#enough Rome for today
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cupidswurld · 1 year ago
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roman empire is for males this . woman version of roman empires that . what about the secret, more complex third thing, huh?
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girlcaelius · 11 months ago
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so i finally finished the october horse
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nicoscheer · 2 years ago
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15 Jul '23
I-Days Ippodromo SNAI La Maura
Milan, Italy
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Via madeyoul_k
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Ready?
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All Praise the Alex
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“capable of holding the stage like few others; he stages a performance where the only protagonist is 'his' music – still, without perhaps, one of the most gifted songwriters ever”
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Acting like his hubby did in Bristol the same day
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Short clip of ‘why’d you only call me when you’re High’ with Alex pointing at fans
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https://www.instagram.com/p/CuyqzidtPPQ/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link&igshid=MzRlODBiNWFlZA==
Even more pics (we really got spoiled in Milan with how many pro shoots we gettin)
Aaaand even more pics (I’m so happy)
https://www.instagram.com/p/CuxUMvRLIGO/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link&igshid=MzRlODBiNWFlZA==
And more pics 😆
https://www.instagram.com/p/Cuz2ioutkz5/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link&igshid=MzRlODBiNWFlZA==
The *Gasp*🙊 👀 and flamboyant Alex during sculptures of anything goes
A bunch of stories
https://www.instagram.com/p/CuwWSZ7tfUJ/?igshid=Y2IzZGU1MTFhOQ==
https://www.instagram.com/reel/CuuAVgjtp47/?igshid=MzRlODBiNWFlZA==
Alex during why’d you only call me when you’re high:” why?? I don’t know why!!” And then smiling and waving
https://www.instagram.com/p/CvNwAUQNAD4/?igsh=MzY1NDJmNzMyNQ==
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hederasgarden · 2 months ago
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Post tenebras lux
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Summary: You are gifted to Lucius as a reward for his prowess in the arena. Pairing: Lucius Verus x F!Reader Word Count: 5.9 K  Rating: Explicit, 18+ only. Heavy angst with a HEA, dubious consent (reader and Lucius are coerced into having sex), public sex (PIV and f receiving), mentions of spousal death, and brief descriptions of blood/injuries from combat in the arena. A/N: I futzed with the timeline in this fic. Instead of coming home after conquering Numidia General Acacius is sent out on another campaign for the emperors. Also, fun fact — the Romans considered oral sex taboo. A HUGE thanks to @aliensupastar, my beloved B, @clairewritesandrambles, @ryebecca, and @faebirdie for their help with the fic. Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.
Gladiator Masterlist ♡ Masterlist
The warm steam of the bath clings to the air, thick and heavy, as you move past the large pools where gladiators soak and laugh. Their rough voices fill the humid air and the afternoon sun filters through the open atrium, casting a muted, golden glow across the water. None of the men bother you as you make your way to the quiet alcove at the far end of the room. If Lucius's reputation in the arena hadn’t been enough to keep them away, the man whose hand he took for daring to touch you certainly was.
You’d learned quickly that in this place violence was power, and your gladiator wielded it well. It was a far cry from your life as a fisherman‘s wife, and then as a slave in Macrinus’s household. When you were gifted to Lucius, you braced yourself for the brutal ways of his world, where strength ruled above all else, and men like him took what they wanted without hesitation. But he never did. Instead, Lucius treated you with something you hadn’t expected: respect and kindness. His touch only ever lingered long enough to offer reassurance, never to claim.
In time you both learned to play your parts to survive. By day, Lucius was the victorious gladiator, and you, his spoil of war. They were roles neither of you had chosen, but ones you took on to survive. The night became your refuge, a time where the weight of your reality could be put aside, if only for a while. Curled around one another on the thin cot the ghosts of your past weren’t silenced but shared through whispered admissions. You could speak of the people you had once been – before Rome twisted you both into something unrecognizable.
Trust came with time. And now, as you approach the alcove where he waits, you can feel some of the tension leave your body. You are safe with Lucius, a thought that would have been absurd to you just months ago. 
You shift the small wooden tray — laden with fresh bread, olives, figs, and a jug of strong wine — to your other hip. The soft scrape of your sandals against the stone floor alerts Lucius to your presence. His dark gaze lifts from the water, meeting yours with the quiet intensity that you’ve come to expect. Even in the haze of sweat and steam, his presence is impossible to ignore. 
Where others would let their gaze wander lower, drifting toward the rest of his bare form submerged beneath the water, you always look at his face. It‘s there that you find what you seek: the sharp edges of your own pain and anger mirrored in his dark eyes. It’s a reflection of the hurt you carry, of all that Rome took from you both. 
“You fought well today,” you say, settling beside the pool, the water lapping at the stone. 
The words come easily, practiced—part of the familiar routine you’ve both come to rely on. Though the bath is quiet and you seem to be alone, you know better. You’ve learned the hard way that the walls have ears. Every word, every glance, carries weight here, and even in the relative solitude of this alcove, your interactions could be reported back to Macrinus. Only when you’re hidden away in the cell you share each night can you let the pretense fall away. 
Lucius hums in response as he lets his head fall back against the cool stone. His muscled arm rests on the edge of the pool and you offer him a brief, gentle touch before withdrawing. The tension in his frame eases a fraction and his eyes flutter closed, but the sharpness of his presence doesn’t fade. He’s aware of every shift in the air, every sound around him. Even in the quiet comfort of this place, Lucius is never truly off guard. 
You pick up a ripe fig, its skin velvety and fragrant, and drag it slowly through the warmed honey. Gently, you bring it to his lips, offering it with a quiet gesture. Lucius sighs—softly, almost imperceptibly—and then his lips part, taking the fruit from your fingers. As he bites into it, you feel the heat of his tongue brush against your skin. You try to ignore the traitorous feeling that springs to life in your belly. That feeling has become a frequent companion, one you never asked for, and one that sits uneasily beside the grief you still carry for your late husband.
“You must eat too,” Lucius commands. “You will need your strength for later.”
His rough words carry no real threat, but you react like they do, tucking your chin to your chest in a subtle gesture of submission. At times, it feels like a performance—like you're both actors on a stage, with an unseen audience watching every move. You eat in silence until the tray is bare and the goblet empty. When he rises from the pool, water cascading from his sun-kissed skin, you reach for the fresh robe laid carefully over the stone bench. 
“Do you wish…” you begin, lifting your eyes to Lucius, only to falter at his expression. His eyes flicker briefly past you, and then, just as swiftly, return. He gives no warning before he pulls you forward and drags you into the water. Your cry of surprise is swallowed by the splash your bodies make as ripples spread outward. The wet robes cling to you like a heavy second skin and you sink deeper into the water.
“I’ll have you here,” Lucius announces loudly. He grasps your biceps and easily forces you to straddle him. Your face shields his from the outside world. His expression softens and even as his lips part to speak, you shake your head, stopping him before the words can leave his mouth.
You understand, without needing to hear it. The two of you are no longer alone.
He leans back, arms stretched along the edge of the bath. “Ride me,” he commands. 
You struggle out of the heavy outer robe and your knuckles unwittingly brush over his abdomen. Lucius tenses beneath you. You offer him a quiet apology before withdrawing and rising to your knees. Your hips shift forward in a facsimile of his request, meeting nothing but a swell of water as you keep a careful distance from his body. He groans and you answer him with a quiet moan of your own. You rise up and down almost mechanically, staring at the chipped stone above his head. His hot breath fans over your neck, the heat of it lingering on your skin. You shudder as a warmth that has nothing to do with the pool gathers under your skin, shame twisting your insides. 
Lucius grabs your waist urging you to move faster, and the sounds of his pleasure rise in intensity. The muscles of your thighs protest, burning with effort as you hold the distance between your bodies. The air around you shifts and the murmur of conversation in the other pools begins to fade as the gladiators are drawn in, listening to your performance. The silence grows almost suffocating, but you force yourself to push through the charade. This is just one of many indignities you’ve endured since Rome descended onto the sleepy fishing village you called home. It pales to what could await you if it were gifted to a different gladiator. 
“Fuck,” Lucius growls loudly, abruptly stilling your movement to feign his pleasure. 
After a beat you gather the courage to look over your shoulder, meeting Viggo’s stare. You tense. Calloused fingertips brush lightly over your jaw, drawing your attention back to Lucius. You stare down at him, taking in the light flush of his dusky cheeks and the steady rise and fall of his chest. His touch lingers for a moment more before his hand disappears beneath the water. 
“Use my robe to cover yourself,” he instructs roughly. 
It’s then that you realize how transparent your dress has become in the water. Your cheeks burn with embarrassment and you slide away, only to freeze when your thigh brushes over an unexpected hardness. Your eyes jump to his and Lucius’s throat bobs, the usual intensity of his features faltering for a brief moment.
"I will fetch more wine," you stammer after a pause, your gaze flicking nervously to Viggo still lingering at the edge of the bath, all too aware that Lucius cannot leave in this state. 
Wrapping your arms around your chest, you rise from the pool. The cool air instantly prickles your damp skin. You reach for a robe nearby and pull it around you quickly, grateful for its modesty. Viggo shoots you a brief, assessing glance, but it’s Lucius who commands his attention next.
"Come to admire what isn't yours?" Lucius taunts.
He leans back casually, as though completely unfazed by the situation. It’s effortless the way he slips into his confident, unshakable mask while you hurry away, eager to break the silence and escape the strange weight of the moment.
The clang and clash of metal from the arena become a distant hum, fading into the background as you clean the wounds on Lucius's body. Ravi is occupied, tending to the more seriously injured men, so it falls to you to care for your gladiator. You kneel between his thighs and the coarse sand scrapes against the soft skin of your knees. The heat of the day clings to you both, the air thick with the smell of sweat and blood. But beneath it all, there's a scent you’ve come to recognize as uniquely his — a mix of earth and salt that’s oddly comforting. 
You gently press a cloth to one of the deeper gashes, cleaning away the blood before you begin stitching the wound. Lucius hisses as you draw the needle through his parted skin, and you glance up at him in concern, but his eyes are closed, his breath steady despite the discomfort. His fingers curl into the edge of the cot, gripping it tightly. You smear the thick, fragrant paste Ravi left over the wound once you’re done. 
“You’re getting better at this,” Lucius observes.
“Flesh is not so different from cloth,” you reply.
“A far cry from mending fishing nets,” he says, and for a moment, your eyes meet and you share a small, pained smile.
“And you are a long way from a farm, gladiator,” you acknowledge, shaking your head. 
You help him stand, your hands steady as you support his weight, but you pause when you spot Viggo standing in the doorway. Lately, he seems to haunt your every step, his presence a constant shadow. On instinct you shift a little closer to Lucius, your body seeking the reassurance of his proximity just as he draws you near. The subtle movement doesn’t go unnoticed. A small, knowing smile tugs at Viggo’s lips. It’s a look that sends a trickle of unease down your spine.
“Macrinus is entertaining some important guests tomorrow evening, and you are required to attend,” he announces looking at Lucius. “They wish to see a real gladiator up close, to witness your strength and skill firsthand.”
Then, to your surprise, Viggo turns his gaze toward you. “Your presence is also required,” he adds. Although his tone is casual there's an edge to it that makes your stomach tighten.
Lucius doesn’t speak, but his fingers flex against your hip as he considers the other man’s command. You both know there’s little room for refusal when it comes to Macrinus.
“I understand-” you say at the same time Lucius’s voice cuts through the silence, low and firm.
“She is not needed. I alone will attend.” 
His gaze never leaves Viggo, and you can see the challenge in his eyes. It’s an attempt to shield you, one you appreciate but understand is futile. 
Viggo’s smile remains unchanged. “Macrinus insists.”
The matter is settled and you bow your head, waiting for the other man to leave. Once he is gone you look to Lucius, voice tinged with concern. 
“You should not challenge him.”
Lucius steps away, anger rolling off him in waves. “And you should not submit so easily.”
You touch your throat, then turn away to busy yourself with the bloody scraps of cloth and scattered supplies. There’s no point in arguing. You know the truth: that sometimes submission is the only way to survive in a world ruled by men like Macrinus. As you work the silence between you stretches on, thick and charged before Lucius steps toward you. 
He sighs, his breath warm against the back of your neck. A moment later, his hand rests on your shoulder. The calloused pads of his fingers graze the nape of your neck, sending a fleeting sense of unexpected longing through you as they briefly sweep over your skin.
“I….” His voice trails off and you close your eyes.
“I know,” you say quietly. 
So much of what transpires between you seems left unsaid. You reach back, your hand finding his briefly as the two of you share a quiet moment before he must return to the arena. 
The bangles on your wrist are heavy and ornate, far too extravagant for a slave. They feel less like adornments and more like shackles. Beside you, Lucius looks equally as uncomfortable in his fine clothes. They’ve trimmed his beard and his tunic—lined with gold thread—glimmers in the dim light. From across the room, Macrinus raises his goblet to the two of you. All around you his guests mingle, sharing hushed conversation and knowing smirks that deepen your discomfort. 
The servants, once familiar to you from your time as a slave working in Macrinus's kitchen, all avoid your gaze. You spent years alongside them before you were plucked from that world and thrust into Lucius's service. Their hesitation, the way they look past you, is more than simple discomfort, it’s a warning you don’t yet understand. Your fingers tremble where they rest on Lucius’s arm.
“Something is not right,” you whisper, fear rising in your throat.
Before Lucius can reply, the conversation around you falters, and the air grows still as Macrinus moves to the center of the room. Then, with a sharp clap of his hands, the noise dies completely. 
“Our entertainment is about to begin,” he announces, beckoning you forward.
As you approach, his eyes drift between you and Lucius. His smile widens, though it never quite reaches his eyes. “I hope you enjoyed your meal. You’ll both need your strength for the show,” he says. 
“I am to fight?” Lucius questions, his voice edged with suspicion.
“No, not today,” Macrinus replies. “My guests are eager for a performance of another kind.”
Your brow furrows and Lucius stares blankly at Macrinus until two servants, moving in unison, pull a table forward. It is laden with the remnants of the earlier feast — half-finished plates, empty goblets, and discarded silverware. They work to clear away the table until it is left bare. 
“It is no bed, but it’s finer than your cot,” Macrinus assures.  
Lucius jerks back as if struck, his body stiffening in shock while cold dread settles over your shoulder as you both understand Macrinus’s meaning. He watches the small exchange between the two of you with amusement.
“Or, if you prefer not to,” he offers, watching Lucius intently. His voice is smooth with mock consideration as he continues speaking. “I’m sure another gladiator would gladly take your place.”
“No,” Lucius snarls. Before he can move, you dig your nails into his forearm, trying desperately to hold him in place.
Macrinus leans in close, his next words meant only for the two of you. “I expect a good show. Not like that mummer's farce in the bath.”
Ugly surprise washes over you as the full reality of your situation sinks in. Beside you, Lucius shifts and you see the familiar spark in his eyes. It’s the look he gets before a fight when the fire that lives inside him is ready to explode and consume everything in its path. You’ve seen it a thousand times in the arena, and it always ends the same way: with blood. 
You almost wish you could let him fight, but you know better. You step closer to Lucius, your presence a quiet plea for him to stop. It takes a moment before he meets your gaze and when he does you see the pain beneath the rage, the knowledge that this moment is slipping beyond his control. 
There’s no glory in this—only survival. Yet that truth doesn’t make it any easier to watch the fire in his eyes fade as he steps back. It’s the kind of defeat that no arena or battle could ever impose on him. 
“My guests are eager for the show,” Macrinus says and gestures to the table. 
You straighten your shoulders, willing your body to follow the courage your mind struggles to summon. Lucius follows with heavy footsteps. You stop before the table, heart pounding, and take a slow, steadying breath to gather your resolve before you turn to face your gladiator. You know the role you’re meant to play, this moment is just another part of the spectacle your life has become.
Without a word, Lucius steps closer and his hands come to rest on your hips, guiding you to sit on the edge of the table. When he moves between your legs, you can’t read his expression. Unexpectedly, one of his large hands cups the side of your face, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheekbone. He leans in, his forehead pressing against yours.
“Focus on me,” he urges. “It is just us here, no one else matters. Do not think of them. Do not think of anything but me.”
His words are a command and a reassurance all at once, grounding you in the moment even as your pulse quickens. 
When he speaks again, his voice is louder, carrying across the room. “Lay back.”
The table is hard and cold beneath you as you follow his instruction, the chill seeping through the thin silks you wear. Lucius pulls you forward until you’re at the very edge, your legs hanging loosely off the sides. Gently, your dress is peeled away until you’re bare to him. His broad frame blocks the crowd from seeing much but you still feel vulnerable and exposed. You curl your fingers into the palms of your hands, trying to remember Lucius’s words as you close your eyes.
The murmurs of the observers increase, and you feel them shift, edging closer. Then, a woman’s gasp cuts through the tension, followed by a wave of hushed surprise that ripples through the gathered Romans. When you open your eyes you can only see the top of Lucius’s head from where he kneels between your thighs. Guilty anticipation zips through you, followed by a spark of heat that flickers low in your stomach at the sudden realization of what he intends to do. 
“Barbaric,” a man utters, his voice thick with disdain.
“Now now,” Macrinus says with a slight chuckle. “Remember, our gladiator hails from Numidia. Their customs are not ours."
The first touch from Lucius is barely there, a whisper of contact against your inner thigh, but it grows firmer the higher his fingers climb. Instinctively, you hold your breath, waiting for him to reach the most sacred part of you. At the first touch of his mouth to you, the rest of the world fades away.
Lucius builds your pleasure with slow, steady strokes while his calloused hands knead your thighs. His touch is an anchor and spark all at once. There is little resistance when he curls a finger inside. A second joins the first a moment later and without thought, you thread your fingers into his curls. A long, shuddering moan leaves him, and the vibration tightens the coil in your belly. Lucius’s touch grows rougher and more demanding. He drinks from you like he’s starved for it, as if every drop is the only thing keeping him alive while his fingers work you open.
You come with a throaty cry, your hips leaving the table. Every nerve in your body is alight. You cannot help but hold Lucius against you until the mere brush of his nose against your center makes you quake again, sending waves of warmth through your veins. As much as you want him to stop, you’re desperate for him to continue and keep you in this moment where nothing but the two of you exist. 
Lucius pulls away and reality crashes in with starting clarity while the eyes of the crowd cut through you like a thousand sharp edges. Before it all overwhelms you, he climbs onto the table. He lowers himself onto his forearms and the weight of him presses against you.
“Eyes on me,” he murmurs.  
You open your mouth but the words you want to say seem to get caught, trapped somewhere between your chest and your lips. To your surprise, wetness gathers at the corner of your eyes. But even that feels like something you can't fully surrender to. You’re trapped in this strange, painful moment where nothing feels real and everything feels too real all at once. It’s all too much – his tenderness and the horror of the situation.
There’s a subtle, almost imperceptible shift in Lucius’s expression in response, but it’s enough to reveal something beneath the surface and allow you to see the guilt he bears. The lines around his eyes seem to deepen and the tension in his expression makes him look older, wearier, and more vulnerable than you've ever seen him. The desire to soothe him is enough to break the strange spell on you.
"All is well," you assure him, gently brushing your nose against his. “I am no maiden.”
“Fuck her already,” a voice shouts and Lucius pulls back, his handsome face twisting into a snarl. You feel the tension in his muscles, coiling like a spring, ready to snap—and a knot of anxiety tightens in your chest. 
You breathe his name, soft and pleading, and he stills, the clench of his jaw betraying the war within. “It is only us,” you remind him, repeating his own words back to him. 
He stares down at you, nostrils flaring and then suddenly he bows his head. You feel the fight leave him as he chooses restraint over the violence you both know he’s capable of.
"Only us," he replies, strained. 
You hold his gaze as you feel his knuckles brush against your inner thigh to line himself up. He pushes inside slowly and you lift your hips. Your body welcomes him with only the briefest flare of pain, eased by his earlier attention. 
“Oh,” you gasp.
Your eyes close as he fills you completely. The sensation is both comforting and alien all at once. You can’t help but think of your late husband, so different from Lucius in every way. You wonder fleetingly if the man above you is thinking of his lost love too. Does that unspoken grief weigh on him as heavily as it does on you?
Before your mind can wander further, Lucius begins to move and your thoughts fizzle out. He curls his powerful body over yours and keeps up a steady pace that makes your skin buzz. You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders and the smell of him surrounds you, familiar and comforting. As you move together each breath and shift of your body becomes a silent conversation between only the two of you. 
“Gods,” he groans into your ear. “You take me so well.”
His unexpected praise has you rocking into him, needy for more. The table creaks each time he thrusts back into you. His lips trail along your neck and you feel that familiar climb to ecstasy begin, like a delicate crescendo inside you. Your nails dig into his skin and his rhythm stutters. 
“Sweet girl,” Lucius sighs, pulling back just far enough to meet your gaze.
The tenderness in his eyes is unexpected. Since Macrinus gifted you to Lucius nearly six months ago, you’ve shared many looks; full of pain and grief, anger and understanding, but this is something new, fragile. You stroke his cheek and he surges forward, kissing you roughly.
His lips on yours are a revelation. A storm of emotion rolls through your chest, crystallizing into the realization that you want him. You long for him in a way that goes beyond the need for protection, or a desire for connection. You grasp his face in both hands, your fingers trembling against the hard line of his jaw, and return the kiss with urgency. It’s desperate, almost frantic, as though you’re trying to pull him closer, to merge with him in a way that makes the world outside of the two of you disappear. 
He responds with a sharp thrust, angled so perfectly that it sends a flash of heat up your spine. You taste yourself on him when his tongue delves into your mouth. He hardly lets you catch a breath as he pours himself into you over and over until another orgasm washes through you. It’s more intense than the last, bleeding into his own as he comes with a quiet moan. 
He gives a few more thrusts and stills, his lips hovering over yours as you share the same air. Your thumbs stroke the soft skin under his eyes and you hold his gaze. In the depths of it, you feel a thousand words rising in your chest, aching to spill out, but you are all too aware you’re not alone. 
Before you let the world back in you tilt your chin up, lips brushing over his in a slow, tender kiss that he returns with heartbreaking gentleness. When you finally pull apart, the applause from Macrinus makes you flinch, and Lucius’s expression clouds over.
“What a performance,” Macrinus exclaims.
A titter of applause follows from the audience as though they’ve witnessed something to be praised. Lucius pulls away and you wince as he slips from inside you. A trickle of his seed follows and cold air blankets your body. You curl in on yourself, feeling vulnerable and anxious. When Lucius moves to stand, he carefully pulls your dress to cover you. Then, he helps you upright, and draws you into his side, shielding you with his body. He lifts his chin and offers the crowd a sharp, almost vicious smirk that’s more a baring of teeth than a smile. 
“I thought you might fuck like you fight,” Macrinus says. He lays a hand on Lucius’s shoulder like they are old friends and leans close. “I’m pleased to see that I was wrong.”
There’s some other meaning in his words that you don’t catch but Lucius seems to understand. Anger flickers across his face, but beneath it, you see something more unsettling, something you’ve never seen before. Fear. 
“We will do a great many things together, I think,” Macrinus continues in a pleased tone, his gaze lingering on the hand Lucius settles possessively on your hip. “A great many things.”
This time when he smiles it reaches his eyes; cold, calculating, and full of something far more sinister.
You spend the rest of the party seated on Lucius’s lap, his arm banded around your waist while the other rests on your thigh. He’s tense and angry as you expect but his focus seems distant, lost somewhere far beyond the room. He rubs the fabric of your dress between his thumb and forefinger, the motion almost absentminded. The wine you sip is overly sweet and sits like a sour stone in your belly. Neither of you speak. Occasionally, some guests, perhaps emboldened by drink or bravery, approach, but Lucius quickly sends them on their way with nothing more than a look. 
Only once the party dies down are you dismissed by Viggo. On the journey back to your cell Lucius’s grip on you remains firm, as if he's afraid you might slip away. He doesn't speak, and you notice every so often, his free hand curls into a tight fist at his side, his knuckles turning white from the pressure. It’s not until the door closes behind you, locking you both inside the small, dimly lit space, that Lucius finally speaks. 
"You know my true name,” he begins pacing the length of the cell. “But there are things I have not told you."  
He speaks slowly, each word carefully measured, as though he’s weighing the cost of revealing what’s hidden. He tells you the truth of his origin, and with each sentence, you sink deeper into the thin cot you both share, the weight of his words pressing down on you. When he finally falls silent, you remain there, frozen. A thousand thoughts flood your mind, but none of them seem to form into anything coherent. 
"Does this mean-" you begin, words faltering as you try to process the magnitude of what he’s revealed to you. “Does this mean… you are the rightful emperor?”
“I am.” There’s no pride in his admission, only worry. He releases a harsh breath through his nose like he’s trying to clear something from his chest before he speaks again. “There is a plan in place, with my mother and Acacius, but he will not return from Persia for several weeks yet. We cannot wait for them.”
“What has changed?”
“Surely you must know,” he whispers, regarding you softly.  
You shake your head, a quick, instinctive denial, but a deeper part of you already understands. Or perhaps, hopes you do.  
“You," he says simply. 
It’s the way he says it, so certain and knowing, that makes your breath catch. You stare at him and your heart throbs in your chest, low and sweet like a song.
“I never thought I could want someone again,” he admits. His unexpected words summon the ghost of all you've both lost, and they rise between you like a shadow, lingering for a long painful moment. "I thought it would feel like..." His words trail off.
“A betrayal,” you finish for him, keenly aware of what he must feel. 
The vulnerable look on his face awakens something deep and real inside you that you never expected to feel again. You rise from the cot without thinking and move to stand before him.  
"It feels right," he continues, his voice softer now, but no less certain. "As easy as breathing." 
And then he kisses you, tentative at first, before he grasps your jaw, seeking more of you. The way he holds you, possessively, protectively, makes you feel like you’re the only thing that matters, like you're his lifeline in a world that’s about to crumble. It fills you with such longing that you chase his lips when they part from yours.
"Macrinus knows now. And he is planning something," Lucius says, his voice tight with urgency, "and whatever it is, it will be at odds with the good of Rome. He will use you to get to me. And I cannot lose you."
“What will you do?” You ask.
"I'll send word to my mother in the morning," he replies. "You and she must leave Rome. It’s the only way."
You shake your head, unwilling to part from him.
“I will come for you when it is safe,” he promises, capturing your lips in another kiss before he pulls away and rests his forehead against yours. "But tonight… tonight, I need you again. Will you have me?” He questions.  
You answer him with your lips and he gathers you in his arms. The coarseness of his beard against your chin and the firm press of his lips to yours ignites a bone-deep need within. Suddenly all the danger, the uncertainty, and the inevitability of what’s to come fades into the background. It's just the two of you, the heat of his touch, the depth of his kiss, and the unspoken promise in his embrace. 
When he pulls you down on the cot, urging you on top of him, you let his momentum carry you. 
“Ride me,” he pleads desperately, framing your hips with his hands. 
He gazes up at you with such a mix of desperation and love that you couldn’t deny him, even if you wanted to. The shudder he gives when you take him in hand emboldens you to stroke his length. He groans and pushes his head back, exposing his thickly corded neck. You rise up and sink down on him slowly, savoring each inch. It’s near perfect how he fills you, and even though you’re still sore from earlier, the blend of pain and pleasure thrills you too much to stop. 
“Your dress,” he pants, “remove it. Please. I want to see you. All of you.”
You pull the fabric from your body and shed the bangles on your wrist while Lucius removes his tunic. You’re familiar with every inch of his body from tending to his wounds and time in the bathhouse, but you gaze down at him now with renewed appreciation, resting your hands on his firm shoulders. His eyes are filled with affection and desire as they roam your body. 
“You’re beautiful,” he praises. 
He cups your breasts and draws his thumbs across your nipples until they grow hard. The touch sends sparks of pleasure along your nerves and you twitch around him. He moans and rolls his hips. His arms encircle you, holding you close while he fucks you with strong, powerful thrusts. You bury your face in his neck and drag his skin between your teeth. He answers your action with a groan. 
“Gods, the way you feel. You’re perfect,” he praises. 
You sit up and plant your hands on his chest, moving your hips to take him deeper. You gasp his name and arch your back, rocking forward with an urgent need that eclipses everything else. For the first time in what feels like forever, you close your eyes and let yourself simply feel. There’s no need to shield yourself, no barriers to maintain.
“Look at me,” Lucius begs, grasping your waist to take control of your movements.
Your eyes flutter open and meet his, the beginning of your orgasm rising to the surface like a tide pushing its way to shore. It grows steadily until it finally crashes over you, flooding your senses and leaving you breathless in its wake. Lucius finds his own end moments after with a low, shuddering gasp. It takes several moments for your breathing to return to normal and when it does Lucius sweeps his hands up your sides comfortingly.
"Stay with me like this,” he asks. 
You acquiesce and he gently guides you to rest your cheek against his chest. His hand slides to the middle of your back, his palm warm and steady as he holds you close. Even though he remains inside you still your body relaxes, pooling in his. You close your eyes and listen to the steady drum of his heart, feeling a profound sense of stillness. 
You’ve always felt safe in Lucius’s arms, but now, you feel loved in a way you never dreamed you’d experience again. It’s a kind of peace that settles into you, filling all the broken, hollow spaces in your heart where your grief and pain have lingered for so long.
Whatever comes next, his love and strength are something you can hold onto. And for now, that is all you need. 
Also part of this series:
Ab Initio
Finis
Protego te
My inbox is open for your thoughts on this story, requests for drabbles with Lucius and further scenes with Lucius and the Fisherman's Wife.
3K notes · View notes
oceandolores · 2 months ago
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ℜ𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔦𝔬𝔫 | chapter I
General Marcus Acacius x f!reader
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"in her eyes shone the sweetness of melancholy."
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summary: In the grandeur of ancient Rome, you are the secret daughter of Commodus, living a quiet life as a servant in the imperial palace. Everything changes when you meet General Marcus Acacius, Rome’s honorable and stoic leader.
