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amourcheol · 1 month ago

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ave, general

❝The Eagle of Rome has returned to you at last.❞

historical! au | fluff, smut, crack | 16.1k words

s u m m a r y : after your husband returns from the wars in foreign lands, you could not be more proud to see him be the shining pride of rome. however, even among the celebrations and your own personal news, lee jihoon only wanted one thing—some time alone with you.

c o n t e n t : roman! au, roman general! jihoon, husband! jihoon, father! jihoon, mother! mc, a lot of historical background and roman terms to add historical accuracy, soldiers! bss + wonwoo and chan, this is bss and friends, all of them are so annoying it's a wonder they aren't executed, seungcheol is, in a literal sense, a baby, this is a bullying chan campaign, the soldiers do NOT know how to talk to a baby, domesticity <333 mature content ↠ mentions of loss of loved ones, descriptions of war and death, dirty talk, petnames (my love, my sweet, darling, mea vita), fingering, oral sex (f. receiving), slight exhibitionism, unprotected sex (roman contraceptives are dookie), multiple orgasming, slight aftercare

t a g l i s t : @hyuckworld @gyuswhore @lexyraeworld @moonlightwonu @spooky-goose1003 @dvalitaes @cookiearmy @lllucere @syluslittlecrows @mrsjohnnysuh @fancypeacepersona @thepoopdokyeomtouched @monstacheol @xabsolutelynothingx @kyeomiis @icecream-sundaes @peachytokki @jihanniecheol @ourkivee

a u t h o r ' s n o t e : she is here!! i promised myself i would release this once i've watched gladiator II and she is back...changed woman...i guess this is a belated bday present to jihoon? thank u for inventing music king </3 enjoy reading loves !!

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“WHERE IN JUPITER IS HE?”

The maid whined as she focused on the crowd once more—thousands of citizens gathered across in the Capitol, the road cleared for the procession about to occur. Giddy conversations of every man, woman and child flourished for a mile, and you had to hold onto the girl accompanying you to not be trodden over.

“Careful, mistress!” Myrtia, your servant, warned as you dared take a step at the edge of the hill. “They will be here any minute now!”

You did not listen, holding onto your heavy shawl tighter as you waited in earnest of what was to happen. Rome was a city of chaos, but you did not hear the noise—despite the crowds, the instruments, the chanting, every single voice seemed irrelevant as you stood over the Capitolium. The little houses underneath you swirled around the hill, all evolving the temple behind you, the destination of the people about to be welcomed. Columned buildings made of stone and marble surrounded the crowds, speckled with garlands, its bright colours of vermillion shining in the summer sun.

A small sigh left your lips. Today was the day he would come back home to you.

“By the gods!” Myrtia let out an excited screech, grabbing onto your arm and pointing towards the empty street, barricaded by the people. “They’re here, they’re here!”

Following her finger, you stared at the scene.

That was when the parade entered.

Screams of elation spanned across the crowd as thousands of soldiers flooded in tight ranks, accepting the cheers with pride as they marched along, prisoners of war being dragged along by their chains. There must have been hundreds, spanning back beyond your vision, dirtied and haggard, but that was the consequence of challenging the Empire. The soldiers all adorned their red and silver uniform, smiling at the city which welcomed them.

Your eyes scanned the front of the parade, lips curving at the five men on decorated horseback. Each and every one of them had their distinguishable responses towards the people who sang praises to them, and you longed to see them ride up to the Hill where you could greet them.

When your gaze hovered to what rode in front of the men, it widened.

Four horses, adorned in the finest metals and blood-coloured clothing, led the chariot of the same colour, fully festooned in laurels. Gold swirls cemented on its front, making itself heard with its screeching wheels.

It was not the chariot you cared about.

No, it was the man who stood in it.

The man who was clothed in royal purple and gold, holding a laurel branch in one hand and a sceptre in the other. The man, whose wild black hair perfectly settled the golden crown that another beside him held. The man, whose ghost of a smile sent the crowd in absolute frenzy, beginning up a chant to his name.

“Hurrah for the Triumph!”

“Hurrah for the Eagle!”

Your heart stopped to a standstill.

At last. At long last, the Eagle of Rome had come back to its nest.

“Mistress, look!” Myrtia exclaimed, pointing towards the star of the show, the lead victor in this parade. “Your husband achieved the Triumph!”

You glanced at her with unadulterated pride before focusing on the man in front, coming closer in your vision as he began the ride up the hill. The Triumph. A public celebration of a certain general who managed to lead Rome to a special, foreign victory. It meant the destruction of the enemy, complete desolation, which a mere centurion could not simply achieve. To receive the Triumph was to be respected by the highest of the Roman officials.

You smiled at the notion. The destination for the parade was the Temple of Jupiter behind you, its columns holding up the huge, faded roof, towering over the few beloved relatives of the generals that led the soldiers. “I never doubted he would.”

The crowds grew wilder as the generals journeyed closer, halfway up the rocky hill—everyone opened their doors, leaving their houses to witness the rare spectacle. “Do you think they would let us speak to them?” your maid wondered out loud, following your steps as you turned your back, walking to the Temple. Standing right beside the steps, upstaged till they reached your height. “Gods, I forgot how big the temple is sometimes!”

“Wait here,” you said, holding onto the polished stone as you climbed up the steps. The thundering sounds of hooves on cobblestone entered your ears, and the few other relatives which accompanied you silenced, joy in their faces as the parade ascended. You turned before the show, the entire building shading you with its presence.

There he was.

With his four white horses slowing, neighing wildly at the company that arrived at the hill. With his red and golden chariot inciting excited Latin from the crowd, there he was, swiping past in front of his friends. The horses finally stopped, just before the steps, and the generals behind him followed suit, halting their own as they waited for their commander.

Their commander let go of the reins—stepped down from the chariot, purple robe flowing after the steps. The head that wore the crown turned to the Temple, laurel and sceptre still in his hands.

His calculating eyes skimmed the crowd, face exposing a little pride at the turnout.

He then faced his destination—right on you his stare settled, standing alone at the entrance.

You swore you saw his entire body still.

You were not wrong. The commander parted his mouth, eyes widening with who welcomed him past the steps. Gods, he nearly dropped the possessions in his hands, staring and staring at the woman.

No, not just a mere woman.

But you, his wife.

One of the generals, instantly noticing their leader’s change, got off his horse, same black hair glinting in the sun. He walked over, taking the objects from his hands, smiling knowingly.

When the leader’s hands were free of the spoils, he willed his feet across the sanded street, first step atop the stairs. His gaze never wavered, unable to stray from the woman who haunted his nights.

You, however, could not wait at all.

A choked sob escaped you as your own feet dashed forward, barely able to control themselves as you ran to him. His arms began to raise as you collided against him, wrapping your hands around his neck and crying into his purple-clad chest.

“Missed you...Jihoon…” your muffled murmurs slipped into his attire. “Missed you...so much.”

You felt strong arms envelop you, a rough-hewn face burying into your shoulder. “I thought of you everyday, mea vita.”

Mea vita. My life. A smile caught onto your tears as you hugged him tighter. “And I thought of you every night.”

He returned it, feeling his lips curve upon your skin. Placing a small kiss, he pulled away slightly, only to take your face with one of his hands and lean in closer. Enveloping your lips with yours, he kissed you with the longing of a thousand lost souls, finally returned to their other half.

A soft groan threatened to leave your captured mouth, but then you felt your husband pull away, hands upon your waist. “I must stop here, my love, or I would not be able to stop afterwards.”

Cheeks burning, you did not let go of him. “Are you not finished?”

Shaking his head, he looked beyond you, to inside of the Temple. “I have to pay respects. It is the final part of the ceremony.” He turned to you again, aching to take you before the sacred grounds. “I cannot have you waiting for me that long.”

You were to object until the raven-haired boy behind him spoke up, waving his hand about. “We can escort her home, Jihoon,” he suggested, patting his general on the shoulder. “We do not need to go inside.”

“Are you sure, Wonwoo?” your husband asked, looking towards the other four.

One of the centurions, with straight, cropped black locks framing his face, grinned smugly, holding onto his reins. “Oh, just let her leave with us!” he exclaimed. “We all know she missed us more than your stone-cold arse!”

You chuckled as Jihoon knifed the man with a glare. “A few hours in Rome, and Soonyoung is already a pain in my backside.”

The younger centurion beside Soonyoung scoffed, brown locks being caressed by the wind. “As if he is not a bother for us all.”

Soonyoung mocked a gasp. “Seungkwan!”

“Everyone, quiet down!” Another man declared, eyes closed and head raised in pride. “We all know our Captain’s wife wishes to ride with me.”

Soonyoung began to chortle at the claim. “_____, you might as well walk home than take Seokmin’s offer,” he mused, earning a near-death experience with a dagger thrown at him.

Raising a brow at the bickering group, you raised a finger. “You know what? I think I shall ride with Chan.”

The said-boy perked up, eyes widening. “Me?” He asked, dumbfounded. “Well, of course, I just—”

“He would fall asleep mid-journey!” Seungkwan complained, crossing his arms. “It is already past his bedtime!”

“Hey!” Chan chimed in, but it did not help that he looked away, trying to stifle a yawn. Seungkwan pointed and laughed, proving his stupid point.

“Enough!” Jihoon shouted, silencing them all instantly. “If _____ says she wants to go with Chan, then that is final.”

All of them began to complain, but one warning glare from their commander had them quieting like scolded children. Chan, being the one chosen, began to smile in innocent satisfaction, earning the evil wrath of Seokmin and Seungkwan. Soonyoung merely shrugged, whereas Wonwoo put a hand on his chest, heartily agreeing with his commander.

You glanced at the man in charge, looking as ever the victor in his royal robes. “Come home soon.”

Stealing another kiss from you, he squeezed your sides in comfort, smiling in reassurance. “I already am home, vita.”

THE LEGACY COMMANDERS ALWAYS KNEW HOW TO MAKE THE MOST NOISE.

Throughout the half-hour journey, the five men talked of their lives for the near-two years they were away—the battles they had won, and the siege they had laid over Alexandria, where Mark Antony and Cleopatra were finally defeated.

Chan glanced back every five minutes to check you were stable on horseback, urging you to hold tight whenever a rockier road was being taken. You patted him softly where you rested your hands upon him, showing him you were well. “Do not fret over me, dearest,” you assured him, earning an uneasy chuckle from him.

Unfortunately, the few centurions, riding right beside you two, heard your reassurance, and instantly resorted to striking fear. “Hanging onto Chan for dear life will not help you!” Seungkwan remarked loudly. “One wrong bounce of the horse and he is flying off!”

The youngest of the men, on instinct, tightened his hold on the horse, now fearing he would drive his commander’s wife to her death. Soonyoung laughed at the scene, but set his sights on the next youngest down. “Seungkwan should not be talking,” he crowed, galloping further ahead. “Pray tell us, how much denarii did you borrow off Wonwoo to heal your broken leg? You know, after you tripped over a tent rope?”

“Careful, Soon,” Seokmin exclaimed over the horses’ hooves. “Or Seungkwan will not hesitate to call on all the escorts you went bankrupt over in Egypt!”

Soonyoung immediately whirled his head to you, who eyed him incredulously. “_____, it is an exaggeration!” he deflected. “It was only one visit, merely to see what the women were like—!”

“Is it true, Wonwoo?” you asked, who was fighting back a grimace at his friend’s endeavours. “Is our dear centurion as scandalous as he’s accused to be?”

The answer was swift. “Soonyoung’s cock is as clean as the city sewers.”

As everyone cackled, the guilty flushing with embarrassment, he quickly switched the conversation to everyone’s adventures while on the road to Alexandria. Soonyoung did most of the storytelling, with Seokmin chipping in with great pride—Seungkwan had to tell the two of them off when they exaggerated their military prowess, while Wonwoo only laughed, narrating the truth of their adventures. Whatever they told you, though, you knew that they came out victorious.

The Legacy Legion was destined for greatness—especially if Jihoon Park commanded it.

By the time they were done, you had arrived at your villa, almost on the outskirts of Rome. The huge estate had been gifted to your husband by his superior, Octavian, who was thankful for the continuous loyalty he had seen from the Legion. Its exterior towered over the five horses, guards opening the gates to let you and your friends inside.

The estate was basked in whites and greys, roof the colour of baked bricks adding vibrancy to the faded walls. When entering, you were met with your bustling courtyard, servants hard at work with preparations for Jihoon's return. Within the four walls were different rooms which served different purposes—you could smell the different breads and meat being cooked on a slow heat, taking their time to be fully made. The boys began to salivate at the aroma, and when you felt Chan’s stomach grumble beneath your fingers you reined in a laugh, waiting for him to heave off before helping you down as well.

“Take the horses to the stables,” you ordered one of the servants walking past you, who nodded, shouting for other men to come and help him.

Seokmin groaned as he sniffed the air again, holding his armour-clad stomach. “I cannot take this any longer!” He whined, stomping to where the smell took him. “____, I must have cena now or so help me Ceres!”

“Stop complaining about lunch!” Seungkwan crowed. “I gave you half of my breakfast, and you pinched Chan’s bread too!”

“Here we go again,�� Wonwoo mumbled. He then heard grumbling in his abdomen, and knew he could not argue against his body.

You watched the absolute creatures in tenderness, and waved them all over. “Come,” you began, walking inside the first door. “I wish to show you something.”

“This better be some roasted boar!” Soonyoung grumbled, earning a jab in the arm from Wonwoo.

The destination was not far, and with one further turn, you ended up in a smaller, yet spacious room, golden sunlight streaming through the windows. You ushered the boys in, taking up the entire space, and they were all about to complain when you showed them.

Every single man in the room melted at the sight.

“By the gods!”

“Tell me it is not an illusion!”

“This is a better sight than roasted boar!”

Laughing, you put a hand to your lips. “Not so loud now! Jihoon is not aware of this yet, and I wish to tell him myself.”

“Of course!” Wonwoo agreed, eyes dancing. “By Jupiter, he would be overjoyed!”

“I hope so,” you voiced out your wishes, glancing at the surprise.

The boys were about to say more when they heard the distant sounds of thundering hooves near the villa, and everyone stilled.

“Quick!”

“Everyone get out of here!”

“Seungkwan, move—”

The five greatest centurions of Rome scrambled to get out of the tiny bedroom, rushing into the courtyard where Jihoon now made his entrance, crown still upon his head. He saw the rather guilty exit of his men, and raised a brow at their strange behaviour.

“What are you all—” he was about to ask, but then the boys dashed towards him, each grabbing his arm and pushing him to their last destination. “Wait, hold on—!”

“This is of extreme importance, we assure you!” Wonwoo simpered, knowing his end was near with the behaviour he and his friends upkept.

“Even more important than lunch!” Soonyoung added.

“Even more important than roast boar!” Seokmin chimed in.

Jihoon was about to throw them off when they pushed him into the small room, waving excitedly at you. “We will be looking for food!” Seungkwan called from the door, and Chan looked at you apologetically before following after his friends.

Watching them busy themselves, he turned to you, cocking his head. “What was all that for?”

“They are terrible actors, but they had good intentions.” You then bit your lip, glancing beside you. “Actually, they brought you here for a reason.”

“Oh?” He took a step forward.

Nodding your head, you put your hand upon the stone. “Jihoon, while you were gone, I had a life-changing experience.”

Furrowing his brows, he put his hands on his hips. “And that was?”

Exposing a little smile, you ushered him closer, gazing down at the said-experience.

“My love, I gave birth to our son.”

You felt Jihoon’s world still for a moment.

Within seconds after, he closed the distance to the cot, following your gaze.

There, wrapped in blankets, lay a small baby, lost in sleep.

The general did not know what to say.

He could only watch the little bundle of life as he dreamed of things which he could not understand, tiny lips brushing against his tiny thumb. The man’s heart began to race at the sight of his closed eyes, the flutter of his lashes as he stirred in slumber.

So innocent the baby was—so vulnerable that he wondered whether people of his time even knew what innocence meant.

He thought all good had withered from the world till his eyes beheld this child. His son.

“It was he that helped me cope with your absence Jihoon,” you continued, and you did not know why it began to hurt to talk. “You see, the boy looks so much like you.”

Your husband’s eyes flickered to you, catching the melancholy in your stare. He knew—of course he knew how you felt about him hardly being here.

You could not blame him, though. With a position of such esteem came great responsibility, which he would risk his life to fulfil. It was his honour, his undeterred loyalty in what he believed in, that made you fall so deeply in love with him. Still, you admitted that life was barely liveable without his magnetic presence near you.

He propped his hands on the edge of the cot. “May I...may I hold him?”

“Of course,” you replied, slowly pulling the boy in your arms, cooing softly so he stayed asleep. When you were sure he was peaceful, you held him out to your husband, who took a deep, shuddering breath.

With shaking hands, he raised them towards his son, feeling the soft cotton of his blanket beneath his fingertips. Staring at Jihoon, you made sure that he would not let go—satisfied, you gave him the stirring bundle.

Another hard sigh escaped him.

The child, on instinct, nuzzled further into his hold, right into his chest, and he knew his answer straight away. His heart fluttered nervously, holding his breath to not wake him. It was so bizarre that his nerves heightened with every second, fearing he would let go—his sword was heavier than this child, yet his hold on him was shaky, uncertain.

He wondered if he could ever get used to this feeling.

There were sensations he had experienced which brought him immense joy. His victories, his commandeering of the Roman legions, the subsequent victories that were guaranteed under his leadership. His centurions, who, despite their incessant complaining, shouting, general presences, were the catalyst to his success. You, who was behind the man that he was, and became—the reason he breathed.

A small murmur escaped the little boy, and all the love Jihoon had lost these years had come back.

He was never the one to expose such extreme emotions, but gazing at the baby brought him such…peace. In truth, he had not felt peace in a long, long time, yet the feeling washed over him, like small waves upon the shores of a beach. Each twitch of his fingers, every kick of his feet brought his soul to a standstill, then revived it once more.

He contributed to this creation. He was half the reason for the slumbering life in his hands.

His stare did not leave his son. “What did you name him, vita?”

Your gaze was rooted to him as you answered.

“Seungcheol.”

Jihoon’s rocking froze.

His eyes darted towards you, and the pure shock which emitted had your heart breaking. His mouth parted, only for silence to welcome his tongue.

It was now your hands which held onto the cot.

Seungcheol was not some ordinary name you thought up on the hour of the birth.

No, this name was originally held by the previous leader of the Legacy Legion.

Most importantly, the name was held by yours and Jihoon’s dearest friend.

Choi Seungcheol was a sweet, charismatic boy who had grown up in the same neighbourhood as you and Jihoon. He was the nail in your house of the trio, and the mastermind of the romance which weaved between the two of you.

He had an incredibly bright future ahead of him. Under Octavian’s army he had achieved the title of primus pilus—the leadership of an entire legion—with all of the boys, including Jihoon, under his command. He was an advocate of justice, and had risked his friends many times for defending the rights of Rome and her citizens against tyrants.

It was these very tyrants that brought about his downfall.

Jihoon was never meant to leave your side these past two years. He was meant to stay in Rome under Octavian, but the rivalry against Mark Antony had crossed lines, and war was about to be waged. Seungcheol, forever the hero, vowed his undeterred loyalty to the former, and promised to shed Mark Antony’s blood.

That very night, the commanders of the Legacy Legion were celebrating the war when a group of assassins launched an ambush—the five of them managed to cut out and leave, but Jihoon was on the verge of death fighting. Your husband was to die that night.

That was when Seungcheol made a sacrifice.

He hollered at the assassins to fight him, giving Jihoon the chance to escape. Your husband begged him to run, but he knew his friend would not listen.

When Jihoon saw the dozen daggers slash into Seungcheol’s chest, he could not let the sacrifice go to waste.

It was this act that brought him the rage to accept command of the Legacy Legion. It was this dire need of vengeance that helped him cope with the months of stalemates across Egypt, when he thought Mark Antony was to escape.

It was Choi Seungcheol’s sacrifice that made Lee Jihoon the Eagle of Rome.

Thinking of this particular past had your vision stinging.

Jihoon scoffed, stroking his baby’s brow. “Imagine how smug he would be now,” he mused, “If he knew we named our son after him.”

The thought had you rasping out a laugh. “Gods, we would never hear the end of it.”

He cracked a smile, gaze never straying from his bundle. He grew silent once again, clamping his lips together. Scared to wake him if he rocked him further, Jihoon settled the boy back into the pillowed cot, blinking back the stinging in his eyes.

He turned to you, and seeing his change of expression had you stepping closer. “Darling?” you got out, your hands raising to touch his face. “What troubles you?”

Shaking his head, he wrapped his fingers around your wrist. Leaning into your palm, he replied, “Nothing troubles me, vita.”

Then, he pressed a small kiss upon your skin. “I have no more troubles now that I have seen him…and I have him because of you.”

His gaze settled upon you, eyes glossed with teary gratitude. “Thank you, my love, for bringing me peace.”

The words nearly made you cry.

Jihoon did not let you, though, when, with his other hand sliding around your waist, he pulled you to him. He enveloped his lips with yours, and with a whine you accepted him, closing your eyes. The kiss you shared was achingly soft, seething with months upon months of longing—he turned your head slightly, and his lips delved deeper, taking you fully with the strength of a waking beast.

His hands dug deeper into your sides, feeling the desperation seep into his lips as he slowly pushed you back, your arms closing about his neck, needing him all over you. Sliding your hands within his locks, you revelled in its velvety softness, knowing you could live forever in him.

The action had your husband humming into your mouth, a perfect incentive as he backed you against the wall, pressing himself fully against you, extinguishing any last atom of space between you two. You could not get enough of him, trying to make up months of his absence in this kiss alone, but you wanted more, needed more, or you would collapse in his arms.

It was fortunate for you that he understood you perfectly.

However, your dear friends did not understand at all, bursting into the nursery in utmost hurry.

Five pairs of eyes rooted to the passionate scene before them.

Chan let out a shrill scream.

You and Jihoon repelled from each other, breathless gasps emitting as both of you whirled your heads to the door. The five centurions gathered at the doorway, stunned at the show that went on before they interrupted.

Seokmin let out a groan, clutching his stomach. “I regret eating that entire boar now,” he rasped out, turning away from the panting couple. Seungkwan elbowed him harshly in the gut, making the former double over.

Soonyoung sauntered in, stepping past you two in mighty fashion. “You both are insufferable!” he yelled, bringing out baby Seungcheol and rocking him in his arms. “Carrying out such atrocities with a child nearby?”

“I apologise for the disturbance, general,” Wonwoo said, glaring at the man who now cooed comically at the baby. “We were just...um, we were to ask ____ of the plans tonight.”

“But y-you seem to be very preoccupied!” Chan added, pulling the men near him away from the door. “So we shall not disturb you again!”

“You should have thought about that before,” your husband hissed. “And what do you mean by plans?”

“For your return,” you answered, smiling a little as you regained your composure. “It has been too long since you stepped foot at home. Of course I am to celebrate.”

“And do we not exist to you?” Seungkwan demanded, armoured hands at his hips. “You include Jihoon only as if we were here in Rome partying this entire time!”

“I wished that were the case,” Soonyoung drawled, stepping beside you, swaying the baby the entire time. “I would rather the company of wine than you foul-smelling bastards anyday.”

Seokmin, recovering, scoffed, pointing a finger at his fellow centurion. “Oh, do let us know then, Soonyoung, who was calling us his dearest friends on the march to Alexandria?”

“That does not count!” he countered, waving off the claims. “I was beyond gone from wine, and everyone spews rubbish when drunk.”

“You spew rubbish anyway,” Wonwoo muttered.

“You are lucky I am holding Jihoon’s child right now, or I would have knocked you out.”

“Just Jihoon’s child?” you crossed your arms. “And what if you were holding someone else’s baby?”

There was a pause at that. “I shall not comment further.”

“Enough!” the general ordered, silencing the bickering group. “Out, the lot of you! Go back to your own homes and leave us alone!”

“But _____ said we can stay here and help with preparations!” Wonwoo voiced out, stepping forward in haste.

“I never said that!”

“Please, Jihoon,” he continued anyway, “I have no wish to dump all responsibility on her.”

The said-man pursed his lips in thought, clearly in no hurry to keep his friends when he could be using this precious time to continue what he left off with you. Already his hands ached to linger further over your body, but if he was disturbed once again, then he would kill his subordinates without hesitance.

Seokmin stopped his train of thought. “Personally, I have no wish to do housework,” he jeered.

Your husband then smiled, which was more a flash of teeth. “Brilliant. You can piss off back home, then.” He then directed his threatening stare towards the others. “All of you.”

Five pairs of eyes turned to you, hoping for your objection on the matter. However, you only shrugged, holding out your hands to the man beside you. “General’s orders, I fear.” When a series of groans followed at your verdict, you took Seungcheol from Soonyoung’s hands. “Do not whine like that, friends! I am giving you the chance to have more fun before tonight’s celebrations!”

“Whatever,” Seungkwan grumbled, turning his cloak as he stepped out of the room. “I am off to get more drinks! Anyone but Jihoon may join me.”

“Hey!�� the commander shouted, but the men were already leaving, save for Chan, scratching the back of his head.

Seokmin cocked his head in question at his friend’s stillness. “What are you standing here for, fool?”

“Well, um,” Chan started, his shy gaze levelling with yours. “I am not inclined to wine as of now, so I was hoping if I could...err, linger here and help around…” His eyes widened, raising his hands. “But if it is bothersome I will accompany the others!”

Your heart melted at his timidity. “What are you so nervous for? Of course you can stay. Those four idiots will only be causing trouble the entire afternoon.”

“And we intend to continue such troubles at night as well!” Soonyoung declared, almost skipping to the entrance. “Honey wine, here I come!”

“Chan, are you sure?” Jihoon asked, gesturing towards the exiting group. “You should rest a little after months of fighting.”

“I am alright, I insist,” his soldier assured him, raising his arms. “Let me take care of the child.” When you obliged, handing him the stirring bundle, he slowed his movements, ever so careful not to disturb him. He darted his gaze over you. “You, uh,” he said, and he chuckled sheepishly, a blush rising upon his cheeks. “You both carry on with whatever you were doing before!”

Before you could say further, the man was hurrying out, forgetting to close the door as he took Seungcheol with him.

You and Jihoon watched him go, stunned at the sudden entrance of the centurions, and then the sudden exit within minutes. You could not help the huff of laughter that escaped you at their antics, catching his attention. “What is the laugh for?”

“Your commanders, darling,” you mused, wrapping an arm around your husband. “They are more bizarre than usual.”

Exhaling through his nose, he returned your embrace twice over, engulfing you within his hold. “My half-witted commanders,” he reminisced, running his fingers across your back. “They are delighted to be back.”

“I can tell,” you giggled out, leaning into him. “I missed them greatly.”

His face ghosted a little smugness. “But you missed me more.”

“You keep convincing yourself of the notion.”

Feeling his laughter reverberating off him, you felt yourself being pulled at arm’s length, looking up at him once more. Your husband leaned in then, gently pressing his forehead against yours. “No one is at home anymore, vita.”

A raise of your eyebrow. “Chan just asked me to stay here.”

“Oh, you know what I mean,” he insisted, brushing his nose with yours. “We are alone...with no one to bother us again…”

Much as you would like to follow his intentions, you feared the state of the pending party. It had been two years since the Eagle and his centurions’ return—their triumph will be celebrated without fault.

“Jihoon,” you murmured, taking great pains in retracting from his kisses. “I must go.”

His lips trailed down to your chin, making your willpower all the more weak. “Can you not spare me even an hour?”

If you could spare him half that hour, you would have gladly indulged him, but the party arrangements awaited. The soldiers, and your general, deserved the best of welcomes.

So you made yourself separate from his tempting hold, taking a few steps away from him. “I cannot offer even a second, my love.”

The man pretended to be beyond upset at your resistance. He waited till your feet landed on the entryway when he spoke.

“Perhaps it was better you did not give me a mere hour, vita.”

You looked back. Leaning against the stone cot, he let his lips curl upwards. “It simply would not suffice.”

The curiosity in your eyes had him further smirking. “I need an entire day to make up for the two years of absence from you.”

It was sheer luck you were holding onto the doorframe.

“Careful, love,” he cooed, which only had you stumbling further out of the door in shock. His laughter followed you faintly as you left the room, blood rushing to your cheeks in drastic speed.

You hoped ardently, without shame, that he would carry out his intentions.

Then, you aggressively shook your head, heading straight to the kitchens. Not these thoughts at the moment, _____.

You have a party to prepare for.

THE NIGHT OF THE WELCOMING ARRIVED AS QUICKLY AS YOU HAD HOPED.

The guests began to enter your estate as soon as the sun descended on the empire, bringing words of praise and gifts to your husband and his soldiers. Your pride swelled exceedingly at hearing the positive messages, encouraging everyone to drink to their health. The smiles did not cease, widening further when the men and women fawned over your child. They wished for your baby to grow up just like the man he was named after, and you smiled, scared that one word from you would have your tears gushing.

You had everyone lay on their seated beds, surrounding tables filled with nourishment. Orders spilled from your lips to never stop the plates of beef and veal and fish and infinite other meats—tonight, your guests would feast like emperors.

Eventually, the stars of the legion arrived, howling in celebration at seeing you adorned in indigo-coloured finery. You reckoned that they had drunk a fountain’s worth before showing up here, but you only hauled them inside, showing them to their place—cushioned couches all set up around low, circular tables, food nearly toppling off the edges.

Seokmin drooled at the sight. “Out of the way, bastards!” He declared, running straight for the bedding in the middle part of the cushioned arc, settling himself nicely before digging in instantly. “Tell your slave Chan to bring us some wine!”

As if on cue, the soldier came rushing in with huge jugs of the featured drink, looking at you. “Is this alright?”

“Of course, Chan,” you said, taking the jugs from him. “Now you lay beside your friends! You have helped me enough.”

“Where is that man of yours, my lady?” Soonyoung drawled, snatching a cup of honey wine from the servants. “He did not accompany us this afternoon.”

“He had to go meet Octavian,” you answered, the rest of the centurions lodging themselves on the cushions. “There were honours he had to receive from him before he could officially celebrate here.”

“As long as he gets drunk with us, I do not mind,” Wonwoo voiced, raising his cup in toast.

Seokmin, seeing Chan looking around in embarrassment, poured a cup full of alcohol and pushed it in his hand. “Drink up, boy! I am not having you shy away from your victories!”

The latter seemed much inclined to throw away the wine, but his friends began to groan. “Fine, fine, but only a sip!”

Seungkwan downed his cup, sighing into it. “He will never grow up.”

Wonwoo eyed you with concern as he plucked a grape from its pack. “Will you not have a rest with us?”

“You men have your fun,” you insisted. “I will settle when Jihoon comes home.”

Fortunately, that did not take more than ten minutes, you catching the sound of hooves outside the estate. Footsteps sounded from the entrance, and you whirled to see your new arrival.

The primus pilus of the Legacy Legion looked every bit his title—regal, powerful, magical in his purple robes, hemmed with gold as it draped over his loose white shirt, exposed on his right arm. His locks, longer than his hair months ago, curled slightly along his neck, roughening his usual soldierly demeanour.

Squealing, you rushed to him, greeting him with a kiss. “Come, come!” You exclaimed, ushering him inside.

“The general’s arrived!” Seokmin before you with the others following, albeit with more difficulty.

Jihoon directed a soft smile at you before sneering at his friends. “At least finish chewing on your food, you babies.”

“Care about your own baby before calling us such, you prick!”

“You are very lucky you are drunk, Wonwoo!”

“Sit with them,” you said, tugging him to a free space between subordinates.

As your husband obliged, he let his curiosity wander. “And where are you off to?”

Your gaze went beyond the dining hall, into the leeways that brought you to the kitchens. “I am a host, dear, and that means making sure all my guests are accommodated for.”

His grip on you was strong. “When will you come back?” He asked, thumb brushing over your hand.

You let your lips slip into a small smile. “Soon.”

And you were off, letting Jihoon’s eyes brush over you instead of his touch.

A few hours into the party and the chaos began.

You knew it was bound to happen eventually, with the amount of wine being consumed—your friends alone downed half the deposits, the consequences of such reckless drinking being exposed by their behaviour.

The centurions’ area was by far the loudest: Seokmin drank to the point he pissed in the jug that stored his wine, Seungkwan then threatening to topple that very jug atop his head. Soonyoung resorted to self-praise in his stupor, with Wonwoo shaking his head, yet laughing uncontrollably at every unfunny quip the former slipped out. Chan giggled as he sipped his alcohol, Jihoon watching all his friends with a full cup in his own hand.

It was around midnight when you heard the voice of your beloved calling for you.

“Vita!”

Excusing yourself from your tipsy guests, you walked to your dear men, who were creating a ruckus in your home. You felt soft fingers caress your shin within your dress, and you looked down to see your general smiling at you.

“Sit, my love,” he said, tugging you down to him. “You have made me wait a while.”

“Fine!” You exclaimed with mock exasperation, laying down next to him.

He wrapped his arm around you, pulling you to him, your entire back pressed against his front. “There,” he whispered, and the proximity of his breath had chills running down your spine.

You hoped he could feel the warmth radiating off you.

“_____!” Seokmin exclaimed, pointing his cup at you in accusation, wine sloshing out and spilling. “I have a bone to pick with you!”

“Oh, gods,” Jihoon cursed quietly.

“So I found out from our esteemed general that you named your son Seungcheol.” The man scoffed. “How could you commit such an action?”

When you raised your eyebrows, he smirked in disbelief, gesturing towards himself. “My lady, I am offended you did not name him after me.”

Wonwoo spit out his drink, unable to control his laughter. Seungkwan poured himself some more, clicking his tongue in amusement. “Gods forbid we have another Seokmin in our circle.”

“Now what is that supposed to mean?” the man demanded, bunching his robes from his arms.

“I know you are not that stupid,” was his sly answer.

“Boys,” Jihoon seethed, glaring at the two about to send the estate down with their fists. “Lay off the anger or lay off the wine.”

Grumbling as they broke off their spat, you looked up at the mediator, swirling his cup. “You know you do not have to be a general here.”

Your husband hummed absent-mindedly, lazily running his hand along you. “I know, vita. Can I ever rest, though, when I have such rowdy dogs barking around me all the time?”

Chuckling, you leaned into him, his honey-like scent engulfing you. “Have you drank?”

“Only a little.” You felt a lilt to his voice as he continued. “Sober enough to see clearly how divine you look. Especially in this dress.”

You stilled as his hands began to wander downwards.

Your voice barely came out as you said, “Jihoon, what…what are you doing?”

He did not respond, instead adorning a small smile on his face as his fingers ghosted down your body, to your stomach. On instinct you stopped his trail with your own hand, gripping his wrist. “Jihoon!” you hissed. “There are people right beside us!”

“People who do not know what is going on around them,” he added, gesturing to his friends. Sure enough, each and every one of the centurions were out of their minds, save for Chan, who was too preoccupied trying to take away their drinks.

Jihoon turned to you once more, eyes inviting. “I mean, I will stop if you wish.” His movements turned slower, your hand still on his. “If you have other…pressing matters.”

Your mind could only think of damning whatever ‘pressing matters’ there well to the underworld. Perhaps he could see it too. “If roaming eyes are what you fear,” he whispered, “Then let me solve that problem.”

In a flash, he brought one long slit of his toga, resting the huge sheet of fabric upon you so your entire body was cloaked, along with his wandering fingers. So casually he began his journey once more, widening your eyes with each finger spiralling downwards.

When he reached the spot, shielded only with your silk, his head rested softly against your neck. “There we go.”

He barely grazed the slit, but the very sensation had you squeezing your own hand upon his. “Easy, darling,” he whispered, as if he was not the reason for your change. “I haven’t even done anything and yet you falter.”

“Not my fault you went away for two years,” you hissed. It was a terrible thing to say, really, but your desire was bubbling. Your rationality, in turn, simply had to depart.

The comment only made your husband chuckle. “I was saving the Empire, vita.” His other hand, completely free, occupied itself, his solitary finger ghosting along your skin. “Would you rather I damn the world to the gods and serve at your feet instead?”

“As if you do not already,” you murmured, your hand loosening on his wrist.

Earning another soft laugh from him, his new freedom had him sliding down further. “And where did this…newfound confidence come from?” he asked, one finger delving into your slit and eliciting a shuddered breath. “I’d only hear gasps from you before.”

His slow endeavours found your clit beneath the silk, and the seething gasp that tore from your mouth had the bastard sighing in satisfaction. “Ah, see?” He continued, his hand upon your shoulder now sliding beneath his cloak. It found refuge upon your breasts, perked from the sheer desire burning inside. “Fuck, I missed, I–” His fingers circled your clit, and you closed your eyes, heart beating rapidly underneath his other hand.

Your breathing turned harsh, eyes darting to the members of your husband’s legion—completely unaware of the shuddering mess of nerves you had become. “Look at you,” Jihoon sighed out, fastening his fingers. “Acting out with our loved ones under this roof.” Your soft whines were music to his ears. “Whatever shall I do with you?”

“Maybe you should—fuck,” you cut off, your legs tensing, a dull, delicious ache growing at the small of your back. “Jihoon, I—”

Your line of speech was interrupted by another voice. You had hoped it would be your husband, taunting you further into oblivion, but it was a voice of pure concern.

“By the gods, _____, are you alright?”

You blinked back to see Chan, holding two glasses of wine, shaking off Soonyoung’s hands. Your eyes then widened, acutely aware of Jihoon’s fingers slowing, your release fading.

Sly as an asp, your husband retracted his hands, still under his cloak. “What is the matter, dear friend?”

The centurion had his gaze fixed on you, confused at your state. “Is _____ okay, general? Her breathing, she…it sounds uneven. Even her eyes are dazed.”

Soonyoung, taking the lucky chance of his friend’s engrossment, snatched the wine from his hand, downing the bowl. “She is drunk, you fool!” he exclaimed, loud enough for Wonwoo to double over, cursing his rowdy mouth. “And you should be as well, instead of ruining our fun!”

“My lady, allow me to indulge you with wine,” Wonwoo sang out, trying to catch a jug of alcohol from thin air.

Seungkwan snorted at his attempts, successfully stealing Seokmin’s drinks and chugging the lot. “Oi, you prick!” The latter yelled, nearly bringing the estate down. His friend merely laughed, calling him names and finishing the rest of the wine.

Chan, glancing for a moment away, focused on you once more. “Jihoon, I fear for _____.”

You feared for yourself too, but not in the manner the soldier spoke of—more your sanity at the pulsing, the near undoing now far from being reached.

Jihoon pressed a kiss to your temple, smiling at Chan’s words, despite differing intentions. “You worry too much, Chan,” he said, beginning to get up from his cushions, taking you gently into his arms. “It is as Soonyoung says. Mea Vita here has had a drink too much.”

The centurion seemed a little unconvinced, but his trust for his commander outgrew any suspicions. Seokmin scoffed at the couple attempting to leave, shaking his bowl at you both. “And where are the lovebirds off to?” he demanded.

“Lady _____ is tired from the honey wine,” Chan explained. “Jihoon is helping her sleep.”

“Ha!” was the boy’s reply.

“Are you really that dim-witted?” Seungkwan asked, laughing darkly at the youngest’s naivety.

“Huh?” Chan glanced at his general.

The general declared to his guests, “I will be retiring with my wife, but enjoy until dawn, friends!”

Cheers arose from every corner of the estate, no doubt eager to live up to his request. Jihoon then rested his eyes on his soldier, who looked up at him with great bewilderment.

He only offered a sly wink before slipping into the hallways.

Chan’s confusion only deepened.

Soonyoung spluttered into laughter. “You poor fool!”

Seungkwan’s smirk was prevalent as, taking the bowl filled with fresh honey wine from the tables, he sat beside Chan, offering him his first drink. “Let us educate you, dear man, on what exactly is about to happen between our general and his wife.”

IT TOOK APPROXIMATELY TEN SECONDS BEFORE YOUR PATIENCE SNAPPED IN YOUR DARKENED HALLWAYS.

