#horse looking out to sea

[limelocked]

I keep looking at the limited life tag even tho I try to avoid Martyn’s watcher stuff

But like

“No one escaped, they’re all in their own separate death games”

Martyn

Man

I just

I gotta ask

Have you started reading orv?

Is this convergent evolution with omniscient readers viewpoint or what?

[o3o-lapd-o3o]

spoilers? i don't even know what is or isn't a spoiler anymore.

i like to imagine this is what had to be happening at ithaca during the events between little wolf/we'll be fine and get in the water

[wildbasil]

group therapy (they make each other worse)

[deerabigailhobbs]

Hello friend!

I’ve been rebloging your amazing thoughts for a bit and have finally worked up the nerve to send an ask!

I absolutely adore your Abigail thoughts and need more! I love your headcanon that she would do art (adamgail photography siblings real (at least in my brain)), but what do you think she would do for a job once she got older? (she definitely does don’t look at canon)

I think that her saying she wanted to join the fbi was inspired by her experiences in the show. If she really did want to, I cannot see her being a special agent, maybe one of the science jobs.

Anyways! As the resident Abi expert I’m curious if you have any thoughts!

Hello friend!

First of all, never be nervous to send an ask, DM or anything, and this goes for everyone! I am simply just a gal, and they truly do make my day :D

As for jobs, definitely somewhere in the sect of helping others. In my opinion, an integral part of her character is trying to make a right from her wrongs, it's why she wanted to join the FBI and show she's not like her father (like you mentioned!)

If we take her art skills into consideration, maybe a police sketch artist, that way she's not head first into all the FBI shenanigans, but close enough to still be intrigued. She's intelligent, I can definitely see her picking up on a detail others looked over and investigating a case herself.

A sort of doctor perhaps, which would pair nicely with Adam being a vet (if we were to go that route). Less murder mystery solving and more actually saving people's lives. Would make for some good angst too, if she doesn't manage to save someone she may have flashbacks to the girls. She may feel that a part of her dad still lives with her, that she secretly wanted them dead. Yknow, good ol' fun! /s

Or perhaps something far more simple. A freelance artist who sells calendars and mugs to sweet old ladies. It may not be as hectic as the past two, but it's still helping others, and gives poor Abigail a break from all the chaos.

Maybe she could start out as one thing and end up as another as she got older, (because you are absolutely right she lives a very long, very happy life) the possibilities are endless :D

Also, thank you for liking my nonsensical rambles, it means a lot! I'm by no means an Abigail expert, just obsessive :D (oh, and thank you for liking adamgail siblings that means a lot too!)

Have a good day/evening and thanks again for the question! Always a pleasure to read and answer :]

[rivkasninjahcs]

shes still guarding that fucking box

[fakemagicjaye]

aaaa :'v LVL43 will NOT be done on time i'm not even halfway through inking.... orz;;; i kind of want to post whatever i have done on time and the rest when it's finished buuuutttt it is all one chapter and it's supposed to be all together.... ; 3;;;

also i was like "i will do a poll for this!" but then i was like "what a boring poll i want to do a fun one" so i'm combining them.

the options are as follows A) post whatever is done of LVL43 on Nov 1st, then the rest when it's finished B) wait until it's all done to post whenever the hell that may be......

part b: select a magical companion for your quest. what quest is up to you i don't know your life......... defeating the demon lord, getting snacks from the 7-11, figuring out what's killing everything at your antarctic research station.... 1) narwhal

2) this thing (silky anteater)

3) can-opener smoothdream

[thebleedingeffect]

Oh this is my personal hell, this is it <- has been feverishly refreshing trades with a villager and has gotten every single level 5 enchantment EXCEPT SHARPNESS 5

[subatomicskud]

My brother says I dress like Jesse Pinkman and Adam Sandler combined and I don't know how to feel about that

[ieo-pio]

If I see Medic from the hit game TF2 in horse person gear again I will make an equestrian au

This is a threat >:(

[sophiamcdougall]

I am never going to complain about Greek Duolingo again

I mean, I am. But still.

So, as some of you know, my family has been coming to this tiny Greek seaside village for several years. Just over a week ago I came out here with my mum, under the impression that early September, after the height of the summer heat, would be a good time to have a holiday. ANYWAY Storm Daniel had other ideas about that. Locally things are improving (I'm actually really pissed off about the disaster-porn tone of most English-language media coverage, but that's another post). The power is back on, there's running water most of the time, and though the latter is not drinkable, a truck from the government came and handled out free bottled water yesterday. But we are currently kind of stuck. Can't do tourist things. Can't go home. There aren't any local flights out until Saturday and the road to Thessaloniki is still closed.

So this evening, feeling kind of aimless and depressed, I go down to the nearest beach with a couple of binbags and start cleaning up in an effort to at least do something positive. I always try to do this at least once out here and obviously, after the storm, there's a lot more plastic and rubbish than usual.

At some point I find this large, round bit of metal - some kind of machinery part, I think -- that's too big for the bag, so I take it to the bins on its own, leaving the rubbish bag on the beach. And when I come back for it, something among the stones beside it moves.

Specifically, it pulls its head sharply inside its shell

So, meanwhile I've been trying to learn some Greek with the help of Duolingo.

I currently have a 33-day streak and... I have questions. Shouldn't I be able to use the past or future tenses by now? Shouldn't I be able to say "x is like y"? I can't do those things. But one thing I absolutely can say all day long is έχω μια χελώνα : I have a turtle.

This is far from the limit of Duolingo Greek's turtle-related content. "An obsession with turtles" is my mother's characterisation. I can inform you that the turtle is not a bird, and, improbably, that the turtle is drinking milk. I can introduce you to a turtle in company with a horse and an elephant. As far as Duolingo is concerned, it really is turtles all the way down.

Now this, you may be able to see, is not a turtle. It has claws rather than flippers. It is a tortoise. I know there are wild tortoises in Greece: my aunt once rescued a pair of them shagging in the middle of the road -- but that was up in the mountains. I've even seen one myself, but it was also on a road and very dead.

I am 95% certain they don't belong on beaches. There's nothing for it to eat, except, unfortunately, a lot of plastic. Even if it gets off the beach it will immediately find itself on a road where it could get hit by a car. I'm pretty sure it must have been washed down by the floodwater and has been just sitting there, dazed, ever since.

Now obviously the first thing I want to do on encountering this unusual animal is to go and tell my mummy, so I do. The tortoise immediately brightens her day. She agrees that the tortoise is not happy on the beach and needs to be taken somewhere safe. it gets surprisingly wriggly when picked up so we put it in a carrier bag with some grapes and cucumber and go looking for somewhere to rehome it.

We find a path leading up between the houses towards a likely-looking field, but before we get very far a dog in a yard goes berserk and a man's head pops over a fence and demands to know what we're doing. He does this in English, as evidently we're just that obviously tourists.

"I found a tortoise on the beach!" I explain. "We want to find somewhere to put it."

"A what," he asks.

"It's like a, you know," I begin and then to my astonishment I find myself saying... "μια χελώνα"

"Oh! A turtle!" he says.

"But from the land. δεν είναι χελώνα", [it is not a turtle,] I say, as I am worried he will tell me to put it back near the sea where I found it. As it turns out it actually IS a χελώνα, Greek does not distinguish between turtles and tortoises, but I don't know that; I can't even name the days of the week or identify any colours other than pink yet, give me a break.

The man's entire demeanour changes and thaws. He does not worry about my turtle-that-is-not-a-turtle conundrum. He knows where οι χελώνες come from and where η χελώνα μας belongs. He leads us through a gate into a courtyard area.

"[somethingsomething] μια χελώνα," he explains to the assembled onlookers, of whom there are, suddenly, a surprising number.

"ΜΙΑ ΧΕΛΩΝΑ!!!" crows the throng of delighted small children, who are, suddenly, everywhere.

"μια χελώνα!" I agree, accepting that at least for current purposes, that is what it is.

"Μπορούμε να δούμε τη χελώνα σας; [can we see your turtle?]" asks an adorable little girl, shyly, and I understand??

The children fucking love looking at the χελώνα and showing it to them is kind of magical?

I finally put the tortoise down on the grass of this wild area off to the side of the courtyard, and marvel aloud that it is weird that I barely know any Greek except how to say μια χελώνα.

"I think she will soon run off," a kind lady called Aspasia assures me, seeing I remain slightly anxious about its fate. "I don't know why I'm saying 'she'. I suppose because χελώνα is feminine in Greek."

"Yes! I know that!" I exclaim, thrilled.

"Well done!" she says. And also she asks if we are OK for drinking water after the storm and if we need any help with anything and is just generally incredibly lovely and now we know more of the neighbours!

So "μια χελώνα" has just become, by a long way, my most-used and most understood and all-around most conversationally successful phrase in Greek. So I guess I have to admit I was wrong to doubt Duolingo's wisdom: it is correct to be obsessed with turtles. And I concede that prior to learning how to count to ten or to distinguish right from left, the simple ability to yell the word TURTLE over and over again is, it turns out, a crucial element of the responsible traveller's social skills.