Though devoted to duty and loyalty to the princess, Marcus is drawn to you in a way he cannot ignore. A forbidden passion ignites between you both, and an affair begins—one that threatens the very foundation of loyalty, power, and honor. As you fall deeper into your dangerous love for Marcus, each stolen moment becomes a fragile, dangerous secret.
warnings: 18+ only, 14 YEARS AFTER GLADIATOR 1, ANGST, Fluff, A LOT OF SMUT, Unprotected Sex, Exhibition Kink, Age-Gap, Ancient Rome, mentions of violence, Gladiators, Blood, Gore, Politics, Sexism, Forbidden Love, Loss of Virginity, mentions of death, Innocent and pure reader, Loss of virginity, Infidelity, more warnings will be added throughout the story
Chapter I
masterlist!
next | chapter II
The palace is alive with preparation, a beast of marble and gold that never rests. Its veins are the labyrinthine halls, pulsing with servants like you, carrying trays of delicacies, wreaths of flowers, and jugs of wine.
Its heart beats to the rhythm of whispered orders, clinking metal, and the distant echo of the marketplace beyond its gates. Tonight, the beast awakens for another feast.
You adjust the folds of your simple tunic, careful not to brush against the elaborate tapestries that line the walls. Each thread tells a story of conquest, glory, and power—legends you’ve only heard murmured by those old enough to remember.
You are not part of those tales, nor their lineage. You are a servant, a shadow cast by the towering figures who walk these halls.
The kitchen is a tempest. The air is thick with the scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, and sweet figs. Claudia, the head cook, barks orders, her voice slicing through the chaos like the edge of a Roman gladius.
You pass her with a nod, your arms laden with trays of fruit—gleaming apples, plump grapes, the kind of bounty the common people outside these walls could only dream of.
Livia catches your eye from across the room. Her presence is a steady anchor in the storm, her face worn but kind.
“Have you checked the wine?” she asks, her tone soft but urgent.
You nod. “It’s ready, Mother,” you reply, the word slipping out as naturally as breath.
She is not your mother—you know this much—but she is all you have.
The story of how you came to be here is one you’ve heard countless times: a baby abandoned at the servants' chamber door, cradled in a basket of woven reeds, with nothing to mark your origin save for a scrap of fine cloth that no one in your station would dare to own.
Livia found you there, swaddled in whispers of mystery, and against all odds, she chose to keep you.
Raised among the laboring hands of the palace, you were given no privilege beyond survival and no legacy but that of work.
The great marble halls and gilded frescoes became your entire world, a place as eternal and unmoving as the gods themselves—or so it seemed.
The servants’ quarters where you lived were nestled in the hidden bowels of the palace, far from the glittering feasts and marble statues.
You learned to scrub floors and pour wine long before you understood the language of wealth and power that filled these walls.
Your life had been carved out in the shadows, molded by the soft voices and calloused hands of those who raised you.
Today, like every other, begins in service to Rome's ever-churning hunger for spectacle.
The air hums with anticipation, thick with the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine, a stark contrast to the stench of poverty that lingers just beyond the palace gates.
“Are the platters for the atrium ready?” Livia’s voice cuts through your thoughts.
“They are,” you reply, glancing at the polished silver laden with grapes and apples, their skins shining like jewels under the torchlight.
“Good.” Livia’s sharp eyes soften, though her expression remains tense. “Take the fruit out yourself. And stay close to the kitchen. Today will bring trouble, I feel it.”
You nod, understanding the weight of her instincts. Years of serving in the palace have taught her to sense the storm before it strikes.
As you lift the platters, Claudia, calls over her daughter, Alexandra.
“Go with her,” Claudia orders, waving a ladle for emphasis.
Alexandra groans dramatically but obeys, rolling her eyes as she grabs one of the platters.
“She can’t let me rest for a moment,” she mutters, her tone more amused than annoyed.
You chuckle softly. Alexandra has always been like this—bold where you are cautious, quick to speak where you stay silent.
She is your only true companion here, older by four years and infinitely more daring.
As you and Alexandra arrange the fruits on a grand table in the atrium, she leans closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “The Princess will be here tonight.”
You nod absently, focused on ensuring the grapes cascade just so. “Of course, she will. She is the Princess after all.”
“No, I mean, I haven’t seen her in years,” Alexandra continues, ignoring your tone. “Not since I was a kid. That was ten years ago. You know she moved out of the palace after marrying the general.”
You don’t reply immediately, your hands steady as you arrange the fruit. Alexandra has always loved to gossip, but you prefer to keep your thoughts unspoken.
“Can you believe it’s been ten years, and she hasn’t had a child? Not one with him,” Alexandra muses.
“Maybe it’s their choice,” you say quietly. “It’s not our place to wonder.”
Alexandra scoffs lightly. “I’m just saying, after her son—what was his name? Lucius?—after he was taken and killed by her brother, Commodus…” She trails off, her voice tinged with something between pity and fascination.
You remember Lucius vaguely, a boy with a quiet demeanor and a sad smile.
You were too young then to understand the weight of his loss, but the servants whispered of curses and tragedies surrounding the imperial family.
“It’s not good to talk about the great emperors like that,” you murmur, hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere.
Before Alexandra can reply, the sound of heavy boots echoes through the atrium.
The guards step forward, their polished armor glinting in the firelight. “Make way for their majesties,” one announces, his voice carrying over the growing murmur of the guests.
You and Alexandra immediately bow your heads, the platters forgotten as the twin emperors enter the room.
Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla are a study in contrasts.
Geta, an imposing figure, commands the space with a cold and calculating gaze. His every step seems deliberate, as if the weight of the empire rests on his shoulders alone.
Caracalla, by contrast, walks with an erratic energy, his pet monkey perched on his shoulder. Dondus, the creature’s name, chatters and hisses, a mirror of its master’s unpredictable moods.
You feel the weight of their gazes as they sweep the room. Geta’s lips curl into a smile—or is it a smirk?—as his eyes linger on Alexandra.
There have been whispers, rumors of an affair, though Alexandra denies them with a laugh.
Caracalla’s gaze lands on you, and for a moment, his expression softens. Unlike his brother, he has always been strange but oddly kind to you.
When you were a child, he would find you in the halls, offering you small trinkets or asking you to keep him company.
“Your Majesties,” Alexandra says again, her voice like honeyed wine, sweet but strong.
She curtsies with practiced ease, her eyes cast downward, yet her boldness hangs in the air, unspoken but palpable.
You follow her lead, bowing deeply, but your heart pounds in your chest like the war drums of a distant legion. In the presence of the emperors, the room feels smaller, the air heavier.
To serve Rome, you think, is to breathe in the will of its rulers, no matter how suffocating.
Geta's gaze lingers on Alexandra, traveling from her head to her feet, as though she were a statue he might commission or a possession he already owns.
His smirk deepens, the corner of his mouth curving with an indulgence that unsettles you.
“Alexandra,” he drawls, his voice smooth as polished bronze. “Why do I find the table half-dressed? Are my guests to dine on the promise of fruit alone?”
You glance at the platters, perfectly arranged but not yet fully adorned with the remaining dishes. Your pulse quickens; you know the punishment for displeasing the emperors can be swift, unpredictable.
But Alexandra, bold as always, doesn’t flinch.
“Forgive us, Your Majesty,” she says, her tone measured yet edged with defiance. “The final trays are being brought out as we speak. The delay was unforeseen.”
Geta arches a brow, his smirk turning sharper, more dangerous. “Unforeseen,” he repeats, as though savoring the word.
“I wonder, Alexandra, if you’ve grown too accustomed to... distractions.”
You know the meaning behind his words. Everyone does.
The whispered rumors of their affair swirl through the palace like incense smoke, clinging to every corner.
Her mother Claudia knows, though she turns a blind eye, perhaps thinking it wiser not to provoke the wrath of an emperor.
Beside him, Caracalla shifts, uninterested in the exchange. His pet monkey, Dondus, chitters softly on his shoulder, its small, beady eyes scanning the room.
Caracalla’s gaze falls on you briefly, but it is not unkind. He has always been more erratic than cruel with you, there is a peculiar understanding in his glances—a shared knowledge of solitude.
“Forgive us, Your Majesty,” you say suddenly, your voice trembling like a bird caught in a net. The words tumble out before you can stop them, and the weight of the room shifts.
Geta’s eyes snap to you, sharp as a blade. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve made a grave mistake.
But then he laughs—a low, indulgent sound that sends shivers down your spine.
“Ah,” he says, leaning slightly toward you. “The little dove finds her voice. How curious.”
You stiffen under his gaze, your knees threatening to buckle. It feels as though he is peeling back your very skin, seeking something hidden beneath.
“You’re the youngest servant here, aren’t you?” Geta muses, his tone light but with an edge that cuts.
“A curious creature, so quiet and unassuming. And yet…” He trails off, his eyes narrowing, as if piecing together a puzzle.
The weight of unspoken rumors presses against your chest.
The whispers about your lineage, the murmurs that you are more than a servant—that you are the illegitimate daughter of Commodus himself, a shadow of Rome’s bloody past.
You’ve heard them before, though never directly. Livia, your steadfast mother in all but blood, dismisses them as lies, the gossip of bored tongues.
But in moments like this, when Geta’s piercing gaze locks onto yours, it feels as though the marble walls around you whisper secrets only they can hold.
Secrets of your origin, of what blood may or may not flow through your veins, encased in the silent austerity of Rome’s cold embrace. You feel the weight of it, a shroud both invisible and suffocating.
Geta doesn’t believe the rumors entirely, but he cannot ignore them either. To him, you are a thorn he cannot pluck without proof.
If the whispers are true, if you are indeed the hidden scion of Commodus and the only living grandchild of Marcus Aurelius, you would be a danger to his rule.
Rome, after all, has loved its Aurelius lineage fiercely.
The plebeians would rally to your name like vines twisting toward sunlight.
Still, no woman has ever ruled Rome.
The Senate, the soldiers, and the gods themselves would balk at such a notion. But Geta knows that power is not always rooted in precedent—it is rooted in the hearts of the people.
And the people would love a descendant of Marcus Aurelius far more than they could ever love him.
“You wear the palace well,” Geta says finally, his tone dripping with mockery. “A little too well, perhaps.”
You feel the heat rise to your cheeks but keep your gaze respectfully lowered. His words are like serpents coiling around you, their venom lying just beneath the surface.
Caracalla hums softly, breaking the tension. He strokes Dondus, the little monkey perched on his shoulder, as though soothing himself rather than the animal.
“Leave her, brother,” he mutters, his tone flat but carrying weight. “You scare the child.”
Geta casts his twin a glance, his smirk briefly faltering. With that, he straightens, clapping his hands once in finality. “Finish the table,” he commands, the sharpness of his tone slicing through the room.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” you and Alexandra reply in unison, bowing deeply as the emperors turn and walk away.
Their robes ripple like molten gold, catching the light as though the gods themselves had woven the fabric.
The moment they are gone, you exhale shakily, the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding slipping from your lips.
The grandeur of the palace, so often a thing of wonder, now feels oppressive—a prison of marble and ambition.
Alexandra nudges you gently, her smile faint but reassuring. “It’s fine,” she murmurs, though the tightness in her voice betrays her unease.
You nod and return to your work, the routine motions of arranging platters grounding you once more. But the unease lingers, like a storm cloud that refuses to dissipate.
Later, after the feast preparations are complete, you retreat to the servants’ quarters. The hallways grow quieter as the palace begins to prepare for the night’s debauchery.
Your mother, Livia, finds you there, her expression tight with concern.
“Are you all right?” You nod quickly, not wanting to worry her further.
Livia’s sharp eyes search yours for a moment before she exhales heavily. “Stay away from them tonight,” she warns. “There will be soldiers, senators, politicians—men who think they own the world. And women and men from the brothels to entertain them. It will not be a place for a child like you.”
“I understand,” you say softly, though the thought of the gathering makes your skin prickle.
"Go to your chamber and stay there.” You nod, obedient as always, and Livia cups your face briefly before bustling away.
But as you walk toward your chamber, the stillness of the afternoon draws you elsewhere.
***
The sun bathes the palace gardens in a golden light, soft and warm, like an embrace from the gods themselves.
The sky is a flawless stretch of azure, and the air carries the faintest scent of blooming jasmine.
Unable to resist, you veer toward the gardens, seeking solace in their quiet beauty.
You make your way to the small pond at the edge of the grounds, where the world feels simpler, untouched by the weight of marble columns and imperial decrees.
This is your sanctuary, a place you’ve tended with your own hands.
The hedges are trimmed neatly, the flowers arranged in bursts of vibrant color—crimson roses, golden marigolds, and pale violets that seem to glow in the sunlight.
The pond reflects the sky like polished glass, its surface rippling gently in the breeze.
You settle onto the cool stone bench nearby, pulling out a small parchment and charcoal.
Writing has always been your escape, a way to make sense of the labyrinth that is your mind.
The words flow from you like water from a spring, each line capturing fragments of your thoughts and fears.
To live in the shadow of gods is to forget the warmth of the sun.
You stare at the words you’ve written, sentences about Rome and its people, the empire’s endless hunger that devours the poor while the rulers gorge themselves on the spoils.
It isn’t rebellion that drives you—at least, not yet—but a quiet, gnawing sense of wrongness.
You have lived your entire life within the confines of this palace, its gilded walls both a sanctuary and a prison.
Outside, beyond the Forum and its grand marble temples, the streets of Rome teem with despair. You’ve seen it, fleeting glimpses on the rare occasions you ventured beyond the palace gates.
Children with hollow eyes and grime-streaked faces.
Men broken by war or taxation, their shoulders bowed under invisible yokes.
Women clutching bundles of rags that you realized, with a sick lurch, were infants too still to be alive.
These thoughts weigh heavily on you as you sit by the pond, the garden’s beauty unable to shield you from the world’s harsh truths.
You lower your quill, pressing trembling fingers to your lips, when the sound of approaching footsteps pulls you sharply from your thoughts.
You stiffen, the air in your lungs turning to stone. It isn’t one of the servants; their steps are lighter, quicker.
This tread is deliberate, measured, carrying a weight of authority. When you glance up, your breath catches.
The man before you is not adorned with the opulence of the Senate nor the ostentatious silk of the emperors.
You know who he is. How could you not?
General Marcus Acacius.
Rome’s shield and sword, the hero of distant campaigns whose name is whispered with both reverence and fear.
You have never seen him in the flesh, for he seldom resides in the palace, choosing instead to live with Princess Lucilla far from its labyrinth of intrigue.
But his likeness is everywhere: etched in marble statues, painted in frescoes, immortalized as Rome’s protector.
Yet, here he stands, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if the gods themselves have sent him.
The crimson cloak draped over his broad shoulders glints faintly in the golden light, its hem embroidered with intricate patterns that seem to tell the story of the empire’s conquests.
His tunic, simple yet stately, is cinched with a polished belt, a gleaming buckle bearing the proud insignia of the wolf of Rome.
Unlike the ornamental decadence of the Senate or the twin emperors, his attire speaks of purpose and practicality—beauty tempered by utility.
And his face—by Jupiter, his beautiful face.
It is a map of victories and sacrifices, weathered yet noble. The lines carved by years of sun and battle only enhance the sharpness of his features, as if the gods had personally molded him for their own designs.
His hair, dark and streaked with silver like the gleam of moonlight on a blade, curls faintly at his temples.
His beard, neatly trimmed, frames a mouth set in the hard line of a man who has spoken a thousand commands and swallowed a thousand regrets.
But it is his eyes that strike you most: deep, piercing, soulful-brown eyes.
They are the eyes of a man who has seen the best and worst of humanity and bears the weight of both.
Your breath catches as his gaze sweeps over you, taking in the sight of a young servant clutching a parchment like a shield.
He regards you with a sharp, assessing gaze, his eyes like iron tempered in fire—unyielding yet reflective.
His presence is commanding, a gravity that draws everything into its orbit. You are struck by how different he is from the emperors.
Where Geta and Caracalla exude indulgence and cruelty, Acacius carries himself with the disciplined grace of a man who has known the weight of true responsibility.
“Not many choose the gardens for their thoughts,” he says, his voice deep, steady, and tinged with curiosity.
It is a soldier’s voice, devoid of the honeyed pretense of courtiers.
You scramble to your feet, clutching your parchment to your chest. “General,” you manage, your voice trembling despite your best efforts.
He raises a hand, the gesture more commanding than any shout. “At ease,” he says, a faint flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—crossing his face. “You are Livia's daughter?"
His question hangs in the air like the distant clang of a bell. You nodded, your name feels small in your mouth when you finally say it, barely audible against the rustling of the garden’s leaves.
Acacius nods, as though filing the information away. His eyes flick to the parchment in your hands. “A poet?”
You hesitate, “I... I write, sometimes. Thoughts.”
He steps closer, his presence overwhelming yet strangely grounding. He does not reach for the parchment, but his gaze lingers on it as though he could read its contents by sheer will alone.
“Thoughts on Rome, perhaps?” he asks.
His tone is even, but there is an edge to it, a subtle weight that suggests he already knows the answer.
Your throat tightens. To speak of the empire’s flaws to a general of its armies feels like standing on the edge of a blade.
Yet something in his bearing—a quiet patience, a restrained curiosity—compels you to answer honestly.
“Yes,” you admit softly. “About Rome. And its people.”
Acacius’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly, a shadow crossing his face. He looks away, toward the pond, his gaze distant now, as if seeing not the still water but something far beyond it.
“The people,” he repeats, almost to himself. “The heart of Rome. And yet, the heart is always the first to be sacrificed.”
The words are spoken quietly, but they carry the weight of experience, of battles fought not just with swords but with conscience.
You watch him, your earlier fear now replaced by a cautious curiosity.
"Do you... believe that?" you venture, your voice barely above a whisper, the words trembling like a fledgling bird daring its first flight.
Marcus halts, his crimson cloak swaying like the banner of a legion stilled in the wind.
He turns to you, his eyes—sharp as a polished gladius—softening for the briefest moment, as if your question has reached a part of him long buried under layers of duty and steel.
“Belief,” he begins, his voice low and steady, carrying the weight of a man who has lived lifetimes in service to an empire, “is a luxury in the life of a soldier. I deal in action, not faith. But I have seen enough to know that Rome’s strength lies not in its emperors, but in its people. And we are failing them.”
The honesty in his words strikes you like the tolling of a great bronze bell, reverberating through the quiet garden and deep into your chest.
It is not what you expected from a man like him—a hero to some, a sword-arm to the empire—but here he stands, speaking not as a general but as a man, his voice laced with something unguarded. Regret, perhaps. Or hope—fragile and faint, but alive nonetheless.
“Do you believe in Rome, little one?” His question falls like a stone into still waters, and you startle, unprepared to have the conversation turned toward you.
“I—” Your words falter, and you look down at your hands, clutching the parchment that now feels like an accusation.
But then, something inside you stirs—something that refuses to shrink back beneath the weight of his gaze.
You lift your eyes to meet his, the courage in your chest kindled like a flame drawn from embers.
“I believe in what Rome could be,” you reply, your voice steadier now.
“I believe in the Rome that lives in the hearts of its people—the ones who work its fields, who build its roads, who kneel at its altars not out of fear, but out of love. That is the Rome worth fighting for. But the Rome I see now…” Your throat tightens, but you press on.
“...has forgotten its people. It worships marble statues and golden coins while the streets crumble and the people starve. How can an empire endure when its foundation is so neglected?”
Your words spill forth, unchecked and unmeasured, and it is only when you see the faintest flicker of something in his expression—respect, perhaps, or surprise—that you remember who stands before you.
The weight of your boldness sinks in like a gladiator realizing they’ve overstepped in the arena.
“Forgive me, General,” you murmur, lowering your gaze. “I forgot myself.”
But Marcus shakes his head, a wry smile playing at the edges of his mouth. “Do not apologize,” he says, his tone gentler now, though no less commanding.
“You are young, but your words carry the wisdom of one who has not yet been corrupted by power. Few speak with such clarity, and fewer still with such courage.”
His gaze lingers on you, searching, and you feel it like the sun breaking through storm clouds.
“You remind me,” he says, his voice quieter, almost reverent, “of someone. He believed, as you do, in the strength of Rome’s people. He would sit in gardens much like this one, speaking of justice and duty, and wonder aloud whether the empire could ever live up to its ideals.”
Your heart quickens, the weight of his words settling over you like the cloak of a goddess.
The way Marcus looks at you—as though he sees not the servant, but the soul beneath—makes you feel for a fleeting moment.
“I am no philosopher,” you say softly, your fingers tightening on the parchment. “But it is hard to remain silent when I see so much suffering.”
“A Roman citizen has every right to speak of their empire’s failings,” he says, stepping closer now.
“Do not mistake me for a politician, child. I am a soldier. My loyalty is to Rome—not to the men who rule it."
You nod, the words settling over you like a cloak woven of both gravity and reassurance.
The air between you feels charged, alive with the kind of understanding that is rarely spoken but deeply felt.
You watch him, his form cast in the golden hues of the setting sun, the crimson of his cloak vivid against the muted greens of the garden.
There is something about him that draws you—not merely his reputation, not the legends whispered in the palace halls of his valor and victories, but him.
The man behind the titles and statues.
You swallow, your heart a restless bird in your chest. You should not linger, not with him, not now.
And yet, you find yourself unable to walk away.
Words rise to your lips, hesitant at first, but then they spill forth, tentative and careful, like a child offering a wildflower to a god.
“Forgive me, my lord, but shouldn’t you be inside?” you say, your voice trembling under the weight of its boldness. “The palace is bustling with your celebration—wishing you fortune for your campaign, for Rome’s glory.”
He turns his gaze to you, the faintest flicker of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. “Rome’s glory,” he repeats, as though tasting the phrase on his tongue, finding it bitter.
He lets out a soft chuckle, low and warm, a sound that feels oddly out of place amidst the solemn grandeur of the garden. “Let them feast. Let them toast. I’ve no appetite for gilded words tonight.”
You blink, surprised by his candor. He is not what you imagined—not the marble statue immortalized in the Forum or the hardened general whose name echoes in the chants of soldiers. He is… more human than that.
“I’m waiting for my wife,” he adds, his tone casual, though his eyes seem to linger on you as if measuring your reaction.
Princess Lucilla.
The name hangs in the air, heavy with the weight of legend. Rome’s Princess. The only daughter of Marcus Aurelius, the philosopher-emperor. You’ve never met her, though her shadow looms large over your life.
“She was delayed,” he continues, glancing toward the palace, though his stance is relaxed, unhurried.
Princess Lucilla, her legend precedes her, a name spoken with reverence, and sometimes, in hushed tones, with fear.
Your mother, Livia, has served her since she was but a girl.
Livia, who moves through the world with a quiet dignity, has always spoken of the princess with unwavering loyalty. “She carries Rome on her shoulders,” your mother would say, her voice tinged with both pride and sorrow. “The weight of a crown rests on her brow, even though it does not sit there.”
Your thoughts drift, but his voice pulls you back to the present.
“Your mother,” Marcus says, his tone shifting to something softer, more contemplative, “she’s a loyal servant to our household, isn’t she?”
You nod, feeling a strange warmth rise to your cheeks. “She is, my lord. My mother adores the princess. She always speaks highly of her.”
At this, Marcus smiles faintly. His expression, though guarded, carries a warmth that feels rare, as if he’s allowing himself a brief reprieve from his usual stoicism.
“Livia is wise, then. Lucilla is… more than most know. Rome sees her as Marcus Aurelius’ daughter, but to me—” He pauses, his voice lowering to something almost reverent.
“She is a woman of strength, far greater than any man I’ve known. Her loyalty to Rome and its people… it humbles me.”
For a fleeting moment, his mask of a hardened general slips, and you glimpse something deeper.
A man bound not just by duty but by love.
His words hang in the air, gilded with affection, and you feel a pang of longing, though for what, you cannot say.
“I’ve never met her,” you admit, your voice quieter now.
He turns to you, curiosity flickering in his gaze. “Lucilla?”
You nod, feeling suddenly self-conscious beneath his scrutiny. “I’ve only heard stories. My mother always told me about her strength, her grace. But we’ve never crossed paths.”
Marcus regards you for a long moment, as if seeing something in you he had not noticed before. “She would like you,” he says at last, his voice steady, though something lingers in his tone, a note of intrigue.
“Are you coming to the feast tonight?” he asks, the question catching you off guard.
You hesitate, glancing toward the palace where the distant hum of celebration filters through the evening air. “Servants are not permitted to attend such events, my lord,” you say, lowering your gaze. “I am only a servant after all,"
His brows furrow slightly, as if the answer displeases him. “Rome is built on the backs of those it calls servants. Do not diminish yourself.”
You blink, unsure of how to respond. There’s a weight in his words, one that feels both heavy and freeing.
Before he can say more, hurried footsteps echo through the garden. You turn, and there stands Alexandra, one of the palace attendants, her expression tight with worry.
“My lord,” she says, bowing her head quickly as her wide eyes catch sight of Marcus.
The respect is immediate, almost reflexive. General Acacius commands not just authority but admiration.
Men respect him, but women… they speak of him in hushed tones, a figure both distant and impossibly magnetic.
“Forgive me for interrupting,” Alexandra continues, her voice trembling slightly under the weight of his gaze. “Your mother is looking for you,"
Marcus looks at you, his expression softening. He steps aside, the movement graceful despite his formidable frame, as though making room for your escape.
"Tell Livia my apologies for keeping her daughter here," he says, his voice low yet deliberate, as though each word is a promise carved in stone.
His gaze lingers on you, longer than it should, and it feels as though he is reading something beyond the surface—a map of your heart, perhaps, etched in the lines of your face.
For a moment, the world narrows to just this: the garden bathed in the golden light of a setting sun, the faint murmur of the distant feast, and the weight of his eyes, heavy yet strangely gentle.
There is something about you, his expression seems to say—something unspoken but undeniable.
You feel it too, a spark that flickers to life beneath the layers of duty, expectation, and fear.
“I’ll see you at the feast tonight,” he says, the words more a statement than an invitation, leaving little room for protest.
There is a finality to his tone, yet also a quiet insistence that stirs something within you.
Before you can respond, he dips his head ever so slightly—a gesture of respect, or perhaps acknowledgment—before turning and striding away, his crimson cloak flowing like a banner in his wake.
You bow reflexively, watching him disappear into the shadowed corridors of the palace, his figure swallowed by the grandeur of Rome itself.
Yet even as he leaves, his presence lingers, an echo in the air, a weight in your chest.
As soon as the sound of his footsteps fades, Alexandra is at your side, her face alight with barely contained awe.
“Was that… the general?” she whispers, her voice tinged with something between disbelief and reverence.
“Yes,” you reply, though your own voice feels distant, as though it belongs to someone else. Your thoughts are still tethered to the garden, to the quiet intensity of his gaze.
“By the gods,” she breathes, clutching your arm as though you might disappear. “He’s… he’s even more handsome up close.”
You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Careful, Ale,” you chide gently, though there’s no malice in your words.
“I’ve heard so much about him,” she continues, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“About his loyalty to Maximus Decimus Meridius—the late general—and how he served under him during the great campaigns. They say he adored the princess even then. Some even whisper that his loyalty to Maximus was why he stayed so close to her after his death, marrying her to protect her.”
You glance at her, your brow furrowing slightly. “You know far too much for someone who spends their days in the laundry.”
She grins, unrepentant. “The laundry is where all the palace’s secrets come to dry.”
You shake your head, though her words gnaw at the edges of your mind.
You’ve heard the stories too, in bits and pieces from the older servants: tales of Lucilla’s love affair with Maximus, and Marcus’s steadfast devotion not only to his commander but to the empire itself.
A marriage born of loyalty, they say, not love. And yet, there’s something in the way Marcus spoke of Lucilla earlier that makes you wonder.
As Alexandra chatters on, her words a tide of gossip and speculation, your thoughts drift back to Marcus.
To the way he stood in the garden, his form framed by the soft glow of the setting sun. To the depth in his eyes, like wells carved by the gods themselves—deep enough to drown in, and yet you couldn’t look away.
You feel a strange restlessness in your chest, a stirring you can’t quite name. It isn’t admiration, nor fear, but something more complicated. Something heavier.
Marcus is unlike anyone you’ve ever known—unlike the indulgent senators with their honeyed words, unlike the cruel twin emperors whose laughter carries the sting of a whip.
He is a man of iron and fire, tempered by years of battle, yet beneath that hardened exterior lies something softer. Something… human.
And perhaps that’s what unsettles you most.
You’ve spent your life surrounded by women: your mother, Livia, with her quiet strength and unshakable loyalty; the other servants, who taught you to navigate the palace’s labyrinthine halls.
Men were distant figures, their power felt but never seen up close. Fathers, you’ve only heard about in stories—abstract concepts, not flesh and blood.
But Marcus is no abstraction.
He is real, tangible, a presence that feels larger than life yet undeniably mortal.
To see him, to feel him, is to glimpse a side of the world you’ve never known—a world shaped not by whispered orders or silent sacrifices, but by action, by conviction, by the weight of decisions made on the edge of a blade.
You shake your head, trying to banish the thoughts, but they cling to you like the scent of blooming jasmine in the garden. “It’s nothing,” you tell yourself, though your heart betrays you with its restless rhythm.
“Nothing at all,” you murmur, though even the words feel like a lie.
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ihavemanyhusbands · 2 months ago
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Veni, Vidi, Amavi
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Also on AO3
Part I // Mini-Series Masterlist
Pairing: Lucius Verus Aurelius x Fem!Reader
WC: 2.8k words
Summary: After your first encounter, you attend the next games to watch Lucius fight, and celebrate his victory with him after.
Warnings: SMUT (18+ ONLY MINORS DNI), canon naval battle with some canon divergence, graphic depictions of violence, mentions of blood and death, reader is a courtesan (so SW), some angst, mutual pining, semi-exhibitionism (there are guards around), sort of audio voyeurism, unprotected p in v, aaaaand I think that's it but lmk if anything else!
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The roar of the crowd was near deafening as you made your way to the Emperor’s box behind Queen Lucilla, General Acacius, and Senator Gracchus. Hundreds of feet pounded in a war-like rhythm, all eager — or more like absolutely salivating — for a good spectacle. Snapping and jeering like rabid, bloodthirsty dogs.