You slapped your hands against Jihoon’s purple-clad chest, and tried to push him back into the stone wall. Of course, when one had the strongest general in the Roman Empire as a husband, physically overtaking them is an impossible action.

Which was why he began to laugh at your efforts before casually taking your wrists, whirling you about. Suddenly your back was against the wall, with his face near inches from you.

“Cannot control yourself for even a minute?” He purred, bringing your hands above your head. “Has the journey to our bedroom become too difficult?”

“Stop fucking about with me” you got out, aching to have your hands freed, touch his face, his lips, but he was too strong.

The man leaned further. “No, vita…it has been too long.”

He brushed his nose along with yours. “Don’t think I’ll be satisfied with simply fucking you against the wall.”

His words alone had your heart beating faster, eager to see how he would play the night out. It had been far too long since you had felt such promise of pleasure in these years.

“I won’t be either, general,” you mused, and the fire that sparked in Jihoon’s eyes could have very well brought you your undoing then.

That was enough for him to swoop in, damning all sweetness to the underworld as he collided his lips with yours.

You swore you could never tire of Jihoon’s lips as he moved hungrily, grip on your wrists tightening. A small noise lodged in the back of your throat, aching to be released but to no avail. His mouth refused to pull away, miss even a moment of how you felt against him.

The years away made you realise how much you missed his touch—lips in sync, bodies snuffing out any distance left—you had no choice but to whine into his mouth, opening yourself up fully to him. You wanted him all, without a single drop of hesitation.

Feeling the exact same, he happily delved further, an eon-old kernel of fire singeing his lips and searing you with his desire. His tongue, catching onto his lust, slithered past your teeth, swirling your tongue with his and increased the volume of your moans.

Gods, your moans, your little voices of passion were like victory trumpets to his ears, every single ah! or fuck! riling him further into a frenzy. He had not forgotten these glorious sounds when he was thousands of miles away, but it had been so fucking long since he had heard them in person, and not just his dreams.

So he relished in your moans. Completely engulfed himself in your bubble of desire as his one hand strayed from your wrists, skirting downwards along your body. Grabbing hold of your skirts, he raised them to your hips. He caught sight of your cunt, and he swore his mouth watered.

“Stop it…stop stalling, Jihoon,” you seethed, soul almost withering in wait for your husband to ruin you already.

Fortunately for you, he was the most accommodating man.

His hand freeing yours, it journeyed downwards to the real treasure. Your eyes widened at his finger sliding inside you, and the pure, ethereal sensation of his touch finally attaining your cunt had you dazing off completely. Your mouth forgot all words, as if forgetting how to speak the languages which Jihoon whispered now on your skin.

With your hands gaining newfound freedom, they carded through his hair, finding refuge in the soft, growing locks, tidied for the party. You would have done more had Jihoon not circled your clit, and the delirious sensation was back—your legs nearly gave way, and you let out a whimper as you held onto him tightly, lest you fell at his feet.

His sharp eyes caught onto your weakening state, slowing his ministrations. “How about I take this somewhere else?” He rasped in your ear.

Not waiting for your answer, he slid his hands underneath your thighs and picked you up, you instinctively wrapping your legs around him. He did not cease his kisses, his tongue dancing inside your mouth while finding the door to the bedroom.

He did not waste a single moment—kicking the door open with his foot, he settled you on the table right beside, throwing the objects to the floor. Giving you a small peck, he journeyed downwards, slowly kneeling before you while opening your legs.

His husky chuckling rang in your ears. “Gods, after so long…” he could not even finish, pressing airlight kisses upon your inner thigh, each phantom touch nearing the kernel of arousal. “So…fucking long…”

The minute he reached his destination his tongue slipped free of his mouth. Holding onto your thighs, he let himself take the last step.

His tongue sliding along your cunt had you melting on the table.

You were certain the table had crumbled beneath you, the ground fading as your husband explored you, lapping up the arousal dripping since the moment he graced you with his touch. A satisfied noise left his occupied mouth, you tasting like the honey wine you poured for him not an hour ago.

This. This made fighting relentlessly for two years worth it. This made every single drop of blood, buckets of sweat and floods of tears worth it. Life was hard, torturous even away from Rome, from you, but all that dark anguish in the time lost between you two was worth it if this was his reward.

And Jihoon would make sure this, too, would be worth it for you.

His tongue found your clit, and if you were not a mess before, the tendrils of pleasure that came with reduced you to cinders. He circled the bud like a slow march, growing faster with each passing beat. You moaned his name, a mantra on your lips which only rang louder.

“J-Jihoon,” you kept whimpering, and his tongue would circle faster. You begin to thrash against him, unable to sit still while he brought you such unadulterated thrill. You would have happily grinded against his face had his hands on your thighs not tightened, indicating to stop fidgeting.

In honesty you tried—you endeavoured to be composed, but the bastard made the task impossible. The writhing continued, and would have kept going had Jihoon not halted his actions.

You let out an agitated yelp.

“I’m sorry, vita, but you have to stay still,” he replied, fingers running along your thighs. “Do you not want to enjoy this?”

His lips glistened as he spoke, courtesy of your cunt. With his head in between your thighs, he was a feast for your eyes. “Fuck, Jihoon, I…I already am.”

Maybe he agreed that he was a fine feast, for he curved his shining mouth in a dark smirk, eyes not leaving yours as he slowly slung a leg over his shoulder. “Well then,” he began, repeating with the other leg, fingers skimming the naked skin. “Let me add to your pleasure.”

This time, when he dove in, he was relentless.

You gripped onto the edge of the table, fingers digging into the wood as he quickened the rhythm of his tongue, working on your bundle of nerves so deliciously you wondered how your soul still survived inside your body.

The wondering stopped, your questions answered when his finger joined in on the ravishing, sliding inside you and knocking the breath out of you. He was so undeniably good, knowing you liked the insertion slow, almost testing the waters before completely undoing you.

And gods bless him, for that is all he intended to do. The Eagle of Rome only knelt for the gods, but you, your whines, your writhing pleasure he drank like a man parched…

You had become a deity in his eyes; and a celestial figure deserved the best of service — hours upon hours of honing your desire because he was the only one who was capable of ruining you.

Another finger found itself inside you, and your cunt began to pulsate at the fullness it achieved, inching along the growing tension bubbling deep within your gut. Beads of sweat dripped down, your willpower to not thrash against his face about to snap, and when he fastened his pace an obscenely loud moan ripped through your mouth.

You were much too close to the final high.

“Fuck, Jihoon—!” you nearly cried, hands unable to stray from his hair, his wonderful, lustrous hair. “Jihoon, please, I’m so clo—”

His free hand on your thigh squeezed you ever so slightly, as if aware of your near absolution. He only sped up his work, his fingers gliding in and out so quickly you could not keep up. If that was not enough, his mouth sucking on your clit was ready to bring the sky down on your head.

But Jihoon was ready to risk the destruction of all the world. Ready to face the gods in his last hour as he swirled your swollen bud with his tongue one last time.

That was enough to come undone.

Your release came crashing, curls of pleasure riding all through your body as your mind misted into fog, no thought or idea save for the slow assistance of your husband, easing your throbbing. A lust-struck sigh came out of you, hand falling from his hair onto his tensed shoulder. Sensing your high washing over, he slowed his tongue, fingers withdrawn from your cunt.

He caught your gaze in his, two slick fingers hanging between you two. He dared you to look away as he brought them to his lips, slipping them inside and tasting the residue.

That sight alone could have made you come for the second time.

The bastard knew it too, for a ghost of a smirk exposed itself on his face, once his fingers were clean of your arousal. “Could not let it go to waste,” he murmured, as if your wetness was liquid gold.

Hands back on your thighs once more, he lifted himself up gently, toga in disarray over his service. With you sat upon the table, his fingers found home upon your chin, lifting your line of sight on him.

Pure hunger lay dormant in his eyes.

Not just his eyes, but his mouth still, when he leaned in and kissed you. You returned it without question, desire coiling around your soul as if it had not been released mere minutes ago.

You did not care. Not when you had waited so fucking long.

The man smiled between the burning kisses, humming at your lusted agony as he slid an arm around your waist. “My love—” a kiss upon the corner of your mouth —”What more shall I do—” another kiss, to the other corner—”For you?”

If he kept at it like this, you were going to forget your mother tongue. “Inside me…” you mustered between his lips on you, on your skin. A pathetic attempt, but your mind was still recovering from your release.

He paused, a malicious grin curving. “Pray, mea vita, my sweet, was I not just inside you?” Tugging you off the table, he held on tight as your knees buckled. “See? Even your body speaks for me.”

Your leg brushed against the weakness of his argument, almost tenting his toga. “Does yours?” you managed to remark, catching the defeated furrow of his brow.

His stare had you silent once again, butterflies forming in your stomach. Leaning in, his lips brushed against the shell of your ear.

“I’ll have your body screaming for me when I’m done, vita.”

Your body, in his response, shuddered against him.

Jihoon did not wait for more as he slotted his mouth along yours, igniting the flame again, unable to have enough of you as he whirled you around, eliciting the same little whines he adored so ardently.

He swooped you up in his arms, knowing your legs could not take the walk to the bed. Never stopping his kisses, he knew where to go by memory, hands skirting along your skin as he neared the final haven of tonight. Despite his words, he laid you gently upon the bed, continuing his trail upon your cheeks, your jaw, anywhere where you would allow him.

Your heart sang at what was to come. Memories flooded you, passionate nights of years ago reminding you of what had been, and what distance had snatched from you. You had never forgotten the last time you both had made love, the very last night you both had been offered before he was to sail away to satiate his need for vengeance. He had asked nothing from you, not a single request, even though he knew you would have given it to him in a heartbeat.

No, that night, he had explored every inch, every crevice of your body—burned his presence onto your skin till the entirety of Rome knew that Lee Jihoon had left a piece of himself in you. That piece morphed into the child you bore, but Jihoon had never really left your soul, despite the thousands of miles stretching between you two.

“Never again,” you let yourself whisper as he broke away, your hands fisting themselves in his toga, tugging off the fabric which was another form of distance. You needed him once again. Yes, you had withstood miles upon miles away from him. But now, you could not handle even inches apart.

He understood. He always understood, slipping off the clothing till it reached his hips. Climbing over you, his abdomen exposed, you could not believe your cheeks burned at the sight of him half-naked before you. A small chuckle escaped him, and he stole a quick kiss before burying himself into your neck.

His fingers reached for the loose straps of your dress, barely of use. “Take these off for me, darling,” he whispered, and the order vibrated along your skin, ready to be followed. While you desperately tried to pry your dress off, he pressed open-mouthed kisses along the base of your throat, making your simple task an impossible mission.

One strap fell, and Jihoon’s teeth slowly sank into your skin, sucking at the spot with such passion a soft groan trambles out of you, unsure whether you could get the other half of your dress off. Thankfully, with someone as accommodating as him, he pressed an unironically chaste kiss before finding the last straps himself.

The pure smugness in his eyes had you in near tears. “One little kiss, and you’ve ceased working,” he drawled breathily. “Must I do all the work, my sweet?”

You would have cursed his ancestors had he not brought your dress down, tossing the clothing to the side and drinking in your bare figure.

A breath shuddered out of him, certain that you could inhale the pure lust oozing from him. “I can’t…I cannot believe I went two years without…without this—”

The words were left unfinished as he wasted no time, indulging your mouth for moments before pouncing downwards, taking your left breast in his mouth and skimming his teeth softly against the nipple. The man was riling you up now, you taking his hair in your hands, certain you were trying to tear his locks out with the way you held onto him. Jihoon did not seem to mind, too occupied with your breasts to pay heed to your damage.

“Jihoon, please, I need you to—fuck!” cut off with his tongue encircling your breasts, you nearly had had enough. Your cunt ached for the final descent, your patience growing thin. “Please, I-I need you inside me!”

His answer was allowing one last lick to your right nipple, cold striking your breasts as he looked down at you, eyes glossed over with carnal delight. With his hand he ripped away the toga pooling at his hips, and his cock was freed, almost enraged to be cloaked away in silk.

You looked like a fool staring at it, but you could not help it—you did not remember it being so huge, even though it has been inside you countless times. Another piece of evidence that he had been away from you long enough.

“Ogled enough, darling?” his voice snapped you back, and you were almost embarrassed at the shit-eating grin that lit up his face.

“Shut up,” you mumbled, but you could not say more, you being silenced with his searing kiss.

Pulling away, his forehead rested against yours, black locks tickling your cheeks as he held your one side in one hand, and his cock in another.

Nudging your legs apart, the tip brushed against your folds, and your soul nearly departed from the ghost of a touch. “Careful,” he warned, thumb stroking your hip, and he stole a glance at you.

“I love you, vita,” he whispered.

And began the final descent.

His cock slid inside, slowly, ever so slowly, but with every inch you felt each layer of your spirit stop to a standstill. Jihoon never stopped watching—catching your parted mouth, the shallow, uneven breaths you took, the knitted brows, your fingers holding onto him for dear life. He could not help it, see—these few seconds, these few, transitory moments, where both souls are on the edge of the world, and none know whether they’d hang on, or fall to their doom.

This moment encompassed such an image within the features of your face.

And he relished it. Captured the image, and used it as fuel to his carnal fire as he buried himself into you, releasing a breath he kept inside the entire time. Maybe it was after so long, but the two of you stayed still, your husband fearing you might snap. A frivolous thought, of course, but one can believe anything when one is so vulnerable.

One look from you, though, had his doubts disappearing in an instant. You let a small smile escape, and it was all he needed before he slowly withdrew, the mere action so gratifying you wondered whether it was another one of your dreams, a vision granted by the mercy of the gods.

Maybe the gods were extra pleased, for Jihoon was no dream—only a very pleasing reality, waiting for your whimpers to fill the room before thrusting back into you again. The rhythm was beginning to strike, and you were its follower; the shy hesitations started to fade, and you could feel his desire burning with every slide out, and every slide in of his cock into you, holding onto your hips to keep you steady.

With each thrust you felt the stakes of your pleasure reach higher and higher. Tendrils of delight rippled through you with his movements, quickening yet keeping his fluidity, like an elegant dancer in a warfield, somehow managing to emerge victorious with his body alone. Of course, you could never doubt your husband. He was the favourite of the Empire for a reason.

“By the gods, you—” he plunged into you once more, and he grazed a certain spot inside you that had you seeing the universes. “You’re so fucking good to me, you—”

Never finishing his sentences, never even finishing his line of thought, the sole thing in his mind being your delicious fucking folds, your cunt which felt so perfect around his cock. He leaned in further, teething sweet love bites onto your neck, revelling in your pleasured groaning, growing louder and louder with each quickened thrust. “Yes, vita, just like that!” he exclaimed, never stopping. “For all of Rome to hear!”

He did not care a bit if the world heard them now. All that mattered to him was you, you and only you.

More so when that familiar, growing ache of nerves was back, warning you of your impending release. Jihoon was ruthless to you, relentless with his cock, unforgiving with his tongue and teeth which managed to devour your every inch. There was no escaping it—the ache was like a tightened knot, with his actions well on its way to unravel it.

“I-I’m close, Jihoon,” you breathed out, pressing your lips on his chest, his shoulder, anything you could grasp. “Please, love, I need to—”

“I know, vita,” he guttered, as if he, too, was close. He did not care much for that, though, when all he could focus on was you, all broken words and teary gazes beneath him. “I know.”

To add even more to your doom, he brought back an older prospect, fingers circling your clit and heightening the delight swirling within your gut ten times over. The nerves were pumping, faster and faster, and you were deathly aware that it was now or never.

Your eyes, seeing stars throughout, found your husband within the mist of desire. “J-Jihoon…”

Everything was forgotten. Not a word remembered in the fog of your mind but your vita’s name, your lover’s name, bright as the summer sun, as bold as the royal colours he adorned in his triumph.

As true as the love never lost between the two of you.

It was enough for the Eagle of Rome to capture your lips, holding you in a heart-wrenching kiss.

It was enough for you to completely ruin yourself.

Your cries drowned onto his mouth as release came crashing, legs shaking as you died and resurrected all at once, came undone within his hold. The world slipped away in that moment, with him as your anchor, saving you from being eternally lost.

While you lay breathless, Jihoon slipped himself out of you, breaking away from your kiss to cry out himself, spilling himself onto you and the sheets. A haggard fuck escaped him, arcing over you before throwing himself beside you.

Silence welcomed you after that.

The din of the party remained, and both of you gasping, but a silence followed, like a warm winter blanket. Both of you stared at the ceiling, the moonlit parts of the surfaces, trying to catch your breaths after what you both just experienced.

Turning your head, you caught Jihoon already stealing glances. They were heavy-lidded, unsurprisingly, yet you found it endearing, despite the circumstances.

“What?” you got out, cocking your head at his soft staring.

He shook his head, smiling tiredly. He stretched his arm out towards you, murmuring, “Come here.”

Obliging, you followed under his arm, resting your head against his chest. Despite the granite-hardness of his body, no other surface would suffice. Your head rose and fell along to his uneven breathing, a small comfort.

As the general gazed down at you, the softness returned; his thumb stroked along your cheeks. “I…” he began, voice huskier than usual, you humming in satisfaction.

“Yes?” you got out, hanging onto his every word.

Glancing away for a second, he looked to the window, and the view it offered of the world beyond.

He then glanced back at you, a better world he had found of his own.

“I am…so happy…” he whispered. Whispered because he had to tell his world what he felt. “So happy to come back to you.”

Your heart but into a thousand butterflies.

A smile as wide as you could muster was your response.

And as he continued stroking your hair, and you leaning into his hold, you too, knew that you felt the exact same.

For the Eagle of Rome had returned to you at last.

CENTURION LEE CHAN HAD WITNESSED HORRORS.

He had seen thousands of dead men, scattered across the sands of Egypt. He had seen ships sink before his very eyes—by the gods, he had even seen the beginnings of death, when he nearly drowned at the final naval battle that secured Legacy Legion its victory.

None of these events, however, made him more queasy as realising that you, while you were laid beside your husband, were not experiencing intoxication from honey wine. It was an exhilaration of a completely unusual kind, a feeling that had the tips of his ears reddening.

His fellow men’s reactions only made it worse. “What did you think they were going to do?” Seungkwan only demanded. “Sleep it off on their first night together?”

“Well, how was I to know?” the youngest visibly shivered. “I do not know how married people work.”

“Poor soul,” Soonyoung tutted out, no plans for pausing his drink. “I fear for when he is to wed.”

“I still do not understand,” Seokmin voiced out. “They have a whole child together. How did you not…”

“My apologies for not pondering over our general’s intimate life,” Chan grumbled. “How idiotic of me.”

“Do not mind these deviants,” Wonwoo assured him, handing him a fresh cup of wine. “You just drink their awful comments away.”

He spared a fearful glance at the cup, filled with honey wine. “I should not,” he meant to declare in a confident stance. His voice, already weakened from a previous revelation of his commander’s, had rendered his declaration as a childish mumble. “The baby would need my attention sooner or later.”

“Fuck the baby!” was Seokmin’s great exclamation, clicking his tongue. “He is already the star guest of this damned celebration. We—!” he patted his chest repeatedly—”We were supposed to be the ones our people fawn over!”

“Your need for attention never fails to astound me,” Wonwoo remarked, circling his drink. “The boy was named after our murdered friend.”

“It happens to men like Seokmin,” Seungkwan drawled, slinging an arm around him, “To those men who received no attention at home.”

“Fuck off!” Seokmin jeered, rasped out from the alcohol buzzing in his system. “At least our Roman women fawned over me this afternoon. Where were your girls?”

“My, my, our dear Seokmin’s imagination runs so wild!” The second-youngest cooed condescendingly, grabbing Wonwoo’s cup, which had the latter furrowing his brows. “He dreams of female attention when we have seen no evidence of it!”

Soonyoung wished to join in on the bullying, chiming in, “And now he envies a child that cannot control its own piss!”

As everyone laughed at the poor, drunk soul, who genuinely looked as if he might cry, Wonwoo waved his large hands around, as if attempting to calm everyone down. “No more harassing the unloved virgin.”

“We were not talking about Chan though,” Soonyoung instantly piped up, his next said-target narrowing his eyes.

“Just because I choose to save myself for someone I love,” he grumbled, which had chuckling resonating around the group.

“Gods help her when she turns up, then,” Seungkwan sighed out, drinking Wonwoo’s wine.

Perhaps Chan might have said something in retort—might have even garnered the strength to punch the honey wine out of his friend’s insides when one of the servants came hurrying.

He identified her as Myrtia, your personal maid, who looked incredibly distressed. “Centurion Lee,” she immediately began, “Seungcheol keeps crying!”

“Oh, gods,” Soonyoung crowed, “Wet-nurse first, soldier second, is it?”

“At least he is not a whore first, Soonyoung,” Seokmin muttered.

“Both of you, shut up!” Chan finally snapped, turning to Myrtia once more. “Where is he right now? Will _____ not tend to him?”

“Our dear _____ is a little occupied being tended to herself, remember?” Seungkwan reminded him, his smirk malicious.

The youngest flushed scarlet, shaking his head. “Right, of course…” He heaved himself off the cushions, to much of his friends’ agitation. “I will see what to do.”

“What?” Soonyoung sat up, but the alcoholic daze had him swaying slightly. “Wait, wait, wait, don’t just leave!”

“Take me to Cheol,” Chan said to Myrtia, but before she could even agree, four rounds of disapproving voices hurled towards the poor boy.

“No!” Seungkwan exclaimed first, taking great pains to hoist himself off the long tables. “No, no, you cannot go on your own!”

“Exactly!” Seokmin joined in, using Seungkwan’s toga to try hauling himself up. “You will die in there!”

Wonwoo clicked his tongue, even though he, too, was beginning to follow after his friends. “Chan is not going to die with a mere child.”

Chan watched his superiors rise carelessly from their furnishings, already feeling a little frantic. “What are you all doing?”

“Why, coming with you, of course!”

“Myrtia, my sweet,” Soonyoung purred, patting a hand on her shoulder, “You lead us straight to the baby!”

Hurriedly nodding, she turned and headed towards the destination, five centurions hot on her heels as they were led down the familiar hallways. Chan muttered to himself, but did not have time to self-ponder when he was constantly being distracted.

“How much longer is this going to take?” Seokmin whined, holding onto the walls for support. “And since when did the lamps on _____’s walls start shaking?”

“It has not been a minute and you’re complaining!” Seungkwan snarked out. “It’s a wonder you managed to walk forty miles everyday, lazy git.”

“Not lazy enough to slice your mouth right off!”

“Just this door here,” Myrtia said, turning into the empty doorway, dipping her head in respect as she stepped out of the way, allowing Chan to enter first, the rest stumbling behind him.

Sure enough, the first noise heard in everyone’s ears was the wailing—a screechy, whiny sound which reverberated off the stone walls, striking discomfort, irritation, turmoil in the hearts of whoever heard them. The man who felt it the most dashed to the cot, brows joining together in agitation over the sight of the baby.

“You would think Chan was the father,” Seungkwan retorted. “Do something about this crying, boy!”

“You really are heartless,” Wonwoo scolded, following after the youngest. Observing the crying child, he pursed his mouth into a thin line. “How does one…stop a baby from crying?”

“Only a mother can take care of her child,” Seokmin voiced out, as if he thought of a ground-breaking notion akin to Plato’s wisdom.

“We are not disturbing _____,” Seungkwan rebuked, shaking his head vigorously. “Those two have waited nearly two years to fuck each other again.”

“Let them have their fun!” Soonyoung roared, which had the baby crying louder. “Gods, Chan, you are the youngest after Cheol. Handle this sobbing mess!”

“I have seen twenty summers,” Chan muttered.

“Yes, so a baby in my eyes!”

“Of course you are going to consider Chan as a baby, you geriatric. It’s a wonder you did not collapse on the battlefield.”

I will kill you in the next war, Seungkwan.”

As the rest started grumbling amongst themselves, the youngest gently picked up the bundle, slowly rocking him in hopes to calm the crying. Seungcheol’s face was reddened with the constant sorrow, and it broke Chan’s heart a little, hoping that he would gain some newfound power and solve whatever problem ailed him.

A sigh escaping him, he began to mumble sweet nothings to him, morphing those whispers in a quaint song he heard from his own childhood. His melody was like honey wine, words so soft, his voice so sweet, that the men that accompanied him began to quieten, turning their heads to the origin.

Wonwoo watched the scene, smiling lop-sidedly. “You are a natural!”

“It is quite embarrassing,” Seokmin admitted, scratching the back of his head, “That the youngest of us is the only one able to calm a child.”

“None of us claimed to be good with children,” Seungkwan thought out loud, observing the younger soldier tend to the sobbing, which had quietened to mere whimpers.

Soonyoung tried to raise a brow—strong on tried, but he was too drunk to carry out such a simple action. “You always boasted of your relationships with your nieces and nephews.”

“That is different. I could care less about random urchins.”

“Seungkwan!” Seokmin exclaimed. “Seungcheol is no urchin.”

“He was though, was he not?” The man scoffed, albeit a bit tenderly as he began to reminisce. “Gods, did you forget how insufferable he was?”

“Always on our arses, too,” Soonyoung agreed, snickering. “Do you remember when he got us in shit with Octavian?”

“Talking back to Caesar’s successor during our first military session.” Wonwoo visibly shivered. “The punishment still haunts me.”

But the distant memory only made the rest chuckle, as if the centurions had not received verbal lashings from the leader of Rome at that time. Silence bathed the room, only Seungcheol’s voice sputtering through the surface of calm. It had only been a meagre two-and-half years since the inspiration behind his name had passed, but with the hardships of the Alexandria campaign, it had felt like decades. Even Chan felt the age of this campaign, although he was young when he suffered the loss.

He sensed the loss a little more that night as, walking away from the cot, he leaned against the wall. As if unable to stand, he let his legs buckle a little, sliding down and settling on the floor, feet spreading out before him. “I sometimes see him in my dreams,” he admitted.

There was a heavy pause.

Then, “He visited me more a year back.”

Everyone focused on Soonyoung. Travelling to where his youngest friend sat, he copied his position, continuing, “I told Jihoon about it, actually, right before Actium…I deemed it a sign of the gods.” A small laugh huffed out of him. “He then corrected me, saying it was all Cheol.”

“Typical,” Seungkwan said, smiling. “Take all the might of the gods and reward himself for it.”

“I cannot blame him, though,” Wonwoo countered, wandering over to the seated duo, looking down at their general’s son. “A loss of faith can come with a loss of a loved one.”

“Yes, but look at us now!” Seokmin reasoned, gesturing to them all. “Victors of the coming generation!”

“But these so-called ‘Victors’ cannot stop a baby from crying,” Wonwoo murmured, sitting beside Chan. “I doubt we deserve that title.”

“Hey, at least Chan deserves it.” Seokmin hurried to sit beside the former, watching tenderly over at the baby. “Look, he is silent now!”

“No way!” Seungkwan exclaimed, sauntering to the group and settling beside Soonyoung, reaching over to inspect the claim.

Sure enough—at the centre of the most powerful soldiers in Rome, almost slumbering in complete peace, was a silent Seungcheol, happy Seungcheol as he stirred only if Chan moved his hand, or shifted his legs. It was not as if they had not seen a mere child before, but, once again, this bundle, so full of life, was different. This was their commander’s legacy. Their leader’s soul extended from his own life-force, his evidence that he loved.

This Seungcheol that the five men stared at was the new beginning.

It was a long time before anyone spoke. “Do you think he looks more like one over the other?” Wonwoo asked.

“All babies look the same to me,” Seokmin offered his opinion.

By Seungkwan’s incredulous glance, it seemed it was not appreciated. “No one let this idiot have a child of his own.”

The accused frowned, genuinely hurt. “Hey! I should like to have a family one day. Give you all opportunity to become uncles again.”

“I would recognise your baby anywhere,” Soonyoung crowed, “Because it shall be the ugliest out of ours.”

The gasp that escaped Seokmin had Chan choking out a laugh. Seungcheol stirred at the action, which had the latter immediately stilling. “You guys need to insult each other’s future children a little quieter,” he whispered.

The former had other plans, though. “Wait, can I hold him?”

Chan shot a concerned glance. “Fine, but be careful!” he insisted, slowly handing over the bundle to Wonwoo, who, after smiling at him, passed him over at the end.

Seokmin began rocking the child, who glanced up at him, languidly blinking up at the soldier. He was ecstatic, softly touching the tiny nose, and feeling his mouth widen into a grin. “See? He likes me already!”

“Yeah, after Chan has done all the hard labour,” Wonwoo commented, beaming at the baby’s expression.

“I want Cheol after you,” Soonyoung demanded, crossing his arms, “So he can see what a real man is like.”

“Real jester, more like,” Seungkwan muttered, earning himself a hard elbow in the side.

What Seokmin wanted to do was tell the eldest to wait his turn. He did not have the opportunity when he smelt the air around him, and found it most foul.

Chan noticed it immediately as well, and within the next few seconds, the others caught on. Five pairs of eyes whirled to the baby, who had the audacity to giggle.

Seokmin let out a scream.

“BY THE FUCKING GODS—!”

Everyone scrambled to their feat, the rest struggling to hold back their amusement. “Not so loud!” Chan hissed, though he was restraining a laugh, only successful by the finger on his lips.

“Stupid damned baby!” Seokmin screeched, holding the bundle at arms length.

Wonwoo could not help his laugh, which spluttered out of him. “You cannot blame a baby for acting like one! It is like scolding a dog for running after a bone.”

The comparison had Soonyoung bellowing out, holding his stomach. “I always knew Seungcheol was annoying, but shitting on us is another low!”

Seokmin visibly shivered, patience running thin. “I hope he is rotting in the underworld,” he cursed, completely merciless.

“I hope he is laughing at you,” Seungkwan prayed instead, wiping a few tears from his eyes.

Chan only shook his head, walking to the doorway and stretching his head out. “Myrtia!” he called out, catching her tending to the guests in the dining areas.

Quickly she arrived at the scene, understanding immediately what had occurred, judging by the men’s reactions. “Hand him over, Centurion,” she ordered, he obliging her instantly.

“Sorry?” Seokmin offered, as if he was the one who soiled his toga. That had the others laughing even more, which had him furrowing his brows. “You men are the worst!”

“After ruining Chan’s night with all our complaints, it is only fair that we turn to you!” Soonyong explained, as if that was perfectly reasonable.

Seungkwan cackled darkly. “We really are each other’s worst enemy.”

Wonwoo somehow found that incredibly sentimental. “I would not have it any other way,” he said, slinging his arm around Chan, ushering the other three to join in. “After all, who knows us better?”

“You make a stellar point!” The eldest clasped onto Chan’s free side, poking him in the cheek. “I would not wish to befriend any other wretched bastard.”

“You do not possess the ability to make friends, Soonyoung,” Seungkwan pointed out.

“Then what are we?” Seokmin demanded, offended, the last to join the group.

“Comrades?”

“Colleagues?”

“People who have seen me naked?”

But it was Chan, who was quiet all this time, observing his older—usually irritating, sometimes diabolical, yet always beloved—superiors, there formed an answer which had been settled in his heart the moment he had found their company nearly a decade back.

“Brothers.”

The men surrounding him stilled, gawking at the centre of their group—the centre that was always the core of their brotherhood. Although there was ample opportunity to poke fun at the situation, they found no ground for such humiliation. They only watched as, in an almost comical image, four pairs of eyes softened at the boy who had grown right in front of them.

Wonwoo ruffled the youngest’s mop of waves. “And you are the dearest out of us all.”

“And do not forget it,” Seungkwan said. “Even if we make you seem otherwise.”

Chan smiled at them all, face flushing at the amount of attention received. A comfortable silence fell over them, everyone pondering over different notions, reminiscing of their times together.

Soonyoung, however, possibly still a little intoxicated, thought of a completely different opportunity—thoughts of the very near future.

“Men,” he began, “I have a proposition.”

The soldiers perked up, about to brace themselves for a revolutionary idea.

“Who wants to spy on Jihoon and _____?”

There was a momentary pause. Chan, visibly horrified, whirled his head left and right, praying to the gods that his fellow brothers felt the same.

“Go on, then.”

And as the four eldest centurions shuffled to the nursery’s entrance, Chan scrambled for a solution, because he would have rather been Mark Antony’s prisoner than listen to his commander and his wife…solidify their reunion.

He sucked in a sharp breath.

“Wait!”

The men paused, looking over their shoulders. “What is it?”

That intake of breath was released in complete devastation. So much for calling these utter shits brothers.

“How about we all drink? I shall…” A hard gulp. “I shall join you properly all this time.”

They could not believe it at first. Chan, however, trudged over to them, grabbing onto whatever shoulder was nearest. “I mean it.”

He swore his brothers seemed happier in that moment than they had been cradling Jihoon’s child.

“Well, what are we waiting for?!” Soonyoung roared, already leaving the entrance. “Let us empty the coffers!”

And as the five most powerful men in Rome ran to be utterly gone with alcohol, Chan could not help but huff out a laugh, and hoped he had done his primus pilus a favour.

YOU HAD ALWAYS ADORED THE WAY YOUR HUSBAND SLEPT.

As one of the most esteemed, strongest generals ever walked on Roman soil, Lee Jihoon looked as vulnerable as your baby son as he lay next to you. His body rose and fell with every breath, his arm a strong comfort around you.

You could not help the smile that slipped past your mouth, watching him rest so peacefully after two years. You loved every single inch of your husband, but these little pieces of him, offered to you on rare occasions—with the sun bleeding through the bedroom windows, cool air drifting inside, kissing your skin—were a treasure rarer than all the wealths of the empire.

You dared not wake him, lest the moment ended, only allowing your fingers to stretch a little forward. Your fingertips caressed the small cuts, scars on his skin, wishing you could fill every crevice of his battle-worn face with your liquid love.

How beautiful he was, with or without what his experiences added onto him.

Perhaps he could feel the adoration radiating off of you, for he began to stir faintly, humming to your caresses. His arm around you pulled you closer, and you were mere inches from face.

What fortune to be so close to him, because you witnessed his eyes flutter open. Dark, chocolate irises welcomed you, and you wished with your heart that you could dive into them, and be forever lost in their haze.

“Morning,” you uttered, smiling.

He offered a lazy one in return. “Morning, my love.”

You almost beamed. “I love it when you say that.”

His brow raised absentmindedly. “What? Morning?”

You tutted. “I think you need to sleep some more.”

“Hmmm…” he nuzzled into your neck, closing his eyes. “I will if you sleep with me.”

“But I already am.”

He craned his head back, nestled in your chest. “I think you know what I mean, vita.”

Involuntarily, you caught your lower lip between your teeth, and by the look on Jihoon’s face, he had half a mind to copy your actions.

Perhaps you would have let him too, if you did not hear a suspicious sound.

You perked up, head turning towards the door, where the origins of the voice—voices, as you listened in—lay. Your husband, catching onto your change of countenance, stretched himself before sitting up straighter, eyes squinting at the door.

Grabbing onto your clothes, which lay unceremoniously on the floor, you half-dressed yourselves before you reached just before the entrance of the room. The voices were much louder, a sense of agitation filling each one.

The loudest of the noise, amongst all the bickering, was a soft wail.

“—you stupid prick, I told you not to feed it that!”

“Well how was I supposed to know what it likes?”

“I hope you and Seokmin never have children—”

“Gods, Jihoon is going to be raging mad—!”

“What it deserves for being called Cheol—!”

You did not get to hear the end of the discussion, for Jihoon grabbed onto the doorknob and burst open the door.

Shrieks were heard on the entrance, five centurions stumbling into your bedroom, one with a special, wailing package in his hand.

“By the gods!” your husband exclaimed, shaking his head at his subordinates, scrambling to stand straight. “What are you all doing, muttering about behind our door?”

“Uhh…general!” Wonwoo declared, earning a sharp hiss from his friends. “We actually…uhhh…” He looked at the others, confused. “What were we here for?”

Soonyoung, rubbing his temples, seethed, “Seungcheol, you idiot!”

“Ah, yes!” Wonwoo straightened, deepening his voice to pretend sobriety. “Seungcheol!”

Seokmin’s eyes widened. “But Seungcheol died years ago!”

Seungkwan then smacked him around the head. “Not that Seungcheol, you fucking idiot!”

You are the fucking idiot, you ugly bastard!”

You glanced at Chan, whose focus only lay on the crying child. The one who held him looked as if he might burst into tears too, but you spoke up before you had any more crying children in the house. “Here, let me tend to him.”

The boy handed you your son, but you noticed he dared not look you in the eye. “Is something the matter?” you asked him softly.

Soonyoung scoffed at your question. “Silly little virgin has been shitting his toga ever since he heard you two fucking like rabid dogs.”

“Watch your filthy mouth,” your husband guttered, which had the scolded-man shrinking back behind Wonwoo.

Seokmin snickered, Seungkwan smirking as you glanced at the youngest. “Chan…” you trailed off, not really sure on what to say.

Thankfully, your husband seemed to have a solution. “Chan, please grow up,” he remarked, crossing his arms over his tousled clothing. “You were holding my child mere seconds ago.”

“He just needs to stick his cock into someone,” Seungkwan said, a bit too matter-of-factly.

“Or something,” added Seokmin, the honey wine clearly still talking.

You saw Chan physically recoil from the statement. “What did you even have in mind?” Wonwoo asked, nose scrunching in distaste. “Actually, I do not want to know.”

“Sober up, the lot of you,” you said, unable to stay serious, despite the death glares Jihoon offered them. “I need you all to help me clean the place up today.”

Everyone unanimously groaned, causing the latter to get irritated. “If I hear a sound from you pathetic drunkards, then it’s 40 miles around the city.”

Soonyoung turned his head to you, clearly exasperated. “_____, did you bite his cock or something?”

“Soonyoung!” You gasped.

“I need to lie down,” Wonwoo groaned, turning towards the door. “I shall be dunking myself in a well nearby.”

“Take Seokmin with you,” Seungkwan drawled, fixing his hair. “Maybe this time he will actually drown.”

“If I drown little man, I’m taking you with me,” the man snapped.

“Chan, dear, please sort them out,” you requested, hearing him sigh.

“I shall try my best, my lady,” he mumbled, knowing that his best efforts will be in vain.

As he began to leave, you called out his name. He looked back, and you smiled as you rocked Seungcheol in your arms. “You are his favourite, Chan.”

The revelation had his frown morphing into a small smile, bowing his head ever so slightly before turning to his centurions. “Let us give our general some privacy.”

Seokmin grumbled underneath his breath, following after Chan. “As if they had not had enough privacy…could have made another baby for all we know…”

Jihoon focused his gaze on Soonyoung and Seungkwan. “Remember. No fucking about or it’s 40 miles.”

The latter waved his hand, opening the door. “Yes, yes, we are aware.”

Soonyoung mocked a salute, adorning a most dramatic drawl. “Of course, your excellency, no doubt at all, your royal highness, please, do give us further idiotic orders to taunt us with, your magnanimous majesty!”

Jihoon’s glare did not waver. “Get out.”

“…right on, general.”

And so the last of the centurions were out, you standing at the door as they made to leave. Before they exited, though, they all simultaneously waved at you, some a bit too enthusiastically, others a soft gesture.

“Ave, _____! Ave, general!”

And they left, laughing already with plans to bring more merriment into their lives.

Your husband joined you, leaning against the opposite door frame. “I have a feeling they’re going to drag poor Chan into some brothel.”

“I think the boy would pass out before that would take place,” you said, chuckling as you glanced down at your child. “At least he takes care of Cheol well.”

“Does he?“

“…better than the average soldier, then.”

“At least they had fun yesterday.” Jihoon took a step closer, observing his son giggling at his mother’s entertainment. “Though they test my patience everyday, they deserve all the reward.”

“Do not exclude yourself, my love,” you reminded him. “You did not enslave yourself to your armies to disregard yourself like that.”