(I am pretty fluent in Italian and turtles haven't come up in conversation even once?)

[howdytheresam]

that time of the year! google am i the comic relief character

[o3o-lapd-o3o]

DINNER IS (finally) SERVED

3000ish words later and part 8 is here! hope you guys enjoy!

(p.s my headcanons explainations are in the tags if you're curious)

(p.p.s credit also goes to @rin-solo for the first headcanon )

the post/thread that started this whole au

dinner scene: part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7

there's a masterlist now!

*odysseus is making his way to the dining hall, while athena and poseidon are following behind*

poseidon: *looking around at the decorations/tapestry dotted around*

poseidon: *see’s a tapestry of what looks to be a very much younger odysseus in full king & armour attire*

poseidon: *stops walking, and turns to look at the actual odysseus in front of him, then back at the tapestry*

poseidon: *to odysseus with a sardonic tone* do your weavers like making you look like a boy, or was that a decision you made to make yourself look younger?

odysseus: *pauses his walking to see what poseidon is talking about*

athena: *also pauses and turns to poseidon*

odysseus: *sees the tapestry in question*

odysseus: *sighs* of course you point that one out 

athena: *who knew odysseus before he was king*

athena: *glaring at poseidon* uncle, you shouldn’t make assumptions, especially when you don’t know the facts

odysseus: *pats athena on the shoulder as he passes her*

odysseus: it’s fine athena

odysseus: *next to poseidon and looking up at the tapestry* if you must know, that is actually the age i was. 

poseidon: *not believing him* yeah right, you couldn’t be older than fifteen in this

odysseus: *turns to him with a sharp look* you’re correct, i was fifteen

poseidon: *slightly wary of odysseus’ mood* so… you became king at fifteen? isn’t that a little bit young for a mortal to rule a kingdom?

odysseus: *turns back to the tapestry* i was already the king, i was actually crowned when i was thirteen

poseidon: *shocked and confused* why would a child be given a kingdom to run?

odysseus: *looks down with a sad smile, at the memory of his father telling him about him losing his mind, and how sorry he was to place such a huge responsibility on his young son’s shoulders*

odysseus: well, i had no choice, but i would do it again if i had to… 

odysseus: *turns to athena* besides, i had athena to help guide me

athena: *smiles with a nod at odysseus*

odysseus: *starts walking in the direction of the dining hall again* anyway…enough of that, can we please just make our way to the dining hall now

*they all continue making their way down the hall*

poseidon: *notices a stain on the floor tiles not far in front of them*

poseidon: *points* i think your servants missed a spot

athena & odysseus: *both look to where he’s pointing*

athena: *chuckles to herself in knowing*

odysseus: *smirks* 

poseidon: *sees both their expressions, and is confused* 

odysseus: oh that..oh don’t worry it’s clean

odysseus: *shrugs* it’s just so hard to get bloodstains out of white titles

poseidon: *wide eyed* blood?

odysseus: yeah.. not long after i finished with you, i arrived back on my island to find my palace overrun with 108…mutts… all vying for my wife’s hand. 

odysseus: *waving his hand like it was a simple issue* so i made sure to deal with them all myself… unfortunately one of them left a stain.

odysseus: -oh look we’ve made it

odysseus: hope we haven’t kept them too long

poseidon: *shocked at all the new odysseus lore he’s unlocked*

athena: *laughing at poseidon’s expression*

odysseus: *opening the door* come on let’s head in

poseidon: *shakes away the shock*

odysseus: *to poseidon* i guess it’s time to introduce you to my wife

*they all walk through the doorway into the dining hall*

*there penelope and telemachus both stand not too far from the dining table; which has quite the feast laid out, and from the steam coming off of it, it had not long be put there*

odysseus: *heads over to his son & wife*

odysseus: *looks at poseidon* poseidon, you’ve met my son telemachus before.

telemachus: *can barely keep in his excitement* 

telemachus: hi- i mean good evening lord poseidon, i’m so happ- grateful you accepted my father's invitation for dinner. 

telemachus: *puts his arm on his chest, and leans forward in a  bow of respect* i hope you enjoy the evening.

odysseus: *narrows his eyes at poseidon, silently threatening him to not be rude to his son*

telemachus: *looks back up at poseidon, smile on his face*

poseidon: *quickly nods his head in greeting to telemachus* good evening prince, your father tells me that this was all your idea 

telemachus: *raises a hand to nervously scratch under his chin* um… yes i guess it was

poseidon: well then, thank you for the idea to invite me.

telemachus: *hand leaves his chin and a big smile breaks out* well of course! you are my father’s friend after all!

poseidon: *eye twitches before he quickly composes himself* 

poseidon: yes… friend.

odysseus: *coughs* yes and now that you’ve both reacquainted yourselves again… telemachus why don’t you go speak with athena for a moment

telemachus: sure!

*telemachus makes his way to athena, and they start talking amongst themselves*

odysseus: *puts his arm around penelope’s waist* now, please let me introduce you to my wife; the queen of ithaca, penelope. 

penelope: *doesn’t bow like telemachus, but nods in greeting* welcome to our palace lord poseidon

poseidon: *nods back* thank you for having me queen penelope

penelope: *smiles but her eyes have a certain glint to them* 

penelope: my husband has told me all about your part in his journey home to us

poseidon: *totally not panicking a little* uh-

penelope: *glint leaves her eyes, but her smile remains*

penelope: -and also how you have helped out on his and my son’s fishing trips lately.

penelope: of course, i would also like thank you for taking the time to attend tonight

poseidon: sure… no problem?

odysseus: great, everyone has met everyone! 

odysseus: *to everyone* now, shall we sit down and eat the lovely feast the cooks have made us, before it gets cold?

odysseus: *moves to pull out one of the chairs at the head of the table for penelope as he normally does, when he notices that, there is only one chair instead of two*

odysseus: *looks up at the table and sees a piece of parchment with ‘mother’ written on it* 

odysseus: huh?

telemachus: *makes his way over to his father* oh! there’s a different than usual seating plan for tonight! i’ve put everyone's names where they should sit.

odysseus: *smiles at telemachus* oh ok, sure!

odysseus: well, i guess i should look for mine then, hey?

telemachus: yes, and please everyone else too!

*everyone makes their way to the table to see where they’re sitting (even though three of them already know)*

odysseus: *sees the parchment with ‘father’ on it* 

odysseus: *expecting to have either athena or telemachus next to him*

odysseus: *watches as athena stands in front of the seat opposite him*

odysseus: *thinks it’s weird to put athena & poseidon together, but thinks telemachus has done is as they are uncle & niece*

odysseus: *then sees telemachus stood in front of the seat next to athena*

odysseus: wait-

poseidon: *sees his name and heads towards it, only to look up and see odysseus standing in front of the seat next to him*

poseidon: wait-

poseidon & odysseus: *both look at each other in horror that they're stuck next to each other all evening*

telemachus: *not noticing the looks of doom on their faces* isn’t this great? it’s a family dinner, so what better than friends sitting together? 

telemachus: *turning to penelope* sorry you’re by yourself at the head of the table though mother

penelope: *smiles and waves her hand* i don’t mind

penelope: anyway, let's sit and eat!

*everyone but odysseus and poseidon sit down. both who have a death grip on the back of their seats*

penelope: *clears her throat* odysseus, lord poseidon… would you both please sit down.

odysseus: *snaps out of his staring at poseidon* 

odysseus: uh sure…

odysseus: *sits down and look back to poseidon, nodding his head at poseidon’s seat in the motion for him to also sit down*

poseidon: *still doesn’t sit*

odysseus: *a millisecond of a flash of red eyes* 

poseidon: *sits*

odysseus: *internally to himself* oh this is gonna be a long evening

odysseus: *to everyone* ok, everyone dig in!

odysseus: *to poseidon* can you get what you want for yourself, mighty sea god? or do you need a mortal’s help?

poseidon: *grabbing a lamb chop off a platter and tearing into it savagely in defiance*

odysseus: *rolls his eyes at poseidon, but goes to place a filet of fish on his plate*

*everyone has been eating and talking*

poseidon: *looks at penelope (who is talking to telemachus & athena) and then looks at odysseus*

poseidon: *thinking and then looks back to penelope*

odysseus: *to poseidon* is there a reason you keep looking at my wife?

poseidon: *jumps at little at being caught looking* 

poseidon: *turns to odysseus* oh do not worry yourself, i have no interest in your wife

odysseus: *unimpressed* why do you keep looking at her then?

poseidon: im..curious 

odysseus: *narrowing his eyes* about?

poseidon: normally you mortal men choose women younger than them for their wives… yet clearly your wife is; from my estimates… about a decade older than you

poseidon: *now with his hand under his chin, leaning on the table* 

poseidon: do you perhaps…prefer older women odysseus?

odysseus: *hands tighten in grip around his cutlery*

poseidon: *notices odysseus hasn’t responded yet*

poseidon: i’m right aren’t -

odysseus: no.

