipped his head again, pressing his lips to your neck, just below your ear, lingering there as though savoring the moment. The sensation sent a shiver down your spine, and his grip on you tightened slightly. “Every part of you,” he whispered, his voice filled with affection, “is perfect.”

You swallowed hard, your breath hitching as you tried to process his words, his touch, and the way his gaze flicked up to meet yours in the mirror.

Jay’s breathing grew heavier, his chest rising and falling against your back as his lips trailed along your neck. The delicate lace seemed to have an almost visceral effect on him, his hands roaming your waist and hips. His fingers brushed against the lace, as if he couldn’t stop himself from feeling it again, marveling at the way it clung to your skin.

“This…” he murmured, his voice rough, nearly a growl, as his hand traced the hemline of the fabric. “You have no idea what this is doing to me.” He paused to take a deep, shuddering breath, his lips brushing against your ear. “You look so—God, I can’t even think straight.”

You couldn’t help but let a soft laugh escape you, the sound teasing in its lightness. “You really like lace that much?” you asked playfully, though you knew full well by the way he was reacting.

Jay groaned, his hand tightening slightly at your waist as he pressed a kiss to the curve of your shoulder. “Like is an understatement,” he said, his tone low and almost desperate. His lips hovered near your ear again, his voice barely above a whisper but filled with so much intensity that it made your heart skip a beat. “You have to wear more of it. All the time. For me.”

His bluntness made you smile, and you couldn’t resist teasing him further. “Oh? Are you saying I should go shopping for more lace?” you asked, turning your head slightly to glance at him, your tone light and filled with playful mischief.

Jay groaned again, his head dropping against your shoulder for a moment as if your teasing was physically affecting him. “Don’t play with me,” he muttered, his voice strained. “Do you want me to beg?” His voice was shaky now, his desperation seeping into every word. He pressed another kiss to your neck before continuing, his voice barely above a growl. “Because I will. I’ll beg if that’s what it takes. Just—please, wear more of this, want more of it.”

You couldn’t help the way your smile widened at his reaction, the teasing in your expression making his jaw tighten. “Jay,” you said, feigning an innocent tone, “you’re really going to beg for me to wear more lace?”

His breath hitched, and his hands moved to grip your hips more firmly. “Don’t tempt me,” he warned, though there was no real bite to his words. His forehead pressed against the back of your head for a moment before he groaned once more, almost as if he was fighting to keep control.

“I’ll do it,” he muttered, his voice low but filled with conviction. “If it means I get to see you like this every day, I’ll fill your closet with lace. Every color, every design—you’ll have so much, you’ll never wear anything else.”

You turned slightly, your smile softening as you reached up to touch his cheek, your fingers brushing against his skin. His eyes met yours in the mirror, filled with so much love that it almost overwhelmed you.

“I don’t think you’re ready for that much lace,” you said, but your tone was softer now, playful without being dismissive.

“Try me,” he challenged you, “I’ll prove it. I’ll make it happen. Just say the word.”

Jay would do anything to show you just how much he adored you, and if it meant filling your wardrobe with lace to see you smile—and to indulge his newfound obsession—he would gladly do it, no hesitation.

.....

And he did do it. After that day, it was as though a switch had flipped in Jay. He started bringing home lace in every imaginable color and design—soft pastels, bold blacks, rich jewel tones, delicate florals. Every type he could find was soon tucked away in your closet. It was thoughtful, sweet even, a little peek into how deeply he cared about you. But his reaction every time you wore it? That was something else entirely.

You weren’t used to seeing him like this, so utterly undone, so out of touch with his usual composed demeanor. But you couldn’t deny how much you loved it. You loved the way he folded for you, how a single glimpse of white lace beneath your clothes could derail him completely. Oh, you had him hooked. So much so that every time you wore it, his eyes would darken, his breaths would hitch, and whatever train of thought he had? Gone, like it had never existed.

Lace was his weakness, yes. But lace on you? He was gone—reduced to a pleading man, desperate for just one look, just one touch. And when you finally gave him permission, the transformation was instant. His hands would tremble slightly as they reached for you, his lips brushing reverently over the fabric like it was sacred.

“One more taste,” he’d whisper, his voice rough with need, “and I swear I’ll lose control.”

But the truth? He’d already lost control. The moment his fingers skimmed the lace against your skin, he was a goner. You saw it in the way he looked at you, like nothing else in the world mattered but you in that moment. His touches grew hungrier, his kisses turned sloppy and uncoordinated. And the marks? Oh, you had plenty. They were proof of just how completely he surrendered himself to you, his passion for you spilling over in ways he could hardly contain. Jay never held back when it came to you, and the lace only seemed to amplify that desire.

It wasn’t just about how beautiful you looked in it, though that played a part. No, it was the way you made it look—how effortlessly you wore it, how it became a part of your natural allure. He was mesmerized by you, completely at your mercy, and he didn’t care one bit.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he’d groan, his voice shaky as he traced the edges of the fabric with his fingertips. And maybe you didn’t. Maybe you didn’t realize just how thoroughly you owned him. But every time he dropped to his knees for you, every time he lost himself completely in the feel of you, the sight of you, the essence of you—you were reminded of just how deep his devotion ran.

Jay was yours in every way, and he wasn’t ashamed to show it. Especially when you wore lace.

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twisted-wonderland-but-gayer · 7 months ago

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Being His Sibling– Jamil ft. Namja Viper

This is based off the headcanon/au that Jamil may have been taught to kill in order to protect Kalim.

Content Stuff: Gn Yuu. Platonic. Older Sib Yuu. Angst with a happy ending (for now). Edgyness that comes with assassins, 6k words

You were the eldest child of the Viper family, renowned by many as the elite servants of the Al-Asim family. It was a title to be held with pride is what you have been told your entire life. This is where you were meant to be. You will be happy serving your master and he will take care of you so there's no need to look outside of your cage.

A mop was thrusted into your chubby hands when you first started walking. Your fine motor skills were honed on cooking. Your boredom alleviated with chores.

This was the honor of a Viper. Serving one of the most powerful families in the world with their head bowed. Vipers were not just servants— they were butlers, housekeepers, advisers. It was the highest rank a servant can have. Commanding other maids, being directly in charge of orders and standing right alongside the Asims themselves.

Viper was a powerful name in its own right. Yet it was as strong as it was confining. The name was akin to wearing weights in a deep pool, and though you had more privilege than the other maids, a taller birdcage was still a birdcage.

You learned to cook, learned to clean, learn how to act, learned how to fight. That was your way of life.