“I do not exclude myself.” His hand reached out, holding Seungcheol’s little head. How strange, that his entire head could fit in his palm. “I am simply happy with what I have right now.”

He offered you a smile. “I am more than happy with you and my son beside me. I ask for nothing more.”

You returned his smile, heart bursting at the seams as he leaned in, enveloping your lips with his in a sweet kiss.

And as the two of you played with your son in the morning light of the Roman sun, you snuck glances at your husband, the light of the Empire. The Eagle of Rome.

Finally, your home was now complete.

#seventeen imagines #lee jihoon imagines #seventeen smut #lee jihoon smut #woozi imagines #woozi smut #svt imagines #svt smut #svt x reader #seventeen x reader #lee jihoon x reader #woozi x reader #jihoon imagines #jihoon smut #jihoon x reader

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anyarose011 · 10 days ago

Text

Agape

Pairing: Lucius x Reader

Summary: After the Roman Empire had fallen, birthing the Republic, you and Lucius had finally found a moment to breathe in each other's presence. Over a few years' journey of healing, you find that is both exhausting, yet all the more fulfilling at the same time.

Part 2 of 2 (Masterlist)

Warning(s): Past SA, Depictions of Grief, Violence, Angst, Miscommunication, Historical Inaccuracies [I tried my best to make it kind of accurate], Nudity (sexual and non-sexual), Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex (f receiving), P in V Sex

Paul Mescal's facial hair in All of Us Strangers, if you can hear us, please save us. Nobody ask me how I went from "’Oh, I’m just gonna write some scenes about healing from trauma, and the rest is smut! Easy!" to then making it just a little longer than the first part. I'm a yapper, but holy shit XD. Anyway, this is just shameless pRopAgAnDa at what I personally view a husband to act like (even in modern times). So, without further ado, thousands of words of hurt/comfort and smut.

Word Count: 16.4k

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You were a lucky child. When you were twelve and your friend was married off to a man who was forty-two, you asked your father when you would be married.

He tucked you in that night, saying that he wasn’t certain, and that you had nothing to fear; for he wouldn’t promise you to a man who was in a war the same year you were born. He would have to know him personally as well, saying.

“It’s easier to like a man than have to plan his assassination if he dared lay a hand on you.”

You like to think he would have approved of Lucius; he was the once heir to the Roman Empire.

You don’t think he would have approved of your…informal marriage.

“A year.” Lucius stated as the two of you sat together in one of the piazzas. “As long as we are not separated from each other for more than three days, Rome will view us as married if we live in the same household for a year.”

You hummed. “And why should we care what Rome views?”

“Men won’t stop their advances on you if they saw you as my sister.” he explained. “Even as a wife, that doesn’t stir them.”

“It’s a very Christian belief of you to have.”

“But it makes them think thoroughly on if they want to risk tainting you.” Lucius finally looked at you. “Knowing that I would break every finger they touched you with.”

Even with his proclamation, you merely shrugged. “Being the emperor’s favorite whore, I doubt they would care.”

He sighed. “Do you want to know what my mother wrote? Her final words that will forever be with me because they are in ink? ‘Take her as your wife.’”

It had only been one day since Lucilla’s death, since Rome had become a Republic, and no one knew exactly what to do.

Yet…even at the mention of her presence, you felt tears spring to your eyes.

How you hated crying; and crying and crying.

“It is wise.” You finally settled on. “The people here too must see me as a traitor.”

“You would be dead if they did.”

“It’s still early.” You smiled sadly. “I desired to be free of the emperors, but all they must have saw was lust for power.”

Lucius sighed. “If it is a concern, then I believe it is best to leave Rome.”

Suddenly, you were no longer afraid for your life. You scowled. “Leave the city you risked your life to liberate?”

“It is not just my own life I need to think of now, is it?”

“Then think of mine.” you began. “I don’t wish to leave. Where would we even go? I know nothing outside of Rome.”

This would have been solved if you somehow still had the house you grew up in. The moment Geta claimed you, it was gone. Even with the fall of the Empire, and the birth of the Republic, you could not take it back.

Among many other things, you could not take it back.

“We’ll live just outside the walls.” Lucius suggested. “A farm perhaps a few miles from here-.”

“-A farm?” You questioned. “You know how to farm? Because I sure don’t.”

“I’ve lived longer on a farm than I have in a palace.”

It shouldn’t have surprised you, but it did. You also weren’t in the position to bargain. Even though it wasn’t going to be what most would deem an ‘official’ marriage, he still owned you. That was how it always was, whether living outside of the Roman walls or not. Still, you had to try.

“I will learn as much as I need to,” You shook your head. “but I will find a job in the city. You cannot believe I will be shut out-.”

“-Do you want to share a room, or would you like your own?”

You furrowed your brow. “What?”

Lucius restated. “We don’t have any money to buy a farm, so I’ll build us one. Do you want your own room?”

You had only known him for a grand total of a day and a half (if you were to add up all the previous times you had spoken to him before Macrinus’ death), so needless to say, his offer shocked you; more so, it impressed you.

“Isn’t it odd for a man and wife to not share a bed?” You asked.

“So, you want to share a room?”

“No.” was your immediate response. “I just…”

Am not used to compromising with men without them threatening my life.

“Won’t it cost money to build a house?” You asked instead. “None the less, more for another room?”

“I only want you to be happy, if we’re to be married.”

There you were, asking every question and not being satisfied with his answers, yet he was remaining patient.

“Thank you.” You bowed your head in thanks for just a second before questioning. “I am still allowed to have a job in the city? It will help with the cost, of course.”

“Where exactly do you intend to work?”

He said your name; not ‘Julia’, the name you had whispered to him in his cell. Lucius was the only one who had said it to you, for you did not even tell Lucilla or Marcus. It still felt strange hearing it on your lips, nonetheless, his.

Still, shaking your discomfort away, you hummed humorlessly. “I know two women who run their own businesses; hairdressing and tailoring. I’m better at hair than clothes, but not so much. And you?”

He sighed. “I’ll see if there’s any other farmers needing a hand.”

“You’re going to work for a farmer to build a farm?”

“It sounded more bizarre in your head than when you said it aloud, did it not?”

That was the first thing you found out about Lucius after all the bloodshed and heartbreak of the last week:

He spoke with such a straight tone, you did not know he was joking until he would smile just a hint; you couldn’t really call it a true smile.

You managed to grin. “I suppose it makes sense. You should find one that will let us sleep there.”

And he did. A farm just a few miles outside of Rome took both you and Lucius in. It was substantial, housing five chickens, two cows, three pigs, four horses, and seven human children. Albeit the children helped with the chores, but the eldest was only ten and could not manage any of the heavy lifting whatsoever, which was where Lucius came in.

From sun up to sun down, he’d work on the farm. The farmers, Atticus and Diana, let you sleep in the barn of all places. The hayloft was nice for the both of you; enough space to spread out but not be right next to each other. There was also somewhat of a wall between the two of you, giving the illusion of separate rooms.

It was certainly an adjustment for you; had been sleeping on the softest of beds for months, but even so, you just missed the bed from your old house.

Lucius fell asleep the second he laid on the hay.

Dreams and nightmares were always a peculiar thing. Some days, you would dream of your mother and father, some days, they would be of Lucilla and Marcus.

You had nightmares of what befell you before coming to the farm; Macrinus and his manipulation, Caracalla’s temper, Geta…

Yet, the worst that would happen would be you waking up more tired than the night prior. You knew Lucius was having nightmares too, but every time you approached him, he would lie and say he was fine, or simply not want to speak of it.

You stopped asking.

For the first few days on the farm, you were put to work by watching over the younger children when their mother was busy. Somehow, it was the older ones you didn’t mind, it was the youngest baby who was a handful.

It’s morbid to say, but you always wondered how any of them survived infancy.

Luckily, you managed to get back to Rome after perhaps a week of being stranded on the farm. It was almost an hour walk, and you had gotten up even before Lucius had, but it was worth it.

It wasn’t that you felt dead as you were on the farm per say, but walking through the streets brought a certain kind of life back into your steps.

You spent a good portion of the day trying to find the hairdressers you talk to Lucius about. Just as you were about to give up and try again tomorrow, something caught your ear.

Hebrew.

You turned over your shoulder and saw a man speaking in Latin to another man and a pregnant woman. The father had spoken in broken Latin before turning to his wife, speaking quickly in Hebrew as if to ask her what to say.

One of the men began to yell, and you rushed over, speaking to the patriarch of the family.

“What’s going on?” You asked quickly.

His eyes grew as if you were the first person in Rome to understand him (you probably were). “I paid for a bag of peaches fairly; two bronze, yet they’re saying it wasn’t enough.”

You turned to the men behind you. “He says he gave you two bronze for the peaches.”

“It was three.” The Roman man gritted his teeth.

Tilting your head, you tried. “Show me your stand so we may see.”

It was perhaps stupid of you to challenge him; yet, he controlled his tempter and led you to his fruit stand. The sign by the peaches indeed said ‘2’, but there was also a good amount of peaches blocking the bottom half of the sign.

When you moved a few, it read ‘3’.

You smiled, looking at the man who spoke Hebrew. “It is three, but it’s not your fault this brute didn’t notice either.”

He nodded, returning your grin before handing the men another copper. With an few mumbled exchanges, the man and his wife were on their way.

“You have Judeans in your family?” The man crudely asked.

Still, you decided to reciprocate his crassness with kindness. “I actually speak five languages.”

He rose his brows. “Is that a fact?”

“Yes, yes it is.”

He hummed, holding his hand out. “Isidorus.”

“Julia.” Was your immediate response as he took your hand and kissed your knuckles. It wasn’t even your own choice to say that name; it was what you lived by. Retracting your hand, you shake your head and said your own name. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-.”

“-All of Rome knows who you are.” He interrupted. “Do not be afraid of your own people. Most of them were there simply a week ago when you tried to slay Macrinus but was there to comfort lady Lucilla in her final moments.”

You only nodded, not wanting to be praised. “I thank you for your kindness.”

“With certain.” He nodded. “You are with child; only a monster would harm a woman carrying.”

The events of the past weeks had made you forgotten about the false babe. Luckily, the fear upon your face could be used to your advantage.

“Are you not well?” Isidorus questioned.

You dropped your gaze, stammering your tone. “The…I lost the child.”

He looked down as well. “Oh…I’m so sorry.”

“No,” you shook your head. “it’s…it feels odd. His father was terrible but…”

“Why are you perusing Rome unchaperoned?” He changed the subject.

“My betrothed is being put to work,” you immediately answered. “and I am scouring the streets to find my own.”

“What has your luck been?”

“Nothing.”

Isidorus hummed. “I could change that.”

Even at the thought of what he was alluding to, you smiled. “Good sir, I am not in the position to sell my body-.”

“-None of that.” he waved his hand. “My brother works down at the entrance of the city gates. They’re always in need of translators.”

You nodded, considering. “When may I meet with him?”

“Tomorrow?” He asked. “Midday at the gates with many people watching so you do not feel threatened?”

The two of you laughed, and you agreed. “I shall be there. Thank you.”

“Anything to help a woman of the people.”

You walked all the way back to the farm with a skip in your step. Even at dinner, you were more talkative with the rest of the family. Lucius certainly took notice as the two of you were settling down for the night.

“You seemed better today.” He complimented, laying onto his bed of hay.

“So, I’ve been absolutely horrible the rest?” You teased, peeking around the wall of the hayloft.

“No, just what I think you were like before everything; more yourself.” He explained. “Did the hairdressers go well?”

Leaning against the wall, you crossed your arms. “I’m actually working as a translator down by the city entrance.”

He gave you a look. “How’d this come about?”

“Well,” you began. “I overheard two men arguing, one was speaking Hebrew, and I asked him what was wrong. There was a misunderstanding over peaches of all things, I helped them talk it out, and it was solved with no bloodshed. The vendor said his brother works at the gates and is always in need of translators and offered to meet with him tomorrow. It will be midday and so many people around; do not worry.”

Lucius nodded. “I’ll accompany you.”

“Did you not hear what I just said? I shall be fine.”

“I have no doubt you would.” You knew that was a lie. “One of the scythes broke today, I’ll need to buy another one in the city.”

You didn’t know if that was a lie or not, but it wouldn’t surprise you if Lucius would sneak out in the night and break equipment simply to go with you.

Sighing, you went behind the wall to your side of the hayloft. “Fine.”

To no one but Lucius’ surprise, Isidorus had not lied about his brother, nor the job offer. Of course, the brother had been off put at a woman being the translator (because everyone knows that they are the lesser sex). Still, after some convincing (you talked to a Greek family, a man from Anatolia, and two brothers from Persia), he said you could be put to work.

Lucius stood there the whole hour you had proved yourself.

“You couldn’t have gotten the scythe while I worked?” You questioned him while walking home.

He kept his gaze on the road before him, carrying the farm equipment. “It was engaging to watch.”

You hummed. “I could see how engaged you were while you stood like this.” You crossed your arms and scowled.

“I did not look like that.” He scoffed.

“You did so!” You refuted, lowering your voice. “My name is Lucius Verus Aurelius, the Last Gladiator, son of Lucilla and Maximus, grandson of Marcus Aurelius.”

He looked down, mouth upturning a little. “I do not sound like that.”

“Is that a smile?!” you gasped. “Gods above, I never thought you could unless you were attempting humor!

“Away with you, woman.”

You only laughed as the sun was starting to set.

There was something called a “Fullmoon” period in a marriage. Most now would say it’s “Honeymoon”, but the period in time where a man and woman were in a complete state of euphoria together was called “Fullmoon” because it only lasted for a month.

You and Lucius (even with your strange circumstance) were not immune to this.

A month later, when you had fully settled into a mundane life of working in different areas for hours upon hours, the only times you saw Lucius was when you ate dinner with the farmer’s family, and before going to bed.

It didn’t’ effect you that much for the first three months, as you both were still on good terms and were fine simply cohabitating without affection. This marriage was purely for protection and to honor Lucilla’s wishes.

Then…Lucius came to you one day, saying that together, you both had enough money to build a farm. He already had a patch of land picked out from the help of the famer who employed him. It was five miles away from the farm you stayed at. Five miles more of a journey to the city.

You would move in once the walls were built, which he said would only take a week or two.

It was too fast for you.

Still, you had to go along with it, because you were to be his wife; nothing more. Even so, nothing out of the ordinary besides your hidden, simmering annoyance happened between you two.

The first day construction was to be done was when light was shed upon it.

“Lucius!” You called his name as you approached him and a few other men hauling the wood and stone that would be used. It was mid-twilight when you ran to them.

He furrowed his brow, walking towards you. “Aren’t you meant to be in the city?”

Grinning from ear to ear, you shook your head. “I asked for the day off because of the house. He said I-.”

“-You need to go back and tell him you’ll work.”

Your smile fell from his usual, monotone demeanor. “He doesn’t expect me to come in today-.”

“-Then he’ll be happy to see you.”

“May I just talk for a moment?!” You yelled.

His said nothing.

Sighing, you began. “I will be useful in any capacity. If you need me to help dig for water, measure supports, lift anything-.”

“-Your shoulder cannot carry-.”

You retorted. “-It might be the shoulder you shot, but it’s the shoulder I have to live with, and I will tell you if something is too heavy to carry.”

It hadn’t been the first time you brought up your shoulder after Rome was free. Yet, in the past, it was always out of good fun; something to say to him when you didn’t want to carry as little as an egg from the chicken coop. You told the children the story too why you had to set one of them down after carrying her for so long.

You expected them to cower away from Lucius when he returned for supper, but instead, they all tackled him to the ground to defend your honor.

They didn’t hurt him of course, and you laughed until you couldn’t breathe.

Yet, at that moment, you said it with nothing but disdain; and he heard it in every word. You thought it would have been enough to guilt him into letting you help, you made sure of it.

Lucius titled his head back toward the main road. “Go on, now. The sun will be up soon, it’ll be better to walk without daylight beating down on you.”

The audacity he had. Usually, on the times you’d have disagreements of sorts, you’d try to leave with dignity; perhaps a word of sarcasm or two.

No, you simply turned on your heel and marched away in a huff.

You were harsher that day when translating, and you were still angry by the time the day ended. You ate dinner outside by yourself (until three of the seven children came outside to eat with you), and did not utter a ‘goodnight’ to Lucius before laying down to sleep.

Neither of you spoke to the other for days after that.

It was one morning, not even when the sun was out, as you tried to tiptoe around him, did he ask from his makeshift bed.

“Do you remember where the house is?”

You nearly fell off the ledge of the hayloft. “What is wrong with you?!”

“Do you remember?”

“Yes!” you whispered, afraid to wake the whole farm. “Why?”

“We made the water pump, and the walls and floors are finished. We’ll be able to sleep there now.”

“I don’t see the appeal in sleeping in a house with no roof.”

“I’ll put half of it on today. Tell your foreman too that you won’t be able to work for the next week.”

You furrowed your brow. “Why?”

“I’m teaching you how to tend to a farm.” He wrapped his blankets tighter around him and turned his back to you.

And you continued on your way; making the long trek to the city, which would only be longer when you moved to the house.

When your work was over, you walked and walked. You took a short break at the farmer’s house, making your final goodbyes to the children, and gathering what little belongings you owned.

As you tried to leave, Diana stopped you. She was leading one of the horses, a berber, behind her.

“Take her,” she handed you the reins. “you shouldn’t have to walk so far.”

You shook your head. “I simply cannot-.”

“-I insist.” She smiled. “She’s yours now. Think of it as payment for helping me with the little beasts that are my children.”

Smiling politely, it soon faded. She took notice. “What is it?”

“…I’ve only ever ridden once, and I was a child.”

She sighed yet was still kind. “Come on, my husband’s horse is at your farm. I’ll ride back with him.”

Despite your inexperience, it was actually nice riding a horse. It was perhaps the closest you could ever come to flying in your lifetime; maybe that’s why you enjoyed it. As you were nearing your soon-to-be home, you saw a familiar silhouette along with some others.

Atop the house, against the setting sun, you watched as Lucius continued to add tiles to the unfinished roof. His shirt was off, and even with night beginning to set in with the cold air, he was still breaking a sweat from the rigorous work. You would be a liar if you say that you didn’t catch yourself staring, and it was Diana who had to take the reins.

“What a fine home!” She broke you out of your trance, and when Lucius looked in your direction, you snapped your gaze away.

Lucius nodded. “All that needs to be done is the roof.” He jumped onto the ground just as you were sliding off the horse. He gave you his hand as you were, and you took it.

“Thank you.”

Atticus and the other workers went to a lone tree where their horses were tied. Atticus then approached both you and Lucius.

“Well,” he smiled. “it was lovely hosting the both of you. Please come back as often as you can; I’m sure the children will miss you.”

You all exchanged your final goodbyes, and it when everyone rode off away from you, did you realize something. This was the first time in a while you were alone with Lucius that wasn’t when going to sleep or waking up.

“Do you have a name for the horse?” Lucius asked.

Turning over your shoulder, you led the steed to the tree, petting her as you began to tie her up. “Not at the moment. She’s yours too, do you have any?”

“You’ll be with her more; you should name her.”

Humming you looked at him when you finished securing the horse. “You asked them to give her to me, didn’t you?”

He shrugged. “They asked how they could repay you for taking care of their children, I mentioned how it would be a longer journey to the city once we moved here. That’s all I did.”

…He was better at asking for forgiveness than for permission; that was another thing you learned about him. Still, you nodded your appreciation, inspecting the area around you. It was quite beautiful even with its plainness. The fields stretched on for miles, and there were no tall buildings to cover the night sky. Even the unfinished house brought a sense of happiness to you.

Something that was, at least partially, your own.

“Where will the barn and chicken coop go?” You questioned.

A hint of a smile played on his mouth, but in Lucius fashion, did his best to hide it. “You were complaining about not having a roof, and now you wonder about things for the animals?”

“Perhaps I’m more interested in farming that you are.”

“I’ll teach you.” he led you into the house. “Come on.”

The front living space was large, and in the corner of it had an oven, so that was where the kitchen would be. Lucius showed you the two rooms as well; each having a single pillow and a blanket.

“We’ll begin planting tomorrow.” he announced. “I don’t think I’ll have to wake you up.”

“You won’t.” You nodded. “Goodnight, Lucius.”

“Goodnight.” He said your name.

You didn’t think you’d ever get over the sound of your own name from his lips.

You named the horse after your mother. Well…not the exact same name, but a similar one. It was quite a scene too when confessing to Lucius you could exactly remember how to ride a horse by yourself.

He didn’t laugh at you, that was what greatly surprised you. He spent an hour teaching you, and you were able to ride her on your own.

Farming was more difficult than you thought it would be, but not so horrible either. Yes, where Lucius was patient with you for the first few days, he made a few snide comments as time passed. Nothing outright mean, but still enough to get under your skin.

Still, you managed to pick it up within the few weeks after that.

He had even let you help him finish the roof of the house; something you didn’t expect him to do. After living in the house for a month, both of you managed to buy actual beds for your rooms, among other luxuries like a few tables and chairs for the main living area, and utensils both for cooking and for eating.

The bathroom was completely bare. Having spent all the money on everything else, it would take time for the both of you to buy a bathtub. Bathing wasn’t a problem back on Atticus and Diana’s farm, but now being away from them, you would be forced to rely on the public baths in the city…

Even with some bathhouses having baths only for women, that did not stop men from forcing their way into them.

You didn’t mind being dirty for weeks on end.

The two of you fell into another pattern of life; you going into the city and spending hours translating foreign dialogue, and Lucius working on the farm for most days, sometimes accompanying you.

There was…something else strange as well.

It was always a coin toss on what weeks Lucius would speak to you or not.

Yes, he was always a man of few words, but this was different. There were some days when you asked him about his day, he would tell you what boring tasks he did. Than, on others, it was just one word: “Good.”

Never “Bad”, never “Just okay”; only “Good”. Even when you knew it wasn’t, that’s all he would say.

And you could endure it.

It had already been a little over half a year since the two of you started living together. In the eyes of Rome (as mere Plebians), you would be married once a year passed.

This was perhaps the best marriage you could as for as a Roman woman. Still…every day that Lucius would not speak to you only brought more dread upon your shoulders.

When he stopped even looking at you, that was when you went to Diana one day.

“It’s so lovely to see you.” She smiled, setting down two cups of wine and sitting. “It’s felt like ages!”

With her youngest baby on your lap, you chuckled, taking a sip of your drink. “You honestly didn’t need to get the wine out.”

“Nonsense!” She waved her hand. “It’s a celebration just to be in your presence. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you as well.”

“How’s the farm? Lucius?”

“Well,” you took another sip, setting your cup down. “the farm has been alright. I know at least how to properly water crops and know when they’re ready to harvest or not. I help Lucius sometimes, but…he likes things his own way. He was a farmer too, I understand.”

She hummed. “And as a betrothed? I hope having your own home would help; to me, you two treated each other more like acquaintances than anything else.”

All you could do was avoid eye contact and bounce the giggling baby on your knee.

“Ah.” She sighed. “So not much has changed?”

“We both talk more than we had at your far, but somehow, less at the same time.” You explained.

Diana reached over and held your hand, asking softly. “When was the last time you were intimate?”

As if she were a man, you tore your hand from hers. “What?”

“I do not wish anything to be forced upon you,” she stated first. “especially with what has happened to you. But…it is still important, especially to your future marriage.”

“We…we haven’t done anything in…months.” You were not going to tell her you hadn’t even seen him naked. You were not going to tell her you hadn’t done you “duty” as a woman.

She nodded. “There must be something plaguing his mind terribly.”

“I know that!” You cried. “He just won’t tell me.”

“Men do not like talking,” Diana sighed. “I have been married to Atticus for fifteen years, and even after ten children, there are parts of his past I still do not know of. What Lucius frets over is important though. You must dig your heels into the ground and let him know you are not doing anything until he tells you what he has issue with.”

The baby on your lap cooed as you held her, reaching for parts of your clothing. Diana took her from you once the baby started fussing, and you offered her a grateful smile.

“I’ll try my best with him.”

She squeezed your shoulder. “He will come to his senses. If not, then he truly hit his head too hard in the Colosseum.”

Except, you couldn’t confront him when you got home. Even though the sun was only beginning to set, when you arrived, the house was silent. You peeked into his bedroom and saw that he was already fast asleep.

With a sigh, you finished your nightly activities, and when the sun went down, you were in your own bed.

The nightmare was unlike any you had before.

Hands from all around you reached out to you. Some grabbed clumps of your hair, stuck their fingers into your mouth, caressed the most intimate parts of your body, or even tear your skin off.

You blinked and then you were in the palace, surrounded by cloaked figures. Someone forced you onto your back, and you looked up and saw Geta, raising a knife high above his head before diving it into your stomach. He carved it out before digging his hands into the opening he made and pulled out your womb.

After sitting up in bed, you had thought you awoken. When you opened your bedroom door, you were welcomed to a field of reeds, seeing nothing for miles. All but a silhouette in the distance. You could not make out it to be a man or a woman; all you knew was that you needed to run to them.

Yet, even as you dashed through the fields, calling out a name you do not even remember, your feet sank into the ground with each step.

The earth swallowed you whole before you could even reach them.

You didn’t awake with a scream; you didn’t even awake with a cry. You did awake in a sweat. Sitting up, you slowly pulled the blanket away from your body. Your stomach was unwounded, and nothing had happened.

Without knowing why, you rose from your bed and slipped on your sandals. Not even putting on a robe, you walked out of the house into the cold, night air. Numbly, you treaded through the tall grass away from the house and stopped.

The stars above you watched as you fell to your knees, and the past finally had the last laugh.

You wept for your mother (whose touch you never felt).

You wept for your father (who you had to take care of the same way he took care of you).

You wept for Marcus (the first man outside of your father to ever see you as a person).

You wept for Lucilla (the woman who saved you in more ways than one).

You wept for the innocence you lost to the twin emperors (and how you mercilessly killed them).

You wept and wept, until you felt bile claw its way up your throat and out of your mouth.

The tears did not stop even after you were finished.

Two hands grabbed your shoulders from behind, and you tried to tear yourself away with a sharp cry. You were turned around, and even though your tears blinded you, you could see that it was Lucius.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, his eyes grown.

You couldn’t speak clearly, only shaking your head and saying ‘No’ over and over. Lucius led you to the water pump and sat you down by it. Cranking the handle until the water flowed freely, he cupped his hand to catch some of it before gently washing your face.

The cool water grounded you, and your sobs began to slow. Once you were only left with shallow breathing and a stuffed nose, Lucius finally sat beside you.

“What happened?” He asked again, although, returning to his normal, straight-toned self.

“Bad dream.” Was all you said.

He said nothing at first. Then, looking down at the grass beneath him, he said. “Would talking about it help you?”

It was meant to be a helpful question, but it only angered you. “You ask that now? After I run out into the night screaming?”

Lucius squinted his eyes. “Why does that bother you?”

“I know you have nightmares too.” You scoffed. “I have asked you dozens of times if you wish to talk to me about them, and you have always said no. You’ve never once asked me about mine, so how dare you expect me to tell you about it now when you cannot even share yours with me!”

“That’s not fair.” He shook his head.

You stood up, walking back to the house. “You’re right, it isn’t fair.”

He jumped to his feet. “You can’t walk away without telling me why this is troubling you.”

“You first.”

“What?”

You turned to face him. “We are to be married in less than a year, at least ‘In the eyes of Rome’ as you say, yet you do not even look at me anymore!”

His shoulders fell, and he shook his head. “I am looking at you-.”

“-I ask you how you are these days, and you lie to me every time.” You interrupted. “The few instances you allow me to work beside you, you criticize every little thing I do. I understand that I am the farthest thing you wanted for as a wife-.”

It was that word that struck a chord. Despite saying it every so often those past few months…it was only then it occurred to you that where Lucius was your first husband…you were not his first wife.

He tore his gaze away from yours, as if he knew you had figured it out. You sighed. “Gods above…I’m sorry for what has happened to her, and I will never know the loss of a love like that…but I cannot be viewed as her replacement-.”

“-Who told you that you were?” He sharpened his tone.

You swallowed, knowing that this would all end in tears no matter what you said. “You do not tell me anything. I will never ask you to care for me the way you cared for her, but she is gone-.”

“-I couldn’t do anything after she died but weep and watch her body float into the ocean.” He hissed. “I vowed to kill the man that slaughtered her, and I didn’t. It had been perhaps just a month since her death, did I promise myself to another woman. I have dishonored her memory three times.”

“I do not know how long you need me to apologize for something I could not control, but I will if that means you will stop hating me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You hate that I will be your wife!” Your voice was growing hoarse. “I don’t understand it at all. I will be whatever it is you wish me to be in few months’ time, because you will own me. Even if you wish me to be dead, it shall be done because what I want will not matter-.”

“-Must you make everything about yourself?!” He finally yelled. “Would it soothe you if I said I despised every part of you? That if Jupiter himself came down and offered me my old life in exchange for you, I would give you up to him?! Would it give you any peace of mind if I told you I would have rather died in the arena than live a thousand years with you?”

You had expected him to at least pause after he made his confession. To at least have the courage to look you in the eye and watch as the words sunk into your being. Yet, as soon as he finished, he stomped back to the house; and you were alone outside again.

The tears upon your face glimmered from the light in the sky above you, for all you could do was stare at the little farmhouse Lucius had built for you.

How strange that something you once saw as a sign of devotion, was now revealed to be one of complicity.

He had admitted his disdain for your future marriage. You knew that it would be loveless (you would never escape that), but you wished at least for respect. Seeing as how you were not even going to have that, you dragged your feet over to the tree where your horse was tied up. Mounting her with nothing but the clothes on your back, you raced down the pathway.

For the first day, you had stayed at Diana and Atticus’ farm. You said nothing about Lucius, and tried to spend the most time with the children to avoid any questions.

On the second day, you finally went back to the city. Even though the man in charge of you yelled louder than Lucius had at you, it did not phase you. You merely nodded and returned to work. With what money they paid you for the day, you spent it on a room at the safest inn you could find. You had another nightmare that night. Not as horrible as the one two days prior, but awful enough for you to lay awake until the sun rose.

The third day seemed to be ordinary, until you finished your job, and you were promenading along the market. As you eyed the fruit at Isidorus’ stand, a man came to stand beside you.

“Good sir,” you heard Lucius’ voice. “do you have a wife?”

Isidorus nodded. “I do.”

“What from your stand would you give her if she was angry at you?”

He eyed you before smiling at Lucius. “My ears to listen.”

You turned, promptly walking away. Of course, Lucius followed.

“I didn’t know you confided into strangers about our qualms.”

“He’s not a stranger.” you kept trying to lose him. “And gifts will not suffice for an apology this time.”

He got in front of you, uttering your name. You stopped, sighing. “What else have you come to say to me?”

“That I am a fool.”

Although you weren’t necessarily expecting him to admit it, you only nodded. “You very much are.”

He began. “For my entire life, I was not allowed to be entirely truthful with others. Whether it was how I felt in the moment, or even my own name. I’m not used to the freedom of being candid with one another. And I have been mistreating you; I have provided a home, but I haven’t provided your wellbeing. Ari-.” Lucius paused, breathing through his nose. “Arishat and I lived on a farm, that was all I knew while being a husband. I will love her until the end of my days, but that does not give me the right to neglect you. I will…I will try with all my being to share my thoughts with you.”

You stared at him, feeling as if you would blink, and you would awaken from another dream. Yet once you did and saw that he was still in front of you, you said.

“I didn’t mean to insult your memory of her.”

He shook his head. “I believe she would hit me if she were here and saw how I treated you.”

“Thank you.” You nodded. “Truly, for everything. I…it’s not only you, I don’t know if I will ever feel like myself after…everything.”

Lucius already knew. Still, looking around himself, he then said. “Where is your horse?”

“The inn I’ve been staying at has a stable. You walked the whole way here?”

“It’s what I deserved.”

“You smell horrible.” You mustered a shy grin.

He mirrored you, looking away. “I have for a while.”

“I do as well. I was…I was going to brave the baths; would you like to join me?”

Your offer took him by surprise. Usually, a question like that would be an invitation to more salacious activities to take place. Still, what took him aback more was how you were initially so afraid of the public baths, yet there you were.

“I shall.” He agreed.

Thus, the two of you walked beside one another. There were many baths in Rome, yet it would be challenging to find one that had a separate bath for women and one for men. By the time you reached the third bathhouse, you sighed.

“This will do.”

Lucius shook his head. “I’ll ask the workers at this one if they know-.”

“-No.” You stopped him. “It’s fine. I wish to speak more with you.”

He was still hesitant, but gave in. The two of you entered and drifted off to the separate changing rooms. It was strange that the bathhouse had rooms for the different sex to disrobe, but not baths itself.

After locking your clothes away, you ventured out into the main pool. You were welcomed to an array of naked bodies. You weren’t entirely innocent of course, even before everything. You were never to see any of these people again; it was Lucius you would live with.

Quickly, you disappeared half of your body under the surface of the water and clung to the wall of the large bath. Other people around you laughed and socialized, only putting you more in the eyes of men who only came to the baths for one thing.

Yet, before you could take a moment to worry, your eyes fell to Lucius who entered. You soon averted them and felt the water shift beside you as he entered. You turned to look at him, leveling yourself with the side of the pool, essentially shoulder to shoulder with him. The hear radiating off of his body onto yours reminded you too much of that night months ago; the one where you whispered your name into his ear.

“What were you like as a boy?” You questioned in an attempt to hide how flustered you were.

He hummed. “Why do you ask?”

“If you wish to be more honest with me, than I think it should be best to stary with something minor.”

“I understand. I was spoiled growing up in the palace. Still, I wished nothing more than for adventure. All my life, the mere thought of war and battles were taught as a way to bring glory to the empire; pride for one’s family. I had gotten my foolish wish when Maximus died, and my mother sent me away from Rome.” He paused momentarily, before continuing. “I ran all across the land until I was thirteen, where I finally settled in Numidia. I had changed my named too many times to count and settled upon Hanno.”

Your attention did not waver for a moment. When he was finished you asked. “How old were you when you left?”

“Eight…” There was a sad silence between the two of you. A silence held in almost reverence for all the troubles he had been through. “What about you?”

Even with your uneasiness to answer your starkly different childhood, you did so; also have been promising to be honest with him. You spoke of your father, your past friends, the house you grew up in. He never once looked upon you with envy or hatred.

“Your father sounded like a good man.” He said.

“He was.” You nodded, feeling a weight settle in your chest. "I think he would have liked you.”

“I can only hope.”

The conversation halted after that, unknown if you should wait for him to ask a question, or for you to ask another. Both of your eyes drifted around the bath house as people filtered in and out. When your gaze fell back onto Lucius’ you watched his eyes flicker to something behind you. Before you could utter a word, he placed his hand upon your bare back, bringing his lips to the space between your ear and your jaw.

It all happened so fast you had no time to react, and your body shivered upon the feel of him being so close to you.

“There’s a man eyeing you from behind.” He whispered into your skin. “Don’t look at him, just keep looking at me. I’m sorry.”

You pulled away slightly, doing as he told. He traced circles on your back with his thumb, staring intently at you. Even as you shrunk under his eyes, they did not frighten you.

Deciding to play along, you trailed your hand up his bare arm until resting on his shoulder. You felt his skin erupt into goosebumps and he took a sharp intake of breath.

“Okay?” You asked.

He nodded. “Yes, it’s just…it’s been a while.”

Anyone with any sense knew that meant more than one thing. It had been a while since he felt anyone’s touch; nonetheless, a naked woman’s.

From behind him, you saw a small group of girls all looking at you. They all looked a little younger than you, and acted like so, giggling loudly and talking without a care in the world. It was only then that you noticed they were looking at Lucius.

“Is there someone eyeing me now?” He attempted to tease you when he noticed your gaze.

You nodded, no hint of humor behind your voice. “A good few of them.”

“Is that so?”

You removed your hand. “I wouldn’t mind, you know.”

“Wouldn’t mind what?” He pinched his eyebrows together.

“…Getting your release from a woman that isn’t me.” You were puzzled by his seeming ignorance. “You’re a man, I understand-.”

He said your name with somewhat of gasp. You didn’t listen one bit.

“No, I mean it. I will not be more selfish than I already have been, expecting you to remain celibate because I don’t think I will-.”

Lucius said your name again and you stopped. Even when you did, he said it a third time as if to know he had your attention. He continued to run his fingers up and down your back.

“I will not dishonor you-.”

“-I have been dishonored several times before, it does not matter-.”

“-Listen to me.” He said softly yet firmly. “Even if I desired someone carnally, it is not selfish of you to want my loyalty. I’m not a boy who wishes to bed anything that breathes. I don’t think I can do so with someone I do not have any deep feelings for. You are my wife, and I will not treat you less.”

He didn’t call you his ‘betrothed’. As if, the moment you accepted his apology, you were already his other half. To hear him speak with so much certainty after neither of you knowing what any day would bring…it brought an astonishing comfort you never knew you needed.

“Thank you.” You felt like your heart could beat again.

“You don’t-.”

“-No but I do. I don’t…I don’t think I could give you anything of myself if you wanted it. It’s still…I remember a lot of what Geta did to me, and I forgot it at the same time. It doesn’t happen a lot in my nightmares, but it still does. That one night you found me he…he cut out my womb and held it in his hands. I thought I woke up, but I didn’t, and I think I was in Elysian Fields, but I only saw a shadow. I don’t know what any of that means.”

Lucius let you finish all of the anxiety you had thrown onto him. Still, releasing a shallow breath, he said.

“You die in most of my dreams.” He clarified. “The bad ones, I mean. A lot of people do, but you’ve been in them the most. There are times I see both you and Arishat, or my mother, or all three of you and…those are the worst. The night I found you outside, I couldn’t…I had a horrible dream that I couldn’t even see your face, but I knew it was you when I found you hanging in the Colosseum.”

If the both of you weren’t naked and, in the bathhouse, you would have embraced him. Yet, with the most understanding look in your eyes, you brought your hand to the base of his neck, his loose curls between your fingers. You swore you felt him relax into your touch for just a moment.

“I’ve known everyone to have their own beliefs of dreams.” You whispered. “They’re meant to predict the future, they reflect the past, they are punishments, they are blessings, and they mean nothing. I wonder if it’s possible they are all of them.”

He nodded. “I don’t know what I believe in anymore.”

“I do.” Lucius unknowingly leaned into you just ever so slightly. You grinned from ear to ear, pulling your hand away from him. “I believe you need to cut your hair.”

He chortled. “I’m not spending anything on cutting it. It’s fine.”

“I’ll cut it then.”

“I would rather be stabbed.”

“Oh, quit being dramatic.” you playfully swatted him. “There’s a reason I would’ve been a better hairdresser than tailor.”

The two of you teased one another for a minute longer after that. Than, even though the conversation died, it was not in vain. There was a quiet gentleness and protectiveness as you both shared a short distance between each other while bathing. Lucius kept his eye on you more than you did him, knowing that it was always possible a man could try to take advantage of you.

When all was said and done, you got your horse from the stable at the inn, and the two of you rode back to the farm with a newfound understanding of each other.

More than a year and a half have passed since the fall of the Roman Empire and its subsequent birth of the Republic. Your strange marriage with Lucius grew into a friendship of respect and understanding. You both talked more than you had when you were first betrothed, even if your busy schedules remained the same.

The farm had improved after its first harvest, even raising enough money to build a chicken coop and house a few chickens. The house itself was more furnished, and the two of you managed to purchase a bathtub, no longer needing to use the public ones in the city.

Both of you had changed as well. Even with what minimal farm work you did, it built both your strength and stamina. Lucius had begun to grow out his facial hair; not much for it to be an actual beard, but more so just under his nose. You’d joke about it looking like a caterpillar, to which he would lightly shove you away.

After the intimate discussion the two of you shared, it was only then you both realized you still didn’t know much about each other. Most importantly, the little things that made each of you a person.

So, you’d take time to get to know one another.

