#not a horse game rating

[i-rate-horse-games]

is there warriorcats books but with horse herd drama instead. inquiring minds want to know

[egophiliac]

kamen rider shion was just revealed for ride kamens, and he looks like he's themed after the... horse orphnoch? this is an even bigger surprise than the jin and woz homages

trying to speculate on Ride Kamens characters pre-reveal really is like

[sieglinde-freud]

real footage of every single marni encounter in my maddening playthrough

[soulofamy]

i dont often see people say they want customization in mk but i hear other people SAY its a popular demand to make. but every time i play soulcalibur online i am reminded why thats a terrible idea

[qroier]

some of my favorite moments from these olympics so far:

every badass shooter, but especially these stand-out stars kim ye-ji and yusuf dikec

simone biles and katie ledecky yet again proving themselves as the goats they are

every time simone and rebeca andrade cheered each other on

brazil out there winning the picture game

stephen mr pommel horse guy nedoroscik getting bronze and his very own cape

julian alfred (fastest woman alive, 100m run), thea lafond (triple jump), and kaylia neymour (uneven bars) all making history for their respective countries

same for carlos yulo after winning TWO gold medals in two days

imane khalif guaranteeing herself at least a bronze metal in the face of all the harassment thrown her way

remco evenepoel's bike broke down during the road race but he had such a big lead that he still managed to get gold with an awesome winning shot

the women's high jump final came down to nicola olyslagers, who was sitting down after each jump to rate herself on how she did, and yaroslava mahuchikh, who entered a sleeping bag and closed her eyes between jumps

edit: and now that the olympics are officially over, here are some more of my favorite moments from this second week

[conkreetmonkey]

Red Dead Redemption 2 was so real for creating the most in-depth, realistic clothing system I've ever seen in any game, and exclusively using it on burly, unhygienic men.

You choose every layer, every accessory, with dozens to hundreds of each to choose from. You can go in and fine-tune minute details like whether or not to roll up the shirt sleeves, or button the collar, or whether to wear your pants under your boots. These clothes get dirty in real time depending on what you do in the game. Mud, dust and blood linger unless washed off. Every garment has a warmth rating based on its material, and the game calculates what temperatures an outfit is suitable for based on the combined total. Dressing too cold or warm for the weather causes health debuffs.

You can choose which way he parts his hair, and whether he gels it. If you eat too much he gets bulkier and gains a double chin, and if you eat too little he can go underweight and get all bony and sallow. Both of these states come with stat changes. His hair and beard grow in real game time, and you need to routinely style and shave his facial hair if you want any style other than a full Santa. You need to bathe him regularly or people will start commenting on his BO, and he'll start visibly appearing filthy long before that. He sunburns in the sun, and in the heat he becomes slick and glossy with sweat.

This shit is IN DEPTH. It blows the customization systems of actual fashion-centric games like tf2, Monster Hunter and Splatoon out of the water in every regard. They honestly look basic in comparison. It's a paradigm shift for sure once you experience RDR2's level of customization. Everything else starts to feel smaller.

The player character all this customization is applied to, and I simply cannot stress this enough, is a 36 year old, 6'3" smoker weighing well over 200 pounds, with facial hair thicker than a sheepdogs, forearms like gnarled tree trunks and a dark, dense forest of body hair covering every reasonable surface. His skin is pocked and marred with scars from a rugged, nomadic lifestyle, and his teeth are the colour of cornbread. He has a thick southern accent, is a known mean drunk and knows how to skin pretty much any North American animal. He has never worn deodorant, flossed or moisturized. He eats canned beans, fruit and the like by simply pouring them into his mouth and gulping, often while walking or riding a horse at full gallop.

I can think of NO better use case for such customization. Not some fresh-faced little twink, not some busty anime babe. Just a gross, hairy, unwashed homeless dude with crippling self esteem issues and a chest broader than a barrel laid lengthwise. A non fashion-centric game, certainly a non-fashion centric character, but for some reason the best clothing and customization system ever concieved, bar none. What the fuck.

[bi-writes]

Simon would never argue with MOB, that’s a given. And defending her honor??? Maybe it’s leaked that Mrs. Riley is in fact a Mail Order Bride for who knows where doing who knows what and let’s just say someone spreads that rumor around base and it gets back to one Lieutenant👀👀

mail-order bride

cw: graphic depictions of violence, a little smidge of dark!simon, misogynistic language (18+)

"here to see your husband, mrs. riley?"

you smile, shuffling in the chair. the woman who greets you is always here with a happy disposition, even when she's drowning in paperwork and the telephone on her desk won't stop ringing. she looks a little stressed today, but she gives you a smile anyways.

"yeah," you smooth your hands down your jeans, looking around. "told me his day would be slow, so i thought i'd bring him--"

you're interrupted by the sound of intense laughter and loud voices. the front doors open, banging against the wall practically, and a group of soldiers move past you. you fiddle with your purse, smoothing your thumb over the leather, but when you hear the subtle laughter and whispers still around you, you look up.

you make eye contact with several privates. they're whispering in each other's ears, but once they notice you're staring, they laugh a little more and make continue into the building. some of them look over their shoulder at you, and you look down to see if something is wrong with your outfit. when you check to make sure no tags are sticking out and that you haven't worn two different shoes, you just try to shrug it off, tucking your hair behind your ears and tapping your foot anxiously against the linoleum floor.

"okay, he's ready to see you. you know where it is by now, right?"

you blink, nodding, and then you swing your purse over your shoulder to walk over.

there's a game playing in the rec room. they've got banners up for their teams hung on the walls and streamers in different colors, and there's lots of men cheering and whooping in the room. just as you pass by the door, you squeak as you bump right into two laughing men, stumbling a little as they try to right themselves.

"fuck, sorry--" one of them chuckles. you frown a little but try to smile, moving to shimmy past them.

"is that her?"

"who?"

"didn't ya hear? lieutenant bought her off some sort of fucked-up catalog. heard she's real expensive."

you whip around, your lip trembling, and your shoes squeak against the floor as you stare right at them. one of them is smiling from ear-to-ear, and the other is laughing to himself.

"where did you hear that?" you ask.

"everybody knows, love," he winks. "so how much is it for a night? maybe we can do a group rate."

"e-excuse me?" you whisper, and he leans his arm against the wall, trapping you there.

"we heard all about the...program. thought maybe if we asked real nice, maybe we'd even get a discount."

"i don't know what you're talking about," you spit at him. "whatever you think this is, you're wrong. now get out of my way--"

"how much? how much did he fucking pay?"

"oh, mate--mate, you have to stop--" his friend tries to warn him, smacking him on the shoulder, but he glares down at you still, in your face, accusatory.

his face goes from smug to absolutely terrified when he's grabbed from behind. the hand that cages you against the wall is gripped by a gloved hand, twisted at an unnatural angle, and you flinch a little at the sound of his wail when his arm follows it's motion and a sickening pop echoes in the hallway.

his screams are suddenly drowned out by the cheering from the football game. someone scored maybe, but the man underneath simon screams, too, terrified as your husband mounts him like a fucking horse and slams his face against the floor.

it's like watching an artist. he paints his surroundings in flecks of red, the occasional clatter of a tooth falling at their feet, and you tilt your head to the side as you watch simon fist that man's hair and makes him eat whatever that floor is made of. he's in agony--that much is clear, from the way he shakes to the terrified look in his eyes, the pleading he sends your way as he asks for mercy.

when simon lets him go, he collapses onto the ground in a fit of bloody coughs and groans. his arm hangs from his shoulder limply (surely it's been pulled out of its socket), and his face is unrecognizable. you think his eyes were blue, but you can't tell anymore. they're red now, pupils blown wide, and he keeps moaning between broken teeth, "didn't mean it...i'm sorry...i'm sorry..."

simon kneels, leaning over him, and he grips the front of his uniform and pulls him up to sit, making him cry out from the pain. he tilts his head to the side, narrowing his eyes, and he drops his voice low.

"dunno where ya heard all tha' shit," simon mutters. "ain't true."

"n-no, sir--"

"i didn't say you could fuckin' talk," simon continues. "and if ya do again, i'll make sure ya can't." when he says nothing, simon tsks. "maybe ya wish ya could even afford my wife, mate. but ya can't." he tugs him a little closer. "'m gonna make ya an example. 'm not done with you. you are going to eat a fuckin' bullet from me, mate, but it won't be today. it'll be someday." simon presses his masked mouth to his ear. "but if i hear anyone else repeat wot you said 'ere today, i'll do it sooner. and you should know better than t'run...because i will find ya. wherever ya go." simon jostles him, and you swallow as he cries, trying to pull away, "now say thank you t'my wife. say thank you, because if she wasn't 'ere, i'd put my fuckin' boot in yer mouth--say it!"

"thank you! thank you!"

you simply blink as simon lets him go finally, standing, and as he walks past you, he grabs your hand roughly in his and starts to walk. you look over your shoulder as he tugs you along, and when you look back, you intertwine your fingers with his.

when the door closes behind him, simon slumps in his chair. he grips his mask from the back of the neck and pulls it off, burying his face in his hands. you set your bag down and kneel in front of him, putting your hands over his.

"simon--"

"wot the fuck is wrong with me?"

"simon--"

"i-in...i...i fuckin' lost it--"

you pull his hands off his face gently, cupping his cheeks. the eye-black smears a little around his eyes. there are no tears, but his eyes are watery as he stares into yours. his hands are shaking, and he palms his thighs to keep them steady.

"it's okay, simon," you whisper.

"i didn't want you to see me tha' way," he shakes his head. "violent. aggressive. fuck, i must've terrified you--"

"i'm not scared," you say softly. you smooth your thumbs under his eyes. "no one...no one's ever done anything like that for me before." you meet his eyes, and he leans a little more into your hands, bending low to get closer to you. "maybe he deserved it."

"i would...i would never--"

"shhh," you quiet him gently, shaking your head. "i know. i'm not scared of you."

you lean up, putting your hands on his knees and getting up just enough to get into his lap. you close your eyes as you kiss him softly, hugging him close, soothing him with a soft hand on the back of his head.

"you didn't do anything wrong, simon..."

"it's okay, baby..."

"i love you."

you know it isn't true. you're lying, somewhat, but it doesn't feel like a lie because it feels good. sick of being smaller, sick of being stepped on, sick of letting other people not be held accountable for the things that they do.

just this once maybe, you can let someone bleed. for misunderstanding you. for judging you. for not realizing there is a thing attached to you that bites and tears apart.

the world is a terrible place. and maybe you are simply just owed.

[blastoqueen]

Sunrise.

Chapter 4

Rating: Teen and Up

Relationships: Noa x Mae (Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes)

Content warnings: None

Comments: English is not my first language. The chapter problably has a lot of bad english, but in my defense I wrote this with a terrible headache. Anyway this doesn’t have a lot of plot, I just wanted to write something sweet between them

When Noa looked at Mae, the first thing that came to mind was her eyes. Bright blue, looking deep into his soul. Next thing he thought of was her long hair, entangled and dirty, he often wanted to tell her that she should just cut it all.

“If you are going to be a hairless being, do it right” he never dared to say those words out loud, but the need was strong.

There was a part of him, a confusing and strange part of him, that wanted to touch the brown hair and detangled every not. He has seen Mae do that with her hands.

It had been two weeks since Mae settled in the village. Noa never told the human, but it took a lot of convincing and yelling for the elders to accept her permanently into their clan. He felt almost embarrassed when he had to make an announcement to the rest of the apes, telling them that Mae was a part of them now, and that they should respect her as long as she did her part in the community. Of course, there were disagreements, but eventually most of them came to accept the Echo in the Eagle Clan.

“But going back to her hair…”

------------

“Why only females… come with you?” Soona asked Mae. They were at the lake, getting clean.

“Actually, humans don´t shower next to each other… ideally” the human responded.

“Why?” Case, Soona´s friend interrogated.

“We are shy”

Mae removed her clothes and step into the water, joining the other two females, who were fighting playfully.

“Are you mom?” Case asked.

“What?”

“Your chest”

Mae felt self-conscious, she braced herself, covering up her breast and looking away.

“No, I´m not a mom”

“Oh. Echo thing then”

Soona pinched her friend.

“Chest is big” Soona explained, trying to get Mae out of her shy shelf “Only moms get chest that big… to feed”

“Oh” the human girl said, she uncovered herself, starting to scrub the dirt out of her skin “Yeah, for humans is normal. Most girls have this. You don’t have to be a mom”

They continued getting clean, and when they were done, they relaxed in the grass, watching the sunset.

“I know nobody… sees beauty in you” Case said “but I do. I think you are… pretty”

Mae stayed silent for a few seconds, not sure if she should feel offended.

“I see the beauty too” said Soona “Your body… is different, hairless, thin. But there is beauty… in that. Even if you… are not like ape”

The human smiled, she felt safe, appreciated, loved.

She felt also pretty. And that was nice

--------

“Where were you, Mae?!” Noa asked. He came running to her and almost hug her. Luckily, he stopped in time “Hair is wet”

“Calm down. I was taking a shower, with the girls” Mae said, almost ignoring him and passing by him

“What? You took shower recently” the ape started to follow her into her room in one of the towers.

“Yeah, humans need to shower often. Be grateful, otherwise you would be begging me to take a shower”

When they got into her shared room, she stopped him right at the entrance.

“Goodnight Noa” she said with a smile. This would be fun.

“Wait what?” the male got confused, she wasn’t going to let him in? Maybe chat a little bit like other nights?

“I share this room, Noa. I can´t just invite a boy whenever I want” she had this grin on her face… the ape catch on her game.

“Oh, I see. Well, if I cannot come in, maybe you should come out” he responded back, leaning into the wall.

“And go where?” Mae asked with a funny smile.