You would never understand that insatiable, sadistic need to see another’s brutal destruction. Nobody ever thought they would watch somebody they loved be subjected to it, just strangers who weren’t really people in their eyes. But it was more common than most would like to admit, the sand forever stained not just with crimson, but also with the salt of mourning tears.
You hid your unease behind a cool, placid mask, smiling back at Senator Gracchus as he glanced at you over his shoulder. He had been curious when you had first requested to attend the games with him, but having just found out about Prince Lucius’ return and rising fame in the arena, he was amused at your antics. 
Your patron might be old, but he was no fool. Gladiators always caught the eyes of pretty, young girls like you, especially ones such as Lucius. It was really no wonder you’d want to see his glory for yourself, so he had conceded if only to indulge you.
And when he’d helped you off the litter that had carried you to the Colosseum, he had not been surprised to notice you were hiding a garland of myrtle inside your sleeve. A common enough offering to Venus, goddess of love. He made no mention of it, though, content to just watch how things played out. 
Once you’d arrived at the box, each of you knelt in front of the twin emperors and kissed their rings. Emperor Geta smiled down at you in that enigmatic, impish way of his, but his brother mostly ignored you. Not that you really minded escaping his notice, though. Better than his scorn or, worse, his interest.
“Let us begin,” Geta said, his excitement palpable as he rose to address the crowd. “We are all in for a real treat.”
You went to stand next to Queen Lucilla, sensing that her tension matched yours, even if she was perfectly poised and regal. She’d had many more years of experience hiding her true emotions, after all. You shared a small smile with her, both silently recognizing it as a moment of solidarity.
“Citizens of Rome!” Geta called out, his voice rising above the crowd. “Today, in honor of General Marcus Acacius' triumph in taking over Numidia, you will be witnessing no mere games!”
A heavy, metallic noise resounded throughout the arena as it seemed to shift, the ground underneath you shaking fiercely. But what you heard next made dread sink into your stomach like a heavy stone – rushing water. A flood’s worth of it. Soon enough, the arena was immersed and massive sharks were fed into it, menacingly circling about. At opposite sides, great iron gates groaned open to reveal two war vessels flying different colors – Roman and Barbarian.
And captaining one of them was a figure you recognized all too well, even at a great distance. You felt as if a fist were closing in around your throat, robbing you of breath. Instinctively, you stepped forward to try to get a better look, but Senator Gracchus put a hand on your back to stop you from going past the thrones. 
This seemed to anchor you back to the present, and you reminded yourself that the Lucius that you saw in the arena was not the tender one, but the fearsome warrior.
Let him live, you thought pleadingly, clutching the garland tighter. Oh, Gods, please let him live.
General Acacius waved at the crowd, muscles tensed even as he smiled, thanking them for the great honor. Emperor Caracalla, infected by the madness of bloodthirsty enthusiasm, jumped to his feet. 
“It is war!” he cried, smiling sadistically from ear to ear. “Real war!”
If it was even possible, the crowd roared louder, the cacophony railing against your eardrums. Queen Lucilla clenched her jaw, gripping the headrest of one of the thrones tightly. With a shaking hand, you accepted the wine Senator Gracchus offered you and clinked your glass against his.
The two vessels circled each other closely, quickly searching for any weaknesses and readying to strike. The Roman fleet was cocky, though, moving in without a shred of uncertainty. The Barbarian vessel narrowly missed their initial attack, but they came close enough that a few Roman fighters jumped onto their boat.
The loud clash of swords followed, a few bodies falling overboard, some still living. The waters bloomed crimson, the sharks going into a frenzy at the scent of blood. You spotted Lucius again in the chaos, driving his sword through the last invading Roman fighter and yelling out commands to his fellow gladiators. 
Both Emperors leaned over the edge of the balcony, shouting and jeering along with the rest of the Roman populace. General Acacius hovered near them, but he watched as somberly as the rest of you. The vessels came close again, but in a cunning move, Lucius made his rowers pull the oars at the last moment before impact. 
The oars of the Roman vessel tore into the side of the Barbarian one, tipping it sideways but effectively getting them both stuck together. Fighters from both sides clashed once more, desperation seeming to take place as both boats were threatening to capsize. 
Without noticing, you grasped Senator Gracchus’ arm as you waited for the outcome. He placed a hand over yours, watching just as raptly. Numbers dwindled quickly in favor of the Barbarian fighters, and you felt like you could almost sight in relief. But what happened next was so fast that you almost thought you’d imagined it.
Before anyone could actually be declared victor, an archer loosed an arrow that sailed towards the emperor’s box, landing between their thrones. Chaos ensued, the two of them crying in outrage and surprise. Immediately, General Acacius and the Praetorian guard moved to safely evacuate them. 
“Let’s go, all of you!” he commanded, voice booming.
Senator Gracchus ushered you and Queen Lucilla to follow as some guards encircled the three of you. You tried getting one last look at the arena but saw nothing more than the splintered masts of the vessels. Thankfully, Lucius was still alive, at least for the time being.
But just in case, you sent a prayer up to the Gods that nobody else noticed he was the one to shoot the arrow. 
—--------------
A small torch was your only source of illumination as you navigated through the streets of Rome to the prison where Lucius and his fellow gladiators were being kept. After relaying Lucius’ demand to see you, Queen Lucilla insisted on sending one of her guards with you. He marched at your side, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, ready for any possible assailants leaping forth from the dark. 
You hid your face under a hooded cloak and let your companion speak to the jail’s guard as you arrived at the iron gates. The jail was cavernous, damp, and cool, and oppressive in the darkness of night. You shuddered, unable to fathom being imprisoned in such a place, even for a day. Your heart ached for those who already were, ignorant of when – or if – they might be released.
He guided you to Lucius’ cell, opened the large, heavy padlock, and let you in. Both guards waited outside of the cell to give you some privacy, and you removed your hood so Lucius could see you. He stood up from his cot, a smile slowly breaking out on his handsome face.
You let him take you into his arms and kiss you, leaving you swaying on your feet. You pulled away just enough to look him over as if reassuring yourself he was alive and all in one piece. His smile didn’t falter under your assessment – in fact, it seemed like he was proud to have proved himself to you, keeping the promise he’d made at the bathhouse. 
“Today was… I don’t even have the words to describe it,” you said, hugging him close. “When I realized it would be no ordinary fight, I feared for you… I still do.”
He placed one of your palms on his chest, right over his heart. “You have nothing to fear. I’m here.”
You glanced over your shoulder to make sure the guards weren’t watching, then lowered your voice to a whisper.
“What you did at the end, it was beyond foolish,” you said, shaking your head slightly. “I made an offering to Fortuna for all the favor she bestowed on you today. I do not think anybody else realized, or else we would not be standing here.”
“Another reason to celebrate,” he said, not bothered in the slightest. “Perhaps it was even luckier that the arrow didn’t strike true.”
“You really meant to kill one of the Emperors?” 
He shook his head. “Not them. Acacius. But in reality, I wouldn’t have minded if either of them had fallen.”
“I suppose it was a good thing the rest of us were out of range,” you murmured, looking down.
“I would never harm you,” he said gravely, grasping your chin and making you look him in the eye. “Never.”
You were nearly floored by the sincerity in his gaze, but even more so by the passion you found there, as well. It went beyond lust, even. Nobody had ever looked at you in such a way. You leaned forward and kissed him gently, letting him know that you trusted him.
“I know, Lucius,” you said.
“Then, let us not concern ourselves with anything, or anyone, else for now,” he said. “Tomorrow, the sun will rise and Rome will still be Rome. In the meantime, there is only us.”
The echo of his words at the bathhouse made you smile softly. A part of you wanted to ask more questions about his wanting to kill Acacius, but there was a slight edge of finality to his tone. Regardless, it wasn’t like you wanted to waste what little time you had together lecturing him. 
You reached up to undo your cloak, intently holding his gaze, and let it fall on his cot. “Claim your prize, then, fierce warrior. I am all yours.”
With a glance outside, he extinguished the torch in his cell and closed the distance between you. His lips melded against yours desperately, tongue slipping into your mouth. With ease, he lifted you into his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist.
He sat on the cot so you could straddle him, his hands wandering down your back and settling on your ass, giving it an appreciative squeeze. He groaned into your mouth, his chest rumbling against yours. He pulled your dress over your head as best as he could, leaving you in your thin shift. 
His hands traced the curves of your hips and waist, like a sculptor working clay into a masterpiece. He cupped your breasts, your nipples poking through the fabric, and you leaned back to give him access. He managed to pull the shift down to your midsection, revealing your chest. He trailed open-mouthed kisses on your sternum, moving lower. 
His tongue teasingly flicked one of your nipples, making you suck a breath through your teeth. He lavished them both with attention, the graze of his teeth and the pinch of his fingers igniting a fire within you. You continued trying to be as quiet as possible, even if he made it extremely difficult.
You reached between your bodies to palm his growing erection over his tunic. His hips bucked upward, seeking more of your touch. One of his hands cupped the back of your neck, leaning your forehead against his.
“How does it feel,” he rasped. “To be the only one who can disarm me so completely?”
You felt a heady, triumphant rush, nipping at his bottom lip. “I’ll keep the secret for you.”
He chuckled, surrendering to another fervent, dizzying kiss from you. You hiked up your shift as he lifted you slightly so he could free his cock from beneath his tunic. You spat on your hand and reached down to spread it on the sensitive head, moving to grip the base so you could line it up with the entrance of your cunt. You sank down slowly, your face so close to his you seemed to share breath. 
“Just like that,” he groaned, hands gripping your hips tightly. “I needed this more than you know…”
“Let me take care of you,” you whispered, letting out a breathy moan, head tipping back in ecstasy. 
You felt like you were filled to the brim by him, clouding all your other senses. He slid in and out of you easily, your arousal dripping down his length and pooling on his sac. His mouth was on your chest again, your fingers weaving through his hair. 
“Oh, Lucius…” You sighed dreamily. 
He pulsed at the sound of his name on your lips. In order to prolong the pleasure for both of you, he rolled you onto your back on the cot, keeping himself sheathed inside of you. He pushed your legs back, driving your knees past your elbows, his weight pinning you down. 
His thrusts were deep and hard, but not fast, intent on letting you feel him in his entirety. Your face contorted with pleasure, the intensity of it all nearly too much for you to bear. He groaned your name with the intensity of a supplicant. His sac tightened as he felt you squeeze around him, knowing he wouldn’t last too long no matter how much he tried. 
“Say my name again,” he said, eyes blazing. “Say who you belong to.”
“Lucius,” you panted deliriously, tears gathering on your lashes. “Ah, Lucius!”
His thrusts picked up the pace, frenzied, the sound of flesh slapping together unmistakable. You cupped his face in your hands as you felt yourself coming apart under him, trembling. A cry threatened to escape you, but he covered your mouth with one hand, muffling it. 
He shushed you gently, but his breathing became ragged as he reached oblivion himself. You felt warmth flooding your cunt, his last thrusts shallow, fucking his spend deeper inside you and making sure no drop was wasted. He uncovered your mouth and kissed you as if in apology, both of you dazed and content.
He rolled over to lie very closely at your side, the cot barely big enough for the two of you. His strong arms enveloped you once more, making you feel safe perhaps for the first time in your life. There were still a few hours before sunrise – before Rome and everything else that came along with it became real again – so you could languish with him for a little while longer.
The last thing you wanted was to untangle yourself from him, anyway, instead nuzzling closer. Your fingers softly traced patterns on his forearm as you pondered what this might mean for the two of you.
“Do you… really intend to stake your claim on me?” You asked tentatively. “Outside of this?”
You deliberately avoided any specific labels, not foolish enough to presume anything. Things were still precarious and new, but you already felt bonded to him in a way you couldn’t truly explain, and a part of you had to believe he felt the same way.
“Of course,” he said, but seemed hesitant to say more.
You shifted onto your belly to look at him, his fingers now tracing up and down your spine lazily. 
“Are you certain?”
He nodded, sighing deeply. You’d already known there was a lot weighing on him that he did not speak about, and while you didn’t want to add to his burden, you needed to know this. If only to save yourself some pain.
“There are a great many things at stake right now, including my freedom,” he said, looking up at the ceiling pensively. “Much of what I still have to do is dangerous, and only the Gods know the outcome of it all. I intend to do everything in my power to protect you, in the meantime, and I cannot allow you to become a part of what must happen. I cannot risk losing you.”
You weighed his words for a moment, then nodded in understanding. “You are lucky, patience is a virtue I possess in great quantities.”
He looked back at you and kissed the tip of your nose affectionately. 
“I don’t make promises I don’t intend to keep,” he said, lacing his fingers through yours. “And I can promise you that as soon as I walk a free man, the first one I will run to is you.”
-------
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schrodingerscougar · 11 months ago
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Note: the 2nd part for this. fem!reader. cheating. i didn’t think you would like it so much, but since you did, here’s part two.
•••
Maybe if he watched you close enough, if he kept an eye on you while he was near, Simon would get the answers he was looking for. All he wanted was a glimpse into your mind, a glint in your eyes that would give away why you’d spent those nights by his side without saying anything about it.
The mission was slowly coming to an end, and he had overheard you and Johnny talk about your plans for your time home. The Scotsman offered to go on a short trip with you to Rome, visiting the city you’d read so much about in the past year or so. Going there was a promise you made to yourself on New Year’s Day and he was more than happy to help make it happen.
“Have you introduced her to your family?” Simon asked Johnny one evening when they went out for a drink.
The younger man gave him a confused look, but once the lieutenant motioned towards the corner of the bar where you were deep in a conversation with Laswell, his lips formed a flat line and he nodded a few times. “Yeah, well, I mentioned her once to my sister, and the next thing I know, my mother’s blowing up my phone. I’d rather keep her away from this insanity,” he explained.
“Wise choice.”
He hated this. He hated to know that Johnny was dating you, he hated to keep up this nice conversation with him, all while he was struggling to find out why you cared about him back then. His mind was full of stupid ideas again, that maybe you weren’t that deeply in love with the fellow sergeant. What if he was just your backup plan? What if the one you truly wanted was him?
Fucking hell. He was truly losing his grip.
“I’m going back to the base.”
Simon looked to the side, only to find you standing there with this adorable warm smile on your perfect, kissable lips. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Johnny taking your hand, his fingers lacing with yours before he raised it to his mouth to place a soft kiss on it.
He definitely didn’t have the right to be upset about it. Yet, he felt a pang of jealousy, and he was maybe even offended by the way Johnny’s blue eyes shined when he looked at you. His mind was telling him it should be him, even though he knew it was against the regulations.
“Let me finish my drink and I’ll walk you back,” Johnny said, but you just shook your head and told him he should take his time, have fun, and maybe he should talk to the others too. “You think I’m ignoring them? Well, I do spend a lot of time in the Lt’s company, that’s true,” he mused.
After he took a glance at the empty glass next to him, Simon had an idea. “I’m done for today anyway, I can go with her if you don’t want her to go alone,” he offered.
While Johnny seemed happy that he was kind enough to go with you, you looked hesitant. Unsure. Damn, if he didn’t know any better he would’ve said you looked scared for a moment. But why would you be scared? He didn’t do anything that could scare you.
In the end you agreed, so the two of you were soon out on the street, walking side by side. The need to reach out and take your hand poisoned Simon’s mind, and he decided to stuff his hands into the pockets of his jacket instead. He glanced over at you every so often, enjoying the view that he wouldn’t see for a few weeks at least.
“Why did you stay by my side in the infirmary while I was recovering?” he suddenly asked, his eyes fixed on you to see your facial expression.
And sure enough, at first you looked shocked. “What do you mean?” you inquired innocently.
With a sigh, Simon came to a halt and grabbed your wrist to make you stop as well. “I saw you there. And the doctor confirmed that you spent every night there with me while I was knocked out.”
“Look, it’s—”
“Why? I need to know,” he pressed on.
You buried your fingers into your hair as you spinned on your heels to turn away from him. “I don’t know, I just didn’t want you to be alone,” you admitted.
Once he took a deep breath, he was quick to blow it out. “So you stayed out of pity?”
“No! I mean… God, Ghost, I don’t know, okay? It just didn’t feel right to let you lie there on your own, I didn’t want you to wake up alone, and—”
He shouldn’t have done it, but it felt so good. Because Simon launched forward, his big palm placed on the back of your neck as his lips crashed into yours. At first you were frozen from surprise, but then you returned his kiss, lips moving against each other in perfect sync. He had been waiting for this for so long that he couldn’t even believe it was happening.
He was only pulled back to reality by your voice after you pulled away and took a few steps away from him. “What the hell are you doing?” you asked. “Fuck, what the hell am I doing?”
“It’s okay, we can always pretend it never happened,” he said with an aching heart.
“You don’t get it, do you?” When Simon shrugged and shook his head, you walked back to him and poked his chest with your index finger. “I’m with Johnny, this is totally against the rules, and no matter how badly I always wanted to know what it would be like to kiss you, this can’t happen again. But I know it happened and it’s going to torture me now.”
With a gulp, Simon nodded. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me,” he said with a sigh.
To his surprise, you put a hand on his now masked cheek, a move so gentle that he was beginning to get very confused. And when you pulled down his mask, things got even more confusing, because you stood on your toes and kissed him again. This time you let yourself go, your fingers grabbing a fistful of his hair as you moaned against his lips.
“We should get going,” you said once you let him go and pulled his mask back to its place.
“I don’t understand what’s going on.”
Instead of answering, you flashed a smile at him, making his life a living hell by playing an innocent angel. But then you curled your finger to make him come a little closer. “Neither do I. But we will have to figure it out.”
(part 3)
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vermiciousyidreborn · 4 months ago
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People like to talk about the lessons Jews should or did learn from the Holocaust, as though that's the only genocide we've been through. They like to say it should make us the nicest, kindest people because we've been through the worst so how could we ever inflict pain on others? How could we ever hold ourselves as more important to us than others, having seen the camps?
The thing is, we did learn a lesson. And it's a lesson we've been taught time and time again. That when it comes down to it, not only will non-Jews look the other way when Jews are slaughtered, they will gleefully participate and cheer it on. From Rome to the Crusades, to Spain, to Germany and all the places in between, we've learned that we're in this alone. We want to all be in this together, but everyone else has made it clear that that's never going to be the case.
So we know we're alone, that other than a very small minority, the only people who will ever object to Jews bieng murdered are other Jews. The Righteous Among the Nations are a tiny minority, and for every person who was a member, there are not hundreds who think they would have been. Some of them think they would have been and are celebrating the largest pogrom since WWII today. They're wrong, of course. If the Nazis came for the Jews, they'd do what they're doing: celebrate it.
Yes, we learned our lesson. We learned you all hate us, and Jewish existence has to be secured by Jews, no one else will do it for us or help us. This combined with our ancient longing to return to where we came from and created the modern state of Israel. Then there were more attempts to wipe out Jews, more attempts to drive us into the sea and destroy us, but this time, Jews took our future into our own hands and survived. Were there excesses? Yes. War crimes? Definitely. Have the past decades included missteps, crimes, and all sorts of horrible things? Yes.
But why would Israel do these things? Survival. Why has the war against Hamas in Gaza been so destructive? Why has it expanded to Yemen, to Lebanon, and potentially to Iran? Survival. In the end, Israel is a country with a single mandate written in stone: the Jewish people will live. And on October 7th, 2023, Hamas made it clear that whatever mellowing they'd appeared to do, whatever potential there had seemed for peace, Hamas finds that mandate to be intolerable. They believe the Jewish people must die. And then they killed as many as they could. Then the Houthis and Hezbollah joined in, firing rockets and drones.
If you're a country whose mandate is "the people of my country must survive" and with the historical understanding of "and no one will come to our aid if things get really serious" then what do you do? You, too, would view this struggle as existential. You, too, would likely accept casualties and destruction to try to root out the groups trying to wipe you off the face of the Earth. And you, too, wouldn't trust the people who seem weirdly obsessed with attacking the country that is going to extreme lengths to ensure that you survive.
What did the Jewish people learn from the Holocaust? We're alone. Help isn't coming. We have to deal with threats by ourselves. And that's why Gaza is in ruins, why Beirut is being bombed, and why Biden is trying to persude Netanyahu not to destroy Iran's oil refineries. And amid all this, you all are taking to the streets, calling for our deaths, and proving that those lessons were right, but might not have gone far enough.
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greenwitchfromthewoods · 6 months ago
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the arrangement. [part 2] l General Marcus Acacius
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[PART 1]
Summary:  you have to ask General Acacius for help and you know that only one thing can convince him
Warnings: +18, smut, unprotected sex (don't do that), breeding kink, mentions of death and blood, a bit of sadness
A/N: i didn't plan a part two, but - here it is! if i disappointed anyone's expectations, i apologize. here i tag people who requested it @hidden-poet @stormseyer . have mercy on me.
Crowds of people looking for good entertainment gathered in the coliseum that hot day. You never liked this place, but your position obliged you to appear there, especially when you were invited by prominent people of Rome. It was the same this time.
You hadn't spoken to Marcus since your last meeting a few days earlier. You carried out his orders as he asked you to. Despite the pain, you appeared in the city, you also received a few guests, no one guessed that your heart was shaking. You also didn't meet General Acacius anywhere. You couldn't and didn't want to expose him to any consequences if it turned out that the Emperor would also look at you unfavorably.
"Lady Y/N, I’m delighted to see you here." the voice of one of the senators tore you from your thoughts.
"The pleasure is mine, Senator." you replied, nodding your head slightly. "Wonderful weather for the games, don't you think?"
"Wine, food and beautiful company are enough for me, games are an addition and a whim of the Emperor." the man laughed "I was hoping to see you here. The latest rumors about your... ekhm... slave. Outrageous."
"Thank you. Fortunately, the law is clear."
"Right, right!" the senator took a sip of wine. "Each of us should know our place."
"Wise words, Senator."
The lodge was filling up with more guests invited by the Emperor. More greetings and smiles, the clinking of goblets and laughter. Excitement was reaching its zenith.
"General Acacius!"
A nervous shiver ran through your body, but you decided to only cast a quick glance at the man who had joined the guests. Dressed in white and gold, his skin touched by the sun, his dark hair with a few silver strands gleamed in the rays of the sun. General Marcus Acacius looked like one of the gods' favorites.
Only the appearance of the Emperor with his closest entourage tore the group of people who were delighted with him away from him.
"Lady Y/N."
His warm, quiet voice touched you gently like a pleasant evening wind.
"General." You curtsied slightly to pay him respect.
Your gazes met, and his slight movement of the head gave you more answers than all the words he had spoken could. In one moment, you ran out of breath, and your eyes stung from the tears filling them.
"Don't show it. They're watching." Marcus said, standing so close to you to shield you from prying eyes for a moment, his hand lightly grabbed your arm, this gesture was the only tenderness he could afford in that situation.
It was the first time he had seen you so broken and his heart couldn't bear it. He wanted to take you in his arms, let you hide in his embrace and protect you from all this evil and despair.
However, all he could do was give you a few moments to put yourself back together and show an unwavering face again. But not a single tear scratched your cheek.
"I am grateful to the Gods for seeing you healthy and strong."
Although Marcus could hear a slight tremor in your voice, the people around you couldn't do that.
"Your words, my lady, are the greatest grace." He replied, taking your hand in his and kissing the back of it tenderly. "I’m grateful that I can feast my eyes on your sight today."
He saw you part your lips to say something, but the sound of trumpets tore you away. The show had begun, and Marcus could only pray that you would hold on.
His dark eyes were on you almost the entire time. He could see you clearly, you were like a statue of a goddess in one of the temples. Unwavering, strong, with a mysterious smile that appeared on your lips whenever one of the guests spoke to you. Only once did he see a crack in that wonderful facade—when Margo appeared in the arena and her spirit left her body—Marcus thought you were going to faint, but you didn't take your eyes off the bloody sand of the coliseum.
As guests and spectators began to leave the coliseum, he stood by your side again.
"My lady, do you have someone who could take you home safely?" You seemed distracted to him, and your gaze was absent. "Let me take you to my place. I don't want you to be alone."
"General... Marcus..." his name on your lips sounded like the sweetest melody to him. "Thank you, but I can't..."
"Don't make me beg you here," he whispered. "Please."
After a moment of thought, you nodded and let him lead you to the exit.
General Acacius's house was a quiet and peaceful place. The evening air was cooler and a pleasant gentle breeze blew through the open shutters, filling the rooms.
Marcus made sure that the servants prepared a bath for you and didn't bother you even when you dismissed the women accompanying you to be alone. This was your time, and he wanted to give you as much of it as you needed.
"Marcus..."
He looked up and saw you standing in the doorway of his chamber.
A silk robe gently wrapped around your still damp body. Your gaze was full of pain, but you looked at him gently.
"Y/N, please." he began, approaching you. "I beg your forgiveness, I couldn't do anything. I tried to talk to the Emperor, but I couldn't do anything. He didn't care about her, and our involvement..."
"Shhh..." your delicate hand tenderly stroked his rough cheek. "I have to thank you, Marcus. For everything you..."
"I didn't do anything! I couldn't!" he interrupted you sharply.
"But you tried. I believe in it. I couldn't demand it of you. I don't know what I was thinking, asking you to risk so much for me..."
"I would give my life for you, you know that."
Your hand slid down his neck and rested on his chest. You felt his heart beating hard, his chest heaving with each breath.
"I know Margo was reconciled with her fate. I could feel it looking at her. She was strong, but calm." your voice was calm "Maybe you won't understand this, but she was my best friend. For years. She was devoted and loyal to me. I just wish she didn't suffer."
"Death came for her quickly. Now she's calm and safe."
"Thank you, Marcus."
His hands stroked your shoulders, and his lips kissed your temples lightly. His closeness seemed as natural to you as never before.
"Stay here tonight. I don't want you to be alone with all this." He said, and when you opened your mouth to say something, he added "I know you can, you're a strong woman, but today you don't have to be like that. Let me take care of you."
His eyes were so sweetly apologetic, you knew he would take on everything you felt just to make you feel better.
"You can take my chambers. You'll find comfort worthy of a queen there."
"Marcus..."
"I won't even touch you with a finger. You're safe with me."
"I know."
You trusted Marcus completely. Even when he walked you to his chambers, he didn't insist, nor did he make any move to suggest that he wanted to go there with you. It was you who, before leaving, kissed his lips gently. No words. They weren't needed.
But sleep wasn't a pleasant escape. The minutes passed, and you still felt wide awake. You weren't sure if you had slept for even a few moments. The house was quiet, only the cicadas in the garden keeping you company during the next few sleepless minutes.
No one heard your footsteps. You quietly left the bedroom and made your way through the darkened corridors to the room where Marcus slept that night. The door opened and you slipped inside.
The room was a bit smaller than the bedroom Marcus left you in, but you could smell the same pleasant scent of jasmine and burning candles that brightened the interior. You saw him sitting in an armchair with the shutters open. You thought he was dozing, but when your hand slipped into his tousled hair he stirred restlessly.
"Have mercy on me." he whispered, turning slightly and spotting you behind him. "You would be the perfect assassin, sneaking up on me so silently."
"Is that a compliment?" you asked, a faint smile appearing on your lips.
"I'm completely defenseless around you, so yes, it's a compliment." he replied. "You can't sleep. Me too."
"This house is so quiet and peaceful." you sighed quietly as he took your hand and touched it with his lips, standing up. "I feel like I don't know the words to thank you for what you did for me, then and now."
"I didn't do anything, Y/N."
"You were my rock, Marcus. That's more than anyone else has done."
"But I couldn't save you from the pain."
"Can either of us do that?"
He stared at you intently. His eyes were full of sadness and tenderness. Maybe that night gave you courage, maybe what Marcus did made your heart open to him. But you felt so safe with him that you wanted to be even closer to this man.
You didn't push away his hand that stroked your cheek. It was a relief for his heart.
"I'm ready to fulfill my promise, Marcus." You said calmly. "I'll stay with you in this house, we'll fill its quiet rooms with the laughter of children."
"Don't say that if you don't mean it." He replied, taking your face in his hands. "I couldn't do anything against your will."
"But it's my will, it's what I want. My heart has always been yours, but I was afraid."
"What were you afraid of, love?"
"War. Death. Enslavement. You were the image of all of this." He closed his eyes, probably guessing it. "So I was unavailable to you. I wanted to get rid of this feeling, but you never made it easy for me. You were my daily fear and night dream. Everything I feared and desired. I was sure that you only desired my body..."
"I don't deserve you. I don't deserve even one of your glances, love."
"So why am I here? This is what I wanted. I want you."
You took his hand and slid it down to your chest. Only a thin layer of silk that separated his hand from your soft and delicate breast. When he squeezed it lightly and saw how you parted your lips, he was sure that grace had descended on him.
His lips collided with yours in a kiss, and his warm tongue slipped between your lips, caressing you tenderly. He absorbed you with his presence, and you submitted to him humbly. You clung to his strong body, feeling his desire grow.
The silk robe that wrapped around your body slid to the floor. You stood naked before him, his eyes adoring you.
"You'll make me the happiest man in the world by letting me love you." he whispered.
"I allow you, Marcus."
In an instant his lips were on yours again, kissing you passionately and hard, and before you knew it you were already in his strong arms as he lifted you up and carried you towards the bed.
You felt the cool sheets beneath you, and then your eyes stopped at Marcus. He took off his toga. His body looked like it was created by hands and in the likeness of gods. Broad shoulders, narrow waist. You noticed a few scars on his skin, but they didn't destroy his image. And finally his hard cock, so ready for you.
He covered you with his body, his lips roamed over your stomach and chest, showering your body with kisses. Warm lips found your nipple and closed on it, you felt his tongue teasing you sweetly. Your body arched, and Marcus' strong arm slid under you and you knew you wouldn't get out of this delicious trap.
The tip of his cock teased your entrance, and you felt yourself getting wetter with each of his movements.
"Tell me you want me, please." he whispered, kissing your neck. "I'm begging you."
"I want you, Marcus. I need you more than air. Make me yours."  
He groaned painfully, kissing your lips. Strong hands gripped your hips to position you the way he wanted you.
His tip slowly slid into you, filling you completely. You caught your breath, trying to get used to the feeling of Marcus being inside you. He must have felt the same, because you could hear his slow breathing as he buried his face in your hair.
