#i guess i write smut now 🤷‍♀️

[distressed-devilsitter]

Saw someone say that Mammon wouldn't eat MC out...lies and slander.

NSFW Blurb Below. Minors DNI. 🔞

Mammon is so so desperate for your cunt. He begs to go down on you. He's obsessed with it. The way it smells. The way it tastes. The way it pulses around his fingers...

Beelzebub may be the avatar of gluttony, but Mammon is ravenous. He eats you out like a starving man, your slick dripping down his chin and pooling on the sheets beneath you.

Mammon loves overstimulating you. He could spend hours between your thighs, tongue pressed into your folds. You try to pull him away, tugging on his hair (joke's on you he's into that shit.) He just moans and stuffs his face closer to your heat.

[httpiastri]

Lmao I read your smut and I think you did really well! I wouldn’t have thought it was your first time. Your authors note though 😂😂 Do you feel like you will be more comfortable writing more smut in the future? Or was this a once in a lifetime thing?

ahahahah thank you!!! well i had a lot of stuff going through my mind after writing that…. i mean i’m not sure about how i feel about writing more? maybe in the more like suggestive form of like “good girl” but not super descriptive of the actual sex stuff? but i’m not sure, we’ll see where life takes us! 😅

[arlertwhore]

pairing: paige bueckers x fem! “sneaky link” reader.

synopsis: paige & you find a new hookup spot: your parents' house. what else do you find? that the chemistry never left after all - you just have to get paige in the right space - literally. warning(s): smut, strap 😬, paige eats it from da back, dirty talk / fluffy pretty much, degrading, choking, idk bro this is from memory i didn't read it so 🤷‍♀️ find out yourself word count: 4.1k (SHESSH) Author Note: the anticipated part 6 that took forever to write because of terrible writers' block. the creative spark just isn't there for this series anymore, so this alone will serve as the conclusion to the series, however — i do have a draft i'll release that can be regarded as a part 7. thanks tons for all the support on something i played around with and got hooked on! love u all sm ☺️❣️

Being at the family home of the girl Paige was casually involved with wasn't exactly how she pictured the UCONN long weekend off going. She and the team had planned a series of fun activities, and although your invitation completely disrupted those plans, she couldn't say no. "Hello? I… Team's awake, I'm in the washroom, be quick."

You chuckle softly. "So I guess that means now isn't a good time to tell you you're coming back home with me this weekend?" Paige sees her reflection and watches her resolve surface, anticipating that you're going to try to escalate things back into what they shouldn't be, breaking down the walls she has up.

She scoffs. "Y/N, you know we can't do that." "I won, Paige, fair and square. You said 'anything', you promised!" you insist, taking advantage of the fact that as a competitor, she'll honor her word. "Yeah, but don't you think it's a little bit intense for me to meet your family? I mean, I just don't want to overstep any boundaries," she stammers, uncertain. You glare at your phone, staring at the wavering voicebox of Paige. "You realize I'm doing this for you, right? How I always am? And because it's too hot to keep banging you in your car?" you say firmly. Finding new spots for clandestine rendezvous was proving increasingly challenging. At least with the constant change of locations, sneaking around, and adventure, you could pretend to yourself that you were going on the first date you knew Paige would never officially give you. And if she wasn't going to give you that first date, the least you could ask for was a comfortable bed. But you knew her, you knew her rules, and the only thing you had left was that victory over her head on the club Friday, so you wanted to use it.

It falls silent on her end. Paige doesn't want to talk about your sacrifices for this.

For you and her. For her. You want to tell Paige how it affects you to be nothing but a secret to her, especially now that she's afraid of her team's disapproval and seemingly everyone else's, meanwhile, you bust your ass, comply, and accommodate everything that being her confidante requires, but for the sake of your own feelings, you know you can't. She will leave you. She'd made that clear from the beginning. Paige's commitment issues and seemingly inability to have genuine emotions for a girl are frustrating, especially given her actions toward you. Perhaps back then, before she forgave your sins against her strict rules, took your virginity, and got to know you far beyond casual, you didn't care. But now, you knew her well enough to trust her around your family and you couldn't risk losing the only person in the world who just seemed to get you. None of your 'close' friends, who didn't care for a thing to do with you, deserved to be the one you chose. Even if she sometimes treated you like you were nothing, you knew the only person for you was her. And plus, your parents were nice people. She didn't have to worry about judgment like she always did — I mean for crying out loud they raised you, nerdy, quiet, and a loner up until this point of your life. Male or female, they'd be proud to see something good with the person they put out into the world.

"This isn't... meeting your family isn't 'anything,'" Paige countered, hushing after hearing footsteps pass the washroom door. "And plus, we have shit planned for this weekend. What do I tell th—" Team. You roll your eyes. The team left, the team right, the team all around. You cut her off. "You're visiting your Grandma."

And again, you win. Still, Paige sighs. "This isn't exactly fair for you to just spring on me, y'know? I've been so hyped for the plans this weekend and you just... you ruined them!" You can hear she's serious, her tone half angry yet delivered with a lightheartedness that doesn't ease the blow of her words. All you did was invite her to come home with you, supposedly 'ruining' her plans. You retort, "Ruining? Jeez, thanks, Paige." "Yeah!" she refutes, still trying to whisper. You giggle, then mutter provocatively, "Should've eaten my pussy better, loser," knowing it'll halt her momentum. You gloat, "Gosh, how do you fail at something as easy as that? Something you've been doing since you were 16!" The banter continues. "You'll change your mind on that soon," she predicts.

You chuckle confidently. "We'll see about that, peanut butter. Bags packed, 10 am sharp. Don't keep me waiting, loser," making your point clear.

You end the call with Paige and smirk to yourself, feeling a mix of anticipation and defiance. You can't believe how much of a rebel you've become, just as Paige can't—once so pristine when she first met you, she's corrupted you to the point of using your parents' place as a sneaky link spot. But with you guys left rendered optionless, Paige's next move was to fabricate a story about picking up her clothes if their shared app alerted her location. However, the plan was soiled with the early arrival of your new roommate, a freshman named Maggie, and you had no choice but to evacuate Connecticut altogether, returning to your place in the city just over; calmer, more serene, and familiar. You quickly text your parents: "Bringing a friend," before rushing off to pack. You'll try to keep them out of your hair as much as possible. It's only a 4-day stay, and they're both very schedule-oriented people, so you anticipate that you and Paige will have the house to yourselves mostly. Just as you're about to finish packing, you recall the strap and text Paige again, sending a picture of you holding it with the caption, "Bring??" She ignores your question about the strap and instead frets like she did the day you first showed it to her, as if she has a big performance the next day. She texts you back:

"Should I dress girly? Do I bring a gift? Are you sure they're okay with us?" She's overwhelmed with uncertainty, unsure of how to navigate this new territory, but you don't give her any tips because Paige needs to figure it out herself. You know it's how she's always rolled, relying on herself. You ignore her and continue, "Sooo, strap on or not? I'd love to try it out on you finally.☺️"

"Now especially no," she shoots back. Then she follows up, cryptically, "You're not the only one with surprises. Trust me. We won't need it." At that remark, you hop into bed eagerly and await sleep, yearning for the day to arrive faster. You stop thinking obsessively about why she won't let you use it on her, and it's the last thing on your mind before you doze off. At 9 AM, you're awake, welcoming your new roommate Maggie, and by 10, you're out and at Paige's dorm. She's waiting outside, readied. She doesn't know how to not dress like a tomboy, so she's awkwardly masculine, but now in pink, and the sight throws you off guard. You thought she'd figure her shit out better than that, and you laugh as you film her, to use it as blackmail in case she ever leaks the many pictures and videos she has of you (which you know she won't). When she climbs into the car after stowing her bag in the backseat, she grabs your wrists and uses her strong grip to hold them in one hand as she deletes the videos, uttering, "Think you're funny, huh, ma?" "No... I think you are," you chuckle, and Paige pushes you away playfully by the forehead. You tease her relentlessly, the amusement of your time with her just beginning and already infectious. She rolls her eyes, shaking her head at your immaturity with a shy smile on her face. "I can't believe I agreed to this," she grumbles and you echo the words from last night, chortling, "You had no choice, remember, Paige Puckers?" a play on words at how she drunkenly, clumsily, and messily explored a tactic that, while it did get you off eventually, was hard to get the hang of at first. She smirks and you see the challenge in her eyes. "I'll make you eat those words, ma, just watch." As you guys veer off, Paige takes control of the music and begins shedding layers until she's left in just the pink flannel, a sports bra, and basketball shorts, feeling overheated. She's so absorbed in the music that when you arrive, she doesn't notice she's partially undressed until the door swings open to your parents, and she quickly tugs the flannel over her body tighter. She watches with a smile as you hug your mother warmly, while Paige stands back, observing. "And you must be the friend she spoke of!" your father extends his hand for a shake, and Paige reciprocates, resisting the urge to give him a fist bump, as that's all she knows. "Paige," she replies calmly, "It's nice to meet you, sir. And Ma'am," she nods to your mother afterward, who smiles before stepping aside. "Well, come on in, girls, this heat is stifling." You all sit down with a cold pitcher of iced tea after bringing your bags up to your room. As you settle at the kitchen island, your parents strike up a friendly conversation with Paige across from you.

You start to regret the whole situation when your mom and Paige hit it off too well, and your mom embarrasses you. "Y'know, it's about time I met a friend of hers, Paige. You're the first; she's never really had any," your mom remarks, and you feel yourself blush. "Mom!" you interject, embarrassed.

"No, no, let her. You've been teasing me all day, you deserve it," Paige chimes in with a chuckle, playfully slapping her knee. "So, I hear Paige plays basketball, Y/N. Seeing as she's never really been the athlete type, you know, more of a bookworm? How did you two meet?" she inquires. You grow hotter, not good for the warm weather. You can't tell your Mom & Dad that: "Hey Mom, I got hammered at a party for the first time, drunkenly approached Paige's friends, and ranted to them about how I would marry her, then made out with her in the bathroom before proceeding to let her fuck me within an inch of my life the following weekend." You were still their little, strange, friendless, and focused girl. "Things just clicked," Paige answers, PG'ing and summarizing the story. "She was just... looking like the life of the party, and I thought she looked fun, so I wanted to get to know her." "Did you find out that looks are deceiving?" your mom asks again, and Paige is genuinely and seriously laughing—not the "haha parent way," but actual laughter. When even your father chimes in and says, "I bet she forces you to practice Telekinesis and stuff like that, huh?" is when you truly decide you won't tolerate the bullying. "Cytokinesis, Dad," you correct as you get up. "And I study developmental biology now. That Bio for children." And besides, you didn't want Paige to get too close to them anyway—just close enough to exist in their house unbothered.

We're gonna go pick you girls up some dinner!" said your mom cheerfully. "We'd love you to join us."

Paige begins to say yes, but you interject, "Actually, we're gonna have a nap. The ride was exhausting." She doesn't budge, so enthralled with your parents that she isn't catching on until you have to gently pull her out of her chair, trailing off with her as she calls back to your mom who had asked, "Paige, what do you like?"

"Y'alls sense of humor!" she chuckles, because Paige just gets her (they enjoy teasing you together).

"Okay, girls, don't nap too hard!" jokes your dad, and before the door can even close, you're kissing Paige deeply in the upstairs corridor, trying to make her forget everything she'd been told. Napping is the last thing you'll be doing. Her hand comes to your chest, attempting to push you away, but you're resilient and hold her with determination as you back her into the doorframe of your bedroom. "Since when were you such a scaredy pants?" you tease as you strip off your clothes, not bothering to lock the door. "We've been walking around in public everywhere these days, and inside is when you get nervous?" Within seconds, before Paige even shuts the bedroom door behind her, you're naked against her, pressing your tits against hers firmly as you shower her with a barrage of kisses. "Gonna make me eat my words still?" you challenge her. Paige slowly realizes you weren't joking about just wanting a comfortable place to have sex with her, and that it was the primary purpose of her visit. She still can't shift gears because she'd been with your parents just a moment ago, and now you're in this intimate moment. So you help her.

"Because it looks like I'm making you eat yours." you smirk at her teasingly. Before you know it, you've pumped the gas so hard she has you turned over on all fours on the bed, back arched invitingly. She wastes no time with you, and despite your usual verbosity, the way you yield to her the moment her tongue delves into your cunt is undeniable. You press back into her face, enveloping her between your thighs and asscheeks, and Paige thinks if she's going to go, she wouldn't have it any other way. You whimper softly in pleasure, squirming as you press against her warm tongue, and Paige chuckles, the vibrations from the deep shrill causing you to jolt forward, feeling the hum pulsate through your pussy hauntingly. "Aw, shit, Paige, you get me so wet," you moan desperately, "You make me so crazy, fuck." The thrill of the moment is evident in her eyes, wide with desire as she gazes at you from above her. You look back at her below you, eyes lidded and mouth parted in an 'o', and you look pornographic. It's sick, really, to think how just moments ago she was conversing with your parents, and now, here she was, tounge enamored filthily in your cunt, savoring every drop of arousal from your desperate dripping hole. "Your pussy tastes so good," Paige murmured, her lips puckering as she spoke before gently nibbling at your clit, swirling her tongue around the pearl in a circular motion, which you absentmindedly replicate with your finger as you gripped the sheets, groaning deeply. Maybe after all, you did like the plump of her lips encasing you as her tongue worked at your clit fervently, making soft wet noises. "Shut up, Paige," you said, "You're gonna-I'll cu-" you're too prideful to say it could EVER happen that early, and just continue to grind your hips against her pretty face, not bothering to ask how she's holding up. Judging by the way she slurps at your clit voraciously, her tongue eagerly scrambling from the front to the back of your cunt, clit to entrance, laving through it hungrily each stroke of the muscle and eliciting the nastiest and most repulsive sounds you've ever heard, yet somehow the sexiest, you have reason to believe she's doing just fine. And you tell her how fine she's doing through a broken, fucked out, and breathless assurance of, "Y'so good, P," biting your lip as you whine your hips languidly, whispering, "Keep going, please." She pulls back, struggling to find her breath. "You're a fucking—" she gasps for air, "You're a slut." The way she says it leaves you aching for more devaluing words, because when Paige utters them, it sends you into a frenzy unlike anything else. In the haze of it, you plead, "Shit, just fuck me, I... fingers, I need them." She rises from her knees. "Say it," she demanded, smacking your ass, and meeting your gaze. "Tell me what you are." You don't have a chance to answer before she presses you down hard, into the mattress, and you gasp at the intense pressure, feeling your cheeks flush impossibly hotter. "A slut," you strainedly admit, the pressure on your back knocking the wind out of you. The words, though so sexily demeaning, are true at the moment.