“You´ll see”

“Would there be climbing? You know I prefer walking”

“Do not worry. We take horses” he said. Mae closed the door of her room, ready to follow the Eagle Clan leader.

She started to walk when a hand stopped her.

“And by the way, if we climb, just get on my back, Echo” Noa whispered in her ear.

-------

“Are you allowed to run away in the middle of the night?” Mae asked.

They were in a green field with knee-length grass walking under the moon light and a torch.

“I am not running away” the ape said distracted, looking down to the grass, concern in his face.

“What´s wrong?”

“They should be dancing”

“What?”

“I wanted to show you the lighting dancers”

Mae stared at the ape. Was he loosing his mind?

“Wait!” Noa spoke “They are here”

Right when the girl was about to make a sarcastic comment, a firefly emerge from the grass, shining bright. Then, more of them started to fill the air. Dancing.

“Have you seen one of these?” Noa asked her

“No. I read about them. But I have never… woah”

The human watched fascinated how those little insects were producing light and just flying around, illuminating the dark night. It was truly amazing.

“Thank you for showing me this” Mae said with happiness.

“Anytime”

The fireflies kept dancing and Noa kept falling.

[radfemsiren]

Remembering my Afghani American best friend from my islamic elementary and middle school whose dad would get drunk every night and beat the shit out of her mother. She begged and begged for sleepovers because strangers in the house would make him leave, and I never told my parents about the situation (I lied and said she had no father or brothers) because I loved spending time at her house and staying up the whole night doing all the things we weren’t allowed to do that was “haram”… watching rated r movies, playing horror computer games, dancing to music videos on YouTube, cat walking in heels and makeup, scaring ourselves with creepypastas.

I remember we had a million stupid ass discussions about who the purple guy from five nights at Freddies was, or what a slenderman proxy meant, or if there were illuminati signs in Katy Perry music videos, or if emo drawings of Jeff the killer were hot. We’d whisper fight if Beyoncé or Lana del Rey was a better singer, or if teen wolf or maze runner had cuter boys. She was team Beyoncé and teen wolf.

We had to constantly be separated in school for talking, and we hated the creepy janitor and would throw wads of wet paper towel on the bathroom ceiling for him to clean up later. We got into so much trouble together, and would always smirk at each other in detention when we got yelled at. We’d shoplift lipsticks from the mall, and throw away expensive Quran transliterations from school, and sneak into the teachers break room and steal handfuls of ice and throw them on the imam/principal’s desk when he was gone to ruin his paperwork.

I moved away like I always had to do with my constantly migrating family and we lost touch. The last time I saw her in person was when we were still kids at her brothers wedding. I was laughing while I tried to ask her why the bride kept changing into different brightly colored dresses throughout the night. She wasn’t listening, and she burst into tears and cried about how her brother was just like her father and did every horrible thing he did. I held her and squeezed her so tight I thought her bones would break.

I recently tried to reconnect with her again but she’s already married, pregnant, and has abandoned social media and texting because it’s “haram.” Trying to talk to her was like speaking to a stranger… she had no interest in any of the things we would spend hours playing with before. “Islam is important to me now, I’m a new woman. We were messed up kids, it’s time to grow up.” She told me to never contact her again and hung up the phone.

Sometimes I feel like I failed her, and sometimes I understand that I was a girl trying to survive too.

One day I’ll save money to travel back there and talk to her in person. I’ll snap her out of it. We’ll spend all night up together again doing every terrible thing our teachers and parents and religious leaders warned us against, and laughing the whole way through it. We’ll get kicked out of bars and get into trouble and snicker our way through it all, knowing we’ve already won. I still have her dirty, worn, my littlest pet shop horse she gave me when we first met. I hold it in my hands when I see news of the what’s happening to the women of Afghanistan, and I feel like I’ve failed her again. That I’ll forever be stuck an immature child and her a miserable adult, both of us doomed, unable to be saved from our fates in the end.

[taegimood]

— call it what it is (c.sb) ♡

pairing: choi soobin x fem!reader genre: smut, fluff, best friends to ? lovers? rating: nsfw, mdni wc: 2.5k warnings: virgin!soobin, idol!soobin, softdom!reader?, oral (m receiving), unprotected sex, messy cumshot, cum eating, brief use of petnames (baby, handsome), brief masturbation (m), some finger sucking, lowkey body worship? (m receiving), soobin horse cock but what else is new

a/n - trying to find some other fucking soob pictures to match the middle one was just impossible so i gave up lmao i’ve been reminded of why i never add photo headers.. i got lucky finding yeonjun’s within 30 seconds for the last fic 🙂‍↕️

──────────────────────

the lighting in soobin’s room is dim, the glow of his gaming setup situated on the desk in the corner offering just enough low light to cast the room in an unfamiliar new atmosphere, one that you haven’t ever felt in the countless times that you’ve been here before.

maybe it’s the quiet lull of having the dorm completely to yourselves tonight, or the clock ticking into single digit territory on the hour hand; maybe it’s the sudden vulnerability of this moment and the ones that led up to it.

maybe it’s the manner of what you’re about to do together; or maybe it’s the glow in the near-darkness that silhouettes your best friend so sensually as he stands in front of you while you’re leant back on the edge of his bed — his handsome face nervous and outlined by soft shadows as your eyes trail down his neck to the contours of his collarbones, past his chest and quick-beating heart to the gentle curve of his abs that stiffen slightly from the attention, or perhaps from the hesitant ministrations of his hand further down.

maybe it’s all of the above.

when you had come over earlier that evening for one of your typical hangout sessions, seizing the fact that soobin had no schedule tomorrow, you think it’s pretty safe to say that neither of you imagined it ending up like this.

the two of you were post anime binge and bingsu feast flopped across his bed, talking about anything and everything when the topic shifted to relationships and your conversation took a very interesting turn.

as close as you and soobin are, he’d never mentioned much about his sex life, and now you knew why: he didn’t actually have one.

you honestly weren’t too surprised when he, while talking about the difficulty of dating with his crowded idol life, somehow accidentally let it slip in frustration that he was still a virgin; and as red-faced and stuttery as he became while then attempting damage control to salvage his dignity, you were quick to reassure him with understanding words and a nonchalant smile.

and, as it turned out.. with an offer.

if he’d prefer his first time to be with someone he could trust, someone who would take care of him…

you don’t know what came over you when you carefully presented the idea.

you’d be totally lying if you said you had never considered what it’d be like to be with soobin physically; he was strikingly gorgeous from head to toe, after all. his gentle demeanor and dimpled laugh never made it any easier for you, either, but whenever your mind dared tiptoeing the line into romantic territory, well, you were always very quick to reel it back in.

until.… now.

you suppose there’s no other way to explain it as fondness blooms in your chest when you look at him, his trembling hands having fumbled over the buttons of his shirt until you’d replaced them gently with your own and did it for him instead — butterflies in your tummy at the sound of his quiet, shaky breaths every time your fingers brushed his skin — his face so close to yours, swallowing hard when you smiled softly up at him in reassurance.

there’s no other way to explain the affection that washed over you as he melted into your lips when you asked if it was okay to kiss him; or his breathy moans as your lips then made a home across the soft expanse of his neck after guiding his hands to begin undressing you in turn.

there’s no other way to explain the way that your heart swelled when he shyly turned off the overhead light and allowed you to trace kisses down his body as you sat on the edge of his bed and worked his sweatpants down with careful hands.

each time you moved to take things to the next step you’d look up at him for confirmation; and each time you were met with yearning, a trusting anticipation in soobin’s brown eyes that made you want to give him everything you could and more.

even in the near-dark you could still make out the rosy hue that colored his cheeks when you moaned at the sight of his cock, thick and long and pretty and just plain big as it came up to slap against his tummy once freed, leaking tip now eye-level with you from where he stood in front of the bed.

sensing the tension in his body, you’d slipped off the rest of your clothes so that he wouldn’t feel so vulnerable;

leaning back on your hands to gaze at him, watching the way his widened eyes flitted across your naked figure, lingering several times on your tits — you noted this for later — and you couldn’t help the pace of your own heartbeat as your pussy throbbed from the sight of him.

“you’re beautiful, bin.”

your soft words had startled him out of his trance, his eyes even wider then as they flickered up to meet yours;

“so are you,” he breathed, a whisper, cheeks reddening further in the dim light, and you could see the desire pooled in his stare.

“binnie.. can you touch yourself for me?” you’d asked carefully, voice sweet like honey, and the premature twitch of his cock was enough to send wetness leaking down between your thighs.

so now, as you watch him hesitantly stroke himself, large hand almost making his large cock look normal-sized until you remember that everything about him is just big, your body betrays you as your legs squeeze together and you can feel the drool threatening the corners of your lips at the expectancy of having something to wrap them around.

he’s biting down hard on his plush bottom lip as his eyes travel over you again, and you can tell that he’s trying not to breathe too heavy as they stay glued on your tits until you slide forward to the very edge of the bed.

the movement of his hand falters as the sudden proximity of your face so close to his cock sends a fresh bead of pre-cum to his tip;

“you don’t have to be nervous,” you murmur gently, looking up at him with a comforting smile. “can i touch you?”

his breath catches as he hesitates only for a second before he’s quickly nodding his head with a shakily-whispered “yes.”

his eyes follow your every move as you slide your own much smaller hand over his bigger one to remove it from his length — you shiver at the size difference — and when you gently wrap your hand around the thick base of his cock and lean in to place a feather-light kiss against his lower abdomen, the soft sigh that leaves soobin’s lips is suddenly the prettiest sound that you’ve ever heard.

you stroke him slowly, soon figuring out the amount of pressure that he likes judging from the staggers in his breath when you apply it; you have nothing on your mind other than to make him feel good as your lips trail over his skin, placing soft kisses along his abs, suckling a pretty mark onto his hip bone as your thumb caresses the head of his cock.

he moans, embarrassed at first until you look up at him through your lashes in a way that tells him you’ve never found anyone more sexy than this; and after that he doesn’t try holding back as much from the pretty sounds escaping his throat.

and when you finally lick at his tip before your free hand comes up to cup his balls and your lips slowly sink down on his shaft, soobin’s head is tipping back into a deep groan as his hips twitch forwards, your throat constricting around him at the sudden added length and your pussy gushing a fresh wave of arousal between your legs from the lewdness of it all.

god, soobin, you’re so fucking hot.

you’d tell him as much if your mouth weren’t stuffed full of his cock.

you haven’t even taken him half way yet when his tip nudges the back of your throat, your spit sliding down his shaft as you use your hands to pump whatever you can’t fit in your mouth; his own hands have flown to your hair now as he watches you with parted lips and half-lidded eyes, breathing heavy around moans and whispers of incoherent curses, grounding himself in the feeling of your strands between his fingers as he fights to control his hips from bucking forwards.

“s-shit-! oh my god-”

it’s only a couple of minutes later that you can tell he’s already close to bursting as you pull off of him for air with spit stringing from your lips, hands pumping steadily up and down from base to tip as you watch his face, feeling a mix of pride and affection at how fucked-out he already is as his eyes meet yours.

“you’re close, baby. do you wanna cum now or wait ‘til you’re inside me?”

you shouldn’t have said that.

the visual you just gave him shoots straight down to soobin’s cock as his abs tighten and his shaft twitches in your hands, a strangled moan that you think was supposed to be a curse flying from his lips as he cums, thick ropes of release covering your neck and chest and dripping down your tits, his mouth hung open as he watches and only cums harder — you get over your surprise quickly as you wrap your lips around him and suck, coaxing the rest out of him as he cries out with a tightening grip on your hair that makes you keen.

he cums more than any other guy you’ve been with and you swallow every remaining drop that you can, finally pulling off of him as he’s left trembling, making sure he’s watching as you look up at him and slowly swipe your fingers through the thick pearly liquid that drips down your skin, bringing it up to your lips to suck clean.

“fuck,” he whimpers, completely dazed, chest heaving, eyes dancing over your face and down to your cum-stained tits.

you lean in and give one last slow lick up the underside of his cock and over the tip; he hisses at the sensitivity, abs clenching, and when you place a gentle kiss to the head before moving back with a smile, soobin swears he’s seen heaven.

you take his hand and guide him to sit down, which his jelly-like legs are thankful for, urging him to lean back against the headboard as you soothe your thumb over the love bite on his hip and brush his hair out of his face with your free hand.

“how was it?” you ask playfully, tilting your head to the side, and now that he sits at this angle the glow from the desk illuminates his face instead of shining from behind him; your eyes trace the details of his hazy expression as he rests his head back against the wall and watches you.

“you’re fucking amazing…” he mumbles, still slightly catching his breath, face flushed and fucked out and beautiful.

“so are you,” you whisper teasingly as you lean in to capture his lips in a slow kiss, which he gratefully accepts, and you’re not sure how you’ve ever made it this far before tonight without the feeling of his lips on yours.

you push away the possibilities and consequences of tonight’s actions to the back of your mind.

right now, all that matters is him.

“s-sorry that i…” he’s suddenly shy as he looks away from you, and you already know what he’s trying to say when his voice trails off awkwardly, “i didn’t mean to.. you know…”

“why are you sorry for being sexy as hell?”

the surprise on his face makes you laugh, and his lips curl into a bashful smile when you continue, “i mean damn, soob, i knew you were hot before but seriously..”

you coyly poke at one of his dimples. “i’m flattered that you came that fast to the thought of fucking me.”

you can see the effect of your words in his eyes as he bites his lip.

“about that…. i still.. i mean, if you still want to, i….”

his voice grows quieter. “…i still want to.”

you can hear the vulnerability and hope in his tone that he probably thinks he’s better at hiding than he is.

“soobin…”

you take his hand in yours, and his eyes widen when you slowly guide it down between your legs, his sharp inhale a clear indication of the gushing wetness he feels there along with the warmth of your cunt.

you lean in closer, his hungry eyes flickering back up to yours; “what do you think, handsome?” you tilt your head again.