odysseus: *his eyes may not be red, but are clearly full of anger*

poseidon: *eyes widen in worry* whoa whoa! no need to get angry, it’s just a simple observation…. anyone if they pay attention can see the age difference

poseidon: *moves his hand to flick his hair back over his shoulder* it’s not a bad thing

odysseus: *takes a breath in to calm down and then slowly releases it*

odysseus: we are- were the same age… physically at least

poseidon: *confused* i don’t follow

odysseus: *looks at poseidon* during the 10 years it took for me to get home… i found myself stuck on a goddess’ island for 7 of them…

poseidon: ok…

odysseus: *closes his eyes* caly- the goddess had full control over everything on the island… her magic influenced everything… including a mortal's ability to age.

poseidon: so you didn’t-

odysseus: -age? yeah

odysseus: *sighs and opens his eyes* when i realised i wasn’t… i- i- 

odysseus: lets just say i didn’t handle it well

poseidon: *blinks at this new information* oh

odysseus: yep ‘oh’ indeed… 

odysseus: *looks back at poseidon*

odysseus: didn’t you think it was odd that i looked exactly the same when we met again, almost 10 years after our first meeting?

poseidon: in my defence… i was angry and trying to kill you, i wasn’t really paying attention to how you looked

odysseus: *rolls his eyes* i guess that's true

telemachus: uh lord poseidon? may i ask you a question?

poseidon: *happy to not continue his conversation with odysseus*

poseidon: *to telemachus* ask away prince of ithaca

telemachus: is it true that you gave achilles his horses balius & xanthus?

poseidon: *amazed at telemachus’ knowledge* 

poseidon: not directly… but yes i am the reason he came to acquire them. you see i gave them to his father peleus, as a wedding gift for his wife thetis…

*poseidon continues to tell the tale, and odysseus speaks with athena and penelope while more time passes*

*the meal is continuing smoothly as can be*

poseidon: *notices that odysseus has only been eating the fish. not touching a single bit of pork, beef or lamb that's also on the table* 

poseidon: *who has continuously eaten all meats available*

poseidon: *to odysseus* is there something i should know about the meat?

odysseus: huh?

poseidon: *points at the selection of meat in question* what's wrong with the meat? you’ve only touched the fish.

poseidon: if i hadn’t seen the others eat it, i’d worry you’d asked your cooks to poison it or something. 

odysseus: *raised eyebrow* poison won’t hurt you though? 

odysseus: *pointing a fork at him* also, why do you care about my eating habits?

poseidon: *frowning at the fork* i don’t, i’m just-

odysseus: curious? poseidon, i thought you were the god of the sea, not curiosity…

poseidon: *huffs* forget it-

odysseus: i can’t

poseidon: *now his eyebrow is raised* you…can’t?

odysseus: *now using the fork to push the food on his plate around* i can’t stomach eating lamb, pork or beef anymore

poseidon: *forever confused by odysseus* uh why?

odysseus: *gives poseidon a ‘do i really have to explain everything?’ look*

poseidon: *just stares*

odysseus: *once again sighing because of poseidon* well i thought you’d understand lamb… after the whole sheep incident with… your son.

odysseus: then after i escaped you with the wind bag-

poseidon: *rolls his eyes at the memory*

odysseus: we wound up on the sorceress circe’s island… where she turned my men to pigs. 

odysseus: i managed to convince her to turn them back, but it now feels weird to eat pork

odysseus: as for beef, short story is my men ignored my warnings and killed the sacred cattle of the sun god… so yeah beef is a no go for me also. 

poseidon: *wondering how one mortal managed to interact with so many gods on a journey to get home*

poseidon: *laughs at odysseus* and you’re letting that affect your eating habits? i expected you to be stronger than that odysseus

odysseus: *narrows his eyes at poseidon* oh just like how you let my handling of your trident, affect you into doing as i say?

poseidon: *now glaring back* 

poseidon: *turns away from odysseus* whatever, more meat for me

*dinner continues, with telemachus asking poseidon more questions. poseidon loving the interest in him and telelmachus’ knowledge, answers the all the questions with surprising enthusiasm*

*eventually what was once a giant feast of food has nearly been cleared from the table, thanks to having two gods eating most of it*

telemachus: have you enjoyed yourself so far lord poseidon? 

telemachus: *smiling* it’s been really fascinating and fun to learn so much more about you

poseidon: *almost letting a small smile appear on his face in return*

poseidon: *instead just nods* yes, it certainly has been an interesting & knowledgeable evening

telemachus: what about the seating, was it a good idea to put you with my father?

poseidon: *wants to answer no, but feels a kick from under the table. clearly from odysseus*

poseidon: yes, you came up with an ok-

odysseus: *gives another kick* 

poseidon: -great idea

telemachus: *laughs in happiness* 

telemachus: oh but i can’t take all the credit

odysseus: *raises an eyebrow in curiosity* 

athena: *who is sipping wine next to him*

athena: *slightly chokes* wai-

odysseus: *suspicious* son, you must make sure to tell us who else to thank for this

telemachus: *not understanding the bombshell he’s about to drop* oh athena actually came up with the idea!

athena: *suddenly nervous with the two very intense stares directed at her*

athena: w-well it was just a suggestion really…

telemachus: no ‘thena! remember you said as it’s a family dinner, friends should sit with friends!

odysseus: *to athena with the fakest smile* oh athena, how considerate!

penelope: *who has been quiet this whole exchange*

telemachus: *as if he hasn’t already unknowingly thrown one person to the wolves* but i of course had to run it by mother first, as she was helping me with all the planning!

penelope: *eyes have totally not widened*

telemachus: she said it was a great idea!

odysseus: *now to penelope* oh my dear wife, a great idea eh?

poseidon: *just chugs back his cup of wine at the revelations*

*after a awkward moment (at least for 4 of them) they continue on finishing the meal*

*eventually the food is finished and the dinner has come to an end, everyone has moved away from the dinner table and are now sitting on cushion chairs or standing around them talking amongst themselves*

poseidon: *looking out the window seeing just how dark the night sky now is* 

poseidon: well this has been a lovely evening, but it is getting late and i have been away from the sea for as long as i can.

poseidon: *turning to penelope and nodding his head in actual respect* queen penelope, thank you for your hosting

poseidon: *without nodding at them* athena, odysseus… good night.

*before poseidon can turn to bid telemachus good night, the prince runs out the room*

telemachus: *yelling before he leaves the room* please lord poseidon, wait a moment! i forgot something!

poseidon: *turns to look at odysseus in confusion* 

odysseus: *just shrugs also confused* 

poseidon: *turns back to the door, telemachus long gone* uh sure.

*not long later telemachus runs back into the room dishevelled but holding something in his hand*

telemachus: *walks up to poseidon* 

telemachus: *bows and holds out something covered in a silk cloth to him*

poseidon: uh-

telemachus: it’s a gift! i’m not expecting anything in return, and i’m sure you have better things… but i saw it and thought you’d like it

poseidon: *blinks, but takes the gift from telemachus’ hands*

poseidon: *carefully unties the silk cloth*

poseidon: *breathes in sharply*

telemachus: *not sure if that's a good or bad reaction* uh if you don’t like it that's fin-

poseidon: *holds his hand to stop telemachus* 

poseidon: prince of ithac-

telemachus: telemachus- sorry for interrupting. please my lord, call me telemachus

poseidon: …telemachus. thank you, this is a very thoughtful gift. 

poseidon: i will cherish it.

penelope & odysseus: *curious over what's got the god of the seas ‘cherishing’ something*

athena: *small smile as she knows*

*penelope & odysseus move closer to poseidon who is still staring down at his gift. once close enough they can see in his hand is a a handcrafted glass/crystal hippocampus*

*poseidon ended up wrapping it back in the silk cloth, and placing it in his chiton. He then thanked telemachus again and bid him good night & farewell. odysseus offered to walk back to the cove with him, but poseidon waved him off and told him to stay with his family*

[ak-vintage]

Work of Art

Pairing: General Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Prompt: Marcus Acacius & Nose

Summary: Your pregnancy brings out a vulnerability in Marcus you never would have expected. When he reluctantly shares his insecurities with you, you are more than happy to reaffirm your affection for each and every part of him.  

Tags/Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Second-person POV, no use of Y/N, established relationship, arranged marriage, POSSIBLE DUBCON (sex in an arranged marriage with a patriarchal power structure), hefty age gap, pregnant reader, inexperienced reader, insecurity, body worship, nose worship, face-sitting, oral (f! receiving), discovering that you’re in love with your spouse, SO MUCH FLUFF, high likelihood of historical inaccuracy (aiming for vibes, not perfection)

Written for @joelmillerisapunk PPCU Body Worship Writing Challenge

Dividers by @saradika-graphics <3

Read on AO3

It is barely sunrise when the messenger arrives at your door.