You were helping Lucius pull weeds around the crops when you found out he had ripped a monkey’s throat out with his teeth during his very first gladiator fight.

You were reading a collection of poetry one night when Lucius told you that you mouth the words of whatever you’re reading if you find it most interesting.

During supper one night, Lucius ate the entirety of the plate only to then eat whatever else you hadn’t. That was when your theory was proven right; he does forget to eat sometimes.

Both of you had tried to keep the housework to an equal amount; if he cooked one night, you’d clean the kitchen and vice versa. Yet, some remained stagnant; you always cut his hair, yet he always changed the horses’ shoes.

Cutting his hair was perhaps your favorite way to speak with him.

“Remember to clean your sandals before coming in next time.” He reminded you as he sat on a tree trunk outside. “You tracked in mud.”

Standing behind him while trimming small hairs, you shook your head. “My apologies, master of the house; it was downpouring and I was freezing.”

“Serves you right, I’d say.”

You placed the tip of the shears against his neck. “What else do you have to say?”

He snickered. “That you’re an astonishing woman who I am blessed to have.”

“Wrong answer, all lies.” You pretended to stab him, only to bring the shears back to his hair.

“I’m not lying!” Lucius laughed.

You only gave him a ‘tsk’ before continuing. “Are you sleeping any better?”

He said nothing at first. Your eyes drifted down to his hands and saw him pull on his tunic; another telltale sign of his nervousness.

“I keep seeing my mother’s face.” He admitted. “Only her face, nothing else.”

“It was the third night last night, right?”

“Yes.”

You sighed. “Would you want to hear a dream I had a few days ago to make you feel better?”

“Better because it was happy, or because you think I’ll feel happy I wasn’t you?”

“The latter.”

“Tell me.”

You turned his head to the side gently, continuing your work. “I stood in front of the entire senate of Rome, and they were all laughing at me. I don’t even know what I said, they only laughed and laughed.”

“Is that not what happened to you in the waking day?”

“No, they listened…I think.” You shook our head. “It more so angers me that, in the waking life, I presented logic to them, and they still chose Macrinus who showed nothing of the sort.”

“Some men like to speak of only desiring logic yet run away with their emotions once it is presented.” Lucius stated. “What had you told them?”

“That all of Rome would continue to riot if they killed Lucilla.” You said grimly. “I still don’t understand; they had their proof of the rage Rome’s children could feel when their general was killed, the only reason the city did not fall was because Macrinus was slain. I’m done.”

You set your shears down and Lucius stood, shaking the fallen hair off his clothes. He turned to you.

“If it matters at all, I think the only reason this house hasn’t fallen is because of you.”

Grinning from ear to ear, you shoved him playfully. “Away with you, you’re just as much of the reason as I am.”

“I do all that I can.”

There were moments like this where you would not speak of childhood memories or events of your day. These moments were reserved for the days where it felt like time slowed down just to give you two the grace to speak about them in more detail.

With only a single candle between the two of you one quiet night, you told him how you have to walk a different path in the city sometimes simply to avoid brothels; hating the sounds you would hear from inside, the stench of cheap perfume and sweating bodies burning your nose, the men who would brag to their friends about the women they had.

At breakfast one day, before the sun had even rose, Lucius told you about a time when he was ten, still on the run. He had gone into a man’s house with the promise of food, only to then be hit the head with something so heavy, he was knocked out. He had awoken in a dark room, but managed to find a curtained window, and escaped. He never knew what would have happened to him if he had woken up just a minute later.

There was tenderness you shared with him that you had never shared with anyone in your life.You sht

That was only more apparent on one fateful day.

The first bad omen for the day that morning was when you had run out of sugar for breakfast that morning. The second was when your horse was extra stubborn as you rode her into the city; it was so out of the ordinary, you wondered if you did something to make her hate you.

Still, everything was fine once you went to work. At least it was for the first half of the day.

There were aggressive people from across the land coming into the city you certainly had to deal with, but the worst was when a man twice your size bluffed you with a slap. Even so, the other men you worked with had yelled and sent her away.

That day though…there was a woman with a look in her eyes.

You thought you had seen pure rage when you had been with Geta. Yet, that day was a lesson to you; wrath had many faces.

She mumbled in Greek, but you did not know what she said at first. Then, she attempted to speak Latin. You politely told her you could speak Greek, and so with exhaustion, she told you that she was going to visit her mother.

When asked for her mother’s name, she didn’t say it. After asking again, she became enraged, yelling at you that she should just be able to be let in. When you resisted, she grabbed your bad arm, yanking it to pull you closer to her.

The pain shot through your shoulder like a bolt of lightning, and you cried out. She tugged on your hair as the men beside you tried to pry her away from you. Luckily, she didn’t manage to yank any of it out once the men forced her away from you. Tears fell freely over your face as you cradled yourself, unable to stop the sobs from leaving your lips.

They let you leave early yet paid you as if you were there the whole day.

The ride back to the farm wasn’t any better, but at least your steed took notice of your heartache and was more merciful to you. When you made it home, you slowed her down when you saw Lucius limping towards the house.

You both stopped where you were, staring at one another as if you weren’t supposed to be seeing the other.

“Why are you back so early?” He asked first.

“Why are you dragging your foot?” You asked second.

Lucius took a deep breath, and you saw tears in his eyes. “I fell.”

The only time you had seen him cry was when burying Lucilla; it wouldn’t be from simply falling. You slowly pulled yourself off your horse but did so quick enough before he could rush to help you. You wished nothing more than to pull him into the warmth of the house, to sit him down and tend to his wound to distract you from your own.

Yet, the moment you took his hand, he began to weep.

“Oh Lucius.” You whispered, bringing your hand up to cradle his face. He wrapped both of his arms around you, bringing you onto the ground with him. You yelped a little when he squeezed your bad shoulder too tight, and he pulled away.

“What happened?” He asked.

You shook your head. “You need-.”

“-What happened?!”

Knowing he wouldn’t stop asking, you told him. “Someone at the gate attacked me. Pulled on my bad arm, my hair…it wasn’t as bad as you’d think-.”

“-Where is he?” He lowered his tone and his demeanor.

Your jaw dropped into a surprised huff. “She is long gone by now, and even if she wasn’t then as my husband, you should stay with me instead of wandering the streets of Rome hoping to find someone to be your anger’s victim!”

Though he still wore that rage upon his face, it soon fell once he saw your own tears fall from your eyes like dewdrops on flowers. Lucius laid himself flat on the dirt, and you sat above him.

“I have been married to you longer than I had been to Arishat.” He confessed. “I knew her for longer, but-but not as deeply; no, I-I knew her more than…I don’t…It’s been long since her death, yet there are moments I think of her, and I cannot stop crying.”

You never knew this was in his heart. You knew to never speak of Arishat, only listen whenever he would bring her up (even so, it was once in a blue moon).

“I’m sorry.” He sniffled, trying to pull himself together. “I know she is gone, and I shouldn’t be-.”

“-You shouldn’t what?” You interrupted. “Remember her? You think I wish for you to forget the woman you so loved?”

He shook his head. “No, but it’s selfish of me to-.”

You were the one to make him lose his words this time. With both hesitation certainty, you placed his head into your lap. It was too late for you to stop once you did, and you felt your own body tense. Then, upon taking a look at his body battered from rigorous work, and another at his face, which relaxed with his eyes fully shut, you ran your fingers through his hair.

“Lucius,” you sighed. “never will I think you are a horrible man for mourning her. You missing her shows just how much you adored her, and how she was a treasure to you. In another life, above all, I wish I could have met her. You are not in the wrong for wanting to see her again. I know you do not love me-.”

“-I do love you.” He opened his eyes upon saying it.

Your heart felt as if it was going to beat itself out of your chest and run away when he said those four words. To preserve your sanity, you took it a different way and smiled sadly.

“Not in the way you loved her.” You said softly. “But what else more can I ask for in a husband than one who treats me with a gentleness I did not know was possible? One who has been there to protect me even before we were married?”

Lucius took a deep breath, rubbing his face to clear away his tears. “You’re too good to me.”

“Gods above,” you groaned tiredly. “we can go back and forth on who deserves each other. Let us just go back into the house, have supper, and sleep.”

“I would like that.” He hissed as he went to stand.

Helping him, once he was on his best foot, you said. “You never told me what you did to your leg.”

He looked behind him at the field. “There was a snake and a rock.”

You gave him a look. “And what happened with them?”

“I don’t wish to speak of it.” He said grimly.

In any other instance, you would have laughed. Yet, as his eyes were still heavy from crying, you just nodded. The both of you helped each other into the house, and you sat him down on one of the several cushions in the living area.

“Your arm,” he asked. “how bad is it?”

You shook your head. “Just really sore. I think she might have left a nasty bruise or two somewhere, but I won’t know yet.”

“Put one of the cloths in the pot with water and put it over the fire.” He told. “Take it out after a few minutes, let it rest for another, then put it on your shoulder. It should help.”

“Thank you.” You stood, doing so, saying. “I swore we had bandages somewhere. I’ll make something for you to drink too; I bought some herbs just last week.”

He nodded, not taking his eyes off of you as you worked. If it were any other man, you would have felt unsafe; yet, it was only Lucius.

Little by little that night, both of you helped heal one another.

Half a year passed since that night, and you and Lucius had only grown closer. Perhaps as close as you could be with a man who was not your husband by choice.

Not much on the farm had changed; you two were living comfortably, and happily, almost making all the turmoil from the first year worth it. The both of you decided to make more visits to Atticus and Diana’s home, realizing just how much you both missed having someone to talk to outside of each other; but that did not mean you had to keep things hidden of course.

If anything, you shared everything with each other.

So much so, that when Lucius asked you why you held onto him longer when he embraced you on your birthday, you told him the truth.

“I don’t want every time we touch to be when it is in turmoil.” You explained, growing meeker. “And I…I’ve missed the feeling of it when it has not been forced upon me.”

Lucius stared at you with a look you had never seen from him. He had been gentle with you many a times, but they way his eyes fell into yours…

He took a step closer to you, and when you showed no sign of discomfort, he took your face into his hands. Your eyes shut at the feeling of him, and he pressed his head against yours. Never in your life had someone’s breath upon your skin feel so immaculate.

From there on out, it always seemed like you had to have a hand on each other one way or another.

It started with holding hands whenever walking through the city together. He used to ‘lead’ you through the crowds in the past, but more so with a hand hovering over your back. No, him holding your hand meant he would have to go where you would go if anything were to happen.

Alongside this, he’d reach over and hold it at Atticus and Diana’s house; whether it was during dinner, or simply just talking. The eldest child had said what the rest of the household had been thinking.

“They’re finally acting like they’re married!”

Because even when there were no other eyes besides yours, he would still hold your hand. You wonder if it ever became a way for Lucius to ground himself; because it certainly did for you.

You hugged him more often as well. Those used to be for ‘substantial’ occasions; those being celebrations or heartbreaks. Now, they were incorporated into greetings and goodbyes. Of course, it only took a few weeks before they were than made into simple desires.

He would be cooking dinner, and you would come beside him to embrace him. You would be gathering eggs from the chickens, and he would wait for you to set the basket down before tossing his arms around you.

At night, it was normal for you both to trade spots as one of you would read a story, and the other would have their head in the other’s lap.

This happened on so many occasions, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise for what Lucius proposed next, but it did.

“If you don’t favor the question I’m about to ask you, then you are allowed to never speak to me again.” He said, his feet hanging off the arm of the lecti couch you both bought that year.

“Well,” you scoffed, sitting on the end of it. “I will have to speak to you again because we live together.”

“Would you want to sleep in my room tonight?” Never in your life had you thought that would have been his question. When you didn’t speak right away, he backtracked. “I don’t expect you to. I understand if-.”

“-The nights are growing colder.” You stated, no visible uneasiness. “I’ve noticed it, and I don’t think any number of blankets could warm me.”

He swallowed thickly, and this was perhaps one of the first times you’d ever seen him like this. “Yes…it’s cold.”

You nodded, and another beat of silence fell between you two. Standing up, you tugged at the seams of your dress. “I-I’ll go change.”

“Yes,” he sat up. “I shall as well.”

Disappearing into your room, you tossed your day clothes off then slipped on a nightdress. After pacing around the floor for a few moments, you gathered the courage to go out into the hall and knock on Lucius’ door.

It was opened as if he was standing right behind it.

He wore just a plain, tattered tunic, and said nothing; yet, you caught his eyes run down you before immediately bringing them back to your face. You were not even in his room yet, and already your body grew warmer.

“May I come in?” You asked.

“Yes, of course.” He stepped aside and you entered.

Somehow, you were no longer man and wife; you were two people who had just discovered a strange, yet burning, feeling that you both held for one another. A feeling that you were both afraid to say aloud…because then it would be real.

The only light in his room was from the moon just peeking through the curtain of his one window. Looking around, you saw that it was still just the bare minimum; a bed, a small table beside it with a lamp, and a dresser. The only others things of note were his sword leaning against the wall, and just a few dirty clothes on the floor.

“I-I tried to clean before you came.” He mentioned.

“Is the rest under the bed?” You asked.

He chuckled. “Yes.”

Before you could change your mind, you pulled the covers off one side of the bed and slid under them. Glancing behind at Lucius, you saw him wear a look where you knew he wanted to say something.

“What is it?” You asked.

“That’s usually the side I sleep on but-.”

You rolled over to the other side. “Are you content now?”

He wheezed, moving to his designated side, slipping under the covers. “Very.”

“Good.” You smiled up at him.

His own mouth lowered as you could see him thinking. He then said. “I don’t expect us to do anything.”

You watched as his eyes dropped from you, as if it was too invasive just to merely look. Thinking from only your heart, you scooted closer, resting your hand on his arm. You ran your fingers up and down his muscles, but then guided his arm to wrap around your waist.

“Okay?”

He hummed, pulling you just a little closer. “Yes.”

“And we’ll just lay together?” You whispered. “Nothing else?”

“Nothing else.”

And that’s what you did. The compete truth was that you would caress him only to remind yourself that it was Lucius and not Geta. His arms, his back, his face…he was nothing like him.

After a few more nights, you told him that as you both lay awake, unable to sleep. He had pulled you on top of him that night, saying that you could see his face better in the moonlight. You only giggled, hiding your face in his chest; even that was too much for you.

It was easier to tell each other things in the darkness. You always knew that, but with being in the same bed (you had not gone back to your room for a week), the words flowed out of both your mouths.

“After my father died,” you said one night as you laid on your side facing him. “I would stroke my own hair or even my arms and pretend they were someone else’s. Even when I was with Geta.”

Lucius stared at you, then immediately began to caress your cheek. You shut your eyes, sighing at the feeling.

“I never thought I’d be able to sleep next to another woman again.” He whispered.

“And now?” You looked into his eyes.

He stopped his movements, but did not remove his hand. You watched every part of him. How his chest heaved shallowly, his arms tensing ever so slightly, but his eyes…gods his eyes. They were heavy as they looked at you; a look that made your heart flutter and not shutter.

Swallowing your fear, you sat up and inched closer to him. Your face hovered above his, and your breath heated his skin. His hand continued to trace shapes about your cheek, and shutting your eyes, you placed your lips upon his.

It was the gentlest kiss you ever shared with a man.

You had pulled away, dreading to see how he felt. When your eyes befell his gentle smile, and his other hand came up to cup your face, you kissed him again.

And again, and again, and again.

You climbed upon his lap without pulling your lips away from him, wrapping your arms around his neck. He sat up, his own arm encircling your waist and drawing you impossibly closer.

Lucius parted from you, and as you whined at the loss of his lips, they soon settled upon your cheek, and then your jaw, and then your chin. Your heavy pants turned to soft grunts as he kissed down your neck, his mustache scratching your skin in just the right way.

Your hands settled into his hair the lower he traveled, moving your night gown off your shoulder to kiss your collarbone. You felt yourself becoming intoxicated from him, and only then noticed you had been for a while.

Oh, how you wished you could bottle up his laugh, his strength, his stubbornness, and get drunk every night. His kisses only added fuel to the fire that was your desire for him.

He sunk his teeth into your skin, and your body, once enflamed, ran cold.

“No!” You tore yourself from his lap, nearly falling off the bed.

Lucius said your name, leaning forward on instinct but soon stopped once he saw you crawl away. “I’m sorry.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. All you knew was that you needed to go, so you did. Cradling yourself in your arms, you got up from his bed, rushing out of his room and into yours.

You half expected him to knock on the door, then, when you wouldn’t answer, him yell and curse you before breaking it down. Yet nothing of the sort happened. You heard his own door open, and you saw his shadow on the other side, but he did not touch your door. He left after a moment of waiting.

When his own door shut, did you finally cry.

You told yourself that night, you would wake up far earlier than Lucius would so you simply wouldn’t have to see him.

When you awoke, you did the exact opposite. You laid in your bed, trying to return to sleep, only to be forced to lie in the dark. The sun rose into your room, and you heard Lucius’ door open. Still, you did not get up.

It was quite comedic, actually. With your door still shut, he knew you were still home. How he tried his best to keep quiet for you, yet his footsteps had always been heavy, the front door had always creaked, and you could always hear him cursing under his breath every time.

When you knew he had left the house, that was when you stood from your bed, slipping on your sandals. You didn’t bother changing out of your nightdress, leaving your room, and then the house.

Lucius was amongst the chickens when he saw you. He didn’t bother hiding the surprise upon his face at the sight of you. You walked to him until there was little space between you.

“Last night-.”

You took his hand from his side, placing it upon your face. He rubbed your cheek with his thumb as if it was natural. Kissing the palm of his hand, you trailed it down to your clothed breast. He breathed your name with hesitance, but you shushed him. You held his hand there, not taking your eyes off him.

“I will show you, one day.” You told him. “I will show you the mark Geta had made. The one where I myself can scarcely see it, yet I know that it haunts me. But now…” You brought your other hand up to his face, tracing your thumb over his lip. “I just want you to understand.”

He kissed the pad of your thumb, nodding. You embraced him, and he held you with both gentleness and ferocity. The rest of the day carried on as normal, yet you aided him with the chores on the farm.

You went to bed with him that night, but it was the first time he did not entrap you in his arms. You knew he was still afraid of hurting you, but you would be a liar if you said you weren’t thankful for the space.

Still, he would feel your touch every day; whether it was something as small as brushing his hand, or as substantial as kissing his cheek.

As the both of you lay awake one night, you played with the sleeve of his tunic.

“Could I lie on top of you?” You asked.

Lucius looked over at you, nodding. “You never need to ask.”

“I want to.” You climbed on top of him, straddling his lap. “I never want to force you to do anything.”

His eyes fell to your hips before returning them to your face. “I’ll tell you if I wish to not do something. I hope you know you can as well.”

“I do. Would you like to touch me?”

“Where do you want me to touch you?”

You moved his hands to your hips, which he held firmly, yet not enough to hurt you. You leaned down so your lips touched his.

“No teeth.” You said.

“No teeth.” He repeated.

Lucius sighed into your mouth as you kissed. Despite how you were on top of him, the kiss was sweet, shy even. When you pulled away, you trailed your lips from his cheek to his ear.

“Do you dream about me?” You rasped.

He said nothing, and you continued to kiss every part of his face besides his lips.

“It’s okay.” You kissed his Adam’s Apple. “I want you too.”

“Yes.” His breath hitched.

“What was I doing in your favorite one?” You kissed his pulse point.

“You,” he breathed sharply through his nose. “you’re touching yourself.”

“Would that please you?” You sat up in somewhat surprise, resting your hands on his chest. “To watch me do so?”

He shook his head. “I want to do what pleases you.”

It felt foreign to hear someone say they want you to feel good. Instead of cowering from it, you faced it head on. You kneeled for a moment, hiking your gown up to your hips before sitting back on your ankles, exposing yourself to him. Lucius’ jaw clenched at the sight of your naked center, and he drew his hands away from your hips, falling them into fists upon the mattress.

“I wish to watch you as you watch me.”

Without looking away from you, he drew his hand down to his cock, pulling it out from under his tunic. Your eyes grew just a hint. There was no doubt upon him being more well-endowed than others, but it was still different from how you imagined.

Shutting your eyes, you trailed your fingers over your cunt, your thumb playing with your clit. The sounds of Lucius’ smothered grunts, and the skin of his cock on his fingers only added to your pleasure. Digging deeper and moving faster, you felt a coil within your stomach tighten when you opened your eyes and saw as Lucius’ gaze bore into yours.

Light moans escaped your lips as your hips moved with a mind of their own, watching the man beneath you take pleasure from his own hand. It was him chanting your name like a prayer that sent you over the edge. With your eyes shut, the coil within you snapped, and pleasure filled your veins.

Not long after, you felt a warmth coat your nightdress. Opening your eyes, you looked down and saw the white-hot residue of Lucius’ release. Your gaze drew to his cock, still clutched in his hand, yet red with droplets of white running over his knuckles.

You don’t know what possessed you to, but you lowered your mouth down to clean him with your tongue.

“Gods be good!” He huffed, laughing your name.

“What?” You wiped your mouth.

“You’re going to be the death of me.”

Grinning like the devil, you slid off the bed, walking towards the door. “I hope it’s a pleasant one then.”

He sat up. “Where are you going?”

“To change. You dirtied me as well.” You teased.

“Take one of my tunics from the dresser.”

It almost made you laugh that he didn’t want you to leave for even a second. You opened the top drawer, grabbing the longest tunic you could find before facing him. “Close your eyes.”

He laid on his side, putting a pillow over his head. Many would find it strange how the both of you would see the most intimate parts of yourself while doing one of the most intimate acts together, yet you didn’t want him to see you naked.

But Lucius never thought of it as strange. He knew what you had been through, and never once judged you.

When you were clothed, you slid into bed, wrapping your arms around his body and pressing a quick kiss to the back of his neck.

“You’re a good man, Lucius Verus Aurelius.” You whispered. “I will tell you that until the day you die, or when you finally believe me.”

He squeezed your hand, relaxing into your touch. You never slept so peacefully until that night.

You always had to see him whenever he would touch you so intimately. There would be nights where there was only a single candle in the room either while he caressed the swell of our breasts, or the inside of your thigh as you sat on his lap.

His fingers were too much for you at first, but he never ridiculed you. When you whimpered at the feeling, he retracted them, kissing your eyes. You asked him again to try, and he whispered praises into your hair as the pain from a dry spell soon turned into pleasure.

It was usually at night did these moments of exploration occurred. In the day, the most you would ever do was kiss. That is, until the first time you cut his hair since the discovery of feelings.

“I don’t want to get hair on your floor.” Lucius said as he sat on the floor, leaning his back against the foot of your bed. It was hotter than sin that day. He wore nothing but a loincloth, but that barely did anything to help him from the heat. You wore essentially a thin shift that would usually be under your dress; yet again, because of the heat, that was all you wore.

You sat on the bed, legs draped over his shoulders as you cut his hair. “It’s your floor too. You built the house.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I haven’t slept here for a while now. Besides, I will clean up.”

“I had no idea you favored doing domestic work now.” He turned and pressed a kiss to your knee.

You slapped the back of his head. “Don’t move! I’ll give you a bald spot if you do so again.”

“Yes, my mistress of the house.” He joked.

“You’re horrible.”

“You just told me I was a good man not so long ago.”

“And I can just as easily revoke that title.”

He stayed silent the rest of the time, but not from any underlining anger. Simply from his at ease posture, you knew he was smiling.

He smiled more those days.

When you were finished, you tossed your scissors aside, but Lucius’ hands settled upon your thighs, not allowing you to get up. You scoffed.

“What is it?”

He turned to face you, kneeling up to meet you. “I wish to try something, but only if you wish it as well.”

You rose your brow, but smiled, kissing his nose. “It will be difficult if I do not know what it is.”

Without drawing his eyes away from yours, he slid his hands up your thighs, bringing the bottom of your shift with it. It seemed normal at first, but once he lowered his mouth, your chest tightened.

“What are you doing?” You asked.

“I want to kiss you there.” His breath caressed your cunt and you mewled at the feeling. “I think you’ll enjoy it, but we don’t have to.”

Your heart changed from beating in fear, to then in anticipation. You loved how he kissed your lips, and every inch of your skin that was not covered, what would it feel like to have his lips there?

Kissing the top of his head, you laid on your elbows, nodding.

“Let me hear you say it.” He nosed the inside of your thigh.

“Yes.” You sighed. “Please.”

He lowered his mouth back down, pressing the lightest of kissed onto your center. You groaned through shut lips, only for them to part open as the hairs of his mustache tickled you whilst he began to lap at your wetness.

Tossing your head back, you sat up, running your hands through his hair, unconsciously rolling your hips to meet his mouth. His groan reverberated through your body, only adding to the pleasure you were feeling.

“Lucius, Lucius,” you babbled his name until it didn’t sound like a word.

His nose bumped against your aching clit the same time his tongue penetrated your cunt. You yelped as that familiar, tightening feeling swept over you. His half-lidded eyes would stare up at you every once in a while, as he would continue to drink from you as if he had been stranded in the desert. Just as you were on the brink of release, you drew him away from you.

“What-what is it?” He huffed. “What’s wrong?”

You shook your head, pressing your lips to his before scooting further up the bed. With one last breath, you pulled your shift over your head, revealing your bare body to him. His gaze ran over your figure unashamedly.

“Come here.” You beckoned.

He crawled onto the bed and over your body, yet still looked at your face. You took his hand and laid it over your breast. His body ran cold at what was on the side of it. A bite mark.

“He branded me all those years ago.” You confessed. “And it has not left since.”

Geta…

You ran your hand up his chest. “I love you, and I trust you with every part of my body. I need you to know that.”

“I love you.” He echoed, pressing the tenderest of kisses to the mark and you gasped lightly. “I have for so long now; I…I need you.”

“Then have me.”

He sat back on his knees, unwrapping his loin cloth and tossing it to the floor. Precum leaked from his sweltering cock as it stood upright like a pillar. You crawled over, kissing every inch of his face and climbing into his lap. He drew his arms around your waist, his finger tracing circles into the small of your back.

“I don’t know how long I will last.” He puffed heavily. “It’s been so long.”

“I just want you inside of me.” You kissed his jaw, taking his cock into your hand and sinking down onto it. It had been a while for you too, and while you were soaked, it was not enough to completely subside the tightness. “Just…wait.”

“I could die happy if all you wanted was for me to remain still as you’re above me.” He said into your ear.

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, sinking your nails into his skin because that was the only way to remind you that he was still there. The further you sunk down on him, the easier and more pleasureful you felt.

“I’m going to move now.” You said into his shoulder, and you did.

Slowly, at first you relished in the quiet slapping of skin and the breath moans leaving both you and Lucius’ lips. He trailed a syrupy line of kisses down your throat until he bowed his head to place them upon your chest.

“Your name,” Lucius said into your skin. “tell me your name.”

You gave him a look as you rolled your hips into his, yet sighed your name.

“Again.” He breathed, latching his lips around the tip of your breast.

You did.

“Again.” He kissed the hollow of your throat.

You leaned into his touch, saying your name a third time.

He repeated your given name, than following it with ‘Aurelias’. Your movements stilled, yet he did not care.

“You are the most cunning woman I have met, and you are my wife.” He stated, never looking away from you. Tears sprang to your eyes when you saw the same for him, and you gave him a messy kiss before resuming faster this time.

After months of being called a name that did not belong to you, especially whenever in the bedroom, Lucius was doing everything to remind you that you were yourself again as you felt pleasure.

It felt as if, after two years, ‘Julia’ was finally gone.

You chanted his name as if it was your favorite prayer, burying your hands in his hair and kissing his lips.

“Lucius, Lucius, Lucius…”

Because, just like you, how long had it been since his true name was uttered whilst in the throes of pleasure?

He moaned into your mouth, holding onto you tighter. You squealed when he rose up onto his knees, latching your legs around his waist and only crying out sharply when your throbbing clit ran across his pubic hair.

“Come on, come on,” he urged into your ear. “I know you can give it to me.”

“Lu-Lu-!” You moaned, running your nails over the thick field of muscles that was his back.

He said your name over and over again, until it was one word that was the end of you.

“Please.”

You came with your vision blinded from the state of euphoria you had reached. Lucius still held you above him even as his legs began to quake, bouncing you on his cock. You felt as though you were suspended in air when his groans stammered, and you felt strings of his cum paint the walls of your cunt.

Slowly, he lowered the two of you onto the mattress, laying you on your back like you were the most precious treasure in the world. You kept your legs around his waist, breathing with him with your chests glued together from your sweat.

“Lucius-.” You began, trying to shift under him.

“-Just,” he grunted. “just another moment. Please.”

How could you deny him? Every kiss he gave was loving as he laid upon you. His cock had grown soft, and even you were aware that you could’ve fallen asleep if you weren’t careful.

When he pulled away from you, you let out an involuntary whine.

“I thought you wanted me to get off you?” He kissed your stomach when he stood up.

You shoved him playfully. “Just clean me up and come back.”

“So controlling.”

Still, he did what you asked, bringing a soaked washcloth from the bathroom and cleaning you. You groaned out of both the cold water hitting your hot skin, and the heat from the air itself.

“We should’ve waited until night.” You whined.

“Why?”

“I’m suffocating from the air outside!”

Lucius hummed, tossing the washcloth aside and looming over you. “Then that forces us to wear nothing today, so that we might cool down.”

You nodded. “Perhaps you aren’t as feeble minded as I thought.”

He settled behind you, tossing an arm over your waist and pulling your back to his chest. Even though his cock pressed against you, the two of you were completely exhausted from the heat of the day’s work, and the heat of what took place only moments before.

The only sound was that of the cicadas singing in the summertime. Sometimes, a breeze or two of wind would bounce the curtain off the window, but for the most part, just the even breathing you shared with Lucius was all you could hear.

Lucius’ mustache rubbed your skin when he placed a kiss to your neck. “What’s going on inside of your mind right now?”

You grinned. “A proper wife would say that I was thinking of you.”

“But that’s not what it is.”

“It’s something that has nothing to do with anything of note.”

He squeezed you. “Spit it out, woman.”

Sighing, you felt a sense of dread in your heart; both for your thoughts, and also how your husband would react. So, you tried your best to explain it.

“Do you even wonder how you will be remembered?” You began. “Spoken from mouths? Written in books? Painted on walls? They’ll remember Lucius, the Lost Son, the Last Gladiator…What will they remember of me, if anything? Rome’s Cleopatra? Her Delight? A whore to the twin emperors? I like to fantasize that they will name me the first woman who sat upon the emperor’s throne, even if it was as the last of its consul. Yet, even if they name me…I will be Julia. The name of a slave, the name I only accepted when he would press me into the bed so roughly. I only survived because I would need to tell myself that he was doing all of it to Julia, not to me.”

It felt quieter in that room, even though the sounds outside did not cease. Lucius gently turned your body towards him, and he stroked your face with the back of his hand.

“You’re crying,” he uttered your name, frowning.

You wiped your eyes, wanting to hide from him. Yet, he did not allow it, pulling your hands away from you and wrapping them around his shoulders.

“Would you wish I remain silent, or share with you what is in my head?” He asked.

“Talk to me.” You answered.

“I never cared of what history would see of me.” He stated. “Even as a boy. I know that we are different in most aspects of life, but I believe it serves no one to wonder away how we will be viewed long after we are dead. I do not care if or what a stranger thinks of me in a lifetime later. I care how Atticus and Diana see me. I care what their children think. Above all, I care of what you see me to be.”

You pressed your head against his. “You’re pigheaded and quite foolish sometimes.”

“And it matters you say that.” He pulled you closer. “Because that is what you will tell others when I pass on.”

“You know I don’t think that is all you are.” You remined him.

“I do.” He nodded. “I will know you for your wit, and your protective nature, and your kindness.”

“I never truly thought of myself as kind.” You gave a pained smile.

“That is how I see you.” He kissed your brow. “And what I will say with my last dying breath.”

You wondered how such a man as himself could exist at the same time you did. A man who hated you prior to everything yet laid with you in bed. A man who treated you with a tenderness you never thought possible.

A man who could be the last person on earth with you, and you would only feel at peace.

You did not need to say anything to him. Simply by the innocent smile that spread across your lips, did he know. You fell into the most comfortable of silences together as you laid naked in the summer heat.

The both of you were lost to time as we all shall be one day.

Perhaps you lived on that farm for the rest of your days, or perhaps you moved to a different land.

Perhaps you had ten children, perhaps you had only one, or perhaps you had none and were content with each other’s company.

Perhaps you died before him, perhaps he died before you, or perhaps you both passed onto the Elysian fields together.

All that truly matters, at the end of all things, is the life the two of you led together, and what you and loved ones remembered the most of it.

#gladiator 2 #gladiator ii #hanno x reader #lucius x reader #lucius verus x reader #lucius versus x reader #gladiator 2 spoilers #Youtube

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kwanisms · 3 months ago

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Kinktober 「10:01」 — x.minghao

» seventeen menu | the8 menu | kinktober masterlist «

➮ half-dragon!Minghao × fem!Reader wc: 7.3k summary: After inheriting an estate deep in the Bavarian Alps from his maternal grandfather, Minghao arrives to find the estate has survived the war unscathed and that deep underground is a vault full of historic and old art dating back to the 8th century. He decides to hire an appraiser to inspect the collection but becomes enamored with her. genres/themes/au: angst/fluff/smut; supernatural, horror, thriller, historical; non idol au, monster idol au, historical au, post-ww2 au warnings: adult dialogue, female reader, mentions of: food & alcohol consumption, supernatural & horror themes, post ww2 in Europe, allusions to the Nazi party; sexual content (18+ mdni), see smut warnings under the cut! taglist has been moved to reblogs join my taglist! taglist for kinktober is CLOSED. Strikethrough means I cannot tag you. MINORS WILL BE BLACKLISTED & BLOCKED. AGELESS BLOGS WILL ALSO BE BLOCKED.

a/n: this was a rough time to get started and i have to restart twice, once after completely redoing the plot. it was difficult but once i changed the plot, things flowed so much more naturally! but here we are baybee! kicking off Kinktober 2024 with dragon!Minghao in the 1940's post WW2! i did minimal research on this cause I'm a stickler for world building but I hope you all enjoy the first part of Kinktober. one day, 30 to go! as always, this is a work of fiction and all characters are not reflective of their respective irl counterparts. for entertainment purposes only.

smut warnings: teratophilia (aka monsterfucking), mirror sex, sex photos, unprotected sex (don’t do this lol), use of pet names (bao bei, beibei, sweetheart, etc.), oral (f receiving, m receiving), fingering (f receiving), and that should be all but let me know if I missed some! kinks: mirror sex + sex photos dialogue prompt: ❛❛ Don’t cover your mouth, I want everyone to know how good I make you feel. ❜❜

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Whether it was the scenery itselves or the dragon blood in him, Minghao loved the serenity and peace that seemed to accompany traveling through the mountains. This drive was a vaguely familiar one though he hadn’t been on this road since he was a young child.

He looked out the window as the car climbed higher, the trees on one side giving way to the view of the valley below. It was a picturesque scene, a beautiful lake at the base of the mountains surrounded by a forest of oranges, reds, yellows, and greens. He turned his gaze away as the car turned, following the curve of the road as the mountain flattened out.

The road was lined on either side with trees, providing cover from the cloudy, gray skies as the car drove along. Minghao caught a glimpse of the manor through the tunnel of trees, intrigued to see what state it was in since the hospitalization and death of his grandfather.

He hadn’t been to this estate since he was a young child, visiting with his mother until he threw a fit about going again. Since then, he had not stepped foot on the grounds, preferring to spend the holidays with his mother instead in their ancestral home.

Now he was in his late twenties and returning to the vacation home of his maternal line after being bequeathed the estate in his grandfather’s will. The car broke through the line of trees, taking a slight curve, forest on one side and a stone wall that dropped into a lower valley on the other.

The manor was just as he remembered, imposing and gray with gothic overtones and the facade made almost entirely out of stone. The angled roofs curved at the base and sharp spires at the ridges along the roofs. The majority of the stone was limestone, edged with a darker color of stone.

As the car pulled up, a light wind blew, the mix of orange gold, and brown leaves blowing across the stone, hitting the wall overlooking the valley. Minghao settled back in his seat, looking up at the imposing mansion, wondering the state of the interior. Outside, the place looked well kept but the inside could be an entirely different story.

The car pulled to a stop, the engine cutting and silence falling over the interior as the driver got out. He made to open the door himself but the driver beat him to it. Minghao got out, buttoning his coat as he looked up at the manor, thanking the driver. Up close, the estate looked almost immaculate. The windows had the curtains drawn, not allowing him to see inside the house.

The front door opened and a rather serious and proper looking man exited the house, followed by an equally serious and proper looking woman. They waited as Minghao turned to look at the driver unhooking the luggage from the back rack. Minghao walked over to greet the couple.

“Good afternoon,” the woman said, curtseying while the man bowed his head. “You must be Minghao,” the man asked to which Minghao nodded. “Yes,” he said softly. “You’ve grown quite a bit since we last saw you,” the woman spoke. “I used to attend to you when you were a child,” she continued.

“Your bags will be brought into the red room,” the man interjected. “It’s the only renovated room.” Minghao nodded. “And you two are?” Minghao asked. “I’m Klaus,” the man introduced before gesturing to the woman. “And this is Renate.”

The woman nodded, giving Minghao a kind smile. “Please, come this way,” Renate said, gesturing to the house. They walked in silence to the house, up the steps and into the foyer. Minghao looked around, taking in his surroundings with an impressed air.

The foyer was small but spacious enough with a small coat room off to the left and to the right was the library, the door opened. “That library was your grandfather’s favorite place in the house,” Renate said, noticing Minghao’s wavering attention. “How many bedrooms does this place have?” Minghao asked, changing the subject.

“Ten,” Renate answered as the driver and one of the staff started bringing in his trunks. “Right, this way,” Klaus said, gesturing to them to follow him, leading them through the foyer and entrance hall and disappearing through an open doorway.

“Shall I give you the tour or would you like to rest?” Renate asked. Minghao looked around once more before turning to look at her. “I think a tour would be nice,” he said. “Will give me an idea of the condition and state of the house,” he continued, looking around once more. “Yes. I think a tour is in order.”

Renate took him around the house, showing him the different rooms. From what he could see, only a handful of the rooms were in need of renovations and a few could use upgrades but were not in dire need. The kitchen was functional and cozy with a large dining room attached.

Also off the kitchen and next to the dining room but not attached, was a decent sized sun room. On the opposite side of the house from these rooms was a guest suite where his things had been brought. “I had this room made up for you since it’s the only guest suite on the main floor,” Renate said as Minghao looked around. “It’s also the only one that has been renovated.”

Minghao stopped and turned to look at her. “It’s perfect,” he replied. “I think I’ll freshen up before dinner,” he continued, crossing the room to where she stood in the doorway. “If you could please produce a set of keys for me, I would appreciate it,” he added. Renate’s smile fell. “Why?” she asked.

“Because I’m the owner of the estate now,” Minghao answered. “I don’t want to have to seek you out to unlock doors in my own home.” Renate nodded, clearing her throat. “I shall see if I can’t locate the other keys. I’m sure they’re around here somewhere,” she replied. “Dinner will be in an hour.”

She left, closing the door behind her and allowing Minghao his much needed privacy. He moved over to his luggage and opened the top trunk, finding some of his clothes. He would unpack later, first he would explore the guest suite and see what he could find and if there were any secrets.

The guest suite was large, a massive four poster bed stood in the middle of the room, the headboard pushed against the outside wall. Thick, velvet drapes hung from the intricately carved wooden frame. Standing at the foot of the bed was an ornate bench carved, stained, and lacquered just like the rest of the furniture. Minghao walked over to a small seating area past two pocket doors that shut to close off the area from the bedroom.

On the opposite side of the bed from the sitting room was the entrance to a private ensuite bathroom with marble floors, two pedestal sinks sat under golden framed mirrors. A massive soaker tub with golden clawed feet stood opposite the sinks. A pipe protruded from the wall above the tub, curving downward and providing a shower head.