“think i want it too?”

his stare locks onto your every move when you bring his hand back up and wrap your lips around his wet fingers, swirling your tongue around them as you suck them clean and release them from your mouth with a pop.

“hm?”

his eyes shoot back up to yours.

he doesn’t trust his own voice as he swallows thickly with a nod and you find that he’s rock hard again when you straddle his lap, sighing in relief as you finally feel some friction from the way your wet folds glide slowly over his shaft.

you wrap an arm around his shoulders, taking his hand in your free one again to bring it up to your plush chest, his eyes honed in there immediately, and he lets out a quiet moan at the feeling of your soft tit in his grasp as he squeezes.

“you trust me?” you ask gently, and soobin looks up at you.

the glow from his desk makes his eyes shine.

his free arm circles around you and his face is so close to yours that you can feel the warmth of his breath fanning over your lips when he whispers,

“yes.”

and when you lift your hips with a smile to line him up at your entrance, promising “i’ll take care of you,” as you press your forehead to his and slowly sink down on him, watching the way his brows pinch together and eyes flutter shut, his lips parting in a breathy moan as he clutches you closer and whispers your name —

well, there’s no other way to explain the feeling that explodes in your chest like fireworks than to just call it what it is.

it must be love.

[i-rate-horse-games]

there seem to be lots of horse games about riding a horse in contests or around exploring or through a dramatic storyline or horse games about breeding horses or managing stables or racetracks but i think there should be more horse games that breach the boundary between horse games and the rest of videogames. a horse skateboarding game. horse survival game. horse open world sandbox game. horse chosen one rpg. horse 3D platformer. horse horror. horse brawler. horse Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild where link is a horse and nothing else changes. imagine it. it would be beautiful

[keerysfreckles]

A Luke fic with a read who’s the daughters of Aphrodite and its capture the flag and she uses her charms to distract him and ends up failing bc once her team she loses they see her and Luke but he has kiss marks all over his face and she’s blushing having her lipstick smudged??

all my love — luke castellan

pairing: luke castellan x aphrodite fem!reader

warnings: use of y/n and she/her pronouns, making out (tehehe), petnames used (princess, babe, love), like one curse word

a/n: I. LOVE. THIS. REQUEST.

masterlist !

꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱

y/n was well aware how much luke loved capture the flag. she knew he always helped annabeth lead the blue team to victory. being luke's girlfriend, she also knew his every move. which explains why y/n's currently waiting in a secluded spot in the middle of the forest, in between the lake and the mess hall.

she knew luke would show up soon, on his way to get the red team's flag, the team y/n was on. but capture the flag was the last thing on her mind.

the previous night luke had just so happened to make y/n, the overly confident daughter of aphrodite, become flustered in front of luke's whole cabin. this was going to be y/n's payback.

she tossed her red horse-hair helmet to the side many minutes ago. she hated how it messed up her hair. only a few minutes go by, until she hears rustled footsteps, leaves crunching under someone's shoe.

"princess?"

y/n turns at luke's voice.

"hi handsome," she smiles, waving her fingers.

luke takes off his own helmet, holding it between his arm and waist.

"what are you doing out here? shouldn't you be gaurding your flag, or fighting someone?"

y/n only walked closer, and she could've sworn you heard luke's heart rate pick up from where she was standing.

"i wanted to see you," y/n smiled again, her voice was soft. a contrast from the loud yelling from the capture the flag game going on around the couple.

y/n now stood close enough and wrapped her hands around luke's neck, playing with the dark curls. he hated to admit it but he could sit with y/n's hands in his hair for hours.

luke's helmet fell to the ground, while he held onto her waist.

y/n knew what she was doing to luke. being the daughter of aphrodite definitely had it's perks. y/n however, was lucky. not only could she make anyone fall in love with her with the bat of an eye, she had the power to wrap any soul around her finger. the ladder was happening to luke. what? she loved teasing him.

before luke could ask anymore questions, y/n stood up on her tip toes to kiss luke's lips. he gasped, taken aback by the action, but of course he kissed back. y/n's hands only tighted on his hair as she started deepening the kiss. luke walked the two backwards, pushing y/n's back into a tree. y/n pulled her lips away from luke, but only to place another kiss at the corner of his lips, a few on his cheeks, nose and three on his neck.

luke's ears perked at the sound a horn blowing in the distance. it was chiron, standing next to clarisse with the blue flag in her hands.

"you little cheater!" luke poked y/n in her sides, "you distracted me."

y/n only shrugs, "who's to say?"

luke and y/n both make their way towards the mess hall, where they heard the horn sound coming from.

once the two apear out of the woods, percy's quick to nudge annabeth. the girl turns, and gasps so loudly that it catches the attention of the nearby campers.

"holy shit, what happened to you?" clarisse shouts in amusement from beside chiron.

"clarisse," chiron states in a lecturing tone.

"sorry, wrong time."

the campers all see y/n and luke standing beside one another. luke wasn't aware of the plethora of red lipstick stains all over his face and neck. he turned to y/n, confused as ever, and just watched as she wiped away her smudged lipstick.

"told you i'd get you back from last night."

[yelenasbraid]

always a winner — joe burrow

summary — you’re at an away show and can’t make it to the game against the ravens. with the frustration of the loss, joe can’t help but be upset.

warnings — fem!equestrian!reader, major angst, arguments, fluff, sad joe, self-degradation talk

note — look 😭 i’m sorry for the horse lore, i got a bit crazy with it (kind of self indulgent since i used to ride horses lol) but i hope it’s not too crazy for you! if it is sorry in advance!!!

YOU HAD TO BE CAREFUL to not let the silence scare you. the anticipation that sat in the air, eyes moving with the horses in front of them.

horse shows were both quiet and loud at the same time. the rounds themselves were quiet, all attention on the team below them. it was also because anything could spook a horse and derail the entire thing.

you liked the silence. it allowed you to think, to process the steps ahead of you. as you cleared another jump, you were 15 seconds away from snatching first place. as you rounded a corner, pushing your horse towards the final jump, you felt every move you made. your hips flexing, your thighs wrapping around your horse, your hands making room for your horse’s movements as you soared over the last jump.

“with a time of 1.15, y/n l/n snatches the first place slot,” the announcer speaks over the loudspeaker, cheers erupting from the crowd. you pumped your fist in the air, bringing it down to pat your horse. as you galloped around, wearing a bright smile, your thoughts wondered to your boyfriend, who played barely an hour away from where you were.

flashback

“oh, come on, i think you’re being a little dramatic,” you laughed on the phone, packing your riding gear up. joe was in his hotel room, prepping for the game that evening.

“i am not! i feel like a part of me is missing when you’re not here,” joe pouted, and you could hear the pout on the other side of the screen. you didn’t understand why players had to be in hotel rooms even when games were at home, but it was routine. you and joe were used to it.

“i wish i could be there,” you hummed, falling on your back onto your bed. you would leave for your show in about an hour, and by that time, joe would be getting on the field.

“me too, but you’re gonna do great. i want to hear all about it,” he smiled. he needed you there, though. he felt the loss in his chest, the ache of it all spreading across his body.

“oh you are,” you assured him. silence bred between you, unspoken words and topics fizzling into vision.

“on a serious note, joey, no matter what happens out there, i’m proud of you, ok? you’ve come so far, have done so well, and i am so so proud of you,” you reminded him. you knew that this season hasn’t been what joe wanted. the losses, the one win, he needed a win against the ravens.

“thank you, love. that means a lot,” he hummed. you were always in his corner, supporting him in the small and big ways. he just wished you were there.

end of flashback

you walked out, cheeks flushed and a proud smile on your face. a bright, blue ribbon was pinned on your horse’s bridle as you walked out. your coach came up and patted your horse’s neck.

“see what happens when i tell you to trust your gut?” she playfully smacked your thigh, causing you to let out a puff of air.

“yeah yeah,” you joked. your eyes met your friend’s, who came up to you with your phone in hand. you told her to keep tabs on the game for you, even though you’d watch highlights on the way home.

“it’s not good,” she started, which was a terrible start. your smile dropped, your heart rate increased, and the worst case scenarios started bombarding you. was it joe? is he ok? is he hurt? please tell me he’s not hurt.

“what is it?” you asked, dismounting. you held your reins in your hands as you looked at the score. 38-41. you were in disbelief. when you checked before your ride, they were in the lead. a good lead too, what happened?

your friend seemed to read your mind.

“evan missed the kick because the holder slipped his grip on the ball in overtime,” she answered. overtime? they went into overtime? you closed your eyes, pursing your lips. sorrow seeped into the cracks in your chest, bleeding down into your soul. you opened your eyes, fighting the tears that stung you. not here. people are going to ask.

you handed your horse to your coach, taking your phone from your friend. you knew joe was beating himself up. you knew he was going over every play, every single thing that went wrong. you knew that he was angry. he had every right to be. you couldn’t even begin to imagine what he was thinking, the defeat, the pain, all of it. he worked so hard to get where he was, and to lose 4 games didn’t prove to the world joe burrow was back. you saw beyond that stat, though. you saw other numbers, like his passing yards exceeded that of mahomes and lamar. you saw his dedication, his work ethic, and his commitment to the sport and his health. you were so beyond proud of him, but you knew that he wasn’t feeling any of that right now.

—

the show packed up from there. horses were loaded, saddles were put away, and you changed into something more comfortable. you sit in the passenger seat of the truck, your coach driving you home. she picked you up, explaining that she didn’t want you to have to drive home.

it was sweet, and it also meant you got to see joe faster.

the truck comes to a stop in your driveway, and you can see lights on in the house. joe was home. of course he was, the game ended around 4 pm, and it was now 6. you gathered your things before stepping out, thanking your coach for the ride. you huffed, walking up to your door, trying to be as quiet as possible.

game day joe was unpredictable. if he won, he was in a great mood, and you usually celebrate in more ways than one. when he lost, he hid himself away, lost himself in film and away from you.

you’ve mentioned it, and he’s worked on it, but it was hard for him to be close to someone else when he didn’t even want to be around himself. you just wanted to be there for him, to hold him and reassure him that he was still good, that you were still proud of him.

you walked in the door, the silence of the house deafening. you softly shut the door, locking it behind you as you walked into your home. it was cozy. blankets were neatly folded across the couch and folded in the basket, pictures hung on the wall, and small items of decor that had joe and y/n etched all over it. it was home, but you couldn’t ignore the forgotten water bottle on the island or the strewn shoes by the door. you flicked your eyes upwards when you heard shifting, signs of life from your boyfriend.

“babe?” you called, slipping off your shoes and neatly placing them by the door. you walked into the kitchen, dropped your bag in order to fill up your water bottle. you heard footsteps, and then descending steps. you turned to see your boyfriend walk into view. he looked exhausted. his face was sullen, eyes void of any light, and his hands hung loosely at his sides. his hair was wet; signs of a shower.

“how was it?” he asked. his voice was hoarse, and if he was honest, he didn’t want to talk. he wanted to be left alone, but at the same time he needed to see you. you weren’t at the game, you didn’t see him after he walked into the tunnel, or after the presser. no matter how often it happened, he was never used to it. why weren’t you there?

“it was good, stayed on and was safe,” you answered. telling him you won first place didn’t seem appropriate, but you knew he’d ask.

“did you place?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the wall. he knew you did, you always did. unlike him, you managed to win at your sport.

“i did,” you started, your eyes flicking over his form. he looked small, and not in the physical sense, in the emotional sense. he barely held eye contact with you, but he was standing there, with you. he looked like a little boy, dressed in a loose fitting black shirt and sweats. his expression was hard, his nose red and cheeks raw.

he nodded and turned away from you, starting back up the stairs.

“joe,” you called after him. his heart jumped in his chest; he didn’t want to talk about it.

“i don’t want to talk, y/n,” he told you, a little harsher than he intended.

“don’t distance yourself from me, please,” you stepped towards him, and he went rigid. you stopped, watching as he turned to face you, his eyes now full of emotions. anger, guilt, sadness.

“you’re telling me that?” he snapped. he didn’t want to do this, he didn’t want to go there. you didn’t deserve it. you were right, and he begged himself to stop.

“what?” your voice is small, confused.

“you’re the one who told me a week ago she was going to be at the game, you’re the one who spent all of her time at the barn this week, you’re the one who’s avoided me,” everything is crashing down on him, the loss, his failure, his undeniable need for you.

“i don’t go to the barn to avoid you, joey. you know that,” you reminded him, trying to keep some semblance of peace. his emotions were running rampant, and he was trying to control them.

“you’re there for hours, you’re not home when i get home, and i’ve ate dinner by myself for a few days this week,” he feels the familiar sting of tears in his eyes, the clench in his chest. joe knows you’re there for hours, and he’s never voiced having an issue with it. joe knew that he sounded like he didn’t make much sense, but nothing was making sense for him.

“joe, what-”

“you weren’t there! you weren’t there and i needed you there,” his voice raised, standing a few feet in front of you.

“joe, with my schedule and yours i can’t be at every game! i thought we were in agreement with this,” you defended. you watched as his face shattered, the wall coming down, the realization settling in. he thought he’d be winning by now, at least 2-3, but he wasn’t.

“but i needed you,” he whispered, but his anger was still present. he wasn’t angry at you, he didn’t blame you, but his anger at himself manifested into it being towards you. a single tear slipped down his cheek, his eyes red with the threat of more.

the silence between you was poison, seeping into your pores and creating the sour cocktail of anxiety. your eyes never left joe’s body, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the unshed tears, and the shattered look in his eyes.

you should’ve been there.

“i’m sorry i wasn’t there,” you started, fiddling with your fingers. joe shook his head, wiping his eyes and his nose.