You cooked. You cleaned. You acted. You trained. You cooked. You cleaned. You acted. You trained. You cooked. You cleaned. You acted. You trained. And you never yearned for anything outside of the bars in front of you.

You knew your place.

***

One day, a new addition to the family was announced: Jamil Viper. Your little brother.

Deep in your heart you knew he would be an amazing servant in the future.

As you looked into the newborn's eyes you also knew he would be your best friend. You remembered the feeling of him in your little arms. The pudge of his face, the softness of the skin, the comfortable weight.

You faintly remember asking why Jamil was so pale before you felt a little hand grip around your finger. Soft and firm. You looked down at the newborn. You swore there was a smile on his face.

All of your family duties were put on hold to care for the newborn and you were at his side for every moment of it. Mother would often remark on how she would find you asleep by his cradle, having passed out from standing and staring at him all the time.

Kalim was born not long after. You remember being told that you were to help look over him as well. From the moment he took his first breath your fates were decided. You and Jamil will bow to the young heir and obey him, for he is your master.

The eldest bore many responsibilities. You cooked. You cleaned. You served. You watched over Kalim and Jamil. You cooked. You cleaned. You learned. You watched as they'd play tag. You cooked. You cleaned. You studied all the skills you could so you could be useful. You'd listen to their laughter.

It made sense mom and dad weren't as hard on Jamil since you do your tasks flawlessly. They didn't need as many hands with your capabilities. So you cooked. You cleaned. You—

“Hey! Hey Yuu!” You perked up from your thoughts as you turned to the boy that clung to your clothes and bounced on his feet. “Do you know what this is?” Jamil held up a box of some sort and you took a step back to look at it.

As your eyes scanned the box you could see Kalim and Jamil look up at you expectantly. “Shatranj– it's just like chess, there's just a few optional rules to it.” You look at all of the pieces inside. The dusty pawns and chipped elephants look to you with the hope of salvation. It's clear they haven't been used in a while.

“Can you teach us? Please please please please!” Kalim tugged at your sleeve and you chuckle. It was your break time anyways. You suppose your personal studies can wait this time, besides it's not like you to ever reject an order from your master.

You guide Jamil's hand over the board, showing him the pawn’s available movements. You sat between the boys and refereed, letting them experiment with the pieces and pointing out a few strategies. The game came to a close and the children clearly wanted something else to do.

“... I hear one of the perfume parlors in the marketplace is having a live performance today.” Both of them light up and Kalim is pulling on your sleeve again jumping off the wall in excitement. “Can you take us? Please please please Yuu?”

“Yeah yeah! Come on Yuu!” Jamil was pulling on your shirt too, looking up at you with puppy dog eyes and a bright, pleading smile. He always adored music of all kinds, it would be a crime to rob him of it.

“Okay, okay! Fine. But you both stick beside me, got it?”

“Deal!”

As you walked out the playroom Jamil slid something into your hand. You hummed as he closed your hand around it and you lifted it to your face. Opening your hand you saw the small elephant piece, cracked and chipped. “It's broken so maybe you could fix it?” You examined it, then put it into your pocket.

“Maybe.”

You had fond memories of teaching them what you knew. Safe back alleys as shortcuts. The best vendors along the markets. You had Jamil at your side as you haggle the price of an old stereo for his room. How to disguise yourselves. The two would giggle as you wrapped them up and used a spell to make them look like two different kids entirely. You played tag, hide and seek, and so much more.

You balanced helping Kalim and Jamil among your work as the duo became good friends. And they helped to balance your own schedule, giving you a break from your usual clockwork life. It was fun while it lasted but you all had to grow up eventually.

Jamil got older alongside you and he fell into the same routine as you did. He cooked. He cleaned. He served. But unlike you, his ambitions grew.

He wanted to be recognized. To be something great. You showed him worlds beyond the life of servants. You showed him the salesmen, the merchants, the travelers that would tell their tales of a life beyond the sands.

And like you, he worked hard. He put his all into everything. His talent shined through over and over again. Eventually, however, it became too bright.

That time he beat Kalim in a race as a kid was when his reality became clear to him. A minor victory had him scolded and his eyes were opened. He was to be an accessory to his master. To hide his true self. That should be his true ambition.

There was a pang of empathy as Jamil's face fell. Another part of you however, didn't fully understand his sadness. This was expected of you both. Why was he so surprised? This was an honor. You were told it's an honor. Why didn't he see it that way?

He was trained like you. Poison testing. Bodyguarding. You were expected to put your life on the line. He hated all of these tasks and he hated how you didn't seem to care. The first seed of his anger was sewn.

***

A new baby girl was born to the Viper family. Najma Viper. You held the newborn in your arms and dipped her low so Jamil could see. Like with Jamil, you all had time off to celebrate your new addition. Just like before you'd watch over the girl from the cradle as she slept. This time however, Jamil was at your side.

A comfortable silence danced between in the air occasionally interrupted by an occasional coo or sigh from the little one swaddled in her softest garments.

Jamil broke the silence. “She kinda looks like an alien.”

You snickered a bit at the comment. “Funny. That's what you looked like too, you just had a bigger head.” You snicker even more as Jamil glared at you with a pout.

“Haah? No I didn't!” Jamil huffs at your amusement. “Stop laughing at me!”

“If it makes you feel better, Kalim was a very fat baby. You'd be able to roll him down a hill easily.” At that Jamil pauses to imagine it, and lets out a small laugh of his own.

“He was always hungry too. He'd suck on everything looking for milk. I'd often have to pry him off my clothes and fingers.” You patted Jamil's head and a soft smile formed on his lips as he stared more at Najma.

A small frown then overtakes his features as he thinks. “What's wrong?” Your brother looks up at you with a troubled expression. “She's gonna be like us too…”

You paused for a moment, trying to discern his thoughts. “What do you mean?”

“She's gonna be a servant too.” Jamil sounded dejected, quiet. Why?

“Well, yeah— It's what we're supposed to be.” Your face contorts into confusion. What was the issue?

“But I don't wanna be a servant!” he huffed, resting his head against the crib. “I wanna be a dancer… or an alchemist! Or a really strong mage! I wanna see the world!” The boy then looked up to you, a spark of hope in his eyes. “Don't you?”

“I never thought about it.” Jamil's face falls further at the admission. It was true. Why would you think about it if you were told that this was all there was? “I've never even played with anyone before you and Kalim were born.”

You turned to Jamil. You understood why Jamil was upset logically, but you also didn't why he didn't just accept it. You already did at a much younger age than him. Why can't he?

Jamil scowled before resigning with a sigh. “But Najma isn't gonna get to choose either… doesn't that bother you…?” Your brows are knit together as you think. Another silence follows. Jamil keeps his gaze on you.