"It's wonderful to feel you." he whispered, looking at you, his eyes as dark as ever before. "I've wanted you for so long."
"And you have me."
One strong movement of his hips, a quiet moan escaped your lips. Gods, he would give his life for that. He began to move faster, more rhythmically, feeling your pussy take all of him. He tightened his grip on your thigh, afraid that he would hurt you, but you didn't even flinch. Your fingers intertwined in his hair, pulling him closer, kissing him like you needed him to be able to breathe, and with each thrust he heard those sweet sighs escaping your throat.
He felt like a barbarian destroying something as beautiful and sacred as you. But you wanted him. He felt it in your every move, saw it in your every look. You wanted him.
"Marcus, please..."
Your velvet walls squeezed his cock harder and harder, and he knew he wouldn't last long. He'd wanted you for so long. But he wanted to see it. A few more hard thrusts and he saw your body arch in the rush of pleasure flooding your body. Your nails dug into his shoulders, and you bit your lip, feeling like you were about to fall apart. But his arms held you tight and steady. You were safe.
And Marcus didn't slow down. The way you squeezed his cock made him closer, and his movements were faster and harder now. You could feel his sweaty body against you, his quickened breath.
"Fill me, Marcus... Let me carry your child." You whispered in his ear.
He came with a loud groan, digging his fingers into your thighs so hard that you were sure you'd see bruises there the next day. Warm streams filled you to the brim.
Marcus made you his. He filled you with his seed, you'd be full of his child. If not now then soon, you were sure of it.
"Tell me you're not just a beautiful dream."
His rough voice brought you back to his arms. You looked at Marcus, his eyes full of adoration for you. He looked so vulnerable that you began to understand what he meant by calling you the perfect assassin.
Even though you were the one who promised him your devotion and loyalty, you were both on the same page.
"What if I was just a dream?" you asked, stroking his cheek tenderly, his cock was still inside you, you could stay like that all night.
"I don't want to wake up then." he replied "I don't want to see another sunrise knowing I can't have you. That would be torture."
"I wish we could stay like this forever. I feel your love and it fills my heart too." You saw his gentle smile "Let's take what fate has given us, maybe we shouldn't doubt anymore."
"So you'll stay?"
"I will. I'll be proud to be your wife, General Acacius."
"You'll be so much more." His lips brushed yours in a tender kiss "My queen, my goddess. I will worship you until the end of my days."
And you knew he wasn't lying. General Marcus Acacius was a man of honor.
And he was yours.
Forever.
☆☆☆
Thank you for your time.
502 notes · View notes
kingkat12 · 5 months ago
Note
Hiii !! I don’t know if you’re still doing Roman Godfrey imagines but if u are can u do Husband!Roman he just have gotten back from work after a hard day & u guys have a smoke session than things take a turn & u two have rough sex?? (U can do your things with the smut I can’t really think of anything 😂🫶🏽 but ty !!)
if i'm still doing Roman Godfrey imagines... IF I'M STILL DOING ROMAN GODFREY IMAGINES??? it's all i ever do, sweetheart🙈💜 i fucking loved writing this and i hope i've done your wish justice!! it took a different turn than expected, but this only means i might have to revisit this tihi... and it's the first bj i've ever written lol so hope it went well! ENJOY!!🌸
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silk tie (roman godfrey x reader)
WARNINGS: 18+, piv sex, bondage, oral sex (female receiving), blowjob, suit-fetish, smoking
summary: your husband has had quite the day... and now he's adamant about making it a little better
word count: 4,347
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I hadn't noticed Roman was home before I walked past the balcony.
It was about three in the morning, which was an odd time for him to return from work. Or had he arrived back earlier?-- I had been asleep, so there was no way for me to know. I never waited up for him anymore, as he was usually either grumpy or completely exhausted. He wouldn't exactly take it out on me, but I was still unsure how to deal with his mood swings ever since his upir cravings got worse. 
Maybe our marriage wasn't perfect, but it had its moments. Moments such as these.
I watched as Roman leaned against the balcony railing, clearly deep in thought as he smoked a cigarette. He was still wearing his suit, not having bothered to get out of his work attire. On top of that, it was clear that he had been ripping at his hair because it looked like an absolute mess. With quiet steps, I joined his side, not saying a word. I could only look at him, revel in the upward curve of his nose, the pout of his lips, and the way he lazily balanced the cigarette between his fingers. 
"Hey, gorgeous," I said, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. "How are you?"
Roman hummed, exhaling a cloud of smoke through his nose. It was clear that his mind was elsewhere. "I've been here for fifteen minutes and this is my sixth cigarette. I think I'm slowly going insane,"
It wasn't unusual for Roman to get into these depressive ruts-- it would often happen when work got a little crazy and Pryce wouldn't get off his case. "You're not going insane," I stepped away from the balcony, wrapping my arms around my husband from behind. "You just need to get some sleep... Come to bed." My words were muffled against his broad back, pressing a kiss through his suit. 
Roman sighed, running his free hand over my fingers, feeling how small I was against him. "I already slept an hour in my office," 
Typical. "An hour isn't enough,"
"Well, I'm not sleepy anymore, and that's all that counts," Roman stumped the cigarette against the railing, another sigh escaping him. "But don't let me keep you up."
I nuzzled my face against his back, inhaling the scent of his cologne; I had missed him today. "I don't want to go back to bed without my husband," 
"It wouldn't be the first time,"
I rolled my eyes-- enough was enough. His self-deprecation could be downright annoying sometimes, mostly because he was more stubborn than a donkey. "Talk to me, Rome, what's on your mind?"
Roman gave in, turning to me. Like this, I could see the way the bags under his eyes had darkened since this morning and the way his eyelids were halfway drooped into a look of exhaustion. "It just... hit me today that all my ties are silk,"
"... What?"
"Silk," Roman echoed, and he had a hollow look about him as he wrapped his arms around me. He put his head on top of mine before burying his nose in my hair, inhaling sharply. "The devil wrapped in silk is still the devil."
It didn't take long for me to realize that he was talking about his urges again. "You're not the devil, Roman," I drew small circles on his back, hoping to soothe him. I couldn't help but wonder if he'd had something to drink on top of this. "You're working through it and you're doing well. Do you not realize that?"
He hummed; "It's just not fair to you," Roman's hands went up in my hair, pulling me tighter against his chest. "I want to grow old with you, but sometimes I wonder whether it was a good decision to get married... Whether I shouldn't have been selfish enough to drag you down with me."
I put my hands against his chest, slowly pushing myself away. This was a different speech from his usual sad ones-- this was new. "... What are you saying?"
Exasperated, Roman groaned as he turned away from me, leaning over the railing once more. He dragged his hands through his hair, tugging a little too hard at his roots. "I don't-- I don't know, okay? I just want Pryce's treatments to work, to be rid of whatever the fuck I've become, and just... Fuck! I hear the beating of my heart all the time and it's driving me fucking crazy!" He drove his elbows down against the surface, covering his ears as though it would help. 
My body was begging for me to go back to sleep, but my heart was actively shattering at the sight of Roman so broken. I took slow steps towards him; with wary movements, my fingers dipped into the jacket of his suit, fishing out a pack of cigarettes. My other hand went into the front pocket of his trousers, fishing out his lighter. I wasn't the biggest endorser of smoking, but I knew exactly why Roman did it-- it slowed down his heart, making it easier to bear the constant sound of his blood pulsing through his veins. 
I put the cigarette between my lips, now feeling Roman's glossy eyes on me. Lighting it, taking a rather long drag myself, I made my way between his arms. I balanced the cigarette between my fingers, holding it up in front of his mouth, and it didn't take long before he accepted it, wrapping his plush lips around it with a satisfied sigh. 
Something about the look of relief on Roman's face gave my heart the ease it had needed all day. Knowing I could be the one to soothe him, to bring him down from his panic, assured me that we were good for each other after all. 
I reached out for his tie, feeling the silk between the pads of my fingers. "When you're not fed love on a silver spoon, you learn to lick it off knives," My hands left his tie, now resting against his chest, feeling the beating of his heart against my palm. "You've cut your tongue so many times that when life hands you a flower, you can't quite make out what it is. It takes time, Roman. Marriage takes time."
The smoke from the cigarette wrapped around us like a warm duvet, the warm summer breeze blowing it away with soft strokes. A kind, subtle smile spread across Roman's lips, finding solace in my words. His free hand traveled down to rest against the small of my back, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss against my forehead. "Sometimes at work, I have thoughts of simply dissolving into you," he murmured, pulling away to take another drag before continuing. "It's unexplainable, but the thought is always there... and there's nothing I want more than that."
I let out the breath I had been holding, glad to see him calm again. "Are we talking sex?"
The laugh that followed made my heart sing; "You'd think so, but that's not how I meant it," Roman took a final drag, putting out the cigarette and tossing it away somewhere. "Although... I could mean it like that."
"Of course you could," I got up on my toes to give his neck a sweet kiss, knowing I couldn't reach up to his face. "But I think our first priority would be to get some sleep, and then we'll see what we can do in the morning if we have time." 
Roman bit his lower lip, suppressing a cheeky grin. His green eyes sparkled with the familiar look of want, and I immediately knew he was up to no good. "I have to disagree... I think the first priority would be to get you out of my shirt,"
My eyes widened-- I had forgotten that I was wearing it. In my defense, it was easier to fall asleep when he was away if I wore it. "What, you want it back or something?"
"No," Roman's voice dropped as his hands went down to grab at my waist. "Just want it off."
"It's three in the morning!--"
"And since when did we care about that?" He didn't even try to suppress his growing smirk anymore, and I watched his pupils dilate in real time as ideas soared through his dirty, dirty mind. It didn't take much time before Roman took my hand into his, bringing it up to his mouth to press a wet kiss against my knuckles. My breath hitched, having missed the sensation of his lips against my body. But suddenly, he lowered my hand and pressed it up against himself, leaving me breathless and in shock. 
Roman gave in to a laugh at the expression on my face, leaning down to press a kiss against the underside of my jaw. "Are you really going to deny me when I'm in a suit? That always works like a killer on you,"
And he was definitely right about that-- everything about him right now made me want to jump him. "Who said anything about denying you?" I mumbled, rubbing him through his trousers, my fingers feeling along each divot and ridge of his length. Swallowing hard, I realized I could feel him grow harder beneath my palm. "I just don't think we should be doing this on the balcony..."
Roman hummed, a low moan vibrating in his chest; "Yeah, good idea," I barely had time to register what was happening before his big arms wrapped around me, hoisting me over his shoulder as I yelped. It always surprised me that he could lift me as though I weighed nothing, and I laughed against his back as he made his way back into the house with a strong grip around me. 
"Rome, for fuck's sake!" I couldn't stop the trail of giggles escaping me, happy to see this side of my husband again. "You can't be serious-- Hey!" The squeak that escaped me was unlike anything I had heard coming from my mouth before, but how else was I to react as Roman struck his hand against my ass? Something about the sting was both painful and weirdly arousing-- I couldn't put my finger on it. Was this my lack of sleep talking?
Roman proceeded to chuckle, leading us into the bedroom. "Of course I'm serious," It didn't take long before he laid me down on the bed, crawling over to me like a predator. "I'm a serious man, you know me." 
"Yeah, right," 
As Roman made space for himself between my legs, I couldn't help but fling my arms around his neck to pull him close. I had waited for him to come home all evening to do just this-- the bliss that filled my body as our lips finally met was unmatched by any other heavenly feeling on earth. "I've wanted you all day," I purred against him, feeling the hardness of his cock twitching against me. 
"Don't say that shit," he whispered back, letting out a shaky breath as he raised himself up. "Makes me feel like I'm going to burst."
I bit down a giggle, my hands reaching for him once more. "Oh, come on, it hasn't been that long since last time!"
"... Three days?"
"Three days?!" I could barely believe it-- this was outrageous. Blinking rapidly, I watched as Roman's smirk reappeared, now leaning back down to capture my lips in a soft, passionate kiss. His arms wrapped around me, pulling me flush against him and the fabric of his suit. "Well, I've been busy... and you've been out a lot," he murmured against my lips, his hot breath against my mouth making me shiver. "It's almost as though I need to make sure you're always here waiting for me... Because there's no way in hell I'll let another three days pass before I fuck you again."
I wasn't quite sure what he was getting at, but I liked the sound of it. I liked everything about this actually-- his tongue against mine, my hands in his hair, the feeling of our hearts beating at each other through our chests. But suddenly, the weight of him disappeared off me, and before I knew it, Roman's green eyes practically pierced me as he knelt before me, my legs creasing at his thighs. 
I knew this look. This look of lust, love, and mischief; I couldn't take my eyes off of him. The way his chest heaved, the way he stared down at me through his brows, and the way the corners of his mouth turned upwards into a smirk made my stomach flutter. 
It only dawned on me what Roman actually meant when his hands went up to his tie. Silk. My eyes widened; "Oh God, Rome--"
"Let's strike a deal," he purred, drawing the black tie through his fingers as he licked his lips. "Deal with the devil, if you like. Your little wish for mine."
I nearly shuddered, feeling my pulse quicken. "And what is it that I wish?"
Roman's chuckle was darker than expected. Something told me he had wanted to do this for a while. "I know you have an affinity for my suits, so I'll keep it on. And you... will stay still," 
Stay still? I could only squeal as Roman grabbed my hips, moving me further up the bed with ease. My breaths came out in short, ragged motions as he took my wrists into his big hand, tying them to the headboard with the other. The mix of the situation and my lack of sleep made me light-headed; "Rome," I mewled out against his chest, looking up to try to meet his eyes. I let out a quiet hiss as he tightened the tie around my wrists, watching as he made sure there wasn't much wiggle room.
This was something new. 
"Perfect," Roman said, mostly to himself, before taking my face into his hands to press a wet kiss against my lips. "Fuck, this is perfect... Let's just stay like this forever, hm?"
My heart fluttered, and I had to swallow rather hard as he made his way down my neck, leaving a trail of kisses along my body. It was hard to say no to a man towering well over six feet dressed in a ridiculously expensive suit. I squirmed against my restraints, my lashes fluttering as I remembered how sleepy I actually was-- but the tie was tied tightly around my wrists, and there was nowhere for me to go. "Since when do you have the energy to do this at three am?" I tried, hoping to stop my breath from hitching as his hands neared the hem of my shirt.
Roman took his time with giving me a response, his fingers now grazing my bare skin, leaving me shivering with anticipation. "You know you're talking about your husband, right?" he said, pushing my shirt further up as he spoke. "Were three days enough to make you forget that I always have energy for this?"
Before I had the opportunity to answer, Roman leaned down to lick a wet stripe up my stomach. I let out a broken moan, tugging at my restraints once more, squirming beneath him. "Rome, shit--" As he paired his licks up with kisses, I quickly felt my arousal pooling between my legs; there was no going back now.
We had never actually talked about tying me up like this, and I wasn't sure whether this was torturous or pleasurable. All I wanted was to reach down and run my fingers through his hair, tug him closer, feel him-- everything about the denial made me further desperate. 
Seeing as I was dressed for bed, I wasn't wearing a bra; something told me that my husband approved. It didn't take long before my shirt was at my arms, Roman's lips wrapped around an aching bud as he sucked at me. I could only write and moan, feeling completely breathless. "I can't-- Fuck, Roman," 
It felt as though the smell of cigarettes swallowed me whole, dragging me deep into the depths of my arousal. My hips bucked up against him, desperate for more, but all my attempts were shut down when Roman grabbed my hips and pinned me down to the bed. "Behave," he said, a low grunt following as his grip on me tightened. 
Hearing that word, I knew I was screwed. It suddenly became very, very apparent that Roman was in one of those moods-- this was usually the side of him that would come out when he felt like everything around him was spinning out of control, meaning he had to control the only thing he felt he could; me. 
And with me being tied up and all, I couldn't help but comply. 
"Sweetheart?" Roman shifted, making sure he had my attention before he sat up. Slowly, his hand inched down to his zipper, a cheeky smirk spreading across his lips. "I've had such a tough day, and seeing you like this is really making it all feel better... But I wanna see how pretty you look with your lips around my cock."
The teasing tone in his low voice was enough to drive me crazy. Along with that, the proper look about him had me struggling to breathe. There was something tantalizing about the fact that America's youngest CEO was right here, married to me, wanting and needing me. So when Roman unzipped his trousers, leading his hard cock to my mouth, I gladly accepted it.
I slid just the tip of my tongue up the underside, so light he could barely feel it-- it was mostly just the sensation of my breath. Judging by the sound of Roman's breath hitching and the slight twitch of his cock, I knew I was on the right track. I gave the tip a gentle kiss before giggling to myself, not having to look up to know he was blushing. "For fuck's sake," he breathed, reaching down to grab a full fist of my hair, pulling me closer. 
This was his way of politely saying please.
So I gave in, wrapping my lips around the head of his cock, sucking him in, and tasting the drop of pre-cum that immediately landed on my tongue. It was followed by a downright lewd moan from Roman, who loosened the grip on my hair before throwing his head back just a little. I couldn't help but glance up at him, so prim and proper in his suit, yet completely unraveled by the slightest touch. 
And since my hands were tied and I couldn't touch him, I reveled in the fact that I could taste him. Which is why, when Roman pulled out of my mouth with a rather wet pop, I pouted up at him as he made his way back down. But my pout quickly faded as my lips parted, my breath escaping me as he rubbed the tip of his cock over my chest. "You're too damn pretty," Roman said as he stroked himself at the sight of me. "Do you want my mouth on you before we go?"
"Yes, please," The ache between my legs almost burned-- there was nothing I wanted more in the world.
It didn't take long before Roman tucked himself back into his pants and moved down my body with eager kisses, and the anticipation nearly had me panting so hard that I was sure I might pass out. But the tension in my body quickly dissolved as Roman pulled my pyjama shorts aside, licking a wet stripe up my sex, which made my back arch off the bed. My hands strained against the tie, letting out a weak groan-- I was dying to bury my hands in his hair. 
"You're already so wet," Roman purred, leaning down to press a soft kiss against my clit. "Could've fucked you already." His fingers dug into my hips to hold me down, sucking me in as his lips covered my mound. It felt so intense, that I could barely hear my own thoughts; I heaved in sharp breaths of air, squeezing my eyes shut as I struggled against my restraints. It only got worse when Roman's tongue slid over my sopping entrance, entering me, fucking me-- I was sure I was dreaming.
It was too much. Especially when he cupped my breasts, pinching my nipples between his thumb and pointer finger. I could only cry out, my fingers gripping harshly around the tie. My overstimulation washed over me like a wave, and I was sure it was due to my lack of sleep. "Roman, please, I can't... I want you in me-- A-Aah," I couldn't stop the way my hips bucked against him, nor the way my gaze darted down to watch his eyes falling shut as he savoured me, his thick, long lashes casting shadows over his cheeks.
Thankfully, my husband wasn't in the mood to keep me on the edge tonight. Roman got up, a knowing smirk spreading across his slicked lips. "I might have to tie you up like this more often," he said, palming himself through his suit. "This is quite the sight."
From his perspective, I could understand this-- it wasn't every day that he saw his wife splayed out like this, t-shirt draped just above her bare chest, and completely at his mercy. On the other hand, I was sure I had gotten just as good of a bargain. I had been begging Roman to fuck me in one of his suits, and here he was, finally complying. If this wasn't love, then I couldn't be sure. 
"Oh, you should see yourself," I purred, biting back a grin. "Mr. CEO... All mine."
Roman let out a soft chuckle, leaning down to press a kiss against my lower abdomen as he pulled off my pyjama bottoms. "Always been yours,"
I could only sigh, feeling a surge of warmth coursing through my veins. At the end of the day, it was true-- Roman was mine, and I was his. Bonded together through our testimony, before the law, and before all things celestial. Everything about this would've been perfect if I wasn't bonded to the bed as well. My wrists were starting to ache, but I didn't have much time to think about that as I felt Roman entering me, a low grunt escaping him. I couldn't help but shudder, feeling the familiar stretch and fullness I had been craving for so long, and I struggled against my restraints as I cried out in pleasure.
Roman kept one hand planted on my hip, the other one gripping hard at my thigh. Seeing the expression on his face was nearly enough to make me moan-- Fuck, how I had missed this. The feeling of his cock inside me, the feeling of his hands on me, and being completely at his mercy. He had thankfully learned to be a little gentle with me at the start, and I felt his green eyes on me as I closed mine, lips parting at the sensation of feeling him thrust into me with slow strokes. Heaven, heaven-- it was impossible that such pleasure could be dealt by the hands of a devil. 
"Shit," Roman's hands gripped my waist, a need growing with each pump of his cock. He was so damn gorgeous, his sharp jawline twitching as he clenched and unclenched his teeth. It didn't take long before he grew impatient-- he shifted, the next snap of his hips digging his cock completely to the hilt in my warmth, a soft moan escaping him as my walls fluttered around his length.
My breath hitched, letting out a string of curse words. "Rome, please," The tie around my wrists was starting to drive me mad; "I want-- A-Ah, wanna touch you..."
I wasn't sure whether Roman was hearing me or not, his lips parting in pleasure. Eventually, he leaned forward, his mouth crashing onto mine, holding me close as I moaned against him between kisses. Now that he was even closer, I wanted nothing more than to wrap my arms around him and feel the fabric of his suit against my body, fulfilling my deepest fantasy. "Please," I breathed, my back arching as his cock brushed past my sweet spot. "Rome, please..."
I could feel him smirk against my mouth, and Roman pulled back to watch the absolute desperation swimming in my eyes. "What was that?" As he waited for my response, he pulled out until only the tip of him remained in me.
For fuck's sake-- "Please!" I cried, struggling against my restraints. "I can't... I can't--"
A sense of victory flashed through Roman's green eyes, traces of a darker satisfaction spreading across his lips as he thrust all the way back into me, watching me writhe and moan beneath him, fighting the urge to rip the tie to shreds to embrace him. "Fine," he said, leaning forward to clasp my wrists, smirking as his breath landed hot against my lips.
A moan mixed in with the sigh I let out, my hands immediately flying up into his hair as the tie was tossed away somewhere on the floor. Roman laughed against the kiss I dragged him into, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me into his lap, his cock still in me. "That was so much fun," he purred against my lips, grabbing my ass to drive me up and down along his slicked length. "We're doing that again."
"Fuck you," I pulled Roman tightly against my chest, feeling his arms snake themselves around me with the same intensity. It hit me how much I loved the feeling of him against me, how warm he was today, and how insanely hot he looked in that damn suit. Our lips came together in open, soft kisses, breathing against each other as our eyes locked, intense pleasure coursing through our bodies.
Roman was most certainly not the devil, and I could confidently conclude with that. However, I couldn't deny that he liked to play the most devilish games at the most inappropriate times-- but I had never loved my husband more than I did at this moment, right now. 
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painted-flag · 2 months ago
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A VICTOR, part one - Commodus
𓃮 emperor commodus x fem!reader 𓃭 masterlist. part one | part two | part three 𓃮 warnings: none for this part, but future descriptions of smut and violence. ��� As a longtime and loyal servant working in the underbelly of the palace, your emergence into the light catches the attention of the emperor. ✧.* This is a dedication piece to the man who started my obsession with questionable men/villains when I was younger and it only seems the right thing to do with all the hype coming back.
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There was something otherworldly about Rome. You always felt it, every moment of every day, that the impermanence of such a city would continue to ring through the annals of time. It had been there long before you and would remain long after. Many of the buildings may deteriorate and the people change – coming and going like the passage of seasons – but here, in this area of the world, Rome would come to stand the test of time. 
You had always been in awe of it all since you arrived as a small child. Eyes darted to every structure, every perception of movement, caught in a trance. Now, after many years, this place continued to enchant you. The lowly streets you grew up in did not last long. Your mother had caught the attention of palace organizers – her food was regarded as the best one could offer. 
Since then, you have moved to staying near the palace. It's so close to court yet so far away. Each day your mother would take you to the kitchens to help her as soon as you became old enough to take the stress of the job. It worked out in your favour, eventually landing you a spot as a servant with multi-talents. Such a thing was rare, and because of that, you were always busy. 
You displayed the same prowess that your mother had in the kitchens but managed to charm other experts in your youth to teach you different skills. From then on, the bowels of the palace became your sanctuary beyond the bounds of the chaotic streets of Rome. Whether it be in the kitchens, the textile rooms, or even the playrooms for the servant's children to stay in and out of the way, you were always found working. 
Today, of all days, you found yourself outside of the kitchen and serving instead. Recently your chores had changed to different duties that required you to be in areas of the palace you did not grow up in. You had learned to like the shadows cast by people as they scurried about the torch-lined hallways of the underground. Now, you were above ground. Serving when necessary, cleaning as well. 
You would not have minded if it was not for the piercing gaze of sharp green eyes that tended to follow you as you went about your work. At first, you had not noticed it. You were too absorbed in your duties to see the constant watch of the newly appointed Emperor. 
However, you caught on quickly. Emperor Commodus would watch you intensely when you would walk into a room he happened to be in. You did not dare reciprocate. Despite growing up in the bowels of the palace, you knew all too well of the habits of men in positions of power. Similar in age, he grew up with you, yet never once had you crossed paths. It was likely due to the protectiveness of your mother. 
Royal male children often became insatiable once reaching adulthood and your mother wanted to spare you from it. Yet, from what you had heard, Commodus had not the taste of princes that came before. Of course, there was still occasional trysts – you could remember a fellow servant giggling about spending a night with him. You could also remember the heartbroken look on her face as she was let go from her services and no longer permitted on the grounds the day after. That happened a few times; Commodus would take in a lover for the night and then discard them the next day as if they were a speck of dust on his feet. 
It was why his heated gaze made you increasingly nervous with each passing day. Any day you could meet the same fate as those servant girls and lose the only place you remembered calling home. 
You breathed in and out deeply, stabilizing the pitcher of wine in your grasp as you prepared to enter the large dining chambers. The Emperor was having dinner with some guests that night and you were tasked with serving. It was not what you wanted, having preferred to stay in the kitchens and make the food, but whatever your master Attius says is done without question. 
With careful and calm steps, you pass the large opening into the room with your head humbly facing the floor. It would be an offence to raise your head and make eye contact with any of the men in that room. 
Their conversation as well was no consequence to you. They were speaking of politics, of a real world outside of your own. There was no care in your life about politics. Why speak on something that does not know you, or rather women, have a capacity for things beyond what they have predetermined? Why should you give it any time of day, when it has not and will not do the same for you? Ultimately, deep down, you wanted to care enough to change something about that predicament, but you supposed you would have a better chance of fighting and killing a tiger in close combat. 
You made it to the table. Custom permits you to fill the emperor's glass first and you become exceedingly nervous once near him. Never in your time there had you been so physically close to him. It would be stupid to deny his exquisite physique. Commodus had likely been crafted by the gods, as it is with the royal line. He reflected the perfect nature of the gods and their mastered ability to craft the perfect human. Now that you were close, you could smell the scent of parchment and burning wood that clung to him. 
The pitcher tipped and you poured his wine. All the while you did not feel his heated gaze on you. He seemed too busy talking to the guests and them laughing as if everything he said was the most genius and original words to pass a person’s mouth. However, once you moved away and another started to talk, you could feel the shift of his eyes. It always caused your heart to race and the tiny nearly invisible strands of hair on your arms to rise. A tingle went up the back of your neck. 
The emperor ignored his speaking guests to watch as you poured the wine into their cups. They continued speaking, not wanting to call out their Ceasar for his lack of manners. They acted as though they did not notice his green eyes become attached to your form. You took in another deep breath, causing your chest to rise and contract within the fabric of your tunic. 
Once you were done, you made your way to exit. The walls had come to suffocate you, and each second under the green gaze of the emperor made you want to crumble and fall to the ground. A slave could not be in their presence for long. Many took offence to it. You had been taught that you go in and out quickly, acting like a fleeting shadow to quell their needs; preferably without them saying it. 
At the entranceway to leave, another slave coming in to serve grabbed you forcefully on your forearm. Callias stood in front of you, a sneer on his face. You tried to pull your arm from his grasp once but knew he would not let go. He had a habit of exerting his strength over the other slave women. You noticed that as a trend from other slave men. They often put down slave women in an effort to feel a sliver of power in a world that had taken what little they had. 
Pathetic, but then again you wished to feel the same way as them. Just a dash of power and a bit of control over the world would feel good. 
“Master says you have taken too long to serve them,” Callias whispered, “You are to go to the kitchens and stay there for the evening.” The venom in his voice, coupled with the pain of his grip, caused you to flinch. You slowly nodded and knew that if you were to say anything it would be taken as disrespect. 
Callias let go of you, nearly flinging your arm away from him as he left you to go serve the emperor and his guests. The spot he grabbed was red and you could feel the ache concentrated there. It would not bruise, but from how much it hurt that fact was not relieving. Finally, you were free and you made work of leaving. You nearly ran through the halls and down the flights of stairs to retreat back to the place you feel most comfortable. 
During it all, you had not noticed the piercing gaze of Commodus as he watched the exchange transpire.
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You had found yourself lost in the rhythmic motions of cleaning in the kitchens. It was soothing work once a majority of the workers had left for the evening. The silence allowed you to think as you meticulously scrubbed pots. While not your favourite chore, you scarcely trusted others to do the work well enough.  
The motions of your work distracted you so much that you did not hear the pattering footsteps of someone entering the room until they cleared their throat. You turned around and saw a guard. His clothing was more refined than the lower guards and you swallowed some saliva that was in your mouth. A slight sting of anxiousness swept across your spine. 
“The Caesar has summoned you.” His voice was smooth and echoed throughout the empty kitchen. Your gaze quickly swept about the space, hoping he was addressing anyone other than you. When you realized he was speaking to you, a weight settled in your gut. 
 “Is… is there a reason for my summons?” You questioned. 
The guard did not respond, choosing to turn around and walk into the exiting corridor by a spiralling staircase. You knew there was no other option but to follow. Putting the washing cloth down, you dried your hands and followed behind the guard. He remained a few paces ahead of you as he guided you up the stairs and through the halls of the palace. 
It was not as though you were oblivious to the location of the emperor’s chambers. Despite your limited time serving above ground in the palace, you still had mapped the entirety of the place when you were a child. 
