#just like my other untagged posts

[queen-mihai]

Completely random

Thanks to my new avatar, I kinda wonder what it looks like with my profile saying some of the semi-raunchy stuff that I say.

"Scots get sex in Cumland and cum in Sexland"

- Tumblr Angel Princess

"Dictators' houses LOVE being on fire"

- An Angel

"I can't stand dogshit backwards disingenuous arguments. The people who make them need to fuck off"

- Can't make this clear enough. Halo. Wings. This is an angel saying these things. And a princess.

Eh not like any of it's real anyway. But it's just fun to ponder 😜😇🥰😂

[the-valiant-valkyrie]

spent ten hours on something that might kill me before i finish it. post diles.

[themoonking]

when people bring up the racism, homophobia, transphobia, romanticization of domestic abuse / rape / pedophilia / incest, literal actual written porn of literal actual real life flesh and blood children, et cetera et cetera on archive of our own, one of the ao3 stannies’ main defenses is “you can just filter out the tags if you don’t want to see that!” when that defense has no fucking legs to stand on.

ao3 is not an archive, it is barely even a website: a rant <3 (very long)

ignoring the fact that it’s a problem that all of that is permitted on the site in the first place (i guess child porn and racism are fine, and the people who allow it on their platform are fine, as long as i, personally, do not see it), that defense literally means nothing. it’s assuming that every little thing on ao3 is tagged properly and it absolutely is not, and if you think it is you are dumber than rocks. i mean for fuck’s sake, just touching on archive warnings and not tags, “creator chose not to use archive warnings” is literally a valid option for fic authors to use when it should fucking not be.

if someone is a freak who thinks that pedo shit is hot, they might not tag it as “rape” (archive warnings OR tags). i’ve literally seen underage father/son rape porn with no trigger warning tags but “child abuse if you squint”. IF YOU SQUINT. if someone thinks that domestic abuse is actually cool and sexy when attractive people do it, they might not tag it as “abuse”. if someone is a freak who likes incest, but bends over backwards to justify it by only shipping adopted family members, then they tell themselves that they don’t view it as incest, and might not tag it as “incest”. if someone is a racist, a homophobe, a transphobe, et cetera and they wrote bigotry into their fic (or else wrote a deliberate troll fic to trigger people on purpose), do you really think they’re going to tag it as racism / homophobia / transphobia / et cetera? and some people get kicks out of writing purposefully triggering content and either leaving it untagged or mistagging it so that people will read it unsuspectingly.

even for just general content tags, it’s a mess. people just forget to tag things all the time. people deliberately won’t tag the endgame ship of their fic because “it’s a spoiler heehee”. people use the romantic or sexual “x / y” tag instead of the platonic or otherwise “x & y” tag, sometimes by mistake sometimes on purpose. it’s a joked about issue how people will tag characters or ships that appear in their fic for two sentences.

there’s no standardization of tags, which is a pretty obvious problem. what first comes to mind is the “dead dove: do not eat” tag which should just not be a tag at all because it just has no meaning. depending on the individual fic writer using it, it could mean anything from “literally the most sickening and depraved thing you’ve ever read in your life” to “horror w/ gore”. but it applies to other vague tags too - different fic writers will have different ideas of what the tag means.

in addition to that, what is and isn’t made a filterable tag, what tags are made synonymous, et cetera, is entirely up to the whims of the site staff. as an example, if you’re trying to look for fanfiction of a singular animated disney movie, the infinite crossovers with other disney movies will not actually be counted as crossovers (which they are) because they’re classified as the “disney theatrical animated universe” (which isn’t a fucking thing), so you can’t filter them out the “exclude crossovers” way. if you try to filter out the fandom tag “disney theatrical animated universe”, it’ll show up with zero fics because that tag is synonymous with every disney animated film (regardless of if the fic author actually used the tag “disney theatrical animated universe” or not), thus also filtering out the one you actually wanted to find.

and do not get me fucking started on the “all media types tags”, which also just shouldn’t be a thing because it makes it fucking impossible to find the specific fics you’re looking for. some people use it in place of tagging a specific canon / adaptation when their fic very clearly draws from one specific canon / adaptation, and you can’t filter it out because it’s synonymous with every fandom tag under its umbrella.

as an example of the issues of both the “all media types” tag and mistagging in general: as a fan of the witcher books, it used to be a fucking ordeal to find fanfiction specifically for the books (post netflix show release). some show fans would, for whatever reason, tag their fics with the book fandom tag in addition to (or even in place of!!) the show fandom tag when their fics were unquestionably show-specific, meaning i could not simply search only in the book fandom tag. i could not simply filter out the show tag, because some show fans would, for whatever reason, tag as fucking “all media types”, when their fics were unquestionably show-specific. and alas, i could not filter out “all media types” and the show tag, so that i see only those fics which have been deliberately and exclusively tagged as the book, not only because as mentioned some show fans would tag their show fics with only the book tag, but also because the fucking all media types tag filters out the book tag as well, leaving me with zero fucking fics REGARDLESS of if the author actually used the “all media types” tag. now, thankfully, i’ve thankfully seen this issue in this specific fandom lessen, but it still occurs in other fandoms and i guarantee that it didn’t lessen in the witcher fandom because of any fixing of the site on the part of ao3 staff.

another common defense of ao3 freaks is that it’s an “archive”, and therefore can’t get rid of anything anyone posts, and disregarding the fact that that is not how archives fucking work, they don’t just allow anything and also ao3 DOES get rid of fics... when they say that they don’t like proshippers, apparently, archives have... you know... archivists. they have someone or a team of someones making sure that everything in the archive is *properly fucking categorized*. they have someone or multiple someones making sure that everything they recieve (1) belongs there and (2) is properly labeled and organized. same for libraries. meaning that if ao3 really were an archive and not a sub par fanfiction website, they’d have something like that in place. something as simple as a report button for fics with a review team that will see if something’s been mis- or untagged. they’d have some kind of standardization of tags (especially the warning / trigger tags) and have proper tagging enforced in some way. and then they could also do something like stop being spineless racists, queerphobes, and pedos have the barest minimum of content guidelines saying that you can’t post fucking hate speech.

if something is mistagged or untagged, the most you can do is leave a comment politely asking that the author fix the issue, and then hope and pray that they do that. and if that person thinks [insert form of abuse] is hot, or if they’re just straight up a bigot that wrote bigotry into their fics to be bigoted, or they’re a troll that gets kick out of deliberately traumatizing people by tricking them into reading their mis/untagged fics, they might not! AND if you see a major tagging issue on an orphaned work, or a work that has an inactive author / hasn’t been updated in forever, good fucking luck getting even a negative response.

you can’t permanently block tags (i mean even tumblr.hell has that), meaning that if you would like to search for fic without coming across something troubling, triggering, or just something you don’t like, you have to either (1) do a work around by having a bookmarked link for every fandom you’re in or every character you like with all of your tags already blocked, (2) download browser extensions that do the work for ao3 because they can’t be bothered themselves, or (3) input every individual tag every time you search ao3 and don’t forget that all of those options only fucking work at all when everything is tagged properly, and we’ve already established its not. you also can’t actually block people (you can only prevent them from commenting) meaning that if there’s a specific person you’d like to stay away from your fics or a specific fic author that you don’t like and would like to stop seeing their fics clogging up the tag, you’re out of luck (though for the latter you could insert “-[username]” into the “search within results” box, but then uh oh we’re right back around to having to input that every time or have a bookmark)

their archive warning system is shit. first of all it’s functionally useless because, as mentioned, “creator chose not to use archive warnings” is an option. what’s the fucking point of special required archive warnings if you’re going to allow people to opt out anyway. second of all, aside from “chose not to use warnings” and “no warnings apply”, the only warnings are “major character death”, “graphic depictions of violence”, “rape/non-con”, and “underage”. disregarding the fact that they shouldn’t be allowing porn of underage characters in the first place (but i’m talking to a brick wall on that issue) and that “non-con” (and “dub-con”) as terminology needs to die, it’s just fucking rape lets not use weasel words... this is a paltry list of possible warnings. there’s no official warnings for depictions of: domestic abuse, animal abuse, depictions of racism / homophobia / transphobia / et cetera, suicide, self harm, et cetera et cetera. and we return to the issue of standardization of tags. in your required archive warnings at very least, there should be a standardization of what these mean, but ao3′s own faq is just like “ehh... you decide. we’ll leave it up to you”. what qualifies as graphic depictions of violence? two people may write the same level of violence, but qualify “graphic” differently, and make different decisions regarding their warnings. and we also return to the issue of: if a freak doesn’t see something that is clearly rape as rape, they might not tag it as such.

this website gets a disgustingly large amount of money every year that it doesn’t fucking do anything with. it’s been over a decade and they’re still in fucking beta. features that would actually be useful, like an actual block system, don’t exist. they technically have a report system for abuse and harassment and such, but apparently what they qualify as abuse and harassment is fickle. ao3 defenders seem to be very proud of the legal work they do for fandom / fanfic authors, but they set aside a very small amount of the money they get every year for legal advocacy, and they actually use even less of that, because it’s not the early 2000s “anne rice hates fanfiction” era anymore - you aren’t going to get fucking sued for writing fanfiction in the first place. based on their own self-reported yearly cost of upkeep, they literally already have enough money to run the site as they are now for the next twenty years.

once again: ao3 is not an archive. it is not a library. it is barely a even a website.

[apatheticlexicographer]

confession: whenever i see a textpost on my dash with any of the names [steve, eddie, buck/y], it takes me active mental effort to figure out if it's referring to Popuar MCU Ship Stucky [steve/bucky], Popular Stranger Things Ship Steddie [steve/eddie], or Popular 911 Ship Buddie [buck???/eddie]

they need to invent more names for white men. for my sanity

[rapidhighway]

awesome long post about sonic and shadow you love finished by mentioning untagged sonadow in the last sentence to piss you off

[dollypopup]

just. . .do y'all remember when Polin actually loved each other in our fandom? do you remember when our posts were about how sweet they were together? when it was about how they were on one another's teams? when it was story after story and post after post of polin against the world? of 'I like you' 'I like you too'? of 'Is life meant to be this happy?' 'I think so'? Do you remember when we were all about how much Colin loved Penelope and Penelope loved Colin? When the biggest narrative was that they saw one another, made one another brave, brought out the best in each other? When the mirror was more than just a sex scene and was also a metaphor for what they saw in each other and how they reflected one another? When they were kind to each other? When we were kind to them as characters? When they were encouraging? When they were affectionate and loving and tenderhearted and messy and silly and loving with one another? When Penelope chose Colin at every turn and Colin chose her?