“What would you like to be when you grow up? Like if you could choose anything?”

Silence. “I don't know.”

Jamil groans. “Just pick something!”

“I just never saw the point of thinking about it,” You shrug and scratch at your eye. “I'm still a servant at the end of the day. Maybe I can become a butler when I'm older?”

Jamil just looks even more frustrated. “Never mind.” The boy starts to storm off with a pout before you speak again.

“I like cooking and baking. Maybe something with that?” You test the idea in your head. “Or maybe somewhere where I can be with you and Najma?” Your voice is a quiet murmur as the idea of a life outside of this mansion is a new thought to you.

“A baker?” Jamil tilts his head at the idea, surprised at the fact you actually answered. You shrug a bit, “I don't really know. You're the first person that ever asked me that.”

Jamil frowned as leaned on you and you wrapped an arm around him in a side hug. “I'd think you'd be good at it. Your cakes are always the best.” You smile at the praise. Memories of the young boy with frosting all over his cheeks and hands as he shoved as much cake into his mouth he could play in your mind.

You watched over Najma again. Will she feel the same?

Life went on. You cooked. You cleaned. You poison tested. You studied. You entertained Kalim. You checked the treasury. You were praised for being such a good kid. You looked after Najma despite how busy you were.

You also made sure to support Jamil in all the ways you could, taking hours out of your day to do so. He wanted to be a scholar? You used your break to teach him what you knew. He wanted to be a great mage? You would show him some spells to practice. He wanted to be a dancer? Let's go watch a few performances

Najma was no exception either. You got her books. Taught her the ways of an artisan should she want to be one. You played with her. You put on magic shows.

You made sure to spoil them both rotten. On grocery runs you snagged records from magic shops and jewelry to surprise them on the way back. Extra pastries from the bakery were handed off for Najma to gum on and Jamil to savor. You listened to them and their frustrations. You'd hug them and wipe away tears. You'd take them to the best place to watch the stars.

As they stared in wonder at the night sky you would remind them that they would shine just as bright. They would be more than just servants. They would talk about their dreams and you swore you would make them come true.

You would give up your dreams if it means they could pursue theirs.

***

“I found another chess set.” Jamil shook the box at you and you looked over at it. “It's not as old. Want to play?”

“You don't want to study?” You tilt your head at him, looking at the notes in your book of the spell you wanted to teach him.

“Not today… I want to play with you.” You were weak to his eyes and couldn't help but concede.

You both now sat at the table, setting up the pieces one by one. As you did so, you removed one of the knights, replacing it with the old elephant piece you pocketed. It was still cracked, you never had the time to fix it.

“Oh? You still have that?”

You nod. “Yeah, I like the elephants more.”

Jamil smiled. “I think it suits you.” He admired your side of the board and the broken elephant before leaning back and crossing his arms confidently. He then gestures to you. “White goes first.”

***

Today, Jamil went out to play with Kalim again. You watched the two from the higher floors of the mansion where you swept. The duo sneaked off into the market, using all of the shortcuts you taught them. A smile graces your features and you look down, sweeping again. You glanced up again to watch them

…

The broom in your hands clattered to the ground as you dashed through the hall. Your heart pounded in your chest. Adrenaline pumped into your veins. Your feet hit the ground harshly as you covered the distance in no time.

“Jamil?! Jamil are you out there?!” Running through the alley you jumped and ducked and slid under any obstacle in your path. You navigated the alleyways with precision, having memorized every path.

You then saw it. The shadowy stalker from before. They slunk into some shady building, a van of some kind backing into the side of it. There was no license plate and the windows were tinted a deep black. The camouflaging magic around the van gave you an idea.

You concentrated your magic hard, then vanished into thin air. The spell worked. Swallowing thickly, you took your steps carefully as you navigated the building. A familiar shriek reawakens the panic in your veins and you follow it.

“Let us go! Let us go please!” It was Jamil's voice, raspy and desperate between sobs. You slid to the door with a running start, crouching beside it. Looking in you saw Kalim was tied up and sobbing against the duct tape that covered more than half his face. He was wailing and kicking in the chair he was in as the man screamed at him to shut up.

Jamil was dangling off the floor. The man held him by the shirt and shook him slightly as he did everything he could to struggle against him. The Viper managed to lean down and bite the man, making the bastard yelp and throw him against the wall. Jamil let out a cry of pain and shook, looking up at his kidnappers.

“Tch… Intel says that this brat ain't important…” The man says to another lady across the room who merely watched with a cruel gaze.

“Then get rid of him.” The woman sneered with a dismissive wave of her hand. The man then yanked Jamil up by his hair, retrieving a knife from his pocket. The knife was then pressed against the boy's throat and left a shallow cut as it dragged across his neck. Jamil sobbed, magic on his fingers fizzling due to fear. The man was taunting him.

You remember the next moments in brief flashes. The magic from your fingertips was the most concentrated you had ever casted. The smell of blood. Yelling at Jamil and Kalim to run. Cloaking them in an invisibility spell. Their looks of horror. A fierce struggle.

***

You awoke to the sounds of sirens as you bring the knife in your hands down on a ribcage that is no longer breathing. Your hands are warm, soaked in a deep maroon. The knife clattered on the floor next to you. Your breathing was ragged as reality settles in.

A heavy hand on your shoulder shakes you. None of the words the officer spoke registered in your head as you were pulled into the back of a car. Your eyes are glazed over and dilated.

You were now in a room that was empty aside for the chair you sat on and the table between you and the officer. Your voice was shaky as you looked up at the interrogator. “Are they ok?”

“Yes, they are. You aren't in trouble kid. Tell us what happened.”

You did as you were told. Obedience bred into your veins. No you didn't know the kidnappers. Yes you followed. No you don't remember fighting back.

“I'm sure it was very scary, kid.” You nod. There's tears in your eyes despite the numbness. “Do you feel bad about it?”

“No.”

***

The head of the house himself, Kalim's father, commended your bravery. He held your hand in both of his and thanked you for saving his son. You truly were a Viper at heart and just as deadly. Your family must be proud.

“A feast will be held in your honor tonight. I will see you there.”

You just nodded.

…

Chatter and uncomfortable questions of all kinds assaulted you at the dinner table. You shyly nibbled on your baklava as Kalim bounced next to you. He thanked you for saving him and sang your praises out for everyone to hear.

You hear the people around you making up their own stories on how it happened. Part of you cringes. Was this just a funny story to them?

You look at Jamil who slithered off. Anxiety plastered on his features. You followed.

“Jamil? What's wrong?”