Minghao returned to the bedroom area and walked over to the bed, falling onto it and staring up at the drapes. Though he vaguely remembered this house from his childhood, nothing about it had seemed familiar since entering and he wondered how much had changed from when he was a child.

A knock at the door interrupted his train of thoughts and he sat up as the door opened, a young maid poking her head into the room. “Begging your pardon, sir,” she said softly. “I’ve come to unpack your luggage.” Minghao relaxed. “I see,” he said simply. He had assumed, incorrectly, that he might be allowed to unpack his own luggage but he was proven wrong again and again.

“Knock yourself out,” he replied, gesturing to the collection of trunks waiting at the end of his bed. The maid opened the door and Minghao realized it was not one but two maids. “We’ll work quickly and when we’re done, we can show you where everything is,” the first maid offered. Minghao nodded and got up as they started to get to work. “I’ll just get out of your way,” he said, walking towards the door and slinking out of the room.

He still had time before dinner would be ready so he decided to explore the first floor a bit more. As he walked past the foyer, he noticed a door with a round window and walked over, peering into the window only to see nothing but darkness. “The elevator,” a voice said, making Minghao jump. “Your grandfather lost a lot of mobility before he was hospitalized so he had this installed to make getting from the ground floor to the top floors easier.”

Minghao turned to look at the door once more. “Does it only go up?” he asked. “Sir?” Klaus asked. Minghao looked at him. “Does it go downstairs, too?” he asked. Klaus nodded, grimacing. “Indeed it does but there isn’t much down there except storage and cobwebs.” Minghao snorted and turned back to the elevator door. “Does this even work?” he asked, reaching for the door.

“Don’t!” Klaus snapped, making Minghao retract his hand quickly, almost as if he had been burned. “My apologies,” Klaus said, regaining his composure. “The elevator is turned off and very dangerous when not operated properly.” Minghao nodded, wide eyed. “Duly noted,” he said. “Is there another way downstairs then?” Minghao asked. Klaus gave him a surprised look.

“I’d like to see everything,” Minghao added. Klaus nodded. “I’m sure, sir,” he explained. “But you have more than a day to do so,” he continued. “How about you focus on relaxing today and tomorrow you can tackle the basement?” Minghao stared at Klaus but conceded. “I suppose the basement could wait,” he said softly. “Good. Dinner should be ready soon,” Klaus added, giving Minghao a nod and turning on his heel in the direction of the kitchens.

Dinner was a private affair as Minghao sat at the formal dining room alone. After eating, he returned to his room where the maids showed him exactly where they stored everything and even packed his luggage away. He thanked them and called it a night, getting ready for and settling down into the oversized bed.

Falling asleep in a new environment was always difficult no matter how comfortable things seemed and only after tossing and turning for hours did Minghao finally manage to drift into a dreamless slumber.

The following morning, he was woken by Renate. He cleaned up, dressed, and had dinner before he decided to explore the rest of the house, starting with the upper floors. He made a mental note of which rooms he wanted to renovate before finally being given a set of keys; a skeleton key for all the interior doors, a key for the exterior doors, a key to the storage sheds and garages, and a key for the attic which coincidentally also worked for the basement.

Minghao was more than pleased to be allowed to finally inspect the basement and Klaus had been right. It was a storage place for old furniture, all coated in a thick layer of dust, with cobwebs in every corner. As Minghao worked with some of the estate workers to shift the furniture aside he discovered something no one had mentioned to him. A massive vault door.

When asked, Klaus and Renate admitted they knew of the existence of the vault but that they didn’t know what was inside it. Neither also claimed to have knowledge of a combination. Minghao stood in front of the door for hours, trying to figure out the combination, trying several different ones but none of them seemed to work.

Days passed by and he grew more and more restless at not being able to open the vault. While inspecting the library for a book to occupy his time, he found a bright blue book, a copy of On Blue Water by Edmondo de Amicis. It was placed amongst a shelf of brown bindings and looked oddly out of place. Minghao walked over, inspecting the book and carefully removing it from the shelf.

He flipped through the pages, finding blue ink circling parts in the book. Starting from the first instance, he saw the number eighty-seven. The next was forty-two, followed by seven, ninety-nine, sixty-three, and finally four. He walked over to the desk, grabbing a pen from the stand and a blank piece of paper as he wrote the numbers down, taking into consideration the arrows drawn below each number.

When he was done, he returned the book to the shelf he found it and quickly made his way downstairs to the vault door. He followed the combination, hoping it would be correct and when he heard the click, he nearly cheered in relief. He lifted the handle, releasing the mechanism holding the door shut and pulled it open. Whatever he had been prepared to find beyond the metal door, it was not this.

Inside the vast vault was a collection unlike anything he’d seen. A collection of art. As he realized what he’d stumbled upon, he shut the door quickly and headed upstairs to seek out either Klaus or Renate. He needed to make a long distance call.

When you received the call from Germany, you could hardly believe it. A colleague of yours called to explain he had suggested your name to a potential client. Someone had just unearthed a rather large collection in an estate in the Bavarian Alps and needed an expert eye to evaluate and appraise the pieces. They were willing to pay handsomely as well as fund your trip from Portugal, where you currently called home.

You jumped at the chance to set your own price and also for travel to the remote location in Germany. The trip was long, arduous and by the end, you wanted nothing more than to never step foot on a train or ship again. You arrived in Innsbruck, Austria after taking train after train in Italy and that was only after taking a ship from Lisbon through the strait of Gibraltar into the mediterranean and to the Italian capital of Rome. You still had a drive from Innsbruck to the remote estate in the mountains but a car ride where you could sleep off your trip was more than welcome.

You woke up as the sun was setting, the car climbing into the mountains and you could see the valley below was bathed in shadow from the sun setting behind the crest of the mountains behind you as the car turned, following the curve in the road. A tunnel of trees lined the road, wind starting to whip violently as the car drove on and soon the forest opened up to show a massive mansion nestled in the mountains.

It was impressive with the dark storm clouds looming overhead, the light from the sun blocked by the mountain to your left yet golden rays of light hit the clouds behind the estate, making them look ever so darker as the car pulled up next to a blue Roadmaster.

You opened your door, refusing to wait any longer. A bed inside the estate was yours and you were ready to collapse into it and sleep off your travel. The driver unpacked your things, setting them down by the back of the car as the front door opened. A stern looking older woman greeted you, introducing herself as Renate. She had one of the young men from the garage carrying your things and welcomed you to the estate, guiding you inside.

The foyer was grand and dark with white tile flooring. The door to your right was open, displaying a few coats hanging up in what you surmised was the coat room. The door to your right was shut. As the door closed behind you with a loud click, you walked further into the house. “Your rooms have been drawn for you upstairs,” Renate said, guiding you towards the stairs.

You followed her up the sweeping staircase, looking overhead and taking in the details of the intricate and massive chandelier that hung from the ceiling. Once on the landing, you followed her down one of the halls to a door which she opened for you. “This will be your room for the duration of your stay,” Renate explained. “Your things will be brought up to your room and the maids will unpack your things,” she explained. “I will take you to meet the owner of the house now.”

You followed her back down the hall to the stairs as a door opened, revealing an elevator and the driver bringing your luggage upstairs. You continued down the steps to the ground floor and followed Renate through another hallway to a door where she knocked before opening it. “Sir, there’s a Miss Y/N here. She’s just arrived,” she announced, stepping aside and gesturing for you to enter.

Inside the room was a dark parlor decorated and furnished in the Victorian style. It was a cozy room, a massive fireplace with a roaring fire took up a great deal of wall space with built-in shelves on either side of the fireplace. Sitting in front of the fireplace was a seating area, two couches facing one another with a low table between them. Perched on one of the couches was a young man.

He had reddish brown hair, a slender build and was currently immersed in a book he held. At the mention of your name, he looked up and your breath caught in your throat when his gaze met yours. His eyes were red and orange, like fire. The pupils in the middle were vertical slits. “Perfect,” he said, snapping the book shut and setting it down on the table.

Renate gave a curtsey before exiting the room and shutting the door, leaving you alone with the man who now stood before you. He had his hands tucked into his pockets. He wore a simple black turtleneck under a thicker sweater with a v-neck. His trousers were a medium brown and made of what looked to be tweed. He wore simple brown plain toe derby shoes to complete the look.

“Based on Renate’s introduction, I can assume you are Y/F/N Y/L/N?” he asked, a neutral expression on his face. You nodded slowly. “And you are?” you asked, walking forward, intent on shaking his hand. “Minghao,” he answered as you held out your hand. Xu Minghao,” he added, taking your hand and shaking it briefly. “I assume you know why you’re here?” he asked and you nodded once more.

“For my expertise,” you answered. “I doubt you’d invite me here based on my good looks,” you joked. Minghao let out a chuckle, returning his hand to his pocket. “So,” you said, looking around the room. “Where is this collection?” Minghao smiled again, gesturing for you to take a seat on the couch across from him. You did so as he sat back down.

“Before we get into the thick of it so to speak, I’d like to set your payment, something you agree is fair and we can sign off on,” he explained. You nodded, narrowing your eyes. “My usual rate is a twenty percent cut of the collection, were you to sell it,” you explained. “Only twenty?” Minghao asked, tilting his head. “The more priceless a collection, the more money I get,” you added.

“If your collection is only worth a million, I would get two-hundred thousand. That’s a pretty fair price for evaluating and appraising the pieces. Especially with the amount of research I end up doing,” you said as Minghao nodded along. “I understand that,” he explained, leaning back against the couch. “I think what you do is worth more,” he added. “I’m willing to go up to thirty percent.”

Your brows rose, eyes widening. “Thirty percent? Goodness, you’re generous,” you said, your lips pulling back into a smirk. Minghao mirrored your expression. “So we’re in agreement?” he asked. “Thirty percent?” You nodded in response. “Sounds reasonable to me,” you answered. “Good,” Minghao replied. “Dinner should be ready,” he added. “How about you get changed and join me?”

You returned to your room, changing out of your clothes and into something more appropriate for dinner. You returned downstairs to the foyer where you were greeted by a stern looking man you had yet to meet. “I’m Klaus,” he introduced himself with a small bow. “Dinner is being served and Mr. Xu has asked me to escort you to the dining room.”

You followed him through the halls until you reached a door which he then opened and gestured for you to enter. Inside was a large dining room with a table large enough to seat 12. Sitting at the head of the table was Minghao. When you entered, he stood up quickly as Klaus exited, shutting the door behind him. “Please,” Minghao said, gesturing to the seat adjacent to him.

You walked over, thanking him and moved to sit. Minghao was quick to pull the chair for you and move it again when you sat down before returning to his chair. You thanked him as the door behind you opened and a small service staff entered, setting a few platters down on the table in front of you and Minghao. “I asked them to make something new,” he explained as they removed the lids, showing a vast array of dishes that all looked amazing.

“Something with goat,” he added as he inspected the dishes. “Please,” he continued, gesturing to the food. “Help yourself to whatever you’d like.” You thanked him, digging into the food in front of you, not realizing that you were ravenous until the food was in front of you.

Silence fell over the room as you ate, no conversation was being had until Minghao spoke up. “So you traveled from Portugal?” he asked as he cut his meat. You nodded, wiping your mouth before speaking. “Yes,” you answered. “I had an apartment just outside Lisbon.” Minghao looked up at you.

“Had?” he asked, picking up on your use of past tense. “Yes,” you answered. “I travel for work and often only rent places for as long as I’m there,” you explained. “The job in Lisbon lasted for almost a year,” you continued. “The collection I was tasked with evaluating was massive and ended up being worth a whopping eighty-seven million pounds,” you added. Minghao’s eyes widened. “Eighty-seven million pounds? Good gracious,” he said softly. “And you got twenty percent of that?”

You smiled, picking up your glass of wine. “It’s not a bad business to be in,” you explained. “It certainly isn’t,” Minghao said with a chuckle as you took a sip of wine. “My father was an appraiser,” you said suddenly. But he never made it a lucrative business like I did. We struggled a lot and he would disappear for months on end, never so much as sending a letter or calling,” you continued.

“My mother, God rest her soul, worked 12 hour shifts at the local textile factory just to make sure we had food on the table.” Minghao kept his eyes on you as you spoke. “As soon as I was able, I started working. Mainly bookkeeping and typing,” you continued. “I was able to put myself through college with a combination of working and scholarships,” you said with a smile. “I immediately made a name for myself, assessing art collections left and right in America until my first overseas assignment in London.”

Minghao couldn’t help but smile. It was clear you took great pride in your work. Your smile, nostalgic, slowly fell as a memory came into the forefront of your mind. “That’s where I was living when the war broke out,” you said, a bitter tone in your voice.

Minghao couldn’t help but feel a similar anger and hatred towards the war. He’d been living in China at the time, deep in a remote area and away from the cities for protection. The war hadn’t hit him but you, living in London, he could only imagine how it affected you. The destruction and danger lurking around every corner.

“I worked as an air raid warden during the first few years but in the last couple, I was promoted to evacuation officer,” you explained. “It was stressful, being in the midst of all the bombings and trying to keep my cool and help direct evacuees,” you continued. “But I learned a lot about the world and myself in those years.” Minghao took a sip of his wine. “I can only imagine what you went through,” he said softly, making you look towards him.

“I was hidden away in China,” he continued. “We didn’t see much war where we were,” he added. You smiled sadly. “China is a pretty big place,” you replied. “I’m sure places like Beijing, Shanghai, and Hong Kong saw most of the action,” you added. Minghao nodded. “I’m sure they did. I’m sorry you had to go through that. Especially so far from home.”

You shook your head. “Home is wherever I rest my head,” you replied. “My family is all gone now. It’s just me.” Minghao felt his heart sink slightly. He knew what it was like to be alone in a sense but he still had family that was alive, he was just estranged from them so it wasn’t entirely the same feeling. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he replied but you smiled, dismissing his apology. “It’s all right now,” you answered.

“Less to worry about,” you added as you picked up your utensils. “Dinner is delicious by the way,” you added, changing the subject. Though you maintained this calm, unbothered air, Minghao could see right through it. One of his many talents as a draconian descendant.

He wouldn’t push it though. It wasn’t his place. If you wanted to talk about it, you would.

The next couple days, Minghao showed you the house so you could familiarize yourself with the layout. On the third day, he finally took you to the basement, opening the vault and showing you the contents. As you entered, carefully examining the works with gloves, you cataloged things slowly.

“So,” you said, returning to Minghao who was standing outside the vault. “I have good news,” you said softly, lowering your clipboard. “Everything is labeled and there is a box full of documents, which I can only assume are the auction and purchase records. Whoever owned this collection took great care in keeping records which makes my job much easier,” you said with a smile.

“Lunch is almost ready,” Minghao replied. “Shall we eat first and then you can go over the records after?” You nodded, smiling at him. “Sounds superb.”

After a quick lunch of soup and sandwiches, you returned to work, pulling out the record boxes and going through them, matching the papers to the items. “This is incredible,” you breathed, pouring over the records. “Not only are the dates of purchases listed but the prices are also listed. This is an incredibly well documented collection.” Minghao smiled as you flipped through page after page.

It took a few days but you finally had a partial appraisal for the ceramics. “Two hundred thousand?” Minghao asked when you showed him your numbers. “Two hundred and forty-three thousand, six-hundred and fifty-seven to be precise,” you answered. Minghao let out a laugh. “And that’s just the ceramics?” he asked to which you nodded. “I expect that to be the lowest number of this collection,” you answered.

Your assumption was proven to be correct when you came back with the values for the other categories.

Minghao stood, reading over your numbers as you sipped whiskey from a crystal glass. “Are these numbers accurate?” Minghao asked. You nodded. “I’m nothing if not accurate,” you replied. “Are they lower than your projection?” you asked, suddenly worried about his response.

During your time at the estate, you’d taken a liking to Minghao, something you normally never allowed to happen with clients. It was easy to like him. He was handsome, charming, well-spoken, intelligent, and incredibly witty. He was good company during your meals and late at night when you were working on your estimates. You’d become very close with him, especially after he told you about his parentage and his nature as a half dragon. You’d never met someone like him before.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “They’re higher,” he added. “I expected a much lower number.” You smiled at him, setting your glass down and getting up to join him, taking the paper from him. “A great number of these items date back as far as the 8th century,” you explained.

“Like this one,” you said, pointing to an item on the list. “A silk print from eighth century China,” you said. “Or this one. A nineteenth century watercolor. There’s only one of these in existence. And this thirteenth century oil painting? The art community thought this was lost forever.”

“A lot of these items are worth even more because of the war,” you continued, handing the paper back to him and picking up your glass, downing the rest of the amber liquid. “A lot of art was lost, destroyed by the Third Reich. The Nazi stole a lot of art and we’re still trying to recover it. Most of the stolen art may never be recovered,” you continued.

Minghao held the paper in his hands but his eyes were on you. “A lot goes into appraising,” you explained. “Condition, rarity, age, authenticity, subject matter, and size are a few of the things I look at when appraising art collections. Many of these items are unique and only a few versions of them exist,” you continued, moving to the bar cart to pour yourself another drink.

“And every single one of these artists or sculptors are dead,” you continued, popping the top off the decanter and pouring more liquid into your glass. “Which makes these even more valuable. They can never be replicated by the original artist.” You placed the lid back and turned to face Minghao, holding the glass in your hand. He was still staring at you, a look of something you couldn’t place in his eyes.

He set the paper down and stalked forward slowly to where you stood until he had you caged in against the bar cart. “You know,” he said softly, eyes dipping down to look at your lips. “You’re incredibly sexy when you talk about this,” he said, tilting his head to the side. You swallowed nervously. “When I talk about art?” you asked, feeling a heat settling in the pit of your stomach.

“No,” he replied, taking your glass and drinking it in one go before setting the empty glass on the cart. “When you talk about something you’re passionate about.” He leaned in closer, lips inches from yours. You felt a shiver run up your spine, desire mixing with the sexual tension that hung in the air.

“I’m passionate about a lot of things,” you said, one of your hands moving up his arm to rest on his bicep. “Oh?” Minghao asked. “Like what?” He was teasing you now, the smirk on his face gave it away. He wanted to see how far he could take this. How far he could push you before you gave into him.

“Art, cuisine, fashion,” you said softly. “Photography, travel… sex.”

The next moment, Minhao closed the distance, his lips crashing against yours as his hands moved to your waist. You kissed him back with as much hunger, hand grabbing him desperately. Your lips parted, his tongue slipping into your mouth.

You moaned into the kiss as you felt one of his hands move down, cupping your ass and squeezing. Minghao pulled back, looking into your eyes, breathless as he spoke. “Maybe we should—”

“Take this somewhere else?” you asked, hopefully finishing his sentence. He nodded, pulling you into another kiss. “Your room or mine?” you asked as he left a trail of kisses down your neck. “Mine’s closer,” he murmured, his long fingers swiftly undoing the tie at the top of your blouse..

“Lead the way,” you said, pushing him back playfully. Minghao’s fingers instead closed around your wrist, pulling you from the bar cart and dragging you from the parlor, across the foyer to a pair of double doors you’d seen and knew was probably his room. When he parted the doors, he quickly pulled you into the room before shutting the doors.

You only got a brief look around the room before he was on you, kissing you and pulling at the buckle of your skirt belt, quickly undoing it and unzipping the skirt, letting it fall to the floor in a pool at your feet. You stepped out of the mess of fabric, letting him pull your green blouse off and tossing it to the floor with your skirt leaving you in your lingerie.

You felt slightly self conscious under his gaze as his eyes wandered, taking in your figure. You slowly moved back, taking a seat on the edge of the bed still in your heels. Minghao moved over, leaning over to press a soft kiss to your cheek, lips trailing down your neck to your chest. He glanced up, meeting your gaze before he started kissing his way down your stomach as he slowly knelt down.

He worked slowly, removing your shoes, one by one. You glanced up, eyes widening as you caught sight of your reflection in a massive mirror that stood across from where you sat. “My, that’s quite a mirror,” you said softly as Minghao continued to remove your shoes, humming in response.

Once your shoes were dealt with, Minghao’s hand slid up your legs, undoing the clips of your garter belt and then sliding your stockings down your legs, dropping both of them on the floor with your shoes before he got back up, climbing onto the bed over you as you scooted back. He captured your lips in a searing kiss, hands moving to slide your garter belt off along with your panties.

You let out a gasp as you felt two of his fingers spread your lips, finding your clit and muttering softly under his breath about how wet you felt. You tried to say something, to bite back, but your words failed you as he drew his finger in a languid circle around the sensitive nub.

You whined, hips bucking as he took his time, teasing you with long, drawn out massages. He chuckled, kissing down your chest and stomach again. He settled between your thighs, moving his fingers and pushing them into you slowly as his tongue descended onto your clit, tasting you with a groan.

Your thighs tried to close on his head but he pulled back, lightly smacking the inside of your thigh with his free hand. “Keep them open,” he growled before going right back into it. You moaned loudly, unrestrained, quickly reaching up to cover your mouth. Minghao reached up, grabbing your wrist and pulled your hand from your face.

“Don’t,” he warned. “Don’t cover your mouth. I want everyone to hear how good I make you feel.” You nodded slowly, moving your hand down to the sheets and gripping them as Minghao returned his attention to your clit, his fingers moving inside you. He pumped them at a steady pace, stopping to curl them up and making your back arch as you moaned again and again.

“That’s it,” he said softly, watching as your chest rose and fell with each labored breath. “Does it feel good?” he asked. You nodded with a whimper. “Yes,” you breathed. “F-feels so good!” Minghao smirked as he continued to curl his fingers, coaxing you closer and closer to the edge. “You gonna be good and come for me, sweetheart?” he asked. Your thighs had started to tremble, the tension in your body ready to snap at any moment. You whined in response.

“I need to hear you say it, bao bei,” he murmured, drawing out his motions, making them as slow as possible. “Yes!” you cried. “M’gonna cum!” Minghao resumed the same quick pace, rubbing against your walls as he drove you over the edge and your orgasm crashed down on you. You gasped, spewing out a slew of curses mixed with his name as he helped you ride out your high.

“Good,” he said softly. “Good girl.” You attempted to push his hand away when it became too much and sensing what you were silently asking for, Minghao removed his fingers, giving you a break. He cleaned his fingers, getting up from the bed. You heard him move around the room but were too exhausted to open your eyes and see what he was doing.

He returned to the foot of the bed and when nothing else happened, you finally opened your eyes and saw him standing at the foot of the bed. He held something in his hands. “I’d like to ask your permission for something,” he started.

You looked at the item in his hands and noticed it was a camera. You looked up to meet his fiery gaze. “I’d like to photograph you,” he continued. “Like this,” he added, gesturing at your posture. You pushed yourself up. “You want to photograph me naked?” you asked, slightly amused. Minghao chuckled, lowering his gaze to his camera. “No,” he replied, shaking his head before looking back up.

“I want to photograph you in the middle of sex.”

To say you were surprised was an understatement but you weren’t entirely turned off the idea. “And these would be for your eyes only?” you asked softly. Minghao nodded as he prepared the camera. “I plan on turning one of the bedrooms into a dark room,” he explained, raising the camera to look through the viewfinder and pressing the shutter button, before lowering it and smiling at you.

You leaned back, spreading your legs. “How do you want me?” you asked playfully as he raised the camera again, snapping another picture. You laughed and sat up, moving to the edge of the bed and grabbing at his belt loops, pulling him closer to undo his pants, starting with his belt. You unzipped his pants, pulling them down enough to pull his cock free from the confines of his underwear.

You wasted no time in taking the head into your mouth, surprising him into letting out a groan, his head falling back, exposing his long neck. You took more of him in your mouth, keeping your tongue flat against the underside as you took him further. You heard the snap of the camera and pulled back until just the tip was in your mouth, tongue swirling around the head.

You heard another snap followed by the automatic wind of the camera and kept going, each time taking him further and further into your mouth as you drew him to his full length and hardness. “Fuck, just like that, sweetheart,” you heard him groan, snapping another photo. You pulled back, moving your hand up and down the shaft and looked up at him.

“You gonna fuck me already?” you asked mischievously. Minghao tossed the camera onto the bed and pulled his sweater over his head, discarding it on the floor before pulling off his shirt and adding it to the growing pile. You scooted back to the middle of the bed, removing your bra and tossing it aside as he climbed onto the bed, trailing wet kisses up your stomach, stopping to nip at the skin under your breast. His tongue brushed over your nipple, swirling around it before he continued up your chest, running his tongue over your skin.

At the junction of your neck and shoulder, he sank his teeth into your skin, making you cry out and your body jerk suddenly. He used your movement against you, moving closer and taking his cock in his hand. He guided the head to your folds, rutting against your for a moment before pushing into you, letting out a growl as your warm walls enveloped him.

He grabbed the camera from its resting spot and sat back, holding it up to snap a photograph, aiming the lens at the place where your bodies met. “Oh fuck,” you gasped as he thrusted into you, bottoming out and his cock nestling against your cervix. He snapped another picture of your nude body before tossing the camera aside once more and grabbing your hips.

He neither eased you into it or warned you but started a rough, brutal pace immediately, hips snapping forward and burying his cock into your cunt repeatedly. You cried out in both shock and pleasure at the intensity at which he started right away. Your fingers curled into the sheets, thighs spreading more as he pounded into you. “You’ll cum if you go too fast,” you mused, eyes fluttering shut as you felt him throb inside you.

He chuckled, a breathy sound as his grip on you tightened. “I have more stamina than that, beibei,” he said softly. He gave you another harsh thrust, enjoying the way your breasts bounced with each snap of his hips. The room was full of the sound of skin against skin and your moans. It almost drowned out the sound of the rain outside. Almost.

Minghao slowed his pace before pulling out of you. You protested but he simply grabbed your hand and pulled you up as he shifted behind you, pushing you on to your hands and knees as he re-entered you from behind. You moaned, head dropping as he grabbed your hips, resuming that same merciless pace only now he was hitting even deeper.

“Look up,” he murmured in your ear. You did as he said, raising your head until you met the gaze of your own reflection. “Oh shit,” you gasped, walls clenching around him. He grabbed your chin, pressing his chest against your back as he leaned over you. “I want you to watch me fuck you,” he growled into your ear. “Watch yourself cum.” You moaned but maintained eye contact with him through the mirror. In the darkness of the room, his eyes glowed and he seemed even more dragon-like than before.

You pushed back, meeting his hips and thrusts with as much force as you could muster but you were getting weaker with each snap of his hips against your ass. His cock seemed to swell inside you or maybe it was your walls clamping down and not wanting to let go but he filled you so deliciously and with each rut, you were pushed closer and closer to your climax.

“That’s it,” Minghao said, his breath hot against your skin. “Cum for me, sweetheart. Be a good girl and let go.” His freehand moved from your hip to between your thighs, working your clit in time with his thrusts as he propelled you over the edge. You came with a scream as a loud clap of thunder shook the house and the very mountain it stood on.

Minghao fucked you through it, chasing his own high as he finally released inside you, painting your walls in his hot thick cum. There was more of it than you could initially comprehend, filling your walls and no doubt every crevice of your womb. Pregnancy was the last thing on your mind and you moaned, pushing back onto him, milking him for every bit of cum he had.

“Careful sweetheart,” Minghao purred into your ear, moving his hand to your throat and holding it firmly but not squeezing. “We have all night,” he continued. “I’m not done with you just yet.

©️ kwanisms 2024 | all works on this blog are protected under copyright. Do not repost, continue, or translate my works. All graphics made by me.

#svthub #ksmutsociety #kvanity #mfu net #seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #seventeen fanfiction #seventeen fanfic #seventeen smut #seventeen x reader #minghao scenarios #minghao imagines #minghao fanfiction #minghao fanfic #minghao smut #minghao x reader #kwanisms kinktober 2024 #kinktober 2024

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dr3amfyr-e · 5 months ago

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brat. - j.v. ( w. 4.5k )

꒰ in which the boy you see every summer enrolls in the same university as you. ꒱ — modern!jacaerys velayron x reader

୨ ⎯ i cannot stress enough, football means ⚽️ not 🏈. childhood-friends-to-lovers, but you have to get through my 2000 word psychoanalysis and backstory first. light angst. mention of the death of a parent. lots and lots of talk about the velaryon-targaryen-hightower family dynamic. light make out action. reader's family is implied to be wealthy enough to have a summer home. almost everyone lives au. set in the uk, not westeros. omitted daemon rhaenyra marriage because there’s no way to to make it even semi-normal. realizing now i omitted daemon entirely erm sorry. pushing the laenor agenda bc he’s my favorite character. this is abhorently long. extreme overuse of the em-dash. uhh the perspective is wonky in a few places. part two. ⎯ ୧

i had to write this twice. i'm offering this to you with shaking hands, like a peasent child begging for coins. i may write a part two because i have more to say, but i don't want to figure it out rn.

On the cold January morning that Jacaerys Velaryon-Targaryen was born, the media went into a frenzy.

The Targaryens were old money, their fortune rooted a century back in good investments. Historically adept at finding their way into things, the empire had a string to pull in every industry. From art and law to technology and shipping, if business prospects looked good there would be a Targaryen investment.

And then there were the dogs — regal greyhounds, with long, thin bodies and sleek coats. The Targaryens bred them as far back as bloodline records went. The pups were never for sale; sometimes they were used as show dogs, and successful show dogs they were, but more often they were pets. It was a status symbol, to nonchalantly own such a coveted creature.

The Targaryens were idolized in the public eye. They were all stunning, with sharp features and silver hair, and each member of the family seemed to possess a Midas touch. But, where Valyrian blood ran hot, so did the press. It was no surprise when magazines started to turn a profit from silver heads plastered across their glossy covers. It was the price that came with God-like aristocracy.

From editorials to gossip columns, people devoured the insider life of the untouchables. When Aemma Targaryen died, there was a four-page spread in nearly every magazine; complete with pictures and quotes. Business papers filled with opinion pieces about Rhaenyra’s inheritance claim to her family’s empire; magazines exploded with the announcement of her engagement to Laenor Velaryon, and subsequently Viserys’ marriage to Alicent Hightower, the daughter of his lawyer.

When Jacaerys was born, reporters lined up outside of the hospital doors. There were cameras and microphones and crew trucks, and Rhaenyra hated it. It wasn’t the way she wished to welcome her child into the world — swarmed by people who didn’t know nor care for him.

Laenor had always been good at navigating the attention, and Rhaenyra was constantly grateful. So, when he pulled his gaze from the babe and steeled himself to deal with the onslaught of reporters outside, tears pricked at her eyes. Appreciation, exhaustion, adoration? She couldn’t be sure.

Looking down at her son, she thought, he’s perfect. He had a smattering of dark hair, and he was quiet but not concerningly so. Wispy lashes fell upon his cherub cheeks, and when he eventually blinked up at her his eyes were dark. He looked nothing like her — she didn’t care.

She refused to talk to anyone outside of her family, and had the curtains in her private room drawn. To expose her son, her heart, to the prying eyes of the bored masses with nary a care for his well-being was a nightmare. She wouldn’t have him exploited.

At the time of Jacaerys’ birth, she and Laenor had been married for a little over a year. Laenor’s father, Corlys, managed the bulk of the import and export for Viserys’ company. Corlys was a good man, he hadn’t dreamed of marrying his son off. But Laenor and Rhaenyra were both in the same impossible situation: the wiles of youth mixed with the ever critical public.

They had both fallen into scandalous relationships, both preyed on by paparazzi. If they married one another, it would save face for both of their families. Plus — both being the eldest and heir, this would clear the expectation of a dignified marriage. They agreed to leave each other to whatever youthful fun they wanted to have, as long as everything was discreet.

Both the Velaryons and the Targaryens kept a summer home in Dragonstone, a private community in coastal Wales. It was the perfect place for Rhaenyra and Laenor to begin their life — far from her father, close to his parents, and out of the line of sight for any nosy journalist.

The public eye had looked to other things by the time Lucerys was born, two years later. Again, Laenor dealt with the small gathering of reporters with the utmost grace, and Rhaenyra submitted a written statement.

Alicent divorced Viserys that same year.

As she watched her boys grow up, full of energy and life, Rhaenyra thought, there was no one better to parent with than her best friend — a title Laenor had rightfully earned. They hadn’t had much choice in knowing each other, and they certainly would never have chosen to be married, but he made a bearable roommate. They had things in common; they liked the same music, and the same men. They drank the same wine and frequented the same restaurants. And, they both loved their boys.

As Jace and Luke grew up, they found the best company in each other — the school in Dragonstone was so small, though, that there were very few other options. They both played on the school’s small football team, and Jace took piano lessons while Luke learned to fence. Where Jace was driven by emotion, Luke was level-headed; where Luke was cautiously quiet, Jace spoke his mind. It was an ideal childhood, the Welsh coast was an idyllic backdrop to grow up upon, with the sea in their backyard.

They were ten and eight when Joffrey was born, both excited for their new brother. Their mother brought him home, bundled in a soft red blanket. The boys sat on the couch beside Rhaenys and stared at him for upwards of an hour.

Hardly a week had passed when Harwin Strong died. He was a family friend, a frequent presence in their home and life — Jace and Luke had been upset by this, of course.

In time they came to understand the situation fully. Jacaerys first, fitting the pieces together with the evidence he found in the mirror. Neither Rhaenyra nor Laenor had dark hair, like he and his brothers.

His matriline was uncontestable though, as he grew into himself. He possessed the same nose, jaw, brow, and high cheekbones that Rhaenyra wore. The comparisons between the two became more frequent as he grew older, and he found himself to be quite proud to look like her.

Her attitude lived in him as well, the temperament she had been so notorious for as a girl festered in her eldest son. She had once been christened ‘The Princess of Dragonstone’ after flipping off a reporter at their summer home. Jacearys earned it for himself when he was fifteen, after loudly berating a reporter. He had been defending Luke, but no one seemed to care when they deigned him ‘The Prince of Dragonstone’. He took it with grace, claiming that he couldn’t help but be his mother’s child.

It instilled a sense of public propriety he strove to uphold.

Rhaenyra remarried the same year — to Alicent Hightower — and moved her children from Wales to London. It took a while to adjust to the new life — Jace liked his new school, but he detested his step-brothers. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t come around to the idea of living with Aemond and Aegon, who took so much pleasure in making he and his brothers miserable.

After the first month, Jacaerys fell in brilliantly. He performed well in school, quickly being enrolled in the advanced literature and history courses. He got on well with his peers, and made a number of friends. He joined the football team and spent his Sunday afternoons learning piano concertos.

Living in London made him a more publicly prominent figure in his family's legacy. He knew how to play his role as heir; he carried himself perfectly — confident and charming and elegant. He didn’t particularly like being in the public eye, but there was a certain sense of satisfaction when he did something to receive positive public attention.

King’s Landing, much like where he had grown up, was a community reserved for the upper echelon. Situated in Northwest London, and surrounded by wrought iron gates, it was regal and dignified. The house had high, vaulted ceilings, large stained glass windows, and more than enough bedrooms. It rained more, Jacaerys noticed in the first month. When it had rained in Dragonstone he would watch the droplets bounce off the sea, where it lapped at the sandy bay. Here the rain splattered unceremoniously upon the pavement.

For as wonderful as life in London had turned out, Jacaerys found himself longing for what was left behind in Dragonstone. Laenor lived there still, and while he called often and visited as much as he could, it wasn’t the same. Jace’s childhood bedroom remained, along with all of the memories in the house he grew up in. And his friends. There was an assortment of people he only saw between late May and early September; the children of the other seasonal residents. The number had dwindled in years past, with fewer of them returning for break — favouring more interesting places, like Ibiza or Rome, as they got older.

Far too few of his childhood friends he kept in contact with, especially after the move to London. You were the exception.

He was grateful, on days when it stormed in London, to receive a silly text or too-long voice note. It made things feel less dull — you had a way of doing that.

He took to reading theory around the time he turned seventeen. It’s queer theory, at the suggestion of his cousin Baela, who lent him his first Judith Butler book. He finished it that weekend.

His aunt Laena and her two daughters lived in London, and Jace found a close comrade in Baela. She played competitive tennis and listened to riot grrrl, she was much cooler than him and he knew it. Her bedroom held two massive bookshelves, and she let him pillage her collection for De Bouvier and Didion and Gay. Hours were spent lying across the floor in Laena’s house, studying, or reading, or talking. He enjoyed Baela’s company more than any of his school friends, favouring anything with her over anything with the boys from his football team.

His youngest sister, Visenya, turned one around the same time. Baela, staying with Jacaerys while he babysat one night, inducted him into the eldest daughter club.

“You’re so keen on driving your siblings around, and taking care of them. Plus, aren’t you your mother’s closest confidant?” She asked.

True, Jace supposed. He was the oldest of Rhaenyra’s children, and the most responsible of his brothers and step-siblings. His mums both worked full time, they were busy but as involved as possible. Jace just did the menial things. He made Joffrey breakfast, picked Luke up after school, and watched Visenya when necessary. He didn’t mind.

Baela argued that he should mind.

He had been a sensitive child, more so than his brothers, but it made him incredibly emotionally adept as he aged. So many boys his age prided themselves on stoicism, but that was never something Jace felt connected to. He always felt things too deeply to bottle them up — it accounted for the occasional temper that flared up when he was upset, but also how empathetic and kind he was.

Jacearys was set to graduate with honours in the first week of May. It was three months before when college acceptance letters began to appear in the mail. He had applied to a number of places, and been accepted everywhere. The University of the Vale was where his hopes hinged though.

Just after Valentine's Day, it showed up. The envelope was wide and stuffed full, and sealed with a wax stamp. His acceptance letter was on the very top of the stack of papers — the thick paper heavy in his hands, as he admired the blue printed border and silver flocking.

Rhaenrya sorted through the informational packets while Jace reread the letter. Part of him couldn’t believe it was real.

He sends you a picture of the letter, and you respond in kind with one of an identical nature.

You hadn’t planned to go to the same university, but it certainly was a happy coincidence.

After graduation, he was beyond excited for the reprieve that Dragonstone granted. The promise of early morning hikes, and evenings spent on the beach — the once empty house, full of life and bustling with bodies.

You were the first thing Jacaerys thought to look for when he set his bags down in the summer home.

It was late May, and you were guaranteed to be out of school. I’ll text after I unpack, he thought, pulling clothes and books from his suitcase.

His room in Dragonstone had once been his childhood bedroom. The walls were a warm tone of white, and the small bed was still covered with his blue and white checkered duvet. Piano scales and pictures of his brothers and friends adorn the walls. There was a soccer trophy on the back edge of his desk, something he had won when he was eleven. It was stuffy from nine months of stagnance, but familiar all the same.

He pushed the curtains back from the window to let sunlight filter into the dusty room, gazing down at the beach, when he spotted your figure. He was quick to rush downstairs, out the backdoor, and across the stone path that leads from the patio to the beach. He greets you with a call of your name and a tight hug, sunglasses perched atop his head and linen shirt half buttoned.

It had been a year since he’d last seen you. You had kept in touch during the school year; Jace favoured Snapchat and FaceTime, delighted with the pleasure of seeing the mundane things you were up to. There was a nearly constant text thread, and voice memos passed back and forth. But, it all paled in comparison to physical company.

He abandoned his housekeeping duties, keen to sit on the beach and talk. And you did so for hours, about everything and nothing. He tells you about his last year of school and listens as you do the same. When the sun dipped past the treeline, he leaned back on his elbows, watching the water crest on the sand. He felt more at ease than he had in a while, enraptured by the ease of your presence. The conversation flowed, there were no awkward lulls and no pressure to talk about something dignified. It was comforting to be so close to someone who didn’t see much of his life in London — you knew the best version of him.

Your friendship had always felt like that, from a young age. On days that smelled of sunscreen and sea salt in his mind, you would meet in the mornings and depart past dark and then do it again the next day, never tiring of each other. Your parents knew his, so you had always been welcome in his home — invited or not. You had shared a bed during sleepovers, drunk from the same cup, and fallen asleep on the couch during movie nights countless times. Quick glances and imperceptible expressions were a language you communicated in, reading each other without words. In your presence, Jace was the most comfortable.