Fear began to grow in your heart and weigh down on your lungs. There was an inkling of hope that he summoned you for something other than the reasons he called for other ladies. Your stomach growled, aware that you had not eaten since earlier that day. In the chaos of your work, it was a frequent habit to forget food. 
In a matter of minutes, you two had reached the doors to the room. He positioned himself on one side of the door, the other covered by a guard that was already there. You hesitated, unsure of what to do. The guard that fetched you grew tired of your loitering and sighed deeply before reaching for the hand and opening one of the two doors. 
You took one final breath and walked into the room. You scanned the area quickly, finding a large well-decorated room in front of you. Various mosaics spanned the walls, adding a sense of grandeur to an already elevated way of living. Carved busts were on display, along with various items that looked like they came from places outside of Rome – lands far beyond that were reached by the forces of the empire. In the very centre rested a bed. Four strong quartz pillars surrounded it, with linen draperies resting as a cover over the bed. 
You saw the figure of the emperor off to the side, standing with his back to you and facing a table lined with various foods. Fruits, nuts, meats, and baked goods you could recognize as having been made by you only a few short hours ago. He had already eaten recently – a grand feast with guests – yet already had more food lined up for him. That feeling in your stomach of both anxiousness and hunger screamed for a reprieve. 
He shifted to face you and your gaze quickly moved to the floor as a sign of respect. You held your breath, unsure of why he wanted you here. Was your service that evening awful? Had he lost care for the food you made and have fallen into disfavour with him? Or, were you going to end up like those other girls before, used and thrown out? 
“Look at me,” His voice was like honey, a sweet tang with a rich coat. You slowly raised your head and made contact with the sharp and deep sea green of his eyes. They reminded you of the foam that would wash up on the shores of your old home before coming to Rome. In a strange sense, it was familiar, which unsettled you more than it should have. 
“Wine?” Commodus gestured to a pitcher next to him and two spare cups. Your eyebrows furrowed as you scanned the gold-lined chalices. He let out a low hum as he awaited an answer. 
“Caesar, I don’t entirely understand…” You trailed off. 
“I thought as much,” He proceeded to pour wine into both of the chalices while you stood there in confusion. His figure was dominating and he had a manner that held control of the space. When he finished pouring both drinks, he turned back around and approached you. He held out the cup, but all you did was stare. It was incredibly unsettling to witness someone ranked so high above you serve not only themself but someone else of lower status.
“Well?” He moved the cup closer to you, his manner mostly amused, but underlined with a growing annoyance. 
“Th- thank you, Caesar.” You took the cup from him. Commodus’ fingers brushed against yours, warm but calloused. He hummed again and took a sip from his cup. You held yours, staring into the clear liquid. White wine, reserved only for elites. You had never even come near it in your life save a few times to serve it. Now that he was closer to you, the familiar scent of parchment and burning wood surrounded you. 
His eyes scanned over your body for a moment as a short silence fell over. Moving almost hesitantly, he used his free hand to reach up and brush the red mark on your forearm. You flinched, both by his touch and the slight pain it elicited. 
“That servant, the one who grabbed you, why did he do such a thing?” Commodus stepped back and moved towards the table full of food. He plucked a grape from a vine and plopped it in his mouth, an action that surprisingly caused a stirring in your lower stomach. 
“My master thought I lingered too long, Caesar,” Your answers were kept short, hoping that there was a way out of this. You still had no clue as to why you were summoned. 
“Lingered too long,” He repeated it as though mocking, but not towards you, “What a ridiculous notion. You are too pleasing to be a blight.” 
“I-” The words got caught in your throat. In one breath, he had insulted your master and then complimented you. You shifted the weight on your feet and decided to take a large gulp of wine, sweet with floral undertones. “Thank you, Caesar.” 
He made his way to his bed, climbing the two steps of the marble platform it was placed on and sat on the edge of it. Commodus was watching you as you stood there, still as a statue busts that littered the room and unsure of yourself. 
“There is something you wish to say. I can see it.” His words echoed through the room and reverberated through your bones. You ran your tongue over your teeth, tasting the sweet wine once more. 
“Is there a reason for my summons, Caesar?” You questioned. Commodus looked down at his cup and used his index finger to trace the edge. He appeared almost… lost for an explanation. 
“Your mother had been one of the cooks, the best as I remember. I’ve heard you have taken that place.” It was an obvious means of deflection, but you knew not to rebuke it. You were also unsure of how he knew so much about you. Did he inquire into your past before summoning you? Had you done something wrong?
“Yes, Caesar, I have been lucky to assume the position.” You answered. 
He surveyed you once more as if it was a personal struggle to look away. Not that it was anything unusual – Commodus always looked when you entered a room. That was likely the deciding factor in inviting you to his rooms after weeks of watching you. 
“Have you eaten?” He asked. 
“I… have not,” Your hold on the cup got stronger and warmed up the surface. 
“Eat,” He motioned with his cup towards the table full of food. You approached slowly, unsure of what to make of all this. It felt like a trap, it had to be a trap. The kindness he was displaying likely followed with a payment. You would have to repay him for this, and what better way would be your virtue? But surely the emperor did not need to bribe women, so what was really going on?
You reached out for a dried fig and ate it. Your stomach had been aching for a few hours and suddenly the onslaught of it all overcame you. The food in front of you was already beautiful, but it intrigued you even more. Commodus was not watching, but instead sat still and looked at his cup in deep thought. 
Silently, you ate. It was only for a few minutes, but the deep satisfaction of a full stomach was not something you were well acquainted with. After you were finished, you set your cup down that was now empty. The sound was sharp and caused Commodus to raise his head. You were still unsure of meeting his eyes. They were so intense that they would knock the air from your chest and cause your head to spin. That was not what you wished to experience. 
“Do you like your work?” His question was sudden and caught you off guard. It seemed that all Commodus was able to do was constantly surprise you with his demeanour. He was not like he seemed and you did not know whether that was dangerous or not. Unpredictability was unreliable. 
“I am honoured to serve the empire in any capacity,” Your words, rehearsed and polished, seemed enough to satisfy him. Commodus placed his cup down on a small bedside table and fell back onto the plush covers. He let out a sigh before adjusting and moving to the other side of the bed. 
“Come here,” He beckoned you over. Your brain started to conjure up scenarios, all of which would end up with you unsullied and out of work. However, you were surprised to see Commodus lying with his eyes closed. He patted the free spot next to him for you to sit. 
Slowly and unsure, you felt the bed dip where you sat and rested your back against the headboard. He kept his eyes closed, content with your compliance. 
“Sing for me.” He requested. 
“Excuse me, Caesar?” You asked. He opened both of his eyes, looking up at you through heavy lids. The space between you two was small and your heartbeat increased at that. 
“I know you can sing, I remember hearing it at the Cerealia festival. Sing for me.” He was staring at you expectantly. 
In your memories, you could briefly remember singing during that festival when you were a girl of ten – only a few years younger than the emperor. It was your first time singing in front of a large group of people. It had been a celebration in one of the gardens amongst some of the other slaves, but Commodus’ words led you to believe it was not just the slaves watching. 
A deep blush settled across your face. While you often occupied your time doing chores through humming and singing, it was not something you wished to do in front of others. The only reason why you sang at that festival was because your mother had wanted you to. However, no amount of excuses could ever be used to deny the emperor, so you took a deep breath to calm your nerves and began to hum a sweet tune. 
The sound carried through the air of the large room. Gradually, your humming turned into light singing. Over that time, Commodus had shifted closer, now only a finger width of space separated you two. One of his hands reached out to touch your forearm that rested by your side, brushing against the fading red mark. His fingers glided up your skin, raising the hairs there. The thumping in your chest increased. 
Quietly, as if not to disturb you, he spoke, “The slave that hurt you, what is his name?” 
“Callias,” You answered. Commodus hummed and closed his eyes again, nuzzling his head back into the pillows. He settled down but did not remove his hand from your arm. 
“Keep singing.” He mumbled into the pillow.
On his orders, you continued the song you had been singing before he interrupted. A warm breeze came in from the open balcony doors, reminding you of the heat of summer. Everything felt like an odd dream. This outcome did not even come across your mode of thinking when you were escorted to his room, but you were thankful it ended up this way. He had not tried to seduce you or even force himself on you when that failed. 
It seemed he only wished for company. You could not help but wonder if your performance so many years ago stayed with him. It was a stupid thought, silly even, to think that young him would have heard a slave girl singing and remembered. It was likely that you were simply sent up more often in recent weeks and had come to his attention. 
At the very least, that was what you tried to assure yourself as the emperor fell asleep next to you. You were not sure what you should do but decided to stay and continue singing. You did so until the stars came out and sleep slowly took over your body. 
In the haze of sleep, you could still feel the warmth of his hand on your arm.
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(I am ignoring my archaeology degree to write this. Like Ridley Scott, inaccuracy is my best friend.)
(Also, no beta reader, just my manic thoughts.)
☾⋆⁺₊✧ If you want to be added to the taglist, click here!
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honeyhotteoks · 11 days ago
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across stardust - two (j.yh); section one
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summary: you and yunho have worked together for years, idol and makeup artist, but until today you’ve never touched him skin to skin. when the world tilts on its head from just a brush of his cheek, you realize he’s so much more than a crush, he’s your soulmate. one | two (*section one); (section two) | three | four 🔗read on ao3✨ across stardust pinterest board
note: i hope everyone enjoys this chapter. it's wildly fluffy and wildly romantic, and then deliciously smutty so i hope everyone enjoys.
tags/warnings: idol!yunho, makeup artist!reader, fem!reader, soulmates au, soulmate identifying marks, soulmate tattoos, tattoed!reader, suggestive language, allusions to a past ex who pressured her into things she wasn't ready for, anxiety etc., and finally the smut; heavy makeouts, grinding, oral f!receiving, convos about oral m!receiving, lots of fingering, lots of cock touching, earth shattering soulmate sex, rough sex, soft!dom/pleasure!dom yunho and wide eyed sub!reader, heavy on the dirty talk, HEAVY on the praise. we got a lot of good girls in this one, and good god tagging for gratuitous use of pet names from yunho. lots of missionary and missionary adjacent positions, spooning sex to idk he's on his back and she's on top but laying on him it's hard to describe but by god is it hot please enjoy
pairings: yunho x reader
genre: fantasy, romance, smut || soulmates au
word count: 28.1k
**this part was too long for tumblr's new word count guidelines! please check out the second half of this part, here!
The tour ends in Paris of all places. After weeks of concealing your growing relationship with Yunho from everyone, it feels like the universe is rubbing salt in the wound bringing you to the so-called city of love. 
For weeks as you hopped city to city, a whirlwind of language and culture and food, you found yourself living for the quiet, stolen moments with him. Quick visits to each other’s hotel rooms and even faster kisses, but never a full night. He hugged you briefly in Amsterdam, left a single rose on your station in Rome, bought you a cashmere scarf in London when the weather took a turn. You catalog these moments in your memory, and scribble down musings in your travel journal, and try not to judge yourself for saving every little scrap of your secret relationship down to the gift receipt in the bottom of the bag and one of the rose petals (pressed dry between the pages of your latest read). 
Paris feels different though. Everywhere you look there are couples snuggled close in the winter chill, and though you aren’t necessarily one for public displays of affection, seeing it like this makes your heart ache. You’d at least like the option. But despite his little gifts, you and Yunho have been doing your best to be subtle, mitigating even the smallest glances, and getting to know him over text. It wasn’t enough, but you could cope, until now. Until this city. You weren’t supposed to walk through a city this romantic alone, not when your soulmate was a few blocks away in a hotel room. You were supposed to be with him.
He feels your ache though, and you feel his. 
Besides, it’s almost, almost over. 
In Paris, you all have an extra two days to account for the end of the tour and flights home, and the electric energy of being almost finished and almost home has everyone buzzing. The members are jittery with anticipation but so is the staff, so close to being back home and in the arms of their loved ones and with a belly full of Korean food. 
On the last show, after soundcheck runs perfectly smoothly and the pre-show rituals have all been checked off without a hitch, it goes to shit. Venue delays, an issue outside getting the fans inside, leaving the stadium only half full at the call time. 
It’s not the first time this has happened of course, but it is the first time for this tour and to have it happen on the last day leaves everyone groaning. 
“They couldn’t tell us this twenty minutes ago?” Hongjoong asks one of your production team.
They had been moments away from starting the introduction lights and music, the boys had already gotten up onto their rising platforms when a member of the venue staff had jogged all the way backstage waving her arms and trying to explain in a mix of French and English that they had to wait. 
“They said thirty minutes,” The staff member replies, “we won’t have to make any cuts, but anything over an hour we’ll need to start,” 
“Fuck,” Hongjoong’s jaw tightens, “Sorry, I apologize,” 
The boys are gathered tightly around management and the production staff and you, Iseul, and the other members of makeup and hair step forwards to listen in. 
You can’t quite catch all of the conversation, but then there’s some nodding in the center circle and Sunhee, the head of tour production, turns and addresses everyone as they shuffle into a semi-circle around him, “Alright, we’re running on a thirty delay,” 
Everyone nods.
 “If we hit 60, we’re electing to cut Deja Vu, Silver Light, DLWB, and Eternal Sunshine,” He explains, “We’ll shift Wave into the 8th block behind Dreamy Day, yes?” 
Everyone nods again. 
“That’s a setup we’re already prepared for, correct?” He addresses the sound team who nods, and then looks to every other team who follows suit before he continues, “If we need to cut more, we need to be prepared for a lot of small changes. It’s possible we lose Win and Fireworks, and that’s not something we want to do. Everyone needs to be on strict standby until we get rolling, I don’t want to be looking for anyone in the bathroom or finding out someone stepped out for a smoke, clear?” 
There’s a chorus of responses. 
“If you need a break, do it in the next five. Every ten until lights, we’re right here.” He’s a clear, no nonsense leader, but everyone has their marching orders. 
The group breaks up after that, several staff hurrying off to the bathrooms now and a couple of the BB Trippin dancers slipping out the back access door for a cigarette. 
The members are talking amongst themselves in a tighter circle, planning choreography changes and ment changes to tighten up the time, and you try your best to not look at Yunho for more than a passing glance. His back is to you, and you ache to reach out and see how he’s doing, ease the bubble of stress you feel in your gut, but you can’t. 
Iseul bumps you gently with her hip and nods her head back towards your stations. Dahan and Eunji are back, thankfully, having gotten over Covid fairly quickly and started testing negative, and the four of you huddle up to do your own planning session. 
“This doesn’t change much for us except how fast we work,” Iseul says, “we can make some strategic cuts around the unit stages too, no added eye enhancements, keep the focus on skin, lips, and brows.” 
“Done,” Dahan nods and then settles back into the chair at her station, “I don’t think there’s much more we can do,” 
Iseul nods, “It’s not a makeup heavy set,” 
Eunji collapses into her own chair and pops open an energy drink, “That just means their foundation has to look better,” 
“They look good,” You assure her, “and lord knows we use enough setting spray,” 
Eunji laughs and takes a swig of her drink, her carefully manicured nails clicking against the aluminum can as drops it back down on the table, “Hmm,” her leg bounces nervously, “we should check them again,” 
“They’re fine,” Iseul says, “plus, wardrobe has them.” 
You look back up, and sure enough the wardrobe team is fluttering around them as they talk, taking every opportunity to re-steam a jacket or fix a pant hemline. 
You lean back against the long table of snacks and water bottles along the one white wall and watch the chaos, your fingers drumming restlessly along the lip of the table. 
“Hey!” One of the wardrobe staff leaps forwards and you look up, “Don’t sit on the couch, I’ll just have to press those pants again!”
Wooyoung leaps up from the couch and groans, “Sorry, sorry,” 
“Let me check you,” She inspects his pants with a sharp gaze, “these crease too easily,” 
Wooyoung cracks a joke you don’t hear, but everyone within earshot is laughing and you smile at the scene. You’ve all worked together for so long it really does feel a bit like family. 
Staff starts to gather back up, and Sunhee makes another clear announcement, “Still running on a thirty,” 
Everyone echoes back their understanding. 
Now there’s nothing to do but wait. Chewing the inside of your lip you fish your phone out of your brush belt pocket and idly scroll, flicking through photo after photo on Instagram and barely absorbing any of it. 
A body shifts in your periphery and you look up to see Yunho, leaning on the table next to you but leaving an appropriate amount of space between your bodies. His head is angled away from you, talking animatedly to San about something, and though you know he’s ignoring you on purpose you also know he sat here for a reason. 
Your chest warms, and so does his. 
Feeling him this close feels like you’re standing in a rising tide, the sensation of him filling the space around you so wholly and completely, and you know if you were to just surrender to it would carry you right out to sea. 
San’s eyes flick to yours, “What about you?” 
You blink, “Hmm?” You might have been looking in their direction but not a single word made it into your brain. 
San’s eyebrow quirks up in amusement, “That dance challenge with Bada, have you seen it?” 
“Oh,” You nod, realizing what trend they’re talking about on Tiktok, “yeah, for sure, it’s everywhere right now,” 
“I’m trying to get Yunho to do it with me,” He explains, “it’s cool right? I think we’d kill it,” 
Yunho swivels his head to look in your direction and your stomach flips and you fight to keep your face somewhat professional and neutral when you nod, “It’s definitely cool, a lot of idols are doing it, you should,” 
“Well,” He smiles, his expression warm, “I guess I’ll have to,” 
San snorts softly, and you wonder briefly if he involved you in the conversation because he knew Yunho would cave if you said something. 
The moment is short though, when Wooyoung cuts between San and Yunho, “Budge over I need a water,” 
Yunho slides to the side just a few inches, but it’s enough to feel the heat of his body from shoulder to thigh as he gets closer to you and your breath quickens. Even after a few weeks, his proximity still makes you feel a dizzy kind of elation and you swallow tightly to keep your own reactions under wraps. 
“You good?” Yunho’s focused on Wooyoung’s serious expression though. 
“My calf keeps cramping,” He complains, uncapping a water bottle and locating a packet of electrolytes to pour into it. 
“You need to stretch,” San says, “drink that and come here,” 
Wooyoung grumbles something and Yunho chuckles. 
“Yeah, yeah,” San rolls his eyes, “don’t complain when you know I’m right,” 
“Fine,” Wooyoung downs the water bottle, drinking half of it in three thirsty gulps and then spins on his heel to follow San to the far wall that’s empty. 
For a moment, Yunho doesn’t move. 
You stay frozen in place, unsure of exactly what to do, if you should move or if you should let him move, but he makes the decision for you. 
The back of his knuckles brush along yours for just a moment, and then he’s up again and walking towards his members. Your heart flutters, and you’re sure he can feel it with the way he looks at you, just one quick glance back before he starts stretching again with Wooyoung and San. 
You’ll have to add that one to your notes then, he brushed your hand in Paris. 
Blissfully, they announce again that the delay is only going to be thirty minutes. No cuts to the show, no panic. In ten minutes everything will start and you’ll be one step closer to home.
In the wings at the new call time, you prep them again with a final pat of powder, smoothing out any whisper of a pore. When they move past you, Yunho’s hand brushes yours again, and you wonder if he knows he’s doing it. It feels unconscious the way he gravitates towards you, and though he keeps the contact decidedly subtle, you can feel the way his nervousness eases with just a touch of your skin on his. 
You watch him as he jogs out to the stage risers, you can’t quite tear your eyes away. He’s so handsome, so commanding of the stage, so unlike the soft, gentle man you’ve come to know off screen. You’re starting to really love them both, or perhaps you already do, and quietly you send him as much warmth and confidence through the link as you can. 
His eyes flick over to the wings, a flash of a smile on his lips, but then he refocuses and adjusts his in-ears, and the risers lift into the roar of the crowd once again. 
Your eyes track him as he goes up, and sensation bursts through the link from his side, only this time it doesn’t take you down to your knees. You’ve gotten used to it the past few shows, and now it just rings in your body like background noise. 
A hand closes around your forearm and pulls, yanking you out of your dazed thoughts, and you whirl to catch Iseul’s serious expression.
“Come with me,” She murmurs lowly, “right now.” 
Your stomach twists but you keep the panic to a minimum, you can’t do this to him again. Following her to the backstage door, she grabs her coat and tugs it on and throws you yours. She tugs you outside before you can even properly get your arms through the sleeves and you yank your arm back, “What’s going on?” 
“You’re asking me?” She says quietly even though the stage door is shut tight and there’s no one in sight, “Are you kidding?” 
She shoves a hand into her pocket and fishes out a pack of cigarettes, ones that she usually only smokes after a few drinks, “I started to think in Amsterdam that it was one of them,” 
Your stomach sinks like a stone. 
She sparks the lighter and leans in to light the smoke, “You were watching them differently,” 
“Iseul,” 
“But, I guess it’s Yunho, isn’t it?” She takes a drag and levels you with a serious expression. 
“Please,” You don’t even know what you’re begging for, she’s your best friend, but the fear of the unknown still crushes your chest, “don’t,” 
“He watches you too,” She says, “I wasn’t sure at first, he’s always been friendly with us, but this is different,” 
“I don’t know what to say,” You manage. 
“How about you don’t lie to your best friend,” She takes another drag, “that would be a good start,” 
“It’s not what you think,” You step closer. 
“I don’t think you know what I think,” 
“Iseul,” You wrap your arms around yourself. 
“Fine,” She tips the ash off the end of the cigarette and pushes her pin straight hair back over her shoulder, “I’ll tell you what I think,” 
You stay silent, stomach tight. 
“You’ve been weird,” She says, “I’ve never seen you act like this over a guy, and I really doubt you just noticed him for the first time, so either you’re an excellent liar or you’re in love with him,” 
You blanch. 
“And if you’re in love with him,” She points out, “so suddenly after years, then there’s more to it. So I started paying attention,” 
She takes a long drag of her cigarette and sighs out the smoke. 
“You’ve been sneaking off,” She points out, “checking your phone constantly,” 
Your eyes flick down to the pavement. 
“But the weirdest part,” She says, “is that you’ve been changing in the bathroom and we’ve been friends for years. I’ve seen your tits like a hundred times,” 
Your head snaps up. 
“You’ve been too happy lately for it to be something bad,” She says, her voice softening a bit, “so it’s something good, something like your mark changing.” 
”Iseul,” Your voice comes out weakly. 
“Fuck,” She looks over your expression, “he’s your soulmate,” 
“We didn’t know,” You stumble through the words, “I swear, we didn’t,” 
“I believe you,” She nods, “I just want to know why you couldn’t tell me. I’m your best friend, I would have helped you, I wouldn’t… I would never tell anyone,” 
“I know,” You reach for her, “I know you wouldn’t do that.” 
“Then why?” She pulls her wrist from your touch and ashes her cigarette again, “Because it really hurts that you couldn’t trust me with this.” 
“It’s not that,” You press, and it pours out of you, “we don’t even know what we’re doing. It’s really overwhelming, everything I’m feeling and he’s feeling, and then there’s the contracts and the job and the fucking public, and I just… I don’t know what to do, we don’t know what to do. We decided to wait until we got back to Korea to figure it out properly,” 
She nods. 
“I was going to tell you as soon as I got the nerve up,” You promise, “I haven’t even called Hana,” 
Her eyes widen at the confession that you haven’t told your sister after weeks, “Babe,” 
“If you know,” You manage, “and she knows, then it’s happening, and I,” 
Iseul flicks her cigarette to the curb and throws her arms around you, tugging you close for a hug, “Oh, you nervous idiot,” 
“I promise,” You hug her back, “I was going to tell you,” 
“Don’t you want it to be real?” She murmurs the question, “It’s your soulmate,” 
“I do,” You nod, “I want him, it’s just,” 
She rubs your back as you sigh.
”It could be easier,” You finally admit, “if he wasn’t who he is, then it would be simple.” 
She nods and pulls back from the hug, giving you a final squeeze, “Simple’s for fairytales,” 
“I guess,” 
“We’ll work it out,” She nods, “I’ll help.”
“I should have told you weeks ago,” You confess. 
“Probably,” She nods, “I would have helped cover for you at least,” 
You smile, “Yeah?” 
“Totally,” She nods. 
You sigh into the cold air, your breath making a cloud of vapor. 
She pushes her hands into her coat pockets and then stops, “Who else knows?” 
“San, he saw it when we touched,” You tell her and her eyes widen, “and Seonghwa… he found us in bed that morning in Berlin,” 
“I’ll be mad about them knowing before me later,” Her nose crinkles, “but that’s good, let’s keep the circle small for now.” 
“Definitely,” You nod, “we want to tell people, but just not… it’s better at home,” 
She chews the inside of her lip, sighing and pulling out another cigarette, “You haven’t slept together?” 
“Not yet,” 
As she lights the second cigarette her eyebrow quirks up, “So you’re just tormenting yourselves for fun, or?” 
Iseul was, without a doubt, the biggest believer in soulmates you’ve ever met. Everyone in her family was lucky enough to have found their match young, from her parents to her siblings, but she’s been waiting. Out of anyone without a soulmate though, she knew exactly how difficult the time between initial touch and fulfillment of the bond was. 
“We nearly did,” 
“And?” She takes a drag.
“He wanted to do it right,” You explain, your cheeks heating.
She nods, “He seems like that type,” 
Your gut tightens and you exhale, “I was also a little terrified,” 
“You and relationships,” 
“This is different,” You cross your arms.
 Iseul smirks at your sudden defensiveness, “I know it is,” she says, “but it’s still freaking you out, obviously,” 
“It was,” You admit, “maybe it is, but not in the way you’re thinking.” The logistics have you stressed beyond belief, but him? Those fears have been fading fast since that first night.
 “So, you do love him,” She smiles, flicking away her half smoked cigarette.
All you can do is nod. 
Iseul softens at that, after so many years of friendship and watching each other try relationships on for size. Every almost match that withered into nothing, every missed connection, every late night wondering. 
“I’m happy for you both,” She says earnestly, reaching for the door and clearing her throat to shove away the emotion there, “but I swear if you lie to me again,” 
You laugh, “Got it.” 
She punches in the key code to the door and twists the handle when it goes green, but then she stops short, “Listen, we’ll talk about the rest later, but you’ve got to tone it down with him in there. No more longing looks, no more little touches, if I saw you someone else will too.” 
Your stomach twists, “Fuck,” 
“It’s fine,” She says, “I was looking for it, but eventually someone’s going to notice.” 
“Okay, you’re right” You nod. 
“Let’s get back in there,” She pulls the door back open and you stumble inside. 
Everyone is gathering up again for the first costume change, and you do your best to shake off the conversation. Iseul squeezes your shoulder once, and then slips back to her station like nothing ever happened. 
You don’t look at him again the rest of the show. 
Iseul’s warning lives in your mind and you try to keep some distance. You give him the same polite congratulations on the tour that you give to every member, ignoring the little crease between his brows when he realizes you’re being funny. 
At the team dinner, you keep to the far side of the table and keep the soju to a minimum. 
You ignore the buzzing phone in your pocket and his quick glances. 
Iseul keeps you busy, keeps you steady.
You don’t let yourself look at the text messages on your phone until you’re back in your hotel room and able to finally relax. A string of texts from him make your heart twist. 
everything alright?
you seem tense, did something happen during the show?
alright now i know you’re avoiding me….. jagi, what did i do? tell me so i can fix whatever it is
you look so beautiful tonight, i wish i was across the table from you. i wish we didn’t have to hide this. i wish you’d tell me what’s wrong so i can make it better. 
let me know you get to your room safely. 
“You good?” Iseul asks as she flops back on her bed, “You look freaked,” 
“Yunho,” You pass her the phone so she can see for herself. 
She skims the messages quietly, one eyebrow raising, “Girl,” she looks up at you, “I said be subtle, not emotionally terrify your new boyfriend,” 
Your cheeks heat, “He’s not my boyfriend,” 
“Yeah he is,” Iseul rolls her eyes and tosses your phone back, “and the sooner you accept that this is good for you, the sooner you can get a handle on this with him and actually make a plan,” 
Chewing the inside of your lip you sink down onto the edge of your own bed, “I keep fucking this up,” 
She shakes her head, “You’re fine, but you’re also wound so tight some strings are bound to break. Call him,” 
“He’s probably so pissed at me,” You breathe.
 “He’s probably worried,” She counters, “but babe, he’s not any of your shitty exes. At some point you have to stop being scared that every guy is going to break your heart, especially this one.” 
“Ouch,” You grimace at her words. 
“Am I wrong?” 
You sigh heavily and run a hand through your hair, of course she wasn’t wrong. Iseul had watched you couple up time and time again only for it to be another failed attempt at not being alone. That combined with your only significant relationship being littered with gaslighting, cheating, and a truly terrible sex life meant she wouldn’t let you settle, or let a good thing pass you by just because of your anxiety and less than stellar history with the opposite sex. 
“Call him,” She interrupts your thoughts again. 
You swallow tightly, but at her unwavering gaze you finally look down and press the call button next to his contact picture, pressing the phone to your ear, your fingers drumming nervously on your knee. 
Yunho picks up on the second ring, “Baby?” 
He doesn’t sound mad at all, all you hear is relief in his voice and your shoulders drop, “Hey,” 
“Are you okay? What’s going on?” You hear the rustle of sheets on his side as he sits up. 
“Nothing,” You let out the air trapped in your chest, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to make you worry,” 
He’s quiet for a second, but then he speaks up, “I can feel your stress, y/n,” 
You wonder how heavily it’s pouring out of you for him to feel it so clearly through the link. 
He takes a slow breath and then continues, “If it’s something I did, I’d like to know so we can talk about it. If it’s something else, I’m here,” 
There’s a brush of warmth against your mark, and all your tension starts to melt, “You didn’t do anything wrong, Yunho, I promise.”
“Okay,” He murmurs, letting you know he’s listening, waiting for more. 
You look up and meet Iseul’s gaze. She nods at you, waving her hand towards you in a ‘get on with it’ motion, silently pushing you through this. 
“Iseul knows about us,” You tell him in a nervous exhale, “she noticed we were being familiar, that there was something going on,” 
Sheets rustle again and Yunho clears his throat, “Oh,” he says, “I mean, you’re friends aren’t you? Is she upset?”