“Nothing I just…” Your brother turned to you. “I'm still processing it all. I've never seen you that angry before.” He looked you in the eyes and warily crossed his arms. “It was scary. You…”

‘Killed them’ went unsaid but the implication filled the hallway. You frown and take a step forward. Jamil steps back. “I want to be alone right now.”

“Okay.”

You walk back to the party. The loudness simmered down. You pick at your food. You weren't hungry

…

“Yuu.” A voice snaps you out of it. You look to see him. The head of the house. He has only spoken to you a handful of times. Twice in one day is an honor anyone would die for.

“Come take a walk with me.” The man turned and stepped down the hallway. The servant in you obeys.

“You have shown great strength over the years.” The man rubs his beard as he speaks, deep in his thoughts. “I have never seen a youth with such physical prowess.” His words were punctuated with each click of his heels.

His words were true. Apprehending burglars and distinguishing assassins was part of your job as a Viper. Your self-defense training was one of your strongest suits. You have chased people without a sweat. Your magic has paralyzed animals that would manage to break into the house.

And you have just now killed two people.

The authority figure in front of you stops at a window. You look out with him. “I want to offer you a job. Something different than a servant.” You looked up with widened eyes. You have always been a servant, it's what you always would be. He wants to change it? You can be something other than this?

“That brother of yours is a wonderful retainer for my boy. You have taught him well.” You beam at him for a moment, then frown, understanding the implication. Jamil would still be a servant to his master...

“But you?” The man starts, “you have protected us well in other ways. That talent can be put to good use.”

He now looked at you, expectant look in his eyes.. “I have a job for you.”

***

You are Yuu Viper. The eldest child of the Viper family. It was a title to hold with pride. That is what you have been told.

You were now an elite servant of the Asim family. One that watched from the shadows. An Assassin, born to protect and serve. You were obedient to your master.

How could you say no to such an offer? It was the ultimate honor. To serve this family with your life. It is what you have been told.

You got what you wanted. To be a very high ranking butler. One that could command the other servants. Why did you ever consider anything different?

Though you did have another motive. A plan. If you eliminate every threat, attend to every need, clean every hall, cook every meal— this family will have no need for this many servants. No need for 10 poison testers. No need for 20 bodyguards for each person. No need for artisans to be chained.

You could free your siblings. Swear you will serve them better than they ever could. Swear they can be free for their loyalty. Even if they weren't, maybe you could pay for their freedom with blood. Prove that you would go to any length.

You could fold laundry. Bathe them. Dress them. Feed them. Entertain them. Kill for them. Protect them. Serve them. Die for them.

This is the reason you are fighting so hard. Why you are working yourself to the bone. This is the reason you will excel in your training. The reason why you will learn the curve of every blade. The reason your list of skills is becoming endless. The reason your magic has been focused on stealth and utility. Your unique magic was indicative of your bloody path.

You are the strongest this family has ever seen and you will be the strongest the world has seen. No one would dare mess with this family when they have you in their arsenal. And this family will no doubt listen to your requests. Value them.

Najma and Jamil don't know. They will never know. You swear it. You will give up your freedom so they have theirs. You meant it.

With each mission you complete you are one step closer to achieving your goal.

***

“My liege. A word?” You stood with perfect posture behind the head of the house. Your missions have been most successful. The favor you have garnered with your master was immense.

“What is it, Yuu?” Ruby eyes look into yours from where he sat at his desk. Papers in his hand detailed your most recent report.

“I would like to make a request.”

The man's eyes widened, intrigued smile on his face. “In all these years you have never requested time off.” The man then chuckled. “Very well then, how long?”

You shake your head. “I'm not requesting time off sir.”

“Oh?” He tilts his head with intrigue. “I should have figured as much. Well then, what is your request?”

“My brother Jamil Viper will be selected by Night Raven College. This I know.” You nod to him. “I want to request that he takes time off to pursue higher education, this way he can be a better asset to your family. I will take up all of his duties in his absence.”

The man tapped a pen on the desk as he listened. “Of course.”

***

You aren't the same anymore. Caring smile and warm eyes now jaded and cold. Soft hands now rough and calloused. Calming voice now curt and sharp. Your affections and conversations dwindled into non-existence.

Resentment grew in Jamil's heart. Sadness budded in Najmas. They both miss you. You are gone in recent years and only the memories remain. Even when you are home, there is nothing left but the ghost they once knew.

They don't have an older sibling to bail them out of the trouble. No one to get advice from. No one to cover their shifts. No one to cry into. No one to spend time with when the other is busy. No more freshly baked sweets just for them. No more gifts. No one to cheer them on. No one to believe in them.

They miss their older sibling. They miss your lessons. Your magic shows. Your encouragement. Your affections. Your laughter. The way your arms held them. It was gone. They don't recognize you anymore.

Your eyes have gotten so dull there is no light in the world that could brighten them. You're stiffer. Quieter. Blunt and unfeeling. Tired. Stories you once conjured, a stark contrast from your minimal words.

You never took breaks. You'll scout. You'll scan. You'll shadow. You observe. The closest either of them has gotten to spending time with you was when you'd shadow them or help with a chore just to dismiss yourself right after.

You were always on the job and they began to wonder if the person you were before even existed.

You aren't Yuu. You haven't been Yuu for a long time. They are mourning a person that is still alive and they don't know what to do. They just want you back. They want Yuu back.

As far as Jamil is concerned, the bond between you two is broken.

***

Najma walks up to you one day as you look out the window. You scanned the perimeter, watching over the children playing in the garden. She put her hands on her hips as she approached.

“Hey you! Still moping around?” She tries to laugh at her own joke but it's shaky. “Watching over the place again? Don't you ever get bored?” You shake your head and she frowns.

“Did you pass by my room last night? I could have sworn I felt the angst resonating off of you. Heh heh…” Tears started welling up in her eyes as she fiddled with the old necklace you have given to her years ago. “It's funny cause I'll look up and you're not there anymore, you know?”

She sniffles and wipes away tears with her sleeve, mouth wobbling. “I remember when we were kids and you'd always be there to tell me a story, you know? And now… now…”

The girl froze as she felt firm arms wrap around her. Najma was stunned, looking up at your stony face as you held her. Yet it wasn't the same. It wasn't warm and soothing, rather frigid and detached. An automated response. But that's fine she will take it for now.

“See? I knew you were in there somewhere…”

***

Jamil was at a loss. How does he cope? His sibling and support system, gone in an instant that fateful night.

He wasn't dumb. He has gotten wise over the years with the nature of your work. He was observant. You taught him that. It also wasn't exactly a tight lipped secret either. The Asims have had secret agents for years.