The summer slipped away as it always did, taking long nights and leaving memories of sand and sunshine. The days were ambled away in the water, on rocky hiking paths, or in the meadow that sat a mile away from all of the homes.

Jace had started The Hobbit before school ended — most days he found himself sprawled out in the park or on the beach, reading. He had also taken to running with his dog, Vermax, in the mornings. He relied on the serotonin boost to start the day, and with no football to play a jog was a decent alternative.

When the summer drew to a close, the typical melancholy that befell the return to the real world wasn’t present in Jace’s mind. He presumed it had everything to do with the fact that he would see you every day now

You have one college class together — a nine a.m. medieval literature discussion.

Clinging to familiarity in the new environment, he glued himself to your side for the first week of classes. He memorized the way to your dorm, meeting you outside every morning to walk together to your first lessons. The meandering conversation was a good start to the day, and he silently relished in your tired eyes and quiet voice, not yet used to the early schedule.

On Friday he all but begged you to come back to his dorm after the discussion; it was your only class that day so you had given in. You hadn’t seen his living quarters yet, and he wanted to spend time with you, worried for when your schedules would fill up and you would lose room for each other.

The discussion had been mind-numbing. You reviewed the same syllabus as the lecture, and went over the same rules and policies as every other class. With the thirty-five minutes remaining, the teaching assistant made everyone watch an incredibly monotone video about the history of medieval England.

Jace linked his arm into yours in the hallway after class, pulling you to the doors. The cool morning air was refreshing, waking you up more as you walked across campus. His dorm building was new and modern, seventeen floors with grey siding and big windows. It was private housing, clearly expensive.

He had a single room with an adjoining bathroom and a small common space. The walls were typical dorm white, with laminate wood flooring. Joffrey’s school photo is hung on one wall, the frame clearly decorated by the child with glitter and string. Scattered across the other walls were photographs in thin silver frames, a large world map, a clock, and a cross-stitch of a rainbow stag beetle.

Sitting on the couch, you observed the unframed photos that lay across the coffee table, inspecting a leggy grey dog as you plucked it from the pile, “Who is this?”

Jace leaned into your side, gazing at the photo, “My mum’s dog, Syrax,” He reached over you to tap the picture, “Syrax is my dog’s mum.”

He slipped his hand into yours as you walked with him to his second class of the day.

In the third week of school, Jace asks you to attend a mixer for a pre-law society with him. He doesn't know anyone, and doesn't want to be alone at the party. You meet at his dorm at a quarter-to-six so you can walk to the event together.

The dress-code is emi-formal, and when he opens the door to you his hair is slicked back with water and he smells like his cologne — musk, sandalwood, and amber.

“Are your clothes pressed?” You ask, grinning at his freshly ironed slacks and the three buttons undone on his shirt.

He rolls his eyes, locking the door behind him as he escorts you down the hallway. The walls of the elevator in his dorm are mirrored, and you laugh at him when you catch him taking pictures of himself. He makes you take one with him, and sets it as his lock screen.

The mixer was in the dean of law’s massive house, buzzing with young people in smart outfits. Jace abandons you about fifteen minutes in, spotting a group of poli sci majors from his social psychology class.

From his childhood spent between galas and his mother’s business meetings, Jace was good at navigating these situations. He was charming, leveling the professors with charismatic smiles and confident posture. He was good at holding an intelligent conversation, discussing theory and strategy.

You were on the patio, watching the stars, when he found you an hour later.

His arms brushed yours as he leaned against the railing, “Sorry for leaving you,” His voice was quiet, and he stared at your profile, watching the way the moonlight illuminated your skin.

You wave his apology off and make him buy you coffee in recompense on the way home.

You’re stood talking together on the quadrangle a few weeks later, a cup of hot chocolate warming your mitten-less hands, when you realise just how cold it’s gotten. It's just too cold for the thin jacket that you try to sink further into, hiding from the wind that bites at your delicate skin.

Jace watches you shiver, observing your lack of appropriate attire.

“Are you cold?” He asks, reaching out to run his hands up and down your arms, half to warm you, half to gauge how thick your jacket is. Not very.

You nod, “I didn’t check the weather this morning.”

He sighs with exaggerated exasperation and slides his arms around you, careful of the paper cup you held. Of course, he’s worn the right coat, and you feel the downy material of his hood against your cheek as he rubs your back to generate some warmth. You smell the cologne on his collar and the expensive shampoo he uses; he grumbled something about taking better care of yourself.

Then, one particularly cold Friday morning he has forgotten his coat. Dressed in a hoodie, he mirrors your excuse from the week prior, smiling sheepishly — face flushed from the chilly air, dark curls blowing around his head like a halo. You take pity on him, slipping your scarf off. You loop it around his neck, tucking the ends down into the collar of his sweater, and leave him with a fond peck on the cheek; his skin is cold.

He's appreciative, though the scarf does little against the cold wind cutting through his sweater. Still, he doesn't give the scarf back.

With the cold, comes midterms. You’re the first person Jace asks to study.

Your dorm room is closer to the central part of campus, and thus a shorter walk in the bitter cold. Jace brushes snow out of his hair as you unlock your door, ushering him inside. It's small. Two twin-sized beds, one on each wall, with nary enough room for two bodies between them; a desk is crammed into the small space between your bed and the window. You let him take the desk, spreading your books and notes out across your bed.

Your dorm is old, and the room has very little ventilation. Despite the frigidity outside, the room is stuffy and almost hot with both of your bodies inside. An hour into studying Jace shrugs off his heavy, knit sweater and pushes his glasses up into his hair.

“What are you working on?” You ask, leaning forward. You’re bored, working on the same power point you started yesterday. You want to talk to him, though he doesn’t seem keen on the idea

He doesn’t look up from typing as he speaks, “Analysing The Art of War.”

You shut your laptop, bent on distracting him, “The book?”

He nods but doesn’t give a verbal response.

“Who's that by?” You ask, fighting to suppress a grin

This time he does look up, glaring at you over his glasses, “Sun Tzu.”

His tone is short, but it's amusing to annoy him so you grin, suppressing a giggle, “Sounds very interesting.”

“What do you want?” He asks after a beat, still holding your gaze.

You shrug, “Nothing. I’m bored,”

The next time you study is even less productive, school work discarded on his floor in a matter of minutes.

“We can’t be trusted to work together,” He tells you, watching as you calculate his astrological chart, geometry homework forgotten.

You attend your first college party together in November. When you arrive at his dorm, he’s dressed much more casually than normal.

You reach out to tug at the thin silver chain peeking out from his shirt collar, “This is fun,” You tease, giggling, “Aiming to impress tonight?”

He rolls his eyes in mock-offence, turning you around by the shoulders to shove you out of the doorframe.

The lights in the house are dim, and they strobe slowly through different colours. It’s too dark and too bright all at once. The music is almost unbearably loud and people are packed in like sardines, it’s all incredibly overstimulating.

When he senses your unease, Jace takes your hand, pulling you tight against your side to lead you through the throng of bodies. He’s looking for someone, but you’re unsure who, and he canvases the whole space before giving up on finding them.

The backyard of the house is quieter, but the ground still vibrates from the bass of the music. People are scattered about, smoking cigarettes and sipping from bottles of cheap beer.

You both learn what Jell-O shots are, and make out in the bathroom back at his dorm. It’s not the first time you’d kissed each other, trying it a few times in your adolescence just to see what it was like. But this is different, tipsy and sloppy, as you giggle into his mouth.

It's forgotten in the morning, when you wake up in his bed still dressed in your going-out clothes, head pounding.

But then it happens again, the week before finals.

You had stayed at the library far too late studying, leaving the pair of you to walk back to his dorm in the dark. It's positively frigid, cold December air whipping snow into your face.

There are still snowflakes in your hair as you shed the thick coat you’re wearing, pulling off your gloves and hat.

There's a bottle of wine in Jace’s freezer, left by Aegon the weekend before. It's expensive and rich and red, and Aegon would likely skin you if he found out you were drinking it — but, that's part of the fun. There's a baking show on the small television, and you’re curled into Jace’s side to steal some of the warmth from his body.

When the program lulls he brings his hand to your hair, combing through the tangled strands. You pay it little mind, leaning into his touch as you watch a contestant on-screen whip macaron batter. His fingers slide down to your jaw, turning your head so your eyes meet his. He’s studying your face, cheeks flushed from the wine or the cold.

The attention is odd, and you giggle nervously under his gaze. His hands come to cradle your jaw as he leans towards you, nose brushing yours. The air is charged with an unusual tension, his mouth a breath away from yours.

When he kisses you, he’s slow and gentle, his whole body angled into yours. Everything feels warm, a welcome contrast to the weather outside, and you chalk it up to the glasses of wine coursing through your bloodstream.

It's pleasant, different from times past; this certainly doesn’t feel like an innocent, experimental kiss. It's heated, tinged with passion. He uses the placement of his hand to ease your jaw open, tongue sliding slowly into your mouth.

There's a vibe, something you hadn’t felt before with him. It's communicated through the gentle touch of his hands, and how his breath hitches when you kiss him back with the same sort of force.

The moment is broken by the announcement of a winner on the television. His hands slide down, resting on your shoulders, pulling your frame into his.

You don’t talk about it afterwards.

#guys be honest can you tell that i work for a newspaper #column ☝️🤓 editorial ☝️🤓#i wrote a whole 4000 word draft and fucked the perspective so badly i had to rewrite the entire thing #this actually kind of cooked me tbh #pls dont base my merit as a writer on this fanfic that i wrote in the car and also in a public bathroom in the suburbs of chicago #HONESTLY i'm not really a modern au enjoyer but this is eating my brain so it needs to get out into the universe #i got locked into a public bathroom while writing this btw #𖦹｡⋆ jace #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys targaryen #jacaerys x reader #hotd jacaerys #prince jacaerys

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luvether · 18 days ago

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CHAPTER ONE. HIS BECKONING SALVATION.

SERIES SYNOPSIS, “For his tongue reckon with the beggary and treachery of her.” The narrative of the sun-burnt boy towards the moon-bruised girl, wherein Aeons dare play them both like a sedative, bore them starved for a disastrous relationship.

CHAPTER WARNINGS: Sunday x fem!halovian reader. mentions of physical abuse and mutilation, religious metaphors, world-building for Penacony, not canon-compliant to hsr lore. historical + semi-steampunk au! [8.1k wc]

𐔌౨ৎ 、 MASTERLIST ノ NEXT CHAPTER

“Hounds, seize the man in the red tailcoat. The girl is a victim." His young raspy tone coils around the audience like a snake, the pin drop silence, then the haunting allure of your voice comes to a decrepit halt.

Sunday tastes the chaos first before understanding what had happened, what he had just done.

The Hounds were on the move due to his command, undressing clear aggression towards the people in charge of tonight's show. The audience had jumped up from their seats, scattering and fleeing when they recognized the Bloodhound seals on their vest and the muted colors of their uniforms. Gopher Wood doesn't spare another second once his feet touch the stage, his long coat swishing through the cold air.

"In the name of Penacony's esteemed law, I hereby arrest the suspected perpetrators involved in Velvet House's illicit activities of child trafficking."

"Mister Chamberlain, sir!" The man in the red tailcoat stresses out, cries, struggles out of the grasps of a Hound tying him down like a shackle.

"Please have mercy! I was wrong, I was—"

"Your words have no power here." Gopher's tone is ice cold, his crow wings rustling sharply. "Save your pliant cries before the Judges, and pray that your punishment will be in your favor."

"No, please I cannot afford this! Please let me explain myself!"

"Take him away."

Gopher waves a hand at the Hounds, they simply nod their heads, dragging the hysterical man off the stage. Sunday is reluctant as he steps beside the Minister, fingertips trembling from anxious thrill.

"...What will become of him?" He asks.

"The man had committed a heavy crime in the Ménage, if all votes are in favor of punishment then he as well as the folks involved will be sentenced to death—each will take a silver cup of poison wine." Gopher doesn't dare sugarcoat his words, pin needles of guilt pricks at the flesh of Sunday's benign heart.

"And, if the votes go for the latter option?"

Gopher takes a glance at him. "The latter option is seeking atonement for their sins. If the President orders it, they will be exiled to the borders of the Reef where they will spend their remaining days begging for absolution, forced to train as soldiers, they will die valiantly trying to protect our Nation from the remaining Legion."

So death, still.

The guilt within the boy grows thick, enough for bitterness to settle heavy on his tongue. These men will be dead because of his command.

"That's horrible."

"Sunday, I'll speak candidly with you." The young boy is surprised when Gopher drops to a knee in front of him.

"You've done well speaking up." Gopher says. "Cease such sensitivity of yours. Sometimes, there will be a price for freedom. And to fight for goodness, there will be moral conflicts that will be sent to you as a challenge. To protect the weak, we could trample over those who take advantage of the downtrodden ones. It is difficult but it is still our duty, Sunday."

Protect the weak.

The man straightens, then once Sunday's name leaves his lips one last time, without awaiting the response of the young boy he saunters off to deal with the aftermath of the subjugated traffickers, telling Sunday to take a rest if he feels overwhelmed with the situation. What he had said was the truth, after all.

Sunday is not God, he cannot appease everyone, and not everyone will see his beliefs to be absolute, that's why law enforces such as the Hounds still exist even after the civil war—or any war even before that, even when the bold words of Independence happen to be pasted in every billboard and graffitied walls around the Capital—

It was simply just another appeasement.

Another reassurance for the public.

It's like a piece of candy given to a wailing child, if all is devoured and nothing is on their palm, they would whine once more. Greed birthing upon greed like one hurricane of a sinful cycle.

For a war cannot be ceased. No matter how much a pacifist begged and prayed and groveled till their knees bled beneath the stones.

Gopher Wood told him so during one of his studies, don't waste your time clinging to hope that can kill you, even with your selective ignorance on the matter the results will not change.

Even when he had uttered the command to send traffickers to death's door, it was supposed to be an accomplishment.

But Sunday's too bitter and guilt-ridden to feel a huff of pride from his achievement.

An hour has passed then, still, Sunday muddled on his transgression. Thirty minutes later, he pins his back straight; the theatre now is empty of audience, under the jurisdiction of the Bloodhounds, from the report given to them, there are roughly twenty-one children found in the backstage of the building, some former orphans from the war, others trafficked to be laboured as rising singers for on stage performances.

His leg couldn't stop bouncing. Restless, he's so restless all of a sudden. Sunday cannot help but let his thoughts wander to you, the young Halovian on the center stage that had such a grenadine syrup singing voice. He hasn't seen you since your call for help and his command to arrest. Did something happen?

"Would you like a drink, young lord?" A younger Hound had approached, a glass of water in hand.

Sunday takes it silently. "Where will the children go after this?"

"Well, it depends. First, we need to verify their identities before they are taken here. After that, they will be taken to the Great hall where parents with missing kids will come to pick up their kins."

"And, if the children have no parents nor identities?"

The dark cobalts of the Hound's eyes flicker briefly to him. "Then, the Governors will assign them a residence, they will be raised in comfort then trained to be military civil servants."

The young boy couldn't stop himself from feeling so utterly restless, he stood up. "May I ask where they are now?"

There was a brief hesitancy with the young Hound. "I believe they are still backstage, going through individual inspection."

Sunday thanks him and saunters off towards the direction pointed.

Once he opens the heavy flaps of red theatre curtains, he cuts through the small crowd, side-stepping with ease. Big, amber eyes fly quickly—he's trying to find you, a girl with wings and a ringed halo like scattered stars, wearing attire as bare white as sunlight, white ribbons that drag across the stage floor. He remembers your cocktail hat that rests like a crown above your head, the white veil that hides the elusiveness of your eyes, the curve of your lips as you smile. It's daunting to him, he doesn't know you and yet he still seeks you out.

Where could you have gone?

Eight minutes have passed, his footfalls take him to every nook and cranny of the Velvet House until he is certain he has reap the entire place. When the time bleeds five more minutes, his steps turn mild and he's heaving tired breaths, hand pressed against the wall supporting his weight.

For a split moment, he wondered if you ever existed at all—it's like you had vanished like a wisp of dainty smoke when your performance was interrupted prematurely. Sunday dabs his forehead with the edge of his sleeve,

Then, he hears a foreign noise.

It almost sounded like a chair creaking under heavy weight.

When the boy glances up, there's a sliver of moonlight spilling in from one of the open doors on the corridor he was on. Without thinking and with nowhere else to go, he approaches slowly, carefully, the door croaking loud when he pushes it open.

Under the dimly lit room he is greeted with the sight of a girl, standing on her tippy-toes up on a rickety chair, reaching for something that's clearly out of her reach at the top shelf of a bookcase. His sudden presence clearly alerts her and she spins, almost stumbling from her perfect stance—Sunday's eyes fly open and his heart stutters as she starts to lose her balance.

"Hey! Be careful—!"

The chair topples and a heavy thud resounds around the room, along with a few books that fell from its place in the case.

Sunday's chest and entire back blooms with a sudden rush of pain, his face crumpling on a wince.

"Oww..."

His amber eyes peered down and his eyes lock with you as he had you in his embrace to crush the fall of your impact.

The boy diverts his eyes, then looks back at you, clearly at the loss with what to do.

"Uhm." His hands come up to softly hold your shoulders. "Are you okay?"

A second of silence.

"I think so.."

With two of his hands on your own, he helps you up slowly. Then he leans down to brush the dust from your dress.

"Sorry." Sunday goes for an apology. "I didn't mean to startle you, I—"

"Wait a second."

He looks up at your cushiony voice, your eyes seem to hover on the shape of his halo under the candlelight.

Sunday could've sworn he saw wonderment within your eyes.

"You're that halovian boy with the large halo." You say, your enthused tone resting upon his ears and it seemed as if the world had stilled.

Sunday sees the expression on your face and finally he takes every inch of you. Gone was your stylish hat, what remains is a silky dress that seems to ebb and flow around your limbs and legs. Your eyes encased his in orphic merriment.

"Yes, hi." He almost scowls at himself, he hates how that sounded between his teeth. "You're...the one that performed today, your voice is very beautiful."

Your chuckle is feathery and tasted like sweet fruit. You turn away from him to pick up a notebook that fell on the floor, brushing your fingers against its leather cover.

"So why are you in this part of the building, lost?"

"Of that nature, yes."

He doesn't say that he's been looking for you, specifically. He doesn't even know why he felt that way. At the corner of his membrane, he vaguely wanted to ask if you were okay—or inquire why you had asked for his assistance, he wouldn't have made a move if you hadn't done that.

To the boy's misfortune, you see through his white lie.

"You know, if you hadn't called for the Bloodhounds earlier, I would have assumed you were really lost." You tell him with a hardened look. "You're not even supposed to be here in this room."

If you hadn't called for the Bloodhounds.

"So you knew I wasn't just some audience member from the start." He asks you, non-accusatory.

"It doesn't take a genius to see you are different from the rest." You start. "You were in one of the high balconies—only those in high positions are allowed to enter there."

Sunday doesn't know whether you said it as an insult or a compliment. He clears his throat, "Then I wanted to ask you something, why did you ask me to help you?"

Sunday remembers his own humming halo, before hearing your voice in his head. He wonders why you had chosen to converse with him of all people in the audience, you could've called for the Minister instead, but you chose him specifically.

"I just knew you would help." Your gentle smile doesn't leave too much for him to wonder. "I saw it in your eyes."

It takes a long time for you to answer, his amber eyes don't leave you as you brush past him, footsteps thudding softly against wooden planks to stare out the window that acts like a halo around your figure—like performance lights.

Skepticism is sewn between his brows. Everything is quiet now, Sunday doesn't know what to say or do but watch you. The room is too dark to completely see anything but for a split second when the curtains raise to invite street lamps to pour in the room—he notices something.

His heart stutters, then he closes the distance between the two of you. One hand weighs heavy on your shoulder, the other rips the curtains wide so the light has no choice but to cascade in.

Sunday's shock at the sight.

There are deep scars, clumsy and messy, almost like wine blemishes greeting him between the peaks of stylish fabric. Amber eyes then trace along the wounds, it stops closely at the deep scratches where your wings were, like someone had dug red in the root of it.

"What happened to your..."

Your smile is bitter but you dare not answer him. Despite being young and powerless, Sunday's not a fool. He instantly places two together.

The reason for your cry for help, the trafficked children, your injuries...

"You're not from Penacony, are you?" He touches your wrist, pulling you close then closer, breathing almost a whisper in case anyone else was listening.

"You're from New Ebondium."

Sunday's eyes are wide open now, grim and stiff with the revelation—a polar opposite from yours that remains passive, too calm for his liking.

"I guess."

"You guess?"

You chuckle then, it seems like the situation hasn't weighed down on you. Even if it did, you don't seem too concerned with it. "You're smart. I am a foreigner, I was trafficked from New Ebondium. It's easy to exploit a land that was defeated, no?"

Your eyes trail to the window, massaging a tentative finger to your wounded ear wings.

"They tried to cut it off with a pair of rusty old scissors a few days ago." You start, "to them, they didn't care what I am—I'm nothing but a scum from New Ebondium—they said. They also wondered if halovian wings would fetch a high price in the market. That's why I asked for help from you, I thought you'd do something about those bastards and you did."

Sunday's shock turns to fury.

"Blasphemous."

White hot anger rises from his throat and deeper within his veins, a surge of protectiveness. It didn't matter if war ceased three years ago. Whatever the outcome, the victors would always be aligned with honor, breeding pride and prejudice, a slow cycle for the absolute victors and punishment-bearers.

This was not the dream of victory Sunday honors.

Tenderly, the boy brushes your feathers with his knuckles, inspecting closely. From the audience's seats, he didn't notice a single thing wrong about you, but up close, your colored plumages feel stiff and rough beneath his skin, untended and oily and not preened properly—the aspect of a halovian's wings are their basis of pride, divine innocence and most of all, freedom. It's their most cherished possession, ridding one of its feathers means cutting their life to the ground, to be helpless, to die flightless.

It's the fact that your birth-given wings beneath your ears have already been threatened to be chopped off, you haven't even fully grown out your secondary wings yet...

Sunday pulls himself out of his own thoughts when he feels palms lifting his cheeks up.

His eyes lock with yours and for a moment the two of you stay like that, watching the other's folded expression closely.

"You're sad." You concluded after your inspection. "Why are you sad?"

Why were you asking this question?

"You think I shouldn't feel sad about this?"

"No one has." You answer him. "Not the Penaconian folks and definitely not someone like you."

Someone like me, you say. Sunday should feel insulted from such distinctions. But at the back of his head, he knows you're right.

He lets out a shaky exhale.

It's weird. The feeling tickling in his chest is different, there's a tentative pull that he feels towards you but he cannot quite understand why. Aside from Robin no one else had expressed trust in him, a trust that didn't have any basis or solid ground. You had trusted him the moment your eyes met from across the stage, trusted him of your origin and your wounds from harassment that mar the canvas of your body.

You trusted him despite not knowing him.

Sunday doesn't understand.

By the time the inspection was finished, Sunday had to leave the room and you were called back with the other kids. The night was dead and the rain had stopped pouring, mechanical carriages awaited outside as Bloodhounds ushered the children within.

"Where have you run off to?"

Sunday looks up at Gopher, the night rests peacefully upon his face, his arms crossed softly over his chest. The young boy avoids eye contact first, then looks back at his deep eyes, "I just wanted to take a look around the area."

"Hm." Gopher hums. "Next time, take someone from the Bloodhounds with you. You could've run into trouble."

Run into trouble. The man's deep voice invokes doubt, enough to pierce and stumble Sunday's self-morale.

He bites his tongue.

"Of course."

The young boy focuses on the line of children in front of them, he's reminded of you. Sunday knew that if these kids will grow up, they will be like lambs to a slaughter. To be entangled in a more governed and high atrocity the closer they get to the Capital.

And then there's you, a girl from the enemy land, the girl who loves to perform—born to be one. One mishap from you and your life would tumble down like a weed in a garden.

'Oh, aren't you that halovian boy with the large halo?' 'My instincts told me to trust you.' 'Why are you sad?'

Your voice is in Sunday's head, your tone absent of any sort of expectations or contempt.

It felt like petals falling, your voice that is.

Sunday wants to hear it again—he cares.

He felt like he had the responsibility to look after you now after that statement of yours, after relishing briefly in your company, the young boy cannot help but crave for more, like a moth to a flame.

So when you appear from the door, following the line to the carriage—he steps out from his place beside the Minister, he cannot help but reach out and circle your wrist, the line that flowed like a stream suddenly meeting its disturbance, the boy could feel many eyes on him, burning his skin. It almost makes him flush red with embarrassment, but your eyes appear gentle like he'd remember a few moments ago beneath that moonlight, encouraging, so he stills his determination.

"Son?" Gopher questions.

But Sunday's eyes are on you.

You're sad. Why are you sad?

You think I shouldn't feel sad about this?

No one has. Not the Penaconian folks and definitely not someone like you.

"You're wrong because I care." He tells you, he feels the warmth of your wrist, the pulse on his fingertip, pouring at a similar rhythm of his own heartbeat. "Pain is still pain. It does not discriminate, not with rugs or with riches."

From there on, he has made his final decision and turns to his guardian.

"Mr. Gopher Wood." Says Sunday, a tinge of weakness in his tone, he takes another breath, fists clenched.

"I want her." He says. "As a companion for Robin and I."

"Sunday." Gopher's eyes narrow. "If you demand something, speak with a voice of confidence, only then will I listen to you."

Sunday's eyes widened, this was the first time the Minister had given him a chance to explain himself. He feels the warmth of your skin beneath his palm.

He looks at you gingerly. "Will you come with me?"

You seem also shocked by his actions, but you're quick to recover. "Only if you allow it."

"Then, she'll be coming back with me to the Church, Mr. Gopher Wood."

There was a splotch of silence, then a small exhale from the tall man. "Alright then. If you wish for a friend, who am I to refuse my son's request?" Sunday's surprise of Gopher Wood's pliancy on the matter. Sunday beckons you to stand with him and watch as the last remaining kids enter the carriage. The Minister had his final say with some of the Bloodhound officers and Sunday diverted his attention, ready to take you to their carriage.

He stops when he notices you staring up at the Velvet House once more, you squeezed Sunday's hand. "You told me pain is still pain despite rugs or riches."

"Yes, I did."

"Then, do you truly understand my pain?"

Sunday notices the melancholy framing your irises and the lilt of your tone, he tilts his head and says your name for the first time that night. That garners your attention and you look back at him,

He releases your hand only to reach out and hold both your ear wings upon his cupped palms. He feels the feathers once again and remembers its touch of roughness—he hasn't told you this, but there was a time where both he and Robin had smoke rubble and tangy blood caking their feathers. It was such a long time ago, but Sunday would dare not forget his mother's caresses and final words.

He holds your face softly, "My dream will involve everyone. It will be a paradise where the weak will be protected and one day, when we are older, if you wish for a stage to perform I'll build you one, something more grander than Velvet house, where everyone will love you and your voice. Pain and harassment will not be a factor."

You stare dumbfounded at his bold statement, Sunday sees your eyes turn starry-eyed.

"You promise?" You asked him, hopeful.

The boy is still young, doe-eyed and ruddy-cheeked, skin still dewy from any tribulations, with the first touch of the sun on the tip of his tongue when he says,

"I promise you."

“Another dead Halovian, sir.” There is a strain in the officer's tone, the body before them covered with a plain sheet, concealing the corpse.

"She was a widowed baron's wife." Gopher Wood's brows knotted, conflicted. The night lamp from afar provides ample light, glittering the chain hanging from his glasses.

"Are there any leads?"

"The local detectives are on their way here. But it will take about a day or two to gather any concrete evidence."

"What a waste of precious time." the man chastises. "By the time the detectives finish their work, the perpetrator would have escaped the city."

"My apologies, Chamberlain. However with the issues of Lady Constance's funeral preparations, the missing merchants and the suspicious activities of New Ebondium our resources are running incredibly thin."

Gopher Wood cannot help but pinch the bridge of his nose, rarely does he show any pint of irritation but the ongoing problem has been thinning his patience. "I had told those ignoramus Family heads to handle this affair weeks ago. Time and time again they have proven to be incompet—"

He catches himself before insults can spill any further. The atmosphere hushes into silence, merely the humming of lamplight and the distance roars of mechanical gears fill the cracked air.

Gopher barely turns his head, fixing his gloves. "Sunday."

"Yes, Minister?"

"This situation shall be kept hidden from the public and there's nothing more for you to learn today, you may head back to the Church."

The boy tilts his head. "Then, I’ll take my leave."

The night is achingly cold, even with him bundled up in a woolen scarf. His chauffeur guides him back to the awaiting carriage at the end of the alleyway, the young boy gets in and they are set off. When Sunday leans his elbow by the window sill, the radio starts to sputter:

"Convicted suspects of the horrible discovery in the downtown sector of the Velvet House have already been sentenced to their execution a few system hours ago. Their punishment to drink a half-pint of foxglove from a silver goblet, they have been—"

Sunday closes his eyes.

"Coach."

"Yes, young lord?"

"Please turn the radio off."

"Right away, young lord." His eyes remain vacant on the moving road, his fingers thrumming on his lap. Aside from the silence from the lessening radio, he could hear the distant roars of mechanical wirings and cogs from the Industrial Capital, the clips of horses' hooves as his carriage continued to roll by the granite road.

And just like that, after two weeks of hearing about the trials, the judgment, following the Minister around, the people involved with the trafficking had met their tragic end.

Penacony's news and radios had been sputtering about the incident, coupling it with the gasps from passersby and locals of all the sectors that bore witness to such atrocities. Two weeks of nonstop rumors and gossip about the tainted downtowns of deepened black market connections running haywire, and how they had gone radio silent after the crimes had surfaced to the Capital and the Bloodhounds.

In a couple of weeks people will move on from the topic, and days will continue to ebb and flow like clockwork.

That also means it has been exactly two weeks since you came to the Church.

Two weeks since Sunday last spoke to you.

Your schedule doesn't seem to find a crossroad. On the night of your arrival to the Church, the Minister had pulled Sunday aside,

"You've matured, Sunday." Gopher Wood had a different expression on his face. "I will tell the Academy to change your general studies to something more befitting. It's about time you start learning how to be a leader of this Nation."

Sunday should've been more aware of this outcome. The price of the Minister's lack of scolding on the matter concerning you—was Sunday's obedience and devotion to his growing responsibility. And thus, more weight was added on his shoulders.

With more duties on his plate comes the sacrifice of spending less time with his sister or having leisure time for himself.

The carriage stops. "We have arrived, please watch your step when you exit, master."

Sunday straightens, picking up his textbooks and exiting the carriage, what greets him at the entrance of the Church was one of the sisters that raised him, her smile kind, "Welcome back, Sunday. You've done well today, allow me to take your textbooks to your room."

"Thank you but there's no need, Sister Ruth." Sunday hesitates. "Is Robin home already?"

"Yes, she finished her recitals earlier and is now singing for tonight's sermon—ah." Ruth's eyes brighten. "That young girl volunteered to sing tonight as well, both have such lovely voices. Miss Robin and her seem to be enjoying each other's company."

A small smile graces Sunday's lips. "I see."

During the short time busying himself with the Minister's demands, he has found how you and Robin had grown closer to one another each passing day.

It was an instant click of friendship, Robin warmed up to you first after hearing of your circumstances (of course, Sunday hid the fact that you were New Ebondium-borne).

It only took a day or two to realize how similar you two were; she dreamt about being a star one day, you responded kindly to the same notion, your child-like dreams of performance still small and conserved, passion growing like a flavorful fresh fruit. The other day, Sunday saw how Robin had enthusiastically pulled you to join her in her recitals and practices, sometimes during the lukewarm afternoon light, he would hear you both giggling over in Robin's room or he would see you two care for the other children, tidying up the dinette table together, talking and grinning, the kids offering you a wreath to crown your head, the sisters patting your head or cheek affectionately.

It always brings a smile to Sunday's face to see you getting along so well with the others, a little relieved that Robin has another companion of her age whenever the boy is too busy. But at the same time, Sunday cannot help but feel a bit left out, a type of bittersweetness on the duvet of his expression whenever he sees you and the others, a gaping ache of loneliness in his chest that continues to grow a ravine, but he swallows down his own emotions.

"Would you like to join them?" Ruth asks. "I can go ahead and—"

"No, it's alright. I…" Sunday hesitates a second too late. "The Academy is expecting me to do well for the next exams, I have to study. Please send my greetings to those two."

Ruth's smile is softer now, sad. "Okay. Be sure to take breaks in the middle, young lord." The boy feels a warm hand caressing his cheek, almost achingly akin to a mother's touch of concern. "You're still fifteen, you shouldn't be worked up over things like these so early."

"I know." Sunday sends her a kind smile, pivoting in his heel after bidding her a curt farewell.

But he can't help but worry about his future responsibilities as the future successor, too busy worrying to join you and Robin so leisurely,

And his loneliness is quickly filled with matters of the Ménage.

The night is growing colder by the minute and Sunday finds himself leafing through the pages of one of his books—he cannot find it in him to sleep with ease, deprived and muddled with so many troubles. The Academy has high hopes for him to rank one and sooner or later depending on how he performs, he will be introduced as the Chamberlain's successor at the next banquet in the heart of the Ménage.

Sunday closes his eyes for a moment, a headache rampant. It's too much.

He sighs heavily, leaning his head against his arm. A knock on the door pulls him from his own thoughts, he flinches at the unexpected disturbance.

"Who's there?" He calls out softly, his eyes wander to the clock, 2:34am. It's so late for someone to come over. Silence answers him at first, however Sunday could hear the heartbeat of the person on the opposite side of the door, a mellow whisper and a dainty shuffle of feet beneath the wood.

"Sunday?" His breath hitches at your soft voice. "May I come in?"

The chair is dragged back as he stands. When he reaches the door he cannot help but fleet his gaze to the mirror in the corner, he squints beneath the dim light, pressing his shirt flat from creases, making sure his cowlicks are tamed down and presentable; he fusses over his appearance for a while before he cracks the door open.

His eyes sought yours and just like that, his lethargy lessens. You greet him on the other hand, your familiar smile decorating your lips, head tilted to the side.

"Hi."

"Hey." Sunday pauses, eyes looking you up and down, a frown on his lips. "The night is getting chillier, why are you only wearing cotton?"

He reaches out, albeit reluctantly for your hand to tug you in—only to jolt from how icy your fingers feel.

He sighs then. “Take care of yourself.”

His kiss-warmth hands are firm over your own, the boy pulls out a wool blanket from his wardrobe, wrapping it generously around your shoulders. He closes the door to his room and asks you to follow him to the lounge where a fireplace rests. You both sit in front of the hearth as Sunday clumsily cracks fire embers on the wood, it took a minute or two before red crumbs grew bright, licking up charred wood and humming through the empty air.

"Thank you." You let out a puff of breath, inching your cold fingers near the fire, then you turn to him. "Sorry if I'm disturbing you, I just couldn't sleep."

"No, no—" He's quick to clear his throat. "It's alright, really. I couldn't sleep either." His golden eyes drop to the heavy book being cradled to your chest.

"Looks like the two of us have things on our minds."

When Sunday looks back at you, your eyes are tipped upward in a smile.

He looks away immediately.

He hasn't mentioned it but it still feels a little odd to see you walking around the Church like that; hair untied, dressed in a simple cotton fabric—maybe he was used to seeing you in that silk-priced performance dress back at Velvet House but as you walk around, there's something else that seem to change about you.

There's still an air of untouched sophistication about you, your steps feather-like and quiet, sometimes he feels like if there is any form of danger right around the corner you won't hesitate to up and vanish like a smoke. But now, there's grounded reassurance—with the light of the fire, your wings appear preened and fluffier than usual, like it's been taken care more, it susurrates as you flap it. You settle comfortably on the floor beside him, nose buried into the blanket around your shoulder, and Sunday thinks that you look domestic, more like a child now than before.

You open your eyes. "Robin mentioned how much of a scholar you are."

He chuckles. "I'm just alright."

"Really?" You tilt your head. "You seem to like spending more time with books and scriptures than wanting to spend time with us."

Sunday's lips curve into a thin smile, he jots down about your unexpected boldness in his head then he quietly takes the empty space beside you, the floor creaking under his light weight. His wings flap once, twice. peeved and troubled. "I don’t particularly like scriptures as much as you thought." He turns his attention to the book you have. "What do you have there?"

He sees you look at him, down at the book, then up again.

"Oh." Your fingers are tentative over the letters inked onto the book. "This is just a book from the library I found. I was wondering if you knew of this." A pause. "I just didn't know how to approach you."

Sunday shakes his head, then leans in. "What is it? I can teach you if you want."

The boy wasn't expecting you to inch closer to his face, he refrains his wings from expressing his fluster and surprise, tucking it beneath his ears daintily when he sees you cup a palm around your mouth, your voice becoming whispery and hushed on his ear.

"It's about the Reef."

"The Reef,” He echoes. “The one that borders Penacony and separates the land from New Ebondium?" Sunday swallows his bash and answers you in a scholarly tone.

You nod your head. "Yes."

"Why are you curious about it?"

"The folks from the Velvet House mentioned it a couple of times back then." There's a look of adamancy in your expression, something that stirs Sunday. "They mentioned how difficult it is to go through the Reef and cross the border, why is that?"

The young boy thinks about it for a moment, during his travels he finds himself picking up certain information not privy to the public ears—on one of his journey towards the Serenity District, the closest location to the Reef itself—he has heard of Bloodhound officers talking about a creature spotted in that zone, not exactly the Legion but something more sinister.

Sunday spares you a look, his amber eyes glowing beneath the late hour. He leans forward, enough that his lips are brushing the feathers of your wings.

"There's a mimema in there."

"What's a mimema?"

"A meme." He simply says. "A creature as big as the most priced stallions in the high districts, said to have multiple eyes, golden claws and a weird...inky proportion."

He can feel your long silence. Then you ask, "Like a monster almost?"

"Yeah, almost. People have been said to have disappeared whilst crossing the Reef, mostly verified merchants trading to and fro." Sunday pauses. "That's just a myth though."

"I see." Your fingertip runs across the page, tracing the lines of a map on the book. "Then, can you teach me more about Penacony? I barely know anything about it aside from the Velvet House."

Sunday blinks his amber eyes down at you, the fire continues to crackle and burn. "Why me?"

"Why not you?"

"I'm," he looks away, insecurity is quick to well up inside of him as he remembers Mister Gopher Wood’s critique. You still have a lot to learn, son. He told him one time, and the young boy is quick to believe it.

"I'm not that good yet.” He tells you, and a pang coils through the air at the sound of rejection, he readies himself to stand and return to his room. “Forgive me but it’s best if you ask Robin or the Sisters…”

“Sunday, wait.” You catch the palm of his hand in yours, stopping his pace completely.

“Don’t leave yet, you don’t have to if you don’t want to—” You were quick to say, noticing the complicated expression caking his golden eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. It’s just been two weeks and I…I have been looking for a reason to approach you, this was the only thing I could come up with.”

Then and there, young Sunday realizes the issue. He starts to piece together your unexpected visit, your sudden interest about Penacony and your request for him to teach you.

Two weeks, he has busied himself with other matters that he hasn’t spoken to you in that long. He thought Robin’s company was enough to satiate you, or the presence of the Sisters and the other children that you don’t need him.

He thought you didn't need him, but here you were, reaching out to him first when he should’ve kept his promise to you the moment he intertwined his hands with yours and offered you to come live with him.

“I just want to spend more time with you.” He finally sees the look of loneliness in your eyes, your hand squeezes his own, a lingering yearning in your own eyes. “You were the one that helped me and took me away from that hell. I just want us to be friends at the very least.”