You open your mouth to say more, but Iseul groans and pushes herself off the bed, snatching the phone from your ear and taking over the call. You jump up to grab it back, but she holds you back with one arm outstretched and a growing smile on her face.
 “Yunho?” She says, “It’s Iseul,” 
You hear a short response from Yunho, but you can’t make out the individual words he says.
 “Of course I’m not upset,” Iseul says, “I’m honestly really, really happy for you both, even if I had to figure it out myself,” 
You watch as Iseul listens to his reply and she laughs sharply. 
“Yeah, you two giving each other puppy eyes for the last few weeks was not subtle, no,”
Another beat, and you nudge her side, whispering, “Iseul,” 
“No, no,” She shakes her head and steps away from you to keep talking to him, “I told y/n this, but I was looking for it. She was acting weird so I knew something was up, but I just wanted you both to be careful in front of everyone,” 
Yunho says something you can’t hear and Iseul nods to herself.
”She’s okay,” Iseul looks back to you, a soft expression in her eyes now, “you’ll learn this, but she’s a little skittish.” 
“Iseul!” 
She rolls her eyes at you, but listens to him and nods again, “Listen,” she finally says, “I’m going to give the phone back to your girl, but before I do I just want to remind you that she’s my best friend. I think you’re a good guy, Yunho, but if you so much as make her cry, I’ll kill you. Clear?” 
His reply is short and she laughs.
 “Good,” Iseul grins, “she deserves someone good, and I know you can be that person for her.”
You reach out your hand for the phone again, needing to talk to him and pull your best friend back from whatever emotional speech she might let loose next. 
“I’m glad,” Iseul says, “now let me put y/n back on, I think she’s about to have an aneurism.” 
You can hear Yunho’s laugh as she passes back the phone and you take it eagerly, “Hi, god, I’m so sorry about that,” 
Iseul laughs and walks towards the bathroom to wind down and do her skincare and give you a brief moment of privacy, and you spin and walk towards the far end of the room near the window. 
“It’s fine,” Yunho sounds warm and not at all upset, “I’m glad you have a friend like her,” 
“Still,” You curl up into the armchair, “I didn’t mean to act so weird today or to corner you like this after such a long show,” 
“Don’t apologize,” He soothes you, “I know this is a lot, and Iseul’s right, we need to be careful if we want to do this the right way,” 
“Yeah,” You sigh, “still, I could have texted you and told you. I just got nervous,” 
“I know,” He murmurs, “but in the future, you don’t have to be alone in that. I’m your guy.” 
A smile tugs at your lips, “You are?” 
“Mhm,” He says softly, “you don’t have to handle anything alone anymore, jagi.”
Tightness sinks into your throat and you nod, pushing back the telltale sign of tears, “I’d like that,” 
“Good,” He murmurs, “now are you up for doing me a favor?” 
“A favor?” Your brow furrows, “What’s wrong?” 
“Not wrong,” He sounds so relaxed, so comfortable, and it puts you at ease, “but get your coat and map yourself to the location I’m sending you,” 
“What?” You laugh, feeling your phone buzz as his text comes through. 
“We’ll keep our distance,” He assures you, “but sweetheart, it’s snowing, and I am not missing the first snow with my soulmate in Paris,” he emphasizes, “so bundle up and get out here.” 
You pull the curtain to the side, and sure enough there’s snow swirling in the air, falling in soft fluffy flakes.
“Oh, wow,” You breathe, taking in how a white blanket has already started to thicken up on the streets outside. 
“Call me back when you get there,” He says, “okay?” 
“Yeah,” You smile, soft warmth spreading through your body, “I’m on my way,” 
You’re a whirlwind as you tug your coat back on, lacing up your boots and searching your bag for a pair of gloves. Iseul gives you one look when she sees you getting ready, but she smiles, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” 
“I won’t be long, I’m sure,” 
She shrugs, “Be safe,” 
“I will,” 
She searches for something on the side table and tosses it to you, a small black piece of fabric, “Mask, don’t forget,” 
“Got it,” You nod, affixing the mask to your face. The likelihood of you being photographed in Paris during a snowstorm when you weren’t even going to be next to Yunho was close to zero, but the risk wouldn’t be worth it. 
“Go get your man,” She arches her brow suggestively and you groan, rolling your eyes and darting out of the hotel room before she can embarrass you anymore. 
As quickly as you can, you map yourself to the pinned spot he sent and start walking. It’s hard to tell from the map, but as you get closer to the spot a few streets up from your hotel on the far side of the Seine you realize this is all it is, a street corner by the edge of the bridge. 
There’s barely anyone around, especially with the weather, and you can’t see Yunho anywhere. 
Tucking your coat closed around you, you find your phone and follow Yunho’s instructions. 
He picks up your call immediately, “You there?” he asks, his voice sounding a little muffled. 
“Yeah,” You breathe, looking around to see if you can spot him now, “Are you coming?” 
“I’m already here,” He says, “look up, across the river under the light by the steps,”
You step close to the stone railing at the edge of the river, and sure enough under the street lamp directly opposite your corner, Yunho stands unmistakably tall under the light. You can’t make out the details of him from this far away, the river is wide enough that he could be just about anyone at this distance, but then the figure waves. 
You can hear the smile in Yunho’s voice when he says, “Hi, baby,” 
“Hey,” You relax into the railing, your stomach flipping pleasantly. You’re still not used to the way he’s tender with you, his pet names and how easily he sunk into being soulmates, but you trust him. It doesn’t matter how fast or how hard you’re falling, despite those fluttering nerves, you know he’s going to catch you, you feel it. 
He hums pleasantly through the phone and you imagine him smiling, “Take a walk with me?” he asks brightly.
“Love to,” You murmur. 
“I have a surprise for you,” He says, “it’s just around the bend of the river,” 
“How did you have time to do anything? We just got to Paris last night,” The figure across the river starts to walk and so you follow, slowly making your way up the length of the river by the stone railing. 
“Don’t get too excited,” He laughs softly, “I didn’t do anything,” 
“Mhm,” The air is crisp and sharp, and you take in a deep breath, “I love snow,” 
“Me too,” 
“People always say I’m crazy, but I prefer winter over summer,” 
“I do too,” He says, and you can almost picture him smiling, “I hate the heat,” 
There’s a natural lull, a gentle pause in conversation, but it doesn’t feel uncomfortable at all. You feel his presence with you as if he were walking right at your side, and it keeps you warmer than any scarf or padded coat. 
Finally, Yunho breaks the companionable silence, “I always try to take a long walk in a new city,” 
“Late night, like this?” You ask.
“It’s usually the only time I have,” He sighs, “I’m getting used to exploring places by street lamp,” 
“I’d like to actually explore here during the day,” You say, “I’ve always wanted to come here,” 
“Where else have you always wanted to go?” 
You step around a couple nestled close together near the wall and continue on, boots crunching on the layer of snow ahead of you, “Everywhere,” you admit, “but I don’t know, there’s more of America to see, and I’ve never been to Australia. Vietnam maybe, or, oh, Iceland, I’d like to see the northern lights.” 
“I’d love to take you there someday,” 
“Take another long walk in the snow,” You offer, glancing across the river. It takes you a moment to find him as you both pass through a busier spot, but you see him pass under another street lamp and your heart is back at ease. 
“y/n,” Yunho says after a beat, “are you sure you’re alright with Iseul knowing about us?” 
You swap your phone to your opposite hand, tucking your frozen fingers into your pocket and nod even though he can’t really see that from this far away, “I am, she’s my best friend, I should have just told her.” 
“I don’t think either one of us knows what we’re doing,” He reminds you, “and that’s okay.” 
“Mm,” You sigh, a heavy cloud of vapor blooming in the icy air, “I do know one thing,” 
“What’s that?” 
Your stomach flutters nervously, but you press on, “I haven’t felt this happy or this cared for in a long time,” 
He’s quiet for a moment, and then you hear his breath, “I feel the same way,” 
“I just want to be on the plane now,” You admit, “at least then we’d be almost home,” 
“Well,” He says, “don’t wish for it too soon,” 
“What do you,” You start to say but he swiftly cuts back in. 
“Look to your left, sweetheart,” He says warmly.
Your head snaps up, and you turn only to have the breath knocked out of you by this city yet again. There, across the river and beyond a large bridge in the distance is the Eiffel Tower, standing golden against the night sky. 
“Oh,” You breathe. 
“Wait for it,” He murmurs.
“What did you do?” You can’t stop yourself from grinning like a fool, but you expect that’s a common experience for tourists in love in this city. 
“I didn’t do anything,” He laughs, “I just got the timing right, just wait,” 
You step closer to the wide bridge, ornate with golden statues and arched to offer ferry boats passage underneath. All the while you keep your eyes locked to the tower, and blink away the dust of snow collecting on your eyelashes. 
“Yunho,” 
“Just,” He starts to say, his voice getting far away as if he moved the phone, “another minute,” 
You tuck your scarf up around your face and wait, and then it starts to glitter. Blocks away but still standing tall before you in the distance, the golden monument starts to sparkle with the fast flicker of silvery lights.
“Oh,” You breathe, “I didn’t think I’d see it,” 
“Mhm,” He murmurs, “you might have mentioned it in London,” 
“Did I?” You can’t tear your eyes away. 
“I’m sorry I can’t take you there properly,” He confesses, “or anywhere properly yet, but, someday I will,” 
The glittering stops and you finally look away to try and find him again across the bridge, only he’s closer now and walking directly along your side of the bridge towards you. Your feet are moving before you can convince yourself otherwise, a magnetic pull straight to him. 
The bridge is thankfully quiet, barely anyone on either side, and you both stop in the middle, both of your phones tucked into your respective pockets. 
“Hi,” His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles beneath his mask. 
“Hey,” You sigh, “should we be doing this?” 
“No one’s here,” He says, stepping closer, “just one minute,” 
You nod, “One minute,” 
“Listen,” He says, his hand brushing against yours again, “I know you’re scared. I’m scared too,” 
Your heartbeat quickens.
“But we are almost home,” He says, “and once we’re there, we will make a plan. We will make this work, and I promise you, I’m more afraid of losing you than of losing all this,” he gestures towards the city around you. 
“There’s got to be a way, other people who have done this,” You nod. 
“We’ll find out,” He assures you, “just please, don’t pull away from me when things get hard or if you’re afraid. You can rely on me, you can trust me, I swear to you, y/n.” 
You can feel the nervous knot in his chest, and you step close, resting a hand where you know his soulmark loops on his chest. When you let yourself feel him, focus on him, it’s clear to you just how anxious about your growing relationship he’s been. Soulmates or not you still have to walk the path together, and of the two of you, you’ve been less clear. His gestures, his gifts, the way he’s tried his best over the past few weeks to show you his true feelings and intentions, but you haven’t given him enough back to soothe that knot in his chest. 
“Baby,” The endearment slips out and you feel him soften under your touch, “I’m here, I’m with you. I’m so fucking terrified, but not of you or of this.” 
Snow sticks to his lashes, swirls in the air around you, but his exhale of ragged breath isn’t the cold, it’s relief. 
“I’m worried I’m going to fuck it up somehow, of what will happen when people find out,” You confess, “and I’m so scared you’ll wake up one day and realize I wasn’t worth the mess,” 
“y/n,” He shakes his head, reaching for your cheek. 
“I know, I know,” You catch his hand against your face, press a fast kiss to his palm through the fabric of your mask, “it’s just a fear, I just want you to understand where my head has been,” 
He nods, a little crease between his brows. 
“But I do trust you,” You tell him, “more than anyone, and I’ve been alone a long time, so I’m learning how to let myself rely on you, but I’ve never doubted you. Not before and definitely not now,” 
“Come here,” He tucks your bodies together and tugs his mask down, “kiss me,” 
You pull yours away, and you press up on your tiptoes to meet his eager mouth.
His nose is cold, and his fingers are icy against your cheek, but his lips are warm and soft and his broad body blocks the gust of wind and snow. 
The knot of anxiety in his chest starts to ease, and you brush your fingers over his mark to seal your own promise back to him. 
“Sweetheart, I,” He sighs, kissing you once more, letting his words fade on his tongue, “thank you.” 
“I’m sorry I haven’t said it like that before,” You say, “but I’m here,” 
He nods, a soft smile on his mouth, and he leans over to kiss you once more in the snowy Paris street, the golden glow of the Eiffel tower still in your periphery. 
When he pulls back, he rights his mask and you follow his lead, “It’s cold, let’s get back inside,” he says. 
You can barely feel it, but you nod, “Okay,” 
“Call me again,” He squeezes your hand once and then lets it drop, “I’ll walk you back,” 
You smile, finding your phone and dialing him. 
Yunho pulls his phone out, and starts to walk back across the bridge, but then he picks up, “Hello?” 
“Hey, again,” You walk backwards slowly, watching him as he tucks the phone closer to his ear. 
“Hi,” He says warmly, and then he turns to catch sight of you when he says, “I just met the prettiest girl in Paris,” 
Butterflies roll through you, “Oh, yeah?” 
“Mhm,” He murmurs, “I think I’m falling for her,” 
Easy warmth spreads through your chest despite the chill, “That’s so funny,” you tell him as you turn to round the corner of the bridge again, “I just met this guy,” 
He laughs, and slowly you make your way back to the hotel. The conversation comes more easily now, the lingering threads of any tension dissipating with the wind. You talk about everything and nothing, how to tell the members and what you’re planning to have for coffee in the morning, and by the time you’re at the hotel the snow has slowed to a stop and the streets are empty except for you both, two long-distance lovers across the Seine. 
───────────────────────── ✧₊⁺───────────────────────
The final day in Paris passes by in a blur just like the plane home. It’s always like this after a tour, the absolute exhaustion after weeks of adrenaline and travel, but this time all you want is to be home and it feels like you’re doing the epitome of just going through the motions to get there. 
Yunho had texted you to sleep well on the flight, and you did, only to be shaken awake hours and hours later by Iseul when you were preparing to land. You had only woken up for one of the flight meals and a quick bathroom break, but now as you descend into Incheon you’re itching to get out of the seat more than you normally would be.
 Home. 
You can see it out the window, but you can feel it too.
Up until this moment, everything with you and Yunho had been on a delay, the reality of what you were to each other only something to fully reckon with after the tour, and now here you were. 
Your fingers start to nervously drum against your knee as you prepare for landing, your heart picking up as you touch down, your leg bouncing in anticipation while the plane takes its time taxing to the gate. 
Iseul gives your hand a squeeze when you finally make it off the plane and into the interior of the airport, only this time it’s not to calm your nerves, it's to remind you that you have a role to play. Today the crowd is thick, rows and rows of screaming, clawing girls and you feel your heart rate pick up immediately. They’re not here for you, they could honestly care less about you, but you still have to make your way through them as quickly and painlessly as possible. 
The support staff is always split, half in front of the boys and half behind, an extra layer of bodies between them and the hands that so badly want to touch them. Girls that want their one moment, a quick press of skin on skin, seeking a confirmation of the bond they’re so convinced exists between them and their bias. It’s never bothered you before, just a hazard of being famous, but now you can’t help but feel like they know. One look at you and they can see right through all the careful lies, they can see your tattoo and his, a string knotted from your ribs to his, and you think they might kill you for it. It wouldn’t be the first time a deranged fan took things too far, and your stomach churns with every step as you leave the relative safety of the main gate. 
Getting from the plane to the cars is a well oiled production. You’re used to sticking close to your team and a set of the support staff, head down, hat low, moving swiftly. There’s not much you can do about it unless you happen to be on a different flight, which has happened a time or two while you’ve been working with Ateez but it’s rare. 
For weeks since you first felt the link between you and Yunho, you’ve been able to feel some echo of his emotions through the connection, but as you file off the plane and group up to start working through the crowd, the sensation of him goes quiet. You’ve seen the members as they walk, a crafted persona of friendliness over the full disassociation, but you never expected to feel some shadow of that yourself. Your nerves are swirling, but you take a few slow and steadying breaths, and alongside Iseul and the rest of your coworkers, you start walking. 
It should be quick, it should be painless, but it isn’t. 
Halfway to the doors, a body breaks through the guards to your side, making a desperate beeline for one of the boys behind you, the girl’s face streaked with tears and hands outstretched, her shoulder checking yours hard as she pushes her way through into the interior circle. 
You stumble hard, footing unsure on the slick linoleum, your heart pounding suddenly in your chest. 
You make a tight noise of surprise, hand outstretched to brace your fall as you collapse hard onto your left knee. Bodies bump into you on all sides, stumbling to not knock you over and trample you, but you still struggle to get your feet under you. 
It’s loud in here, the sudden sound of fans and bodyguards, but you feel a spike of alarm shoot through your gut as he comes back online and reacts to your fall. You can’t turn around, but you feel him, and then all at once there’s hands hooking under your arms and you’re stumbling back up to your feet. 
Yunho’s several paces back behind you, layers of bodies away, but despite that he lurches forwards, forgetting himself in the fray. There’s no cameras, no crowd, no thought of familiarity in his mind, only the singular truth that his soulmark is hurt and the need to get to you is all encompassing. A hard hand locks down on his bicep, another on his opposite shoulder. He has half a mind to throw whoever has him off, and then reality clicks back into place.
He watches as Iseul and one of the other managers hauls you back up to your feet while the bodyguards close ranks and remove the cloying girl. 
San, his hand still locked around Yunho’s arm, leans in tight to his ear, “She’s fine, don’t.” 
“You don’t,” Yunho starts to say but Seonghwa claps him on the shoulder again, squeezing him and trying to silently remind him the stakes here. 
“Look,” San urges him as they keep moving, “she’s up, use your head.” 
He focuses, and he watches the way you walk. Iseul is still pinned to your side but you’re not injured, just keeping your head down. He takes a tight breath and focuses on the feeling of the link, searching for your emotions under the bubbling rush of his own. 
Seonghwa’s hand falls away as the group makes it closer to the door, but San stays steady bracing Yunho’s bicep.
Yunho blinks and focuses, and then he feels you. Your own heart is beating fast, a blanket of anxiety mixed with discomfort and blushing embarrassment. There’s no fear though, no pain, and he shudders a sigh in relief. 
This kind of connection with another person is so singular and so maddening. He’s always cared for you, he would have wanted to help even if you weren’t his soulmate, but knowing that you are and feeling it all has him ready to tear the world apart for your smallest needs. He can understand now with perfect clarity why companies are so protective of skin on skin contact with their artists, why there’s no room for exceptions until positions are far more established. A young man with a soulmarked bond would ruin every scrap of his own career if it meant he could touch her, hold her, have her for just a moment. 
“Breathe,” San bids him, “you’re staring,” 
Yunho rips his eyes away from your back and looks to San, “It’s too much,” 
San gives him a wide, idol smile and shakes his head, “Cameras, Yunho,” 
He blinks and refocuses, finding his own photogenic smile and nodding towards the crowd. He waves, he nods, he does all the things a good little idol would do. 
Warmth brushes over his chest, the feeling of your fingers along the loops of your tattoo and the tight fist around his heart loosens, breath finally filling his lungs the right way. Silently, you’ve told him you’re safe, you’re well. He can breathe. 
You’re in separate cars though, and as you climb into the SUV with the rest of the makeup and hair staff, your hands start to shake. 
“You okay?” Iseul finally asks as the doors close. 
“Mm,” You sigh, leaning back into the soft seat, “I hate those crowds,” 
She nods, “Security should have never let that girl get through,” 
“She just pushed me aside,” You rub your tired eyes, “I can’t even believe someone would be that unhinged,” 
“Mhm,” Iseul rolls her eyes, “well, when it’s her one chance to see if her precious Yunho-ya is her star crossed soulmate,” 
A flicker of jealous anger sparks in your gut, “Is that who she was after?”
“Yeah,” A look of disgust passes over her face, “as if fate would actually match up an idol and a saesang, get real.” 
You laugh, and someone else makes a comment about how cruel it would be if that actually happened, but you and Iseul are sharing a private look. Of course none of those girls are his soulmark, not when you’re sitting right here. 
You shiver, you can’t stop thinking about the girl’s tear streaked face as she shoved you to the side. What would a fan like that think about you being her bias’s soulmate? You don’t even want to know. 
The car pulls away, and you feel your phone start to buzz in your pocket. You fish it out and keep it close so no one next to you can see the screen. 
Your body melts at the message. 
Are you hurt, jagiya? 
You tap out a quick reply, needing to not keep him waiting - I’m alright, it just startled me. 
Bubbles pop up immediately as he types - I’ll have a talk with security, there’s no reason for staff to be that close to the fans like that. Too risky. 
You’re in love with him already, it’s impossible not to be when he talks like this. You smile and write back - Don’t, we shouldn’t draw any attention. But it means a lot that you were worried about me. 
Of course I worry - His first message flies in, and then another - I felt you fall, I nearly ran to get to you. 
I’m glad you didn’t. We really can’t give anyone a reason to question things. 
I know. But I wanted to, I never want anything to keep me from you when you need me. 
Jeong Yunho…. - You write back, butterflies in your belly at his words - Are you trying to make me like you?
I thought we covered this, you don’t already like me? - You feel his warmth through the bond and you know he’s teasing. 
You know I do. - If you said more you’d probably reveal how far in this you already are after a few weeks of a bond. 
It takes a moment for him to respond, but when he does your cheeks heat - I’ll have to work harder then, to make sure you feel as strongly as I do.
Your mark warms, a punctuated touch of his heart to yours. 
Before you can reply he sends another message - You promise you’re not hurt at all? 
Embarrassed mostly, and my knee hurts a little, but I promise it’s nothing serious, I wouldn’t lie to you. - You reply, touching your mark gently with your fingers to send back the same warmth, the same truth of your words. 
When can I see you? I don’t think I can go days until our next schedule. 
Tonight? You can’t help yourself. 
Where? 
Your stomach flutters at the thought of being alone with him again - My place? I live alone in Seongsu. It’s nothing special, but it’s private and it’s home. 
Text me the address, I’ll find a way over. 
You tap out your address and send it through - Please don’t get in trouble trying to come by.
I won’t - He replies instantly.
  Iseul’s hand gently touches your knee and you look back up at her, “What’s up?” 
“You want a ride home from the office?” She asks, eyes flicking down at your phone briefly. 
“You don’t mind?” You ask. 
She shakes her head, “You’re on the way,” 
You nod, pulling your phone back out to send him a message - Iseul’s driving me home when we get to the office. Are you going to your apartment now?
Yes - He replies - Yeosang keeps yawning, when our managers leave and he goes to bed I’ll come by.
Aren’t you tired too? - You ask him. 
I slept on the plane - He replies, and then another message comes through - If you’re tired you can sleep, I just need to be with you right now.
I slept too - You assure him - I’ll be up. Just message me when you’re close.
I will - He says. 
You send him one last bit of instruction, a little safer if he can let himself into your place just in case anyone sees him coming by - It’s apartment 26B, Door Code is 10824*
He sends a heart in reply, and you tuck your phone back into your lap. 
Soon, you’d finally be alone. After weeks and weeks of waiting, the ache in your chest would finally be soothed.  
Even after Iseul drops you off at home, it takes him hours. By the time you get a message that he’s on his way you’ve nervously cleaned your tiny apartment three times over and ordered far too much take out just to be sure he has something to eat if he hasn’t gotten anything already. 
When you hear him keying your door code in, your heart starts to beat double time. 
He slips in quietly, dressed in a dark gray long coat, black ball cap, and black face mask, and if you didn’t know him just from the cut of his shoulders you could have easily mistaken him for just about anyone in a crowd. 
“Hey,” You feel at ease immediately, and he looks up at the sound of your voice. 
Your apartment amounts to a double wide hallway, your lofted bed above the entryway and bathroom, a small galley kitchenette along one wall, built-in storage and a desk, and then an extremely modest living space. The sight of him in your apartment is strange, he’s so tall he seems to fill up the space of the entryway, a surreal sight now that you’re home and not in random hotel rooms. 
He kicks off his shoes to leave them by the door, and then he steps up into your apartment as he pulls his mask off, crossing the room in three easy strides to get to you. 
“Hey,” He replies, his cold hands cupping your cheeks as he gets close, “there you are,” 
“Here I am,” You smile, stepping closer to him and relaxing into his touch.
 “I,” He shakes his head and his words falter a little, “I know you said you’re fine, I just… it’s nice to see for myself, I couldn’t shake that feeling,” 
You soften at that, “Oh, Yunho, I’m okay,” 
“I know,” He sighs, “I’m sorry it took me so long,” 
“It’s alright,” You slide your hands into his jacket and rest your hands on his chest, “you’re here now,” 
He folds you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you properly and cupping the back of your head with his broad hand, “I’m so glad to be home,” 
Your heart flutters, “The tour felt like years,” you murmur, nuzzling into his chest. 
“Mm,” He sighs, his body melting around you, “our managers wanted to talk about the upcoming week, and Hongjoong had schedule changes, and then Yeosang wouldn’t go to bed, he kept sitting in the living room, I thought I was going to scream,” 
”It’s fine,” You smile against his sweater, “do you have a schedule tomorrow, then?” 
“No,” He unfolds himself from around you, pulling his cap free and running a hand through his messy locks, “I’m off, I don’t have anywhere to be.” 
Warmth fills you, “For how many days?” 
“Three,” He grins. 
“Me too,”  
“Any plans?” He drops his hat and mask down onto your side table where your own keys and gloves are and steps close again.
”None,” You murmur, “sleeping,” 
“Want some company?” He wraps his hand around yours. 
“For three days?” Your eyes widen, “There’s no way you can get away for that long,” 
“I worked it out,” He says, “waiting for Yeosang to get tired,” 
“Okay,” You don’t want to let yourself be excited too soon. 
“I’ll have to go back and pick up a few things,” He tells you, “but I told my manager that my brother might be coming up to town to see me after tour,” 
“Okay,” 
”And that I might drive down to Gwangju with him,” He smiles wider, “and that he could drop me back off before schedules pick back up.” 
“Really?” Your hand tightens on his.
”Really,” He nods, “if you want me here, I’m here.” 
For a split second you feel like you could cry, relief washing through you, and you dive forward to wrap your arms around his neck, “Stay, please, stay,” 
He bends to accommodate your height difference, and ends up wrapping his arms around your back and lifting you in the air, “Good,” he sighs, “I hoped you’d say that,” 
“Yunho, thank you,” You pull back enough to find his face, “god, I missed you,” 
“Me too,” He confesses, “seeing you everyday but not really seeing you, I don’t want to do that again,” 
“It’s so much harder than I thought it would be,” 
He nods and gives you a soft smile, “We made it, though,” 
“Yeah,” 
He dips in and presses his lips to yours, and the last threads of tension unravel, everything else forgotten with his body so close to yours. Yunho sighs pleasantly, pressing close lipped, familiar kisses to your lips, before setting you back down on your feet and straightening back up to his full height. 
Your hearts feel like they’re in sync. 
He smiles at you again, and then finally glances around to take in the space around him, “Oh,” he says as he takes it in, “I like your place,” 
“It’s small,” You shrug, “but it works for me,” 
“That view,” He nods towards your floor to ceiling glass window, truly the only selling point of the apartment, “that’s something.” 
You follow his eyes to the glittering city outside and nod, “It really is,” 
It’s quiet for a moment as he takes in the view, and then he sighs and looks back to you, “It feels nice to not have to rush away,” 
You nod, “I know,” 
You’re dancing around each other again, now that there’s no deadline hanging over your heads or threat that someone might walk by. You can simply exist. 
“I’ve got takeout,” You offer, making the first move, “if you’re hungry, but if not it’ll keep,” 
He smiles, “In a bit,” 
“Let me take your coat at least,” You stretch out a hand, “get comfortable,” 
He slides it off his shoulders and folds it as he hands it to you, “Thanks,” 
You find a home for his coat in the entryway nestled on a hook next to yours, his shoes already placed neatly side by side with your sneakers. It looks so right, your life against his, and you let your fingers skate down over the back of his coat as you take it in, a smile pulling at your lips. He belongs here, in every way, and for the next three days you’d pretend his presence in your apartment was permanent, solid and immutable in the way it feels in your heart. 
His coat, his shoes, and in a flash you see it all, flickers of a real life together. Toothbrushes, coffee cups, letters in the mail, his keys kissing yours in a dish by the door, books slotted together on the shelf, clothes tangled up in the laundry basket. 
Your chest aches with need, but he just walked into your apartment for the first time, so you shake off those thoughts and turn to him, “What did you have in mind for tonight?” 
“Honestly,” He grins, “being able to talk to you face to face is as far as I let myself get,” 
“Way better than texting,” You smile back, “you want a drink? Beer? Wine?” 
“Sure,” He nods, “Beer?” 
You nod and take the two steps into the kitchenette to locate glasses and two cans of beer, calling over your shoulder, “Make yourself comfortable, are you sure you’re not hungry?”
”I’m okay,” You hear him settle onto the couch and it occurs to you that you’ve never had a man in your apartment, at least in the sense of a romantic partner. For years you were going to their places, strangely protective of your own little haven between these four walls, and yet with Yunho you feel comfortable enough already not just to let him inside, but to give him your door code without a thought.  
You blink at the realization, almost letting his glass overflow onto the countertop as you pour. How strange the last few weeks have been, how different you already are. 
“How long have you lived here?” Yunho asks, and you let the thoughts about what it all means fade into the background as you turn towards him. 
“Um,” You do the math in your head, “a few years? Almost four now,” 
“It’s a great place,” He says again. 
You leave the two empty cans on the counter and cross the room towards him, “Yeah,” you nod, “It’s small, but it’s nice and accessible, and in this area anyways I really can’t beat the rent,” 
“Mm,” He nods, “I wish I could say I know what you mean, but idol life is strange.” 
“That’s right,” You nod, “you don’t pay for your place?” 
You settle onto the small couch next to him as he answers, “It’s part of our contract so it’s provided, but if we were to leave the group before contracts are up we’d owe the money back,” 
You grimace, “That’s terrible,” 
He nods but it’s with a slight shrug, “Some companies are worse, KQ being small has its benefits in other areas so that’s never been much of a concern for us,” 
“That’s good at least,” You nod, “and they treat us pretty well, all things considered.” 
“Did you ever work anywhere else?” Yunho takes a sip of beer and makes a noise of satisfaction at the flavor. 