Coated in a layer of dust from the road, mounted on the back of a well-lathered horse, and bearing the colors of the empire, the young man demands your staff wake you to receive him – that he is under orders to accept no intermediary, that his message is intended for the lady of the house and no one else. The news of his arrival sends ice into your veins the moment you open your eyes; even as the wife of a general, you do not often receive messages from the front lines, and you could not resist fearing the worst. Curls loose and mussed with sleep, tunica tied almost haphazardly in your haste, you rush to the atrium as quickly as propriety will allow and take the messenger’s sealed scroll with trembling hands.

My dearest wife, it reads. The skirmish on the southern border has been quelled for the time being. In recognition of our efforts, and out of respect for our recent union, I have been granted leave to return to Rome for a period of respite. If the sea is calm and the road is easy, you can look to the horizon for my return in one month’s time. Prepare the household for my arrival. Faithfully yours, Marcus Acacius

The relief you feel at those words is so powerful that you sink into the nearest chair, weak-kneed. Thankfully, your staff are more than competent enough to manage offering food, a bath, and a fresh horse to the harried messenger without your guidance, for you have not the capacity to play hostess. It had been your greatest fear, you realize as you sit there reading and re-reading the general’s letter until your eyes begin to burn with fatigue. You had had such little time as husband and wife before Marcus had been shipped out to the border, and you dread nothing more than the prospect of joining the ranks of the widows of Rome before you even have the opportunity to fully know the man you had married. It would have been such a waste, you think, like a flower cut from the vine when it was barely a bud, cursed never to bloom for the rest of time.

The truth is that although yours had been an arranged marriage, one of convenience, you feel (perhaps naively) that it held great promise. The general had never married, choosing to prioritize his military ambitions over his personal life. However, now that he was getting older, he had determined that it would be wise to seek a wife who might give him an heir to the prestigious station he had earned for himself over the years. Your father, a wealthy, prominent senator, had brokered the match, and a mere fortnight after you had been introduced for the first time, you had been wed.

Marcus had proven to be a gentle husband, a great contrast to what you had believed based on the tales of his ferocity in battle. He had spoken kindly to you and listened patiently, giving weight to your words, treating you like a partner right from the start. He had given you free reign over the household and encouraged you to mold his domus and his staff to suit your tastes. You had had very little time in each other’s presence, but he nevertheless struck you as a man of honor, a man of principle. As a woman in your position, there was little else you could ask for in a match, and the thought had comforted you as you stood side-by-side with this near-stranger and signed your marriage contract.

On your wedding night, he had been as tender with you as he could. You had been able to tell that he was holding himself back, restraining himself from taking you as savagely as he might have wished, but for that, you thought him compassionate. Of course, there had been some pain to start; this you had anticipated. However, toward the end of your coupling, as the general had begun to growl muffled curses into the soft skin of your neck and thrust himself so deeply inside you, you swore you could feel his manhood in your belly, you thought perhaps that it might have begun to feel…good?

He had spilled his seed within you shortly thereafter, bringing your union to a sudden and dramatic end and leaving your tentative, blooming pleasure to fizzle and die in your veins.

You glance down at the swell of your belly at the recollection, feeling heat rise in your cheeks. The fruits of your union that night – and the nights that followed for the brief month he had been permitted to remain by your side – had made themselves apparent shortly after his departure. That had been five months ago now, and it had been an incredible relief to know that you had managed to fulfill your duty to the general so quickly. You had fully expected to give birth on your own, to share the joyous news with him via special messenger like so many other soldier’s wives. Now, to know that he is set to return so soon, that relief is compounded. Barring any emergencies on the front, he likely would be home long enough to be present for the birth.

Birthing was a woman’s business, of course. You knew there was little Marcus could truly do to aid you in your labors. But a part of you, perhaps a very foolish, girlish part of you, could not help but feel safer when he was near. You would sleep better at night knowing he was once again within the walls of your domus.

Easing yourself back onto your feet, you get the attention of the nearest member of your staff.

“Once our guest has been seen to, gather the others in the courtyard,” you command. “We have much to prepare. The general is coming home.”

General Marcus Acacius rides into Rome on a sunny afternoon astride a handsome black stallion. Escorted only by a small retinue of guards and vassals, he travels light, with the economy and efficiency of a man who has spent the majority of his adult life in an army camp. The servant boy you have stationed at the city walls every day for the last week eagerly tells you that he looks well, that he has been asked to report first to the emperors’ palace but that he expects to be home by nightfall.

The news of your husband’s imminent arrival has a riot of butterflies rising in your chest, and you feel the child you carry respond almost instantly, fluttering and twitching against the walls of your womb at your excitement. A smile pulls at your lips, and you smooth your palms over the rounded surface of your belly as if to say, “I understand. I feel it, too.”

You send a message to the kitchen staff with orders to ensure that the general’s favorite meal is prepared for this evening, as well as for his preferred wine to be brought up from the cellar. Perhaps it is a bit silly – this is his home even moreso than it is yours – but you have an odd desire to make him feel welcomed. You want him to know that you have given thought to his needs and his preferences, that you have managed and looked after his home with proficiency in his absence, that you have anticipated his return.

You want to make the general happy, you realize with a flush.  Not only for him to be happy, but you wish to be the cause of that happiness. Does that make you proud, you wonder? Or selfish? Perhaps. All you know for certain is that in the brief time spent by his side, all those months ago, you had begun to associate Marcus Acacius with feelings of comfort, of safety, of acceptance. Even perhaps…affection. You like him. Was it so wrong to wish for him to like you, too?

You are in the ostium waiting for him when the general arrives. The sun sets behind him as he approaches on horseback, still in full armor from his travels, and your first thought is that he is even larger than you remember. Blotting out the golden light with the incredible breadth of his shoulders, you think he looks almost otherworldly, like some mythical hero of old returned from a harrowing quest. You can feel your heart speed up behind your ribs, galloping like the hooves of his horse on the cobblestones, and you are thankful no one can hear it but you. You are a woman grown, wedded and bedded and carrying a child, the head of your own household, the wife of a prominent, respected officer of the grand army of Rome. The idea that you should become so flighty, so unmoored at the sight of your own husband is absurd.

When his gaze falls on you, your trembling hands find your stomach, a gesture that has become more and more instinctual as the bump has become more and more visible, and before he can even greet you, his eyes drop to where they rest.

Marcus pulls his horse up short, the soft expression in his dark irises sharpening, intensifying. You watch as his prominent brow draws up, something between shock and awe and hope washing over his face, and then he is swinging his leg up and over his mount, dropping to the ground, closing the distance between you in a handful of long, powerful strides. His eyes do not leave your stomach until he is a mere handful of inches from your body, and you catch sight of his broad, thick-fingered hands clenching at his sides as though resisting the urge to reach out and touch you.

“Dearest wife,” he rasps, his throat dry as he finally, finally flicks his eyes back up to meet yours. “Have you something to tell me?”

You swallow thickly, suddenly overcome with the intensity, the intimacy of his attention. “Welcome home…husband.” Your voice sounds tremulous to your own ears, but you do not allow yourself to dwell on it. Instead, you wrap both of your hands around one of his and bring his dry, scarred knuckles to your lips. Dropping a kiss onto the center ridge, you add, “It is a blessing from the gods to see you well after so many months apart.”

Your name is a sigh on his lips. “It is a blessing to be permitted to return home after so short a time,” he counters. “Now, if my eyes deceive me, I will beg your forgiveness and claim fatigue from the long journey as my excuse. But are you…”

He trails off, as though hesitant to speak the words aloud, and you could swear that someone had reached into your chest and taken hold of your heart for how tight it squeezes at the thread of hope woven into his words. Unable to bear it anymore, you finish his incomplete thought on your own.

“Yes…General Acacius – ”

“Marcus,” he interjects immediately, and you feel yourself flush at the familiarity.

“Marcus,” you echo. “I-I am with child. You are to be a father.”

The breath he releases is long and slow, his dark eyes shining in the setting sun, and if you did not know better, you might think that your revelation had rendered him speechless. However, it takes him only a moment to collect himself, and then he is reaching for your belly with both hands, palms outstretched almost pleadingly. “May I – ?”

You nod readily, feeling a grin split your face, and then his hands are on you, cupping your swelling bump with his sword-calloused touch. His skin catches on the fine material of your tunica, but you are unbothered. He is warm and vital against you, his touch more than welcome after so many months on your own, and as though the precious thing had been waiting for their cue, the child in your womb kicks against their father’s hands.

The general’s brows shoot up at that, his forehead crinkling beneath his dark, gray-streaked curls, and he lets out a rough, strained laugh. “By the gods. It’s true.” Keeping one hand on your bump, he brings the other to the side of your face, wrapping his fingers around the back of your neck, stroking your jaw with his thumb. It’s the most tender, intimate gesture he has ever shown you, and the heat of his palm has your knees weakening beneath you.

“You honor me, amica. Thank you,” he says, husky voice thick with emotion. He presses a brief, dry kiss to your forehead, and you cannot help but wish it had been to your lips instead.