He can't fully blame you for the person you have become. He cannot imagine all you have seen. But resentment and hatred he had sowed years ago is finally budding.

If it wasn't for this job, for this damn family, if it wasn't for his master— He would have an older sibling. If Kalim didn't need to be coddled every waking moment of his life then there would have been no need for so many people to be at his beck and call.

It was their fault. His fault. That is how he justified it. They took away his freedom, his dreams, his life. And now you. Kalim took you away from him.

He hoped at some point the ice in your veins would melt. It didn't. It froze over and sees it in every facet of you. You were frozen solid. Why else would you be so stiff?

He now looked over a letter in his hand, pristine and elegant. One Najma delivered to him.

Is this…?

Jamil swallowed, heart pounding in his chest as he opened it. He has been selected for the black carriage to attend one of the most prestigious magical academies in Twisted Wonderland.

His hands shook. One of the biggest honors he could have and he won't be able to accept it. He has to stay here. How will he be able to convince everyone that he should go?

If you were here right now, there's no doubt you would have said something like ‘see? now you can really shine!’ Or something to that effect. And he would laugh and smile and call you corny but cherish your words.

You're not though.

A knock on the door made him jump. Jamil swallowed bitterly and held the letter to the side, opening the door. It was probably Kalim again with another request.

Instead he saw Yuu. Jamil blinked, then looked up at them. “A message. For you.”

Jamil looked at the note in your hand and his brow furrowed. He tentatively took it and opened it, examining the note.

… Huh…?

He was already approved to attend? To get out of here? He has a chance to be in the spotlight?

“I got approval.. for you.” Your voice is quiet. You did this for him? After all these years you're still looking out for him? Even when you're like this?

Jamil looked up at you again. “Thank you. “ His voice was curt, bitterness on his tongue.

“I told you you'd make it some day. And I promised I would support you.” Frustration dares to bubble in his heart.

“I didn't know you still remembered.” Jamil tries to play it off, but he cannot deny the sadness within him. “Of course I do. I'm always looking out for you.”

There's a pause in the air. “I'm sorry…” a strained murmur escapes you. “I know I haven't been around as much but…” There's a sadness in his eyes he hasn't seen in a long time. “I still want you to be happy.”

There was so much bubbling under Jamil's skin. “Then why weren't you here when I needed you?” His voice cracked. Yuu's concern struck a rusted chord in him. For a moment he was 11 and talking to his older sibling again as they held him.

“I did what I had to do. It's my job.” Jamil's face fell.

“You… you…” he clenched his fist, invitation in his hand crinkling. “That's all you care about isn't it?! Your mission! Your servitude! Your loyalty has no limits huh? You'd kill yourself if you were told you to!” Jamil began to laugh in the middle of his outburst, chest heaving and tears falling as he continued. “I… I don't even recognize you anymore! I’ve been having to do this all on my own!”

He was sobbing, there's so much he wants to yell at you for but there's a part of him that loves you so much he can’t. “I know that I can't expect you to be the same after that day. And your job…” Jamil pauses to catch his breath, his fingers gently tracing the nearly faded scar on his neck from that day.

“But I just… Wish you were here…” Jamil looked down at the floor, defeated. Tears running down his face. Kalim. If it wasn't for him. He took them away from him.

“Jamil.” His head snapped up and he looked at Yuu, then at their outstretched hand. The elephant piece rested in your palm. The ivory white was yellowed from its age, the cracks that once covered it, filled and repaired by some sort of gold clay.

“Do you remember this?” Jamil sniffed and nodded. “Yeah… We'd play with it all the time as kids. You always had it on your side.” They nodded.

“... It reminds me of you…” Yuu turned Jamil's arm and placed it into his hand, making sure to close his fist around it. “Everytime I went out on a mission, I kept this on me to remind me who I was doing it for. You and Najma.”

Jamil examined the piece in his hand then looked up at your brooding expression. “I thought that if I accepted this position, if I did all of this... That you would both get more freedoms. That maybe, no other Viper would be needed except for me.”

Yuu swallowed, their eyes welling with tears. “But I was wrong. I see that now. This is who I became.” Yuu looks down at themself. Unaware to Jamil were the ugly scars that covered them. Painful and deep. A reminder for their eyes only of their place. Their clothing hid it well, but they could still feel them.

“I at least managed to convince the Asims to let you attend Night Raven College.”

Jamil froze, looking up at the chess piece then to Yuu. His heart pounded. What? That's what you meant earlier? You did this? For him? His mind swirled with emotions, he's happy, he’s angry, he’s sad, but most of all there's a warmth that grows in his chest.

“I cannot be saved. I already sealed my fate. It doesn't have to be the same for you and Najma. You go out there. Study hard. Enjoy your freedom. I'll keep looking for a way for you to escape, both of you…” Their voice sounded almost desperate, like these words would be the last they ever speak. “I'll look after her while you're away, so don't worry.”

Yuu looked down. “I know his isn't enough. I'm sor—” Jamil wrapped his arms around them before they could finish. “You… idiot! You…” Jamil wiped his tears on their shirt, basking in their warmth for the first time in a long time.

It's unknown just how much time has passed when Jamil stops crying and pulls away, face flushed and eyes puffy. Yuus face is still solid, but he could see hints of the warm, charismatic person he once knew. The two stared at each other, before Jamil looked at the piece again.

“I have a board here… want to play?” His voice was hoarse amidst the silence that ensued. A nod from Yuu and they were now setting up the board.

This was far from mending their relationship. There were still plenty of unresolved issues and sore spots between the two. He was still mourning the Yuu he knew and Yuu was still trying to recover who they once were. But this was a start.

“Here.” Jamil tried to hand Yuu the elephant just for them to push it away. “No, not this time.” Yuu says as they rotate the board so the white side faces him. There was a missing knight right where Yuu would usually put it.

Jamil places it down on the board, admiring it as he overlooked the pieces. The elephant stood out amongst them all—A diamond in the rough Yuu would say. Yuu then spoke.

“This time, you go first"

#jamil viper x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #jamil viper #twst #not requests

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attapullman · 7 months ago

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Silver Screen, Make Me Scream | Robert "Bob" Floyd

Summary: The world is used to seeing Robert Floyd as a Navy admiral on a screen thirty feet tall. You're used to seeing him as the man who spoils you rotten, in and out of the bedroom.

Word Count: 4.2k

Warnings: f!reader, 18+ ONLY, older boyfriend AU, movie star AU, daddy k!nk, unprotected pinv, older bf Bob eats it from behind, cowgirl position, age gap, no y/n

A Note from Mo: Uh...this is porn without plot disguised as a filthy, flirty AU and I am waving from the bars of horny jail. Fellow old man fuckers, this one is for you.