“it doesn’t change anything,” he snapped.

“i know it doesn’t, but i can’t control my schedule, just like you can’t,” you told him. he knew you were right. he knew how it worked, yet his emotions betrayed him. that’s not really how it works. she just wants to have an excuse to not see you embarrass yourself.

he looked at you, his eyes puffy and red. his arms ached, desperate to be around you. his heart raced, chest heaving with every inhale and exhale. the more he met eyes with you, the more his body relaxed. he swam in your expression, the softness of it but also the sternness of it. you’d defend yourself even if he was being unreasonable. his hands hung at his sides, his chest still tight.

he needed you, and you were here. now.

you gingerly approached him, watching as his head dipped to avoid eye contact with you. his chest heaved, his breaths clawing at his eyes; don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry. your hand gently rested on his cheek, guiding him to look at you. his eyes met yours, and his heart lurched. he didn’t want to sob, but he couldn’t help it. a sob escaped his throat, and you pulled him for a hug. you cradled the back of his neck, fingers caressing his skin as he buried his face into your shoulder, tears cascading down his raw cheeks.

joe hated arguing with you. he hated it even more when he was the one to start it. joe knew you worked hard, he knew that your commitment to your sport matched his own, but with how vulnerable he felt, he just needed his safety blanket. he needed you to help put his pieces back together, to remind him of who he was. as his arms held onto you, keeping you close to his body, he felt his breathing settle and his heart rate slow.

after a few moments, joe pulled away, wiping the remaining tears from his eyes. when you first started dating, joe didn’t cry in front of you. he didn’t want you to think he was weak, or that he wasn’t able to handle the load. as time went on, you became the only person besides his parents he’d cry to. he felt safe with you, he felt like he could give you his emotions and you’d take care of them.

your hands cupped his cheeks, one of his hands resting on yours.

“i’m sorry,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. your shoulders sagged, a small smile gracing your lips.

“i forgive you,” you hummed, brushing an escaped tear from his eye.

“i know we’ve talked about it,” he sniffled, “and i have gotten better at letting you in, but it’s not always easy,” he confessed. you knew that, it wasn’t human nature to confess your deepest feelings, even to those closest to you. it was a protective measure.

“it’s not going to be easy, but the important thing is that you try,” you spoke softly, your hands falling from his cheeks.

“i want to win,” he whispered, his eyes glazing over with fresh tears, “i want to win so badly, for the team, for cincinnati, for you,” he continued, his voice breaking.

“and you will, trust me. you will win, even if you’re already a winner in my eyes,” you tagged a lighter tone to your words, which caused joe to break out a small smile. silence fell between you, unspoken words oozing out of joe’s skin.

“i am proud of you, i always will be, but i do want to bring home wins too,” he added. you chuckled, grabbing his hands and rubbing your thumbs over his knuckles.

“who has the trophy in the basement?” you joked, earning a chuckle from joe, “in all seriousness, you are going to bring home wins. we win together, not separately. when you win, i win. we do this together,” you gave his hands a squeeze, earning a bright smile from him. you leaned up and pecked his lips, then his forehead.

“i am proud of you, joe. every step you’ve taken, every yard you’ve thrown, i am beyond proud of you,” your words sunk into his skin, reminding him of who he was. he was joe burrow, joe sheisty, the quarterback that brought the bengals back to life.

“i love you,” he whispered, resting his forehead against yours.

“i love you,” you hummed. the warm moment was interrupted by the growling of joe’s stomach. you laughed, jokingly patting his stomach.

“is someone hungry?” you chuckle, pulling your head away from his. he laughed, nodding his head.

“i’ve not eaten dinner yet,” he confessed, earning a smack on the arm.

“joseph lee!” you scolded with a smile, “as much as you speak on eating healthy, you need to practice what you preach,” you teased as you walked into the kitchen. joe followed, watching as you opened the fridge. you had leftovers from the previous night, so you pulled those out.

“i do! most of the time,” he rebutted as he watched you place food on plates. as you stuck one in the oven, he wrapped his arms around you again. he melted into you, all 6’4 of him. you ran your hand down his back, then back up to his hair to run your fingers through his frosted tips. the microwave beeped, separating you two.

“we should watch a movie,” joe suggested as you put the second plate in.

“like old times?” you smiled, remembering the movie nights in college.

“yeah, except i won’t commentate,” he assured you. both of you were bad at it, especially marvel movies, which made it amazing when you two watched movies together. with friends? oh it was terrible.

“i’ll believe that when i see it,” you replied. with your plates of food, you walked over and sat on the couch, turning on a movie. joe sat next to you, leaning his shoulder on you. you didn’t mind how clingy he was, you embraced it. you sat, ate dinner, and watched a movie. a comforting and familiar experience.

with dinner done, plates on the coffee table, the movie still going on, joe nestled himself against your chest. his cheek against your chest, listening to your stead heartbeat, it was putting him to sleep. your hands combing through his hair didn’t help either. joe eventually fell asleep, his face tucked away in your shirt and his arms around you. you kissed the top of his head, a smile on your face.

“sweet dreams, my love,”

rushed ending so sorry about that! i will say though, as work picks up for me i might not be writing as much. there’s also some other stuff going on too so that’s fun 🤪 so i will post when i can! hope you guys enjoy the writing before i get burnt out lol.

tags — @wickedfun9

[whataperfectwasteoftime]

The Gift

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Virgin f!Reader

Rating: E (explicit smut, 18+ only)

Word Count: 9.2k

Warnings: Period typical sexism and treatment of women, period-typical ideas of virginity and virtue, Marcus is a bit rude at first but he comes around quickly, attempted assault that is heavily implied to be sexual, canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort, wound care, yearning, virginity loss, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected PIV sex, mushy endings :)

Summary: The Emperor of Rome has given his most valued General, Marcus Acacius, a generous gift after his recent successful battle. Rather than the gold he’s hoping for, Marcus is stunned when a young virgin is delivered to his chambers. At first, he refuses to entertain the idea of stealing the virtue of a scared girl, but their lives become entwined when he learns that refusing his ‘gift’ puts her in even more danger…

A/N: The art in the header is by @norththelemon and is inspired by Paulo and Virginia by Alessandro Puttinati. Thank you so much for letting me use this artwork for my fic!!! <3 The artwork does not necessarily reflect the appearance of the reader character; rather, it is a reflection of the original artwork. The only physical description I included of reader is that she has long, curly hair (color and texture are never mentioned). Marcus’s pet name for her, bellatora, very loosely translates to “little warrior.” Thank you to the lovely @leslie-lyman for the beta! **NOTE: as attempted SA can be triggering to some people, I have separated out this section with asterisks (******). You can quickly skip this scene and you will not miss any significant plot. If you have any questions, do not hesitate to send me a DM! Be safe <3

Masterlist

Marcus rides through the streets of Rome, the cheers of citizens ringing in his ears and the white petals being thrown from above him sticking in his curls. The populus is joyful, but he cannot help but think of the cost of the battle, about the sons and husbands who he knows are not returning home.

He longs for a bath, to wash the grime, dirt and blood from his body. He longs to strip off the heavy, soiled armor and lay down on his bed, naked and warm and full of bread and wine, and sleep for several days.

First, however, he must endure the long procession up to the palace, where the Emperor was surely waiting for him–where he would have to play all the little games that come with positions of power: smile, nod, say the right words and act in the ways that other people expect of a General.

The horse whinnies nervously as the cacophony swells, and Marcus gently pats its neck, sending a cascade of petals to the ground to be trodden underfoot by so many hooves.

The Emperor waits at the top of the Palace steps, surrounded by all of his court and Roman nobility. Without allowing any of the contempt he feels to show on his face, Marcus Acacius dismounts from the horse and slowly ascends the marble stairs. When he reaches the top, the Emperor pulls him into an exaggerated hug, slapping his back and cheering loudly enough for the onlookers to hear.

“Congratulations to you, my friend, for your triumph and victory over the vanquished,” the man booms, slapping Marcus's pauldron again for good measure and causing another great cheer to rise up from the crowd.

Marcus does not say anything, but he turns to face the onlookers and unsheathes his sword, raising it over his head victoriously, knowing that's what they all want him to do. The resulting din seems to rattle the very stones of the palace.

“You must be weary, good soldier,” the Emperor tells him. “Go now and rest. A gift will be sent to your chambers to show your Emperor’s appreciation for your prowess in battle.”

Marcus nods and bows deeply, indicating his gratitude for his Lord's generosity. He's most thankful, however, for the quick dismissal.

The General’s quarters in the palace are spacious and outfitted with all modern amenities Marcus could ever think to ask for. He quickly lights a fire under the basin to begin heating water for a bath. He begins removing his armor, leaving it by the door where he knows it will be collected for cleaning and polishing. He discards the filthy underclothing and retrieves a clean cloth with which to wash.

It is only now that Marcus is able to take sock tock of his injuries; as the grime is wiped clean from his body, he can finally see where the blood was his, and where the blood was not his. His arms are peppered with bruises and superficial wounds, but nothing that requires any dressing. 

He is lucky. 

Marcus dresses in loose robes, luxuriating in the feeling of being free and unencumbered by his armor. With a deep, satisfied sigh, he settles himself down on the bed, surrounded by the ornate pillows that come with Palace trappings, and closes his eyes.

They’ve barely been closed for a few minutes when a knock sounds at the door. 

Marcus frowns. All his joints and muscles protest when he reluctantly rises from the bed again and opens the door. He’s greeted by one of the Emperor’s personal guard, who is roughly holding the upper arm of a young girl.

“What is the meaning of this?” Marcus asks hesitantly, taking in the girl’s simple, white shift that clings to her breasts and hips, her trembling lips, and her wide, terrified eyes.

“The Emperor, in his generosity, presents you with this virgin as reward for your duty to Rome,” the guard announces. He pushes the girl forward into Marcus’s chambers and shuts the door behind him.  

“What in the Gods’...” the General murmurs under his breath as you are shoved unceremoniously into the room.

You curtsy deeply, remembering, despite your fear, what you have been instructed to do. “M-My Lord,” you whisper through trembling lips. You can only stare at the floor, unable to look at the man to whom you have been gifted.

“I had been hoping for gold,” the man grumbles. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

He sounds angry. This terrifies you more.

“I am f-for your… p-pleasure,” you try to explain. “My Lord.” You deepen the curtsy, until your knees nearly scrape the floor. If you please him, perhaps he will not be unkind.

“Stop that. Get up.” the man snaps. “I’m not in the mood for deflowering virgins.”

“S-Sir?” You don’t understand. You weren’t prepared for the man to say no. You were bathed, dressed, and told that you were to be a gift for a mighty general. You were to please him, let him bed you, and serve him until he tired of you. You were instructed to kneel, to address him as only “My Lord,” and to do whatever he asked of you. Only then would the debt your father owed to the Emperor be paid in full. 

You were not given instructions on what to do if the General refused his gift.

“D-Do I not please My Lord?” you try again. Terrified of being turned away, sent back to your father, where they’d surely kill you both, you begin to cry.

“By the Gods–stop, come here,” the General says, sounding exasperated. He gently leads you to a chair and indicates you should sit. You do. He crouches on his heels so that your heads are level, and examines you. “Who are you, girl?”

“I… am the only daughter of Proculus Opilio,” you sniffle. “I am a gift for his Lord’s pleasure.”

The man’s fingers take hold of your chin; his hands are gentle as he guides your eyes up to his. “Why are you a gift,” he presses.

“M-My family owes a great debt,” you whisper. “I am to be payment for our transgressions against the Emperor.”

“The Emperor sends me a frightened child,” the man growls as he quickly stands and paces away from you, “and calls it a gift.”

“You must accept,” you say frantically, hopping up from your seat and following him. “They will know if you do not, and we will be punished for it.”

The general scoffs. “What, they intend on checking?” he asks, as if such a thing is too ridiculous to be spoken aloud.

“Yes,” you whisper. They told you as such.

“Girl,” he says sternly. “I am not going to enact such violence on a scared child.”

“I am not a child,” you argue, sticking your chin up. “I have seen nineteen summers, almost twenty.”

The General seems to find this funny. He huffs, shaking his head and turning away. “Go home, girl.”

“I cannot go home,” you say, and start to cry again. 

“Stop. Stop,” the man entreats. He turns toward you again and cages your face in his hands, rubbing the tears away with his thumbs. “Okay. Do not worry, I will… Gods, I will help. You and your family will come to no harm.”

“Thank you,” you say emphatically, your hands coming up to your shoulders in preparation to unclasp your shift.

“No! Stop!” You freeze again, eyes wide.

The General softens, and gentles his words. “Please stop. I am weary from battle and I need to sleep. Please… let us both rest, and after that we may discuss this with level heads.”

“Of course, My Lord,” you nod, curtsying again. 

“Marcus.”

“...My Lord?”

“Call me Marcus. I am no Lord.”

“As you wish, My Lord.” It comes out automatically.

The General–Marcus–raises one eyebrow.

“...Marcus.” You watch as the man pads over to the bed and collapses onto it with a heavy sigh. 

“You may sleep here, you may sleep elsewhere, it does not concern me,” he mumbles, eyes already closed. “I am not long for this world and will be unconscious for quite some time, I imagine.”

His words are correct; within a matter of minutes the man is snoring. 

Alone and scared, you sink back down into the chair, and begin to cry again.

Marcus wakes with something tickling his nose. Opening his eyes, he’s greeted by a mass of curls on his pillow, framing the angelic face of… 

Oh.

He had forgotten about you. At some point, you had clearly decided to sleep as well, because you are curled up next to him, your hands clasped under your chin and your lips slightly parted in sleep. This is the first time he’s seen your face not terrified, and he realizes that you are really quite beautiful.