Where is it? Where is the love for our couple? Be honest, wanting Colin to grovel and suffer isn't for Polin fans. It's for Pen stans. Because us Colin fans are shown time and time and time again that it's okay to call a character we love an idiot, want him egregiously punished or humiliated, to see nothing good in his character at all. So who else is it meant for? I miss when we cared about them. I miss when there was a place we could go that was about their romance and tenderness. I miss when it wasn't just straight up hating on him, or us obsessed with Penelope getting with other characters, or thinking he's less than.

We have one of the *best* Male Love Leads in the entire series. And if you don't think that way. . .I just don't understand why you claim to ship this ship. We have an amazing pairing. A wonderful couple. A couple who cares about each other, a couple who builds one another up, a couple that are friends, a couple that has passion and happiness and so much potential.

Do you remember our gifsets gushing about how much he cared for her? Do you remember our metas about how they could bloom and flourish around one another? When we looked at how Colin was hypervisible but ultimately unheard and how Penelope was invisible but the loudest voice in the ton and sighed about how they fit so well with one another? Do you remember when Penelope was proud to have Colin as a partner and he showed her off at every turn? Do you remember when it wasn't a scorecard? When it wasn't about suffering and was about tenderness? Do you remember when they LOVED each other in our fandom? Do you remember when we loved them?

I remember.

And I miss it. I miss it so much.

[brenatto-apothecary]

Me: maybe if I search characters name and click latest I will find untagged posts!! More character posts for me :)

Me when I find out why they were untagged: D:

[sorrowfulsidekick]

hey guys i think i'm unfortunately hooked on rendering water

[babblingfishes]

what triggers would be helpful to tag?

My specific triggers are kind of complicated, but a good catch-all is usually guilt tripping.

Political, discourse, and donation posts are all really bad about this, and I don't think most people really analyze their reblogs for guilt trips, so what has actually worked best for me is blocking various real-world topics like "mutual aid" "death" "racism" "transphobia" "israel" "palestine" "politics" "donation post" etc.

(Longer explanation/rant below.)

If i'm having a good day re:OCD, i will click and read most of these anyway! But on a bad day, repeatedly triggering me (with, for example this morning, dozens and dozens of untagged posts about using money I don't have to save dying children, complete with graphic hospital photos) ultimately makes me super avoidant of the issue and unable to help, which is insanely frustrating for multiple reasons.

But what's most frustrating is this continual push against tagging these things because "they're important" and "shouldn't be ignored".

And it's like. I get it. I get that most of y'all do not have OCD. You probably imagine that the people asking you to tag these things are simply lazy and entitled, and you do not realize this is an ableist view because you cannot conceive of the reality -- when you are done fighting for justice, you get to turn off the phone and stop doomscrolling. I don't get to do that. I will spiral about it for hours, days, weeks, years. I get intrusive thoughts where my brain tries to convince me that I'm secretly a huge pedo/racist/transphobe/etc. I will hide in bed and hate myself and achieve nothing. It is a constant struggle, it is not productive, and it is miserable.

And I keep seeing folks say things that are the exact type of flawed logic you get from having moral OCD. Like insisting that I shouldn't be allowed to set such boundaries because victims can't set boundaries with *war* or *illness* or *society*. But the fact of the matter is that I am not personally in charge of any of these things. I am a disabled tranny with some of the most godawful brain chemistry my doctors have ever seen, I am taking care of other disabled queer folks, and I am living paycheck to paycheck working under an abusive corporation. I can only do so much, and if I don't take care of myself, I will get sick again. And I have to remind myself of this constantly.

I do not think asking people to tag triggers should be that big of a problem. But asking people to tag guilt-tripping doesn't work when they don't know how to recognize it. And on the rare occasion I gather up the courage to say something like, "hey, can you tag donation posts?" or "can you tag palestine posts?", I receive the most wretched responses you can imagine. So here we are.

[izzy-b-hands]

Ahh someone else came out and made them turn the music off entirely

I don’t know that that was necessary; they just needed to turn it down some!

My head does appreciate the quiet tho

[calisthenicsdanceaustralia]

Coming clean

Okay first things first, all of the mods were completely made-up people. I was originally intending to do one of those multi-character stories surrounding a multi-person tumblr blog, a la that one sonic fan blog. I had a few vague ideas planned, but nothing concrete.

I was going to continue this, but I've realised a few things:

1. Calisthenics Dance is FAR too niche an interest to really work for this sort of thing. It is kinda popular in Australia, and seemingly doesn't exist elsewhere (at least that I can find). Plus, in my experience, most people post about it on like, Instagram or Closed Facebook Groups. The last posts about calisthenics dance here on Tumblr was like, 2016, and there was like 2 of them.

2. I'm just not built for this sorta thing. The characters I made weren't exaggerated enough to build interest, the vague storylines I had ideas for were like, barely above your usual Tumblr drama (anon hate from a brother, infighting, etc), and also

3. I just seemingly am a social media void. I lack the ability to have people see my posts - not that that's the point of me generally having social media stuff, but in this specific case? Yeah, not gonna happen.

4. The risk of people around me figuring out this project was mine was FAR too likely for me to really feel comfy continuing. Again, see "Extremely niche." There's a small amount of competitions a year, and I'm 100% sure that if I ever *did* manage to get any sort of traction with this, I would almost narrow down the exact club I'm a part of via the competitions I would, probably eventually, vaguely allude to. Or I'd have to completely make shit up, which sounds a lot harder.

And as a side note, I don't think I can really effectively write like your more-average young adult, despite literally being one myself. I just like using too many fancy big words, methinks.

So, what will I do with this account?

I dunno. I'm definitely going to leave the posts up - the information in them was all correct, except the information on the mods, who were made up, and I can't be fucked to rewrite all of that. It took me forever the first time, and even with copy-pasting most of the info it'll take far too long to be worth it for me.

*Maybe* I'll post a thing or two every-so-often about the sport, because it genuinely is a passion of mine. Definitely no actual videos of me doing it though - I'm far too paranoid a person, and if it were a group video I'd have to ask permission to post it from my teammates. Which is like being hit with an Infinite Embarrassment Ray.

But all the music opinions in that one post (if it ever actually posted) were my true opinions, so maybe more of that? More just... general opinions? Never post here again? Who knows.

[saetoru]

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。yours, always yours

synopsis. satoru has always been yours—and he needs you to know you’ll also always be his

— word count. 2.4k (read the breakup fic first for better understanding, but can be read as a stand-alone)

— contents. fem! reader, college! au, rich boy! gojo, post-getting back together angst that gets a little heated <3, minors do not interact, fingering, unprotected sex, edging, satoru cumming too quick <3, creampie, tbh the smut is short and a lil rushed my b, it ends in fluff tho !! trust !! there is fluff !!

— notes. tbh this will probably get flagged rly fast but oh well u win some u lose some. anywayyyyy here is the make up sex bc yall nasties deserve it <3 jk love u guys

satoru falls first. and he falls hard. everyone knows it, it’s never been a secret.

“you want me to wash your hair?” you ask gently, kissing his shoulder as the water falls over his head. he hums, nodding absentmindedly as he stares blankly at the tiles of your shower wall.

“sure,” he mumbles, “don’t tug.”

“i never tug,” you roll your eyes, snorting. he huffs a small chuckle, but it’s not the usual laugh satoru gives you. it’s mechanic, almost—just there to fill the space. “baby?” you ask softly.

“yeah?” he asks, “oh, should i bend a little? sorry, i—”

“what’re you thinking about?” your hands cup his cheeks, gentle and warm from the hot water as it soaks his skin.

he shakes his head, trying to smile as he clears throat. “just how nice it is to be pampered. maybe i’ll let you break my heart every once in a while so i get my back scrubbed and hair washed like this.”

“satoru,” you insist. you know—and he knows it too. “tell me?”

“why’d you do it?” he mumbles, “why’d you listen to him?”

“toru, you know why,” you sigh, “you know i didn’t think there were any other options.”

“you could’ve talked to me,” he furrows his brows, “just because my stupid old man threatens you with my stupid inheritance doesn’t mean we have to break up.”

“i was afraid you’d choose me.” it comes out as a whisper, like a confession you can’t bear to admit.

“i would have chosen you,” he agrees, “why’s that bad? how’s that wrong—”

“you’re not thinking about the bigger picture,” you shake your head, “that company is yours. you’ve spent your whole life—”

“so what? was i supposed to give up the rest of my life for it too?” he asks tiredly—satoru’s defeated. he’s never been defeated, it’s the most magnetizing thing about him.

even before you date him. he asks and asks and asks no matter how many times you say no. because there’s always a chance you’ll say yes, and he’ll never stop as long as there’s a chance.

“i’m sorry,” you sniffle, lips wobbling, “i could have….i should have said something. i didn’t want you to make a choice young and then….and then regret it.”

“you think i’d regret you?” he’s wounded—absolutely wounded at the words.

satoru has always been careful, diligent and so, so meticulous to love you right, to love you how you need to be loved. hadn’t that proven enough? that he was in it for the long run—for forever? he’d been so sure you’d be his future, that the break up feels like waking up from a peaceful dream to a house fire—devastating, with smoke in his nose and lungs that he can’t breathe right, and everything gone within a moment before he can even register it.

he stares at the ashes in despair. nothing prepared him for the hollowness of not being yours—because satoru has never cared to make you his. all he’s ever wanted was to be yours.

you’re quick to remove him from everything, deleting pictures from your socials, untagging him from posts, removing him from your private stories and close friends list. he doesn’t understand how you could change your mind so quickly—and then he realizes you probably don’t. because he knows you—better than anyone ever has, satoru knows you.

so he’s comes to you, drenched from the rain, from standing outside your door even as the water pelts against his skin because he’s determined. he’s going to get an answer out of you, going to make you explain why you pulled him in so close, let him reside in your heart and fall asleep to the comforting rhythm of its beating—and then push him out like he’s nothing. what made you push him out?

and finally, when he does, when you let him be yours again and admit it’s never what you wanted, that it’s because it’s what his father wanted—well, satoru can’t keep his composure. don’t you know? hadn’t he always told you? hadn’t he poured his heart out and let you know every moment he’s always been stuck dangling from his father’s fingers? stuck somewhere between the sky and ground, too high to feel the floor under his feet but never high enough to feel the wind in his face.

you’ve always known, always listened—and fuck, you held him some nights too, let your fingers dip into his hair and soothe his sorrows of always being stuck.

satoru’s always been stuck, always had every choice made for him and every instruction carefully laid out on the table. and then you decided to make his choice for him too, walking away and choosing his future for him like he’s never had a say.

he’s always been stuck, but never with you—but now, he wonders if that’s changed.

“no,” you squeeze his cheeks, “no i don’t think you’d regret me….but satoru losing what you have is a big thing,” you mumble, “people work their whole lives not having a fraction of what you do. that’s a lot to let you lose.”