She's pummeling you in your childhood bedroom and has the audacity to demand sharply, "Louder!" as she presses you down, causing the ache in the first place. You fight for breath, complicitly declaring, "A slut, Paige, mmph!"

You should've known you were in for a ride the moment Paige fell silent. Arms pinned behind your back in between her palms, you squirm at the feel of something much thicker than her fingers rimming against your cunt, and you can't see it, so you start to panic. You can only feel it. It's so large you fear it might break you, and before you can say anything, Paige has eased the tip inside you with a dazed sigh. Your head crooks back to watch her face as she sinks her cock into you, and it makes her heart jump because it's a little too intimate and it reminds her of the first time ever. Still, she doesn't attempt to break it. It's sexy to both of you and it's not often that it happens. She's typically invested in gazing at your body or your lips, or just has her eyes closed, but the look in her eye as she leans forward is intense, and the one in yours gets Paige wetter at the mere sight. She's so satisfied by how you have no choice but to yield and take it, take her - until your body involuntarily starts to falter, punctured by the weight of it pulling you down from inside your body. "So...fuckin'....sexy," she moaned, her free hand gripping your hips and reigning them back as her own pressed forward simultaneously, fucking you thoroughly. She repeats the act, pulling you back and pushing forward until she thrusts particularly hard, and gasps herself. It's genuine, and you're unsure how to react to hearing her moan so sincerely. You simply nod approvingly. "I love how you sound when you fuck me, P," you encourage her, to which she replies, "I love how it feels when I fuck you, baby," "Then don't stop," you cry as you rock forward, slots of arousal pulsating from your core and coating her strap in opaque white. "I'd never want you to." It's insane how when she releases your wrists and manages to sink into you fully, she begins using your body like a toy, ruthlessly owning your cunt with grunts of satisfaction each time your ass claps against her, your skin clapping together. "Such a tight little pussy, God," she praises, watching the sight of your cunt expanding and then resetting with how thick she is, struggling to not get wrecked. With how this strap is made, when you come back against her, she feels every sensation, each thrust pushing the double-ended dildo deeper inside of her as it slides in and out, quicker when you fuck her back. So she might be using you like a fleshlight for the tip to rub the walls of her G-spot, but you can't blame her. She's doing all the work. You lie there helpless and overwhelmed with pleasure as she hammers into you from behind, pulling you back by your hair to meet her gaze, so you can see her and the way she wrecks you proudly. "Fuck yourself on it, angel, please," she pleaded, and it's sweeter than the sinful look she's giving you. Experimentally, you push back hard, meeting her strokes, and she whimpers directly in front of your face, a high-pitched, desperate sound that emerges from deep within her body. "Please," she begged again, "You're gonna make me cum, aw fuck, baby," Your eyes roll back into your head. At the tempo you set for yourself to feel good and the one Paige sets for you to make HER feel good by throwing it back on her, essentially for you, you feel your climax on the horizon. "I want it, Paige, cum with me," you plead. "Yeah?" she grunts, her voice gritty. "You want P's cum? Think you deserve it?"

"I-I do." "Then fuck it out of me," she commands, hands tightening around your waist and pulling your back flush against her chest, essentially hugging you as you rut against her, crying out her name with each movement.

She grips your tit in one hand, squeezing gently and pulling, "Go, baby, yeah.. just like that, make me cum," and though she's trying to steady it, you hear how her voice cracks a couple of times. It sounds so sexy and it gets so raw that it gets to the point where you're actually throwing it back, popping your hips and whining it so quickly Paige can't even help you move faster for both of you. She can't catch your ass as it bounces so vigorously, the visual mesmerizing as she watches. "Don't stop, ma," You're trembling, toes curling uncontrollably as you whine and whimper and grind against her. "I'm close!" you gasp, and just as Paige speeds up, the front door opens downstairs, and her hand flies up to your neck, silencing you, her other hand muffling your sounds. You reach your climax with no air left in you as footsteps approach up the stairs, and you shout into a pillow. Paige is quick enough to press your face into said pillow by this point and finish both of you off, her body pressed against yours as she huffs into your ear. You swear you hear her say it, even if she'll try to deny it later. "You're mine, fuck," as she cums, panting. You lay there, Paige on-top of you, flush against your body, limp.

And for a moment, the world stills, your hearing muffles, but you can still hear your Dad knocking carefully. "Still asleep girls?" he asks. Paige nods, smiling. "Yeah! If it's okay, we're gonna head for a walk before dinner. Y/N needs to wake up!" She's right — you're so overwhelmed that you find yourself outside, dressed, sitting on a bench in your neighborhood park. Yet Paige is still clinging to you for reasons you can't quite grasp.

The gentle, refreshing breeze envelops you both, the park empty and serene. Lost in each other's embrace, you finally pull away, the words tumbling out: "That felt like the first time, kind of."

Perhaps it had considering the two of you finally got to do something more sexually exciting in behest of maneuvering sex in her car.

Paige's response helps it all make sense. "I know." She might be swept up in the moment, but you don't protest. If it feels good, it does, and you eagerly pull her back in as she grips your sore ass, moving you over her lap to straddle her, kneading it. "I bought you...my strap as a gift because I wanted to thank you for, you know, how good of a...link you are," she says affectionately. You gaze deeply into her eyes, refusing to let her look away as you study her face.

She's so serious and so stupid for choosing to get in her feelings while at your parents' house for the week - with you. "What?" she asks intently, eyes tracing over your face as she searches for your reaction. "Is that-... Are you okay?" When you don't answer, lost in the post-coital haze, smiling softly, she murmurs, "So pretty." She doesn't even try to hide she's in the ropes of it too, but while out of the haze, she doesn't think there's ever been a moment when she's seen you look as beautiful as you do when you're in this blissful state.

"Paige?" you whisper, head buried in the curve of her neck as she moves to gently stroke your back soothingly. "Yeah?"

"Do you feel this too?" The question is extremely raw, earnest, and vulnerable, but under the spell of the moment, it sounds like magic to her ears. "Yeah, I... yeah."

"Have you felt it before?" you inquire softly, searching her eyes. "Besides the first time? Because I... I have. I do."

She holds you tighter, placing you back into the crook of her neck, and you suppose she's ducking from letting you see her when you feel her nod. "You're gonna get me in trouble, y'know. You always do."

You smile softly, kissing her soft skin. Little does she know, you already have. MASTERLIST

AUTHOR NOTE #2: this ending i think can cap off the series perfectly because it's left up to the interpretation of the reader. i mean, lmk if i should release the pt 7 draft when i start releasing drafts anyway! lmk anything on your mind I LOVEE you anons / moots / ppl who message me / ppl who reply to my posts, ur all the funniest ppl ever! - ana.

[littlemisspascal]

Creature Comfort

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Female Reader/OFC

Word Count: 7.6k

Summary: 

Waiting out there is General Marcus Acacius. A real man of flesh and blood, strength and power. The legendary Atlas Lion himself.

Your husband-to-be.

Rating: M / 18+ only

Warnings: Language, at least a million historical inaccuracies, referenced smut, references of blood + war + death, weapons, too many lion/animal references and metaphors to count, reader has self-esteem issues, arranged marriage, domestic life, cameo of reader's parents, switching povs,

- Reader has no name and no physical traits described in detail. Reader wears clothes such as a toga + wedding outfit

Author Note: This started as me simply wanting to write a fic where Acacius is compared to a lion and Reader's his wife and then it quickly led to me having a complete emotional breakdown that caused me to quit writing entirely for several months. Not one of my finest moments, but 🤷‍♀️ that's life I guess. It's nice to finally toss this fic out here, hopefully someone somewhere enjoys it 🧡

Special thanks to @wheresarizona for putting up with my emotional highs and lows and answering some questions about Rome for me and for just being an overall too-nice-for-this-world person I'm lucky to have met on here 💗

The morning of your wedding you can barely stomach your breakfast. Nerves are natural, your mother assures you, watching with a critical eye as the female servants of the house help dress you.

Your impending ceremony has severed your protection of your family’s household gods, leaving you spiritually defenseless until you’re officially wed to your husband. Maybe that is the true source of your worries, dark spirits playing wicked games with your heartstrings. Or maybe it’s your mother’s looming presence coupled with her stubborn determination to see you safely married off, analyzing every inch of your bridal outfit to root out the tiniest of imperfections, that has your stomach tied up in knots. 

The wreath atop your head is thick with summer blooms, their scent potent and almost sickly sweet, tickling the inside of your nose. You’d sneeze if not for the veil covering your face, attached to a headband beneath the tangled greenery, its deep yellow color identical to the slippers donning your feet. 

You’d personally woven your tunic on your family’s loom, a task expected of every new bride, intertwining every fiber into tangible proof to show your husband you were ready for the responsibilities of managing his household. Linen had been your initial choice, but your mother insisted wool was the better material to repel the forces of evil. The garment is heavy beneath your matching white stola, but rather than irritating there’s something oddly comforting about the weight. Almost like a warm embrace.

It’s tradition for weddings to take place in the home of the bride’s father. You can hear the arrival of guests now outside your room. Friends and relatives and other miscellaneous people here to witness and celebrate the union. Every minute brings you closer to a new stage of your life, and if not for the servants’ steadying hands, your weak knees might send you crashing to the floor. Fainting would surely be interpreted as a bad omen, derailing the whole ceremony before it even truly began.

You suck in a quiet breath, shoving down the worst of your anxieties. This day–your wedding–has been on your mind practically your whole life. You’d learned from a young age the importance of marriages arranged between families for political and financial purposes. You’d also learned you wouldn’t be the one choosing your future husband, that decision would be made by your father alone. 

Of course, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t imagine marrying someone who was your own choice. Someone kind and handsome and as loyal as your household’s guard dogs. Someone who loved you above all others.

But waiting for you out there isn’t the imaginary stranger who's starred in your most intimate dreams. Waiting out there is General Marcus Acacius. A real man of flesh and blood, strength and power. The legendary Atlas Lion himself.

Your husband-to-be.

When the pronuba arrives to accompany you to the ceremony, the servants disperse but your mother lingers a beat longer, running her fingers over your shoulders to smoothen out non-existent creases. Neither of you mention the shiny gleam of her eyes or the trembling of your hands. 

Then, with a firm nod of her head, your mother declares, “She’s ready,” and leaves without another look to join your father’s side.

Your mother is not prone to lying. If she says you’re ready, then ready you must be.

You take another deep breath before linking your arm through the elder matron’s, but it’s the gentle patting of her hand on yours which calms you most. A reassurance of good things to come.

Stepping out into the atrium, you’re met with a packed crowd, locals and soldiers mixed as one, craning their necks for a glimpse of you. Their clothes resemble yours and the groom’s, another tactic to confuse evil spirits, but human eyes only need to spot your yellow veil to recognize you as the bride. And as for Acacius…

Well. To mistake the Atlas Lion for another would be as foolish as mistaking fire for water. He is unique in all the world.

You see him standing at the altar with the high priest, clad in a purple toga embroidered with a lion’s head in golden thread. A reward in honor of the general’s triumphs in warfare. The placement of the lion above his heart is deliberate, you suspect. A warning of what lies beneath the surface. A guarantee all the tales of his savagery and blood lust passed from mouth to mouth from the battlefields to the city streets are true.

Is it terrible that a part of you–an inane, minuscule scrap of a thing you’ll never verbally acknowledge, not even under oath–is fervently captivated by the notion? You should be listening to the high priest’s prayers to Juno, paying attention to the omens he reads in the entrails of the sacrificed ram upon the altar. But Acacius’ brown eyes, burning with the radiant June sunshine and something else distinctly dangerous, put a flame to your focus and narrow your vision to one central, all-encompassing point.

Is it terrible that you can meet a lion’s stare without a modicum of fear? You wonder how many have been able to say the same, if anyone else at all.

The priest deems the relationship blessed by the gods, carrying on with the proceedings, oblivious to your state of mind. He asks Acacius to make certain his intentions, if you are an acceptable wife. 

Acacius draws himself up to full height, an immovable mountain firm in his convictions. “She is mine to me,” the timbre of his gravelly voice drags over you, eliciting a shudder down your spine you pray the elder matron does not notice. “I will want no other.” 

Then it is your turn, and your voice is only a little hoarse when you confirm, “He will be my husband. My only choice.”

The slightest quirk of a smile curls the corner of Acacius’ lips. Instinctively, you return it with a small grin of your own. And even though he can’t physically see your face behind the veil, you think, somehow, he does see you.