Dinner passes in a blur of sumptuous foods and peppered questions, both from you about his time at the border and from him about how you are settling into your new home, your new role. This is one thing about your relationship that has been easy from the moment you met – it is clear to you that Marcus cares deeply about your perspective on the world. He never rushes you, never cuts in when you are speaking, never attempts to correct you in some demonstration of superiority. It’s a unique experience for you coming from a man, particularly one of his age and rank, and it makes you feel cherished in a way you never would have expected in a marriage like yours. You are under no illusions that yours was a love match, after all, but something about the intent way that Marcus holds your gaze, the way he nods along as you speak, the way he asks such thoughtful questions – it has you all but convinced that he cares for you as you are coming to care for him.

The two of you linger over dinner long past nightfall, but eventually, he stands from his chair at the head of the table, offers his hand to you, and leads you to the privacy of your shared chambers. He beds you that night, as you had expected he would after so long without the touch of a woman, and you go to him willingly. His touch burns with barely-restrained fervor, the expression on his handsome face twisted almost as if in pain, and just as you had on that first night, you feel something building within you as he takes you.

You have no name for it, and yet it feels altering in its magnitude. You feel like lightning, like lava, like some elemental thing ablaze with fire and light, and just when you are certain that the feeling is about to consume you, just as you know in your bones that you cannot take any more or you will surely die –

Marcus spills himself inside you, withdraws, and collapses onto the bed next to you.

The feeling recedes. You catch your breath. Your husband plants a kiss on your hairline, and under his lips, he finds the sweat of your exertion, of your truncated pleasure. He whispers “good night, amica” against your curls, and then he rolls away.

Moments later, soft snores fill the room. The general is fast asleep, but you…

You are going mad.

It is many days later before this madness finally comes to a head.

Every night since his return, Marcus has sought his pleasure in your body. He never forces himself upon you or hurts you in any way; he asks before touching you, always. But as you approach a full week of night after night of thwarted pleasure, you cannot help but begin to find ways to…delay the inevitable question. You have taken to engaging him in conversation as you lay in bed, asking him about the many visitors he has received over the last several days, or about his journey home from the border, or about his favorite horse, Tempestas. He takes this in stride, seemingly happy to indulge you, and the two of you spend long minutes talking softly by candlelight, warm and close under soft, shared sheets.

This night, you decide to ask him about the baby and how he feels knowing that you carry his heir, that his legacy is secured.

You anticipate the smile he gives you, the fond look in his eyes as he reaches out to feel the curve of your belly, as he has done now hundreds of times over the last week. What you do not expect is the earnestness of his words as he tells you, “I have never been a father before. At my age, I did not expect that I would ever have the privilege. Now that you have made it possible, I find that I care much less for legacy or inheritance than I do for…safety. Stability. Peace.”

You soften at that, and on instinct, your hand goes to his hair, brushing his graying curls back from his forehead with gentle, soothing strokes. You have found that this is something he likes, and he leans into your touch like a barn cat in a sunbeam. He seems pensive, and you allow the silence between you to linger while he gathers his thoughts.

“I mourn that this child should have a general for a father,” he admits after a moment. “I will be absent for much of his life. I will disappear for stretches of time that could number in years, and when I return, I will be like a stranger to him. Were it in my control, I would be more present. I wish to know my child. And for him to know me.”

“Him?” you echo, a bit impishly, and Marcus smirks.

“Or her, of course. I cannot claim to know whom you carry in your womb. I shall leave that mystery for the gods.”

You grin back him, enjoying the good humor sparkling in his dark eyes. “I am sure that however much time you are permitted to spend with our child – be it months or weeks or days – it will be enough.”

Lifting himself up on one elbow, the general fixes you with a skeptical frown. “How can you be so certain?” he asks.

“Because it does not take long to see who you are, Marcus,” you reply earnestly. “To see your nobility, your strength, your power. Your kindness. These are all things I learned about you in the mere fortnight before we were wed. Your child shall know these things about you, as well.”  

Tucking your hands beneath your cheek, you stare up at him from your pillow. The warmth of the candlelight casts shadows across his golden skin, highlighting the soft crinkles around his eyes, the bridge of his nose, the plush fullness of his lower lip. “Besides, even when you are away, I shall be around to teach them,” you add with a shrug.

“Amica…” He seems a bit overcome at your sincerity, and his low voice rasps like a sword on a whetstone in the darkness. “You are very generous.”

That riot of butterflies returns to your belly as the intimacy of the moment stretches on. Gods, but he is so beautiful like this. No one has ever looked at you the way he does – not with base lust for your body, not with envy for your wealth, not with dismissal for your sex. Marcus looks at you like something precious, like something to be valued. That look makes you foolish, makes your cheeks hot and your tongue loose.

When you speak again, it is without thought.

“When I think about our child…I hope that they look like you, so that even when we are apart, I might have some comfort in seeing your face every day.”

At that, the general lets out a full-bodied laugh and rolls his eyes. Flipping over onto his back, he shakes his head fondly at you like one might a mischievous child. “Now I know for certain that you are flattering me, wife.”

Your brows nearly reach your hairline as a flush of embarrassment races up the back of your neck, darkening your cheeks in an instant. “Wh – No, sir, I would never!” you insist. “I am being entirely earnest.”

“My face? My face upon an innocent babe?” He says this with a scoffing laugh, sounding amused, but when you catch sight of the tightness in his jaw, the wrinkle between his brows, you think that there might be something…authentic beneath his jesting words. “No, my dear wife. It would be far better if the child were to share your visage. Then they might truly be comely to look upon.”

Is it possible…have you stumbled upon a true insecurity, you wonder? It seems unlikely. This is General Marcus Acacius, commander of the emperors’ armies, a man two decades your senior who fought wars on behalf of Rome before you could even walk on two feet. He exudes power and strength and intelligence, and he carries himself with the kind of confidence and self-assurance that comes along with experience. He is a skilled strategist, an indomitable warrior.

Does he truly not see…

Scooting closer to him on the bed, you allow yourself to cup his bearded jaw, to turn his face toward yours. “There would be no greater gift than a child with your eyes, Marcus,” you say softly. “Or perhaps your smile.”

“But not this nose, surely,” he replies, tapping the end of his prominent, hooked nose with one calloused finger. He shakes his head with a wry smile, as though the idea is too preposterous to consider. “I would not willingly inflict such an eyesore upon a child.”

By the gods. He means it, you realize. He has truly surprised you. To your knowledge, the general is not a vain or self-conscious man. You have never known him to care overmuch about how he looks; it was quite a contrast to the pampered upper-class boys you grew up alongside, something you had found refreshing when you had first met. Had you misunderstood? Misinterpreted his lack of self-regard as a lack of care?

You decide it does not matter. All you know for certain is that your husband appears to be under the impression that his appearance leaves something to be desired, and as his wife, you feel it is your duty to demonstrate to him just how wrong he is.

The thought has your heartrate picking up again.

“Do you know…what I thought,” you begin haltingly, forcing yourself to hold his gaze, “the first day I met you, at my father’s villa?”

His dark brows knit together in a small frown, as though your words have surprised him. “Tell me.”

Swallowing against the sudden dryness in your throat, you confess, “I thought you the most striking man I had ever seen.”

“You flatter me, dear heart.” His words are soft, as is his answering smile, but you can hear the platitude in his voice. He does not believe you.

“No, no, it is not flattery.” With some effort, you push yourself up off of the bed, too emphatic to remain lying down for this discussion. You haul your pregnant body up to kneel at his side, tucking your knees into the warmth of his thick waist, and your long hair dangles over his broad chest as you look into his eyes. “I know that…the circumstances of our union were not exactly romantic, and I know that we do not yet know each other well, but I hope you will heed my words when I tell you that…I count myself extremely fortunate to have been married to so handsome a man.” Glancing down at your hands, you fiddle with one of the many thin, gold rings on your fingers in self-consciousness. “My father could have selected anyone he liked. The fact that it is you who shares my bed, you whose child I carry… It is a blessing.”

It is silent between you for a time, your words hanging in the air like a declaration, but then Marcus’s body shifts against you. Curling up to sit at your side, one of his thick, broad hands comes into your line of vision and wraps itself around both of yours, stilling your fidgeting.

You risk a look up, meeting his gaze through the length of your lashes, and you feel your breath leave your body as you take in the softest, warmest, most tender expression you have ever seen on his handsome face.

“It pleases me to hear that you are happy,” he murmurs, running one of his thumbs along the back of your hand. “And that your affection for my look is genuine. It would not do for you to say such things in an attempt to…endear yourself to me. There is no need. I am already quite fond of you.”

You are quick to shake your head. “Not at all! If I have ever given you such an impression, you have my deepest apologies.”

Now that your true feelings for your husband have been revealed, you feel as though you can no longer contain them. Under the affectionate weight of his dark eyes, more comes spilling forth, unbidden. “The truth is that even in the short time that we have known one another, I have spent many hours at my easel attempting to recall your likeness in detail so that I might recreate it. Your nose in particular, I find to be most…attractive.”