You smile and tuck your legs under you, angling towards him on the couch, “After cosmetology school I worked at SM for about a year,” 
“And?” He asks. 
“Awful,” You groan, “The pay was terrible, and the schedules were worse. It felt like being an intern,” 
“And then you came to KQ?” 
You sip your beer, nodding as you do, “Iseul and I went to school together, she got me in as soon as a position opened up, really vouched for me considering I had a smaller portfolio than she did at the time,” 
“I’m glad she did,” He smiles warmly.
 “What about you?” You ask, “Was KQ your first choice?” 
He turns towards you on the couch, his knees pressed against yours and he rests one arm on the back of your couch, “Not initially,” he admits, “but I had two other competing offers, and something just didn’t feel right about either. Then I met Hongjoong, and I guess you know, that’s it,” 
“A little bit of fate,” You smile. 
“Mm,” He nods, “fate, maybe luck, I don’t care what it was, I’m just happy to be with you now,” 
Your cheeks heat a little, and you look down at the popping bubbles on the surface of your drink.
”I just wish it happened sooner,” He admits, his hand sliding over the cushions to touch your forearm. 
You nod and look back up, “I know what you mean, but, maybe that’s another thing fate got right, maybe we’re finally ready for each other now.” 
He laughs, “What was the word Iseul used? Skittish?” 
You sigh, “Yeah, she’s not totally wrong. I used to have terrible taste in guys, or maybe I wasn’t comfortable opening up, I don’t know, but,” 
Yunho gives your arm a gentle squeeze, “I get it,” 
You cock your head, asking him a silent question. 
“I’ve dated a bit,” He explains, “and I always thought maybe it was me, but no matter how nice or compatible someone was on paper it was just…” 
“Dull?” You offer. 
He nods, “Like I was sleepwalking through it,” 
Your stomach bubbles with a nervous thrill, your chest constricting with anticipation, “And with me?” 
His mouth turns up in a small smile, eyes flicking from your eyes to your lips and back again, “I’m more than awake with you.” 
“Me too,” You confess.
It’s quiet for a moment, Yunho’s thumb sweeping a soft line over the veins in your wrist, and then he exhales and drops his glass off on the table.
“Yun?” 
He smiles at the abbreviation of his name and takes your glass away too, “As much as I want to talk all night, and I do, I think I might actually die if I’m not touching you after all these weeks,” 
He reaches for you, wrapping his arms around your waist and tugging you over to his half of the couch. You squeak in surprise, bracing yourself with a hand on his chest and another on the cushions, but you end up pressed up against him and almost laying across his chest. Your body relaxes into him instantly, and Yunho lets out a relieved sigh. This, this is what you had been waiting weeks and weeks to feel again, the sureness of his body under your fingertips, the way your heart seems to slow and soothe with every touch. 
 “Anyways,” His voice cracks a little, a soft smile on his face, “you were saying,” 
You’re nearly nose to nose, close enough to hear his breath, to feel the thump of his heart under your palm. His eyes flick over your face, his lips part, pupils dilating wider with every passing moment. 
You try to remember where you were in the conversation, but with him so close and his hot hands on you, it’s all like a distant memory and you laugh lightly, “I have no idea,” 
He grins, his hand brushing your face, the pad of his thumb tracing your cheekbone, and then without a single conscious thought you’re surging forwards to press your lips to his. 
Yunho groans, hands tightening on your back, and when he starts to kiss you back it’s like the catch of a match under your skin, a crackle of need through every nerve ending. He kisses you with unmasked urgency, pulling little pants and moans from your lips every time you break for a breath. 
His hands slide down, cupping your backside, and you hitch a leg over his as you push yourself higher on the couch, desperately seeking more of his hot mouth. 
“Baby,” He breathes between kisses, his tongue flicking against yours as your mouth opens to him.
 Your body rolls on instinct, pressing your clothed core against his thigh. 
He groans again, pulling your body tighter against him and shifting the position of his leg so that his foot is flat on the floor, providing a hard, stable straddle for you. 
You wish so badly in this moment you weren’t wearing jeans, uncomfortably stiff denim that doesn’t let you properly feel the heat of him, but that doesn’t stop you from rocking your body once, twice, and again as you pant against his mouth.
 His fingertips slip under the waistband of your jeans, resting on your lower back while his free hand wanders around to your front, sliding up to cup your breast, his thumb ghosting over your pebbled nipple. 
You feel dizzy, and you press back from his mouth to take a sharp inhale, “Ah, Yunho,” 
He shudders, cupping your neck and pulling you back to his mouth. Mumbled against your lips he offers, “We can talk more,” 
You shake your head, “You really want to talk, right now?” You smile, pushing yourself further onto his lap, nearly straddling him now as you dive back in for another heated kiss. 
He groans, his hands flexing as they find anchor points on your hips, and he tugs you right into place with your pelvis slotted right over his. One of his hands skims up the back of your shirt, hot skin on skin, and you moan pleasantly into his mouth. 
“Fuck, sweetheart,” He pants between wet kisses, “you’re killing me here,” 
“Yeah?” Your stomach flutters with butterflies. 
He hums a yes, tongue dipping into your mouth to catch on yours. 
You can’t stop the little whine that leaves your lips, “Oh,” you roll your hips, “Yunho,” 
His hips twitch under you, and you can feel the start of his erection as it hardens under your ass. 
“Please,” You kiss him again, pushing your hips down and clinging onto his shoulders. 
His hand snakes up higher under your shirt, and his fingers deftly close over the clasp of your bra. In a second he slides the fabric in just the right way to open the clasp, and you feel the support release as his hand slides up and down the bare expanse of your back. 
“Fuck,” He shudders, “I’m sorry, I should have asked,” 
“Shut up,” You dive back in, your fingers tugging at his sweater, “take this off,” 
He kisses you hard once more and then pulls back, and you lean away still perched on his lap while he awkwardly tugs off the sweater, tossing it to the other side of your couch. 
“Can I,” His hands slide under your shirt, circling your bare waist, his eyes tracking the way your shirt slides up, “Jesus, you’re gorgeous,” 
“Off,” You raise your arms and he slides his hands up, pushing the shirt up and over your head until he’s discarding it on the floor. 
When you look back down it nearly knocks the breath out of you. He’s staring at you like you’re a marvel, like you’re the eighth wonder of the world, and it draws your frantic pace to a blinding halt. He smiles softly, and his eyes skate down your body. Your bare neck, black bra straps loosely held on either shoulder, tattoos stretching down over your upper arms, over your elbows, stopping at mid forearm. The sheer mesh of your bra loosely cupping your breasts, nipples standing hard at attention through the fabric and the center of the underwire covering the top half of your red, looping soulmark. 
He reaches for you slowly this time, one hand sliding to the back of your neck while the other skims up and down your arm, “Can I?” He asks again, his fingers ghosting over the strap of your bra. 
You nod, breathless. 
He hooks his fingers under one side and pulls, letting the strap drop and the mesh cup falls slack. His adam's apple bobs as he swallows, and slowly he loosens the other strap, your bra falling away and landing in your laps. 
Your heart is hammering in your chest now, and your fingers tighten on the fabric of his crisp white t-shirt. 
“So beautiful, baby,” He sighs, looking back up to your eyes, “you’re so perfect,” 
You can’t find any words, the way he looks at you and touches you has you rooted to the spot. 
“Can I kiss you again?” He slides his hands over your skin, still stroking your back and sides. 
That snaps you back into reality, and you dip forwards to crash your mouth to his. 
His arms wrap around you as yours knot into his hair, both of you a panting mess as you cling to each other on your sofa. Your bodies move in sync, his hands pressing just right as you roll your hips, only this time you can feel the hot press of his cock on your cunt through layers of fabric and you both moan at the contact. 
“Yunho,” You exhale sharply, rocking again to try and catch more sensation. 
“Jesus,” He pants, his hands locking down harder. 
You shudder at the contact, and you’re about two seconds away from begging him to take you right here on the couch when he puts the brakes back on. 
His hand slides up to catch your cheek, pushing your hair back and drawing your face away from his so he can look up at you, “y/n,” he says, voice a little hoarse, “that time on the phone,” 
You nearly moan at the memory of your silent orgasm, his voice in your ear, but you manage to nod. 
“DId you,” He starts and then backtracks, “I mean, you didn’t mind, or I guess what I’m asking is you weren’t, you know, uncomfortable,” 
His cheeks are turning pink as he talks, and you have half a mind to let him muddle through the thought, but you want his mouth on yours again and you cut him off, “You mean the best orgasm I’ve had in years?” 
He blushes properly then, his ears a frighteningly dark shade of pink and he clears his throat, “So you liked it?” 
Warmth blooms in your chest and you smile, leaning closer to him, your fingers tangling into his hair again, “Yunho,” you murmur, “are you asking if you can boss me around a little?” 
You’re nose to nose again, and his eyes search yours, “A little,” he concedes. 
“Boss away,” You grin, pressing your lips back to his, but he shakes his head. 
“Slow down,” He catches your hands in his and closes them together, pulling you back from him. 
Your brow knits together, “I’m getting mixed messages,” you glance down at your bare chest.  
His eyes flick to your breasts and back up and he huffs a soft laugh, “Sorry,” he manages, “I just meant we should talk,” 
“So much talk with you,” You tease him lightly, “I think I liked the kissing,” 
“Think?” His eyebrow quirks but then he shakes his head, “You’re a flirt, you do a hell of a job distracting me,” 
“Distracting you from what?” 
He reaches up, brushing the pad of his thumb over your lips, “Stop pouting,” he says, “I’m trying to be respectful, here,” 
“I’m feeling pretty respected,” You slip one hand out of his grip and tug at his t-shirt, “kiss me again, let’s double check.” 
He laughs properly this time, shaking his head, “I don’t know if it’s a soulmate thing or a you thing, but God, you know all my buttons, already, don’t you?” 
“I’m confused,” You relax in his lap a little, arms folding over your chest to cover yourself, “we were making out and it was perfect and now,” 
He nods, “I know, let me explain,” 
You wait for him to say more, the soft silence his opening. 
“We know each other,” He finally says, “but I don’t know what you like in bed,” 
“Oh,” Your shoulders relax a little, “well, traditionally we would have sex and figure that out,”
He rolls his eyes at you a little, a smile still on his lips, “y/n,” 
“Sorry, sorry, go on,” 
His hands settle over your thighs, “Every time we touch it feels like a fire,” he confesses, “and I’m trying not to lose my mind before we have a chance to talk about any of the important things, I don’t want to cross a line, I don’t want you to feel rushed or uncomfortable with anything,” 
You sigh, about to say more but he shakes his head and continues. 
“Without talking I won’t know what you don’t want,” He says, “or even if you want tonight to be the night, if you’re on birth control or if we should use condoms,” 
The thought of that sparks a clarity in you like no other and you realize he’s right, you were both so close to losing yourselves you could have made a mistake of the whole night. You blink, nodding this time. 
“And I’m afraid if we keep going like this,” He continues, “if we go upstairs without talking, I don’t know if I’ll be strong enough to walk away without fucking you and making you mine tonight.” 
Your heart thumps in your chest. You’ve never been held like this, talked to like this, no one in your life has ever searched for your boundaries on their own quite like this, with sex or otherwise and you know suddenly with perfect truth what this night is going to be. 
You nod, and then you smile, “Can I talk now?” 
 “Please,” 
“I’m on birth control,” You start off with the easiest answer, “and I’ve been tested since my last partner, so as long as you have too we can go without condoms,” 
“I have,” He nods immediately, “it’s been a while and that’s part of our regular health screenings,” 
“Good,” You let your arms relax now, resting your hands on his shoulders as you keep going, “so that’s one thing cleared up,” 
He smiles. 
“As for the rest,” You hold his gaze, “I liked how you talked to me on the phone very much,” 
He swallows hard. 
“I’m pretty sure I know what you’re asking,” You let your thumb rub over the pulse point in his neck, “so let me be clear, I like that. I like that you want to take control, and I like that you want to tell me what to do. Very much.” 
He nods, “And,” 
“I’m not the type to do something I don’t want to,” You promise him, knowing it’s as much of a promise to yourself after everything you’ve experienced in past relationships, “if something isn’t right for me, I’ll say it.” 
His shoulders relax under your touch, “Good,” 
“My guess though,” You nudge him, “is that we’re pretty compatible if the universe thinks so too,” 
“I thought so,” He murmurs appreciatively. 
You lean a little closer to him, and his arms slide around your back to hold you as you muster up the courage for the next part of answers to his questions, “For what I like,” you start, “let’s figure out the details together.” 
He nods. 
“For what I don’t like,” You tell him softly, “um,” your voice cracks a little with nerves and discomfort, a tone you were hoping to conceal at least for tonight. 
He watches you fumble over the words, a little crease between his brows as he tries to parse out what’s behind your tone, his thumb dragging a comforting line over your vertebrae. 
You sigh heavily and tell him your boundaries in a rushed breath, “Don’t pull my hair too hard, and if I’m ever using my mouth on you, just tell me before you move, alright? We can figure the rest out as we go,” 
His expression smooths, and his eyes study yours with the start of a question. You didn’t want to go here, not for a while, but something about your connection with him or maybe even just his earnestness makes you tell him more than you ever normally would.
 Again, as he always seems to, he senses the sudden tension in your chest and simply nods before touching your cheek gently, “Anything else?” 
You shake your head. 
He watches you carefully, his touch soft, and then with easy comfort he finds a question, “Do you want to tell me?”
There’s no demand in it, no insistence, only the offer of an outstretched hand, a listening ear. The momentary tightness relaxes inside you and you shake your head, “Not tonight,” 
He wants to ask more, you can see it, but your past sexual experiences no matter how clumsy or good or borderline traumatic should have no space in your night here with him. He’s worried though, you can see that too. 
It’s quiet for a beat as you take that in, and he nudges you gently, “You okay?” 
“Mhm,” You nod, “I promise, but let’s not talk about it tonight,” 
“Alright,” He draws you close, a soft kiss to your lips. 
You return the kiss warmly, pressing the promise of later honesty into your intention and he nods, reading you with ease. 
“Yunho,” You murmur as you part, “I do want it to be tonight,” 
“You do?” He confirms, hand sliding up and down your bare back. 
“I want this,” You cup his cheek, “I want us, and I don’t want to wait anymore,” 
“Say that again,” He lets your words from a moment ago fade, focusing on what you’re telling him now. 
“I want this,” You pull at his t-shirt again, restless energy creeping its way back into your body. 
“Not that,” He dismisses, “the other thing,” 
You know just what he wants to hear, but you play dumb for just a moment, “I don’t want to wait anymore?” 
His hand tightens on your backside, “y/n,” 
“Us,” You smile, “I said I want us,” 
“That’s it,” He kisses your smile, “I like the sound of that,” 
“I want us.” You repeat for him, lips to his, “Now, please, will you take me to bed and make me yours? Or do I have to beg?” 
He groans, “Let’s go to bed,” 
“So easy,” You tease him, sliding off his lap and reaching for him. 
He pushes himself off the couch but slides his hand into yours and tugs you close again, “I’ll make you beg another time,” 
Your stomach flip flops, arousal spiking through you and he smirks at your dazed expression. 
“Cute,” He taps your nose and steps towards the stairs, “you’re sure?” 
You’re about to protest again, a heavy sigh brewing in your gut, but he clears his throat and continues. 
“On tour,” His eyes shift to the floor for a moment, “I know you were anxious about us, and we talked about waiting. I’ll… I know I want you, and I’m going to keep wanting you. I can wait if that’s what you need, we can date,” 
The one good thing about the tour and all your sleepless nights was how long you had to think about this, about him. Your initial panic and fear over logistics and what-ifs had faded in days. He’s here, standing in your apartment, so you trust your gut, and you trust fate, and decide for once in your life to let someone in. 
You step close and pull him towards you, “Yunho, I don’t want to date,” 
His eyes flick to yours, his irises dark, “You don’t,” 
“I said I want us,” You take his hands in yours and direct them to your hips, “I know what that means,” 
His eyes study yours for a moment, and then he sighs, “Good,” he pulls you up into his hold and crashes your lips together. 
This time there’s nothing between you, no schedules or secrets, no indecision or questions keeping you from letting go. With both eyes open you’re diving into each other, and nothing in the world could stop you from tying yourself to him tonight, body and soul. 
You feel him shift on the landing as you kiss, and you pant a single word against his mouth, “Bed,” 
He nods, stumbling up a few steps without breaking your lips apart, one of his hands secure on the railing to guide him upwards. 
You giggle as he tips to the side and rights himself, leaning back and looking down to see how far up he managed to get you both, “Let me down,” 
He eases you to your own step. 
“Get up here,” You tug his hand and take the familiar steps to your loft bed as quickly as you can, dragging him behind you the whole way. 
Once you hit the landing you take your hand back and start unbuttoning your jeans, but you stop at the sound of a soft thump and Yunho’s soft curse under his breath. 
Turning you realize the issue, he’s too tall for your landing’s slanted ceiling, and he must have bumped his head on the way up to your bedroom. You laugh sharply, covering your lips to stifle the sound, “Sorry,” you grin, “are you okay?” 
“Fine,” He rubs the spot, but shakes it off. 
You turn back to the bed and tug the downy comforter open, “You’re too tall, when we get our own place we’ll get high ceilings,”
Something warm floods your chest and then he’s on you again. Yunho spins you around and dips to kiss you, only this time there’s an edge to it, a neediness. He walks you back until your knees hit the edge of the mattress, and then he wraps his arms around you and pushes you down in one smooth motion. 
Yunho slots himself between your thighs, and you hitch your legs onto his hips as he presses you into the mattress with hungrier and hungrier kisses. 
His lips travel over your jaw, your throat, “You said when,” 
“Hmm?” Your brain feels cottony and light already and you turn your head just a little to hear him again. 
His hand drags down to the top of your jeans, tugging at the zipper, “You said when, not if,” 
“Yunho,” You smile, gasping as his teeth nip at your throat, “we’re about to tie ourselves together for life, did you think I haven’t thought about living with you?” 
He groans, “You’re perfect,” 
You thread your fingers through his hair, “So are you,” 
He tugs artlessly at the top of your pants and sighs, “Need these off,” 
“Take them off me,” You relax your legs, and he shifts back to stand, looping his thumbs in your belt loops so that when he tugs your jeans, they slide off in one smooth motion and drop to the floor. 
“Oh,” He says softly, getting a good look at your now bare legs and the lines of ink that cover so many inches of your skin, “wow,” 
You’ve never been self conscious about your tattoos before, not like this, and you find yourself letting your legs fall closed, “Oh?” 
”I didn’t realize you had more,” He comments but his expression softens into a smile, “they suit you,” 
“Yeah?” 
“Mm,” His hands slide up and down the plush curve of your thighs, “later you can tell me all about them,” 
Your stomach flips pleasantly. 
“Right now though,” He pushes your legs back open and drops back over you, slotting your bodies together and capturing your lips. 
You sigh pleasantly against his lips, wrapping your limbs around him and drawing him closer, and when his hips drop just enough for your core to press firmly against the front of his jeans you moan. 
Yunho groans, his hands wandering. 
You roll your hips, pressing yourself more firmly against the hard bulge of his clothed cock, “S-shirt off,” you pant, tugging at the fabric. 
He reaches back with one hand and grabs the back of his t-shirt and tugs, yanking it free with ease with only the briefest interruptions to your locked lips. When he presses closer to you this time, your bare chest is pressed against his. 
Your brain feels like dizzy stars, like someone picked you up and turned you around in endless circles until you couldn’t help but stagger in his direction, falling over yourself to hold onto him. His hips thrust gently, pushing his hardness insistently at your cunt and you moan into his mouth, your hot breath mingling together in panting sighs. 
“Yunho,” You whine, your core pulsating with need. 
“Yes, pretty girl?” He smiles against your lips, his hand skimming over the curve of your breast, down your side to anchor on your hip. 
You can’t wait anymore, if you do you might combust, and you reach between your bodies to tug at his belt buckle. 
He huffs a laugh, “Yeah?” 
“Please,” You work the leather loop free, “I’m way more naked than you,” 
“Patience,” He nips at your lip. 
His button is open with a frantic tug of your fingers, then his zipper, “I’ve been patient,” you push at his jeans, “baby, please, I need you,” 
“I need you too,” He balances himself on one hand braced on the bed, shimmying out of his pants, and you hook your fingers in the elastic of his boxer briefs to push at those too. 
“Please,” You find yourself begging so easily at the thought of this man pushing inside you. 
“Relax,” He kisses your forehead, tapping your hand out of the way so he can take off his own underwear, “I got it,” 
You ease back on the bed, but between the space of your bodies you watch him. Your mouth runs dry when he’s finally bare for you, and your heartbeat starts to pick up. 
The size of him is intimidating to say the least. He’s long, at least nine or ten inches if you were guessing, but what’s more is how thick he is. His cock is heavy, the kind you’d see in porn and wonder how the women on screen could take it. You can see every vein, the way it stands perfectly straight, the velvety mushroom head already dark pink and slick with the first few beads of precum. 
Yunho settles back above you, his hot, thick length resting on the top of your pubic mound, only the thin cotton of your panties keeping you from feeling him fully. 
”God,” You breathe, still taking him in, “I hope you’re good at foreplay,” 
He squeezes your hip, “We’ll take it slow,” 
You nod, still fixated on the sight of him between your legs, and you try not to think about how far up your stomach his cock comes and what that means for when he tries to put it inside you. Instead you focus on the fact that he’s yours, “We were made for each other right?” You joke softly, “I can take you,” 
He smooths your hair back and tilts your head up, finding your eyes, “We’ll go slow,” he reiterates, “have you ever been with someone my size? Or used any toys like that?” 
For all the sex you’ve had, his question makes you feel a bit like a blushing virgin and you shake your head. 
Something flashes in his eyes, and you feel the twitch of his cock against you. 
“You like that?” You bite the inside of your lip to keep from teasing him too much. 
He brushes past your question, “Let me warm you up,” 
Easy relief blooms in your chest, your muscles starting to relax, and he settles his body over you properly to take you right back into a tender kiss. You can feel him hard and present between you, but he distracts you with open mouthed kisses, his hands exploring you slowly until your hips are twitching on their own. 
You’re dripping wet, there’s no way you’re not soaking through the thin fabric of your panties, but his kisses continue like that’s the last thought in his mind. He makes his way across your jaw, sliding lower down your body as he lavishes attention on your neck, over the jut of your collarbones, across the smooth plane of your chest and tops of your breasts. 
“Oh, yes,” Your voice is breathy as he slides even lower in the bed between your thighs, his mouth skimming over the swell of your tits, ghosting past your nipples. 
“You’re so beautiful,” He murmurs, hands cupping your chest and drawing your breasts together, his teeth sink into his lower lip at the sight. 
“Y-yeah?” Your hips arch beneath him, “You like me?” 
A smile tugs at his lips, one hand sliding up to your cheek as he looks up, “I more than like you, y/n,” 
Your breath is caught in your throat, your heart quickening in your chest. 
Yunho smiles a little at that, feeling the echo of your emotions himself, and then he dips his face to kiss your chest again. This time his lips travel in a smooth, reverent line down your sternum until you feel his breath against your looped tattoo. 
Pleasure sparks inside you and you moan softly, one of your hands threading into the back of his hair. 
He hums pleasantly, and then kisses your mark. 
“Yunho,” You sigh, heat flooding your body. 
He kisses you again, pressing a peck to each of the four corners of the knotted diamond, before centering another again and pouring every ounce of his feeling into it through the link. This time, he murmurs what you already know against your skin, “I love you,” 
Tears gather in your eyes, the feeling spilling over into you so all encompassing that it fells you. You tremble in his arms, your eyes locked to the white ceiling above you as you try desperately to steady yourself in the wave of emotion and sensation. 
His kisses start to travel lower, and your fingers card through his hair, “Y-Yunho, I,” 
“Shh,” He shakes his head, lips moving down over your belly as he shifts lower, “just relax,” 
A little piece of you wants to protest, wants to tell him that you love him too, but he settles between your thighs and slides your legs open wider to accommodate his broad shoulders, and every coherent thought flutters right out of your brain. 
Yunho kisses your inner thigh, easing himself into the perfect position, and then he wraps his arms around your hips under your splayed thighs, one hand braced on your rib cage and the other closing over your abdomen. 
His nose gently, gently nuzzles against your clothed mound and you hear him breathe you in. 
You shudder, moaning softly, your hand finding his hair once again. 
“I’ll take good care of you,” He murmurs low, kissing your cunt, “I love you so much,” 
“Oh,” Your breath catches as he tastes you through the fabric of you underwear, “p-please,” 
His hand on your abdomen shifts, and he reaches between your thighs to tug your underwear to one side, hooking it under his thumb to hold it in place. You gasp as his warm breath caresses your slit, your hand sliding to brace his shoulder. 
“I got you,” He soothes you, his free hand sliding up and down on your ribs, “I promise,” 
A needy sound stutters from your throat. 
At the first swipe of his tongue through your slick folds, Yunho groans and you start to tremble properly in his hold. It feels like liquid fire, better than any touch you’ve ever felt, partner, toy, or or own fingers. Yunho’s lips, his tongue, each little brush of his fingers, every bit of him feels like it was divined for you, and you won’t last a minute. 
“Feel good?” He checks, sliding his tongue through your lower lips again. 
“Incredible,” You pant, your hips canting to try and catch more sensation, “I, I c-can’t,” 
He chuckles, the vibrations running straight up your body, “You taste like heaven, baby,” 
Moaning, you grip down on his shoulder. 
“Mm,” He dives in properly, nestling close and all but kissing your cunt, “god,” 
His tongue drives any coherent thoughts out of your head as he gets the feel for your body, the firm tip sliding over your clit and making you jolt under his hands. 
“Y-yes,” You manage, nodding into the pillows. 
“Here?” He breathes, flicking your swollen clit again. 
“Oh, yes, god,” You grip the sheets. 
He hums, his hands tightening on your skin, and then he closes his lips over your bud and sucks. 
“Oh!” You arch back, hand flying up to catch his head and brace yourself, “Fuck, fuck,” 
He stays steady this time, sucking and lapping at you in a perfect rhythm, holding you in place as he finds the perfect combination to have you scrambling in the sheets. 
“Baby,” You moan, the word turning into a heady whine. 
He groans against you, dragging you tighter to his mouth with a flex of his arms. Your head spins as you slide down the mattress, a bubble of taut pleasure building inside you fast and hot. 
“Please,” You moan, your back arching as he delivers a sharp suck. 
His broad hand slides up from its place anchored on your side to cup your breast, and you look down to watch him move. His fingers deftly find your nipple, twisting and pinching gently, and as he takes a breath between licks and sucks to your dripping cunt, his eyes flash up and meet yours. 
A smile flicks across his wet face, and your eyes roll as you collapse back into the bedding to let him work. 
“That’s it,” He huffs as he sucks in another breath, tongue diving back inside you, pulsing and thrusting. 
Your thighs start to shake, your body jerks on its own, and he finds the perfect tempo to take you through - his thumb swiping sharply over your nipple back and forth, his mouth working you up higher and higher with a sustained pressure. 
The bubble of pleasure arcs up your spine and then settles back down, low in your belly, and you gasp sharply, “God, oh, god,” 
He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t change a single thing, he stays steady and that brings you right up to the very edge. 
“I’m,” Your eyes snap shut, your body shuddering, “I’m, c-coming, Yunho, I’m… baby, I’m,” 
He moans through your babbled pleas, and then you break apart beneath him. Your orgasm crashes into you like a wall of heat, and your body wrenches up tight into fits and starts, legs snapping shut around his ears, fingers knotted in his hair, your free hand braced on the wall behind you as your body jerks itself in rolling grinds against his eager mouth. 
He eases you through it, transitioning from sucks to lazy licks with the flat of his tongue, until you’re boneless and melted under him, your legs falling slack open as your eyes stay unfocused on the ceiling. 
“Okay,” His low voice comes back to you, and you feel his hands smoothing over your trembling thighs, a kiss to your knee, “that’s it,” 
A shiver runs through you, your body suddenly cold at the lack of contact and you take in a sharp breath. 
“I got you,” He shifts over your legs, crawling up the bed so he can collapse along your one side, and he wraps you up in his arm. 
His cheeks are pleasantly pink, hair a chaotic haystack, his mouth is still glistening from your slick wetness, and he grins down at you breathlessly, “Hey,” 
“H-hi,” You sigh. 
“Feeling good?” He cups your face, thumb brushing over your cheekbone. 
You nod, relaxing into his touch, “Mhm,” 
“Good,” He presses a warm kiss to your forehead and draws you into him to let you recover. 
You melt into his touch, cheek to chest. 
Yunho brushes his fingers up and down your spine and gets his own breath back. 
After a few more moments, you sigh, shaking out the post-orgasm haze and kiss his skin, “I’d say I’m warmed up now,” 
He huffs a laugh into your hair, “Eager,” 
“Aren’t you?” Your hand slides over his bare side. 
“I am,” He squeezes you.
Feeling starts to come back into your body and you smile, wriggling in his arms until you’re in a better position and able to follow his earlier lead. You nip gently at his chest and pepper him with kisses, and you smile when you hear his contented sigh and pleased hum. His fingers slide up and down your back as you try to give him a taste of every sensation he gave to you. 
At his mark, you follow his kisses exactly, and you feel him twitch, his hard length pressing into your belly where you have his cock trapped between your bodies. 
You linger here a moment, “You feel that?” 
At your punctuated kiss against his soul mark he sighs, “I can feel you,” 
You nod, nuzzling into him, “You’re mine,” 
“Completely,” 
“I’m yours,” You murmur, promising him the same. 
“Mine,” He breathes. 
Your kisses travel lower as you work your way down the smooth plane of his abdomen, his muscles twitching under your lips, but as you settle yourself over his hips and work your mouth closer and closer to the base of his cock he shifts under you. 
“Hey,” He catches your hands, closing them in his own, “I’m fine,” 
“I want to,” You smile, a tender kiss to the underside of his shaft before you let your tongue trace up the seam of his thick member. 