“i’ve never seen my dad kiss my mom,” he stares at you, hard and unwavering, his eyes stare into yours, “he’s never held her hand or made her laugh. and you know what she told me? that she would sell her share of everything to have what we do. why do you always look at me for what i have first?” he asks angrily, the water pouring over his shoulders as they shake, “why can’t you just look at me first for once?”

“i do look at you,” you insist, “toru, all i ever see is you—”

“then stop caring what he says,” he says louder, his voice echoing through the small bathroom of your small apartment.

everything about your home is small—smaller than satoru’s especially. but he loves it, thinks he’d rather be here than anywhere else.

because it’s yours. and as long as you’re here, the world fits into this tiny apartment, the galaxy too.

“okay,” you say shakily. and then you nod, looking him in the eye, “you’ll handle it?”

he nods, kissing between your brows, “yeah, i’ll handle it. who else is gonna take over that company anyway?”

“but what if he finds someone else? and then he—”

“he won’t. my grandpa will shred him.”

“but he’s old, and he stepped down, so what really can he do if your dad decides—”

“god, baby,” he groans, pushing your body against the wall gently, “i love your voice, but you talk so much. i’m wanna listen to something else.”

his lips find your neck, sucking gently at the skin, hand trailing to your tits before his thumb circles your nipple. it’s slow, deliberate, teasing as it rolls over the bud.

you whimper, clutching onto him as a breathy, “t-toru,” leaves your lips.

“yeah,” he nods, “that’s what i wanna listen to instead.” his lips are in a grin against your neck, kissing and biting until he reaches your collarbone. “anyone dm you after you took me out of your socials?” he asks bitterly.

“j-just one,” you admit through a stutter, “b-but i didn’t even open it! i wasn’t really—oh, toru,” you gasp as his finger finds your clit, spreading your legs as he lets out a soft growl at your words.

“what? just cause my face isn’t on your instagram suddenly you’re not mine?” he asks, thumb rubbing harsh circles against the sensitive bundle of nerves—you close your eyes, moaning as your arms wrap tightly around his neck. “you’re always mine,” he murmurs against your ear, low and careful so you hear him well, “yeah? got that?”

“got it,” you nod furiously.

“got what?”

“‘m al-always—oh, fuck,” you mewl as one finger prods at your entrance, gathering your slick before slowly sliding through your walls.

“c’mon, sweetheart,” he says firmly, “finish your sentences.”

“always yours, toru! always yours—please, please j-just…”

“just what?” he raises a brow.

“more,” you sob—it’s a broken plea as your hips thrust against his finger.

he’s quick to slide in a second, thrusting his digits mercilessly into your soaked cunt, his palm gliding over your clit as the slick sound of his fingers fucking you is almost drowned by the water in the back.

your water bill will be high this month. you decide it’s a sacrifice satoru deserves.

“you think someone could ever learn this body better than me? make you cum like i can? you think anyone will ever love you enough to learn you like i do?”

“n-no,” you pant, his fingers hitting that spot inside of you so perfectly, you feel that dull ache build up quickly. it’s good—everything with satoru is good. his other hand finds your chest to pinch a nipple, twisting and squeezing until your nails leave indents on his shoulders as you moan loudly. “no one—no one but you.”

“exactly,” he growls, “how could you leave me? how could you leave us?”

“‘m sorry,” you sniffle, whimpering when the tips of his fingers slam against that spongey spot of your walls, fluttering around him and squeezing him in. you’re close—so close that you almost don’t know what he’s saying anymore, too focused on the way your impending orgasm is approaching. fast. “i’m sorry, i’ll never—ever leave again.”

“say you love me,” he demands.

it sounds like he’s pleading, though, if you listen closely. there’s a small crack in his voice, a slight shakiness that makes you force your eyes open and stare at him and whisper, “i love you, satoru. i love you.”

and then he rips his fingers out—right before you’re about to cum. you gasp, pleading nonsense as you cling to him and buck your hips and search for something, anything to take you over the edge.

and then you hear a sniffle. is he crying? is that wet droplet on your shoulder a tear or the water? you’re too busy calming down from your orgasm dying before it ever came to focus.

satoru’s hard against your thigh, throbbing and painful to sink into you. he strokes himself a few times, whimpers as his thumb gathers the pre cum from the sensitive tip, smearing it along his length as he shakily lets out a quiet moan.

“f-fuck, i gotta feel you. please, can i? please—”

“yes,” you pull him closer, grinding your heat over his hard-on, “yes please, toru. more, need more.”

he’s sliding along your folds, dragging the tip of his cock along your entrance and smearing a mix of your arousal with his. and then slowly, ever so gently, he’s pushing into your after that, pushing past your walls and bullying into your soaked cunt, curving into you perfectly.

it’s only been a week—you feel like you haven’t felt him in years. but it’s familiar. you remember every part of him, including every vein that drags along your walls and makes your head spin. he remembers every part of you, including where that spot is that he needs to angle his hips to find.

he slams into you, hard and rough and fast—doesn’t even let you adjust your position to hold onto him tighter before he’s thrusting his hips and fucking into you desperately. you can feel him, every inch of his skin against you, every part of him that’s touching you. and you can feel the way his cock nudges past your folds, the friction burning pleasure through ever nerve.

satoru knows how to fuck you, just like he knows how to love you, he knows your body—every dip and ever curve, every place to touch and every part that has you gushing around him. it’s just the way he is, too good at giving you what you want, what you need.

when he moans, it’s breathy and he’s panting as he lets out those soft whimpers that make your head spin. “feel that? feel me?” he asks, grunting as you squeeze around his length.

“yeah,” you breathe, “‘m so full.”

“i need you. please, please,” he murmurs, “can’t lose you, baby. never you,” he chants, the quiver in his voice tearing you apart.

“i’m right here,” you gasp, lacing your fingers with his and squeezing his hand. he squeezes back, just to let you know he’s there too, “right here, baby. you got me.”

and then he cums, just as soon as you whisper that—he spills right into you with a broken cry, his hips rolling, needy and desperate and so, so lost on the pleasure. he’s too busy working himself through his high, trembling over your body to care he’s cum too quick—and you don’t have it in you to tease him. you can feel the hot ropes of cum filling you, painting your walls white, fucking deep into you as the blunt head of his cock slams into you without a second of hesitation.

but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t falter that brutal pace as his hips slam into you, perfectly kissing your sweet spot every time. and before long, you break—your head pushes back against the wall behind you, mouth parted as you wail his name and cum—hard. you’re quivering and spasming around his swollen cock, enough that he whimpers at the way you’re so tight.

it’s good, it’s always good. satoru makes you feel good. he’s the best you’ve ever had—the best you’ll ever find.

and then you hear it again, the sniffle into your neck as he clutches you tightly. you know for sure that wet droplet is a tear this time, and your fingers tangle into his hair as you stroke the wet strands.

“i love you, toru,” you murmur, “my sweet boy. i’m sorry, okay? i’m so sorry.”

“don’t do that again,” he huffs in between tears, “that was so mean. so mean.”

“i said i won’t,” you chuckle, fighting back your own tears, “how long are you gonna hold this against me?”

“how long do you plan on being mine?”

“well,” you pull him from your neck, cupping his cheeks as you wipe away tears and peck his lips softly, “i think….forever.”

“well, get ready, then,” he glares softly, “i’m gonna hold this against you forever too.”

“okay,” you nod, “that’s fair.”

“and i love you too,” he adds, “but block whoever dm’d you. it better not be that zenin boy.”

“block those girls who’s pictures you liked,” you shoot back, glaring at him with a pout of your own.

“don’t yell at me,” he mumbles, leaning into your touch as your thumb strokes his cheek, “i’ve had a rough week. you have to be nice.”

dabitee anon. are u seeing this. did u see the satoru who cums too fast. did u see it. report back if u saw this. i repeat, dabitee anon report back if you see this

[hederasgarden]

Finis

Summary: Lucius comes for you (this is a follow up to Post tenebras lux and Ab Initio) Pairing: Lucius Verus x F!Reader Word Count: 7.8 K (WHOOPS SORRY) Rating:  Explicit, 18+ only. Angst with a HEA, sex (PIV and f receiving), mentions of spousal death/grief and other untagged themes (please message me if you’d like to know what these are). A/N: A HUGE thanks to @aliensupastar and @ryebecca for their help with the fic. Becca also made the beautiful banner as well! This is full of historical inaccuracies and I’m using both Roman and Greek mythology interchangeably.  Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Gladiator Masterlist �� Masterlist

Anxiety pulses beneath your skin as you lie in the dark, Lucius’s body pressed close against yours. His steady, warm breath brushes the back of your neck, but you know he's just as awake as you are. Neither of you can sleep. It’s a cruel kind of torture, pretending that nothing has changed, and that you’ll still be together when the morning light spills into the cell.

You don’t know how much time you have before they come for you. It could be hours. It could be minutes. You wish you could take Lucius inside you just once more, to have him fill every part of you with his love, his devotion. You sigh and he says your name softly, urging you to face him. The ache in your chest only intensifies when you turn and meet his eyes. No words are spoken — how could there be any that would make this easier? What could you say that would make the pain of this goodbye more bearable?

You close your eyes and breathe out. Somewhere a guard’s laughter echoes faintly, while from another cell, the deep, steady snoring of a gladiator fills the silence. Then you hear it. A sound, small but sharp: the faint jingling of keys. The scrape of metal against metal. 

It’s time.

Lucius pulls you to your feet with a quiet urgency, his hands steady as he drapes the cloak over your shoulders and fastens the clasp at your throat. His touch lingers there before he dips his head to kiss you, gentle and tender. It carries the weight of something else, something final. You can’t bear the thought of it. With a sudden surge of emotion, you rise onto your toes and throw your arms around his shoulders, kissing him with a desperation that feels like a vow. It’s a promise that no matter what happens, you will find your way back to each other.

"Have faith," he whispers once you pull away, his forehead against yours. "I will see you again soon."

You swallow, the words heavy in your throat. "I have no faith left in the gods," you confess. Your lips tremble with the weight of your blasphemy. It feels like a sin, but it's the truth.

"Then have faith in me," he returns, his voice soft but unwavering. He holds your cheek in his scarred hand and your lashes flutter. "As long as there is breath in my body, I will return to you."

 "Lucius…" Your voice cracks, and before you can stop it, tears slip down your cheeks.

He grasps your neck, pulling you close and guiding your cheek until it rests against his chest. The steady beat of his heart is a rhythmic comfort, so different from the frantic pounding of your own. He holds you like this moment can somehow protect you from what’s to come, and you stay like that until Ravi says your name in a low, urgent tone. 

"Please, we must hurry." 

You look up at Lucius one last time, desperate to memorize every line of his face, but time is slipping away, and you know there’s no more time to hold on. You step away, your heart heavy, and take Ravi’s hand. 