Your hand moves of its own accord then, slipping from his grip to float across the narrow space between you as though possessed by some covetous spirit. The very tip of your middle finger lands in the space between his eyebrows, and although you make no conscious decision to do so, you trace down the steep curve of the bridge of his nose with a touch so delicate it might as well have been a breeze.

Your own voice sounds breathless and far away to your ears as you whisper, “You look like a sculpture, Marcus. Like the great marble warriors along the garden path. It makes you look stately and…masculine and…commanding.” Between your thighs, you feel your most intimate muscles clench. You have grown swollen and sensitive there, a feeling you have become increasingly familiar with since your husband’s return home. It’s sweet and delicious and utterly torturous, making you want to squirm in your seat, but you resist.

At least…until Marcus traps your hand in his and brings your wandering fingers to his mouth.

Your eyes snap to his, and you watch as he presses slow, lingering kisses across each of your fingertips. The sensation of his hot, moist breath on your sensitive skin has you trembling, and gods, but his lips are so soft. Turning your palm up to the heavens, the general places a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the tender center of your palm, and you feel yourself swaying toward him as though under a spell.

The plush of his lips dances gently across the thin skin of the inside of your wrist, and your pulse thrums beneath his touch as he growls, “There is perhaps…one advantage of such a face.”

“Tell me.” Your echo of his earlier words comes out like a whine, like you are pleading with him, though what you are pleading for, you cannot say.

Marcus appears to consider your request for a moment, his eyes going sharp and calculating, and then he says, “Perhaps it might be better if I showed you. Do you trust me, dear heart?”

You are quick to nod. “Yes. I trust you.”

Inclining his head at you in acknowledgment, he releases his grip on your hand and pulls away entirely. He lays back on the bed then, scooting down so that his head is flat on the padded surface rather than on his pillow. He adjusts himself a bit, shifting back and forth, but once he is comfortable, he looks back at you and pats his chest with both hands. The sound is muffled by his soft linen sleep tunic but nonetheless audible in the silence of your bedchamber.

“Mount me,” he says without preamble, and you swear you can hear the whirring gears in your brain grind to a halt.

“W-What?”

“I want you to sit astride my face, as you would a horse.” No matter how intensely your face burns at the wicked suggestion, you cannot seem to look away. His deep brown eyes are bottomless in the dark, the depths of them reflecting the candlelight like water at the bottom of a well. You can feel yourself falling into them, can feel something at the very core of you tugging toward him, answering his call. If you were to glance down at the rest of his body, you would see the evidence of the general’s own arousal tenting his tunic, but your gaze is trapped, held fast by the magnetism of him.

“Come, amica,” he says after a moment of your silent, scandalized staring. “You may rest your ass upon my chest, but I would have that sweet cunt on my mouth.”

You swallow audibly, still making no move to obey. Wetness begins to pool between your thighs, slicking your skin and staining the fabric of your sleep clothes, and you lose the battle against your urge to squirm. Your thighs clench together, and you shift upon your calves in search of friction, but you find none. You need his touch…but what he is suggesting is –

“M-Marcus, I couldn’t possibly – I shall smother you, how will you – ”

He cuts off your protests with a growl of your name, and in that moment, you see not your noble husband staring up at you. Instead, you see the Roman General Acacius – sharp jaw clenched, nostrils flared, dark eyes blazing.

“I shall not ask again, wife. No harm will come to you or to me. Now do as you’re told and sit on my face.”

You hesitate for another beat, then two, and then you shuffle forward on wobbly knees to obey. Your husband’s eyes burn a path across your body as you approach him, tracing from your parted, panting lips, to your heaving breasts, to your swollen, pregnant belly. You feel the look like a physical touch, and the sensation has your skin flushing, has sweat breaking out at the small of your back and the nape of your neck. With shaking, uncertain hands, you reach out and brace your palms against the gold-filigreed headboard for stability.

“That’s it, nearly there now,” Marcus sighs as you clumsily, awkwardly swing one of your legs over his body. Your knee lands on the other side of his shoulder, and you feel the heat of his touch on your naked thighs almost immediately. With slow, deliberate motions, he pushes the hem of your sleep tunic up to your hips, revealing your bare ass and cunt to the cool air of the bedroom.

You draw your lower lip between your teeth to stifle a whine, and gooseflesh breaks out across your skin. You’ve started to shake, though whether in fear or arousal, you couldn’t say. Gods, you’re so exposed now. The wetness between your thighs is fully on display, mere inches from your husband’s face. It’s mortifying; if you could melt into the bed and disappear forever, you know you would.

Marcus, however, clearly has no such compunctions. His thick fingers knead the soft, lush flesh of your hips and thighs, using his grip to draw your forward, to draw you down. The groan that oozes from his lips into the hot slip of atmosphere between you sounds exactly like the one he makes when he first slides inside you, and you feel yourself clench involuntarily at the tremor of it now sounding between your legs. He must catch sight of this, your body’s own betrayal happening right under that stately nose that started this whole ordeal, for one moment he appears to be watching you settle in with rapt attention, and the next, he is releasing a dark, sinister chuckle and yanking you closer.

You give a thought for resistance then, consider pulling yourself from his hold, but –

Oh, you can feel his breath on your cunt, can feel your dripping curls shift beneath the current of air as he laughs.  

You shift a bit on your knees, settling so that your weight rests just above each of his shoulders with his hands gripping your hips from behind you. The lower curve of your ass brushes the fine fabric of his tunic, and you are certain that if you could see his face, you would find his chin mere inches from the part of you that pulses and throbs for his attention. As it is, the roundness of your bump nearly eclipses his head, leaving only wisps of the thick, graying curls on the top of his head to peak out around the edges.

“Marcus?” Your voice trembles with nerves around his name, and beneath you, he sighs.

“Well done, amica, you are right where I want you,” he assures you with a groan. You feel the well-trimmed stubble of his silvered beard brush your lower lips; the feeling startles a gasp out of you, and on instinct, one of your hands flies from the headboard to the top of his head. “Mmm, yes, that’s it – sink your fingers into my hair. Hold yourself steady on me.”

You hardly recognize the sound of your own voice as you whimper, “Marcus – Marcus, please.”

“I know what you need.” His touch on your hips is warm, gentle, soothing. “Don’t be afraid. Now rest your weight on me and let me taste you.”

The joints in your limbs feel like water at the general’s words, at the hot wash of his breath across your swollen center. The embarrassment at your precarious position above his face still fizzes in your veins, making you lightheaded, but molten desire has begun to drown it out. Your mind doesn’t fully understand what is about to happen or what he is asking of you, but it seems that on some level, your body does, because it is absolutely thrumming for it.

There is nothing for it anymore. You cannot refuse him. You do not want to refuse him. Whatever he is about to do to you, your body needs it, craves it in the same way it does air or water or food. When you sink your cunt down onto your husband’s waiting mouth, it feels both like a surrender and like a victory.

“Oh – gods, Marcus – ”

Marcus groans deep in his chest the moment you touch his tongue, and then he is bracketing his arms around your thighs and forcibly seating you even more firmly against him. Dragging the slick, pink muscle of his tongue through your folds in one long, languorous stroke, it doesn’t take long before your thighs begin to tremble around his ears. He is focused, meticulous, thorough in his exploration of your most intimate flesh – sucking delicately at your lips, dipping the gentle tip of his tongue into your soft, quivering hole, using the flat of it to dance around that swollen nub at your apex that pulses with the thunderous beat of your heart. The thick arms locked around your thighs angle you this way and that, and through the sound of your own gasps and whines, you can hear the way your wetness drips at his touch.

Every lick, every suck, every swirl of his tongue serves to drive you higher, and you find yourself mindlessly running your hands over your body to ground yourself – stroking your belly, gripping your hips, cupping your breasts. The latter has you accidentally brushing your hardened nipples with your thumbs, and even muted as it is through your tunic, the sensation has you crying out into the dark room.

And that tongue never stops. Marcus is relentless – inexorable and yet unhurried. You can feel all of the tension in your hips and thighs melting away under the heat of his touch, and yet deep within you, something has begun to twist, to pulse, to squeeze. It feels like it does when Marcus beds you – pleasure stirring, burning, building within you as he grows more and more intent, more and more hungry, oh, gods…

It is miraculous. It is unbearable. It is tantamount to torture.

“Marcus,” you gasp helplessly, your fingers knotting in his hair, gripping the headboard. “I – I need – ”

The general pulls away from your cunt with a growl like an animal, and the sound rumbles through your body as he rasps, “That’s it, beautiful girl. Ride my face. Grind those hips into me and ride my face.”

You understand each of his words individually, but they do not coalesce in your mind. How does one “ride” a face? For a moment, you feel self-consciousness and shame begin to creep in at the edges of your thoughts. There are others who would understand the general’s instructions, surely. Others who would know what he wanted and would do it for him in an instant. For the first time, you allow yourself to consider the women that follow the army camps, the women whose services you were certain your husband had partaken of throughout his extensive career. They would know, certainly. Was there truly anything you could offer him that they could not?