He does not know what to do with you. 

Marcus has never had a shortage of willing partners, and he is uninterested in the alternative. You are pretty, young, and soft, but he is not the sort of man to force himself on a woman. Even if you did ask him in no uncertain terms to do so, it would not be for the right reasons. 

He needs to find a way out of this situation, ideally with his life, your life, and the lives of your family still intact; he did not wade through the blood and mire of battlefield just to condemn an innocent woman to death.

“Girl,” he says lowly, and your eyes open quickly. They go wide at his proximity, and you scramble back a few inches, creating more space between you.

“H-Hello,” you greet him shakily. 

“Good morn,” he replies. “How are you feeling?”

“Well-rested, My Lo–Marcus.” You offer him a small, timid smile. 

Marcus glances toward the window. “It must be almost midday,” he says, noticing the angle of the sun. He’d fallen asleep yesterday in the late afternoon, slept all night, and through the morning. He hopes you did the same. 

“I am famished.” He gets up from the bed–Gods, his muscles still ache–and pads toward the door to his chambers. “With any luck, this morning’s breakfast will still be outside.” 

It feels like the only act of providence that has happened since his return to the Palace that the breakfast tray is still there, laden with fresh bread and fruit. He carries it inside and sets it on the small table in his chambers. He grabs a piece of bread with one hand and beckons you over with the other, too hungry to be polite and wait for you before tearing a piece off with his teeth. He finishes the bread in a few bites, but you still stand near the bed, unmoving and watching him with wary eyes.

“Come. Eat.” Marcus grabs another piece of bread and a handful of grapes. 

Hesitantly, you approach the table, looking like a wild animal unsure of whether the human offering you food can be trusted.

“I do not bite, girl,” he grumbles. 

You snatch a loaf off of the table and retreat backwards a couple of paces, breaking off small pieces and popping them into your mouth as you continue to stare at him. 

“What will you do with me?” you ask.

“Do with you?” Marcus laughs humorlessly. “Nothing.” 

“Nothing?” you repeat, beginning to sound angry. Good. Marcus would rather you be anything but the timid, scared girl that was shoved into his chambers. “So you would condemn my family to death?”

“I am not going to take an unwilling woman to bed,” he growls, taking more grapes from the tray and popping them into his mouth. 

“Most people would do far worse to save the life of a loved one,” you argue. 

Marcus scoffs. “I’ve seen and done things you could not imagine, girl. If losing your maidenhood is the worst thing you can conceive of–”

“It is not,” you snap, stamping your foot in a show of exasperated petulance. “If you are not going to help me, then… I—I hope the gods curse you!” you finish lamely. You spin on your heels and retreat to the corner of his room, sitting down on a chair and crossing your arms with a huff. 

Marcus closes his eyes. He is being too harsh with her, too cruel. He has spent too long shouting orders at his men of late, and not enough time offering comfort or kind words. He grimaces and approaches you with caution. You glare at him, and he doesn’t blame you, but he slowly sinks to his knees in front of you before speaking.

“I have been unkind,” he says softly. “Please forgive my rudeness.”

He watches as your pretty eyes narrow, then widen, then narrow again as a number of emotions seem to flicker across your face. Your lips part, but you don’t respond, and Marcus forges on.

“I did not ask to be put in this situation, and neither did you. I made a promise to you last night that you and your family will come to no harm, but we must work together to keep you safe.”

“Would it not be easier to simply take your ‘gift’?” you sniffle, jutting your chin out and trying–unsuccessfully, he thinks to himself–to be brave.

Marcus chuckles softly, reaching forward and gently grasping both of your hands. “I have committed enough violence in the name of Emperor and Country to last a man several lifetimes. I may not have been as kind as I should have been to you, but I will not take the innocence of a scared girl who is being used as a pawn in the evil games of powerful men.”

You sniffle again, wiping your nose on the back of one hand. “Sometimes I wish I could just be free of this cursed ‘gift’ of innocence and lose all value to men like that.”

Marcus huffs in amusement. “Do you, now?”

You sigh, turning and looking out of the window. “How nice it would be to be valued for other qualities, instead,” you murmur, speaking more to yourself than to him. When you turn back to look at him, you ask, “How will you–we–subvert the wishes of the Emperor himself?”

Ah. He was rather hoping you wouldn’t ask, at least not yet. Truthfully, he has no idea; all he can really hope to do is attempt to sway the Emperor in some way, or at the very least, buy him some time. 

“I will request an audience,” Marcus tells you. “I must go soon to debrief with the other generals, and he will be in attendance. I will speak to him, garner favor…” he trails off, knowing how vague and uncertain he sounds. 

“You would really take such a risk for me…?” you ask hesitantly. 

“The Emperor, in his wisdom, has bestowed upon me a gift,” Marcus says sardonically. “And as I see it, that gift is now mine, and is under my protection.” He gently cups your cheek, letting his palm rest against the slightly damp skin. “We will use his… generosity… to our advantage.”

He stands, letting his fingers trail across your jaw before pulling his hand back. “I must go. Do not open the door to anyone while I am gone.”

In the General’s absence, you finish off the rest of the breakfast tray, which was plentiful. With a full belly, you wander around the man’s chambers, exploring the space that will also be yours for the foreseeable future. You wash in the basin, splashing cool water on your face and sighing in relief. For the first time in over a day, you are finally able to breathe and take stock of your situation.

You should be grateful, really. The General Marcus, although gruff and tactless at times, seems to be a caring, even kind man. You believe him when he says he will protect you, protect your family, even though you have nothing to give him in return. Nothing he wishes to take, at any rate. 

Your eyes fall on an ornate dagger sitting on a table near the window, and you cannot help but think of the way his hands–the same hands that would fiercely wield a weapon to slice through skin and bone–so gently touched your face. 

A loud knock on the door to Marcus’s chambers startles him out of your reverie. A soft noise of surprise escapes you before you are able to clap your hand over your mouth to stifle it. You can tell that whoever is on the other side of the door has heard you, because they pause, listening, and then knock again.

The handle rattles as someone on the other side turns it back and forth, testing the strength of the lock, and your heart pounds with trepidation. 

They cannot get in. They cannot get in. They cannot get in. You repeat the phrase over and over in your head, but then you hear the distinct click as the lock is bypassed or picked, and the door swings wide.

“Well, well, well,” a man in ornate robes sneers. “It appears the rumors are true.”

**********************************

Another man in similar garb pushes past him. “Our beloved general has a new toy.” The words are dripping in sarcasm.

You back up against the wall, and the table next to you rattles when you bump it with your hip. Quickly, you pick up the dagger and point it at the intruders.

Both men guffaw loudly, slapping their knees and shoving each others’ shoulders in their apparent mirth. “She has teeth, she does!” one of them jeers.

“Tell us, did you bite the General when he stuck you?”

The men lunge forward, and you slash with the blade. One of them howls, clutching at his arm, where red is already beginning to well up between his fingers, but you are unused to wielding weapons and the second man rips it from your grasp easily.

“You little bitch,” the injured one spits, and slaps you, hard, with his good hand, the blood from his injury splashing your face and your white robes. You crumple in an instant, clutching your cheek, as the two men close in.

“I bet she squeals nice and loud,” one of them growls menacingly as he reaches for you.

*************************************

A loud bang from behind the men makes them startle. You look for the source, and see the General standing in the doorway with fury in his eyes. He wrenches another dagger from its scabbard and, with no warning, lunges forward and plunges it into the neck of the man who had reached for you. With a sickening gurgle, the man collapses instantly, and red blood begins to pool underneath him. Marcus rips the dagger from the man’s neck and points it at the second man as he shoves him against the wall, who immediately begins to whimper and shake his head. 

“Sniveling cur,” the General spits. “I would happily kill you both, but you are going to deliver a message for me instead.” At the man’s frantic nod, he continues. “It seems that some need reminding that I am not to be trifled with,” Marcus snarls. “And the next person who disrespects me by harming my property will be dealt with in the same manner as your friend. Now. Go.” 

The man bolts, clutching the wound you had given him.

Marcus’s demeanor immediately changes. He drops the dagger on the floor and falls to his knees in front of you, taking your face in his hands again… hands that are trembling. 

“They hurt you,” he murmurs, his eyes rapidly flicking back and forth over your face, seeing the blood that had spattered on your robes.

“It isn’t mine,” you manage to say, although your voice shakes and your chest heaves with leftover terror. You can’t keep your gaze from landing on the dead man in front of you, his eyes still open and staring sightlessly ahead. “I–your knife I–”

“Okay,” he nods, his thumbs still caressing your cheekbones. “Okay. Shhh. Don’t look at him, look at me.” When you manage to pull your gaze to the General instead, you’re suddenly captivated by his wild, dark eyes. They’re so full of fire, yes, but with that fire brings warmth. He stares at you as if you are a precious object, not some scared little girl covered in blood and cowering against the wall. “Come here,” Marcus says softly. “Let me help you up.”

You surprise even yourself when you automatically lean forward and into the General’s arms. He stiffens, seemingly just as stunned by your trust in him, but he recovers and carefully stands, pulling you up with him and gently turning your body away from the dead man. He leads you forward, and you follow blindly as he guides you down onto a chair. 

“Let me fetch a cloth,” Marcus says, his expression stormy and troubled, “to clean you up. Do not move.”

You nod, watching as he fills a little bowl with water from the basin and comes back to crouch at your feet. “Your cheek,” he murmurs. “Is it very painful?”

You nod again, a few hot tears escaping from your eyes and stinging the small cut in question. 

“I will be as gentle as I can,” Marcus promises. “But it must be cleaned.”

You shut your eyes as his fingers carefully grasp your chin, using his hold to tilt your head and grant him easier access. The cloth is cold against the burning skin of your cheek, and you cannot stop the soft whimper that leaves your lips. Gently, the General dabs the little wound, dipping the cloth in water over and over and soothing the tender skin as he wipes it clean of dirt and blood.

Once satisfied with your cheek, he cleans the man’s blood off of the rest of your face and neck, as well as the few droplets that had landed on your hands from the other man as he was stabbed. 

“Thank you,” you whisper hoarsely as he gently turns one hand over and dabs away the last remaining spot of blood on the inside of your wrist. 

“You should not be thanking me,” Marcus says, voice tinged with bitterness. “It is because of me that you came to harm.”

“Yet it is also because of you that I was not harmed further,” you tell him quietly. Your eyes dart toward the body in a pool of blood still lying on the floor, and quickly look away again. “You killed a man for me.”

“You are under my protection,” Marcus says solemnly. “I do not take that vow lightly.”

As your heartbeat finally begins to slow, the deep terror that had been swirling inside you leaves, replaced with bone-weary fatigue. Your vision swims and your head sways slightly as you suddenly feel that you must fight the urge to fall asleep right here in this chair.

“Something ails me,” you say, alarmed at your darkening vision.

“Battle fatigue,” the General says matter-of-factly. “When the fog of war lifts, sleep often takes its place.”

“I am no soldier,” you protest tiredly. The world shifts–Marcus has scooped you into his arms and is carrying you to his bed, carefully laying you down on the blankets. 

“You are now,” he teases gently. “Victorious little soldier, bellatora, wielding a General’s weapon with ferocity. You even have a battle scar.” His finger gingerly brushes your cheek.

“Will others come?” you ask, struck with a sudden pang of fear even as your eyes threaten to close. 

“No.”

“What if they do?” It’s a silly question, and you aren’t sure why you even gave voice to such a childish fear. Warmth envelops you as Marcus covers your form with a blanket. Your eyes finally close, and the General’s last words seem to come to you through a dream.

“Then I will fight the entire Roman army to keep you safe.”

Marcus Acacius did not want this “gift.” 

He did not want a virgin to deflower, nor a scared girl to comfort, or even a servant that inexplicably tidied his rooms while he was away.

He did not want you. 

But here you are, sitting by his window with a book, eating all of your dinner and a good portion of his, and leaving long, curly hairs on his pillows, by the basin, and even on his armor–something he had discovered during a drill one morning, pulling the offending strand off of his pauldron with a bemused shake of his head. 

He does not want you. He doesn’t want the comb and mirror that now lie on the table by the basin, nor the extra rags he had to ask a servant for–ears burning bright red–when your… er… monthlies arrived. He does not want to spend his wages on new robes for you, but he hardly has a choice, not when your thin white shift became filthy with blood the night that he–

Gods.

The night that he almost lost you.

If his meeting had gone just five minutes longer, he would have been too late. He would have arrived to a much different scene, and he knows he would have killed every inhabitant of the palace in retribution.

This is how he knows that he cannot trust his own feelings when it comes to you. What should be an unwanted inconvenience in his life has quickly become much, much more. He acts like a man in love, the way he buys you trinkets and brings you sweets, but no matter how he twists the story in his own head, he cannot deny the truth: you are a captive. His captive.

As if to punctuate his thoughts, a wealthy merchant crosses his path in the bustling market, followed by another man carrying all of the man’s wares for him, purposely walking several paces behind as is the custom for slaves.

Marcus can dress you in all the finery his salary can afford, but that does not change the fact that you were intended to be a slave for his pleasure. 

He already has his intended prize from the market–a parcel containing two pieces of sweetbread tucked under one arm–but perhaps it is guilt over your imprisonment that causes his head to wander to the stall of jewelry to his left. 

“Trinkets for a special someone,” says a middle-aged woman wearing kohl eyeliner and almost as many beads around her own neck as are displayed in her stall. She shoots Marcus a knowing smirk as his fingers reach out to graze a length of beads of palest pink. 

“Rose quartz,” the woman tells him. “For love, compassion, and emotional healing.”

Rose quartz. He cannot help but picture the pretty, pale beads glowing, luminous against the soft skin of your neck.

“How much?” His voice is rough and thick. 

The woman’s smile widens.