It’s only after signing the marriage contract with crimson seals that the pronuba places your right hand in Acacius’, officially uniting you as one. The general’s palm is callused, fingers thick and gnarled from past wounds, but you can’t find it in yourself to hate them, or recoil, or do anything else than keep holding on.

“Raise the veil,” the priest says.

You swallow, the fingers of your left hand spasming against your side, then slowly reach for a fistful of the yellow fabric. Pulling it up over your head, you carefully watch the lines of Acacius’ expression, heartbeat fluttering at the way those brown eyes widen, taking you in for the first time. Absorbing everything like it might be his only chance. Like you’re something wondrous worth memorizing.

Acacius starts leaning forward, sending every last thought in your head scattering with his nearness. He’s massive, radiating such intense warmth, thumb stroking a line of heat along your wrist. There’s a fire igniting in your chest, lungs choking on the smoke, yet you’re trembling when he cups your face, the quietest of whines escaping your parted lips.

Please, you start to beg, the whooshing of blood thundering in your eardrums, plea–

Acacius swallows the silent plea with his own mouth, kissing you like a starving man. This isn’t love–no, it’s too soon for such sentiment–this is carnal passion, roaming tongues and clashing teeth like you’re no better than animals committed to the hunt of this new territory, this new taste. 

The eruption of applause yanks you back to reality. You tear yourself away with a choked gasp, and it’s satisfying seeing the heave of Acacius’ broad chest with each ragged inhale as you both struggle to catch your breaths. You did that. You’re the reason for the flare of lust in his eyes and smear of spit across his bottom lip. 

You’ve heard people say no man’s looks can compete with Adonis’ striking beauty. A fallacy, you realize in that moment upon seeing General Marcus Acacius in purple and gold, dark curls caressed by the gentle breeze, a constellation of freckles along the tendons of his neck, hardened by violence yet holding your hand so heartachingly sweet.

The rest of the world can have Adonis. 

And as for you–boldly and selfishly, you’ll keep this man. The legendary Atlas Lion himself.

Your husband.

~~

The wedding feast afterwards is a blur of lavish food and wine, the jovial notes of flutes accompanying fescennine songs with interjections of salutations shouted from inebriated lips. Every touch of Acacius’ hand against your arm, your waist, everywhere sends sparks skittering along your nerves. It’s as bewildering as it is thrilling, like you’re balancing on the edge of a precipice, and you wonder if this is what Icarus felt moments before he flew too close to the sun. Falling, falling, falling…

You can only hope you meet a different, kinder fate.

When the sky begins to change and darken with the promise of encroaching evening time, you find yourself standing in the middle of your childhood home, trying to etch into memory everything from the slope of the roof to the tiny cracks in the stone floor. All the noises and voices seem to fade away, granting you this moment to yourself.

Once you step outside, there will be no familiarity to cling to. You’ll be escorted by the crowd of guests to Acacius’ secondary home—smaller, but no less grand than his main domus in Cosa. A port city to the south you’ll have to learn to navigate from square one—and then, once alone with the general, taken to his bed. His body will be another, far more intricate labyrinth you’ll need to learn and recognize the details of.

A new city, a new spouse, a new chapter of life with new expectations…

It’s overwhelming to say the least.

Your eyes cut to Acacius across the room, widening when you catch him already watching you. Something in your chest aches upon realizing you don’t know him well enough to read his face. If he’s angry, pleased, or just totally indifferent. But you can’t look away. Caught and cornered.

Like prey, you think, loathing the thought as soon as it forms. A lion cannot have a mouse for a wife. Imagine the shame of being an unworthy partner of one of Rome’s highest-ranking generals. Your name dragged through the mud, an embarrassment to your family and a blight on Acacius’ esteemed reputation—to say nothing of how the gods would react to your ruining of a blessed union. You’d be as insignificant as the fleas on a dog’s pelt in their eyes.

You must be stronger. Braver. Better.

Where Icarus fell, you must fly. 

Maybe Acacius senses this change stirring within you, or maybe he grows impatient with this lengthy staring contest, either way he suddenly draws closer, weaving between bodies until he comes to a stop in front of you. Purposefully within grabbing reach. The ache in your chest lessens at that, replaced by a spike of adrenaline as awareness dawns.

“Is it time to leave?” you ask.

“It is,” he answers. Then, quick as lightning and just as unexpected, he pinches your waist. 

You jerk away at the teasing touch, gaping like a fish. “Do you touch all women in that manner?”

“No.” A smug smirk spreads across his handsome face. Relishing his next words. “Only the woman who belongs to me.”

Possessive brute. Your eyes narrow even as heat envelops your body, toes curling in your shoes. 

“You haven’t taken me yet. My body has no claim.”

Acacius’ jaw clenches at that. Like he’s holding onto his restraint by a mere thread. It’s practically tangible, a siren song tempting you to flex your claws.

“Answer me this, general, because it remains unclear to me.” Tilting your head, exposing the column of your neck for his hungry gaze to feast upon, your tone is deliberately provoking. “Are you a passionate man of action? Or merely a man of empty words?”

“Bite your tongue,” his tone is low, closer to a snarl than actual speech. You almost believe he’s angry, if not for the glint in his brown eyes, aroused and impressed by your antics in equal measure.

“I’d rather you bite it.”

The fragile thread snaps.

Acacius is on you at once, his large hands seizing hold of your arms. You wrestle against his grip, delivering a solid kick to his shin that draws an irritated hiss. He puts up with your struggling for a bit longer, unaffected by your inexpert blows to his torso, then ends it with a harsh tug, pulling you flush against his brick wall of a body. He sticks his face in your neck, breath hot and ticklish, mouthing at your thrumming pulse with blunt teeth. Oh gods. You slump against him, letting his thick muscles take the brunt of your weight, mind sinking like a stone in the overflowing well of new and overwhelming sensations. Desperate for more, more, more.

The deep rumbling of his chuckling vibrates through your bones, and you have the deliriously greedy thought of cutting out a piece of yourself to store the sound there. 

“You’ve caused quite a scene,” he murmurs into the underside of your jaw, sounding just as wrecked as you feel. But beneath the raspiness, you detect the unmistakable lilt of amusement. 

“It’s tradition,” you breathe, conscious of the numerous stares watching your every move, including your mother’s. Your pretending of resistance must have been satisfactory enough for her to not intervene.

Acacius leans back just enough to look at you, cradling you in the cage of his arms and chest. You place your hands upon his waist, absently clutching the purple-dyed wool between your fingers.

“Tell me how to call you.” It’s not a request.

“What?” Yet another tradition to appease household gods is meant to happen later after you had arrived at the threshold of Acacius’ home and smeared the doorway in oil and fat. He would ask you your name, to which you answer, taking your husband’s and modifying it: where you are Marcus, I am Marcia. And at last, excluding the event of a bad omen occurring, he would carry you inside. Your brow furrows, not understanding why he’s changing the order of things. “Shouldn’t we—”

“Not the name tradition wants, nor the one your parents and the gods assigned you,” he interrupts. “Tell me how I will call you when we’re alone.” 

Oh.

You bow your head to hide your smile, pleased to have a choice. Your eyes fall upon the golden lion head.

Oh.

“Where and when you are Leo,” you tell him, trailing a finger along the perfectly stitched mane before tapping the spot where his heart resides. “There and then I am Leaena.”

~~

{His bride is too innocent, too unaware of the ruthless nature of the Empire’s politics to endure what is expected of her as a general’s wife. This marriage should never have been blessed by the gods.

Still, Acacius can’t stop his gaze from following her every movement, intrigued to know the thoughts running through her head. Can’t stop himself from touching her either, drawn to her warmth, the rightness of her body in his hold. The ceremony was mere hours ago, yet seeing her in his bed, flesh bare and soft and trembling beneath him, the woman has already become the most important treasure of his life. His to worship and protect for the rest of his days.

“Gods, you really are massive all over,” she blurts out, seemingly without thinking, feeling the press of his hard cock against her. Then immediately averts her eyes with a nervous giggle, insecure of her own inexperience. “Could–could we take it slow?”

“That’s fine, my leaena,” he assures her, kissing the corner of her mouth, addicted to her taste dangerously fast. She won’t last, he thinks, scraping his teeth along her neck. They’ll swallow her whole. “I’ll make you feel good. I’ll take care of you.” And he sees it, the exact moment the apprehension slips aside and trust rises to take its place in those big, expressive eyes. She wants this—wants him.

It’s an impulsive, raw need that has him leaning down to kiss her, licking deep into her mouth, craving something he doesn’t know the name of. Repentance, maybe, for the hell coming her way in the coming months. Or maybe he’s just a selfish man who wants this, wants her, more than he deserves. 

She rips him out of his thoughts by grabbing fistfulls of his curls, tugging until they’re even closer pressed together, opening up for him impossibly wider. 

Maybe he’s wrong in his initial assumptions of his bride.

Maybe she’ll be the one to take care of him.}

~~

Cosa matters a great deal to the Empire. A strategically defendable port with close connections to sources of timber and other supplies necessary for maintaining a vast army of fleets. The city itself was built upon a hill, high enough that on a clear day one could see miles of the Tyrrhenian Sea’s coastline. The crashes of the blue-green waves against the limestone cliffs.

Accompanying Acacius into the forum provides you with opportunities to observe the city’s layout. Enclosed within an imposing circuit of walls, the community has put careful thought into every corner of limited space, separating private houses from the sacred temples and civic buildings. Necessary architecture only, no spare room for the entertainment of a theatre. 

Cosa is significantly smaller than the size of your birthplace, drenched in the scents of sea salt and fish, yet there are elements of opulence if one looks close enough. Pearl necklaces adorning necks and solid gold bracelets fastened around wrists. Chairs carved from precious woods, embellished with touches of silver or bronze. Acacius’ curule seat in his tablinum is made out of pure ivory, its legs resembling a lion’s paws. A gift from the Senate after a successful military campaign.

The majority of Acacius’ hours in the public square is split between the basilica, the curia, and the comitium speaking with the aediles and magistrates. Offices of elected officials which exclude women from entry–not that you have much interest in politics anyways. 

The marketplace quickly becomes your favorite place outside of your domus. A variety of stalls clustered together bustling with activity. Haggling becomes second nature to you, and when you can’t get the price you want you make trades with your weavings. 

Still. Cosa is a small enough city where you’re easily recognized as someone new by the locals. More than once you’ve experienced lingering glances, examining everything from your clothes to your hair. More than once those eyes have made your shoulder blades curl with the instinct to somehow fold into yourself like the little crabs that occasionally wash up on the sandy coastline.

A week after settling in, a man in the bathhouse grabs at your palla before you can enter the women’s section, pulling harsh enough to send your mother’s brooch clattering to the ground. You press a hand over your pounding heart, scrambling backwards a few steps, all too aware of the heavy veil of silence that has fallen over the room. 

Acacius calmly appears at your side, soundless in his approach, filling the whole place with his commanding presence. 

A blink. That’s all it takes.

One blink and suddenly the man’s blood spatters the stucco wall as Acacius slams his skull against it repeatedly until he no longer resembles anything human. Just a gruesome muddle of scarlet and bone, life thread severed by the jaws of death. 

Acacius releases his hold, then points a bloodstained finger at you. “She is mine. Anyone who touches her will face my retribution. And I won’t hesitate to add another soul to Dis Pater’s realm.”

~~

Living under the roof of your parents, you’d thought of home as a physical structure. A place to stay in a world full of constantly moving parts. 

Marriage has taught you home is so much more. It’s the soft notes you hum as you spin and weave wool. A kiss pressed to your temple as Acacius moves past. The scent of fresh citrus each morning for breakfast and the sweet taste of fine wines. Plans to visit the coast. A bowl of seashells. Gazing up at constellations when the moon is high. Feelings bubbling up, spilling out, casting shadows on the walls and slipping beneath the bed sheets. It’s the warmth of another body, touching, feeling, familiarizing, until two halves become an inseverable one whole.

Home is learning to be loved and to be in love. 

~~

Acacius doesn’t receive many guests in his tablinum, preferring to settle his business affairs in the public offices, yet he still keeps a cushioned stool in front of his desk. You sit there, elbow propped on his desk and chin resting upon your fist, watching your husband search through his shelf of scrolls. The mosaic floors have been recently cleaned, colors popping vividly in the patches of sunlight sneaking in, and the painted scenes of nature adorning the walls are masterfully done, but you can’t bring yourself to look anywhere else except him.

“Where did your name come from?” you ask, breaking up the quiet.

Acacius pauses, glancing back with a raised eyebrow. “It was my father’s name. And his father’s name. And his father’s father’s name and–”

“You know that’s not what I mean.” Your scolding is softened by the smile pulling at the corner of your mouth. Acacius keeps looking at you, smirking like he finds the whole thing amusing. “The Atlas Lion. A moniker as frightful as that, it must have an origin.”

He chuckles that deep, rumbling laugh of his. “Wondered when you’d finally ask.”

His tone is light, still smirking, but you see through the cracks of the facade. See the hesitation in the lowering of his eyes to the floor, see the slight furrow in his brow that only appears when he’s worried he’s upset you. He’s nervous—it’s so obvious and so dearly human that it aches. It looks absolutely wrong on the face of a man known throughout the Empire for his larger-than-life confidence.

You watch him warily, unsure what to do, what to say beyond his name. “Acacius.”

Your husband faces the scrolls again, and for a moment you’re afraid the fragile moment’s broken, but then he tells you the story behind his name. ‘Story’ is too soft a word though. Stories are for parties and entertainment, full of humor and unfolding drama and moral lessons. Acacius doesn’t tell you a story. No, he tells you his truth. 