The cool, solid grip of his fingers anchors you as you move down the dark hallway. Silence stretches out around you like a shroud. Despite your spurning of the gods, your mind drifts to Persephone, trapped in a fate not of her making. The thought lingers, haunting you, as you walk further into the darkness, but you press forward.

Because like Orpheus, if you look back, you will be lost.

–

You ride for days with a small group of men loyal to General Acacius and Lucilla, the landscape unfolding in shades of brown and green while the horizon stretches out endlessly. The dull ache in your thighs has become a constant companion, deepening with every hour spent on a saddle. The smell of horse and sweat clings stubbornly to your clothes, mingling with the dust of the road.  

Moments of rest are brief and tense, and the men around you speak little of where you’re headed. You often feel Lucilla’s gaze on you as you ride, though there is little time to converse meaningfully. She looks different from the times you saw her seated beside the emperors in the arena. Her beautiful golden hair is plaited into a simple braid and her face is bare. Yet, even without the fine robes and jewelry, there is nothing common about her appearance. From the sharp cut of her high cheekbones to the elegant line of her jaw, everything about her is unmistakably royal. 

She carries herself with a quiet authority that even the soldiers heed. They respect her and to your surprise, they show you the same reverence. It’s disorienting, unnerving even, but something in you is too afraid to push back against the illusion of nobility they’ve woven around you. So, you do what is required, what you learned from your time with Lucius and draw from the life you lived before you were a fisherman’s wife. You slip into the skin of someone else who is meant to be here and is worthy of the respect they offer. But it’s a mask that chafes, a weight far heavier than any shackle.

–

On the sixth day of riding, you crest a ridge, and suddenly the rugged coast unfolds before you with sparkling turquoise waters and lush hills. The soldier you ride with stops, just as stunned by the beauty as you. It’s been nearly two years since you’ve seen the ocean and smelt salt in the air. For a moment it’s as if Kronos himself has softened his grip on time and memories of your life before flood back, overwhelming and painfully beautiful. But the moment is brief, shattered when the soldier speaks. 

“This will be your new home, my lady, until we receive word from the General that Rome is safe once again.” 

He nudges the horse with a soft kick of his heels and the animal resumes its careful trot, disrupting loose stones as it makes its way down the steep, narrow trail. In the distance, you spot a small villa, nestled among rolling hills, its stone walls partially obscured by lush vineyards.

“Is it safe?” You question.

The young man offers you a smile over his shoulder. “There are many who are loyal to Lady Lucilla and the General. No one will know of your presence here.”

When you arrive you’re helped from the horse by another soldier, and follow behind Lucilla as she moves into the house. A row of servants greets the two of you, and the moment they see her they bow deeply. They don't look at you directly, but you feel their gaze flicker over you, just for a second, before their attention returns solely to her.

“Draw a bath for myself and my guest,” she instructs the gathered servants, handing off her dusty cloak and pushing her braid off her shoulder. “Bring fresh water and food for the men outside. See to it that they are taken care of first.”

You stand behind her, waiting for some instruction or sign of what you’re supposed to do. But as Lucilla turns and sweeps away, a young servant steps forward, offering you a shallow bow. 

“Your cloak, my lady,” he says.

His words hit you with an unexpected force and you realize, for the first time in years, that you are no longer a slave.

–

You wake slowly, the dredges of your sleep lingering as you roll to your back and shield your eyes from the morning light. After nearly a week on the road, the bed you sleep in is a welcome relief. It’s more luxurious than anything you’ve ever known and you inhale the clean, citrusy scent on the sheets. 

A gentle knock on your door is your only warning before a servant enters with a jug of water that she sets on a low table. She bows to you before moving to open the curtains and let sunlight flood the room. Next, she moves to the hearth, stoking a small fire with practiced movements. While she works another servant appears with fresh robes that she lays over the edge of your bed. The fabric is pale blue and finely made, trimmed in silver, but as your eyes linger on them, you can’t help but remember the last time you wore such finery.

"Domina," the new servant greets, drawing your attention away from the clothes. “May we help you dress?”

The way she addresses you, like the man last night, causes a strange, uncomfortable flutter in your chest. She does not seem to sense your discomfort and waits patiently for a reply, as sure and comfortable in her role as you are uncomfortable in yours. It feels so alien, to have someone serve you like this. Weeks ago, this was your job, your life. The thought twists in your gut.

“N-no.” You finally manage. “That will be all.”

“As you wish,” she replies, accepting your answer with a respectful nod.

You know they are here to serve you, and yet it startles you, the way they defer to you so unquestioningly. 

She pauses at the door, her attention on you once again. “Lady Lucilla wishes you to break your fast with her on the terrace.” 

Then she turns and quietly retreats from the room. Only once you're alone does the tightness in your throat abate, but there is another deeper discomfort that lingers. It takes you longer to dress than you expect and you’re left feeling unsure if it’s the way the garment fits or the unfamiliarity of the situation that feels so wrong. 

By the time you reach the terrace, the morning sun is brighter and warmer. Lucilla is seated at a table laden with food, her fingers lightly tracing the rim of her wine cup, lost in thought.  She offers you a quiet greeting as you slip into the empty chair beside her. A plate piled high with fruit is set before you; after so long on the road, your mouth waters at the sight. 

You select a peach and drag it through honey. It’s halfway to your lips when the servant’s voice cuts through the stillness of the morning.

“Did you sleep well, my lady?" She asks politely. 

"I am not a lady," you correct quietly, the words slipping out before you can fully think them through. 

The moment you say it, you freeze. Juice drips down your fingers, a sticky trail running under the sleeve of your robe, but you don’t even notice. The servant glances at Lucilla, brows furrowed in confusion by your denial, but Lucilla simply smiles, seemingly unbothered.  

"You may go now," she says to the young woman, a touch of finality in her tone. “We will call you if we have need of you.”

The servant nods and retreats without a word, her footsteps fading into the hall. Lucilla watches her go, waiting to speak until you are alone.  

"I suppose you're not a lady," she says, her tone not unkind. 

She delicately eats a honey cake, seemingly preoccupied, but there's something sharp and assessing in her eyes that reminds you strongly of Lucius. You chew the peach in silence, but it feels like ash in your mouth now. You’ve misstepped.

"It would be Princess, would it not?" she asks, not waiting for a response before continuing. "You are my son's wife and he is the prince of Rome."

Princess.

Wife.

Your mind doesn’t seem to know which to focus on first. Both are heavy titles, the first unexpected, but it’s the second that gives you pause. It’s a title you never expected to have again, but it’s one you cannot deny you long for. 

"My lady,” you begin quietly, “We were never…married. They gave me to him as a concubine.”  Though you know she understands, Lucius told her everything before you left, you still rush to clarify. "But I was never truly that. I was only ever a slave."

Lucilla hums thoughtfully, regarding you over the rim of her glass as she drinks. "You pledged yourselves to one another, did you not?" she asks.

You nod stiffly, and then she leans forward, surprising you by gently settling a hand over your chest. 

"If he lives here," she murmurs, her fingers pressing lightly, "and you live in his heart, what more could the gods ask for?"

“I...I suppose,” you respond hesitantly, unsure how to finish the thought. 

She smiles warmly at you as if the matter is settled, but you feel less sure. A slave, risen to the status of princess. Would the rest of Rome regard you so generously?

Lucilla seems oblivious to your doubts and with a soft, contented hum, she leans forward, turning her attention to the plate of fruits as she seems to contemplate her choices. She glances at you briefly before selecting a date, her movements slow and measured.

“When the time comes you will stand beside Lucius as his wife and the rest of Rome will see you as such. Because he will tell them to.”

The words hang in the air between you, but they do nothing to ease the gnawing discomfort building inside.

You swallow hard, trying to steady your voice. “Where I come from - what I am…it does not bother you?”

“What you were,” she corrects, holding your gaze for a beat before she continues. “But you mean, does it bother me you were once a slave?” She questions. 

You nod. “I am also not Roman. I was just a fisherman’s wife,” you reply, though that title has long since been stripped from you. 

“Lucius’s father was a slave and a gladiator,” Lucilla replies, her gaze softening when she speaks of him. The love and longing in her words feel fresh, as though Lucius’s father still lingers in her mind after all these years. 

You clasp your hands together, your fingers curling slightly, stroking your thumb over your knuckles. You exhale and meet her gaze again. 

“He was also once a general, was he not?” you question, half unsure why you’re still pressing the point. Maybe it’s the lingering unease, the feeling that you don't belong here. Why should it be so simple?

Lucilla sets her glass down with quiet deliberation. Her eyes meet yours, steady and unflinching.

“In the Rome my father believed in,” she begins, “anyone could rise to greatness, regardless of their past. It was not about where you started, but what you did with the chances the gods gave to you.”

For a moment you let yourself imagine the world she describes — one where people can transform, where their past does not determine their worth. You want to believe her, to let the fragile embers of hope her son ignited in you months ago bloom into something real. But doubt is a hard thing to shake. 

“It’s a beautiful dream,” you say, unsure if you quite believe her words. “Your father sounds like a great man.”

Lucilla smiles, sadness flickering in her eyes. “He was,” she replies. “I see so much of Lucius in him. His strength. His sense of honor.” Then, with an unexpected tenderness, she adds, “I think he would have liked you.”

“You honor me,” you respond, lowering your gaze. The weight of her acceptance feels heavier than you expect.

Lucilla shifts closer, her knees brushing yours. She says your name quietly and you look up. 

“I know you may not see it yet, but not everyone could have survived what you have and come out stronger,” she tells you, her voice steady but filled with a quiet conviction. “That is your gift. And now you must decide how you wish to wield that power.”

“Wield it?” you ask, confusion threading through your words. "I have no desire to rule."

Lucilla’s expression eases, but she doesn’t falter. "No," she agrees. "Neither did I. But that does not mean you cannot help Lucius rebuild Rome into something stronger, something better. If you choose to."

You’ve spent most of your life at the mercy of forces larger than yourself, swept along by events outside your control. The thought of the power she speaks of is daunting, almost uncomfortable.

“But what can I do?”

“In this world, there are many ways to hold power. Not all of them are visible, but they are just as effective.” Lucilla explains. “True strength lies in shaping the course of events without ever appearing to control them.”

You frown slightly. “I do not know how to achieve that.”

Lucilla tilts her head, her smile knowing. "You have already mastered the basics from your time in the arena. I can teach you the rest.”

You’re silent for a long moment, processing her words. 

“You truly believe I am capable of this?”

“Yes,” she says. 

There’s a certainty and knowing in her tone, so like her son’s, a belief that you are worthy — even if you can’t yet see it in yourself. A wave of emotion rises within you. You want to be worthy of Lucius’s love, and of Lucilla’s faith in you. 