They cost almost an entire weeks’ salary, and he’s never spent such a sum on anything for himself, let alone something so frivolous, but he’s already reaching for his purse.

You grin widely at Marcus’s return–a sight that makes his heart swell when he remembers how frightened you were of him on that first night. You make little grabbing motions with your hands, causing him to laugh as he hands over the parcel of sweetbread. You take your piece and hand him the other, hardly waiting until he’s taken it before you’re biting into the sweet dough with a sound of pleasure that goes straight to his nether regions. 

He thinks of the necklace, wrapped in cloth and hidden in his robes, but he is struck with a moment of uncharacteristic cowardice, and he leaves it where it is. 

“Tell me about the market,” you say wistfully. 

“Too crowded,” Marcus grunts before taking a bite of his own sweetbread. 

You seem to find his cantankerous nature funny, for Gods know what reason, and the pretty sound of your laughter fills the room–and his mind.

“There are a number of visitors for some play at the amphitheater tonight,” he explains further, shrugging slightly.

You suddenly exclaim in delight, startling him a little. “I love the amphitheater,” you say emphatically. “My father often had to punish me for sneaking in to see plays against his wishes when I was a little girl.”

Marcus chuckles, picturing a smaller version of you, but no less fiery.

��It was worth it,” you laugh. You pop the last piece of sweetbread into your mouth and suck each finger clean of the sticky dough in turn. Marcus should look away, but he’s entranced by the way your lips close around each digit, leaving clean, shiny skin in your wake.

He blames this momentary onset of utter madness for the words that leave his mouth next.

“Would you like to go see it? The play?”

 The pure delight that washes over your face is enough to make Marcus want to take you to a different play every night, but after too short a time, you are frowning warily.

“Would that be wise?” you ask. “Is it not dangerous for me to leave your quarters?”

“You would be seen as my consort,” Marcus answers. “No harm will come to you, bellatora.”

“Your… your consort?” 

“You cannot be a prisoner in these walls for the rest of your days,” he tells you softly. “If we play the parts we have been given–the General and his consort–no one will question it. They wouldn’t dare, not after my warning. The entire palace knows that I will gladly kill anyone who threatens you.”

You duck your head, looking down at your hands. Marcus wonders if you’re frightened of him, still. 

“Everyone will see my act as one of possession,” he says. “Of territoriality. If we allow them to draw that conclusion, they will never suspect any different.”

You nod, biting your lower lip and giving him a timid smile that slowly spreads across your face and turns into something bright and joyful. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

“The play will end before we even arrive, bellatora,” Marcus grouses from the main chamber. 

“Patience,” you snap from the washroom. The stupid elaborate hairstyle that you keep trying to braid your hair into keeps falling out, and you’re beginning to feel frustrated. With a heavy sigh, you settle for a simpler plait that falls over one shoulder. You’re wearing one of the nicer gowns that Marcus has gifted you–robes of deep emerald green, but you still worry that you look far too common to be an appropriate consort to a General.

Since when has such a thing become a concern for you? Despite the roles you are forced to play, Marcus is not your consort, nor your lover. He has made it clear he will never touch you, so why are you hiding in the washroom, worrying over your appearance?

With a pained sigh, you shake yourself, square your shoulders, and turn to face the General.

“Ready,” you announce, and the man in question looks up.

His lips part slightly, a little crease forming on his brow as his eyebrows raise. He fixes you with that look–the one he keeps giving you lately. It’s as if he’s in a constant state of surprise every time he sees you, as if you aren’t a permanent fixture in his rooms and could disappear at any moment. 

“What?” you finally ask. 

Marcus seems to shake himself out of his stupor. “It is missing something.”

The statement confuses you. “I–I have nothing else to–” You cut yourself off as the man seems to be digging through his clothing, looking for what, you do not know.

“I thought this would suit you,” he says quietly, as he retrieves a small parcel and holds it out for you to take.

You hesitate, frowning. “What is it?”

Marcus huffs softly with impatience and opens the parcel himself, revealing the prettiest strand of stones you’ve ever seen in your life.

“Oh,” you gasp. 

“Do you…” the man in front of you clears his throat and shifts in his stance, “Do you like it?” he asks gruffly.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, I like it.”

Wordlessly, he removes it from the cloth and moves behind you to clasp it at the back of your neck. You can’t help the wide smile that breaks across your face at the feel of the cool beads resting against your throat. Gently, you touch the necklace with your fingers and turn to look at Marcus. “Does it look pretty?” you ask, still grinning at him.

The General’s face is almost pained when he returns your gaze. His eyes don’t leave yours when he softly answers, “Yes.”

Marcus Acacius has never been much for plays, but never before has he experienced seeing one with you. He can’t help cracking a small smile himself every time you let out a joyful peal of laughter, which you do often, as the story is a humorous one. 

The necklace suits you just as he thought it would, but your beauty almost makes the stones appear dull in comparison. If anyone were to ask him, Marcus would say that your smile could outshine all of Rome. Pretending that you are his consort is far too easy; your delicate fingers find the crook of his elbow without prompting when he offers his arm to you as you walk through the streets when the show ends. Your eyes always seem to find his, your face bright and hopeful and oh so lovely as you look up at him. 

“Marcus?” 

He’s been lost in his thoughts again. He grunts and nods to you as the two of you walk back to the palace, when you suddenly stop. 

“I want to tell you…” you begin, wringing your hands together nervously. 

“What is it, bellatora?” Marcus asks with concern.

“I want to tell you that I am… very happy,” you say, ducking your head and avoiding his gaze. 

“I am glad that you enjoyed the play,” Marcus says hesitantly, wondering what is making you suddenly be so… shy.

“With you,” you add quietly. “It’s not only the play, it’s… it’s just you, Marcus.” The final word is almost a plea, with how earnestly it leaves your lips. “I–I want you to know that I would. I would be your consort, i-if you wanted, and I’d–”

Marcus closes the small distance between you and presses his lips against yours. You yield to him immediately, your small hands moving up the planes of his chest and coming to rest at his jaw. You kiss with the slight timidness of someone unfamiliar with how to do it, but oh, he’s happy to guide you. One of his hands gently cups your neck, the other caresses your cheek and it’s all he can do to keep the kiss chaste and not frighten you by backing you up against the wall of the alleyway and opening his mouth to you. 

When he releases your lips, you chase him–leaning forward with your mouth still pouted and your eyes closed, as though you cannot bear to be parted from him, and it takes a herculean effort not to indulge.

“Come,” Marcus murmurs softly, his thumb tracing back and forth over your cheekbone, watching as you flutter your eyes open and look at him with an expression of such open trust and want that he feels as though he’ll burn from the inside out. “Come, let us go home.”

You are ablaze.

Marcus’s hands seem to burn with heat as he guides you hastily through the palace and to his familiar quarters, but their temperature still seems to pale in comparison to the heat that rises within you. 

Once inside, he kisses you again, and you swear your knees could simply buckle and give out just at the feel of his lips on yours. You crave it again and again; your hands grip at his robes to hold him close to you, hoping he’ll never stop. 

“Sweet girl, little bellatora,” Marcus murmurs, his lips dragging from your mouth across your cheek to the side of your neck and oh, you like that even more–your head falls to the side and your back arches as you all but beg for his lips on your skin again. His hand on your lower back guides you even closer until your bodies are pressing together and you gasp softly at the feeling of his body against yours.

“Tell me,” he whispers in your ear, his lips grazing the shell of your earlobe and causing a cascade of shivers to course through you. “Tell me that you want this. If you do not, deny me now, and I promise I will never touch you again.”

“No,” you whimper automatically. “No, please don’t stop, just–”

“Shhh, bellatora.” Marcus seems to crumple with relief, leaning forward until your back hits the wall and his lips ravish your neck once again. “I won’t stop, just tell me you want me like this.”

“Yes,” you gasp, as the General’s hands cage your face and his mouth meets yours once again. “Yes, yes, yes–” You repeat the word over and over into his mouth, until he groans softly and parts his lips too, deepening the kiss and tasting you with his tongue.

His hands caress your neck, fingertips running up and down before settling on the clasps on your shoulders. “Let me see you,” he whispers. “Please, let me–”

You pull back, looking in his eyes as you nod slowly, giving him permission. He carefully undoes your dress, letting the fabric fall and pool at your feet. The necklace is still around your neck, and he touches the beads lightly as he stares at the sight before him.

“Oh, Gods…” Marcus murmurs to himself, shaking his head in awe. “What a divine gift you are, bellatora.”

His eyes rake over your breasts, your hips, the swell of your stomach, and the fire burning within threatens to consume you. With one more soft kiss, he whispers, “Come to the bed, so I may worship you properly.”

You let him lead you, keeping your eyes on him as he takes your hands in his and pulls you toward the bed. You are too consumed with flames to feel fear of this moment, but a pang of nervousness thrums within you despite yourself. 

Marcus guides you down until you’re sitting on the edge of the bed. You begin to scoot backwards–you might not have much experience, but you know you’re supposed to be lying on the bed–when he stops you, and instead sinks to his knees in front of you. 

“I–” you begin, unsure of what to do.

“I want you to watch,” the General whispers, looking up at you in the same way an acolyte may look up at a temple. “I want you to see me.”

Slowly, cautiously, as if he’s afraid of spooking you, he guides your legs open until you’re splayed out in front of him. You would be embarrassed, but for the hungry look in his eyes, how his chest seems to heave in anticipation, and the way his tongue darts out to lick his lips as if he’s about to enjoy a feast.

When he leans forward, his mouth moving toward you, you gasp and stiffen, and he pauses.

“Trust me,” he soothes. “It will feel good, I promise.”

You swallow thickly and relax again, watching as Marcus comes even closer, until he’s able to press a kiss right on–

“Oh,” you whimper softly. 

Emboldened, he angles his mouth against you and licks. The sensation of his tongue through your folds causes you to collapse backwards on your elbows, your head falling back and your eyes closing as you gasp toward the ceiling. 

“Watch,” Marcus reminds you. 

With you half-sprawled on the bed, your legs fall open even further and his hands wind underneath your hips as he pulls you even closer onto his mouth. His tongue, his lips… oh, it’s so decadent; you’ve never felt pleasure like this by your own hand. He thrusts his tongue into you, and you can only whine and babble wordlessly, your eyes wide as you dutifully watch him please you. He alternates between these deep, overwhelming strokes of his tongue and little licks right on the little bundle of nerves above, back and forth, back and forth until your entire body shakes. 

“Exquisite,” Marcus rasps, his voice rough with exertion and pleasure. His lips close around you and he sucks gently, and the fire within you burns until it reaches a crescendo, until finally, you fall.

“Bellatora.” The endearment is laden with affection, and when you slowly blink your eyes open, the General is smiling down at you. “Are you with me, mi bellatora?”

You giggle. “I think so.”

He must have disrobed while your eyes were closed; you stare at his slightly golden chest, at the light dusting of hair and freckles, and further down, where–

Oh, Gods. 

Marcus hangs thick, heavy, and proud, and you swallow in trepidation at the thought of all of that inside you.

“Don't look at that; look at me.” The words are soothing, but tinged with humor, and you can see the mirth sparkling in his eyes when you do as he asks and look at him.

“Let us just lie down together,” he says, smiling. “Nothing more.”

You scoot up until your head rests against the pillows, and Marcus crawls over you with a smirk, pressing little kisses up your body as he goes, until he lies down beside you and pulls you into his arms.

With your back against his chest, you can't exactly forget about the hard length of him, as it's currently pressing insistently against you. You wiggle, arching your back and trying to soothe the empty ache that still seems to reside within you. 

“Feeling greedy, mi bellatora?” 

You whine softly and push back against him harder. His arms are wrapped around you, but somehow, it’s still not enough. You want him everywhere, you need everything. 

“What have you done to me?” you laugh softly. 

“Nothing you have not also done to me,” Marcus murmurs, nipping your shoulder playfully. 

“I have done nothing,” you say airily, leaning further back into his embrace.

“Oh, you have,” he growls. “You have invaded my quarters–”

“That is hardly my doing–”

“–and shortly after, invaded my heart,” Marcus continues, ignoring your interruption. “You have made me crave as I never have before.”

“You have made me feel the same,” you whisper. “I have never… felt anything like this before.”

“Mi bellatora,” he breathes against your skin, sending shivers up and down your spine.

“Do not be cruel.”

“Cruel?”

“You are denying me.”

At your playful accusation, Marcus suddenly shifts, rising up from beside you and pinning you to the bed with his body. “And it is taking the effort of every bone in my body, more challenging than all twelve labors of Hercules.”

“Then stop,” you tell him softly, reaching up to palm his cheek. “Stop denying us what we both want.”

Rather than answer, the General lowers his mouth to yours. 

Kissing might be your new favorite thing–you thought the feel of Marcus’s lips was the most perfect thing you’d ever felt when he kissed you in the alleyway, but here, in his bed, with the weight of his body pressing deliciously down on you, his kisses feel even more profound. His hips roll gently against you, and you instinctively wrap one leg around his thigh to try and relieve your desire for more friction. 

The action causes Marcus to groan and bury his face in your neck, his light beard scraping against your skin. Your hips cant upward unconsciously, and the skin of his cock catches and rubs against your folds. 

With a little moan, you press against him harder, wanting more, more–

“Bellatora,” Marcus groans. He props himself on one elbow over you, spits on the other hand and rubs the wetness onto the head of his cock. He repeats the motion again, and then gently rubs the remainder onto you, making you arch back with a surprised gasp. 

“I know, I know,” he murmurs. “It’ll be easier like this.”

He lines up the thick head of him with your entrance and pushes the tip in ever so slightly. Your eyes widen as you feel him, your mouth falling open as you stare up at him in awe.

“That’s it, just look at me,” Marcus murmurs. “Just keep looking at me.”