Acacius doesn’t mince words, describing the hellish months of military training in grueling detail. He tells you, in an almost detached manner, how he’d been a different man back then. Scrawnier, unused to bloodshed, restless, but above all else, near feral with the need to prove his own worth. 

“It was General Meridius’ idea for soldiers to train as bestiarii.” There’s something about the way he says the name—full of respect. Admiration for a superior. But you think you detect a note of something else laced within the syllables too. Something almost…sad sounding. Grieving, perhaps. It’s gone in the next breath. “Face to face with wild beasts, you either become an expert with your weapon fast or you die an unglorified death in the arena.”

For all the nights you’ve traced meaningless patterns along the large scars gouged into Acacius’ shoulders, you didn’t ask about them. Assumed they were the result of a too-close enemy with a too-sharp weapon. A blade or spear, something man-made. Never occurred to you to think of fangs and claws as weapons too.

Blinking sharply, you sit up straighter, stuttering, “W-wait, are you…is that where…” There’s a swarm of questions buzzing in your head, stinging the back of your throat when you try to voice them. Finally, you manage to choke out, “So, that’s how you got your name? You actually fought lions?”

Acacius finally turns around at that, only to surprise you by shaking his head. “I did fight lions—and bears, boars, even a pair of hyenas once. But that’s not why they call me the Atlas Lion.”

He trails off, tension in the wrinkled lines of his expression your hands itch to smoothen out. You hesitate to rise from your seat, unable to tell if drawing closer would lighten your husband’s mood or worsen it. Moments like this–where he’s loosened the reins of his tightly controlled emotions, offering a glimpse of an ordinary, flesh and blood mortal man who’s been chewed up and spit out a dozen times over– are few and far between. Delicate like fine glass, requiring just the right handling.

“To prove I was ready for the army, I had to pass a test,” he explains. “I fought everything that attacked me. I stopped thinking, stopped feeling. Nothing mattered except the next stab of my gladius. And when they started throwing men into the arena, I didn’t even notice.” Acacius exhales a ragged breath. “I stopped seeing people as people.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, voice barely above a murmur. 

There’s another pause, time seeming to slow down, seconds stretching lazily like a plump housecat, and then Acacius crosses the distance, close enough your knees graze each other, head tilted back to peer up at him. He says nothing, even as his thumb brushes over your chapped lips.

“Acacius.” Your body trembles, edges of your vision starting to blur. You lean into his touch. The center of your universe.

“I mean,” Acacius says, eyes on your mouth. Your lips part unthinkingly, letting his thumb slip inside, pressing lightly against your bottom teeth. “We’re all just animals, my leaena. Red tongues and hands.”

~~

The air is cool this time of night, seems to press against your skin like a damp washcloth. Cleansing you from the inside out with each deep inhale. 

Acacius stands in the courtyard, bronze skin painted in streaks of moonbeams and starlight, hair tousled by fitful hands. His absence from bed had stirred you awake, and a part of you wonders if these midnight musings are a regular occurrence you’ve only just now become aware of. Not all dreams are sweet after all, especially for soldiers. 

“A nightmare?” you ask, a hushed inquiry disrupting the still of night.

“A memory,” is all he offers. 

“Oh.” 

He hasn’t looked at you yet, brown eyes boring holes into the distant moon. Maybe you should return to bed, give him space and privacy to sort himself out. But your bare feet stick to the floor and you can’t pull your eyes away. Noting the rhythmic clenching and unclenching of his hands, the rising and falling of his chest with each breath.

You try to ignore the disappointment gnawing at your heart, hurt that Acacius won’t share his internal burden with you, even in the cover of darkness where it’s just you and him. 

He’s revealed the truth of his name with you. Encouraged you to lick and bite and mark every inch of his flesh as your own. But tonight he’s put up a wall you can’t climb over. 

Maybe that’s why you stay. You’re a glutton for punishment.

Somewhere else in the city, a dog begins to bark. It’s a harsh sound, all teeth, defending its territory from a threat, and you flinch despite the distance. Unsurprisingly, Acacius doesn’t so much as even twitch. 

What is surprising though, is that he chooses then to finally speak.

“There are victories yet still to come,” he mutters, a tremor to his voice you’ve never heard before, like he’s standing on unsteady ground. And there’s this look in his eyes that unsettles you, haunted by something only he can see. “That’s what they always say.”

They?

Stepping closer, you gently bump your hand against his. A knot unravels in your chest when he blinks back to himself, pinky hooking onto yours. A tether securing him home with you.

“Who says that?”

“The Emperors.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Don’t know what words will build his wall higher or what ones will knock it down–if that’s even possible. 

“What are they like?” Your mouth makes the choice for you. “Geta and Caracalla?”

You’ve never been to Rome, never seen the ruling brothers in person. All you really know about them are the stories and rumors from the mouths of travelers gossiping in the marketplace. Sometimes nice things are said, sometimes…not so nice things. 

“They’re…” Dark brows draw together, mouth pulling downward in a frown. Acacius finally looks at you, the brown of his eyes lost in the dark, but not the sharp glint of fear. Tumultuous and excruciating, you feel it cut deep. “They’re fire and water. Two opposing forces unfit to inhabit the same space. It’s only a matter of time before one prevails over the other.”

You swallow, nervousness swelling in the pit of your stomach at the flat, doomed sound of certainty he speaks with. “And then what happens?”

“The Empire will either burn or drown." 

“And us?” you ask tentatively. “What will happen to us?”

Acacius doesn’t have an answer.

~~

A Roman naval ship is spotted just as dawn breaks, drawing a sizable crowd by the time it docks in the harbor. There’s a sense of wrongness associated with the lack of an official fleet, and that unsettling feeling is multiplied tenfold when it’s announced there are numerous injured soldiers aboard.

Acacius attends to them, ensuring each gets medical attention while also gathering information from the head officer in charge. You stand at the back of the crowd, heart in your throat, seeing but not truly processing. Blood, so much red. Expressions of young men scrunched in pain. The grim, motionless bodies of those who didn’t last the final hours of the journey.

“Steel yourself.” A feminine voice warns, and you turn with a blink of surprise upon seeing the high priestess at your side, unused to encountering her outside her temple walls. The sea breeze ruffles the red and white ribbons in her braided hair as she holds your gaze, calm in an almost preternatural way compared to the surrounding commotion. “You are a general’s wife. To express your fear in public is to express doubt of the Empire’s dominance and your husband’s own prowess.”

Her words sink like a stone in your stomach. “I’ll be better,” you promise, the acidic taste of shame burning the back of your throat.

“Stronger,” she corrects, fierce blue eyes rivaling an ocean storm. “You must be stronger than your greatest fear.”

You can only nod, imagining one of the corpses wearing your husband’s face. 

~~

{With every inch of territory the Empire gains, its list of bitter enemies grows exponentially longer. Not every threat rising up in defiance stems from foreign soil though, Acacius was forced to learn that the hard way. He’s seen the effects Rome’s constant warfare and rotting politics have had on its subjects, witnessed people turn against their masters’ hands like rabid dogs hell-bent on stripping flesh from bone.

Rebels are dealt with just like rabid dogs, too. Caught and decapitated in a public spectacle. Crimson rivulets flow from their remains, discoloring the city’s streets reminiscent of a spilled wine stain, seeping into the very foundation itself. 

Then come the speeches in the comitium from Cosa’s magistrates. Addressing the huddled masses with sickly sweet, empty promises of better times to come. Lying through their teeth, scared the next outburst of internal strife will end with their own severed heads tossed into the sea.

Acacius’ attendance is mandatory, yet he only pretends to listen while standing on the stone steps behind the speakers. His wife’s shoulder presses against his, their hands firmly locked together, unbothered by the harsh ridges of his battle-hardened palm grazing against her smooth skin. A simple comfort he’d long believed himself unworthy of ever indulging in.

“It tears you up inside, doesn’t it?” His wife’s voice is just a faint murmur, so quiet there isn’t a chance anyone else hears her, but the knowing note in it has his chest tightening with a stiff exhale. “Like a thorn in your soul. Even from Rome, Geta and Caracalla control your tongue.”

“There is a time for a general to speak his mind and there is a time for him to keep his head,” he reminds her frankly, careful to maintain his facade of blank detachment. “It’d do you good to remember your place.”

Her sharp inhale is torturous to his ears. She reacts to his blunt discipline like a physical blow, shoulders sagging, lips pressed together in a thin line, practically rolling over and exposing her vulnerable underbelly. Acacius hates that look. Hates even more he’s the cause of it. He thinks impaling himself with his own blade would hurt less. 

Nudging her shoulder drags her gaze reluctantly back to him. And this is not the appropriate setting for levity, Acacius should bite back the smile curling at the corners of his mouth—but for his wife, his divine leaena, he’s a sinner on his knees desperate to be in the warmth of her good graces again. “You are fond of this general’s face, yes?”

It’s not the offering this goddess deserves, but it’s enough to begin mending what he’d torn, soothing the worst of the sting. She smiles, an amused, uneven little twist of her mouth she once confessed being insecure about before he kissed away all worries from her mind. There’s something undeniably perfect about it, like the first rays of sunlight after a bleak winter. 

“Of course I am. But…” She bites her lip, caught on something. He squeezes her hand, and it seems to be the needed boost to force the words out from the cage in her throat. “Even the Atlas Lion must want to roar sometimes.”

Acacius should be annoyed with her ability to read him–it’s a weakness, and any weakness in his personal experience is a promise of death’s swift arrival. It isn’t safe, for either of them. But she’s done the unthinkable, worming her way into his ugly, greedy heart, treating it like something tender, something lovable. And it was too damn easy how quickly she filled up every vacant space in his head. From the moment she lifted her veil he’s been enraptured by her essence. Starving for every scrap of attention she’s willing to give. His wife has become a critical piece of his life, as vitally essential as the breath in his lungs and the sword hanging at his hip.

It’s dangerous, what she’s done to him.

But it’s far, far more dangerous, what he’d do for her.

Her eyes widen with surprise when he leans in, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead, but he feels the way she relaxes against him with easy acceptance. Believing she’s safe with him, ignorant of the threats closing in on all sides. Every day drawing nearer and nearer still. 

That will have to change, he swears to himself. Her survival depends upon it.

“Yes,” he says at last, and it’s the most honest he’s been with himself in years. “Sometimes he does.”}

~~

Acacius places one hand on your shoulder, the other settles on your hip. There is nothing delicate about his touch, no hesitation about maneuvering your body into a proper defensive stance. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees bent, pugio held in a strong grasp.

“Lower your arm, always aim the blade at your opponent,” Acacius instructs, slipping into his alternate persona as a leader on the battlefield like a second skin, his critical eyes zeroing in on all the mistakes that will get you killed in a moment of danger. “When you hold that dagger, you must hold it with the intent to spill blood, my leaena. Words alone aren’t enough to protect you.”

You swallow, fingers flexing around the hilt. It’s a daunting experience, learning to sever someone’s life thread from an expert on the subject. You’re grateful for the privacy of your domus’ courtyard, concealing your clumsy movements from outsiders who’d undoubtedly laugh at each ungraceful slash and lunge. You resemble a fool, sweaty and fledgling, undeserving of your husband’s calling. The only women you’d seen fight with weapons were gladiatrices at festivals, an exotic and unusual form of entertainment which never failed to attract large crowds. Your mother claimed they brought shame upon womankind, yet when Acacius had asked you to learn, you’d accepted without delay.

She’d disown you immediately if she could see you now. The thought has your stomach churning, a sour taste on the back of your tongue.

“We’re wasting time,” you say, voice hoarse. “I’ll never be strong enough to pose a threat to anyone.”

Acacius clicks his tongue at you. “Never say never, my leaena. You’ll tempt the Fates.”

The courtyard is quiet besides your breathing, and the streets beyond the domus’ walls are empty this time of day. You’re keenly aware of Acacius’ nearness, the slight frown pulling at his lips, like he’s trying to understand your thoughts, and you want to fight him. Howl and claw and lash out like the beast he seeks to bring to light from your depths. But there is nothing there. 

“I’m not like you. I can’t be.” His head tilts, still uncomprehending. You gesture at him with your empty hand, the rippling muscles straining the fabric of his sleeveless tunic. “The Atlas Lion. Devourer of the Emperors’ enemies. Ferocity unmatched amongst Rome’s army of warriors.” You then gesture at yourself, forcing the ugly words past your teeth if only so he’ll give up this futile endeavor. “I’m just me.”

The air shifts between you and him, a thick, cloying tension weighing heavily upon your shoulders. It’s only the knowledge that there’s nowhere in all of Cosa you could hide from your husband that keeps you anchored in place even as your heartbeat gallops away. Acacius’ brown eyes darken, thunder clouds blocking out the sun.

And then his callused hands are on your face, palms rough along the underside of your jaw, fingers pressing into the skin, squeezing. Claiming. An inescapable hold. 

“Do not,” he starts, voice low and gravelly, a snarling darkness you’ve never heard before and never want to again, “ever speak so poorly of yourself again. How can you think of yourself as anything less than magnificent? How can you not know of the power you wield over me? You’ve made me live again. My heart, long cold and numbed by the trials of war, beats again only for you. There is nothing more valuable to me than your wellbeing–not wealth nor fame, nothing. Is it clear to you yet? You have tamed the Atlas Lion body and soul. This general heeds your every call.”

You shudder, dazed and captivated by his close proximity, his devotion. Intoxicated, that’s what you feel. So caught up in a fog of mindless pleasure you fail to notice him guiding your hand up, up, up until the pugio’s blade is put to his throat. 