Despite the doubt you lift your chin and straighten your shoulders. “Teach me.”

–

As the weeks slip by, you fall into a rhythm with Lucilla that feels almost comforting in its predictability, and certainly far more steady than the chaos of your days in the Colosseum.  Afternoons are spent learning to be a proper Roman woman. At first, the lessons are as expected: how to dress, how to speak, and how to move with the elegance and poise that mark a lady of high status. But soon the lessons grow more layered, more intricate. Slowly, you begin to learn to move through the world with intention, to shape it and, in time, make it yield to your will.

Yet, no matter how much of your time is occupied, your worry for Lucius never fully fades. It hovers at the edges of your thoughts, a persistent shadow on your periphery that remains there despite Lucilla's attempts to keep you busy. The only moments you can quiet your mind are in the early hours of the day, when the sun is just a faint promise of light that lingers below the horizon and the villa is quiet. 

On those mornings you rise without the aid of the servants, draping a heavy cloak over your shoulders and heading to the kitchen where the remnants of yesterday’s meal sit on the counter. There you gather the bread still fragrant with yeast and ripened figs and wrap them in a clean cloth. When you step outside, a wave of dizziness passes through you, a light-headedness that’s become more frequent of late as your stress and anxiety grow. You pause to steady yourself against the cool stone of the villa before you’re able to shake the feeling.

Felix, the same young soldier you rode with from Rome, is waiting for you. He leans against the wall, eyes heavy with sleep, but he rouses himself quickly as he sees you approach. Without a word, he falls in behind you as you begin the descent down the winding path that leads to the sea. By the time you reach the bottom, the path opens up to the edge of the old fishing dock. You unwrap the cloth and tear off a piece of bread, breaking it in half, and hand it to Felix along with one of the figs. He takes a seat on the short stone wall and you continue to the dock. 

The planks groan as you make your way to the end where the ocean stretches out before you into nothingness. You lower yourself until your legs dangle over the water. For a moment, there is only the sound of the waves lapping against the shore, gentle and rhythmic. Then, over the quiet, you hear the fishermen further down the coast. Their voices carry on the wind as they begin their work for the day, preparing their boats and nets for the first catch. 

The first time you came here, you expected the grief you carried for your lost husband would break over you like a swell, sharp and sudden. But it didn’t. That ache, that quiet, constant ache was still there as you suspect it always would be but somewhere along the way that wound had become a scar. Simply a part of you, like the salt in the air or the brine in the sea. 

You break your fast with a fig, savoring the sweetness of its soft flesh until a sudden wave of nausea stirs in the pit of your stomach. It’s brief, but sharp enough to make you pause before swallowing. You will it to pass and it does though it seems to linger longer and longer lately. You brush the thought away and finish your meal, remaining on the dock until the sun’s light begins to break through the clouds, casting a soft, golden glow on the water. The heat sinks into your skin and you close your eyes, accepting its warm touch. In the quiet your mind drifts, as it always does, to Lucius and the pain of your separation deepens.

Was he sitting somewhere, feeling this same warmth? Was he safe? Had the plans he set in motion succeeded? The questions swirl in your mind like the restless current. You try to picture him as you saw him last, steady and focused, but all you can conjure is the look of fear in his deep, dark-set eyes the night of Macrinus' party. Anxiety and dread return to you and tears threaten to fall. 

The urge to push the emotion down, to shield yourself from its pull is strong, but then, you remember Lucilla’s lesson. With a quiet exhale you drop your shoulders and accept the feeling, letting it pass over until it ebbs into nothingness. You take slow and steady breaths, gaining control of yourself once more.  

“Princess,” Felix greets, wood creaking under his feet. “We must return.”

The title hangs in the air, a strange thing even after all these weeks. He says it so effortlessly, as if it has always been this way. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to it. 

“Perhaps there will be news today,” he suggests encouragingly. 

“Perhaps,” you agree, accepting his offered hand. 

By the time you finish your ascent, perspiration dots your hairline, and sweat clings to your skin. The gentle breeze that stirs through the air is a welcome relief, helping to lift the heat that has settled into your body. You reach for the clasp of your cloak, ready to shed it, when the sharp sound of metal on steel cuts through the air. Your hand freezes mid-motion, and you realize that Felix has unsheathed his sword. 

Before you can question him, you register the presence of unfamiliar horses and men in the courtyard. The dust they’ve kicked up swirls in the air, and you cover your mouth with your sleeve.

“Stay behind me,” Felix urges. His free hand touches your hip briefly to guide you closer to him.

Though you do as he asks you can’t help but scan the gathered men for a familiar face, hope and dread tangling together. You find none and terror settles over you like a heavy shroud. Felix rolls his shoulders, widening his stance as he lifts his sword. There are too many men for him to fight but he stands firm, seemingly ready to lay down his life for you. It’s a sobering realization. 

You glance towards the house, worried for Lucilla when you catch sight of a figure in the doorway. Even with his back to you, you recognize Lucius. His posture is stooped with weariness, but his presence still commands the air around him as he speaks with his mother and an older man beside her.

“Felix,” you whisper, fingers curling into the fabric of his cloak. 

He shifts to look at you, but you cannot tear your gaze from Lucius, greedily drinking him in like a mirage in the desert, terrified if you blink that he’ll vanish. His dark brown hair is matted with dirt and sweat, his clothes torn and stained. You can see his bare arms are streaked with cuts and bruises and a bloody bandage, hastily wrapped around his left bicep, hangs loose. The sight of him is a brutal testament to his journey and your chest aches at the thought of all he’s been through. 

But he’s here. Alive.

Before you realize it, you’re moving towards him. There is nothing dignified in the way you throw yourself into his arms when he turns to face you, colliding into him with enough force to send him staggering back. His arms wrap around you, steadying you both, and you bury your face against him. Your fingers twist into the hair at the nape of his neck as if you’re trying to anchor yourself to him.

Lucius says your name and a great, painful sob bursts from within you. He pulls away just enough to stroke your face and press his forehead to yours. His touch is gentle yet trembling, as though he's trying to reassure himself that you're real, that this moment is real. 

“I am here,” he murmurs, “I have returned to you, just as I promised.”

You move closer to him, still shaking, and with a fierceness you can’t contain, you whisper, “Had you not, I would have gone to Pluto himself.”

“I have no doubt,” he replies, a wry smile on his lip.

Together, you breathe the same air, the rhythm of your heart easing. When you brush your nose against his, he tilts his head, letting his lips graze yours in an achingly sweet kiss. Every part of you longs to lose yourself in it, but you’re acutely aware of your surroundings — and of the role you must play. 

With a quiet effort, you pull yourself from Lucius. Heat blooms in your cheeks when you realize nearly everyone is watching the two of you, but Lucius feels no such shame. He grasps your hand in his and with a proud tilt of his jaw, tugs you forward. Lucilla smiles warmly as you approach and introduces the man at her side as her husband, General Acacius.

“I have heard so much about you from Lucius,” Acacius shares, watching you with a mix of admiration and curiosity. “You are all he would speak of these last few weeks.”

You dip your head, both embarrassed and oddly pleased by the thought of Lucius talking about you to others.

“I have grown fond of her as well,” Lucilla admits. You feel her light touch on your arm before she withdraws and shifts her attention to her son and husband. “I wish to hear everything that has transpired in Rome, but you are both in need of a bath. Go,” she commands lightly.

Acacius turns to his wife with an affectionate look. He rests his fist over his chest, bowing deeply. “As my lady commands.”

You smile at Lucius, squeezing his hand. "Go," you encourage him. "We must see to it that the men are taken care of. They will need food, water, and a place to rest."

Lucius glances at his mother, and then his gaze shifts back to you. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, surprise, perhaps, but he masks it quickly. He leans in and presses a kiss to your cheek, the gesture laden with affection. Then, with a final glance, he turns to Acacius and follows the older man out of the room.

You watch them leave and then look at Lucilla. She meets your gaze and offers a subtle but approving nod. It’s a quiet gesture but with it, the weight of responsibility settles heavily upon your shoulders. You take a deep breath, steadying yourself, before stepping forward and catching the attention of two servants nearby. Their eyes meet yours with attentive expectation as you give them clear instructions on how best to tend to the garrison of soldiers gathered in the courtyard. 

Every detail must be accounted for. These are the men who helped Lucius free Rome and brought him home safely to you. They deserve your care and your respect. But more than that, you understand something deeper: how you treat them now will not be forgotten. These soldiers will remember how they were received — whether with kindness, attention, and dignity or with indifference — and they will speak of it when they leave here.

Caring for them is not simply fulfilling a duty. You are establishing a connection, a foundation of trust and goodwill that will extend beyond this moment. 

–

You find Lucius in your room sometime later, seemingly lost in thought. He drinks deeply from a cup of wine, and you take a moment to study his profile, content to simply watch him. The soft glow of the hearth casts shadows across his face, blurring the sharp lines of his features. His hair and skin are still damp from the bath, and he wears nothing but a simple towel, cinched tightly around his waist. Though weary, he seems more relaxed than you can ever recall seeing him.

When he lowers his cup, his eyes meet yours. "How are the men?" he ask with a smile. 

“They are being taken care of," you reply. “They deserve it after what they’ve done for you."

Lucius steps closer, his hands reaching to cup your face. The familiar warmth of his calloused palms is grounding, a silent comfort.

"You have done well," he says, his voice thick with gratitude. "I am proud of you."

In his gaze, you see more than just affection – there’s respect. You try to look away, overwhelmed, but he holds your eyes, unwilling to let you break the connection.

"I am doing what needs to be done," you reply quietly. "For Rome. For you."

“For Rome?” He questions. “Since when do you speak so fondly of her?”

“Since I have fallen in love with a Roman,” you confess. 

A smile tugs at the corners of Lucius’s lips, his eyes softening as he looks at you. You reach up, drawn to the familiar comfort of his touch, and curl your fingers over his. But when you brush over the bare skin of his finger, you realize the ring he’s worn as long as you’ve known him is gone. 

“Lucius,” you breathe. “Your ring…”

His eyes close and a tremor passes through his body, an echo of a long-buried pain. When his hands fall from your face you mourn the loss of his touch.

“I returned it to the sea,” he says roughly, as if the words themselves are heavy. “Where it ended.” 

You stare at him, shocked.

“I do not need it any longer,” Lucius continues quietly, trying to ease the air between you. “I have avenged her.”

A quiet ache blooms inside you as you think of your own wedding band, the one taken from you when you were made a prisoner of Rome. You remember its weight and shape, your thumb often tracing the space where it used to sit as if it could somehow conjure it back. You wonder if it hadn't been stolen from you, if you could let it go as Lucius has done. 

“I carry Arashat with me. In my blood, in my bones.” His eyes open then, startlingly blue and clear. “It is the same way your husband still lives inside you.”