Just as you begin to lose that delicious curl of pleasure in your core, as the fog of desire begins to clear from your brain, Marcus flexes those thick, strong arms around your legs and encourages your hips to thrust, dragging your tender flesh across the stubble of his beard, the plush of his lips, the slick of his tongue. That tongue, suddenly firm and pointed, thrusts into your sex, lapping at your wetness, filling the place that clenches for his cock. With the hitch of your hips, that swollen bundle of nerves just at the top glances across the bridge of your husband’s nose.

“Ah! Marcus!”

Beneath your cunt on his face, beneath your hand in his hair, you feel him nod emphatically, and understanding crashes over you like a wave. “Riding” his face. “Mounting” him, like a horse. This is what he wants. He wants you to thrust your hips against his face, as if in the saddle of a warhorse. To rub yourself against his nose and his tongue.

He wants you to find your pleasure with his body.

As though all your joints and muscles had been waiting on this realization, your hips begin to move of their own accord almost immediately, thrusting against that relentless, ever-present tongue, driving it deeper into the hot clutch of your cunt, and fuck…that nose, that big, strong, curved, perfect nose, glancing off of that most sensitive spot with every thrust. Head thrown back, hands on your breasts, fingers twisting and pulling your tender nipples through your tunic, you experiment with different speeds, different pressures, different depths, but if you are honest with yourself, you are so far gone that it has all begun to feel equally intense, equally delicious.

And so you move with abandon – leaning heavily on the headboard for balance, gripping his hair, you grind your swollen, dripping cunt across your husband’s handsome face, fucking his tongue deep into your body, riding the hard curve of his perfect Roman nose. You feel yourself pulse and twitch and tremble with every thrust, feel him lap and slurp and suck at you with new fervor, feel his thick fingers dig into your hips so deeply you know you will bear his bruises in the morning. You had not known pleasure like this existed, had not known it was possible for you to achieve it. You feel drunk with it, the way it seeps into your veins like one too many glasses of wine, and Marcus drinks you down like the finest vintage.

Your clitoris drags across his nose once again, and you cannot smother your moan at the feeling. “Gods, Marcus, your nose – ”

Against your wetness, the general’s face vibrates with something like a chuckle. “I know, dear heart, I know – I told you, this face has one advantage.”

You shake your head fervently, feeling your long curls brush your back as you grind. “It’s perfect. Perfect, Marcus, I – oh, gods, I feel – ”

Another animalistic growl ripples through your husband’s chest, and you feel him nod beneath you. “Jus’ let it happen, amica. Take your pleasure,” he slurs, mouth full of you.

And you do. You take and take and take, clit grinding, hips thrusting, thighs shaking, lungs gasping, and with every pass, that bright, hot, vicious spiral in your abdomen winds tighter, tighter, tighter. Gods, it feels as though it is going to consume you – to swallow you whole and drag you under, to drown you in your own dripping sweetness, your own savage pleasure.

And then it plateaus, the sensations holding, holding, staying at precisely the same level, dangling you over the edge, and in a far away voice, you hear yourself whimper, “Marcus, please!”

Releasing his grip on one of your hips, the man beneath you lands a single, sharp smack to the meat of your ass, and over the edge you fall.

It’s everything you thought it could be – lightning in your veins, lava in your lungs, something primal and elemental and raw that rips through your body like a tidal wave that leaves you hiccuping whines and shaking like a leaf atop the general’s face. You spill your pleasure down his chin, into his mouth, along his jaw. It slips down his neck and dampens the embroidered collar of his tunic, and the way he groans into your twitching cunt, you would think that it had caused him pain. But no – he feels your ecstasy as though it is his own. You have left your body to soar among the clouds, and he joins you, overcome with the particular joy of being responsible for making his wife – the mother of his child – reach such heights.

When you come back to yourself, you are utterly spent – limp and boneless and sweating as though you had just run at top speed from here to the city gates. You start to collapse, and Marcus’s strong hands are there to catch you, to slide you down from his face to his lap. Gathering you into his arms, he brings you back down onto the mattress and tucks you into his side. His broad shoulder cushions your flushed cheek, and his fingers brush your disheveled hair back from your face as you catch your breath. Through bleary eyes, you catch the way his face shines in the candlelight. He’s covered in your slick.

For a few moments, you simply gaze at each other as the silence stretches between you. It is only punctuated by the sound of your labored breaths as each of you settle, but somehow it isn’t awkward, and you find yourself smiling in spite of yourself. He’s so perfect like this, your Marcus. Hair mussed, face pink, everything from his chin to his nose glowing with your pleasure.

There’s a softness around his eyes you’ve never seen before, an earnest warmth that burrows its way into your chest and makes a nest there dangerously close to your heart. It’s an emotion you have a name for, if you are brave enough to say it, and the thought has you gripping tight to his tunic.

You are in awe of him.

You…you love him.

“And what is your verdict, my wife?” he asks after a beat. His voice is a low rumble that travels through his chest and into your body, warming you inside. “Does this Roman nose still please you?”

A tired grin tugs at the corners of your lips, pulling you out of the seriousness of your thoughts, and you nod as enthusiastically as you can manage. “Indeed, I am not certain I have ever been quite so…pleased before, husband.”

“Hmm. Good.” Marcus tucks the arm around your body into your waist, pulling you even deeper into his embrace. “Then perhaps the thing may serve a purpose after all.”

You reach up and cup his cheek in your palm, feeling the stickiness of your spend in his beard on your skin. “The purpose it serves is that it is my husband’s nose, and as such, is a part of the dearest face in the world to me.” His dark eyes soften at that, and he turns to place a warm kiss on the heel of your hand.

“Though…should you find yourself forgetting,” you add with an impish grin, “I would not object to a…repeat demonstration of its value. If it would be of any help to you, of course.”

This startles a laugh from his chest, his dark eyes crinkling with mirth, and you cannot help but join in. Gods, he is gorgeous, you think to yourself as you chuckle together in the dark. Both in his soul and in his body, your husband is gorgeous.

A hand drops to the place where your child rests, safe and protected inside your womb, and you feel a little flutter against your palm.

You decide then that you care not whether your child bears your face or Marcus’s. Either way, they will be beautiful, for how could they not be, when they have come from this?

Latin Translation:

amica - darling, sweetheart

[cosmicwhoreo]

I made lil sprite edits of the gem mermaids, mostly just for character design practice-

Zoom in under cut!

I leaned heavily on what parts of the ocean they'd likely been based on. Crimson's likely the community and protector of her pod/kingdom, so I wanted her to be more armored up and battle damaged with a subtle shark aethstetic. {i'm sorry I didn't touch her sea horse, just assume they look they exact same}

Aquamarine strikes me as the more emotionally available one that cares for the pod in a more intimate way compared to Crimson. Say tending to young when parents are busy collecting food, hearing the community out and taking it to her sisters for assistance and just being an extra set of hands. Citrine is the one who is typically in charge of construction and just general aethstetic of their homes, but who's true passion is planning celebrations. just generally likes to keep moral and spirits high for the pod. Opal seems like someone based deeply in the deep zones of the ocean, so I just leaned more heavily into that. using the rainbow colors of opals as an excuse to snag the rainbow bioluminescence of a lot of marine life down there. And she's relied on for predictions of the sea and general worship of the mighty sea and the tear.

And darling little Pearl. I gave her more blues and darker colors, specifically the black with sparkles on her "skirt" to better fit with her whole moon theming.

[okwonyo]

❛ YOU ARE MADE OF ANGEL DUST ❜

FORWORD. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗌. 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋𝗌, 𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒.

❪ 𝖯𝖱𝖤𝖢𝒾𝖲 ❫ prince!enhypen x princess!reader 12OO royalty au fluff domestic ⎯⎯disc. kissing petnames skinship reblogs ୨୧ feedbacks & daily

지아⠀⦂⠀ for @soov & you’ll like it if you like being called princess hehe

HEESEUNG

it is quite late for you when you hear things falling on your window. it doesn’t take much to understand that those said things are rocks, and it doesn’t take much time to understand who is throwing them either.

you open your window to see your prince under your balcony, well dressed and hair slicked back. from down there he mouths while he opens his arms, “come down,” and of course, “princess!”

you want to shout and tell him that he is ridiculous. that you already saw each other this afternoon and that there was no need to sneak out so late. be heeseung is heeseung, he loves risks almost as much as he loves you.

there is not a long thinking process before you find yourself sitting on your balcony’s barrier— trusting him enough to catch you. but he does.

with his arms around your tight as he holds you high, he greets you, “i missed you, baby,”

JAY

“c’mon,” he whispers, his thumb rubbing the skin under your eyes, wiping your shining tears. “a princess like you is too pretty to cry.”

the lightness in his tone makes smile. it makes the mood lighter, it makes you less sad. but everytime you look at his face, whenever your gaze falls on his lips, on his cheekbones, the bruises break your heart. you can feel his heartbeat underneath your palm as he holds your hand on his chest, “and a prince like you shouldn’t have scars.”

the prince’s sweet smile gets wider, contrasting with the obvious sadness and worry in his eyes. he look apologetic, even if he didn’t really do anything wrong.