“All that I am is yours,” Acacius says, hushed now, a secret between lovers. The dagger pierces skin, a thin trickle of blood oozing. You flinch, eyes widening, but his hold remains firm. “Which makes you the most dangerous creature of all. And for that reason, my leaena, you will and you must learn to fight.”

He shoves you backwards a step. It’s not his full strength, more surprising than hurtful, but something inside you uncoils, teeth gnashing. A feeling sparks in your bloodstream, erupting into a wildfire at the look of pride in Acacius’ eye when you reflexively point your pugio at his heart. 

You swipe at him, again and again, driven by this new source of power. And through it all he holds your gaze, the brown of his eyes as sharp as the blade in your hand. Neither one says I love you, I’d take a bite out of the world for you but neither one needs to. 

Actions have always been louder than words.

~~

“Do you ever think about what’s out there?” you ask one night in bed together. Acacius reclines against the headboard, staring at you through half-lidded eyes as you drag your fingertips over his bare, scarred skin in meaningless patterns. 

Would anyone believe this man was the Atlas Lion? A wild, virulent beast compliant and disarmed beneath the gentle stroke of your touch? 

No. You think not.

“Out where?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, thumb catching on a particularly rough patch of damaged skin left of his hip bone. Every battle he fought, every combatant he faced—Mars laid fresh claims to his body with each fresh cicatrix.  

Claims you challenge the only way you know how. Scrapes of your nails breaking skin and tender presses of your mouth licking up the crimson pearls of blood.

“Beyond the Empire’s borders. Somewhere without war.”

Acacius’ brow creases, gaze alert now, looking at you as if you’ve spoken a different language. “Without war…” he repeats slowly. “My leaena, there is no place such as that. Discordia’s reach is far, farther than the Emperors could ever conquer in their combined lifetimes, stirring up strife deep in the hearts of even the mildest of men, and it will always find an outlet one way or another.”

“Oh.” You clear your throat. It’s not the response you had hoped for, but it’s the one you should have expected. Acacius isn’t the type of man to indulge in far-fetched fantasies of softer living. Can’t be, not with all the horrors he’s witnessed and played a part in crafting. 

“But,” Acacius pauses, and his hand covers yours. Not holding or moving it, just staying there. Feeling. “If somewhere without war did exist…” he smiles, a soft and little thing reserved just for these quiet moments. “I’d do whatever it took to get us there.”

~~

The wool for your new palla has been carded and spun into yarn. It stretches and winds around the teeth of your wooden loom, weighed down by terracotta scales. 

You’re alone in the domus. Acacius had been summoned by the magistrates for an urgent meeting, and you try not to let fear interfere with your work, an aggressive wasp buzzing at the back of your mind. Your touch remains light when pulling at uneven sections, its intended shape coming together bit by bit. The whooshing of a racing heartbeat echoes in your ears.

So long as there is land outside the Empire’s borders, the Emperors will expect Acacius to conquer it in their names. His time in Cosa is trapped in an hourglass, never quite knowing when the last grain of sand will slip away, summoned back to the front lines for another campaign. Another brush with death. Another chapter added to his legacy.  

You feel the sand’s effects sometimes, a sinking sensation threatening to drag you down when you walk with him through the market. Coarse and gritty, scratching your skin as you fall asleep in his arms. Piling so high it chokes you, the cursed inevitability of it all.

Another loop of wool around teeth. Tension taut and held firm. The muscles of your arms burn with effort, left foot tingling uncomfortably from sitting too long with little movement. Cosa’s awake and thriving in the warm weather, echoes of voices drifting in with the breeze, but you’ve never felt more alone. A feeling you dread becoming intimately familiar with sooner or later.

Later, you pray selfishly, desperately, achingly to the Fates. Make it later. 

So long as Acacius breathes he will always walk two paths—the path of a general and the path of a husband. And it’s a priority of yours–a requirement as his wife–to find a way to be okay when those paths split and you’re truly left all alone. You must then nurture the tiniest flame of hope one step, one trial, one lonely night at a time. Burning fiercely until every last shadow of doubt is purged from your mind, and the only thing that remains is the steadfast belief he’ll return to your side.

Then you must prepare yourself to do it all over again and again and again…too incapable of challenging the Emperors’ insatiable greed, too mortal to stop the sands of time.

You roll your shoulders once finished, scrutinizing the piece for errors. Later you’ll detach the palla from the loom to cut and tie off the loose end-threads of dangling wool, and later still you’ll take it to the fuller to be washed then to the dyer to be colored. You wonder if Acacius will like the shade of golden yellow you have in mind. If he’ll even be in Cosa to see the finished product or a thousand miles away in the heat of battle. A tremor racks your spine at the thought.

But then the front door opens with a quiet groan, and the cheerfully hummed notes of Acacius’ favorite song float through the house. You smile, heartbeat settling into its natural rhythm with the knowledge he’s here with you. The war has not stolen him away just yet.

“Come, my leaena,” he calls out, and you can hear the grin in his voice without having to see it. “It’s a beautiful day. Should we spend it by the coast?”

There’s an urge to close your eyes, to sink into this moment for all its worth, but sand is rising around your ankles. A reminder of all temporary things. 

Your legs can’t move fast enough, drawn to your husband’s side. 

Just a little bit longer. Another hour, another day. 

You reach for Acacius’ hand, tangling them together, pulling him closer. Always closer.

Another call of my name.

“Let’s not waste a single second.”

[karahofthedawn]

-sigh- I miss you’re writing, “You Owe Us One” is one of my favorite series! Lately I came up with this idea, I hope maybe you’ll be interested in using it, where Reader is still stressing over school and pressure from her parents (like what she’d been dealing with in Part 4) and Fred’s way to make her feel better would be to bully the Harry into giving him the password to the prefects bathroom and making it all romantic for her like a huge bubble bath. Because he’s not very good with words, like George and he doesn’t always know the right thing to say, but she can’t help feel overwhelmed with love and care and just cries and they have an intimate bath? idk idk could be fun? maybe it leads to some smut…who’s to say…😂🤷‍♀️

You Owe Us One - An Apology

Fred Weasley x Reader

Ask and you shall receive!! I hope this is what you were looking for.

I do miss writing the twins, so I may start back up again.

Thanks for giving me inspiration. 💜

Words: 3.5k

Contains: smut

There you are, letter in hand trudging down the corridor to the Hufflepuff common room. This isn’t the first time you’ve received a letter of the sorts, though it has been a month or so since the last. Your eyes burn from the tears threatening to burst out of you. You have to make it back to your dorm. Everyone else would still be in classes or having lunch. Just a minute or two to break down alone would be enough to get you through the rest of the day.

Why, is all you can think as you pass by a window. The sky seems to be reflecting how you feel internally, dark heavy clouds holding back everything they have as they pass over the castle. There was no forecast of rain today, but you knew even in just a glance that it would pour.

Why does she always have to see the worst in me? Your thoughts echo as you travel past the fruit painting that leads to the kitchen. You want to reflect on the good times you had with the Weasley brothers by sneaking into the cabinets late at night to get a quick snack, but it is almost impossible with the remembrance of the letter from your mother burning at the forefront of your brain.

She always knew just how to bring you down.

“Hey,” someone calls from the far end of the hall. You take a deep breath, centering yourself before turning to the familiar voice. It was who you expected - Fred, of course. You had completely forgotten to meet him in the garden after breakfast.

“Fred,” you say sweetly. “I’m so sorry, I just - “you pause and quickly tuck the letter in your black and gold coat.

“Completely forgot about me,” he says with a broad smile, pinching your cheek as he reaches you.

You tilt your head and roll your eyes. “Forget you? That would be impossible.”

“That right?” He crosses his arms and leans towards you. “Then I guess you must have gotten lost. Gardens are on the other side of the castle.”

As much as you love to banter with him, you just didn’t have it in you. “I know, I know.” You rub the bridge of your nose as another wave of anxiety races through your body. “This just isn’t a good time right now, okay?”

You turn to leave, but Fred steps in front of you. “What, are you going off to snog one of those Hufflepuff boys?” He challenges with a raise of an eyebrow.

He was kidding, you know this, but just the thought of trying to defend yourself against such a silly notion almost sends you over the edge. “Fred, please.”

“I’m just playing with-”

“I can’t right now,” you say sternly and push past him. You tap and open the Hufflepuff door and immediately slip in without a word.

Fred watches you with a puzzled expression as you disappear behind the barrels. Laying on the floor was a folded piece of parchment that fell from your coat as you rushed off. Fred kneels down and takes it delicately between his fingers.

“You must be the culprit,” he says to himself while eyeing your mother’s name.

—-------- Later that afternoon—----------

George slams the paper down on the table, causing the rest of the Gryffindors to jump and stare at the twins reproachfully. His face was as red as a phoenix as he recounted what he read in the letter. “And this is- this is her own mother?”

“Yeah, quite messed up, isn’t it?” Fred responds solemnly.

“To say the least,” he huffs and squints at the words in front of him again, still trying to take in how unbelievably cruel they were. “Useless? Pathetic? A disgrace to their lineage?”

Fred quickly snatches the page from his brother and tucks it in his back pocket. “I know what it says, you don’t have to tell the whole castle.”

“Sorry,” he sighs and leans back on the chair. “I can’t stand this woman. Our mother -”

“Our mother would never,” Fred finishes for him. “I know, and I made some stupid joke about her snogging someone else.”

George continues to stare down at the table where the letter used to be. “You didn’t know, don’t be too hard on yourself. I’m sure Y/N will understand.”

“Right,” he says while pulling at the sleeves of his undershirt. “But I’ve been thinking that I should make it up to her.” Fred felt a ton of guilt, and the truth was that he wasn’t entirely sure if she even wanted him to read that letter in the first place. So what if him bringing it up just made her feel worse, to know that others know how her own mother treats her?

“How do you intend to do that?” George tilts his head back to look at his brother. “Another trip to the Room of Requirement?”

“No,” Fred says simply. “I was thinking something different.”

George lifts his brows and kicks his feet up on the table. “Well that’s a first from you.”

“You can’t possibly believe that’s all I want from Y/N,” he snaps back, which makes his brother drop his smug expression. “I have something in mind, I just need -” his words are cut off as he notices his younger brother Ron and his friends enter the common room. A smirk slowly stretches across his face and he beelines towards them.

“Ron, really, I can’t keep looking over all of your work,” a frustrated Hermione hisses at Ron who pretends to not hear her. She takes the roll of parchment and forces it into Harry’s hand.

“I don’t know anything about this,” Harry spouts and tries to hand it back to her.

“I don’t care, and frankly you two should have been doing your own work years ago!”

“Oh, come off it,” Ron snaps. “It’s only a few paragraphs and I’ve already written it. You know I’m terrible at grammar and all that.”

“Even more reason for you to do this yourself,” she says smugly. “As a prefect-”

Harry stands in the middle of the two as they continue to bicker. He did what he learned from the Dursley’s, completely dissociating until they wear themselves out.

“Just who I wanted to see,” Fred announces as he snakes his arm around his brother’s flaming red neck.

“Not right now,” Ron grunts and tries to push Fred off of him. It was no use though, as his grip just tightened even more around his neck.

“This is urgent, so yes, right now.” He tugs him forward, sending Ron off the hilt and into a chair.

“Urgent?” Hermione asks while scanning his hands for some kind of new invention. They had gone toe to toe over them not testing on first years enough times, that she always assumes it’s something to do with that now.

“Yes, for Y/N,” he admits, which makes her shoulders drop immediately.

Hermione perks up, “is she alright?”

“I mean physically, yes.” Fred scowls down at his younger brother and his messy copper hair. “I just need, well, a favor.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Ron scoffs and crosses his arms. “What do you want?”

“Oh, nothing much,” he says nonchalantly before dropping down to his level. “Just the password to the Prefect bathroom.”

“That’s it?” Harry asks as he finally starts to listen again.

“That’s it!” Fred exclaims. “I just need the password and then I can be on my way.”

“No,” Ron says bluntly. 

Fred’s smile drops. “No?”

“No,” Ron reiterates with an even harsher tone. “I don’t know what weird prank you have planned, but I actually like that bathroom thank you very much.”

Fred takes a breath to calm himself. “It’s not for a prank.”

Ron waves his hand dramatically. “Well whatever plan you have in your head, I want no part of it.”

Hermione steps in before Fred can reply. “You said it has something to do with Y/N?”

He nods as he runs his hand through his long red hair in frustration. “I really don’t want to say what it is. Why can’t you just trust me?”

Ron rolls his eyes. “What are you mental? I can answer that with a million different reasons-”

“I’ll give it to you,” Hermione pipes up and places hand on Ron’s shoulder. “If it’s something for her, then I trust your intentions.” She had seen how protective the Weasley brothers were over Y/N. Whatever he had planned, her gut knew that it was important to him.

Fred nods and lets out a sigh of relief. He wasn’t about to beg, but digging up blackmail on Ron would have taken up time he didn’t have.

“Thanks,” he says simply while looking at Hermione. “You always were my favorite of Ron’s friends.”

Harry’s mouth goes slack. Hermione beams.

------- Later that evening---------------

A screech wakes you up from a nap, making you sit up in bed at once. You rub at your eyes until the blurred circle at the edge of your bed comes into view. An owl - a small brown one with large golden eyes. Tied to its legs is a letter. Even at a distance you can see that it is addressed to you. Your heart drops, your mother never sent two letters in one day. Though, she wouldn’t use any other owl but her own.

You reach out and untie it quickly, hoping to solve the mystery of the sender before it sends another wave of anxiety. Your fingers trail over the letters, they didn’t look familiar to you at all. It was written sloppily with black ink and off center. You turn the back and slip your nail under the crease to open it.