It’s his cold pillow that wakes you.

No deep breaths or soft snores echoing around the vaulted ceiling. The absurdly expensive bedding all yours to take. Your late night should keep you asleep until noon, but it feels wrong to be in bed when you don’t have your lover’s solid warmth against your skin.

You pad down the terracotta-tiled hall and take in the views of the Pacific, the only artwork needed on this side of the house. Stormy blue and glass-riddled sandy white, the picturesque view sells itself. The waves crash on the beach below, their mellow sound seeping into the Mediterranean revival from the open patio doors.

He’s sitting outside in just his sweatpants, coffee in hand, as he watches the water while flicking through a thick stack of pages. The grey at his temples is bright under the early San Diego sun. You know he’s reading something important because he has those horn-rimmed glasses on, the ones he repeatedly complains are too tight around his ears. Won’t even waste a minute to go grab his preferred wire frames.

Robert Floyd may be retired from show business, but he’s hotter than the first day he graced screens.

Eyes lifting from the pages, he catches you staring from your spot by the French doors, negligee skimming your body in the soft ocean breeze. The lids of your eyes are still a little heavy with sleep.

“You need something, baby?” He pats his broad thigh and you assume your perch, snuggling against his sun-warmed skin as you shake your head. How is he always the perfect temperature? The chill from the ocean wafts over you as he wraps his arm around your waist.

Your lips part in a contented smile. “Just checking in on you, Daddy. Missed you in bed.”

“Sorry, baby,” he coos, brushing his lips against your temple. His thick pointer taps against the stack of pages that arrived by messenger at sunrise. “Agent asked me to give this a look over, see if I’d be interested.”

You tilt your head to see the title. “Is that-”

“Yes, baby girl. They’re asking me to come back. Just a few scenes with the new regime, but get to wear that admirals uniform one more time.” Despite him saying it so matter of factly, you can detect his giddiness at wearing those pins once again. “Not sure if it’s the right move though.”

You trail your finger along his pectoral, imagining the ironed uniform underneath your touch.

Robert Floyd had made a career of Naval action films, starting out as a fresh faced Weapons Systems Officer in his debut, to gracing the screen one last time as an Admiral in the franchise’s original conclusion. He’d won over hearts with his steely blue gaze and soft smile, never one for breaking the rules. Yet always the one who celebrated the hardest when his squadron completed a mission.

For military propaganda, he made a compelling poster boy.

Your entire childhood he had been on posters in the mall, trailers on the television during commercial breaks. Those bright sapphire eyes and gleaming pins burnt into your vision, uncontrollably charmed by the strong, silent type.

And now here he was, putty under your palms as you asked if he wanted more coffee.

Without a doubt he’d take the appearance, spend a day or two on set with the next generation of Naval action stars. The next year he’d appear on every talk show and repeat his modesty over his fifteen minutes on camera. Your Bobby would balk at the attention, but glow with pride as the host played his cameo for the audience.

Watching him flip through a few pages, you could already see the shy smile he would win the crowd over as he insisted the revival’s cast members were the real stars.

“What’cha thinking about, sweet girl?” You were so lost in your daydream that you missed his attention turning to you, warm palm running over your hip under your thin robe.

You stroke his jaw, fingers curling into the regulation-cut greying hair. The cut he’s kept since he was first cast in his early twenties. “You should take the role. You look handsome as an admiral.” You peck a light kiss to his lips. “Dashing, really.”

His blush is striking against the ocean sky. As you get up to go make you both breakfast, you can feel his eyes on you; an extra sway in your hips for his enjoyment. Bob lounges back on the outdoor set and looks between the breaking waves and the now slightly rumpled script.

He’s coming back.

The view of the ocean as you zip up I-5 is breathtaking, a gorgeous Southern California day. The early call time was less than ideal, but the energy in the car is electric. Bob’s hand wanders into the passenger seat to wrap around your bare knee, thumb tapping out an unknown rhythm as he navigates traffic.

He looks the vision of wealth and importance sitting in the front seat of his pewter grey Porsche 911 - a sleek upgrade for his 40th from the battered truck he’d been driving since he arrived in Hollywood. The car is understated in its elegance, like its owner. You admire his graceful lines of a life well lived, the pokes of silver woven through his hair. And yet his eyes carry that intelligent, sassy energy that keeps you on your toes, ready for the next challenge he brings you.

“You’re looking at me.” His eyes don’t leave the road, but the smile on the corner of his thin lips is playful.

You fiddle with his fingers, admiring the large dexterous digits. “Just so handsome, how can I not?”

Bob lifts your hand with his, allowing the platinum and diamonds of your bracelet to catch the morning sun - nearly blinding with their sparkle. He brings your interlocked fingers to his lips, pressing a loving kiss to the skin as he finally looks at you. His eyes are the same striking blue as the ocean behind him.

“Perfect girl, what did I do to deserve you?”

You’re wondering the same when he enters the studio lot, passing through security and finding your way to the set. There’s a bustle of commotion as the two of you join the crowd, everyone immediately hushing their voices as the talent arrives. Bob’s chest swells with power as everyone immediately caters to him before noticing you.

“That must be his assistant?” Rumors spread through the crew like wildfire, watching you prance behind film legend Robert Floyd like an excitable puppy. Eyebrows shooting up when he turns back and rests a hand on the back of your bare thigh, leaning close to ask if you want anything from craft.

You slide your diamond-covered wrist around his neck and peck his cheek. Definitely not an assistant.

Since the day he’d made his name on marquees, Bob had been surrounded by women. A tall man in Navy blues with the golden touch of Hollywood? His fellow cast joked more than once that tag chasers didn’t care whether you served the country or just did it on screen. Eventually he’d done the responsible thing and tried marriage, settling down with a woman who cared more about his flashy lifestyle than the quiet man behind the lights. Divorce was swift and the introvert reverted inside his shell, his film career quiet as the next generation of aviators took the screen.

And then you entered his life, with your open face and bright smile. A coffee shop in Coronado he frequented that you happened to pass. A bump of elbows over the creamer, his amused grin when you accidentally grabbed his drink in your fluster. You were so excited to meet a real movie star, a dream come true. And he looked so much bigger than his character - those shoulders brawnier, that jaw sharper. Yet the smile he gave you was heart-melting as you handed him your own coffee cup to sign, nothing else available.

It wasn’t until that afternoon you noticed he’d written his number in neat penmanship. You had to wait until that next night to know you were falling inexplicably in love with a man who the rest of the world already adored. He was bigger than life, your everything.