He gasps, hips twitching, but he shakes his head, “Wait, wait,” 
You pull back immediately and look up, a swirl of feelings knotting in your gut, “What?” 
He swallows hard and slides his hands up your arms, hooking under your upper arms so he can tug you back up to lie next to him eye to eye, “Not tonight,” 
“I want to make you feel good,” Your hand snakes between you, searching for him. 
“You do,” He sighs as your hand closes around him, “you are, but after what you said,” 
It feels like a bucket of cold water and your hand falls away from his cock. You hate your ex so much for being anywhere near your head at this moment with this man, but he is. He never hurt you, but the way he pressured you and pushed you into things you weren’t ready for has been an ever present shadow in your sex life even now, years and multiple partners later. 
Yunho kisses your lips and tries to keep his tone light, “Another time,” he tells you, “I don’t want to hurt you,” 
“It’s not,” You fumble over your words again, “it’s not bad, I’m alright, I want to,” 
He smiles and shakes his head, “I’d be more comfortable,” 
That takes the wind right out of your sails, and you sink into him, “Oh,” 
“You want to make me feel good?” He asks. 
You nod. 
His hand slides down your arm, drawing your own hand to his aching cock, and he closes your fingers around it, “Touch me, then, we’ll have time for the rest later,” 
He’s hot in your hand and you take in the weight of him as you slide your fist up and down to explore him. 
He groans, “Again,” 
You pump your hand once more, base to tip, rolling your wrist experimentally this time as you work his tip. Leaving any thoughts of the past behind, you focus on him entirely. 
“You’re s-so good at this already,” He sighs, “just like that,” 
Your bodies shift to accommodate, he cuddles you closer with one arm wrapped around you and your legs tangled together, and slowly you start to learn his body too. The way he twitches as your fist drops down to the base and squeezes, his gasp when your knuckle brushes up over the seam of his cockhead. His eyes blow wide when your thumb collects a bead of precum to rub up and down his shaft, and he moans when your fingers tighten and release. 
His free hand snakes between your bodies, finding your slippery center again like he’s been touching you for years. 
“Oh, Yunho,” You part your thighs. 
He groans, eyes slipping closed for a moment, “You’re so wet,” 
You moan as he slides his fingers lower, teasing your entrance with his fingertips. 
“Needy,” He murmurs. 
You do your best to focus on him, but the pressure of his fingers at your wet opening has you jerking your hips. Your hand tightens on his shaft and he sucks in a sharp breath, nodding. His cock feels so right in your hand, thick and pulsing, and you shiver, “I should have known you’d be huge,” you giggle against his shoulder. 
He smirks, “Yeah?” 
“You’re tall,” You start. 
He pulls his fingers back away from your pussy, dragging the pads of his fingertips over your clit as he does and you moan, a whiny needy sound from the center of your throat. 
“Not all tall guys,” He starts to say but you pump your hand just right and he curses. 
“Mm,” You slide closer to him if at all possible, “but you’re big everywhere,” 
You punctuate your words with a gentle tease of his cockhead, the pad of your thumb rubbing a circle into the seam that made him pant before, and he twitches, his eyes rolling. 
He swallows tightly and smiles, “Am I?” 
“Mhm,” You nip his chest lightly with your teeth, pumping your hand again nice and slow, “big feet, big hands…” 
“Been thinking a lot about my hands, sweetheart?” He teases, dragging his nails lightly up and down your thigh. 
“Shut up,” You duck your face, planning to double down your efforts on his cock, but he pushes your hand away and rolls you smoothly onto your back. You drop back with a squeak, your eyes flying up to his. 
“You have,” He teases, sliding his palm down your body, a slow and torturous pace on the path to your cunt once again. 
“Maybe,” 
”Fantasizing about my fingers?” His voice is low, warm in his chest, and he slowly presses his middle finger over your clit. 
“Oh, fuck,” Your head drops back, eyes finding the ceiling once again only this time Yunho makes a soft noise, his tongue against his teeth and he shakes his head. 
“Don’t be embarrassed,” He murmurs, his fingers rocking gently over your swollen bud. 
You are a little, but there’s something in his tone that tells you he likes it and you think about the way his eyes flashed at the idea of being your first partner his size. With every little touch you’ve been figuring him out, and this suddenly feels like he’s allowing himself to want you in the way he needs. If he wasn’t so good at pressing all your buttons you’d try to tease him again, but when you meet his eyes and see the heat behind them, all you can do is melt. 
His next words leave you breathless, “I fantasize about you,” 
“Y-you do?” 
“All the time,” He nods, his hand between your thighs getting bolder as he explores your wet folds. 
“Please,” Your hips arch as the tips of his fingers pass over your entrance again. 
“Oh baby,” He groans, and you feel his hard cock twitch against your thigh, “you need it?” 
You nod, reaching down to find his wrist, tugging him to communicate while your head feels so full of fuzzy pleasure. 
“Fuck it,” He bites his lip as he looks down at you squirming in the sheets, “I’ll tease you later,” 
“Thank g-,” The words die on your lips, punched out of you when he slides two of his impossibly long fingers deep into your cunt in one push. 
He doesn’t wait for you to beg this time, with his eyes glued to your every expression, he reads your pleasure and starts to pulse his hand, pumping his fingers in and out of your fluttering core with strong, steady strokes. 
“Yes, yes,” Your legs widen, and you collapse into his shoulder, “oh my god,” 
His fingers feel thick and warm in your cunt, crooked just right to reach spots you could only hit with toys, and even then the feeling of those pale in comparison to him. 
“I knew you’d feel good,” He pushes your legs open wide with his free hand, “can’t wait to have you wrapped around my cock,” 
Pleasure arcs up your spine and you moan, your hand flying to his bicep and gripping down hard, “Fuck,” 
He presses a kiss to your shoulder as he adjusts his position and in torturously slow pumps of his hand, he starts to work you open. He scissors his fingers wide as draws them out, and when you feel him push in a third finger as deep as he can go, you shudder against the sheets. 
“So tight,” He murmurs, the words sounding like praise on his lips, “you’re squeezing my fingers, pretty girl,”
Your cunt clenches in response and he chuckles. 
“Exactly like that,” He smiles and thrusts his fingers in and out again, increasing his pace as your breath starts to quicken. 
“Y-Yunho,” You jerk against him, the bubble of a building orgasm once again gathering low in your gut and you scramble in the sheets until you’re legs are open as wide as possible, one leg hitched over his. You can’t stop watching him now, the lean muscle of his arm, the way the tendons in his forearm twitch with his movements. Pushing up on your forearms you catch sight of his index, middle, and ring fingers gathered tightly together, glistening with your wetness as they plunge in and out of your fluttering cunt. 
“So beautiful,” He groans, kissing your temple and wrapping his free arm around your back to adjust to the position change, giving his arm enough leverage that he can keep thrusting in and out. 
You moan at the heady sensation of his fingers at your g-spot, hips pushing down into his hand. 
“Want you to come again,” He says hotly against your hair.
 You nod, heels digging into the mattress as your body jerks, needily meeting each stroke of his fingers with your hips. 
“Tell me,” He says. 
“H-harder,” You beg him, sensation cascading through you, “harder, baby, please,” 
“God, yes,” He adjusts, and suddenly you’re pinned back to the mattress flat on your back, one of Yunho’s broad hands stretched wide on your sternum to pin you in place as he fucks you open with the other. 
Perfect, almost painful pleasure has your eyes slamming shut and a desperate whine on your lips, “Oh, oh, oh,” each push in of his fingers punches out a breathy moan, your pussy fluttering as he draws you up to the peak. 
“Tell me you’re close,” He pants, “I want to hear it,” 
Your nerve endings light up, your body arching under the hard press of his hand, “I’m so close, I’m so f-fucking close,” 
“Come for me, baby,” 
Your nails dig into his thigh, the pressure mounting inside you, “Again,” you manage, begging for more. 
His fingers curl, just a little more, “Come,” he says it again, only this time his tone is sharper, deeper and more direct. It’s not a question, not a wish or a hope, it’s a command. 
Your free hand claps over your mouth, stifling a moan and you bite down on the fleshy heel of your hand to keep from screaming. 
“Come,” He holds you steady, “that’s it, let go, let it all go, baby,” 
Your body erupts into ecstatic shakes, pleasure rolling through in wave after wave, but all you can do is let it. 
“Just like that,” He groans, “fuck yes,” 
This time, as your orgasm starts to abate, he doesn’t kiss you tenderly or wrap you up for a cuddle, this time he’s just as frantic as you are. 
“I need you,” He pants, his body over top of yours once again, “y/n, fuck,” 
You blink hard, still a trembling mess, and you see his own desperate expression. His cheeks are pink, brow slick with sweat, pupils dilated with desire as he opens your legs and crowds you with his body. 
“T-talk to me,” He manages, his hand directing his weeping cock to your throbbing entrance, “tell me you still want this,” 
“I want this,” You reach for him, wrapping your arms around his neck and tugging him closer, “I want you,” 
“God,” He’s shaking, his body taut like a rubber band about to snap, and somewhere inside you you can feel the amount of self control he’s exhibiting just to go slowly. 
You moan sharply when his tip drags over your throbbing clit. 
“You’re so wet,” He pants, watching between your bodies as he slicks the head of his cock between your folds. 
“For you,” You breathe, your head feeling cottony. 
“So pretty,” The head of his cock nudges against your entrance and you shiver. 
Need sparks through you, “Please,” you tug at his hip, just a little and he smiles. 
“Tell me if I need to stop,” He manages, his weight collapsing a little as he slowly starts to push his hips forwards. 
You gasp as you start to feel him, your cunt still swollen and pulsing from two back to back orgasms, and his eyes snap up. 
Yunho watches your face carefully as he moves, his body strung tight as he tries to hold onto a thread of composure. It feels normal at the start, but as he pushes in past the head, you feel yourself start to stretch wide in a way you’ve never experienced and your breath starts to quicken. 
“Oh, fuck,” You look between your bodies, watching his slow sink into your wet heat, and swallow tightly at just how much of him is left to take. 
“You okay?” He asks breathlessly.
“Uh-huh,” You manage, “I can feel everything, but god, don't stop,”
He hisses, gripping your thigh with his free hand, fingers still slick with your juices, fighting the urge to lose himself. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, his eyes flicking over the expression of tight pleasure on your face.  
“Don’t you dare pull out,” You grip down on his shoulders and roll your hips roll a bit, taking him in another inch, “you feel so good,” 
He lets out a heady breath, and moves in just a bit more, “Yeah?” 
“Never felt anything this good,” You moan as he pushes in further, your walls fluttering and clamping around his hot length. 
He rolls his hips this time, just a little experiment to drag himself in and out without fucking into you fully, and he moans when your muscles lock pleasantly around him, “God, you really were made for me,” 
“Yours,” You say it like a vow, and in a strange way somewhere in the back of your mind you know it is. A dizzy promise in an almost marriage bed as your bodies sink together. 
His breath hitches, cock shifting inside you, his head dropping so that you’re forehead to forehead, “And yours,” he agrees softly. 
Your body feels hot suddenly, hotter than before, everything a hazy glow in the dim lighting of your bedroom. You feel all at once like you’re in the moments before a wave, the sudden suck back of the water with all the sand slipping away from underneath your feet, leaving you unsteady and sinking into the earth. Your ears catch with a dull ring. 
Your breath is comes quickly now, warmth flushing your chest and cheeks, and your nails tighten on his skin, “Yunho,” 
He adjusts to meet your gaze, and you realize he’s feeling exactly what you are, the thrumming sensation of it all but swirling around you in the air. He blinks hard, “I’m.. I need,” 
You understand him without words, you know exactly what he needs because you need it too. Through the fog of sensation, you pull lightly on his shoulders and hitch your calves on his hips, drawing him in deeper, “Please,” 
His hips drop, seating himself just a little more and you moan at the stretching sensation. He’s holding himself back, clinging to the one clear thought that he promised he’d take care of you, but his resolve is crumbing apart before your eyes. 
“Yunho,” You cup his cheek, begging him with your expression to let go, “I need you,” 
He swallows hard, his chest flushed red, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. 
The words flood out of you, a whispered confession just for him, “I love you, please,” 
He exhales in a rush, a wide smile breaking across his face, his eyes shining, and without any more hesitation he thrusts forwards and sinks his full length inside you. 
You moan sharply, wrapping your arms around him as he drops his body down on yours, sweat slick skin pressed flush together. The hot dizziness grows, and he finds your lips, moaning against your mouth as he kisses you hard. Your bodies start to move in sync, a tandem push and pull as he rolls into the cradle of your hips, your breath tangled together as you rock in the sheets. 
Yunho leans his forehead against yours, pumping his hips slow and firm, “I love you,” 
The sensation grows, filling the air around you and a chill rushes up your spine, the hair on your arms standing up at attention, the magnetic pull between your bodies so forceful you don’t think a single thing in the world could drag you away from him. Emotion rocks through the link, and then all at once you feel it snap into place. 
Your tattoo burns, the brand igniting just like when you touched his cheek for the first time, and you suck in a sharp breath. Yunho’s hips stutter in pace, sinking himself deep until your bodies are nestled together with every inch of him buried inside you. 
He’s breathing heavy, arms wrapped tight around you, hands trembling, “I can feel you,” he leans up an inch, smoothing your hair back from your face, “you’re,” 
His words die on his lips but he touches his chest and you nod, you feel him too. One single heartbeat, one breath. The link before was nothing, a mere echo of this, a blurry photograph now sharply in focus, and you reach up to brush your fingers along his cheek, his lips, a ghost of the sensation along your own face. 
“How is this real?” Tears prick at your eyes. You’ve seen the movies, read the books, you’ve talked to people who have found their soulmates before, but nothing could have prepared you for this. You feel him inside you as if he were a part of you, his skin your skin, his emotions, even the shape of his thoughts.  
You understand all at once why people say it’s possible to die of a broken heart. If you ever lost him, lost this… 
“I’m here,” He interrupts your internal spiral, dipping to press a kiss to your lips, “I’m not going anywhere,” 
“How did you,” You shake your head in strange awe of the feeling, “what is this?” 
“I don’t know,” He kisses you again, “I just knew, I felt it,” 
Tears spill over, snaking back into your hairline, and you press your palm to his chest, sliding down over his tattoo. Words fail you, all you can feel is the overwhelming breadth of your souls together. How could anyone live without this, how could anyone believe this isn’t real?
“Don’t cry,” He soothes, wiping the tears from your temples with his thumb. 
“I’m happy,” You manage, finding his eyes again, “Yunho, I’m so happy,” 
He grins, his breath catching in his throat as he lets his forehead rest on yours again and he nods, “Me too,” 
His love thrums through you, tangible and solid, a truth you didn’t know you could have. You’re grinning too now, an elated laugh on your lips as you wrap your arms around him, “Fuck,” you thread your fingers in his hair, nuzzling into him, “you love me,” 
“So much,” He confesses quietly, “I didn’t know I could love someone like this,” 
“Me too,” You press your lips to his, sighing into him, “I love you too,” 
The kisses feel like his love actualized, nothing more true than his mouth, his need, and yours reflected back in the mirror of his desire. You moan as another wave of heat floods through you, and Yunho shudders.
For a moment, there’s nothing more to say, tangled together in your bed in the middle of Seoul, time seemingly standing still just for you. Tightly locked together, you both start to move again. Each slow pump of his hips down is met with an upward roll of yours, his cock slowly stroking in and out of your pulsing center, your arms wrapped around each other as you pant and moan. 
You crumble apart together, still deep beneath the dizzy waves, his mouth hot against your ear as he releases inside you, your cunt fluttering and spasming around him, drawing him in, holding him inside.
**this part was too long for tumblr's new word count guidelines! please check out the second half of this part, here!
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veryberryjelly · 8 months ago
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Hii! Can you please do prompt 25. "Hip bone kissing" (with Luke Castellan) thank you I love all of your work🫶🫶
luke castellan x reader
prompts ; ' kissing hip bones i repeat kissing hip bones ' [ ik i already did this prompt for art but i love it so im doing it for luke too ]
𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ✦ 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 !
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the last day before the summer campers arrived was like the last days of rome for the camp counsellors.
they always took the opportunity to go a bit mental on the last day, spending all day by the lake, very often someone snuck in some beers and wine coolers to enjoy for the day and it always ended with a bonfire before everyone went to sleep, prepared for the campers to come tomorrow.
you were always down for a lake day, and today was no exception.
you had been in the water for around half an hour before you pulled yourself up onto the wooden dock and wung out your hair before sitting yourself down on the damp wood next to your boyfriend.
he had opted to stay out of the water today, saying he felt a bit unwell, but he still wanted to enjoy the sun with everyone even if it meant he had to lounge on the dock in a t-shirt and a cap to protect himself from the sun.
you set your head down on his shoulder, a soft smile settling on your lips.
" you doing okay ?" you questioned, your arm sliding around his torso.
he was quiet and that alone was enough of a sign something might be wrong.
" yeah, but i think i'm gonna head back to my cabin " he relented, bringing his gaze towards you, it was then that you noticed the slight clamminess on his cheeks.
" you want some company ?" you questioned. if he wasnt feeling great you would happily give up your final free day and spend it with him. but he shook his head simply
" that's okay, enjoy your day, i'll see you at dinner, okay ?" he waited until you nodded before he pressed a short kiss to your lips and padded up the dock, back towards his cabin.
the day wasnt the same after that.
you loved luke's presence more than you realised.
by the time lunch rolled around and the other counsellors headed to the dining hall, you couldn't ignore how much you missed him.
you split up from the group on their way through camp and headed to luke's cabin.
you knocked softly on the door but ultimately pushed it open before hearing a reply.
and when you walked in you realised you would've been stood out there for a while waiting for a reply.
luke was passed out on his bed, his shirt discarded on the mattress beside him.
one look at his chest and you were clued in to why he had been feeling so crumby by the water.
a small patch of heat rash had spread on his chest.
you took the few steps over to him your fingers lifting up to push through his hair in an attempt to gently wake him.
but when that did no good you pressed a delicate kiss onto his forehead, then another onto his nose.
his chin.
his chest.
his abdomen.
you saw his chest rise and fall with a sigh before you could go any further and a grin spread across his lips.
" don't stop on my account, sweetheart " he teased, and while he was teasing you decided to take his words at face value.
you pressed a kiss to his stomach, your bottom lip brushing against his shorts but you stopped descending his body there, instead choosing to press a band of kisses onto his hips, starting for his left hip bone and travelling across before settling your head against his stomach.
" you feeling okay ?" you questioned when his hand lifted to brush your hair from your face.
" much better now, thank you baby "
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tori111777 · 2 months ago
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FRIGHT AND FURY 2
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Part 1, Part 3
Summary: conversations about and with your husband, Caracalla right before the second day of the games.
Warnings: spoilers of gladiator 2
Parings: Caracalla x wife!reader
You had awaken alone in your bed to the early morning light. You stretched beneath the covers, feeling the cool sheets where Caracalla had not lain with you last night, his absence pressing into you with the same weight as the silence that filled the room.
It was a morning like so many others, you got up and got ready. It wasn’t unusual for your husband to sleep in other places when he got upset the night prior or when his mind became too strong.
As your servant was doing your hair, putting into beautiful braids and adding golden leaves you stared at the empty spot of the bed. It shouldn’t have bothered you as much as it did right not, it has never bothered you before.
As the last braid was pinned in place, the golden leaves catching the early light, you caught your reflection in the mirror. The woman was beautiful, of course she was, she was you. Of noble brith and high ranking in Ancient Rome. You are the Roman dream. Yet you also saw you as a girl.
The door swung open and you saw that it was Emperor Geta. It was either him or Caracalla as no such person could open a noble women’s door without asking. He was a familiar face, but also one that carried the weight of his own ambitions.
"Emperor Geta," you greeted him. "I hope I am not intruding," Geta said as he stepped into the room, the sharp click of his sandals on the marble floor accentuating the silence.
"You are not intruding, my lord," you replied with a small bow of your head, a gracious smile curling your lips.
“I’ve come to see if you are ready for the games today. My brother should have been here by now to lead you away.” He seemed a bit concerned about it by pursing his lips a bit. “I am sure he will be here in time soon enough.” You gave a smile of reinsurance to him.
His unease seemed genuine, though his eyes lingered on you a little longer than was strictly necessary. It wasn’t unusual for brothers like him and Caracalla to be at odds, but you did not expect the Emperor himself to arrive at your chambers in his place.
Geta's lips quirked into a faint, knowing smile. "Do you miss him, my lady?" His tone was light, almost playful, but the way his eyes fixed on you felt more intent than playful. You could feel the shift in the air—the way he suddenly filled the space between you both. It made you uneasy, the two emperors have always been… something.
"I’ve grown accustomed to his late night walks," you replied, your voice cool and collected.
"Of course," Geta said, his voice dropping an octave as he took another step closer. "But you should know that my brother is... difficult to read, even for me." You tilted your head slightly, not quite trusting the shift in tone. "I know him well enough." You didn’t say too well, though that was the truth.
"And yet," he said, his voice almost a whisper, "even you must admit that you don't always understand him. Not entirely." He paused, letting the silence stretch between you. "And that can be... unsettling, can't it?" He was trying to see how much you could reveal about his brother. How much he could use against him.
Your fingers tightened around the edge of the dressing table, though your expression remained unyielding. "I understand him well enough to know that his moods can change like the seasons," you replied, meeting his gaze evenly. "But there are things even the gods themselves cannot control."
He stepped back a couple of paces, his hands folded together in front of him. "True," he murmured. "Even the gods are at mercy of fate."
“I’m sure he’ll arrive soon,” you said again, though your voice was tinged with something less certain this time. “I will leave you to your preparations. Caracalla will surely be along shortly.” He made a show of bowing his head, a mock gesture of deference, before turning to leave.
You watched the servant outside your door close it behind him and suddenly a wave of fresh air had come into the room, even if the window was closed. The room now silent as only you stood there and could only hear your breathing.
Your mind swirled. You knew Caracalla had always been restless, but last night was different. There had been something raw in him and maybe even something raw in you for trying to help him. But what did you truly know of him, of his mind?
The second day of the games would be held later today in preparation of getting it ready as they needed to fill up the colosseum with water. Though if Caracalla didn’t lead you out to the area today it would not only be an embarrassment for you but to him as well.
And now Geta’s appearance only added another layer to the puzzle. The way his eyes lingered, the way his tone shifted with that subtle, almost imperceptible playfulness—What was his motive behind it all?
It wouldn’t be until minutes later of being left alone in your mind that the door would soon open again. You sat in a comfortable chair, facing out into the streets of Rome like how you always did.
You didn’t have to turn to know who it was. The presence, though always commanding, was unmistakable—Caracalla.
When he entered, the light from the window caught the edge of his dark tunic, he was wearing black today, seeing from the reflection of the window. A symbol of death, but of course he didn’t know it meant death.
"I see you're ready for the games," he said, his words almost detached, as though he were speaking to a stranger. "Yes," you replied without turning. "Are you well?"
You saw his reflection twitch, his jaw tightening ever so slightly before he took a step closer, closer than you anticipated. "I’m fine," he said, but there was something in his tone that didn’t match the word.
You looked back to him and saw that he was right behind you. He did indeed look fine, his makeup being done, all of his gold glistening, and his clothes all neatly and tightly worn around his body.
You felt the need to give him a smile of somewhat. Last night conversation was left off but you dare not to bring it to the table. “Are you ready to leave for the games, my lady?” Your husband said, laying out his hand for you to take.
“As always.” You replied.
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taylorswiftstyle · 6 days ago
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Chiefs vs Bills | Kansas City, MO | January 26, 2025
Louis Vuitton 'Monogram Jacquard Knit Jacket' - $5,000.00 Louis Vuitton 'LV Spark Beanie' - $550.00 Steven Battelle 'Ancient Coin Necklace' - price varies Louis Vuitton 'Trunk Chain Wallet' - $2,850.00 Louis Vuitton 'Le Damier de Louis Vuitton Small Ring' - $3,950.00 Louis Vuitton 'Le Damier de Louis Vuitton Medium Bracelet' - $18,500.00 Cartier 'Panthère de Cartier Medium Watch Diamond' - $32,200.00 Louis Vuitton 'LV Medallion Gloves' - $495.00 Calzedonia '50 Denier Tights in Dark Red' - $15.00 Louis Vuitton 'Star Trail Ankle Boot' - $1,760.00
More monogram. Taylor appeared at the AFC Championship game wearing a literal head to toe look (mostly) by Louis Vuitton. Proving that sometimes it does have to be Louis V up in KC.
What I Learned From Those Two Years: Prior to the game I had wondered if last year’s championship outfit might be a playbook (pun intended) for today’s look - knowing that comparisons were bound to happen. I can see the similarities year over year in the oversized top, pleated mini skirt, tights, and boots combination. On the skirt, I’ve been told this is not the same skirt as last year, with thanks to the LV team for the confirmation, and is a slightly older one within the LV catalogue. However, it feels like a close enough of a callback to make the choice seem intentional. Perhaps a way of nodding to superstitions in sport with repeating “lucky” items to bring forth an optimal outcome. Whatever the reason, let’s say that it worked because the Chiefs defeated the Bills 32-29 and are - once again - headed to the Super Bowl.   
When We First Met (Gala): But even without the other LV elements of this look, I clocked these boots right away. Why? Because Taylor has a pair of Star Trail boots that she has worn on two other occasions. The first was the night before the 2016 Met Gala. The second was while out to dinner with Travis in October 2023. After a lot of staring, I can confirm this pair of ‘Star Trails’ are an updated version - discernible by the slightly different finish and the cap toe detail being absent. One of Taylor’s style pillars has always been repetition, so I’ll give half points here given it’s a style we know she has in her closet and has repeated in the past. I can imagine this fresh pair from a later collection was meant to coordinate with the rest of the recent LV pulls. 
Louis V up in KC: When it came to accessories, Louis Vuitton jewelry and bag felt like natural fits. However, knowing that Taylor has a LV watch in her collection that would have coordinated well with her head to toe (literal) branded ensemble feels noteworthy to me. The accessory that felt like it had the most story behind it was her necklace. Taylor has worn a number of vintage coin necklaces recently, including at a few Chiefs games. What immediately came to my mind was her 2024 season opener outfit which was also styled with a vintage, ancient bronze coin necklace. I imagine that something about it feels like embodying a fighting / warrior mindset to fit in with the “go fight win” of sports and the Gladiator ethos. Or else perhaps even a chic reference to a game day coin toss. I spoke with the designer, Steven, who confirmed that the face depicted on the coin, struck in 109-108BC during the Roman Republic, is the goddess Roma. Steven said, “[Roma] was believed to watch over the city’s citizens and protect them from harm, as well as being a fierce defender of Rome in war.” Steven said the necklace took approximately 1.5 days to create by Balinese goldsmith artisans with traditional handmaking techniqes. “The pendant was designed to highlight the coin and accent it in a classical manner,” he said. From an intentional styling perspective, there’s a lot of thought that goes into creating a cohesive and consistent storyline where every look “speaks” to one another to create a progression, but is distinct enough to stand as its own moment. Small callbacks like this (and the skirt - more on that later) demonstrate that thought well. I look forward to doing a full breakdown of this season’s looks (particularly in comparison to 2023-24’s season) when the final whistle blows. This artist uses real ancient coins in their work so every single piece is unique and different. Pictured above is what appears, to my eye, to be a close match to Taylor’s. 
Photo by Jamie Squire via Getty Images
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fem-lit · 11 months ago
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In the current epidemic of rich Western women who cannot “choose” to eat, we see the continuation of an older, poorer tradition of women’s relation to food. Modern Western female dieting descends from a long history. Women have always had to eat differently from men: less and worse. In Hellenistic Rome, reports classicist Sarah B. Pomeroy, boys were rationed sixteen measures of meal to twelve measures allotted to girls. In medieval France, according to historian John Boswell, women received two thirds of the grain allocated to men. Throughout history, when there is only so much to eat, women get little, or none: A common explanation among anthropologists for female infanticide is that food shortage provokes it. According to UN publications, where hunger goes, women meet it first: In Bangladesh and Botswana, female infants die more frequently than male, and girls are more often malnourished, because they are given smaller portions. In Turkey, India, Pakistan, North Africa, and the Middle East, men get the lion’s share of what food there is, regardless of women’s caloric needs. “It is not the caloric value of work which is represented in the patterns of food consumption” of men in relation to women in North Africa, “nor is it a question of physiological needs…. Rather these patterns tend to guarantee priority rights to the ‘important’ members of society, that is, adult men.” In Morocco, if women are guests, “they will swear they have eaten already” or that they are not hungry. “Small girls soon learn to offer their share to visitors, to refuse meat and deny hunger.” A North African woman described by anthropologist Vanessa Mahler assured her fellow diners that “she preferred bones to meat.” Men, however, Mahler reports, “are supposed to be exempt from facing scarcity which is shared out among women and children.”
“Third World countries provide examples of undernourished female and well-nourished male children, where what food there is goes to the boys of the family,” a UN report testifies. Two thirds of women in Asia, half of all women in Africa, and a sixth of Latin American women are anemic—through lack of food. Fifty percent more Nepali women than men go blind from lack of food. Cross-culturally, men receive hot meals, more protein, and the first helpings of a dish, while women eat the cooling leftovers, often having to use deceit and cunning to get enough to eat. “Moreover, what food they do receive is consistently less nutritious.”
This pattern is not restricted to the Third World: Most Western women alive today can recall versions of it at their mothers’ or grandmothers’ table: British miners’ wives eating the grease-soaked bread left over after their husbands had eaten the meat; Italian and Jewish wives taking the part of the bird no one else would want.
These patterns of behavior are standard in the affluent West today, perpetuated by the culture of female caloric self-deprivation. A generation ago, the justification for this traditional apportioning shifted: Women still went without, ate leftovers, hoarded food, used deceit to get it—but blamed themselves. Our mothers still exiled themselves from the family circle that was eating cake with silver cutlery off Wedgwood china, and we would come upon them in the kitchen, furtively devouring the remains. The traditional pattern was cloaked in modern shame, but otherwise changed little. Weight control became its rationale once natural inferiority went out of fashion.
— Naomi Wolf (1990) The Beauty Myth
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