Your lip trembles and you sway, your body caught in the pull of something too deep for words. Before you ever fell in love with Lucius, before his touch became something that soothed the ache inside you, you forged a connection through shared grief. You could not escape those you lost, no matter how many years passed. But neither of you would ever want to.

Lucius’s voice breaks through the silence, his words raw and vulnerable. “More than that, it felt wrong to still wear it,” he admits. “When I love you the way a husband should love his wife.”

Your lips part, the words unable to form as they twist inside you. "A wife?" you repeat. You're unsure whether they should be a question or an answer. 

He smiles, his lips brushing over yours in the gentlest of kisses. “My wife,” he confirms. “If you will have me.”

A bubble of laughter escapes your chest and you push forward, capturing his lips with yours in a possessive, claiming kiss. For Lucilla to bestow that title upon you was one thing, but to hear it from Lucius —asking you to take it — feels like something you didn’t realize you were waiting for. 

“Yes,” you whisper, the word barely escaping in the space between you. “Yes, I will have you.”

Lucius urges you toward the bed, his mouth devouring yours. You fall together into the soft sheets and the weight of him almost steals your breath, but he hardly seems to notice. He pulls at your dress, baring your shoulder to his hungry lips. 

"I have dreamed of this every night," he breathes against your skin. "Your warmth. Your sweetness." 

Need flares hotly in your belly and you aid Lucius in removing your clothes. When you are bare to him he gazes down at you, his teeth catching his lower lip in an almost unconscious gesture of desire.  Those sharp eyes see all, cataloging the way you sigh and arch your back when his large hands cup your breasts. Even his tender touch feels overwhelming and it’s almost painful the way his roughened fingers tease the sensitive peaks of your nipples

You tremble when his hands sweep lower, ghosting over your stomach to frame your hips. The brief pressure of his touch is soothing and you exhale as he moves down your body, finally settling between your parted thighs. In the flickering light, you see a hunger in his eyes, something so consuming it wipes away the weariness that’s clung to him since he’s returned.

“I fought for Rome, but I fought for this too,” he admits. "You are far sweeter than any honey.”

His words twist your stomach pleasantly and your fingers brush an errant curl from his forehead. 

“Lucius…”

“Yes, touch me,” he encourages, lowering his mouth to you. 

You drag your nails gently over the back of his neck, tracing the curve of his scalp, and feel him shudder in response. His breath falls over your skin and you lift your hips. Scars old and new catch on your fingertips as your hands roam over his broad shoulders. There’s nothing hurried about Lucius’s touch, it’s a slow exploration of your body, something he was denied last time. 

Each brush of his tongue sends a surge of warmth through you and you respond by threading your fingers through his hair and tugging him closer. You need more and he gives it to you, delving deeper, greedy, and desperate for your taste. Your heart beats faster as one finger and then another slips easily inside you. He curls them up and seals his mouth over the most sensitive part of you, applying a dizzying amount of pressure. As he drinks from you his fingers move like a wave, a rhythmic caress that draws you closer and closer to the inevitable edge. 

“Please,” you gasp, drawing your knees towards your chest and riding his face with a desperation that would shame you were it not for the way Lucius responds with a needy groan. There’s a fleeting moment where it feels like the sensations he drags from your body are too much to contain, but then they overflow and you let out a desperate cry of relief.

Lucius does not relent until you push at his head. Then, he stares up at you, his mouth slightly parted, his face flushed. Your fingers have made a mess of his hair and his beard glistens with your arousal. He looks entirely too pleased with himself as he crawls up your body, pausing briefly to pull the towel from his waist. 

“My wife, my wife,” he murmurs. “Mine.”

“My husband,” you whisper back, curling your leg over his hip as he sinks inside you, filling you completely. 

A range of emotions flicker across his face — joy and pleasure, rapture and relief — each one passing like a fleeting wave, too intense to hold but impossible to ignore. You draw him close and his chest slides against yours. The air around you feels warm and heavy, thick with significance of the moment. Lucius’s labored breaths, slow and steady, fills the space, becoming the only rhythm that matters.

You stare into his blue eyes as you climb higher and higher together. There’s no need for words here, just him and the way he moves above you and inside you. He almost looks anguished as he strains and pants, pressing his forehead to yours. You hold him tightly, eyes sliding closed as something beautiful unfurls inside and everything goes quiet. 

After, you remain entwined, bodies tangled, until the warmth of your skin cools and the cadence of your breath slows. Only then does Lucius pull away, and his absence creates a hollow ache that lingers. It only eases once he returns, drawing you close and wrapping his arm around your waist. He rests his head against your stomach, his gaze lifting to meet yours. You run your fingers through his hair, savoring the quiet intimacy of the moment.

“I thought about this often,” he admits quietly. “Of seeing you. Holding you.” He pauses, and in the stillness of the moment, you can feel the weight of everything he’s been through, every battle, every loss, every moment of doubt. "There were so many times I thought this would not be my fate.”

The raw emotion in his voice makes your throat tighten, and tears prick at the corners of your eyes. It’s a feeling you’ve carried too, that you might never see him again.

“But you are here now, with me,” you remind him, resting your palm against his cheek. He sighs and you study his face. “Yet something troubles you.”

He shakes his head in denial, but the movement is half-hearted, a fleeting attempt to hide what he feels. Your fingers gently brush over the space between his brows, where the faintest line of worry has settled. 

“This tells me otherwise,” you say with a knowing look. 

He doesn’t say anything at first. His eyes search yours, as though he’s trying to find the words to explain what’s inside him.

“For so long I have been sustained by vengeance. It was always the next fight, the next battle, the next plan.” He closes his eyes and you can see the deep grooves time has etched into his face, the shadows of everything he's survived. “I did not let myself think about what would happen after all of this.”

“You rebuild Rome,” you tell him, the words simple but resolute.

His gaze doesn’t waver as he looks at you and he asks, “Is that what you want? Truly?”

“I want you. I want a life of peace and happiness,” you tell him, your fingers gently carding through his hair in a quiet reassurance. “Your grandfather’s dream would give that to me and so many others.”

“What else do you imagine in this life of ours?” he questions. 

There’s a quiet intensity behind his question and he watches you closely, almost like he’s searching for something. 

“What is it you imagine?” You ask.

"At times, I wondered..." he trails off, exhaling slowly, and turning his head so that his gaze drifts to the ceiling. The silence between you stretches and you watch the muscles of his throat work as he swallows hard. He seems to measure his words, as if what he’s about to say carries more significance than he’s ready to give voice to.  

“I thought I might find you with child when I returned,” he whispers, the longing in his voice palpable.

With child. The phrase lingers in your mind, tugging at something just beyond your reach. A nagging thought, one you’ve pushed away too many times, starts to surface. But before you can grasp it, Lucius's next words pull you back.

“I imagined a little boy with your eyes…or a girl with your smile.” He continues, the corner of his mouth lifting wistfully to transform his face into something even more handsome. “Children that would have your kindness, your goodness.” 

His confession is a painful one, unearthing a hope you buried so deep you almost forgot it existed. It was a dream you never let yourself entertain, because you knew, deep down, that if you planted that seed, nurtured it even for a moment, you’d never recover from its loss.

When Lucius looks back to you the question is clear in his eyes. Your answer comes before you can give it conscious thought. 

“Yes,” you assure him. How could you not want a child with the same fierce tenderness that Lucius carries in his heart? Someone who would inherit the best of both of you.

Lucius rises from your lap and draws you into his embrace.

“The thought of your growing round with my child is a prospect I look forward to,” he admits, resting his hand on the soft flesh of your belly. 

A jolt of something tightens in your lower abdomen at his touch, an unfamiliar flutter that gives you pause. And with it, the errant thought that had lingered at the edges of your mind, too fleeting to catch, comes rushing back into focus. 

You think of the dull, almost cramping sensation you’ve been attributing to the coming of your menses. How it never quite felt right. Too mild, too inconsistent. And the waves of nausea and exhaustion that have plagued you over the past few weeks alongside the other subtle changes in your body, small things that you dismissed as stress and anxiety.

But now, as his hand lingers there, warm and steady against your skin, the truth unfurls in your mind, clear and undeniable.

You’re already pregnant.

Lucius senses the shift in your demeanor and his brow furrows in concern. "What is wrong?" he asks.

“I do not think you will have to wait long,” you whisper with a shaky exhale. “I-I…I’ve been feeling strange these last weeks. I thought it was stress but…”

Lucius’s finger flexes against your belly, his gaze briefly flickering to your hand where it rests over his. Then, his eyes return to your face, and his words come soft but certain. “You have not bled.”

You shake your head and the hope and joy that suffuses every part of your body is almost crushing in its intensity. You can't hold it back anymore. Tearful joy spills from your eyes, and a breathless laugh escapes you, fragile and free all at once.

“A child,” Lucius breathes. 

The tender look of hope on his face and the love in his gaze is more beautiful than anything you could have imagined. His hand moves from your belly to cup your face, the touch so gentle it feels like something sacred. He pulls you into his arms, and for a long, perfect moment, you let yourself sink into the warmth of his embrace. His lips press softly against yours, so tender, almost reverent, as if this kiss is a quiet vow, a promise of everything to come.

When he pulls back, his forehead stays against yours, his breath mingling with yours. The love in his eyes is deep, unshakable and you know with certainty that this moment is not just the beginning of your child’s life, but the beginning of a life the two of you deserve. Together.

–

The chariot jolts, the rough motion throwing you off balance, but Lucius quickly steadies you with a firm hand on the small of your back. His touch seeps through the fabric of your white gown, grounding you as you lean into him instinctively. The chaos of the parade is overwhelming. Crowds line the street and the air buzzes with anticipation as the noise of their voices fills your ears. They chant your husband’s name, eager to see the savior of Rome. 

Your fingers instinctively brush over the diadem resting delicately on your head. The unfamiliar weight of it pulls at your scalp. Despite the servants’ careful work in securing it to your hair, a small, irrational fear grips you: what if it slips off, and everyone sees you are not worthy of it all? 

You were never meant to be in the spotlight like this but here you are, at the heart of it with Lucius beside you. He is poised and relaxed, lifting a hand to acknowledge the crowd. Behind you, Lucilla and Acacius ride in their own chariot, looking effortlessly graceful. Lucilla catches your eye, offering you an encouraging smile, and you return it. 

As the chariot moves forward, your gaze drifts toward the Colosseum. It rises in the distance, dominating the skyline. You expect to feel something, fear or anger perhaps, but instead, there is nothing. The Colosseum, that life of struggle and survival, is no longer the centerpiece of your world. It is behind you and Palatine Hill rises before you, a symbol of your new home and life. 