Y/N,

I’m sorry for the stupid joke I made earlier. I know there’s no boy in Hufflepuff that can compete with me.

Your smile falters when you remember how cold you were with Fred. What he said was something he didn’t need to apologize for.

Meet me in the Prefect bathroom at 1am. The password is ‘Pine Fresh’.

Yours,

Fred

You have no idea what to expect from Fred, but the idea of being alone with him sends your heart on a rocket to the moon. You just hope that your low mood doesn’t sway him off of whatever he has planned.

—------------- 1AM—---------------

The time moved so quickly that the next thing you knew, you were already at the Prefect bathroom. You stare at the door, not entirely sure how to open it. You clear your throat and softly whisper the password that was written on the letter. The large wooden doors slowly swing open and reveal the massive bathroom behind it.

The moon peeks through the large pane window and glides across the ripples of water from the giant bath in the middle. It must have just been freshly filled, as the steam was rolling off the top and into the dark. You step forward and the doors shut behind you. The soft lapping of water can be heard against the marble siding of the tub. Large sculptures and paintings line the room, giving it an ethereal feeling that you’ve never experienced before.

That’s when you spot a silhouette at the corner of the bath. The moon’s rays capture Fred’s copper hair laying delicately on his broad freckled shoulders as he turns his head to you. He snaps his fingers and small objects begin floating around the water, some hovering right over - others keeping still at the edges. He spoke softly and objects revealed themselves to be candles, just like the ones you once saw in the Room of Requirement. You gasp as you are able to finally see the rest of the scenery. Flower pedals are strewn across the floor and dancing across the top of the water. It smells of roses and lilies, your two favorite scents.

“You made it,” he says with a smile.

“Of course I did,” you laugh as your eyes wander around the marble walls. “What’s this all about?”

Fred lifts his feet from the water and walks towards you with his arms outstretched. “What, I can’t do something nice for my girlfriend?”

Your heart jumps hearing him say the word, ‘girlfriend’. You still haven’t gotten used to that yet. “No, that’s not it,” you say shyly while letting him envelope you. His bare chest is warm against your cheek as he runs his fingers through your hair.

Fred pulls back and kisses your forehead. “Come on,” he whispers. “Let’s get undressed and take a little dip.”

“Okay,” you say breathily as he turns and slips off his pants. You remove your clothes one by one, folding them as you go and laying them by the stairs that lead to the tub. Instinctively you hold your arms over your breasts as you get to the water’s edge. Fred holds out his hand to take yours then guides you into the tub.

The water was at a perfect temperature and the floral scents immediately greeted you at once. Your hair floats over the top as you get to the deeper part where Fred stands waiting. He pulls you in and brushes the wet strands from your forehead. There was something different about his expression that you just couldn’t place.

“What is it?” You ask as you reach up to stroke his face with the back of your hand.

“Nothing,” he says with a strained tone. His copper irises reflect a candle that passes behind you, and he furrows his brows. “I just, I wanted to tell you -” His pupils dart away as he perpetually begins shifting his body more. “I think that you’re amazing.”

“Oh,” you say with large eyes and a rose tint reaching your cheeks. “I think you are too, Fred.”

He licks his lips, his face moving closer to yours. He was concentrating on exactly what words he needed to use to express exactly how he felt. “And if anyone tells you otherwise, you should ignore them.”

You crease your brows together, as you’re trying to understand where this is coming from. Fred was never the type to give these types of speeches.

“Even if it’s a teacher, or a slytherin, or.. Even a parent,” he drifts off as he sees your expression change, this time to complete shock.

“The letter,” you mutter while backing up. “How did you know?”

“You dropped it,” he answers quickly. “It’s awful -”

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” you squeak out and fall back onto a step, and land with your head just above water. You were able to forget, even just for an hour, and here it was being shoved in your face yet again. It wasn’t just the old wounds reopening, but you are also deeply embarrassed.

“I know,” he admits and kneels in front of you. “Please, Y/N, I didn’t want to upset you. I read it and I just, I needed to make sure you were okay.”

“Well,” you rub at your face with your palms. “I’m not! Okay?” You feel yourself falling back into shambles as the memories of your mother’s words come back to you, engraving in your brain as they were on the paper.

“O-okay,” Fred stammers and sits to the side of you. He glances between the moon and your red face. He was never good at these things, but he was going to try his best. “I don’t think anyone would really be okay after that.”

You shake your head and collapse against him. “You don’t know what it’s like,” you sob out. The seal of control has been broken, and now there was no stopping the tears. “No matter what I do, I’m never enough.”

Fred’s warm fingers trail from the base of your neck and tangle in your wet hair. He pulls you against the crook of his neck as you slowly fall apart.

“I get good grades. I never get in trouble. I do everything right but I will always be the worst to her.” Your eyes well so many tears that the scene around you goes blurry. “What am I supposed to do?”

There is a lump in Fred’s throat as you speak. He can feel how raw and visceral your pain is. If there was one spell he knew that would lift the pain from inside your chest, he would have sold his soul right then and there to make that happen for you. “I think,” he says softly, pulling your face back so he can look you directly in the eyes. “You should start living for yourself and say fuck all to her.” He holds your chin gingerly with his fingers. “They are going to regret doubting you, Y/N. You are an amazing witch and a wonderful person.” His thumbs catch your tears on your cheek. “And if you ever forget how special you are, then I will be here to remind you.”

Just like that, the dam finally fully opens and you wrap your arms around his neck sobbing. Never in your life have you felt so emotionally vulnerable, and you thank Merlin that it is with Fred. You stay wrapped up in his arms for what felt like an eternity as you let out every emotion that you’ve held back for years. He remains silent and holds you tightly against his chest until your sobs slow, and your breathing goes from spastic to rhythmic.

The world finally comes back to you after the surge of intensity passes. You realize that not only is the room quiet, but so is your head. That nagging self hatred has lulled itself back into the deep recesses of your mind for now.

You sit up and look into Fred’s face. He grins at you as his eyes flick back and forth, trying to read your expression. “Thank you,” you say hoarsely. Then without any hesitation you add, “I love you, Fred.”

Fred’s mouth goes slack and he pulls you into a hug. You wrap your legs around his waist and perch yourself on his lap as he looks dumbstruck up at you. “I love you too, Y/N.” Those words leaving his mouth felt other worldly, but he knew there was nobody else on earth who deserved them more than you.

Hearing him say it back lit a fire inside of you. You meet his lips with yours, and he immediately grabs you by the hips and matches your energy. Just like that, the pain was gone and was replaced with passion. Your tongues dance as he guides the edge of your cunt onto his erection. You gasp and dig your nails into his shoulders as you press down on him.

He grabs a fist full of your hair and pulls your head back as your walls finally accept him fully. You moan his name as his cock pulsates deep inside of you, his hips staying pressed against yours. His fingers dig into your sides as you begin riding him slowly. 

The water didn’t help the lubrication as much as you would have thought. If anything, it made him feel bigger than ever. You do your best to relax your muscles as you continue to move up and down on his shaft, but that’s quickly made more challenging as his fingers find your clit. 

Fred licks his lips hungrily as he watches you with dinner plate pupils. “Keep going, you’re doing so fucking good,” he says in a low growling voice.

You do as you're told, even though your legs begin shaking violently as an orgasm approaches. “Fred,” you groan and roll your head back. “Please, I’m going - going to-”

He laughs through a moan and begins thrusting from underneath you. “Go ahead, darling. Cum for me.”

You cry out as another thrust sends you right over the edge. You crumble against him as he continues to use your body. The water splashes and spills over the marble walls of the bath as he increases his speed. He holds your neck tight, but not enough to cut off oxygen, so that he could watch your face as he cums. You feel his hips shudder and he pushes you down hard against his lap.

“Fuck!” He yells out and pulls you into a kiss by your neck.

You squirm against him as he fills you to the brim, leaving you shaking and helpless against his chest. He rolls his head back and releases the tension on your neck and side. “Merlin’s beard, how are you this good every time?”

You laugh and then whimper as he pulls himself out of you. “I swear, our bodies are made for each other.”

He kisses the top of your head and combs through your hair. “Georgie and I really have the best girlfriend out there,” he laughs. “Fuck.”

You never understood what they saw in you, but every day you’re starting to believe them more and more. Besides, he was right, you were going to start living for yourself. Who cares what your mom thinks anymore. You’re a legal adult and don’t have to follow any of those self esteem killing rules any longer.

You just hope, more than anything, that Fred and George will continue to stand by your side every day.

You wrap your arms around Fred’s chest and breathe out. “This is the best apology I’ve ever gotten.”

Fred smirks and stares up at the statues among the ceiling. “And it’s the best one I’ve ever given.”

[ashsostrange]

yk what i find funny? 🤭 walk with me! (xxoxobree pt. 2)

if you don’t like drama then scroll along! 💋

let’s do this one last time 😒 yawn frl. bc apparently bree writes smut now!

this specific blogger, @/impeanutsstuff is named bree. she lives in the bahamas. she’s a sagittarius, favorite color red. coincidence? i think not…

let’s observe!:

i came across this account this morning thanks to one of my friends.

@/brees-dreams was liking up bree’s posts whenever we were initially arguing last month, right? right.

this post is from years ago. notice how she says @/brees-dreams is her other acc. i noticed and reblogged, cz i’m 100% sure that account and this one are two of bree’s alt. i reblogged it implying what i was thinking.

i knew @/brees-dreams was her alt so i had her blocked before this, i just never spoke about it publicly. i unblocked this certain alt to see smthn. all of a sudden, she followed me and liked my post?? 😭 why would you like a post where i’m bashing you?! i guess she didn’t notice that she had dropped her @ in her “get to know me” post.

me being me, i pointed it out.

when she realized, she unfollowed me and later blocked me. 🤷‍♀️ why would you block me if you truly didn’t know what was going on?? i came w receipts all around bc i’m not playing w nb 🫶🫶

she later unblocked me but i blocked her again cz i have all i need now!

the post is right here, feel free to go thru the thread and you’ll see this what i’m saying is true.

miss nut then claims then claims that she “doesn’t know me and bree’s beef.” if you scroll back up to the top of this post to my initial reblog, you’ll see how i mentioned that she was liking up bree’s posts. it seems like she constantly misses the vital points i’m making!

look at this bs 😭 but she “doesn’t know our beef” right?? then she acts like she doesn't know bree's handle, which is why she refers to her as "that other creator" in order to sell her lie. this is one of the multiple posts she liked tho... like why do we not try and cover up our tracks atp?? 🤦‍♀️ she’ll never learn bro

idk what’s going on with bros age bc she said she was 16 in 2016 on her peanut acc then she posted her passport on xxoxobree which shows she’s 17 or smthn ion know… we ain’t getting into allat cz irdc!! 😭 she lied about her age, and a bunch of other shit either way, and it caught up to her. i stood ten toes down and now we know the undeniable truth sooo.

also, these are bree’s alts that i know of: @/brees-dream @/averagegirlie @/imleahleah @/impeanutsstuff

so that's that. what more is there to say really? lol. you do clownery, the clownery comes back to bite! and it’s right in your face. now y'all see we were never bsing. i hv nothing more to prove, this is who she is.

i’d really like to see miss munch try and debunk this one! 🫶

[judasiskariot]

✨Writing Interview Tag Game✨

The 🖤judasiskariot❤ round - thank you lovely delightful @pinkberrytea for the tag 💕🌸

When did you start writing?

Already enjoyed writing creative essays at school. Wrote my first fanfiction (yugioh) as a teenie at an anime/fandom website. Got really into it, with writing fanfiction about a RPG I were playing/writing at the very same time.

Are there different themes or genres you enjoy reading than what you write?

Maybe I read more smut than writing it. Because it seems I always need to put up huge story before smut, so it makes sense, cause the ghost of dumb it is ooc comments are still in my head.

Is there a writer you want to emulate or get compared to often?

I guess not. Both ways (I just often say I am a film noir or Tolkien type cause I often get lost in description or heavy in inner monologue. We could be in Mordor....or only went down the hill, same length. So happens with me. (So gods no never ever would I say I can write like Tolkien!!!! I just mean by that, that I do not keep some things sharp and short when maybe needed, as I do prefer in real life)

I am a huge Dante Alighieri and Vergil fan, compare me to them and I will always love you 🤣🤣

I just feel like a bardic soul 💜📜🪶

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

Desk is always occupied. Also is there gym, man sleeping medieval storage cave (The Manc Ave, right Terry and Korvo? 😉Dig old bicks)

Hardly wifi connection in there. I have no stationary pc, only cheap small laptop (it is hard to be a bard xD) so writing on the couch.

I have reading and writing candles (my luxury; even I should not)

Love to write in my bard poetry book outside in the nature 🌳🏞️🏕️☀️

What's your most effective way to muster up a muse?

🤷‍♀️

Are there any recurring themes in your writing? Do they surprise you?

DRAMA OVER BLOODY DRAMA

I am the drama queen.

Love some angst and emotional damage; make it harder than it needs to be.

But also horror, gore, love and smut.

Never surprised.

and dumb sassy joking; could write forever funny crosstalks like chat. Would anyone read that? Than I would write all my ideas, ALL! So efficient and quickly. Sooo...I get lost in my Tolkien surroundings 😅🙈

maybe i write more cheesy and theatrically than I thought 🤔

What is your reason for writing?

SOMEONE HAS TO DO IT, RIGHT?🤷‍♀️

😄

No. I am not skilled in any other divine arts and I guess that's the only thing I can call on. I like it. I always liked it. I can create something, that's nice. And I've written so much RPG and FF as a teenager, I messed it up and I hate that I didn't do it for over 10 years now. Why abandon the thing you were good at, had fun with, made progress while practicing? So that all progress seems lost and you have to start from zero?