His face is so close to yours that your breaths mingle as he slowly slides in. You expect it to hurt, but you’re so soaked from his earlier attentions that it’s almost easy for him, at first. When he’s only about halfway in, though, you start to feel unbearably full–too full–and it makes you whimper softly and squirm against him.

“Breathe for me,” Marcus reminds you. “Breathe, mi bellatora.”

In between more kisses and soft praises, he pushes forward, bit by bit, until you can feel his body fully pressing against your core.

“Oh,” you whisper, smiling shakily. “I can feel you.”

Marcus chuckles. “And I, you.”

He stays just there, unmoving, stroking your face, until you begin to squirm with impatience again.

“I don’t want to hurt you, bellatora,” he says softly. “Please, love, tell me if I do.”

You nod, wide-eyed and enraptured by the feeling of being utterly filled. With one last gently kiss to your cheekbone, Marcus carefully begins to move. His cock drags slowly back and forth against your walls, and each time he buries himself to the hilt once again, it sends sparks of pleasure all over your body.

Your exhales turn high and breathy, little whimpers and gasps escaping every time Marcus reaches the end of you. You cling to his shoulders, the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in his curls, eliciting a deep groan and a change in the rhythm of his thrusts as he gains confidence that you aren’t in any pain. 

The faster Marcus’s hips move, the more it seems to send you into a frenzy. Your legs wrap around his hips and your grip on his upper body tightens as the fire within you starts to build again. 

Your lips seek any available skin they can find, pressing open-mouthed against his jaw, his neck, his upper arm, anywhere you can reach. One of Marcus’s hands gently cups the back of your neck for leverage as he grinds against you; the other wanders up and down your body–gripping your hip, squeezing your breast and pressing his thumb against your nipple, stroking your cheek as he kisses you again and again. 

His kisses become more and more messy and frenetic as he loses himself in the pleasure of your body. He pants softly, his voice catching on every exhale, quiet little noises deep in his throat that only you can hear. 

Your bodies move seamlessly together, aided by the light sheen of sweat that beads on your skin. Marcus hand slips in between you, his fingers finding the little bundle of nerves and gently rubbing circles into the skin there.

“Oh, I–I–” you whimper brokenly, drunk on the sensations of pleasure that he’s pulling from your body. “M-Ma–” 

“Say it,” he rasps in your ear. “Please, bellatora.”

“Marcus,” you manage to gasp. 

“Again.”

“M-Marcus, Marcus, oh Gods, I–” 

Your body arches off the bed as the strongest wave of pleasure you’ve ever felt courses through you. You convulse against him, hands scrabbling for a hold on his broad shoulders, gripping him for dear life as though he is the only thing keeping you from being pulled under by the waves. 

Your cries reach a crescendo and Marcus gives you everything–his hips snapping roughly against you as your core continues to flutter weakly. Finally, when your body feels boneless and the fullness of him begins to ache, his thrusts falter and he finally stills, his cock twitching inside of you as he finishes. 

He slips out, frowning slightly with concern when you wince, but continues to hover over you, his eyes sweeping over your face as your breathing slows and your heart quietens. He stays there, stroking your hair and kissing you until his shoulders start to shake with the effort of holding himself over you. 

You fall asleep tangled together, safe and warm in Marcus’s arms.

[Several moons later]

“Must we really go?” you wheedle as you watch the General fiddle with the clasp on his ceremonial robes.

“It is the most effective way to make our little statement, bellatora.” 

You cross your arms and make a show of pouting, although you know Marcus is right. You raise your arms, which are currently holding half of an unfinished braid. “Help me with my hair?” 

Marcus sighs loudly, although you know that, like your feigned petulance, it’s also an act. He takes the braid from you and finishes it before moving to the next section, plaiting it together the way he knows you like. 

“Tell me the statement again.”

He huffs. “You just like hearing me say it.”

“Yes.”

“An act against one of us is an act against both of us,” he murmurs dutifully. “And tantamount to an act of war, to be met with a swift and disproportionate response.”

“You always say that–‘disproportionate response.’ I do not understand what you mean by it.”

“Mmm. An opposing force sends one arrow into my army, I send one back. Proportionate response. Someone sends an arrow into my army, and I reign fire from the sky, burn every building to the ground, kill every citizen and remove them from every map. Disproportionate response.” Marcus finishes your hair and gently drapes the long braid over your shoulder.

“If ever you ask why I was scared of you when first we met, I will refer to you to that statement,” you say wryly. 

“You did ask, mi bellatora.” He picks up a belt and scabbard–similar to his, but smaller, more delicate, and ornate. He fastens it around your waist, cinching your dress and making you feel not only more alluring, but powerful. 

You do a little twirl and turn to him. “Do I look like the consort of an esteemed General?”

Marcus leans in and gently captures your lips with his. “You look like so much more. Now let us go into this den of wolves.”

With your head held high, you walk proudly through the halls at the General’s side, your hand tucked neatly against the crook of his elbow, until you reach the banquet hall, where the Emperor is holding a great feast. In your wildest imagination, you cannot think of a single place you want to avoid more, but you hold Marcus’s earlier promise in your mind as the heads turn to look at your entrance.

This is the last time.

The Emperor, surrounded by his entourage, raises his glass with a shout and a laugh as he sees the two of you. “The good General,” he grins wolfishly. 

“Taking his little plaything out for a walk,” one of the other men sneer. 

“Letting his little pet out of its cage,” adds another, snickering. 

Calmly, you unsheath the beautiful, ceremonial dagger that Marcus had given you as a gift and hold it at your side, just as he’d told you. A powerful warrior does not brandish their weapon or wave it under people’s noses, he had said. A powerful warrior does not need to. They simply remind their enemies that the weapon is there.

“You disrespect me,” you say, keeping your face even and your eyes stern. “And you disrespect my husband.”

Silence falls around the room. The Emperor’s men look at each other, to Marcus, and back to you again, unsure of how to respond. Finally, one of them laughs loudly.

“General Acacius is going soft,” he cackles. “Letting his little toy play pretend that she’s the wife of a noble.”

You fight to keep your expression free of malice or hurt, continuing to face them down calmly, your sword resting at your side. 

“Your gift to the General was far more valuable than you knew,” you say evenly, speaking only to the Emperor. “My family’s debt is paid in full, and I am therefore free to leave the palace at my leisure.”

The Emperor of Rome stares at you with befuddlement, his eyes wide, seemingly completely at a loss for words.

“We take our leave,” you announce with a flourish of a bow. 

“Leave?” The man sputters. “You are my finest General, you cannot–”

“I have given the Empire more than my fair share of years in service,” Marcus says quietly, standing resolutely next to you and placing his hand around your waist. “I find I have seen all I care to see of war, and the rest of my days will be filled with peace.”

Marcus turns to the other generals, who are all watching the confrontation with the Emperor. Without speaking, they draw their swords and hold them aloft in a silent salute to your husband–who solemnly returns the gesture. As you are still holding your dagger, you copy the gesture. This seems to please both him and the other Generals, who all smile. 

Marcus turns to you, beaming with affection and pride. “Let’s go home, bellatora.”

Epilogue

In a small hamlet south of the big city, a villa sits on a small hill overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea. 

There is a rumor among some of the residents of the town that the man who lives there used to be a General in the Emperor’s army, but most of the inhabitants agree that this is a ridiculous notion. 

He’s too soft-spoken, you see; his gentle demeanor is unlike that of a soldier. He often likes to sit with his wife and watch the color of the sea change as the sun rises in the morning, savoring the moment of peace before his children wake up. 

There are five of them now–with a sixth on the way. His wife jokes that should she find herself with child for the seventh time, she’s going to feed the man’s privates to their goats. 

Their life is modest, but by all accounts of those who witness it, they are blissfully happy. Their home always seems to be filled with joy, laughter, and no small amount of chaos that always follows young children. They maintain a small farm, raise goats and chickens, and they sell their extra eggs and vegetables at the market every week, accompanied by their five children, who are helpful… to varying degrees.  

Sometimes, late at night, the odd passer-by will see the silhouette of a couple standing on the cliffs overlooking the sea, wrapped in a tender embrace.

They have few visitors, but those who have been inside their villa have noted that two swords are mounted above the front door. One is large, utilitarian, but expertly crafted–with signs of wear that might indicate it has seen more conflict than most. The other is small and elegant, the hilt decorated with precious stones. 

No one has ever dared to ask about them.

[scribendis]

𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐝

Aemond Targaryen x female reader (third person perspective) ❖ husband & wife

Warnings: smut, dry humping, p in v sex, semi-public sex, newlyweds being horny, little bit of profanity, breeding kink if you squint really, really hard Rating: 18+ MDNI Word count: ~3,500

Summary: Upon returning to camp from a hunt in the Kingswood, Aemond looks for a way to keep his wife warm on a bitterly cold night.

A/N: Serendipitously conceptualized ages ago but written (very late!) for the first week of the @hotd-bigbang winter word prompts challenge - Fire | Furs | Forest

Dividers by @saradika | AO3 link

The setting sun cast long shadows across the small city of tents that made up the hunting camp in the Kingswood. While the men had spent the day combing the forest for boars, stags, and other game, the women had occupied the main tent. They gorged themselves on cakes and other sweets, all the while indulging in gossip that ranged from the salacious to the downright treasonous. 

And, much to the chagrin of the new wife of Prince Aemond Targaryen, they pestered her endlessly about the burgeoning love life of her and her husband. She quickly learned that, to be a woman in the king’s court meant sharing every last, excruciating detail of one’s “wifely duties” so that the others could compare them with their own. So that they could all know whose husbands fucked them the best and complain about their own lackluster experiences. 

They questioned her until she was beet-red in the face and one of the older women finally called for an end to her torment. Still, it would taste a lie for her to say that all their titillating conversation about lovemaking had not made her ache desperately for her husband. 

But by the time that night finally claimed the sprawling camp, the men had still not returned from the hunt. It signaled to the waiting wives that their husbands would come back without their prize, frustrated and exhausted - and that they would later fall into their beds reeking of wine. 

The call of horns and the distant sound of barking hounds was their cue to don their furs and exit the tent to greet the arriving men. The prince’s wife was glad for the fur-lined cloak that her husband had procured for her for just such an occasion as this. She was even more grateful for the garment as she exited the tent only to be met with the sting of the cold night air on her cheek. The women elected to wait for their husbands by the bonfire that raged in the middle of the camp, its light their only source of warmth as frost began to settle on the Kingswood. 

It was easy for her to spot her husband among the group of riders, his long silver hair unmistakable in the light of the rising moon. Whatever otherworldly quality his Valyrian features gave him seemed amplified tonight - and it made the sight of him astride a horse even more odd to her. Were her husband any other lord of the realm, his approach on horseback would not have seemed out of place. But Targaryens were no horse riders. Still, Aemond effortlessly commanded the steed beneath him, his mastery reminiscent of the way he would handle a dragon.

As the crowd of riders began to disperse, her eyes remained fixed on her husband. Amid the thundering of horses’ hooves and the raucous laughter of the noble lords, Aemond's attention, too, was solely focused on her. The intensity of his gaze only intensified her excitement, eliciting a gentle flutter in her belly.

With grace and ease, Aemond slipped off of the horse’s back. A waiting servant took his leather riding gloves from him, but Aemond could very well have let them fall to the dirt for as little attention as he paid to anyone but her. 

Aemond was always loath to indulge in any public affection, aside from the occasional hand at the small of his wife’s back or a brief touch upon her cheek. Even now that he was reunited with her after such a long day apart, his restraint came in the form of a soft kiss brushed against her temple and nothing more. But the way that his arm wrapped around her and his hand dared to wander much lower than her waist - and the way his eye held hers so intently - told her just how much he had missed her. How much he needed her.

Given Aemond’s usually stoic demeanor, she had never thought that he would be needy, but he had proven to be just that in the few weeks since they had been wed. They had already made love in the depths of the palace library more times than she could count, and discovered countless other hidden places throughout the Keep where his hands had found their way up her skirts and his lips had left marks on her neck. Some mornings, he would forego training altogether to stay in bed with her with his face between her legs or his cock buried inside her. 

And he had not heard a single complaint from her yet. 

“Ābrazȳrys, your skin is cold to the touch,” Aemond commented, a hint of concern lacing his soft voice. His lips lingered at her temple for a moment longer before he withdrew, taking one of her hands in his. “As are your fingers.” (wife)

She smiled. His own hand was as warm as ever. “I am no dragon like you, dear husband. The cold night air chills me to the bone.”

“And the furs I gave you do not suffice?” he asked, quirking a brow.

She shook her head. “Nor the bonfire.” 

Aemond hummed, his displeasure at such an assurance quite clear. He brought her fingers to his lips, blowing warm air on them before kissing them. “Come, jorrāeliarza. I have another idea for how we might offer you some warmth on such a cold night.” (beloved)

Still with an arm drawn around her, he swiftly guided her around the bonfire and, to her surprise, past the royal tent where food, wine, and music awaited them. She glanced over her shoulder questioningly at the entrance to the tent, from which poured an inviting golden light, but Aemond seemed determined on his path. 

“Aemond, are we… not going inside?” 

A smirk tugged at his lips, and she noticed a mischievous twinkle in his eye as they passed a flickering torch. “I thought I would spare you any further conversation with the ladies of the court.”

“And I thank you for that, dear husband,” she said with a laugh, her words falling from her lips in fleeting clouds of mist that looked like she was breathing smoke. “But I do not think–”

Aemond stopped them in their tracks and turned to her, staying any further words by sweeping in to press his lips firmly against hers. “Lykirī.” (Be calm.)