Hesitantly, your hand rises to offer a slow, deliberate wave to the crowd. The noise of their adoration intensifies and within the cries, you hear a shout of your own name and title mingled with Lucius’s. Hearing it sends a jolt through you. For a fleeting moment, the world seems to pause around you as the weight of everything settles in your chest. Like Caesar preparing to cross the Rubicon, you are standing on the precipice of something immense and there is no turning back. You can only move forward.

With that realization, you feel something shift deep within you, a quiet certainty taking root. It starts in your swollen belly, like the first spark of a fire, and spreads steadily outward, filling every part of you with a warmth you didn’t know you were missing. For the first time, you understand that you are not just here to fulfill Lucius’ dream and legacy. You are here for yourself and all those who once stood where you did — silent, powerless, nameless. 

You came to Rome a slave, but now, you are so much more. You are a wife, a princess, and soon, a mother – empowered and loved. And for the first time, you find you are not afraid.

The future is open to you, waiting to be shaped, and you are prepared to meet it head-on.

♡

Also part of this series:

Ab Initio

Post tenebras lux

Protego te

My inbox is open for your thoughts on this story, requests for drabbles with Lucius and further scenes with Lucius and the Fisherman's Wife.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Besotted 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, virginity loss, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your new neighbour brings intrigue and a bit of danger.

Characters: ex-con!Bucky Barnes

Note: Saturday is fat tiddies day. I'm sorry.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

"Wow, uh, I'd say that's a lot but it's really not much," you snort at Angelique as she comes out of your bathroom in a tiny string bikini. The leopard print is loud on the tiny triangles barely concealing her tits and a few other parts. 

"Not all of us are nuns like you," she retorts and sticks out her tongue. 

"I'm not a nun," you roll your eyes. 

You're not exactly modest yourself. You like your booty shorts and your cropped tops. And when you're lazy enough, you can be caught walking around in your purple track pants that read sex bomb across the ass. Not exactly classy, but fun. 

"Right, right, sure," she scoffs. 

"That's a low blow," you hiss. 

"Well, it's the truth. What's that now? Twenty-two and you're as pure as the blessed Mother Mary." 

"You're a fucking bitch," you sneer. 

"I am," she grins and shakes her tits. "But the guys love it." 

"You are so dumb," you scowl. 

"Try a smile, babe, and maybe someone will want to get it in." 

"Wow, did you just come over here to be awful?" 

"No, I came over to have fun. Loosen up, have some vodka." She insists. 

"Oh, no, I get it, you came to drink my booze," you accuse. 

"Look, it's hot enough out that I don't need you breathing down my neck. You invited me over," she snips. 

"Regretfully," you tweak your brow. 

"Boo, get you're fucking swimsuit on. I'm dying." She crosses her arms and drags her feet across the floor. She grabs her drink; some strawberry kiwi juice and too much vodka. 

"Why don't you go start?" You ask. "Better than pouting over your drinking problem." 

"Cuntttttt," she growls the last consonant. "Oh, you are the worst." 

"Isn't that why you love me?" You blow her a kiss and skip into your bedroom. 

You better keep up with her so you can put up with her. Vodka and orange juice should do the trick. A little less sickly sweet. You pull out your bikini. The sides of the bottoms are silver hoops and there's another between the bra cups. It's not exactly a nun's habit, is it? Especially with your tits. 

As you come out, you tuck in your left boob, the bigger one. Angelique swirls around her glass before emptying it. It's barely noon. 

"You know, you'll probably be drunk before you even get a tan," you chirp. 

"Probably," she shrugs and spins. "Come on, I'm bored." 

You huff and stomp around her. You pour yourself some vodka then find the carton of orange juice in your fridge. Hm, only enough for one drink. Nice of her to bring mixer for both of you. You dump it in with the vodka and head for the door. 

You grab your sunglasses before you step out into the sunlight. It's blazing hot. You slurp back the orange juice laced with alcohol and look around. You don't have much but it's yours. Somewhat. The sunburnt grass and cracked walkway. That's really the dream home. 

You put down your drink on the folding table under the mailbox and grab the kiddy pool leaning against the siding. Angelique makes no effort to help. You don't expect her too.

You drag it over onto the lawn and go around to unwind the hose. You unwind it and haul it back with you, tugging out the kinks until it reaches the pool. You'd do this all in the backyard but there's too many ant hills. 

You hold the hose and spray it into the plastic pool. As you do, you notice the peculiar dark shape in the next lot; a motorcycle. There's boxes on the other side of the duplex porch. Huh, they must've found a new tenant. 

Angelique pops open a bottle of tanning lotion and generously applies it over her arms and chest. She's shining as she smears it over her sandy skin. You'll put on some actual SPF when you get a minute. 

You wiggle the hose as you grow bored of filling the pool. Your mind wanders. She always has to say something. Always has to embarrass you. Never lets you forget every time you struck out. Well, you're just a little awkward. Maybe you should stop giving a fuck. Like her. 

"Oh, summer feels so good," she struts over with her drink and steps into the pool.

She sits and shivers so her pert tits jiggle. A top like that would do nothing but go missing under your chest. As she reclines and basks in the sunlight, you sigh. 

"Gee, Ang, thanks for all your help." 

"No problem, girly." She smirks and bends her leg, swaying it as you notice the neighbours across the street gawking. The two pot-bellied men who meet up to gripe on their lawn chair. Ew. 

You drop the hose in and go back to the porch. You dip inside for your bottle of sunscreen and come back out. You work at rubbing it in. You'll wait a bit before you get in so it doesn't wash off. It's no Hawaiian coast but that small dented pool is your only relief from the summer heat. 

Angelique swishes her second drink in the glass. You don't think she'd help with your back. She's in her own little bubble. As usual. 

You hear the snap of the door behind the wooden crisscross that blocks the other half of the porch. You glance over at the shadow that passes by. The unit's been empty almost since you got there. No tenant stayed longer than a month. 

The man tramps down his stairs and to the motorcycle leaning on its kickstand. He digs around in the saddle bags then turns. As he does, you catch his eye and give a half-smile. You wave weakly as he keeps going. Oh. 

You blink and look at Angelique. She's completely unaware; of your new neighbour or her audience. Two teen boys pass by in a not so subtle detour from their side of the street. You grimace but they're not looking at you. 

You turn the bottle in your hands. That man. He's kinda handsome, if he is a bit older. His long hair is a mix of fading brown and grey. His beard is seasoned with silver and his blue eyes shine boldly. And his jawline. That's to die for.  

Why had you been so hung up on boys your own age? 

The thought make you cringe. Are you serious? Angelique is right. You're too desperate. 

“Anj,” you approach the pool. 

“If you’re not offering to refill my drink, I don’t want to hear it.” Her eyes are closed behind the dark lenses. 

“Why are we friends again?” You mutter. 

She just giggles and finishes her drink. Nope. If she wants more, she can get it. You spin away and catch sight of that man again. 

Your new neighbour grabs a box from the stack on the front porch. You step up to the property line and smile. He doesn’t notice you as he disappears inside. 

There’s not much. The boxes are dusty, marked with the logos of the local storage facility, and his motorcycle is the only other thing there. He must’ve had the stuff dropped off. 

He emerges again and you wave, “uh, excuse me? Hi. Neighbour?” 

He pauses and his shoulders tense. He faces you slowly. His left arm is covered in ink. The patterns are intricate. His other arm is marked with scars. 

You introduce yourself as you sidle up the property line. He stares. 

“It’s nice to meet you.” You say. He still doesn’t answer. “What’s your name?” 

He looks up then back at you. “Bucky,” he grits out. His voice is sexy. 

��Oh, Bucky? That’s cute,” you say. “Say, neighbour, can I ask a favour? I’ll bring you a casserole for your trouble.” 

He considers you, “don’t gotta do that.” He crosses his arms. His biceps bulge and so do your eyes. He is built. 

“Oh, but I wouldn’t mind, it’s just...” you peek over your shoulder at Angelique as she lazes in the water. The sun beats down on you hotly and sweat beads on your nape. You look at Bucky. “I can’t reach my back.” You show the bottle of sunscreen and smile sheepishly. “Could I get a hand?” 

He grumbles and tilts his head. He looks you up and down. 

“I really don’t wanna burn. It’s so hot out.” You plead. 

Reluctantly he unfolds his arms and comes down the porch steps. He approaches and his chest decompresses visibly as he exhales. He extends his palm to you. You press the bottle into it. 

“Thanks!” You let go and shimmy then turn your back to him. 

There’s a moment before the lid clicks. He still doesn’t speak. You hear the lotion squirt and brace yourself. He smears it, barely touching you. As the lotion only slides over your skin, he sighs. He shifts and rubs it in more firmly. You push back against his strength, arching your back just slightly. 

Your heart races. His hesitance is disappointing. You know you’re not ugly. The reasons you got for your many rejections were that you didn’t want a one-night stand or you insisted on protection. It’s not too much to ask for. You really don’t think it’s your looks. 

“All done,” he says. 

The lid snaps shut loudly. 

You face him, your bikini top stretching dangerous as your chest bounces. His eyes flick down briefly. You nearly laugh. It’s a nice reassurance. 

“Thanks, Bucky,” you smile. 

He grumbles again and hands you back the bottle. Your cheeks are on fire. He’s so hot. He’s got that definition that makes you all fuzzy. You bet he knows exactly what to do. 

“So if you need anything, I’m just next door,” you point to your side of the duplex. “Oh, and I don’t mind noise. At all.” 

He nods. You wring your hands around the bottle. 

“But you know, if you do, I can be quiet,” you say, realising the double meaning only as your words hang between you. 

His brows rise and he dips his chin again. He turns and stalks away. He’s busy. You’re bothering him. You’ll try again when he’s not unpacking. 

Your eyes linger on his bike. That might be good place to start. It’s all harmless. You’re being a good neighbour. 

You go to your own side of the porch and put the bottle on the top step. You go to the pool and poke Angelique with your toe. “Move over.” 

She snorts but gives you room. You get in, arms around the edge, feet up on the other. She giggles. 

“What?” 

“He’s a bit... ancient,” she flips her sunglasses up and gives you a pointed look. 

“Whatever,” you shrug. 

“Even so... he’s in good shape,” she sits up slight, flattening her hands against the bottom of the pool. “Hmmm... maybe you might have a chance with the old man.” 

“You’re such a bitch,” you growl. 

“No, really. Do you think you do?” She asks. 

You furrow your brow and search her face, “why?” 

“Oh, it could be fun. How about a bet?” 

“A bet?” 

“Sure, you know, we’re going down to the beach. Got that old house by the shore and there’s only so many spots. You could have one if you can reel him in. No virgins on vacation,” she taunts. 

“Fuck, I hate you,” you sneer. 

“You love me and I know for a fact, you don’t have a chance of seeing the beach if you don’t come so...” 