“princess,” he starts. he cups your face in the most caring way you have ever seen, his keeps on your tears. “i have to fight for my people, for my friends, my family and for you.”

you only look at him in lieu of answering. the admiration in your eyes must be as obvious as your concern for your dear lover. your adoration for him grows even bigger when he adds, “and when it’ll be all over, i’ll always be yours.”

JAKE

his smile is utterly lovely when he declares, “let me help you, your majesty,” while offering is hand to you.

you accept without any hesitation but with much giggles. the prince helps you get on the beautiful brown horse standing in front of you both. his hand is your is delicate— you get up there being carefully observed and pampered.

“hold on tight, princess,” he smirks after settling in front of you. you wrap your arms around his chest with a smile on your lips and rest your head on his broad back.

“where are you taking me?” you question after a while, right after remembering where you were— you often get lost in his scent when he is around, forgetting everything around you.

“somewhere as beautiful as you are,” he responds, his voice vibrating in your heart. butterflies erupts in the pit of your stomach when you arrive at your destination. the sea stares right back at you widened eyes, in pure awe.

SUNGHOON

there isn’t enough words to describe how it makes you feel whenever the prince asks you to dance with him. although, it is never the first time— you dance with him since the day you knew how to walk. he is the one you learned how to dance properly with.

everytime he takes your hand in his, then he holds your lower back, that it pulls you close— you always feel an overwhelming feeling of attraction. as if your soul is being pulled towards him.

he must know, how it makes you feel. you know it. because ever since puberty hit him, he is not afraid— in front of the heavy eye of everyone— to whisper something in your ear. right after making you twirl in your long dress.

“don’t be shy, princess,” he says next to your ear. his breath is always so hot against yours. this added to this public display of affection in public makes you blush.

you close your eyes, well too shy to even look st the people are you. he holds you close as you both dance, “it’s only you and me when we dance.”

SUNOO

“follow me,” is all that he says. although, he takes your wrist in his hand and drags you behind him, not giving you much choice, you do follow him.

you don’t say much, just admiring his back as he brings you to the garden behind the palace. he carefully avoids his maids and yours as well— the place is quite crowded today, especially since you had lunch together.

he loosen his grip on your wrist after arriving at his destination. you miss his touch immediately but the way he smiles at you makes you forget about everything you have ever known.

you are too starstruck to acknowledge him walking to get behind you. the cold material on your exposed skin makes you shiver, earning a gasp out of you. you touch it, you feel the pearls against your fingertips.

“i hope you like it,” he tells you right next to your ear. “this necklace has been in my family for generations.”

JUNGWON

you wipe your head to your room’s door as soon as it opens in a swift movement. your maid seems enthusiastic, red in the face like she ran all the way to your room, “your majesty! prince jungwon has arrived.”

you almost get dizzy with how fast you get up from the couch. your heart beats well too fast for you to even say anything. the only thing you can do is to, with a heavy breath, look at the palace’s portail from your balcony.

you see the horses and the carriage. those are things you recognize far too well, too used to waiting for his return from travels all over the world and his visits to your kingdom.

in a heartbeat, you hold your dress and start ruminating out of your room. then you run down the hallway, get down the stairs at the same speed. you may bump into a few people and your shoes echo in the entire palace as you run to the door.

you are out of breath and your legs hurt but you don’t mind. when you finally get to reach him, when you feel his arms embracing you and his scent all over the place— you forget about it all. his hold you tight, even making your feet leave the floor, “my princess.”

RIKI

a cool breeze washes over your body. it caresses your skin, soothes your soul as well as his fingers in your hair. eyes closed, your head on his laps, laying on the green ground.

“i hope that we can get married soon,” is the first words he pronounces after a while. you think that you must be dreaming— he has never said something like this before. maybe he thought about it, but he never said it.

and it’s not like you are surprised. you are supposed to marry him one day, it has always been a known fact. but he has never told you that he wanted to, that he hoped.

you open your eyes. and it’s like waking up from a dream. the sun shines behind his head, he looks down at you with such love that it makes you want to cry. “what?” is all you manage to say— with a smile making its way to your lips.

he takes your hand in his and brings it to his mouth. his lips are soft as he kisses your knuckles, “i want you to be mine forever.”

taglist open + net— @sgz-net

[thesongoficeandfir3]

The coronation

Jacaerys Velaryon x Fem!Wife!reader

AU where the blacks won

Warnings: none, just Jace and his wife reader being cute before his coronation

You make your way down the long corridor of the Red Keep’s ancient castle halls, your steps echoes loudly off the stone walls and floor. You soon approach heavy oak door where two knights stand and upon seeing you they immediately pull the large doors open. When you walk in you are met with a scene that takes your breath away. There in the center of the room your husband Jacaerys stands, dressed in a long, heavy, and expensive red and black regalia, fit for a king.

When you entered the room you were met with the back of him standing still. He was surrounded by several maidservants who are busy adjusting and fastening every piece of his attire, ensuring they fit perfectly for this very crucial day. There are large glass windows in the room and the bright morning light cast a glow on Jacaerys who stands in the center as if the gods themselves are casting their blessings on him for this important day.

His red and black robes are a vision of opulence and power. The material is thick and heavy, a velvety red silk that drapes him gracefully. Sewn into the sleeves, are subtle but intricate designs of sea horses and dragons, to represent both of his houses, each carefully crafted out of shimmering black thread. The back of the robe is longer than the front, pooling on the ground behind him in a dramatic train.

Your own gown had matched Jace’s, something Jace was very insistent on when it came to the designs of them. You are not sure when it started, but sometime during the first year of your marriage you found a lot of your and Jace’s outfits subtly match whether it was a big occasion or not. Your gown though less elaborate than your husband's, it still a vision of beauty fitted perfectly for a queen.

As you silently stand behind him, he meets your eyes in the reflection of the mirror he’s standing in front. A small smile dances across his lips and his dark eyes glitter with affection. It's the same look he gives you every morning when he kisses you awake.

Jacaerys holds up a hand, the gesture causing the maidservants to stop their movements in an instant. "That's enough," he says, his deep voice firm and commanding. "You may leave us."

They curtsey quickly and walk away, shutting the door behind them. Once they are gone, keeping your back straight as much as you could and your head bowing low you curtsey.

“My king.” you say with a teasing grin.

“Stop that.” he playfully rolls his eyes walking over to you. He places a hand on your chin with a tender touch, lifting your head and gesturing for you to stand.

“You look ethereal.” you whisper out, looking into his dark brown eyes with nothing but love and admiration.

“As do you my issa prūmia.” he leans down to press a kiss to your forehead.

“Are you nervous?” you ask.

He moves his hands down from your face to holding your hands squeezing them slightly.

“Just a little.” he answers, his shoulder dropping not realizing he was tense the entire time.

You notice this and move one of your hands to caress his cheek to help calm him.

“You should not be, your grandsire and mother were wonderful rulers and they passed everything they know on to you, so I have no doubt you will be just as good.”

He nods leaning into your touch, the warmth of your words and touch calming him a little, but still a small part of him is nervous.

“So does this mean from now on I have to bow when I enter every room you are in.” you tease hoping to lighten the mood.

“Hmm,” he pauses for a moment pretending to think. He then leans in slightly. “Yes, I think you will have to bow before me….Every…..Single……..Time. He says each word deliberately slow meeting your teasing banter

“Oh?“ you quirk and eyebrow feigning surprise. “Does that mean I must always call you my king as well?” you lean in closer causing your lips to be mere inches apart.

“Of course my darling,” he says reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear being very careful not to mess with the elaborate hair do, his fingers then trail along your jawline “I am your king, after all.” He smirks down at you.

“And I am your queen” your eyes had yet to leave his during your entire conversation.

“And a beautiful queen you are.” he presses his lips to yours lingering for a few moments before pulling away.

“And your child and rightful heir.“ you take his hand pressing it to your growing pregnant belly.

Jaceaeyrs feels a rush of emotion at the feeling of your belly under his palm, his eyes drifting down to where your hands meet before looking back up at you, His expression softens further. “Our child” he corrects a protective hand still resting on your stomach.

Your heart swells, though such a small gesture you can’t help but feel emotional that he said ‘our’ instead of his.

He suddenly kneels before you his fingers splaying on the swell of your stomach gently kissing it before resting his forehead on it.

“Our future king or queen.” He whispers out.

Your breath hitches at his unexpected action.

“J-Jace,” you stutter out. “This is unbecoming you are to be king” you say feeling extremely flustered.

He chuckles the sound deep and rich.

“Out there I am, but in here with you I am just a man who loves his wife and unborn child dearly” he plants one more kiss on your bump before standing. He places his hands on your hips bringing you close once more.

You reach out and grab the livery collar, each piece being one of the kingdom’s house sigil. You carefully place it over his shoulder before fastening the last button of the robe and smoothing a hand over his chest.

“Now then, let us get you to your coronation.” You smile

“As you command my queen.”