Sunday cannot help but stare at you simply. There's valiance pooling in your eyes, a shine that dares to overflow it makes his breath hitch. The young boy clears his throat, he turns away—the apple of his cheeks burning and not because of the hearth's warmth—he traces his steps back and occupies the space beside you once again, the action makes your shoulders slump in relief.

His amber eyes are akin to the fire in front of both of you, “You don’t need to say all of that, I already see you as a friend.”

Your eyes seem to sparkle at his reply, your hands are still latched, and the boy is hyper aware of the feel of your cool fingers and the mild calluses written on your palm. He reaches out to brush some rebellious strands from your face, “I should be the one to say sorry, I was the one who brought you here and I never gave you reassurance.”

You shake your head. “I knew there were other things that worried you. I saw it in your eyes when you were talking with that Minister,”

So, even you noticed that.

You continued, “Robin has told me a lot about you.” Sunday cannot help but feel bashful at your confession. “She’s worried about you too, you know. She wants you to lean on her when you feel overwhelmed.”

Sunday’s smiles thin and he replies to your statement, a light-hearted chuckle leaving his lips. The night continues to prolong and ink through the minutes, however the two of you find yourself staying in each other’s company in the lounge. You were an easy person to be around, you were willing to listen as conversation quickly fills the background. Your chatting ranged from random spurts of topics you wish to tell the other—talking about your days in the Church, what you liked and disliked—to in-depth talks about philosophies from Sunday, even if there was a lack of heartfelt conversations tonight, it didn’t matter. The boy had yearned to interact with you since he saw you in Velvet House, being able to chat with ease about anything and everything was all that he needed.

That night, Sunday learned more about you as you did with him. You didn’t realize how long you both lingered and talked that the fire had reached its lifetime, and the dregs of sleep had pulled you both under, conquering your consciousness. The enthusiastic chattering quickly shifts into silence and you both fall asleep on the lounge floor, huddled together with the blanket Sunday had lent you.

By the next morning, the young boy awakens with Robin poking his cheek. His drowsy amber eyes fall to his sister’s sly expression and only then did he realize how he had fallen asleep whilst chatting with you throughout the night, and how he had you close to him, an arm beneath your head to act like a cushion at the absence of a pillow and his other arm draped over the blanket like he’s shielding you from the cold.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.” Robin coos teasingly. “Seems like the two of you had fun without me last night.”

“It’s not like that.” Robin could only laugh sweetly which made Sunday’s ears brush red yet again. It seems as if his soft skin had melange with rud these days. The boy sits up, cradling your head as you continue to slumber and he looks down at you softly.

Robin sees this and gets up from her crouched position, her dress fluttering “Her room is just across from mine.” She tells him. “I’ll help make breakfast. Take care of her, brother. She’s been through a lot.”

With one last smile in his direction, Robin exits the lounge leaving Sunday to ponder. Take care of her, brother, the sentence resonates through him. Without sparing another second, Sunday winds a hand around your shoulder and the other under your knees to lift you up into his embrace. You seem to unconsciously drift closer to him, your cheek and tucked wing making home on the crook of his neck as Sunday takes you to your own room.

It doesn’t take long for him to reach it, struggling a little with you in his arms and juggling the doorknob open. Sunday hasn’t been inside your own space before, but as soon as he steps inside the boy cannot help but realize how much the room is akin to its owner—he was reminded of the room he found you in at the Velvet House. The honey gold spilling through the thin curtains and melting down the floor looked like performance lights. Your bed is a fluffy nest, with layers of caked beddings and duvets, he spots a vanity, a wardrobe, a desk with a singular notebook tucked by the corner. He diverts his attention and waddles his way to your mattress and slowly sinks you on its comfortable sheets.

He cannot help the smile from invading his lips when you let out a breathy sigh of comfort. His hand inches to brush your hair again but his fingertips stop just as it graces your forehead, “It should be me, thanking you.” He mutters out softly.

“If it weren’t for you…”

Sunday pauses briefly, amber eyes observing your peaceful expression. He ruminates upon his thoughts as the morning continues to float around the room in gentle waves.

Sunday had kept his promise to you. After the whole ordeal with you visiting him and asking him to teach you more about Penacony—he approached you the next few days and was more than willing to give you a few pointers of what he was taught by his tutors and the Academy. Ruth specifically was elated at how you two are getting along now. More importantly, looking at the gentle look Sister Ruth gave Sunday, the boy knew why she was relieved.

Ever since taking private lessons to be the head of the Church at thirteen, Sunday stopped acting like a child and had been making surface-level relationships. Aside from the people within the Church, Robin and Mister Gopher Wood—he never let anyone genuinely in.

You were the first in a long while that Sunday was letting into his life.

Of course, neither Sunday nor Sister Ruth mentioned that fact as he guides you to his room, books already stacked and ready at his desk for topic reviews.

Time passes in a blink of an eye.

After a few slices of moments together, Sunday came to a quick realization that you don't seem to hold a heavy amount of worry about the future like he does, and even if you did, it didn't seem to affect your person.

Bright, glittering, crystalline water—that's what he describes you as. With your grinning eyes, curves of your lips and alluring tone—it's easy for anyone to fall into your own little puddle, you seem to have a talent with that. By the next month since you've arrived in the Church, you have become the sweetheart of many. It's well known how much Robin had considered you her dear friend, or how the younger kids had called you their pretty older sister, or how the Sisters of the Church had called you their darling girl.

And as for Sunday, the young scholar boy continues to fall into the currents of your mannerisms, your bold trajectory, your hauntingly drawn smile, deeper than anyone can sink themselves into.

All those routine nights studying alone through wordy scriptures and heavy proverbs was simply replaced by your presence and the crackle of fire. That one late night visiting Sunday turned to two, then four—to the point the boy doesn’t question when he hears his door open and close because he knows it’s just you, another new book in your arms and questions ready to slip between your tongue.

You were easily Sunday's best student, you were quick to understand certain verses, can make analysis and theories on certain economic and political decisions of the Ménage, get into deep discussions with him in terms of Penaconian history and learn its linguistics. It had quickly become a study session for the two of you—one of the last things on his routine which Sunday favored the most. It was the only time you two got to spend time together since his mornings and afternoons were preoccupied by private tutoring.

"You learned the Penaconian language faster than I expected." Sunday's impressed at your written notes, they are all correct and easy to understand. Then he starts cleaning up the mess of cards and parchments from his room floor. The boy was too busy to notice your long stare. When he gathers up the last remaining notes, he barely sees you reach out your hand until he feels the touch of fingertips grazing the feathers of his wings, touching a nerve.

Sunday jolts back in surprise, curling his wings protectively beneath his gray hair. "...What is it?"

"Oh sorry. It’s nothing, I just..." You seem to be daydreaming, stagnant and saddened all of a sudden. "To Halovians, wings are their lifeline. Scriptures and textbooks have mentioned the divinity and the meaning of wings to Halovians so I still cannot understand why there will be people out there that desire to cut off our wings."

Sunday is quiet for a moment, he cannot help but sigh heavily. "Did you eavesdrop on the passing guards outside of our Church?"

Your silence is almost deafening. "What do you mean?"

"Did you hear about the recent serial murders of Halovians?" He asks. Your expression shifts: shocked, caught, then melancholic.

You nod slowly and the boy's shoulders droop.

A month has passed already, and that meant three more dead Halovians found in ditches and alleyways with no clue of the murderer behind it. The only alarming difference from the first found body—was that the recently murdered Halovians had ripped off wings and missing halos. Maybe the black market networks are finally making a bold move after the execution of their own? Sunday hasn't heard anything from Minister Gopher Wood in awhile since the first case.

The very thought of those mutilated Halovians twists ichor and sickness within Sunday.

Then for a moment, everything seems to stop.

The two of you hear clattering, then the door creaks open, Ruth emerges with a lantern in hand, her expression creased with panic and worry. Something felt wrong.

“What the matter?” Sunday is up on his feet, his pulse is racing.

Ruth is reluctant for a second, then she says. “It’s the young miss.” She says. “We can’t find her anywhere.”

Robin. Sunday felt like his whole world crashed for a momentary second.

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comfortless · 8 months ago

Note

Offering you a prompt because I know you could make it perfect! ( ๑‾̀◡‾́)✨ You know about Minoan Bull Leaping? What about that with a hybrid Köni?

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. König is a man here!!: ears and a tail and a set of horns but that’s it!, fem (afab) reader, nondescript animal death, codependency and a little possessive behavior, reader gets injured, historical inaccuracies, one-sided worship, mentions of violence, reader is a virgin for three seconds, cunnilingus, smut.

word count: 11.5k.

You’ve practiced this, and still the tension and nervousness bleeds through you, courses like a steady river under skin and curves around bone. The bulls are so much larger than the fallen trees and heavy stones you’ve danced around and over for practice, and the nights spent tempting them with treats had never been enough to prepare. Twigs and jagged edges are nothing in comparison to the horns of very alive and breathing beasts; petting their heads is far simpler than prancing over their horns.

The bulls wait in the field, grazing, sturdy monoliths amidst a sea of green below the warm light of the sun. It kisses every inch of skin, highlights the determination and giddiness on the faces of others and lines your frown in shadow. Three feral bulls for two men and a woman far more practiced than you; a rugged, adolescent thing with his horns barely poking through waits just for you, misplaced from the herd and huffing indignantly some distance from the rest.

You watch the others go, one by one, as they skip and somersault toward their gruffer partners. Your hand rises up the expanse of your robe to brush over the jewels layered along your throat. Their movements are rushing water, fluid and perfect, so elaborate and pretty that you fear even blinking will cause you to miss the most important details.

And then they reach their bulls.

Some huff, one tilts his head in curiosity. An attempt to gore, perhaps, except… these things are not vicious, only happy creatures. They know the importance of the dance just as you do. When the curious one does accept the grasp of a man’s hands over his horns, you feel yourself beginning to walk, possessed by the need to claim your own bull and perform just as they do.

The show that you put on is less graceful, but does not lack heart. A trip on your first somersault that sends you into the grass, righted immediately when you hear your bull huff only paces away. You laugh, coo, and chirp as you approach with more balance. The sparkling jewels dance over your skin just as the others dance over their bulls, leap after leap, and the animals remain calm.

Yours is no different. He allows you to graze your fingertips over the soft fur of his back, does not so much as flinch when your press your palms flat over the sides of his face. The horns poking out of his skull are rounded at their tips, not yet properly grown in. You kiss the dip between his eyes and tell him how special this performance must be. To tame a wild animal is something divine in itself, but to tame a bull takes someone truly virtuous.

The grass tickles along your calves, the sun feels so warm and lovely against your face. You sigh in contentment as your steps lead you back, arms raised in preparation to jump. The others cheer you on, guide you with their voices as they wait next to their animals. The scent of nectar and pine lulls you to comfort, allows you the courage that you lacked initially; knees bend and arms raise, your eyes locked on the sprouting horns.

With your posture immaculate, you take your first leap.

The sun catches on something tar black and glimmering waiting in the trees just out past the pasture. Two tall horns springing from either side of a head, the stature of a man, just as your fingers curl over the calf before you’s much smaller horns.

The heart in your chest ceases its pounding for a moment, and your eyes must have widened the very same as a child’s would when encountering something sweet or shiny to treasure.

There’s a man attached to those horns in the tree line. Though you could not make out his face beneath all of the shade and foliage, you were so certain that it must have been a man.

A man larger than any man in Crete. Impossible and imposing.

The tumble that follows this reverie is what breaks away any hope of this being a lovely day.

Your concentration was broken the very second that the creature showed itself, and it was far too late to stop even when you were no longer a part of what was occurring between you and your sable-furred calf. The animal senses the not-right about the situation, takes it as a cue to move just as you were lifted over him and sends you sprawled out into the blooming wildflowers. The earth at your back, the sky to your front, and the pain takes its time to trickle in like winter chill and crawl up from your soles to the base of your neck.

The thin gold of your necklace must have snapped, because one of the jewels lies over your middle now, and several others have been left for dirt and birds to claim in the grass.

It’s your bull that comes to worry over you first, his wet nose nudges at your cheek when the scent of blood from broken skin taints the air with iron. It’s just a scrape along your palm, sullied by the peak of a jagged rock lying buried just below the soft soil of the pasture. The blood runs in small streams when you marvel at the wound, held up keeping sun from your eyes.

His coarse tongue finds its way to your hair, retrieves the flowers from it as if his stomachs could not wait for the consoling to be done to be fed. In your stupor, you almost want to call the poor thing stupid, but you only tell him that he’s done as well as you hoped.

You’ll dance with him again, you promise.

The injury takes time to recover from, even with the most patient of healers seated at your bedside. He reminds you that a woman of your standing is something special in herself. Proud, noble, and meant to be wed in the coming months each time he layers salve over the scrapes and the expanse of bruising along your back. Your linens are changed by the slaves of your household, new jewels provided in abundance and placed around your neck as though you even need to look presentable now, bruised and stuck in your bed.

No one knows what you saw, not really. You aren’t even certain what that vision was. They whisper of madness when you bring it up. The Minotaur remains in the labyrinth, far away from here and bedded down in the dark. Men don’t possess the horns of bulls, and you must have damaged your head too, because no one believes a word you speak about it, about him.

Your mistake, you learned, was probably what spurred your poor calf to be chosen for sacrifice. A bad omen forfeit, maybe. So young and gentle, and now gone. The soft fur off his ears and the quivering of his nose wouldn’t be felt again, and worse still…What if you were not meant to leap with them at all?

There is fruit and barley served up onto a plate made of bone as you’re ordered to eat by your healer. People can be crueler than bulls, you think to yourself; you haven’t even got the desire to eat after hearing such a thing. You’re bleeding from the heart when the first bite is forced into your mouth, gut twisting and fingernails digging into soft linen.

“I promised…” Your voice is muffled by a particularly fat portion of plum. It goes ignored by the withering old healer that tilts your head back and strokes your jaw with a soft palm to encourage you to swallow.

“Eat.”

And when you don’t, when you spit it back onto the plate, you’re rewarded with another bite and further encouragement as your sobs fill the room. It should be expected, not as hard as bone or as tough as the skin of the fruit when you’re finally offered sweet wine to swallow it down. You shouldn’t be a mess over an animal who served his purpose well and would be heralded as some savior for giving some clumsy woman trust and a chance.

It’s just that there’s so much more to it, for you. Patches of purple and swelling are much easier to spot than guilt and other turmoils.

Your first should have been beautiful, should have left those watching with stars dancing in their irises. You couldn’t even handle a calf, and you feel more pitiful and helpless the longer that you harp on those thoughts.

You rest and have dreamless bouts of slumber. You walk alongside the healer, leaning against the old man for support when you find the pain is still very much there, stinging and vile. The people about the city always smile to you, offer you flowers and sweet fruit and ask when you’ll be well enough to dance again.

Often, it even soothes the ache that they can’t see well enough. Provides some hope that, yes, you can return to what you’ve always hoped to do, display your grace and strength and find some place in a flowery pasture before the day of your wedding. You’ve heard of women tearing a place that makes them bleed on horseback, how getting the pain over and done with then has made consummation far easier when that day comes for them. Maybe that could happen for you too.

You ask to hear the story of the Minotaur more times than should be appropriate from the slaves of your household. Some of them are foreign, not entirely sure of just how it should be told. You find yourself especially fond of one of them who twists her words to make everything seem honey.

“…I like to think that he wasn’t alone down there,” she finishes on her second retelling of the night. The first had ended with a separate possibility altogether, one that saddened you to the core.

“Do you?”

“Yes,” she laughs, taking the comb of carved bone to your hair, gently running it through each tangle provided by your pillow from lying in bed for the entire day. “Maybe he had friends or…”

“A wife?,” you question in amusement. Bulls didn’t take wives, even if they were part manâ€¦

“He is a man. Surely he had a woman,” she laughs again, bright and giddy, and follows it with a shrug. “You said that you saw him. Maybe it’s a sign.”

“I didn’t say it was him,” you almost wail in embarrassment. It was true that you had endlessly questioned and pondered for the past few weeks, speculated on what may or may not have been there, beneath the trees when you took your fall. For some odd reason, your fascination with that creature had ignited a flame someplace in your chest, growing ever brighter with each day that passed. “He didn’t have a bull’s head. Only the horns.”

She plucks at your hair with the comb a little longer in silence before setting it aside and casting you an almost fretful glance. “That sounds scary…”

“Oh,” you sigh. She’s right, of course. There were plenty of terrible things described with those attributes. But… if bulls didn’t scare you, then surely bullmen could not be any worse. “He didn’t hurt anyone though.”

“But you did get hurt,” the girl reminds you sympathetically.

You swallow dryly, and at last decide to put these fantasies aside. Your injuries were almost healed in full, and the last thing that you needed was for everyone to think that you were not simply wounded, but crazy too. A mad woman wouldn’t find a husband, and you were not a cow meant to be fantasizing over bullmen. The place you were given since birth was that of noble standing, a woman worth her weight in pearls and gold, not meant for fields and horns.

When morning rises and the yellow-red glow of the sun pokes its way through your window, you find you’re able to stand properly without the old man’s help to keep you upright.

You wash your face with the water from the clay pot in the corner, smile to yourself when you dab carmine onto your cheeks and smear it with the palm of your hand to look the part of some blushing dove.

Your robe is clean and soft when its pulled over you and fastened, delightfully comfortable when there’s no more bruising to irritate. Incense is lit, and you immerse yourself in what is before you rather than in shadow.

There’s a clamoring in the street below your window as you finish preparing for the day, both cheers and shouts of fear that stir both confusion and trepidation in your belly. It takes some time before you can coax yourself into taking a peek, find the strength in your trembling legs to look upon what may very well be the final march for a man deemed worthy of execution or perhaps some other misfortune.

Everything is painted honey and gold over the chalked clay of the buildings and the smooth stones layered over the streets.

There are women fleeing, a few cowardly men accompanying them. Children walk backwards or affix themselves to high walls to stare back at what’s being led by soldiers clutching thick lines of woven rope.

The thing that follows behind them leaves your heart in your throat, because it… he, is no prisoner or omen.

The bullman from your endless daydreaming walks with his arms fastened behind him, thick tail flicking in irritation at his backside, soft auburn ears fold back against his head.

The face, closer now, intrigues you the most, because as you’ve claimed endlessly: he only looks the part of a man. Some rugged barbarian, for certain, but still he does not bare any resemblance to the Minotaur or any other beast from the tales and songs. Though his nose is crooked, and pale scarring layers in abundance over tanned flesh, he looks almost sweet. There’s a gentleness about him that betrays the strangeness of his silhouette from before.

And he bleeds crimson like any other man, from a wound dug out in his shoulder where a spear must have pierced him. The blood along his chest has not even had the time to dry.

The poor man is bleeding and naked, not a scrap of cloth to conceal him any place, not even where his hair curls above his loins.

You imagine what the healer and slave girl must think now, when the subject of your endless ramblings is out on display for the entire city. Whether monster or forgotten god, the bullman is here, and in your haze of thought you will yourself to storm out into the street. There are hisses of confusion and fear all filtered and feathering on the air, many voices, but what is worse are the screams.

He doesn’t even possess it within him to look afraid, only terribly annoyed or maybe even somber. It was difficult to tell by the lack of expression on his face. His eyes are sad, but his lips are pressed into the barest line. The only indication that he feels anything at all is the swishing of his tail, a tell of anger in bulls. Maybe in men baring their resemblance, too.

“Where are you taking him?,” you demand, a shrill cry from your doorstep.

No answer comes your way from the soldiers at his side.

“Please…”

The words fail you as you find yourself stepping in front of this march. Ten soldiers to keep one man in a hold, it was ridiculous. Though he towered over them and possessed horns sharp enough to gore, to see him like this… It all stirred so much emotion within you that you almost think you must have really injured something in your skull, because the city spins around you and your eyes sting fiercely.

Every step halts when you begin to sob right there in the street like a bereaved wife finding out her husband has been tortured or killed in some distant land. Even the bullman seems intrigued by your tears. The quiet blue of his eyes flits from what stands beyond you to your face, puffed and slick with tears. Why cry for a man you do not know?, he seems to ask wordlessly. Why throw yourself out in the midst of danger?

“… my bull is dead, so I would like to…” To dance with this one. To see past the abomination of what he was and maybe cherish him in the way he deserved without deserving.

His ears prick forward, and he huffs something whispering and foreign in his tongue. Just one word that you’re uncertain of the meaning of, probably demeaning considering that you had called him an animal, not man. But he speaks. He speaks and that is enough for the soldiers to exchange cautious glances from the titan they lead to the curious display of the crying woman in front of them.

“You want to dance with this bull?,” one asks, both amusement and disbelief painting each syllable.

You nod your head, weak but fiercely resolute in your wish.

Not “this bull”, but perhaps “this god”.

You’re both stripped bare of any defenses, fates left in the hands of men who only know to kill and fuck. Somehow luck shimmers through, because you’re presented with one of the ropes a soldier carries. It’s offered to you with a stiff, callused hand, dropped unceremoniously into the palm that rises up to wait.

You walk beside your bull, not where you would rather lead him but where the other men urge for you to go. People watch on with curious stares, and you know most assuredly that when your healer hears of this new derangement, you will suffer another fortnight in bed with herbs and prayers over your head.

The bull watches you the entire time with a stare that lacks any emotion. The beast could be grateful, humiliated, or considering ripping you apart the moment his binds were undone and you wouldn’t have the slightest idea of it until he was upon you. What’s stranger still is that you don’t fear him. He looks to you the entire time and your hand clutching the rope does not tremble. Your pulse races, but only with something beyond fear, something an ordinary man has never gifted to you.

The gated pasture is bears a cool breeze when you enter, you watch as one of the men ties your new bull to a post and tells you that he is wicked, but the only crime he’s being accused of is being what he is.

“You’re hurt,” you assess a little dumbly when everyone has paraded away. The grass stains the white linen you wear as you sink to your knees at the titan’s side.

You’ve nothing to tend to his wound with. Dirt is smudged into the divide in his flesh with gentle swipes of your thumb, a strip ripped from your robe when you try to stop the bleeding further. He hisses when you fasten it tight, shoots you a glare that both makes stars fall in your eyes and sets a stampede to rush in your heart. Your heart, you think, but really it’s something else. You feel hot all over and it’s the stupidest thing.

“I know, I know..,” you mumble as you tie the cloth, straighten yourself out and cover the expanse of your thigh that’s been revealed as you settle back into place. “Can you move it?”

“Yes.”

It hardly registers that he’s freed himself somewhat until a massive hand curls tightly around your wrist. The touch is not at all gentle, it’s probing, the tip of each digit leaving small curved indentations in your flesh, intent on keeping you thoroughly in place.

“Why aren’t you afraid?” His voice comes as an odd grumbling, seemingly unused for some time. It isn’t deep, either, which comes as the most jarring thing about all of this. It’s so pleasant, that even with his iron hold you find yourself smiling as a flurry of affection stirs between your breasts.

Because I was right, you yearn to say, but hold your tongue for fear of seeming too brazen and less subservient than you should be, catering to a god you’ve never even heard of. Both man and bull, something divine and strikingly handsome even with his soft features.

“Should I be? Will you curse me..?,” you ask, softening your grin to glance up at him through your lashes. Demure and flirtatious before you even think to catch yourself. A maiden should be more cautious dealing with ordinary men or things not yet known, but even when your expression reverts to one of mere curiosity, it seems too late.

His nostrils flare as he regards you; then, his hand shifts upward to stroke at your bare shoulder, fingertips move to dance over your clavicle. The hand comes to rest beneath your jaw, a thumb carefully brushing over your chin. Then, he withdraws all at once, turns his head with a huff of breath. He doesn’t bellow as the other males in the pasture, does little to seem more cow than man in your presence. Perhaps it’s a practiced courtesy: to appear more human than the additions crowning his head suggest.

“Dummes mädchen.” He doesn’t tell you what that means, and his voice canters off to silence when you push and prod to ask.

He doesn’t budge when you ask where he’s come from, some distant land across the sea you even speculate. You ask him what he is in name, and in turn his ears seem to lower, flatten further, as though he were trying to hide them altogether. There wasn’t much he could do about the horns, though.

The bull barely even returns your shy glances, the only indication that he knows and rather likes that you’re still seated at his side is the flare of pink that rises from his throat to settle upon his cheeks, the way his jaw tightens and loosens when you speak.

“What is your name?,” you ask him when the silence grows too much. You’re starting to feel beads of sweat prick at your skin from the glow of the summer sun above, and more than anything you want some closeness, some proof that maybe your listless life is not a total loss. Earning a god’s favor would only be too lovely, the perfect cure for the unnamed thing that ails you. “So that I might worship you properly?”

That prompts a response.

He turns to you with a forced stoicism, one that does little to subdue the way his eyes widen and his face burns. Being jabbed at and held captive like an animal would make any man more than a little unhappy or wary, but your words dissolve that into smoke in an instant. He tells you his name in a keening sort of voice, one reserved for wolves or agitated horses.

“König.”

You repeat it, once, twice.

It sounds funny and foreign, too simple for what he appears to be. You tell him your own when he doesn’t ask, repeat it just the same so he remembers his only acolyte. Someone so cute for a god of beasts or maybe even good harvests.

You wanted to pry further, have every secret expelled from his tongue, unite in words and quell that horrid, demanding passion. It’s why men run way to brothels, you supposed. Excitement and the allure of something pretty to stake a claim into… but you’re a maiden rather than some feather-headed soldier.

“When you’re better, we will dance,” you declare with a hope that he might understand. “My first offering to you.”

König stirs, rumbles someplace in the expanse of chest. His hair curls there in the widest patch, you note, trails down right to thighs that make brick resemble only soft clay. You’ve never openly ogled a man like this, and it doesn’t feel shameful, not when you’re convinced you already have an understanding here.

You couldn’t imagine he would crawl on his knees for you to prance over him like a yearling deer, bellow like a proper animal when you took his horns in hand. The ugly, ivory prongs about his head looked too dangerous anyhow. One slip… you didn’t want to imagine what would happen then.

“… Richtig.” Then, “What do I give to you?”

His question confuses you fully, because the way he speaks it does not seem curious at all. As if there’s already a resolution in the words. No clothing, no weapons, not even a coin. The only thing present and available is what sits between his thighs, a daunting pillar. He asks only for a consent to what he does not bring out in words, only hinted at from the way his gaze drags up from your throat to your eyes.

The strangest mating rite from the strangest man of all…

You don’t ask him about that.

You let the words hang in the air for a stretch of time. Then, you fetch him some water from the creek just past the field. You untie the binds still shackling him to the fence post as he drinks from the shallow bowl. He laps at it like a dog, furrows his brow a little when you’re caught staring again.

There’s too much to look at to entirely separate yourself from him. And he speaks so oddly it’s difficult to distract him with conversation. So you settle to admire, and he does so in turn. When you find yourself watching the way his chest puffs with each intake of breath, his stare only maps you the same, mimicking or appraising.

He grunts, too; flicks an ear when he stares down at your lap and embarrassment immediately floods you when you realize that his senses are not entirely human, either.

You fold your hands into your lap and part your lips to speak again, to maybe ask him why he came here at all to serve as some distraction from the way he appraised your hips with that dreadful stare.

“When?,” he interrupts immediately, casting his dish aside and straightening up to look down upon you. Exacting some misplaced wrath, you assume. Let a woman leap over him and maybe have his freedom after. He just wants it over with, and you can’t blame him at all.

“I told you… when you’re better.”

That must not have been the right thing to say, because his injured arm is the one he gathers you with, brings you up and over him to press your chest to his and glare down at you. The glow of the setting sun seems dull by comparison to the ember in his eyes.

“I am fine.”

The calendars have been a blur since you fell. You huff and pout in thought, trying to think in spite of the way the closeness has you feeling dumb and dizzy.

“A few days..,” comes your answer, quiet and apologetic. “I’m nearly certain.”

König sighs and you feel it flutter your hair, the warmth on your neck. His arm drifts from around you, as if to signal that you could depart at any moment. Whatever had possessed you now leaves you in place, flustered and miserably infatuated. It pains you that he only seems exasperated by this entire ordeal rather than enthused, but he seems to soften somewhat when you don’t bolt away immediately. The tension leaves his shoulders slowly, and the summer sky of his eyes is placid instead of burning.

He could strike you down at any moment, leave you gored out here in the grass with common bulls, destroy the fence and maybe all of the people in the city too… but he seems intent on just keeping this silly oath and having you seated here.

“They caught me when I came to find you,” he says, blunt and careless, as if seeking out a woman he saw once from across a field is just a common thing to do. The very same as worshiping some creature driven out from the forest. “I saw you. Then you fell.”

“You were looking for me?” Your words are expressed with shaky intakes of breath, nerves alight with both love and caution. Led toward you by want, a thing you both seemed to feel.

He goes utterly stiff at that, but grits his teeth softly as his gaze casts down to where you’re seated in his lap.

A chance meeting… or maybe it was something as wonderful as fate after all.

You looked the part of lovers already, and perhaps that’s made him shy… but bulls don’t get shy, and König is no exception here, because his hand immediately rises to lift the robe covering you, drifts the linen up to reveal the soft fabric of your loincloth.

“Yes,” he grunts, staring down at the prize between your legs. A reward he’s already promised to himself, one you freely give when you don’t give him a smack or shove his hands away.

He smells of the forest: of wispy pine nettles, water from a spring, juniper. Of a man, whose closeness you had yet to have entirely. No bristling comes; you don’t close yourself off. He’s the loveliest thing you’ve ever seen— sad cow eyes and the bulk that only comes from a life rich with work and fighting, survival and instinct.

Had he ever even had a woman?, you wonder. Did he find you lovely, too?

König huffs appreciatively, lowers his head to your chest to bump his nose against your breasts. You release the breath that was caged unbeknownst to yourself, and your arms come around him naturally, cradle him there. Maybe he had never even been held… So, you pet him, trail your hand along the nape of his neck, up and through the messy strands of hair atop his head.

“You are injured too,” he hums into plushness, breath washing over thin fabric and causing your nipples to rise in answer. He must have felt the scab on your palm, healing, but still coarse and stiff. Even in what you perceive must be some sort of courtesy, worrying over your scrape, he doesn’t peel himself away from what entices him most here. His hands descend to stroke at your sides, trail down lower until both palms are fitted against your backside.

He squeezes, slow and intentional, weighs your flesh in hand. Explorative and further appreciative when another hiss leaves his lips to filter out along your clothed sternum. If he were not seated on his tail, you imagine it would have swayed fiercely, excited by the earlier fight and now the prospect of breeding some silly woman. You don’t have that indicator to read his thoughts, but the throb of the mighty weapon between his legs is enough to know. It’s warm and hard beneath you, gives a slight jump when your fingers dance over the base of his horns.

“I got hurt because of you.”

“Little maiden… I would never hurt you. Only please you,” he declares, sounding prideful. Just as a bull should, even in such a predicament. Like a god, proper and true. Surely this city would be cursed for what they’ve done to him. He will fuck their virgins and leave everything else scorched and ruined. And a part of you is almost giddy to know the very first would be you.

You’ve yet to touch men, but you knew well enough what the wetness down there meant, what his erection meant. Why men grope and fondle just as he does to you now, when a hand rises to tug down the top of your thin dress, when his head lifts just enough to lick at the side of your tit.

The air around you both thrums, pulses as though there are thunder strikes surrounding. And the sky is still clear when your head lolls back to face it in full as a nipple is enveloped by a hungry maw. He suckles at you, pushes his hips upward and strokes at your ass when you whine and pant. The cover of nightfall grants you some mercy, because no one is around to hear those cries or the way he grunts into your flesh, greed pouring from the both of you. No gods or stable hands, only a glassy moon and a blanket of star shine amidst murky sable like sea water.

When he lies you back, viciously lapping at your breasts, sucking your skin to grind between his blunt teeth, you take the horns into your hands again to tug him close. He groans, bellows like a man starved into your chest, drool and bruises layered over your skin. You should be in bed, waiting for some droning dullard to wed you first… not allowing a beast of a man to lower you into grass and dine upon you like this.

The gods would probably find this humorous… even if he might very well be one of them. How easily mortals could be swayed, even virtuous women, at the appeal of some miserable thing to save with an ugly, big cock.

But one or two bullmen was more than enough for this world, surely. No spawn of yours would be sent to a labyrinth deep below the earth, dark and desolate, and you’ve already bled this moon…

It pains you to push back against the face that sends pure fire through your belly with each swipe of his tongue, but you do. König seems both dumbfounded and frustrated when he separates from your flesh, the moon in his eyes eclipsed in full.

“I can’t..,” you try to explain, to tell without telling that you don’t want to push some horned infant from your cunt just because you like him a little. You wet your lips and stare up at him, hopeless and lost here.

“Why?” Your bull doesn’t understand, because of course he doesn’t. He’s trying to give you the only thing that he has to offer. Maybe he’s fucked other women before, women who took him gleefully and sang pretty beneath him, coated that raging thing between his muscular thighs in their essence and left lovely pictures in his memory. You don’t know why that thought alone is enough to make your head feel cloudy with wrath.

He asks again when you tug your bottom lip between your teeth. Bulls may be sacred, but no one’s ever said that they were not stupid.

König only pulls away enough to hover over your sex instead, panting gruffly like something starved and prepared to plunder an unsuspecting hen. Still, he waits for an answer, and you don’t think to spare yourself enough to close your parted thighs.

“I thought we would… after we danced,” you try, and maybe that would have worked if you didn’t have your softness and every treasure laid bare to him like a submissive vixen.

The beast only shakes his head and raises your legs to rest over each of his bare shoulders, corded in muscle and heat. He doesn’t nick you with his horns, careful even as he pushes his face right to your womanhood. The loincloth remains in place, but it’s the most fragile barrier. His breath makes your toes curl as it hits your sex, sends a wave of pure want swooping from your chest right to your cunt.

“You smell..,” he muses quietly, trails off as though drunk on just a whiff of you. When a thick finger tugs the cloth aside, you squirm from panting breath arcing over sensitive flesh. It’s the wettest you’ve ever been: little fantasies did nothing by comparison to the real thing, presented right before you and inspecting you down there.

He flattens his tongue over your entrance and relishes in the way that makes you squeal, draws back just to repeat the motion and watch you with pupils blown when your chest begins to rise and fall rapidly.

“You have not been touched.” His ears flick as he speaks, gaze dragging down, back to the pussy that calls for him.

“No… that’s why- ah-“

The ideas of children and expectations are long forgotten when his tongue presses to a spot that sends you shivering. It circles over it, too warm and heavy to bear. Your back arches, breasts heave, and he laughs into your cunt knowing he’s found the very spot that would make you forsake all but him.

The torture grows delicious and lovely, what he had done to your breasts is exactly what he does there. He suckles at the bud, scrawls his name over it with a wet, lapping tongue. You feel as though you truly have gone mad, fingers curling into the earth to keep you in place, because not even the gods could tear you away from this moment, not now…

It’s when your trembling thighs begin to tense and your voice grows further pitched that König decides to probe at you with a finger, too. It slips in with resistance, and the intrusion is strange… both horrible and ethereal at once. The titan finds a space inside of you, one to curl his finger against. It’s clumsy, uncertain until he finds that that is what makes you cry the loudest.

There’s a blinding white as though the sun has seared its way into your skull, sent the rays of its warmth into your very veins. It brings about a haze, leaves you quivering and panting as bliss rolls over you in steady waves. He gives you another lick, from your slit down to your ass before sitting up. Not an ounce of hesitation is weighed in his stare or his actions when he brushes the thick cockhead through your labia.

“I am going to fuck you,” he declares in a groan, already feeding you a fat inch of him. There’s still lingering resistance, but the honey that drips there now is in abundance, coats him with each shallow thrust.

You choke on the pain of such a sudden stretch, but find yourself only leaking more at the sight of him: a god laying claim to some mortal girl, you, above you, in you. The sounds he makes only ripen the elation. There’s desperation in each grunt, and his eyelids flutter as though he’s found something truly holy.

He drops over you, an arm to either side of your head when he sinks in fully. As if to dull the ache of your womanhood, at the loss of your title of maiden, he licks your cheek, the corner of your mouth, any place to soothe. When you capture him in a real kiss, your taste still lingers there upon his lips.

He seems even more delighted that you would show him affection than what’s occurring between you. The press of his hips comes to a halt, because he savors that display of what is or isn’t love. It’s almost shy, the way his mouth molds over yours, the way a hand drifts to your hair to pet at you. The other lowers to take your thigh and draw it up and keep you pinned in place.

You think to hold him now, too, when he breaks away from the kiss to gaze down at you with a shimmering stare, one that speaks more substance than anything he’s given you in your entire conversation. Your nails stay bedded down with the dirt, though, knowing with a fierce certainty that once he moved again it would be the only tether to dull the ache of a vicious fucking.

Except, he’s only gentle.

The cock inside of you takes a slow drag out, teasing and tentative as though trying to memorize every ridge inside.

It’s agony, because it feels like lovemaking.

Beasts don’t make love, they only have violent ruts and part ways entirely. König fucks like a man devoted. His eyes never stray from your face when he pushes back inside, all too careful. It must feel better than the being amongst his kind in the mountain he descended from, because the sounds he makes are fragile, barely contained whines that seem foreign from a man of his stature.

“I have been… watching you for so long, little..,” he huffs, burying his hand into your hair and dropping his head to press his forehead to your own. The words barely register, hardly make sense when the thick tip of him pushes right into the softest part of you again. It’s better than a finger… better than anything you’ve ever felt, and with everything so doughy and hot what you want to say only comes in a keening whine.

“Gods,” he continues when your sounds are smothered and blanketed by the filthy, sloppy sounds of your own wetness. You must be soaking the very earth you lie upon, dewy and warm. “Better than I dreamed.”

The slowness paves way for a heady, brutal thrust when he realizes that he isn’t hurting you. It only feels better the more that he moves, with each thick vein along his cock felt, with how he repeatedly spears against that spot that brings tears of rapture to the corners of your eyes. That new pace does not relent. You squeeze him the most like this, savoring in how he carves his way inside, molds you to take shape for him in what looks like pure violence but feels like love.

The sounds of impact and the scent of sweat and arousal surround you, the moon above and everything beneath it seem of so little importance now.

König does not silence himself even though you wished that he would. He pants against your face in his mother tongue, babbling endlessly as pleasure spikes for him. It wouldn’t be long until he filled you to the brim with thick spurts of seed, you could feel it in the way he throbbed against your walls, how each thrust was more prolonged and deep. Your mind swims, pleasure so intense its as if you’re drowning in the deepest depths of the sea itself.

“I came from the valley..,” he tells you in a feverish whisper, only now recalling that you didn’t know a thing about him before offering your cunt, maybe even your heart…

“Not a god… not anyone…”

It’s too much when his hips press in faster, when his cock reaches the end of you, over and over in frenzied repetition. Overwhelmed and stuffed to capacity, you sob and quiver, taking him into your arms and clawing at his broad back. The pain only seems to make him more feral, because his hands leave your thigh and your hair to grasp at your face instead, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he bares his teeth and spears into you relentlessly.

“Little one… I want this for the rest of my life,” he growls. “Promise me…”

The words sit on your tongue, fully prepared to surrender yourself to some beast of a faraway valley, chased and poked with spears or fire… Any hope of a cozy life would be forfeit here, already has been the moment you allowed him between your legs. It’s a horrible secret, one surely only Pasiphaë must have known of… how wonderful it felt to be bedded by a man like this. Not old enough to have fathered the Minotaur, but surely bred to be something akin to him.

“…I promise,” you whisper, perhaps desperate for this torturous copulation to end… or continue. Feeling so whole, full, right. Your offering is beating warm and overflowing in your chest, and König only looks as though he’s about to break at your words. The blue of his eyes grows glassy, translucent waves painting over each iris, but those tears don’t shed. They’re only dismissed with more needy rasps.

He growls, hooks his teeth into the sensitive flesh of your throat when his strokes begin to stutter. Your bull comes with a muffled howl, pumps pearly ropes of seed as deeply into you as he can manage. Your hiss of surprise is stifled with a blazing kiss where he moans into your open mouth, delves his tongue as deeply as his cock. He pumps several more times, intent on spilling every last drop inside, none wasted.