And for all of your affection, he spoiled you. Dates to restaurants you couldn’t pronounce in Liberty Station, private events with tickets you couldn’t afford. Every week a new trinket left at your bedside, sparkling in the low light while he hummed in the bathroom excited for you to notice. Few things brought him joy at this stage in life, but you traipsing in with nothing on but the latest diamanté left him positively enraptured.

People could stare and point and judge all they wanted. It was love, and it was all yours.

You’ve raided the mini bar and read through the call sheet when Bob finally comes back to his trailer. He strikes a bold figure in his Navy blacks - pins gleaming, white cap under his arm.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he greets you, swooping to kiss your cheek. But your breath is already stolen. You’d seen pictures, caught his movies at the old matinee in Balboa Park. But standing in front of you is the sexiest man you’ve ever seen. He looks so…official.

Bob was already feeling good in the wardrobe trailer, the crew he’d worked with for years stroking his ego as they put the final touches to his starched uniform. He’d be on screen for a total of eight minutes and he was going to look important every single second.

But with your eyes trained on him, pupils wide and mesmerized, it’s the only compliment he needs.

“They look good on you again,” you coo, tracing your fingertips over the sterling silver insignia pins. It’s hard to quell the rising heat as you look at him, standing tall in this uniform - his uniform - just like the posters and movie trailers of your youth.

He rubs his temples and grabs his wire frames from the counter, pressing a kiss to your cheek as he straightens up. “Feels good to wear them, baby. Not sure who I am if not in the ‘Navy’.” He chuckles around air quotes, morphing into a moan as you run your nails down his torso.

Even though he’s not in character, the suit transforms him.

He’s not your Bob, the man who walks around his big ol’ house in band shirts he got in the 80s and his worn shearling slippers. Squinting through his glasses while trying to read fine print for instruction manuals for more Lego sets than he needs, peppering your head with kisses as you sit between his knees. Your Bobby is always goofy and smiling when you come through the door, eager to wrap his arms around you as he patiently listens to all the friend updates from brunch. He’s warmth and safety, that side of middle age where you have to explain internet fads with a playful eye roll.

But this man…this man in front of you is stern and mighty, seizing the room with his intensity. He’s commanding in his own silent way, back straight and shoulders taught. No nonsense, just like the admiral he plays for screens around the world. His presence is intoxicating. You can’t decide if you want to dominate him or be putty in his hands.

You twist in his arms, pressing your chest to his as you smooth the lapels of his suit. It’s only natural that those big, practiced hands of his immediately slip to your legs. Two magnets drawn by the promise of touch. But once he’s inches from your pretty face, ready to ask you to help him read over lines, that gleam in your eyes has other plans.

His girl wants him.

“Babygirl, I’m in wardrobe.” His words say no, but the fervent way he’s stroking the skin under your hem says differently. He’s not immune to a tiny dress and puppy eyes. You watch his hand reach up to drag through greying roots before he remembers it’s styled, redirecting his frustration by slipping rough fingers around the nape of your neck. Holding your head still while he fights his sense of responsibility.

It doesn’t matter that you’re in a tin can trailer with no sound proofing. You lick your glossy lips and give him the most innocent smile. “Please? We can be super careful.”

He eyes you warily. The two of you together is messy.

“Please, Daddy?” You rub yourself against him, feeling the way he shivers underneath his stiff uniform. “I wanna know what it’s like to fuck an admiral. Please?”

He’s powerless against you when you’re like this. Needy and heavy-lidded, unsatisfied until you’ve had your fair share of him and then some. It’s only when you’re a panting mess full of his spend that he can regain any control against you. The age gap is exhilarating and exhausting.

His face dips to rest against your temple, the floral scent of your perfume clouding his senses. So sweet, so soft. You feel his groan against your cheek before he straightens up to his full height, towering over you with a stern expression on his face. Those elegant, practiced fingers tuck under your chin.

“Attention.” Your spine straightens, your breath deepens. “Let’s see if you’re up to regulation, lieutenant.”

A warm gush of excitement floods your body, soaking in your flimsy excuse for underwear. You watch your big, broad, authoritative boyfriend sink down into the plush trailer sofa, knees spread. Patting his thigh with an unamused brow quirk.

Exhilaration races through your veins as you eagerly straddle his lap, sundress sliding up your thighs as you perch prettily on his thighs. The vision of youthful glow, hoping to impress.

Bob traces your heated skin with callused fingers, lips pursed, before sliding a hand firmly up your back. The world spins as he flips you over his lap, your rounded ass exposed to his eyes, modesty barely covered by a scrap of lace.

“Uniform panty inspection,” Bob huffs out, fingers ghosting over the fabric. His voice is restrained, clipped. You stay as still as possible as you hold your breath. You want to pass this inspection so bad.

The firm touch of his ring finger to your clothed sex forces a moan to slip through your clamped lips. So close to giving you what you want. But he remains diligent, stroking your pussy through the fabric until he’s satisfied with the wet patch he created. “Perfectly up to code.”

His finger wraps around the strap of the thong and yanks it down, forcing you to further immodestly part your knees as he discards the sexy - yet unnecessary - piece of fabric.

Your mind is heavy with lust as you turn your head, trying to understand. Normally he’s between your thighs teasing the fabric for longer than you can handle. Your lips are still dry. But before your eyes and brain connect with the visual, film legend Robert Floyd has a rounded cheek in each hand and his tongue plunged deep in your pretty pink pussy.

Blunt nails dig into the soft skin of your ass as he re-acquaints himself with your taste. Sliding his thick muscle along the velveteen walls of your cunt, lapping up the addicting taste of your lust. Your head is empty as he forces you to take it, to enjoy the way he worships the very core of your being.

Saliva and arousal mix on his clean shaven face as he presses deeper, moaning as he feels you clench around him. His own pride growing as you wail with only his tongue fucking you. It’s wet and dirty, the heat along your skin eating you alive as you succumb to your pleasure.

These are the benefits of dating a man with experience.

His tongue retreats, laving over your folds with practiced precision. You bury your head in the rough sofa fabric, muffling the depraved sounds crossing your lips. Your fingers reach up and wrap around his thick wrist, needing a tether to reality. His free hand travels to his belt, loosening the leather and freeing his erection to the humid trailer.

He knows you and your tells. Dragging that wicked tongue back, he corners your little neglected clit. Sucks it into his mouth like an after dinner mint, savoring the tangy sweetness of you. Your hips thrust back at him, desperate for more as you begin your hedonistic descent.