You take a breath and peer over as your neighbour swings the door open once more. He’s entirely undistracted as he lifts another box. Your stomach swims with nerves. You can flirt; it’s that next thing you never got the hang over. But so far, he’s not even flirting. 

“Guaranteed?” You arch a brow in her direction. 

“Promise. It’ll give you something to talk about.” She cranes to watch, “you better hope his dick still works.” 

[toriaanin]

Well hello there (redacted*)! How nice of you to drop by. I'd offer you a cup of tea, but...

Me and my Lukola friends are too blind to find anything in the kitchen!

And while I'm paying attention to you (redacted)... did you not read the article that Nicola posted yesterday? Did you not take the hint that she was admonishing trolls and online bully behaviour? You know; behaviour that looks suspiciously like your message (above) to me? Perhaps you have eyesight issues too. Yes. Yes, I think you do.

As for me...

I'm simply following the clues that a possibly pregnant women has left for me and my friends. In fact her clues are more easily readable than brail.

Now; about this so called "launch" you speak of? Give me a break. Even through the haze of my cataracts I was able to see that her post for Jake the other day was lame. She didn't even tag him.

Let's compare her untagged "love" post to Jake with the HBD wishes she's posted on her IG stories for her other friends:

She shares a photo of Jake next to the trash can; a photo that doesn't even include her IN it. Surly Nicola has better photos of "the love of her life" on her phone?! Let's compare with how she wishes her very good friend Jack Rooke a happy birthday. So sweet! And tagged.

When Nicola wished Luke Fetherston a happy birthday she not only shared a photo with both of them in it, she also gave him THREE red hearts! Now that's hard launch material right there!! Oh. And he was tagged.

Nicola even gave more birthday love to Valentina, Camilla's dog, than she did to Jake. Sadly Valentina wasn't tagged either... although Camilla was 🥰 BUT, Nicola called Valentina a princess!

Don't worry. Jake's friend Hannah gave him this honourific, so he wasn't left out of the princess fairytale. It must be love!

But wait... there's competition for Jake's love!!

Now these are romantic birthday wishes to Jake, posted by Doug and Dylan the other day.

Clearly the man is loved by his friends. Deservedly so, I'm sure.

But I really, really, really question whether THIS was a hard launch?

Seems to me it was simply a birthday wish for her friend (not lover) Jake. Unfortunately she posted at 6:30am when she was half awake and neglected to tag him. Unlike her spelling-mistake story showing the billboard in Los Angeles, she didn't delete and repost Jake's birthday wish with the missing tag. I guess Luke and Bridgerton's ensemble cast nomination warranted a correctly spelled "Surprise". Deleted; replaced.

Now I ask you; am I really blind? I saw well enough to compile the photos above and make perfect sense of them. I don't see a love-launch of Jake. I see a man living his life, preparing for an amazing lead theatre role. What an opportunity! I also see a man that didn't spend time with Nicola over Christmas, New Years, her birthday, his birthday (according to her, she was in LA. Sure Jan), and today: Valentine's Day. I also see a man who is loved by his friends. Nicola is his friend.

Unless I'm missing something?

So (redacted*)... rather than come over here and rag on the truth I and my Lukola friends see - and that I shared above - why don't you and your little weiner-dog leader fuck the hell off. We know.

P.S. I'm tempted to create some merch for us blind Lukolas! Sarcastic t-shirts and sweatshirt merch is fun 💙 Want one?!

P.S.S. I've redacted the name of this poster because 10 hours after she sent this message to me, she recalled it... just before I was about to post this response. I could have scrapped my post, but she challenged me to SEE the truth. I wanted to oblige. I've redacted her name on the chance that she realized she didn't message me anonymously and so she chickened out and pulled her ask. Or perhaps she thought about Nicola's troll/bully post from yesterday and thought better of her action. Let's give her grace and assume that she came to her senses and not that she's too chicken shit to have her name out there along with her bully behaviour.

Aanin friends!

[demigodpolls]

calling all PJO fanfic readers!

In the interest of acknowledging great works by fandom writers, DemigodPolls is going to share a big year-end collection of 2024 Percy Jackson fanfic recommendations! In the comment section below or on this AO3 post, leave recommendations for the best PJO fanfics you've read - but there is one major rule: they MUST have been published or last updated in 2024! No exceptions! Reblogs are turned on, but please do NOT leave your recommendations in the reblogs/tags! They will not be considered! Before commenting, make sure that you read the additional specifications below the cut first. If you have nothing to recommend, please do reblog to help support fandom writers and spread the word! Thank you!!!

What we want:

strong grammar

strong writing skills

accurate/interesting depictions of PJO characters

angst/romance/drama/adventure/friendship/character studies/etc

accurately tagged stories (i.e. stories that don't surprise you with untagged triggering content)

stories written with love for the percy jackson universe and its characters

What we DON'T want:

stories that were published/last updated before 2024

stories about ships that would be age-inappropriate in canon, unless the characters are CLEARLY aged up in the story (e.g. no olympians x teenage characters, unless the younger character is explicitly an ADULT when they first meet in the fanfic)

stories that contain non-c*n, inc*st, p*dophilia

stories under 1000 words

stories that fall under "character x everyone"

stories about original characters (stories that contain some OCs in non-protagonist roles are fine, character x reader/self-inserts are fine)

stories that bash other ships/characters (i.e., don't recommend percabeth fics that bash rachel/perachel)

stories that contain non-PJO crossovers (except for RRverse crossovers, i.e. pjo + tkc is fine, toa alone is fine, tkc alone is not, pjo + harry potter is not)

stories that contain gore/extreme violence/extreme bodily harm

stories that contain cheating/infidelity (I just don't want to read those, sorry)

dialogue-only fanfics/texting-only fanfics

stories that contain W*TTG sp0ilers

can I recommend multiple things?

yes! just make sure to categorize them correctly under the relevant prompts.

can I recommend my own story?

yes, but you are highly, highly encouraged to simultaneously recommend at least one other fanfic that you yourself did not write - let's spread the love! (not required)

is smut okay?

yes! but you must specify clearly that the story contains smut in your comment, and please don't use explicit/overly sexual language in your recommendation. I also reserve the right to refuse to consider stories that contain k*nks I don't want to engage with. (ab0, hardcore bd$m, parental name k*nk to name a few)

are non-english fanfics okay?

you are absolutely welcome to recommend non-english fanfics to others in the comments! but I will not be able to put them on the final recommendation list, because I only speak english and I cannot personally vet their contents, cannot observe their grammar, and could be terribly misled by a translator. I'm very sorry! however, if you would like to put together a similar recommendation collection of non-english stories, I'd be happy to promote it on this blog.

is percico okay?

someone asked about this specifically, so here's my stance: percico is a controversial pairing due to the debated inappropriateness of the canon age gap (approx. 3 years). I personally consider 3 years between minors to be juuust beyond my comfort zone (2 years), so please respect my decision to abide by my own comfortability and refuse to consider stories that feature age gaps of this size or larger involving minors. however, you can recommend percico fics where the age gap is explicitly made smaller, or fics where nico and percy are both explicitly adults! this same rule applies to any other ship in a similar circumstance - check the wiki for canon ages if you're unsure! (and to be clear, this is solely about ages, not about the individual merit of the pairing itself. respectfully - this is me drawing a boundary about what I am comfortable with, so do not argue with me on this topic).

is caleo okay?

this pair is even more controversial nowadays, so here's my stance when it comes to weird magical circumstances: within the logic of the pjo universe, some things that seem strange from a mortal perspective are standard within the books. i.e., it's not weird to date fellow demigods, even if the person you're dating is technically your aunt/uncle/cousin/etc. likewise, it's not "weird" for a teenager to date an immortalized or de-immortalized teenager, because... I genuinely don't know, that's just how the book logic works. for that reason, caleo works are accepted. we're going to apply this same logic to pairs like theyna, which could also potentially have murky circumstances (although I do consider thaluke to be especially iffy, because it heavily depends on the situation that people write them in - so if you're unsure, go ahead and submit it, and I'll use my best judgement from there). however, I cannot begin to express my extreme disinterest in discourse about immortal dating ethics - like, I would rather do anything else. not trying to be sassy here, but I'm going to ask you guys to not pick a fight about these topics, for the simple reason that I have zero interest in debating over situations that could never occur in real-life.

are incomplete/discontinued stories okay?

yes! I'd prefer stories that have at least three chapters, but this is not required. completed one-shots are also fine!

If someone already recommended a story that I like, should I vouch for it?

if you would like to, then absolutely!! you can respond to the appropriate prompt from this account in the comments, or you can reply to the person making the recommendation. just make sure to explicitly state which story you're advocating for.

Comments that do not follow these guidelines may be deleted!

How to make recommendations:

There are two places in which you can make your recs! You can click here to leave them on an AO3 mirror of this post, or do so in the comment section below. If the latter, continue reading. Please leave the story name, author username, story rating, main ship, and main characters in your comments - and if you'd like, definitely add some words about why you like it! AO3 direct links are not necessary, but super appreciated. But if it's not on AO3, please ensure that you make clear where exactly I can locate the story. In the comments below, you'll see comments that you can reply to, sorted by ships/lack thereof. Please sort your recommendations by replying to them accordingly (i.e. if you want to recommend 2 solangelo fics and 1 valgrace fic, leave the 2 solangelo recs under the solangelo prompt, then do the same in the valgrace prompt). You MUST explicitly state somewhere if the fanfic contains smut. If you're not sure where to put your recommendations, make your best guess - but absolutely do NOT intentionally mis-categorize your recommendations (i.e, if the pair is not canon, do not put it in the canon pairing section. Seriously. This makes things much more difficult for me while organizing fics, and I'll probably delete your comment anyway.) Lastly, please be mature about shipping. Nothing irritates me more than fighting about percy jackson ships in 2024. If you see fanfics recommended about pairings (or characters!) that you hate, do the mature thing and just scroll past it/do not engage. Character hate and ship hate is not tolerated on this blog. I am very serious about this - if you are starting a fuss about ships/characters, your comments will be deleted and your account will be permanently blocked. Respect your fellow fandom-mates! I will do my best to moderate this comment section, but before looking through them, please understand that I am not responsible for your individual well-being, and there may be fanfic recommendations that are not appropriate for minors/might contain triggering content/etc.

Here's a little form for those of you who find this easier to use, but you don't have to use it!! However, PLEASE do include the following information in your comment regardless:

story name: author: rating: ship: main characters: additional comments (what's it about? why do you like it? etc):

Don't forget, fanfics published/last updated in 2024 only!

Thank you so, so much for participating! The collection won't be published on this blog until late December, so until then, take your time, check those bookmarks, and read new PJO fanfics! Much love to all of you ♡

- demigodpolls

(art by @viria)

(dividers by @cafekitsune)