It seeps to earth when he parts from you, when he inspects the milk and honey of successful union between your legs. He looks surprised, confused almost when that stare is guided back up towards you as his chest continues to rise and fall swift with exertion.

You raise yourself up on your elbows, draw your legs shut. Not in shame, but… apparent embarrassment, your former courage is diminished when he looks at you as though you’re the most peculiar thing beneath the stars, when you’ve revealed yourself almost entirely and had him fuck and take apart all of it.

Maybe it’s the same for this beast, because his surprise and unshed tears are so evident here. He no longer looks the part of a god, but a lost man.

Not anyone, he had said. Is that what he felt? Or only what he had been told..?

“You’re not a monster,” you whisper. The chill of night settles over your skin, but there’s still warmth here, blooming like a flower in volcanic soil; the sun itself was incomparable to this peculiar thing that had taken root here.

He snorts at that and shakes his head. The ears there are cute and pluming with fluff, a reddish brown that suits him so remarkably. He’s kissed by the sun, even bathed in moonlight here. The prettiest of monsters, if he’s fooled himself into believing he is one.

“You should not have given yourself to me,” he tells you as his eyes narrow. The threat holds no weight, if it were one at all, because he grasps at you and pulls you in close; brings your cheek to his chest, right over his pounding heart. “I will not leave you alone.”

“Good.”

Maybe he’s speaking through the haze of a good fuck after being the cause for screams or raised weapons for so long, but you pray it comes from a truth. You’ve offered him a full meal of you, a treasure that none other has had, left yourself weak and aching all for one. His grip only tightens around you, refusing to let go as if to confirm your belief.

You’re brought back to the earth with your bull curled at your back, two powerful arms snaked around your middle with his nose pressed into your hair.

“After your dance, you will come with me.” There’s no longer a request, only an order. You’ve accepted him as both your man and mate, and it seems to please him greatly. His chest puffs against you, pride and contentment harbored there.

“To where?,” you ask him dreamily. The sea is what you’ve seen the most of, and the foothills and mountains seem a distant place. You imagine that maybe where he’s arrived from must have had others like him, maybe the women there were what he had had before… And maybe that makes you more precious somehow, different and coveted because you hadn’t run, only charmed him with questionable nursing and a request to prance over his back.

“Everywhere,” he answers immediately, stroking at the dip between your breasts. “I will never let you go.”

— — —

You’re separated from your bull come morning. It’s heart wrenching and terrible after a night of such passion, but you couldn’t allow for anyone to see you out there with your clothes in disarray and sperm slick and running down your legs. You had waited for him to sleep, for his dreaming to give way to raucous snoring before you slipped away, casting him a woeful glance. The giggling on the way from the pasture would have been terribly humiliating had anyone been awake to hear, but you were fortunate last night.

Come morning, there’s a pain between your legs and traces of blood in your loincloth. You hastily cast that from your body, hide it beneath your mattress before crawling back into bed with your thoughts a whirl. Candied fruit and precious stone, everything sap sticky and sad all the same… because as much as you would like to venture there, to see him, it was most rational to keep away.

If you were caught, you could only imagine the trial or lack thereof. The spears that would have come then wouldn’t miss their target. He would be deemed something far worse than a monster for daring to touch a lady such as yourself.

You bide your time tending to your duties and praying that your loss of virginity isn’t as apparent as it feels to you; when the thoughts drift back, the warmth upon your face only grows and your thighs immediately press together.

And you ponder his offer of leaving the temples and people behind to haunt someplace else with him, away from all else.

It's mad.

You barely knew him, of even what he was. He didn’t even have the sense to keep secret that he had been stalking you for some time, before you ever even noticed, with his fat cock buried inside of you. His ways of courtship lacked any shame, and maybe that’s why the passing thought of a normal man being in your future seems only lackluster. König could hunt, build, provide far better, you assumed, given his stature… And the gods gave him the knowledge of the most tempting tricks with his tongue.

The days leading up to what would call you back to him pass in a tortuous crawl. Even distracting yourself with thoughts of him in lonely silence with a hand between your thighs seems too little. You’ve even asked every slave woman here just how she gets the thoughts of men out of their heads. The advice is merely that sex does not always lead to marriage and children; they part ways like the animals in the forest and leave little room for love in their dens.

You hoped that he was thinking of you, too.

It would be ridiculous to say you’ve missed him, but seeing him in that field bound by rope again once you return is exactly what you want to shout. The birds call from the trees, singing beautifully and everything seems to glow, all except for König.

There are shadows beneath his eyes, cast long and dark from a lack of sleep. He does not even look your way when you take your place next to the others.

He’s forlorn. Maybe even pissed at having been gifted a warm meal only to have his face tugged away and a rope secured to hold him back from tasting or touching again. You should have warned him, about customs and etiquette, reassured him with your words that a little distance was fine because you’ve already made up your mind… but it seems too little and too late to peep your objections now.

The beast is led toward the other bulls by a man half his size, looking as though he’s on the brink of soiling himself from fear. The screams from before are not present now from onlookers, but König seems far less comfortable here than he did in the streets of your city.

Flowers are brought and tossed to both the hooves of bulls and the feet of dancers, yet none are presented to your partner at all. Even with green springing up below his feet, the area he waits in seems barren by comparison. It’s miserable and sad, all of it, and you once more long for being so winded against him that you two seemed to be the only things alive beneath a night sky.

You call to him when the man holding his lead gives it a sharp tug, and it’s dropped instantly as if you really hold some power over what becomes of him… You only hoped that whatever fate lay in wait for him would be coupled with your own. A passive life in a cave or something like that, where you could call him your husband, even… watch the sweat drip down the muscles of his back as he coaxed a fire to life.

Your bull tilts his head towards you, and though he tries to force the very same indifference from before his inner thoughts betray him. His brow remains furrowed, his expression grim, but his ears perk up and he immediately marches toward you. His gait is more of a charge, and had those horns been pointed to you, peril would await.

Punishment only comes in the form of a large man staring at you as though you’ve just wounded him terribly. You remind him there are no blades here with the gentlest touch of your hand along his bicep, swept down to curl at his wrist. It’s the most you could do here, and you could only pray to Aphrodite that your love would be understood regardless.

“You left,” he gruffs, raises a hand to tilt your chin up just enough to face him, though his gaze averts the second that you lock eyes. Shy, definitely not, but with so many watching, he seems entirely out of his element. The hand that graces beneath your chin even trembles, but it’s not fear you find when you search his eyes again.

Hurt.

It’s unmistakably hurt.

“I’m surprised that you did not,” your answer is a whispered one. He should have freed himself, whisked you away like an unsuspecting bride. You recall the other women’s ramblings from before, of men and how little what you experienced together may have meant.

“I do not wish to be apart from you.” He speaks as though it’s the most common knowledge of all, as though you’re a silly thing for ever believing that your want and his are one in the same. “Come with me.”

He doesn’t belong here, amidst people that cast their judgment yet herald the animals that he bears a small resemblance to.

Neither do you belong, you realize. You haven’t belonged since the day you spotted him amongst the trees.

The odd looks that follow König are cast upon you now, too. They see this peculiar beast with one of their women and think of her as sullied down to the marrow in her bones. You must smell of him, marked without a proper mark at all. He hasn’t branded you with any more than soft bruises from kissing your breasts and fitting the length of himself inside of you.

You take your risks and call them offerings, and he greedily accepts each and every one you bestow. You allow it when the hand cupping your jaw drifts lower, graces your breast with the softest touch before taking your fingers between his own.

“You have to be patient.”

He snorts at that.

Bulls are not patient creatures.

The ceremony has already begun. There are real animals here: beasts even larger than König that chew at the grass below them, flick their tails and ignore all that happens around them. There’s prancing and singing, elaborate acrobatics and leaps that must have taken years of practice.

And when you dance with your bull there is none of it.

He stands in place as you twirl around him, weaving around behind and before him as you bend to collect fallen blooms from the ground. Yellows, blues, flowers with no name or place, scavenged from fields further than the pasture. Your laughter pulls even a smile from his hardened face, a face you’ve found handsome since seeing, but must provoke terror in most men…

He’s so horribly endearing in his own ways. It’s the fastest you’ve ever fallen, or anyone in the whole world has, even… The legends and stories speak of love that shoots straight and strikes true like feathered arrows, singing on the wind until they prick their targets. You honor them just as he seems to, and you would tell them to him if only he asked.

Your head and heart are muddled and sick with love, melted down like precious metal within your body. He twists and brings you back together and whole when you’re taken up in his arms and lifted.

“I could touch the sky,” you laugh, clinging to an ivory horn. Pressing a kiss to the pointed tip of it, you swear you detect the heat from his face on your belly.

“Little one… I will take the sun for you, if you ask.”

“You would burn,” you warn.

He drops you then, cradles your body close to his chest instead and carries you as though you’re nothing more than a small dove with broken wings, something to be cared for.

“You make me burn already.”

“König…”

“No, not…” He shakes his head, smushes your cheeks between a thumb and the rest of his fingers as you’re forced to lock eyes again. The giant’s hand is careful with you, more gentle than his teeth or his…

“Call me something else. Something better.” There’s a keening to his voice, a fervent desperation there. A need to be not simply wanted. Wherever your titan has come from with his constellations of scars, the wound still there on his shoulder and all the pain he masks in behind a forced grimace… it has all led him here.

To the woman he watched practice taming bulls for weeks or months, to the only person he believed could accept what he is.

He only wanted to hear it, to have the most shattered wish answered with a tender chime. To bed you wasn’t enough: it could never be so simple. Your heart has been what he’s after all along; he reassures you in self just in voicing this.

“You’re lovely… my love,” you breathe. “You’re mine.”

His throat bobs as he swallows thickly, and the pools gathered in his eyes do seem to shed. Your face is released as he rubs away anything that may shed. The dark circles are coupled with red rings now, but still no part of him seems weak or broken. He hides that away with everything else, bottles perceived weakness and sets it out to sea and gives you the grin of a proper brute instead.

“Ja… you are mine too.”

You’re set down only as the bull leaping comes to a close, when the people retreat and König seems content in knowing that no one is left to whisk you away. It’s all that he’s waited for, to have you alone after this tradition he did not quite get. He played his part well enough, even if you hadn’t had the chance to climb onto his back as the others had with their bulls.

Only then does he begin to tell you of a life bought and sold without end, of the fighting pits you’ve only heard of and never seen. His tongue does not spare you details of chains and spears, what they do to men like him. There are hundreds of scars, each with a misery attached, some still carrying pain that never heals. Promises were always in abundance to keep him contained, weapons were smithed and placed into his hands since before he could remember…

The life you had imagined for him has never existed. There’s never been love there: he spares you the nature of the women he may have been fortunate enough to touch before, but he whispers that you’re the only one who has ever kissed him.

Your heart breaks for the wounded boy he’s buried inside, and you weep when he tells you he’s only ever prayed for a woman like you. Someone soft and cute, who didn’t run or wail… Who craved him just as terribly if not more, gashes and teeth, horns and all the rest.

And he comforts you when you cry, pulls you in so tightly that your breath catches and the tears do sob. You whisper apologies into the hair on his chest, for all the awful things you would never imagine doing to him, and he scoffs at the pity in your voice.

“Do not cry for me,” he whispers into your hair, leaves a trail of kisses along the crown of your head before dropping to his knees before you and pacifying the best he can by stroking along your back. “I have you now, hm? My little maiden, richtig?”

“Yes. Yes, always,” you promise. Another gift.

You’re led away from the pasture under the veil of nightfall, your arms curled around one of his own. There are men about carrying sharpened steel, thieves and drunkards hiding out in the dark as well, but not an ounce of fear trickles through you to diminish what’s already felt. The stars above are in abundance, brighter somehow on the night you forfeit all.

König speaks unguarded now, each question is met by a response. It’s the first time he’s ever been asked about himself, he tells you this when you express your satisfaction at finally hearing more than a few words at a time. He’s terribly cute when all of the praise and attention cause his face to ripen like summer fruit, red and shimmery with sweat rather than dew.

You’ve brought nothing for a journey, but he swears to you that there is pilfered honey, wine, fruit and furs in his den, some dark place he describes as special. It’s the only place he’s ever called home, so surely it must be.

König doesn’t warn you that the trek takes weeks, nor that the mountains are even more beautiful up close. The foliage is wild, the air fresher and free of the smell of cattle and people, and each climb seems steeper than the last. He doesn’t tell you of the wolves or bears, but you hear them at night when he pulls you even closer to him. The wild things won’t hurt you; the wildest of them all considers himself to be the king here, a ruler that they respect or dread rather than dare to cross.

It isn’t a cave that greets you when you come to rest after days and nights of exertion, but a hut built of cut wood and clay. Built as well and thoroughly as any builder from the city would have done. He tells you of where he learned such things, watching men work after sparring with animals and their own kin in pits; how they would promise to rear families in structures like this, how he hoped in crafting all of this that one day he might have the same.

“It’s wonderful,” you tell him, crossing the threshold to find just what he has already told you was waiting here, so far off from common roads that none of it has been pillaged.

The gifts come aplenty, too: a new comb make of bone for your neglected hair, jarred honey and trinkets from his travels or pulled away from a former captor’s corpse. There’s even a weapon for you here, a blade sleek and shimmering, some foreign sword that astonishingly reminds you of a part of him.

“I will find a prettier one for you,” he says as you examine the blade, heavy even when held in both of your hands. It’s only a mercy that you are not the provider here, because there would be no deer or even rabbits slain when even holding it makes your movements sluggish.

“… I like it. All of it.”

He plucks the blade from your hands with ease and casts it aside. The sound of it tapping, then clattering against the wooden boards rings out loudly before he’s upon you. The trek to the mattress seems an eternity, longer than even the venture here. Cloth and jewelry, the only lasting remnant of your former life follow suit, piling over the sharpened steel.

There’s a bear’s pelt beneath you to soften the stiff straw, less wild and ferocious than it may have been in life, now smothered by the lingering scent of him. The lonely nights spent here must have been terrible and tragic. Did he allow the shield to fall and weep then? In the comfort of bear skin and the calling of night birds outside, tears and wasted seed.

The urgency is a looming beast on the air, prevalent and fierce when you’re pulled into König’s lap. Your bull lacks the patience to prepare you with his mouth or a curled finger now, only pivots your hips to take him with a prod as his head lowers for his mouth to latch onto your breast.

“I am in love with you,” he whispers against your flesh. You’re left at his mercy as he guides you with one large hand placed upon your thigh and an arm curled around your back. It’s slow, always slow when he begins, when he’s drunk on the feel of you surrounding him and every new feeling that floods his head.

The ears prick forward when you sing for him, whimpering as he buries himself further. As though it’s the most pleasant sound he’s ever heard in the span of his life. The only thing more beautiful is the acceptance and surrender you offer. There’s never been a shield in place, no guards to watch over you… he’s the only thing; he’s broken through every gate or wall to steal you away from those perceived defenses.

He knows, too, when your panting mouth repeats his own words.

He bucks into you with more haste, slips his tongue into your mouth and groans when you take it between your teeth. Skyward and earthly with each motion, the sea and the mountain tethered as one. And maybe you’ve never leapt with the cattle from your city, but you dance with this bull so naturally that it vanquishes any doubt of where you’re meant to be. What you’ve yearned for was not the taming of animals, but maybe a man…

Your orgasm comes sudden, a wave of wet heat that drools from your core, aids in the glide of the feverish pace he guides your hips into. König’s head tilts back, bliss painted upon his expression from how you close in around him.

You take your chances and press your face to the column of his throat, biting down on him just as he had you. The salty sweat on his skin leaves its taste on your tongue as you lick over the freshly painted mark. The sounds of his own pleasure are cast away; he goes silent and still, and you almost fear you’ve made some terrible mistake here… But König comes undone at that, desperately gathers you in his hold as he pulses within you, writhes beneath you.

He refuses to release his grip even when his cock grows soft, just rolls you onto your back and covers you like the thickest blanket.

“You didn’t fall this time,” he huffs into your hair.

Though your lips part to try and order him to be quiet, he grinds his hips against your own as if to make the obscenity of his comment even more apparent. It only heightens the warmth you feel sweep up into your cheeks.

“Little dancer…”

And finally he rises above you, another wild grin slowly gracing his scarred face. A thumb brushes against the pulse in your neck until his hand rests right over the heart tucked beneath your breast. It’s better than any promise of a lofty field or a mountaintop, even covered in sweat and come, to see the way that his eyes light up with pure mirth when he feels it’s beating.

“You feel it… you didn’t lie,” he mutters, and you try your best not to allow that comment to claw amongst the others he’s made that left wounds in your heart, gashes that bleed for him.

“Why would I?,” you ask, voice so thin and soft you would think it unheard if not for the flick of his ear.

“I did not think anyone would ever…” He rubs at his face as he falls to your side, only to pull you in close again. The defenses raise in those words, but lower as they do time and time again when you nestle into his chest, pet at the curls of hair there.

“They said no one could ever love me.”

The tears in his eyes finally are laid bare. They roll down his cheeks, and he does nothing to hide them this time. You accept his silent crying without comment, the only indication you share that you know, see, is in the way you press a kiss to his jaw where they gather and spill.

“Fools, they were..,” you whisper to him, just as quietly as before. The sanctity blooms further as his chest rumbles, a contented hum coupled with a squish to bring you even closer to him.

“Ja… just fools,” he answers you in a voice not broken, only softer than it has ever been. “Like you. For this… giving so much.”

“And you are greedy.”

He nods once before reaching for your hand; his own curls over it, still splayed out over his chest. He’s no cocky, rough brute now. He pets at it with a trembling thumb.

“I will never let you go.” He speaks it as though it is a curse, rather than the blessing you’re certain that it is. Most women would fear a lustful beast raised up to kill even gladiators, yet there’s only the sweetest consoling to be found with him for you. “You will suffer me until we both die.”

“I could not imagine a better fate.”

#könig x reader #konig x reader #i did not proofread this if you spot an error do not look at me #steadily going through my inbox i pray this was worth your century long wait lil wisp..!

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abigailsultimatedecadesblog · 3 months ago

Text

TW: Death, Death of a Child

Please take care of yourself and your mental health 💚

Annie Blacke has given birth to triplet boys, Abraham, Selyf & Maheu Blacke. Sadly Abraham has died due to Severe Microcephaly, may he rest in peace 🕯️

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kitkatkitzune · 9 days ago

Text

PRINCESS

Pairing: Kol Mikaelson x Vampire!Reader

Summary: Elena, Bonnie, and Caroline find out the real reason Kol calls his lover princess.

Warnings: Violence I guess, Blood mentioned, Death, A bit of angst, Forced suicide, A lousy king, Age gap between reader and unnamed man she is meant to marry, A scene very obviously inspired by Star Wars (let me know if you catch it), Borderline excessive use of the word ‘princess’ (I fear that was implied by the title), Inaccurate historical depictions, The Mikaelson family being menaces (kinda), Kol being Kol, Caroline being Caroline, Implied Klaroline, Inconsistencies in the tense it’s written in (my bad), A few uses of Y/N

Notes: Let's pretend everyone gets along… for the most part. Kol got turned at nineteen because I said so. Those stars were formatted to be centered originally but they keep going back to the side and I don’t know why, sorry.

Word Count: 4.4k

———————

Present Day

Mystic Falls

For once in Mystic Falls, it’s peaceful. The Mikaelson’s decided that they’d all had enough running around, ripping the town apart, they wanted to relax and have normal lives for a bit. Klaus was the most reluctant of this idea, wanting to run off to create more hybrids but Caroline had asked him to stay, just for a bit before he’d continue his travels. He backed down a bit after that, behaving himself for the first time ever. All his siblings were shocked by this but chose not to taunt him about it. Well, all except for one, Kol. Kol would tease him relentlessly about it, using all the new terms he had learned, his favorite being ‘whipped’.

Oh Kol, your sweet, not so sweet, innocent, not so innocent, Kol. You had met Kol during the 16th century while you were still human. You had fallen hard for the Mikaelson boy but your feelings would mean nothing as you had already been betrothed to another man. The man was much older than you but that did not matter. It didn’t matter that you didn’t love him either, your fate was sealed. You were the only daughter to your parents, only child in fact. Your mother had tried to produce another heir, a boy, but fate would not allow it. Just as Kol would not allow you to marry that man.

You currently sat in the Mystic Grill, snacking on some french fries while you hummed quietly to yourself. Suddenly Caroline, Elena, and Bonnie all crammed into one side of the booth, sitting across from you. They were looking at you with wide eyes. You were in the process of putting a french fry in your mouth and sigh, setting it back onto your plate.

“What—“

Caroline shoves your plate of fries out of the way and slams a book in front of you, frantically pointing at a picture, “This is you? Right?!”

You look at the picture, it was a painting of you. In fact, this particular one was painted by Klaus.

“Yes, that—“

Caroline cuts in, “Is this before you were turned?! All it says is that you mysteriously disappeared at a ball! You’ve gotta tell us about this!”

Your eye twitches a bit, “I’m trying to!”

“Oh… right.”

You look at the picture of the painting again, it’s nothing compared to the original, “Nik actually painted this when he and his family—“

Caroline interrupts. Again. “Nik like, as in Klaus? He painted this? Wait so this was after you were turned? Or was it before?”

“Caroline!” Bonnie and Elena shush her.

“Sorry!” Caroline squeaks out, “I’m just excited…”

You laugh a bit, amused by the blonde's antics, “I’ll start with when I met the Mikaelsons…”

-★-

16th Century

England

“We thank you for welcoming our family into your home.”

Your father nods, holding his head high, still not too sure on the new family who would be staying around for a while. Your mother, on the other hand, had begun to gush over them.

The man continues, “I apologize, I have not properly introduced myself. I am Elijah Mikaelson.”

You watch as Elijah takes your mothers hand and brings it to his lips, she looks as though she is going to faint. You glance at your father who looks like steam is going to come from his ears. You try to suppress a giggle but fail. Your eyes widen when another boy immediately looks at you, you were caught. The heat rises to your face as you shrink back in on yourself. The boy was very attractive, they all were. He had brown hair and eyes to match, which glimmered with mischief. You knew immediately that he’d be one to cause trouble. He smirked at you and tilted his head to the side as he stared at you. You began to chew your lip and look to the ground, unable to meet his gaze any longer.

Your father clears his throat, bringing your mother back from her daydreams of Elijah. Your mother looks at you and grabs your hand, pulling you to stand in front of her.

“This is our daughter, Y/N, she is to be queen.”

The boy with the mischievous eyes raises a brow, “No sons?”

“Mind your tongue, Kol.” Elijah warns his younger brother.

The blonde girl next to who you now know as Kol begins to snicker. Elijah quickly turns his attention to her, “Rebekah.” he warns.

Another man steps up from behind Rebekah and Kol, “I do apologize for my siblings behavior. Kol and Rebekah can be rather… brash. Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Klaus.”

He takes your mothers hand and kisses it, she looks as though she is going to faint again.

Your father clears his throat once more and Kol raises a brow, “Are you ill?”

“Kol!” Elijah hisses. Kol simply shrugs.

Your father glares at Kol before choosing to ignore him, addressing the others while simultaneously answering Kol’s question from earlier, “She is to be wed soon.”

You tense up at the mention of your wedding. Something that Kol immediately takes note of.

“We are having a ball in three month‘s time to celebrate, it will be held the night before the wedding! You are all welcome to attend!” your mother quickly offers.

“Oh don’t be ridiculous, my dear. They will certainly have moved on with their travels by then.” your father looks at the Mikaelsons before narrowing his eyes, “Right?”

Kol and Rebekah glance at each other, clearly not impressed by your fathers attempt at intimidation.

Klaus smirks, “Nonsense! We wouldn’t dare miss a ball, would we Elijah?”

Elijah chuckles, “No brother, we would not. You have my word, we will be there, Miss Y/N.”

“Princess Y/N.” your father quickly corrects.

Elijah’s eyes narrow, “My mistake.” he then turns to you, “We will be at your ball, Princess.”

-★-

A week had passed since the Mikaelson family had arrived in your kingdom. You had grown to enjoy Rebekah’s company, laughing along with her as she complained about her brothers. Elijah would offer polite conversation if he saw you and you were scheduled to have Klaus paint your portrait (something your mother was ecstatic about). The only one you hadn’t had much interaction with was Kol. You could see him watching you from afar but he never approached you, though you couldn’t blame him because you never approached him either.

“For a girl that is soon to be wed, you don’t appear to be all that thrilled.“

You jump at the sudden voice and turn to see Kol. He’s smirking at you, “Hello princess.”

What was that saying? Speak of the devil…

You scoff and turn back to look at the trees, watching a squirrel run by. You often came to this spot in the forest to clear your head. It was isolated, just you with nature, and no one knew of it other than you and your mother. Until now that is.

“How did you find me?” you ask quietly.

“Oh! So she does speak!” Kol’s smirk widens.

Sitting up straighter, you clear your throat but before you can speak, Kol interrupts, “Does that run in your family?”

You narrow your eyes, “Does being an overly presumptuous arse run in yours?”

Kol lets out a whistle, “Sharp tongue.”

“Is there something you need, Mister Mikaelson?”

Kol raises a brow, “What I ‘need’ is for you to call me Kol, Mister Mikaelson makes me sound far too much like Elijah… so proper.”

“Then stop calling me princess.”

“Oh I’m sorry I can’t do that, princess. It is your title after all.”

“Very well…” you pause, “Mister Mikaelson.”

Kol chuckles, shaking his head and gestures towards the rock you’re currently sitting on, “Mind if I sit?”

“For some reason, I think you’d sit regardless of my answer.”

He smirks, “Pretty and clever.”

You turn to look away from him, heat rushing to your face. He chuckles a bit at your reaction. The two of you sit in silence for a moment, observing the nature around you. A bunny stops at a tree in front of you two, staring at you both. A smile appears on your face as the creature stares you down. You tilt your head to the side, letting out a small laugh as the bunny copies your actions.

Kol’s attention is not on the bunny though. He is focused solely on you. The way you smile, the way your hair is framing your face, the way your chest rises and falls with each breath, the twinkle in your eye as you watch the animal… just… you. An unfamiliar warmth spreads in his chest, unfamiliar, but nice.

Kol is so distracted by you that he doesn’t even realize that the bunny has run off until you’re waving your hand in front of his face. Kol blinks a few times as you lower your hand, your attention entirely on him as you begin to giggle again. Kol’s face flushes a bit and that warmth begins to spread in his chest again.

You raise a brow at him, “Has something distracted you?”

Kol laughs, shaking his head, “I just… you’re full of such life, you have wit… you’re fierce yet nurturing. And yet, I’ve seen you around with that man who must be at least twice your age and you seem dead. It’s as though you lose everything that makes you, you when you’re with him.”

You chew your lip, tilting your head as though you’re thinking, “Perhaps you are different.”

“A good different?”

“I hope so.”

-★-

Three days later you were sitting at that spot once again when Kol found you. This time, he brought a basket full of treats.

“You cook? Bake?” you ask.

He smiles a bit, raising his hands in mock surrender, “Alright, you’ve got me. I had some help from Rebekah… and I may have stopped at the market on the way here.”

You try to hold your composure but begin to laugh, Kol smiles at this and begins to laugh as well. He sits on the ground in front of you even though you had told him he could sit next to you. He simply wanted to look at you without having to turn his body.

You pick up one of the pastries and take a bite, a few crumbs fall onto your skirt and you don’t notice the few that stick to your lip. Kol does though, he finds it adorable and can’t help it when he sits up straight, bringing his hand up to brush his thumb against your lip. Your eyes widen in shock as you look down at him. Without breaking eye contact, he pulls his hand back and places his thumb in his mouth, sucking the remaining crumbs of pastry away.

Amused by your wide eyes and flushed face he tilts his head to the side, a sly smirk appearing on his face, “What?”

You narrow your eyes at him, “Please stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” he sits up once more, your faces directly in front of each other, only inches between the two of you. Your noses are practically touching…

You will yourself to not break away from his intense gaze, “You’re teasing me.”

“Oh,” he chuckles, amused, “I’d be much too frightened to tease a princess.”

-★-

Kol and you had continued to meet at that spot at least twice a week. No one had known other than maybe his siblings. It was taboo enough for two people of the opposite gender to be left alone if they weren’t married or soon to be. It was even more taboo considering the fact that you were to be married soon, to another man. Not to mention Kol’s obvious flirting and the way you would become flustered just by his gaze alone. Something that your soon to be husband could never do, never make you feel.

Normally, when Kol would find you, you’d be humming a song or spinning in a circle or even just sitting there, watching. Today, though, when Kol arrived, your entire body was shaking. He could hear your sobs as he approached you.

“Princess?” Kol asks softly, sitting next to you.

You looked up at him and Kol’s heart broke at the sight of your tear stained face.

“He’s going to kill me Kol.”

“What?”

“My fiancé… I overheard him speaking with his brother, after we are wed he is going to have me executed. I am simply a means to an end for him, I tried to tell my father but he brushed me off as paranoid and trying to get out of the wedding!”

Kol rests his hand on your cheek, wiping away a tear and for a moment, just a split second you could have sworn you saw the veins beneath his eyes ripple, it must have been your tear filled eyes playing tricks on you. You were certain though, that his eyes became dark. You should have been scared at that look in his eyes but you weren’t. You felt safe.

“Will you trust me?”

When you don’t answer he asks again, differently, “Y/N. Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” you answer without hesitation this time.

“At the ball tomorrow, I’ll take care of everything, okay? I promise that I won’t let him hurt you. I will find you, okay? If I do not then one of my siblings will. If none of us can reach you, I’ll be here, at this spot, waiting for you.”

You nod, bringing your hand up to cup his that currently holds your face.

“I must confess something.”

You tilt your head, urging him to continue.

“I’ve never had any intention of allowing you to marry that man.”

-★-

You were preparing for the ball when there was a knock at your door.

“Come in.” You called out.

Your mother entered the room and dramatically placed her hands over her heart at the sight of you. She rushed over to you, placing her hands on your shoulders, looking at you both in the mirror.

“My little girl, you’re all grown up.”

You smile softly, “Well I think that I still need my mother to help me with my necklace…”

You reach for the necklace that you had planned to wear but you were stopped by your mother. You look at her in the mirror, confused.

“No no, you’ll be wearing this.” she held up a gorgeous necklace, it was bejeweled, specifically with your birthstone.

“Mama…” you say, turning around to face her, touching the necklace as gently as you could, “This is gorgeous, where did you get this?”

She smiles, cupping your cheek, “It was a gift, here, allow me.”

You turn back around and your mother lifts your hair as she clasps the necklace. You reach up to touch the jewels, a small smile on your face. You have a guess as to who the mysterious gifter was and you could only hope you were correct.

She kisses your cheek, “To think, tomorrow you will be married…”

Your mood is dampened at the mention of your marriage. One day closer to your death. You had to trust Kol, that he would help.

The door opened and Rebekah entered, she looked absolutely stunning in her blue gown. Her hair was in an updo that complemented the square neckline of the dress. She freezes at the sight of your mother.

“My apologies, I did not mean to intrude.”

“Nonsense!” your mother exclaims, “I was just telling my lovely daughter how beautiful she looks, I’ll leave you two to talk.” she makes a swift exit out of the room and you chuckle.

Rebekah turns and looks at you, “You do look truly gorgeous.”

“As do you, Rebekah.” you smile softly at her.

The blonde takes your hands in hers, glancing at the door to make sure it’s closed before she turns back to you, “How much has Kol told you about tonight?”

Your brows furrow, “Only that I need to trust him…”

Rebekah sighs, “That fool.”

“Rebekah? What is going on?”

She plasters on a smile, “You needn’t worry darling, we won’t allow anything to happen to you.”

“Where is Kol…?”

Rebekah’s smile falls, “He’s having a chat with your fiancé.”

-★-

You stand with Rebekah, chatting while sipping your drinks. You glance around the room and frown when you realize you still haven’t seen Kol around. You hadn’t seen your fiancé either.

When Kol finally enters the ballroom, he makes his way to Elijah. Elijah takes in Kol’s appearance, checking him for blood stains and when he finds none, he raises a brow.

“I do hope you did not leave a bloody mess behind.”

Kol smiles sweetly, but his words are anything but, “I’d rather choke than have a single sip of that pig's blood.”

Elijah raises a brow and hums, intrigued, “What have you done?”

There’s suddenly a loud crash and a scream, causing everyone to look to the stairs. A maid comes rushing from the room where your fiancé was getting dressed, she goes straight up to your father. Listening in, Kol and Elijah hear the maid tell him that she found your fiancé’s body in the room. Your father’s eyes fall onto you and he beckons you to come to him. Your mother chews her lip, looking absolutely horrified. You excuse yourself from Rebekah and make your way to the stairs. Kol shifts the way he’s standing as though he’s about to make an escape.

“Kol…” Elijah narrows his eyes at his brother, “What did you do to the man?”

“Relax brother… he’s just hanging out.”

-★-

That night you sat on your bed, staring out the window. Your father had forbidden you from leaving the room for any reason. He blamed you for what had happened. Your mother remained downstairs trying to keep the party alive even though the guests of honor were nowhere to be found. You had discarded your gorgeous ball gown to slip into your nightgown. The necklace still rested on your chest, you couldn’t reach the clasp to remove it, you began to fidget with one of the jewels.

The more you stared out the window, the more your room seemed to suffocate you. You brought your hand up to catch the cold, metal latch and unlock the window, allowing the cool air of the night to blow into your room. Then you make a decision you’re sure you’ll regret, you climb out of the window and begin to climb to the ground. Your bare feet freezing when they make contact with the cold rock.

When you hit the ground you immediately start running to the forest, to your spot. You wish you could say that you weren’t surprised to see Kol there, already waiting for you like he had said he would be.

“Princess, I was waiting for you to show up.”

You let out a shaky breath, suddenly aware of the cold air around you. Kol stands and walks over to you, his eyes fall to your chest and you begin to feel self conscious of the fact that you’re in nothing more than a nightgown. He carefully reaches for your necklace, fidgeting with a gem, just as you had done earlier.

“I see you got my gift.”

A small smile finds its way onto your lips, “I knew it was you…” he can’t help but think that your words are referring to more than just the necklace.

He smiles down at you, “I am disappointed that I could not dance with you tonight.”

“You still can.”

He smirks, taking a step back from you before offering you his hand, “Could I have this dance, princess?”

You laugh, doing a small curtsy as you take his hand, “Why of course, Mister Mikaelson.”

Kol pulls you into his arms and you wrap your arms around his neck, taking in his body heat. His hands rest on your waist and you jump a bit at the feeling.

He chuckles, “You must be freezing…”

“Only a bit.” you admit, quietly, “You’re quite warm though, enough for us both.”

You rest your head onto his shoulder and close your eyes, humming. All nice things must come to an end as you hear your fathers booming voice echo throughout the forest. The sound of footsteps stopping right near you. You wait for the shouting but it does not come. Reluctantly you lift your head and find your mother’s wide eyes staring at you.

“Mama…” you begin to pull yourself away from Kol.

She brings a finger to her lips, shushing you as she rushes to pull you into a hug. She pulls away and holds your face in her hands, “You must go. Run.”

“Mama, I—“

She shakes her head, “There is no time to argue,” she looks at Kol, “Your family, you have money?” he nods and she continues, “You will take care of her?” he nods once more.

Your mother swallows hard, “Then go, run far from here and be happy. This life… it is never what you wanted, you want adventure, you want to travel. You do not want to sit and deal with politics… I know how it bores you. It’s killing your soul. I want you to be happy…”

Tears fill your eyes as you pull her into a tight hug, “I love you, mother.”

“I love you too, my daughter.”

She pulls away, tears are in her eyes, “Now go.”

Your father’s voice gets closer and before you know it, Kol has picked you up into his arms and has begun to run, you wrap your arms around his shoulders. You watch over his shoulder as your mother stands still, getting smaller and smaller the farther you get away.

Kol seems to be running at an inhuman speed and you close your eyes not being able to handle the way things speed past you anymore, you feel as though you’ll be sick. Not even a minute later, Kol stops running.

“Kol.” Klaus’ voice warns, “What happened to getting rid of the fiancé and leaving the girl to find a better suitor?”

“She’s coming with us.”

“Kol…” Klaus begins.

“This is not negotiable brother!” Kol fires back.

Rebekah looks at you, curled up in Kol’s arms, practically shaking, “Did you steal her?”

“What?! Do you take me for an uncivilized fool?! She came with me!”

“I’m not judging! I’ve grown to like the girl as well!”

“My mother asked me to go with him…” you finally speak up.

“If she goes back, her father will be even more enraged than he already is. She’s coming with us.”

“Does she know?” Elijah asks, when Kol shakes his head, he sighs.

“She’ll have to kn—“

“I know, Elijah!” Kol snaps, “But now, we must go! The people are looking for her, we need to leave!”

Elijah swallows, “Very well. But we will be discussing this further Kol.”

Klaus throws his hands up, “You’re not serious, are you?”

He gets no verbal response as his siblings begin to run ahead of him. Klaus groans, “You are serious,” rolling his eyes as he reluctantly moves to catch up with the others.

-★-

“Would you turn me?” you ask suddenly, snuggling further into Kol’s chest.

He tenses up, he stops brushing your hair, “Where is this coming from?”

You sit up from his chest, “We’ve been traveling for almost two years now. I’ll be nineteen soon and you’re forever nineteen.”

You bring a hand up to brush the side of his face, forcing him to look at you, “I want to spend forever with you.“

Kol holds his hand over yours, staring into your eyes, “Do you understand what you’re asking of me? You’d have to die… and then you’d wake up like me, a monster. You’ll be thirsty for blood and no matter what you do that thirst will never go away.”

“You’re not a monster, Kol. I know the things you’ve done, and yet you can still be gentle. If I have to die and drink blood to spend the rest of eternity by your side then so be it. I want to stay with you forever.”

“Forever is a long time, princess.”

You laugh, “Perhaps it will be long enough to teach you to quit calling me that!”

It’s Kol’s turn to laugh, he pulls you back into his arms, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “Neverrrr.”

You both lay in silence for a moment, until you look up at him again. He narrows his eyes at you before finally sighing.

“If that is really what you want once you turn nineteen… then I will turn you myself. Just don’t go running to Rebekah or God forbid, Nik.”

-★-

Present Day

Mystic Falls

“Soooo…” Bonnie pauses, “Kol killed your fiancé and you ran off with him?” she then points at your neck, “And you’re still wearing the necklace he got you.”

“Well that’s one way to shorten my story.” You mutter.

Elena laughs a bit at that before raising a brow, “So wait, you knew Kol killed him?”

“It was kind of obvious that Kol had something to do with it, he did tell me he was going to take care of it. I just assumed he had threatened him and it scared the man so bad he took his own life…”

“In reality I simply compelled him to, I never laid a finger on the man.” Kol announces as he slides in the booth to sit next to you.

“Speak of the Devil.” you tease.

Kol looks around for a moment before turning to you, “I don’t see Nik anywhere.”

He wraps his arm around your shoulder and presses a kiss to your cheek, “Hello princess.”

“Hi Mister Mikaelson.”

You then look to the three girls across from you, “How did you even find that picture?”

“School project on the time period. It’s in a few history books.” Elena answers.

You hum in response then look at Kol who slides out of the booth, offering you his hand, “I hope you ladies don’t mind, the princess and I have places to be.”

You roll your eyes at his antics and take his hand, getting about a foot away before you turn back around to look at the three girls, “I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t do your school project on me.”

They all nod and you smile, leaving The Grill, holding Kol’s hand. The three girls sit in silence for a moment, still soaking in all the information they just learned when Caroline suddenly gasps.

“What is it?!” Bonnie asks, looking around, trying to find a threat.

“That’s why he calls her princess!”

“We know, Caroline.” Elena answers, a bit amused.

“Oh…”

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