I'm glad I've started making progress again, maintaining what I once set out to do, and learning to be better.

Is there any specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating?

I'm incredibly happy with every single comment, even if it's just a smiley.

" You really did read my thing? How great is that!?!?" 😍🤩

But comments with a specific part or a line that they liked or whatever, their specific thoughts on certain parts are incredible. As a writer, I need feedback to know if I'm doing well and if I'm on the right track. Do others know what I wanted to say? Does it come out right? Otherwise I cannot improve.

If someone shares their exact first thoughts, what they thought about certain passages while reading, then the work pays off. 😍😍🤤🤤

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

As someome whose writig is good? 😅🤷‍♀️🙈 someone they can talk to. some nerdie partner in crime.

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

I have no clue. No one told me. I guess maybe having drama ideas and writing the inner struggles of characters.

How do you feel about your own writing?

Also here not much confidence in my own writing.

I got the two beasts in me: GOD YES! BEST WRITING EVER. THIS IS SO GOOD! THEY HAVE TO LOVE IT! CAN'T WAIT FOR REACTON TO THIS!🤩

Reread it: what da fuck is this?! 😠 I thought this was good?! I have no clue where I wanted to go with that 🤷‍♀️

BUT I can also be proud, reread it and think "I did this. I created that myself. It may be not the best, just small and silly and cliché, but I created it myself!" Be proud, all of you writers!! 👏🏻🫵🏻💪🏻 We are forgotten so often.

Do people criticize paintings for being ooc? Well..I guess assholes being assholes in every aspect of life 😅😆

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, or do you write purely for yourself, or a mix of both?

I do it cause I want to. But of course the external motivation is important. Lack of comments and feedback makes you quit, mean people make you quit. You post cause you want to share your joy with others, hope they enjoy it too. When they do not, it can be bitter.

But still for me I guess. But non the less, I pick up things I think others will like (but not troping or so, writing things I dislike myself cause they are gaining online likes and so on; not in that way never) When I know a certain mutual/friend is reading the thing, I put easter eggs/insiders in it, they should get; things I think they might like and makes them smile. If someone would request some things they would like to happen/read, I would totally pick it up when possible. Shared happyness is happyness doubled.

thanks for the tag lovely

All my muts, please keep tagging me. I just keep forget doing it, when I can't do it right away.

And spinning head prevents me from that. I see what nonsense I write in the DMs and in every lil post a huge amount of spelling mistakes; I can't do it better at the moment; so embarrassing🙈

I've had a hectic time, sorry, but I love things like that and always smile when I get tagged😃😘 (and sometimes I'm a little unsure about telling something about myself. The urge to disappear completely one day and the next day I urge to overshare. Plus bad experiences with some folks😅🙈 )

I tag @nihil-ism @damadisangue

@sorceresssundries

@mercymaker

maybe you guys want to ramble a lil bit

[check out their works (if you like 😘)]

[endwersed]

20 Questions for Fic Writers

Tagged by the fabulous @dear-massacre 😘

How many works do you have on ao3?

21 - it would be a lot higher, but I purged all but one of my old Destiel fics back in 2017. They weren't very good, so I can't say I really regret it 🤷‍♀️

What's your total ao3 word count?

319,994

What fandoms do you write for?

Now, just Teen Wolf 🐺

Top five fics by kudos:

Find Your Fire - Reddie (IT)

Clue(less) - Reddie (IT)

Nah, He Didn't - Destiel (Supernatural)

Worst Enemy - Reddie (IT)

as dear as a brother - Sterek (TW)

Do you respond to comments?

Embarrassingly, it's very hit and miss... I want to! I love and cherish every single comment I ever get! But I find the process of replying to comments bizarrely stressful, so sometimes it takes me... a while. And that while might be, like, years. Sorry!!

What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I genuinely don't have anything with an angsty ending posted; I need my boys to be happy too badly for that. I guess I could say maybe striking out - just because it's not finished yet, and where it is in the story right now is angsty af!

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

All of them have rom-com level happy endings lol. Maybe Clue(less) - it's a childhood friends-to-lovers soulmate AU, so it has all the sap that comes with those particular tropes wrapped up in there.

Do you get hate on fics?

I wouldn't call it hate, per se - but I guess my interpretation of Stiles is a bit harsher/more rough-edged than others I've seen, and some people don't vibe with that, so I get comments telling me they don't like Stiles in my story for XYZ reason.

To be clear - I also don't write Derek as a completely faultless, entirely perfect guy. I also have him do bad (arguably worse, in some fics) things. But for some reason, I don't ever really get the same kind of comments about him!

Do you write smut?

Like, almost exclusively at this point. It's like my brain can't come up with a story unless I'll get a chance to write them fucking nasty in it.

Craziest crossover:

None, they're not really my jam.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

omg yes! years ago! It was this Destiel HS AU I had posted on AO3 (since deleted because it was... not good) and someone posted it onto ff.net and claimed it was theirs. I can't remember if I ever was successful in getting it taken down.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

I don't think so!

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I have not.

All time favourite ship?

All time is so hard... I do probably have to say Sterek. I shipped them intensely back in 2012, and I ship them even more intensely now. So - yeah. Probably them.

What's a wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Are we talking real WIP that I've actually made a meaningful dent in? Or just ideas I've put down to paper?

Because I have so many ideas, there isn't enough time to actually finish them all lol. But for fics I have actively started, I'm pretty confident I'll manage to muddle through to the end of all of them, even if it takes a little while.

What are your writing strengths?

Dialogue and smut, I think.

I tend to develop a scene around the dialogue - in that, it's the dialogue that will come to me first when I'm planning the outline, and I'll note it down for when I come around to writing the scene. Then it's mostly a case of refining that dialogue and building the scene with descriptions around it.

I also love smut as character study. It's not just about being horny for them. It's about being horny for their introspection, too.

What are your writing weaknesses?

I don't have the imagination to come up with some of the flowery prose I see and love from other people. I wish I did, but that's just not how my brain works unfortunately!

Thoughts on dialogue in another language?

I only really feel comfortable writing in languages I'm fluent in. For anything else, I think we all know Google Translate can't be trusted, so I just... avoid it.

First fandom you wrote in?

Harry Potter! Wolfstar all the way back on ff.net <3

Favorite fic you've written?

Oh god, this is hard. Let's go with a Teen Wolf fic, because they're the nearest and dearest to my heart right now.

I think I'd say feels so good inside. It was so much fun to write, and I just love loss of virginity fics so damn much.

-

Open tag to anyone who wants a go!

[fayes-fics]

20 Questions for Fic Writers!

I was tagged by @suspendingtime. Thanks my dear. 🫶🫶 Apologies I'm a little tipsy right now haha. 🤪

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

155. Ahem, hush you. I started writing 18 months ago. When I get a new hobby, I REALLY lean into it.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

481,485. Yup, almost half a million. Again, shhhh.

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Only Bridgerton. Look, I have my hyperfixations, ok?

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

On AO3:

In His Lap (Short Fic) 181 

Temptation 177 

The Lesson 155 

Insatiable 149 

Are We Friends? 148

Tumblr notes:

Second Son 3,436

Sonnet #29 2,199

Rescue & Ruin 1,841

Awakening 1,827

Temptation 1,788

Wattpad readers:

Innocence, 30,600

Benedict Bridgerton Regency One Shots 23,000

Kinktober 2022 collection 16,300

Anthony Bridgerton Regency One Shots 10,400

Moments 5,800

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Yes. Always. It's just wonderful to get feedback. I read and respond to every single comment. They mean the world to me, truly.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Probably No Good Advice. I ended up writing Moments multi-chapter as I (and a friend) couldn't bear the idea they didn't end up together lolol.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

All of them, tbh. I can't write an unhappy ending. Maybe the mushiest is Second Son, Moments, or It Had To Be You.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Luckily not much yet. I did get one hate anon early on. It wasn't about a specific fic, though. It said they didn't know why I had a 'please don't steal my work' disclaimer (the standard one that most writers here use) cos I was delusional that my work was worth stealing. 🤷‍♀️

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Yes, it's my trademark. It's rare when I don't write smut. 😬 I'm not sure what is meant by kind of smut. I've written it all, from vanilla romantic sex to kink threesomes with harnesses and double penetration lol. I haven't had a request yet that I've turned down due to sexual content.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

Not yet. The closest I've gotten is It Had To Be You, which is based on When Harry Met Sally.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Yes, sadly, it has happened quite a few times now. I was so fed up with filing copyright takedown notices that I set up a Wattpad account to try to counter it.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

No. I've been offered but have turned it down. I have no way to check that any translation would get across the nuance I aim for. So I know that may be anglo-centric, but its how I feel for now.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Not yet, but I am always threatening to lolol.

14. What’s your all-time favourite ship?

Hmm, tough one. I do love Kanthony tbh.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Benedict as a virgin. I just urghhh.... it's been a WIP for 17 months now. I just dunno why I won't finish it; I just get the feeling I won't.

16. What are your writing strengths?

I have no bloody idea. I'd prefer readers answer that tbh lol. My inclination is to say I don't have one, except perhaps a willingness to describe sex in ridiculous levels of detail? Is that a strength?

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

World building. I will do anything to shortcut it. I'll find an economical way to describe a situation e.g. she's a widow; they're old friends. Got it? Good! Let's get down to business.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I've done a smidgeon of French as I studied it for ten years. But I doubt I'd do another language tbh.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Only Bridgerton so far.

20. Favourite fic you’ve written?

Bloody hell, I have no fucking idea. It literally changes depending on my mood. But I don't really care for my own writing that much, all I see is flaws lol. I guess the universe I would most like to write more for one day is Mrs Bridgerton and its sequel. Does that count?

No Pressure Tagging: A couple of my talented writing moots were tagged along with me on this (the lovelies @colettebronte and @eleanor-bradstreet). So lets go: @thebabblingbrookenook @fiction-is-life @ferns-fics @silverhallow @mothdruid @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @urchintoast 😁🧡🧡

[omar-rudeberg]

Spicy post season 3. Like in the future, post season 3! Like maybe as dad's. Or just married. 🤷‍♀️ any of those really

you, my friend. what have you done???? i had this whole plan and itch to write a whole lot of lil drabbles with these prompts, to try some new things, maybe, but the very first one that comes in is you. and it's basically asking for this other WIP i've had sitting around for literal years. so guess who hasn't been writing prompt drabbles at all? me. guess who's been working on this other fic that's really so niche and kind of weird and very filthy? me.

so i guess here's your fic, all 6k of dirty smut and wilmon dads melting moments that it is, hope it's what you were after eeeeep:

gracias a la vida (it gave me my heart) by disruptedthesky Simon blinks his eyes open into darkness, instantly alert, but for once it’s not his daughter that needs his attention, it’s his husband. Wilhelm is desperate, mumbling incoherently, hot palms all over Simon’s body. “Simon, I…” Wilhelm trembles, nuzzling close into Simon’s firm grip now and huffing breaths into his collarbone. “Been so long,” he whimpers, and Simon knows. He knows. (Or—it’s been three months since Wilhelm and Simon welcomed their daughter into their lives, three months of being so tired, so busy and so joyously wrapped up in her that they forget to find time for each other. Until tonight, when Wilhelm’s boundless desperation sparks a flame that swallows Simon whole.)

sdf;alskdjf;lskdjf why am i the way that i am

[unseenacademic]

20 questions for fic writers

I was tagged by my dear, talented friend @mihrsuri Thanks, friend! 💜💜💜💜 1. How many works do you have on Ao3? 13 at the moment 😅

2. What's your total Ao3 word count? 28,823

3. What fandoms do you write for? The West Wing.

4. What are your top five fics by kudos? The First Lady - my ongoing fic where I answer the most important question in the world: what was Abbey Bartlet doing during the episodes she didn't appear in?

Josh and the Jackass - what happened right before Governor Bartlet decided to follow Josh to the airport in In the Shadow of Two Gunmen.

Breathe - a post-ep for Dead Irish Writers. Her birthday party is over, and Abbey Bartlet must face the New Hampshire Medical Board.

A Bit Desperate - part three of a series of three-sentence fics about Abbey and Jed in the aftermath of Zoey's kidnapping.

Anything Else I Need to Know - Five times the staff of Bartlet for America interrupted a barbecuing session and one time CJ interrupted a different kind of session. Takes place during the First Bartlet Campaign.

5. Do you respond to comments? Yes, I do. I do my best to respond to every comment I get, as fast as I can. It's a two-way street, we, as fic authors, often complain (and rightly so) about the lack of feedback, the lack of comments and kudos, but we don't respond to comments. As a reader, I am more likely to comment on a fic from an author who's replied to my comments earlier. But I guess I get so few comments that I can easily respond to all of them 🤷‍♀️ and since there are like 7 people who care about what I write, the least I can do is respond to their very kind comments 💜💜

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? I guess it's Anything Else I Need to Know. The ending isn't too angsty by itself, but if you put it into context and you know the overarching plot of first few seasons of TWW, it's definitely angsty. Honorable mentions: With Pomp and Parade & And the Silence Haunts our Bedchamber - they both deal with the aftermath of Zoey's kidnapping.

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? White Christmas. And Something for Us to Remember too also qualifies. You have to read them to know why 😊😉

8. Do you get hate on fics? Luckily, I'm not popular or interesting enough for that 😅

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind? Yes! Oh, all kinds! The worst thing I've ever written came before I started my fanfic writing career (I used to be involved in forum RP, I'm less active there now) and... nope, I'm not going to write about it here. Too cursed. 🙈🙈 If you want to see some sane smut I've written, check out Game On, Boyfriend! I hope I'll write another barbecuing fic soon, so stay tuned.