Time and space lose all meaning as Bob goes in for the kill, switching between the heavy pulls on your clit and the slippery licks along your core. Blowing cool air where you’re most sensitive before sweeping in with his burning tongue. The combination of his stiff muscle fucked into your depths and his thumb bumping your swollen clit finally send you over the edge, a white light overtaking your body as you scream into the plush cushion below.

Film legend Robert Floyd cleans your juices from your shaking thighs thoroughly.

Begrudgingly, your limbs are jelly as you bring yourself to his level. Bob’s hands continue their ministrations to the globes of your ass, squeezing and groping the soft skin. When you finally find yourself sitting upright, his thick cock nestled between the soft lips of your cunt, he gives into his desires and draws his hand up, only to bring it down with a slap! The sound rings through the room and his cheeks tinge pink with arousal and embarrassment.

“Admiral!” you giggle as he repeats the harsh slap on the other cheek.

While you have the devastatingly sexy view of a sweaty admiral beneath you, his eyes are glued to the mirror across the trailer that captures the dark red handprint he wishes he could tattoo on your perfect ass.

Lips descend upon his and the trailer is filled with the slick sounds of tongues and moans, four hands grasping with the need to touch. But where to touch? His burning skin? The cool pins of his jacket? It’s almost too easy a choice to wrap your fingers around the bulbous head of his cock while he swallows your desperate little tongue.

“That’s it, feel how hard Daddy is for you.”

He finally pulls himself from your kiss-bitten lips as his hands tug down the neckline of your filmy dress, exposing your heaving breasts to the room. Lips dipping down to wrap around your hardened nipple, leaving teeth marks and wet kisses on tender flesh. Your moans egging him on to bite deeper, suck harder.

The world knows the reserved man who waits to speak, level-headed in the most dire situations. And yet here he is, the remnants of your orgasm staining his chin as he closes his eyes to better enjoy the peaked bud he’s devouring.

He’s delicious and all yours.

Your fingers tangle at the nape of his neck, grasping the short strands with all your might as you pull him off your chest with an audible pop. Those impossibly blue eyes look at you reverently, letting you call the shots so he can continue to enjoy your body as it deserves. You drag your shared gaze to where your bodies meet and a grunt involuntarily leaves him. Finally.

The first touch is a puzzle piece falling into place. The thick head of him asking for entrance, slick with your desire.

Those unbelievably large hands hold themselves delicately at your waist, assisting your descent. His eyes flicker between yours and the welcoming entrance of your cunt. Your commanding admiral - your sweet Bobby - grasps you securely as you try to sink further on his swollen cock.

“Daddy, it’s too big.” Your voice is pained, teary eyes struggling to hold his gaze just as he likes. His size splitting you open like his own personal cock sleeve.

“You can take it, baby, just breathe.” His heart threatens to beat out of his chest as your impossibly tight cunt squeezes around him. “There’s my good girl, gonna fit all of Daddy, aren’t you?”

Hesitantly lifting your hips, muscle memory takes over as you adjust. The ease of taking his thick cock coming back to you as your breasts bounce with your fervent movement. The lapel of his jacket wrinkles as you hold it, lip between your teeth as he grazes that spongy spot only he can reach.

He guides you in your pursuit of pleasure, admiring the way you thrust you chest out as you clench around him. One hand on his lapel, the other grasping his knee. Truly using his body to get yourself off. So unbelievably sexy.

Your admiral’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing persistent slow circles over the sensitive, swollen bud. Times a hard press with when you are completely full of him, your senses overwhelmed. Bob. Bob. Bob. His balls ache with the need to claim you as his.

Impatient, knowing call time is mere moments away, Bob lifts his hips to yours. Pumping his erection deep, all the way to the hilt as his balls brush your ass. He’s so deep, so perfectly deep. A guttural moan leaves your spit-slicked lips, begging for your orgasm.

“Are you going to cum for your admiral?” His deep voice rings through your ears as you chase your high, the world clouding as only his cock becomes your reality. Your fingers card through his hair, silver and golden brown weaving together to keep you grounded in your pleasure. “I said, are you going to cum for your admiral?”

“Yes!” The next lot over could probably hear you shout to the heavens, plunging yourself down on Bob’s thick cock as your orgasm plunges you over the cliff. Sweet relief flooding your senses as your pussy pulses around him as a thank you.

Your lips find his neck as you nuzzle in, hips still sunk low on his throbbing erection. You need to be filled with Daddy’s cum.

The stiff fabric of his uniform jacket rubs your bare skin as he holds you close, pressing your nipples to his insignia pins as he strongly thrusts those last few times. Grunting into your cooing mouth as he finally lets go, cock pulsing as thick white jets of his cum coat your walls.

“Thank you, Daddy,” you whisper in his ear when you carefully pull off, barely enough energy to keep your thighs closed for the sake of his uniform. He gently guides you onto your back, ever the gentleman.

You stretch your sore limbs and relax into the plushness of his trailer sofa, hands wrapping behind your head as you smile, satiated, while Bob’s creamy cum runs past your thighs to pool on the fabric. Your graying lover gives you a wry smile as he regains his breath against the back the couch, uniform crumpled and bearing a stain a little too close to his zipper.

Always so messy. But so worth it.

There’s a rap at the door, three quick knocks that shake you both from your orgasmic haze. Bob rushes to cover your modesty, fiddling with the hems of your dress with clumsy fingers. Wishing you were home so he could wrap you in his robe and run a bath before watching the ocean from the terrace instead of praying there’s wipes in this shoddy trailer.

“Mr. Floyd? We’re ready for you,” comes through the door. The PA who whispered you were an assistant, now only steps away from your bare breasts and dirty thighs.

You wiggle your eyebrows at Bob as you fix your own appearance, amused as the bigger than life Robert Floyd shuffles around the room, tucking in his button up and wiping sweat from his collar. Blush in full force as he hands you the thong resting on the kitchenette. He shakes his head at you, mirth softening the edges of his hard gaze. There’s another knock at the door.

Uniform fully back in place, Bob takes a moment to admire you before an afternoon in front of cameras. Enjoying this last moment before he gets into character. Hands on your soft hips, sated cerulean eyes appreciating the curves of your mischievous lips. “Be a good girl for me today and Daddy will give you a reward later. Deal?”

You bite your lip and nod with a smirk, opening the door of the trailer so he’s not later than he already is. Today you get to watch him do the thing he loves, that in itself is already a reward. The crowd outside the trailer watches you turn back and leave one last kiss to his lips.

“Yes…Admiral.”

Bob can’t wait to surprise you with the South Sea pearl and diamond earrings he’s saved for this day. It’s his baby girl’s first day on set, only the best to commemorate the occasion.

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