Once freed from his bruising kiss, she stood, dazed, for a moment before any further thoughts could come to her - something that her husband had certainly noticed given the grin that spread across his lips. She pushed him away playfully with a little scoff and an over-exaggerated look of annoyance that drew a rare chuckle from him.

“I am not one of your Targaryen dragons,” she protested, drawing her furs tighter around herself. “Those… dragon commands won’t work on me.”

Aemond leaned in to meet her at eye level, offering an arm to her that she took. “But it did work, did it not?”

She was still none the wiser about their destination as her husband quickly guided them beyond the boundaries of the camp and toward the treeline. The leaves had taken on stunning hues of red, orange, and yellow, a sight that she had marveled at from within the wheelhouse on their way into the Kingswood that morning. But in the cover of night, that beauty was lost to the pitch-black darkness. Not even the light of the moon could permeate the thick canopy of trees, leaving the forest an endless void. 

She did not fear the darkness, only the occasional sound of a twig snapping or the call of some unknown creature. As husband and wife disappeared from the sight of the camp, she found herself clutching onto him more tightly. 

“Aemond, where are we going?” she whispered as though speaking at full volume would topple one of the mighty trees. 

“Patience, jorrāeliarza.”

“What if there are wolves out here, Aemond–”

“There are no predators in the Kingswood. And, if there were,” Aemond turned to her and took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, brushing the pad of his thumb across her bottom lip, “do you think that I would let them harm even a single hair on your head?” He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead before releasing her. “Do not worry. We can stop here.”

She glanced around, seeing the pleasant glow of the camp in the near distance and nothing but darkness everywhere else. “Here?” 

“I thought, perhaps, you would want to be a bit further from camp…” he purred. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough to see him lean in. One of his hands reached up to pull her furs aside and his lips found her neck, warm and soft as they began to kiss her skin. She felt his hum vibrate against her pulse point, where her heartbeat fluttered wildly. “Given how loud you can be, dōna ābrazȳrys.”

A gasp left her and her head tilted away from his lips, begging silently for more. Tomorrow would call for yet another dress with a high neckline, she thought. 

“I’ve… I’ve not heard that one before…” He regularly called her all manner of names in High Valyrian. She often found him muttering to himself in his ancestral tongue. One night, he had even spoken it in his sleep. She knew a small handful of words, but only those few. “What does that mean?”

“Sweet wife,” Aemond breathed against her neck, leaving a bit of warmth behind before his lips captured hers once again. “You taste sweet tonight, too.”

“It must be the… the wine, I think,” she gasped. “Or the lemon cakes…” 

But the growing hunger inside him was not for the sweetness of cakes or Arbor gold. 

He kissed her more deeply this time, lips coaxing hers apart to taste her tongue for himself. His hands fell to her hips, fingers digging into her soft flesh to draw her body against his. And, in doing so, he finally offered her the warmth he had previously promised her - one that not even the hottest bonfire could provide. 

As his fingers began to deftly ruck up her skirts, she felt her skin prickle. At the same time, an entirely different kind of heat began to spread through her until it found its familiar place between her legs. Moaning softly into their continued kiss, she dropped her hands to the closure of his trousers, where his obvious arousal strained against the dark fabric. 

“Gods, Aemond, you're so hard and I've barely touched you," she breathed against his lips. “Did you miss me?” But she knew the answer, and how pleasing it was to know just how badly she had been missed that day. 

His only reply was a grunt that rose in his throat as his hands slipped beneath her smallclothes and all but tore them from her. Despite the rough, calloused spots on his palms and fingers, his warm touch was a balm against the cold night air. In a swift, almost aggressive motion, he lifted her by her arse so that she had no choice but to envelop his hips with her legs. It taunted her, the feeling of his hard cock pressing against her wet entrance. His trousers were a tedious, unwanted barrier between them. 

Their passionate embrace only became more heated as Aemond pinned her to the trunk of one of the trees and his body pressed firmly against hers. She squirmed, inadvertently causing friction between her clit and his still-clothed hardness that was too delicious to keep a moan from stuttering past her lips. 

“It would seem that you missed me as well, jorrāeliarza,” he rasped with a playful smirk. Teasingly, he rolled his hips against hers to coax another one of those sweet sounds from her. “Come on. Take what you need.”

She needed no further convincing, as great as the ache between her legs had grown. Her grip on the collar of his longcoat tightened and she took over, rocking her hips against his at a slow, but steady, pace. Each gasp and moan that left her lips billowed from them in a smoke-like mist, until she tucked her head into the crook of her husband’s neck and the sounds became muffled against his throat. He smelled of horse and sweat and, if she searched for it, the soap he had used the night before. But he tasted divine as her lips began to pepper open-mouthed kisses against his skin.

Judging by the trembling breaths that she felt against her hair, this teasing was just as pleasurable for her husband as it was for her. His own grip on her arse tightened, as though he was fighting to hold on. Knowing him, he wanted only the satisfaction of spilling himself inside her. 

But his own torture would not go on for much longer, as her rutting against him was quickly bringing her to the brink of release. Her pace quickened, desperate as she was to reach it. Finally, the pleasure inside her began to unfurl and its warmth spread through her. From head to toe, it enveloped her completely as though she had been submerged into a hot bath.   

It was exactly as Aemond had promised. In the grips of her climax, the frigid air mattered little, if at all.

Gasping for breath as she came down again, she pressed her lips to his and he received her kiss greedily. No doubt he was desperate for his own release after watching her come apart - and how could she refuse him?

“You know,” she began as her hands fell to his trousers once again. Only, this time, her fingers made quick work of the closures. “Earlier, all the women wanted to know how good you are in bed.”

Their gazes locked and, even in the darkness of the forest, she could see the almost animalistic desire in his one good eye. But as desperate as he was to be inside her, he seemed almost equally as intrigued by her words. She freed his cock from the confines of his trousers and took it into her hand. Her simple act of stroking him once was enough to draw a low groan out of him.

“Fucking gossips,” Aemond replied huskily. His lips drew close to hers but did not quite meet them. “Do I wish to know what you told them?”

She grinned. Her fingers guided his cock to her slick entrance but stopped there momentarily. “I told them–” Her words were cut off by a moan as he buried himself inside her quickly and without warning. “Oh, fuck…”

“Oh, fuck?” Aemond repeated teasingly, raising a brow. “Am I so bad at it, jorrāeliarza?” The smug look of satisfaction on his face belied any attempts at fooling her into thinking that he believed that to be her true confession earlier that day. 

Too impatient, he began to move his hips against hers - and she met each of his slow, steady thrusts with movements of her own. Misty air surrounded them amid their shared panting, both of them relishing in the sensation of becoming one again after such a long day apart.

She allowed her head to fall back against the tree, where strands of her hair began to tangle in its rough bark. But she hardly noticed or cared at all, especially as her husband’s lips reclaimed her neck and his hot breaths swept along the contours of her jaw. 

“Ābrazȳrys.”

She became so lost in the carnal pleasure of his cock sliding in and out of her that Aemond’s voice barely reached her. It did not help at all that his pace began to quicken as the heat between them grew to a simmer. The cry of pleasure that left her mingled with the sounds of the forest, joining the nighttime symphony of hooting owls and the rustling of the crisp underbrush.

“What did you tell them?” Aemond pressed. His own composure was starting to fail him and his words came out strained. 

A breathy laugh left her. He always purported to care little about what the members of his father’s court thought of him. But, evidently, that sentiment did not extend to his wife and her opinions. 

She placed a hand on his cheek to pull his lips to hers, kissing him deeply as pleasure began to coil inside her anew. “I told them,” she panted, her eyes opening to meet his, “that my husband is not the one riding the largest dragon in the world.”

Whatever Aemond had expected her to say, it clearly was not that. For a moment, his hips stilled and he looked as stunned as the ladies had been when she had uttered those same words that morning. One of them had even spilled a full cup of wine down her pale blue dress as she stared at her like some startled animal. 

“My, my…” he purred.

But his look of shock fell away just as quickly. Replacing it was a ferocity that she had never seen from him before. A hunger that her words had awakened inside him which only she could satiate. There were no more soft words of love, or the usual names he called her while making love to her. His fingers dug almost painfully into her hips and he resumed his movements against her. 

Aemond quickly built up a brutal pace, the head of his cock hitting that spot inside her that made her toes curl inside her shoes. Any thoughts or complaints about how bitterly cold it was outside had been long forgotten, drunk as she was on the intensity of the pleasure he was fucking into her her. Even her moans began to leave her in choked gasps and broken mewls that, if anyone in the hunting camp heard her, would have sounded no different than the calls of some creature of the forest.

She could feel it, the straining of her muscles and the tightening of her insides. The tremble that overtook her as she hurtled toward the edge along with him. She felt like a handkerchief being squeezed of water, and he would not stop his tightening of her until he had wrung her of every last drop.  

Her eyes fluttering, she leaned in to capture Aemond’s lips in a kiss that he did not reciprocate in his own carnal pursuit of release. “Aemond…” “Mm-mm,” he chided, his tone gruffer and far lower than she had ever heard it. “I want to see you.” 

One of his hands released its grip on her arse and moved to the nape of her neck to hold her firmly and ensure she could not look away. As he watched her, he groaned deeply in his own fight to hold on until he could get precisely what he wanted. 

And it only took three simple words from him to finish her at last.

“Cum for me.” 

Like a dam breaking, all the building pleasure that had been twisting inside her released. Coaxed by the continued pounding of his hips against hers, it spread into every extremity as her body shuddered and her cries of ecstasy filled the dense, frosty air. The fluttering of her walls around him soon spelled the end for him, too. With a few more ragged thrusts, he found his release inside her.

His eye squeezed shut. His lips, kiss-swollen, parted. And then, a certain look of peace overtook him.  

Although still lost in her own haze of pleasure, she watched him closely - and she decided that he had never looked more beautiful. 

They remained in their loving embrace, neither one wanting to pull away from the other just yet. Her, with her legs still encircling his hips, and him, with one hand holding her up and the other at her neck. Aemond pressed his forehead to hers and his thumb began to caress her cheek tenderly.

She hadn’t spoken of these moments to the women of the court that day. About how her husband could fuck her within an inch of her life and, immediately thereafter, treat her with such affection and softness. With such devotion in each caress of his fingers and every soft word he uttered.

Their breathing soon began to slow once again and the world around them finally came back into view. Smiling, she brushed the tip of her nose against his before kissing him so deeply that he hummed in surprise. But he reciprocated earnestly, slowly setting her back down on the ground but never quite letting her go.

“We should return to the camp,” Aemond said as he re-adjusted her furs on her shoulders. “I would not have you catch your death out here in the cold, jorrāeliarza.”

A sweet grin spread across her lips, but something wicked glistened in her eyes. “Oh, but my husband has already given me all the warmth I require.”

[imaginedisish]

Logan Howlett/Wolverine Masterlist

I've written so much for this man in the past week that I've decided he deserves his own masterlist. Enjoy. Fics are organized by the date they were posted. See fics for more specific warnings.

~The Promise (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader) Rating 18+ for smut

You want to relax after a long day, so you decide to let off some steam alone in your room. But, you're not as alone as you think. Logan can hear you loud and clear...and he's happy to help.

~Unchained Melody (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader) Rating 18+ for smut

You and Logan decide to go to Rogue and Remy's wedding together, but you don't know what together means. Logan helps to clarify...

~One for the Road (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader) Rating 18+ for smut

Forty-five minutes is simply too long of a car ride for you to wait to take care of Logan... Or: you give Logan head while he's driving and he absolutely loses it.

~Poker Face (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader) Rating 18+ for smut

You and Logan are alone in the mansion for the evening, and after a few drinks, your game of Blackjack turns into strip poker...

~Modern Love (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader)

The team goes out to an arcade, and Logan is his usual grumpy self...but his soft spot for you is more clear than ever.

~Wild Horses (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader) Rating 18+ for smut

Logan takes you out for a friendly drink...that ends up being more than just friendly.

~My Love All Mine (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader) Rating: 18+ for smut

Logan told you to stay in his bed so he could have you when he got home from a mission, but he finds you in the kitchen instead...and he isn’t happy.

~Liquid Smooth (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader) Rating: 18+ for smut

A simple mission deep in a forest alone with Logan quickly gets out of hand when you just have to go and pick a flower...

~Is It Casual Now? (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader) Rating: 18+ for smut

You can’t handle just a casual affair with Logan. You need more.

~See You Again (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader) Rating: 18+ for smut and violence.

You're convinced Logan hates you. But when you're forced to run a drill in the danger room, alone, everything changes.

~Savior Complex (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader) Rating: 18+ for smut and violence.

You are willing to give up everything, including your own life, to save your found family. Logan, however, is not willing to let you do that. And he finally shows you why. 

~Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader) Rating: 18+ for smut and violence.

Logan's kindness towards you is strictly friendly. Until it's not just friendly anymore...

~Lover, You Should’ve Come Over (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader) Rating: 18+ for smut and violence.

You've been pining after Logan since you joined the X-Men, and you're convinced he'll never love you back. He’s obsessed with Jean—always has been. Or...maybe he's not.

~Heart to Heart (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader) Rating: 18+ for smut

Logan doesn't seem like himself on the car ride up to Lake George to meet the other X-Men for the weekend, and you're not going to leave him alone until you find out why (it's car sex, the whole fic is basically just rough car sex). 

~ Inside Out (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader) Rating: 18+ for smut and violence.

After a tense battle, you and Logan have it out (in more ways than one). 

~Need 2 (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader) Rating: 18+ for smut and violence.

You and Logan have always been plagued with nightmares, so avoiding sleep is just something you two have in common...until you find yourselves in each other's beds, helping one  another through your nightmares. 

~I’m Not In Love (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader) Rating: 18+ for smut

After harboring a crush on Logan for months, things finally come to a head while on an overnight mission.