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written? I don't. But I'd love to see a TWW/NCIS crossover.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen? I hope not.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated? No, but if anyone's interested, go ahead.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before? No, I haven't. The closest thing to co-writing fics was RP-ing which is sort of similar, but not really lol. It might be fun, so if anyone's interested in writing with me, let me know.

14. What's your all time favorite ship? Abbey/Jed! There are many ships I love, but I have to go with my horny nerds.

15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? There was a WIP I started last year, the first fic I posted, but I ended up deleting it, so it's not very likely that I'll ever finish it.

16. What are your writing strengths? I'm really, really good at research lol! If I'm writing a fic set in the 1960s, I'll make sure that they're eating food, wearing clothes, listening to music etc. that was popular in that period. You won't catch any of my characters wearing historically inaccurate shoes. I'm also really good at digging up random canon details and writing thousands of words around them.

17. What are your writing weaknesses? Plot lmao. I write fics about nothing, it's just banter and nerdiness, with the characters and/or the author showing off 🤣🤣

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic? Hmmm... I don't know, don't think I've ever needed to do it, but I guess it depends on what I want to achieve, I might write it in English and add a dialogue tag like "she said in French" or something.

19. First fandom you wrote for? The first fandom I published a fic for was The Life and Times of Scrooge McDuck, but the first fandom I wrote for was Harry Potter.

20. Favorite fic you've written? Can't choose only one, so have a few of them:

Breathe: Once again, Abbey is reminded how cruel the world can be towards women. 

No one asked Jed what he was wearing when he took the censure. 

Anything Else I Need to Know: Josh finally opens the door to his room and slumps on his unmade bed.

Next time, he’s going to pay attention. He’s going to pay attention to Mrs. Landingham’s notes on the Governor's schedule. And he’s going to pay attention to Mrs. Landingham’s instructions, so he’ll know what her notes on the Governor’s schedule actually mean. Next time, he’s going to pay attention.

Had Josh been paying attention, he would’ve noticed when the Governor dashed across the hall and up the stairs right after lunch. Had he been paying attention, he would’ve noticed Leo’s smirk that followed the Governor’s departure. Had he been paying attention, perhaps he would’ve noticed the soft, rhythmic squeaking of the bed and muffled gasps and groans coming from the Bartlets’ suite right before he opened the door.

Well, too bad that Josh wasn’t paying attention.

And Something for Us to Remember too: “I take it your conversation with Doug didn’t go well?”

“I spoke slowly and I didn’t use big words, but I couldn’t talk him out of marrying Liz. Maybe I should’ve taken him on a hike. A six-hour hike through Vermont wilderness in the dead of winter would’ve changed his mind.”

“It wasn’t a six-hour anything! I was there, Jed, you were only gone for two hours.”

“You weren’t there, Abigail, you were baking with your mother, while I was fighting for dear life, braving the cold and wolves and bears.” He sighs and adds, “Guess it’s too late to take Doug hiking now and leave him for the bears.”

White Christmas: “’She – New Hampshire – is one of the two best states in the Union. Vermont’s the other’, said Robert Frost, your favorite poet, who also happened to be the poet laureate of Vermont.” Abbey made a dramatic pause and gave Jed a pointed look.

“She’s one of the two best states in the Union. Vermont’s the other.” She continued her performance. “And the two… the two lie like wedges, thick end to thin end and thin end to thick end.”

Jed chuckled.

“Sweet Knees, we’ll lie like wedges, thick end to thin end and thin end to thick end any time you want,” he leered at her, “on our bed, in front of the fireplace, on the kitchen table…” his smirk grew when Abbey’s lips curved into a little smile and her cheeks flushed, “but Robert Frost named his poetry collection New Hampshire, not Vermont.”

“Well, I’m going to write the words ‘Freedom and Unity’ on the pie and you’re going to eat them!”

The First Lady: “Mrs. Landingham withholds food from me,” he complained.

“Because I asked her to.”

“Yeah, cause you don’t want me eating real food like steaks or hamburgers. She won’t let me have a banana.”

“I’m sure you did something to piss her off.” Abbey shrugged.

“Do you two enjoy torturing me?”

“Yes,” she said innocently.

Tagging (no pressure!): @claudiajcregg @onekisstotakewithme @hondagirll @miabicicletta @librarianmouse @holy-ships-x-red-lips

💜💜💜💜💜💜

[tyummyz]

rules 💋

what i will write:

+ angst

+ platonic x character

+ may put out agere every now n then!

+ fluff

what i won’t write:

- smut (i’ll do that on @xyummyz )

- incest / weird stuff

- active sh , sa , ed’s , etc

so, i personally think my rules are simple to follow!

please NEVER request or send me triggering topics in my asks! if you need to vent and you’ve asked me, my dms are always open for you bbs! also, if you’re gonna spread goofy ass hate and waste your time, be my guest i guess 🤷‍♀️

©xenayummy 2024

[lupinedreaming]

I know I complain a lot about fandom purity culture, but that’s because I think it’s a big issue and one that has affected me personally (no, not in any dramatic ways, but in small ways for sure).

For a personal example, when I started peeking around in the Beetlejuice musical fandom a few years ago, there were maaaany posts about how you are Very Bad if you ship Beetlejuice and Lydia, even if you only ship it when she’s an adult. I had been previously a little curious about the aged up movie version of that ship, but because the sentiment was so intense at that time I was like, “Okay, well … I guess it’s bad and won’t look into it further.”

But at a certain point I got fed up of seeing anti posts about a ship that is, quite honestly, a pretty pedestrian villain ship, and kinda felt like shipping it out of spite. And these days I’m now genuinely interested in the dynamic (again, when she is an adult). Now that I’m apparently reaching the IDGAF of my fandom life, I’ll probably reblog some art of it 🤷‍♀️

But yeah! Fandom purity culture makes you stifle harmless interests! There have been other times where I tried to align myself with more fandom purity culture arguments despite not 100% believing them in my gut. I grew up M/ormon, which has a traditional intense purity culture within it, so that’s prob why I fell into the fandom side of it for a little bit.

There are still things I think are gross and wish people wouldn’t write (like underage smut), but ultimately I’m pretty anti-censorship, especially considering how IRL purity culture against fiction manifests in insidious ways like the conservative culture war against libraries

I feel like I kinda rambled a lot, but … TLDR; fandom purity culture sucks and really isn’t good for the individual enjoyment of fandom and can make you pretend to believe things that you really don’t because you want to fit in and not be labeled as an IRL Bad Thing.

[nirikeehan]

20 questions for fic writers

thank you @rowanisawriter for the tag!

1. how many works do you have on ao3?

*gulp* 60!!! HOW DID THAT HAPPEN???

2. what’s your total ao3 word count?

348,147. I repeat the question. (Almost a third is one fic, though.)

3. what fandoms do you write for?

I have written for Dragon Age, the Star Wars sequels, a teensy bit of the Witcher... and I GUESs now an obscure actual play DND podcast no one has heard of 🤷‍♀️

4. what are your top five fics by kudos?

The Force's Will (Star Wars sequels, Reylo)

Tactical Maneuvers (Dragon Age, Thalia x Cullen)

Through a Glass, Darkly (Dragon Age, Thalia x Cullen, Thalia x Samson)

Stealing the Light (Star Wars sequels, Reylo)

Forbearance (Dragon Age, Cullen & Dorian)

5. do you respond to comments?

Always!

6. what’s the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Bold of you to assume I finish fics. But among the one-shots Hiraeth (Cullen x Thalia) and Save Me a Dance (Blackwall x Thalia x Cullen love triangle) are sure in the running.

7. what’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Lmao idk. Maybe License to Lick (Cullen x Thalia)? It's very silly and I was deliberately trying to write fluff. (It's hard!)

8. do you get hate on fics?

Not yet, fingers crossed! I did get a spam comment once about one of my chapters of Through a Glass, Darkly supposedly being AI generated and just laughed. I was like, joke's on you, you WISH AI could come up with shit this weird. I think that was just (ironically) a bot programmed to hit any new updates at a certain point in time, though, because scores of people were getting them at once.

9. do you write smut? if so, what kind?

I guess so. The kind that's often awkward and imperfect, but hopefully still satisfying?

10. do you write crossovers? what’s the craziest one you’ve written?

I wrote a Dragon Age/Witcher crossover exchange fic once where Cassandra Pentaghast kissed Geralt of Rivia. And um, I am currently *checks notes* writing a Dragon Age OC adventure crossover with the DND campaign Curse of Strahd, also featuring at least one character from Curse of Strahd: Twice Bitten, that aforementioned obscure actual play DND podcast. Because Metrion is fucking amazing and there's nO FIC ABOUT THIS SERIES AT ALL AND IT'S MURDEIRNG ME DEAD

I had the idea while high on drugs. Sue me.

(Literally. I wish I could say they were the fun kind but I was prescribed some allergy meds that really FUCKED ME UP for awhile.)

11. have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of!

12. have you ever had a fic translated?

Not that I know of!

13. have you ever co-written a fic before?

Sort of! Pravinquisition AU is a collaborative series between me and @monocytogenes, but we generally write different fics in the same timeline, not like, one fic together.

14. what’s your all-time favorite ship?

*blank stare* I have to pick one?

15. what’s a WIP you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

The Star Wars ones, currently. Once I started running a Star Wars ttrpg campaign, all my SW mojo went toward that, unfortunately.

16. what are your writing strengths?

Dialogue, plot-heavy stuff, coming up with weird af canon divergence aus, writing relatable characters and campy villains

17. what are your writing weaknesses?

Finishing literally anything

18. thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

hot take maybe but I think there's almost never a good reason to do so. you're basically just othering whatever culture it is you're trying to represent.

19. first fandom you wrote for?

Ironically, Star Wars.......... when I was 10. Unless you count Barbie as a fandom (which, maybe we are now?). Then I was doing that when I was like 7.

20. favorite fic you’ve ever written?

I'm a broken record when it comes to this, but it's probably A Little Grace, and Some Elegance. Cullen has a near-death experience overdosing on lyrium and then tells Thalia some key backstory between him and Samson via flashback. Started my Cullen & Samson doomed friendship obsession, and is probably some of the whumpiest whump I've ever whumped.

Tagging:  | @oxygenforthewicked | @monocytogenes | @inquisimer | @bluewren | @little--abyss | @theluckywizard | @melisusthewee

[beaker1636]

My husband is convinced I need to do an introduction of myself post because I have never actually done one (I swear to god this man lives to roast me about everything). It’s probably going to seem awkward but whatever.

So here it is I guess 🤷‍♀️

My name is Bree and I’m 27 years old 🤣. My pronouns are she/her.

I initially started this blog to read fanfics years ago but finally got confident enough to post my own after writing them for years myself!

In college I was going for secondary English education and creative writing, not sure how I went from wanting to teach middle school English to now teaching 2 year olds is beyond me but I love it!

I have one short story that was published when I was in college, our college every year did a book where you could submit poetry, short stories, photos of artwork etc. and mine was accepted. Not impressive but was my first published work.

Ummm my favorite music is pretty random 🤣 My favorite band is Motionless In White but my favorite musician is Tom Keifer. I met Tom 4 times now, my tattoo of his lyrics is written in his own handwriting and he did my pregnancy announcement for me to my side of the family (if y’all want the story ask and I’ll share). But anyways I legit listen to 90s boybands, love 80s hair metal, metal core, and Kpop so a bit of everything.

Umm my favorite thing to write is fluffy stuff but I’m growing more and more into writing smut.

I legit feel like this is so awkward so I’m done, adios!

[disdaidal]

🥮 🍣 🍜 🍲

Hei 🤗👋

🥘 What category do most of your fics fall under?

Fluff, angst, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, definitely. XD Some established relationship and mature content (smut, violence) as well. But I'm a simple person and I like simple things I guess. 🤷‍♀️

🍣 What helps you focus or get in the mood to write?

I wish I knew the right answer to this because honestly, most of the time when I write, it's usually because I literally forced myself into it or because I got this sudden burst of inspiration/energy out of nowhere and just dove right into it. xD But I'm very easily distracted unfortunately. :/

🍜 Do you ever feel pressured to write?

When I was more active in the HG fandom, I kind of felt like that sometimes. I don't know why. Maybe it's because at one point I seemed to get a lot of headcanon and prompt asks, which, don't get me wrong- I loved getting and I was flattered that people wanted me to write them for them. ♥ But at the same time, I felt kind of pressured and kind of anxious to write because I didn't want to let these people down and so. Most of my fics on ao3 were kind of written under that kind of 'pressure', for other people and now that I'm thinking about it afterwards, I hardly even remember what I wrote in all those fics anymore. 🙈 Which is a little sad and pathetic I think. But yeah, it's the truth.

Currently? I think the only "pressure" I'm having to write is my own, personal pressure for my Witcher rarepair because, not only I want to that story finished one day, I also want to get the chapter one posted on ao3 any day now. XD I've rewritten chapter one like hundred times already, I feel like I'm soon going insane. 🤪 But I will post it (not that anybody cares really but hey- self-indulgence!).

🍲 When did you start writing and why?

I first started writing in elementary school because I was watching a lot of tv and I was also this "quiet dreamer", so I had a lot of ideas I guess. My first writings were original writing, with ocs and so on.

When fanfiction became a thing in my life, I guess it's still the same, just with premade characters. I have a lot of ideas and dreams and writing about them, building worlds and stories and relationships around them feels good I guess. Maybe because I'm a sad sack of shit that doesn't have much social life, but has dreams, so. <3