#she chooses kindness as often as she can | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

blossomarlia · 22 days ago

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hi, could you write a drabble with reader x remus where she rlly struggles with getting involved or going to hang out with people without explicitly being invited (just feeling really worried about being rejected) and he kind of reassures her and looks after her?

hi, thanks for this request! hope you enjoy, i generally don't write school-aged drabbles but thought this fit the best.

summary: your fear of being rejected stops you from joining your friends, but remus reassures you

remus x fem! reader (implied early stages romance)

Sitting by one of the fireplaces in the Gryffindor common room, you’re wondering how many of the people around you have exchanged glances over the top of your head. You can almost feel judgement thickening the air, raised eyebrows and confused smiles that ask why is she even here? To be honest, the only reason that you haven’t moved away is that you were technically sitting here first, and the rest of them milled in and took their spots nearby- then again, was it purposeful, your taking a place on one of the sofas they often use? In hindsight it’s just embarrassing. They must be assuming that you sat down just so they’d have no choice but to talk to you.

You know you’re expecting the worst of this group, none of whom particularly deserve it. The flock of seventh-years surrounding you are generally a good bunch; Lily, Sirius, Marlene, Mary, Peter, James, Remus, and Dorcas,. You want to be one of them more than you want most other things, which is somewhat pathetic and completely obvious in the way you’re always hanging around. They may all be lovely, and your friends (to some extent), but you know how irritating it can be if there’s always someone not quite in the group hanging around.

You should leave. Get up and make some comment about homework, or whatever, and wait for absolutely nobody to stop you. It’s kinder to everybody. Isn’t it?

Lost in your thoughts, you miss what Lily says next, and then they’re all getting to their feet. You give what you hope is a casual smile, simultaneously relieved of your spiralling and disappointed that they’re fulfilling your expectations.

There’s a tap on your shoulder- Remus, your favourite, whose hair has grown out over Christmas and now curls over his ears. He seems to get taller and lovelier with every passing moment. It’s difficult to make eye contact.

“We’re heading to the greenhouses, did you hear?” He says quietly, hand stilling instead of pulling away. You press your lips together and nod, carefully hiding any sort of misplaced hurt. It’s not as if you’re entitled to an invitation.

“Alright, I’ll see you later!” Too enthusiastic.

His brows pinch together. “You’re not coming?”

You look up at the others, who are collecting scarves and bags on their way to the portrait-hole. How can you admit to Remus that you don’t think they want you along? How can you tell him, anyone, that you’re far too afraid of being made fun of, or becoming a joke within their tight-knit group, to risk it?

“Oh, I don’t know. I have heaps of homework.”

“You do?” He raises his eyebrows. You feel caught, despite not having been accused of any sort of lie. “I thought you finished it all yesterday.”

You’d been studying when he and Lily joined you, and all day you’ve been wondering why they chose to. You probably put a but too much value on people choosing to sit next to you in class or during study; it’s unlikely that it was more than an absence of other free tables.

“...Some, yeah. And I wouldn’t want to- you know, I wouldn’t…” You trail off and give an awkward laugh. Remus’ gentle expression is making the inside of your mouth hurt.

“What?” You’re not used to your excuses mattering so much. Mostly, you mutter something and disappear to your dorm in time to avoid any drama. Is he feeling guilty, awkward about having made plans as a group in front of someone else? You cringe at the notion of Remus realising how friendless you probably are, of his pity.

You know it’s your own fault for being like this. You’ve had friends in the past- cool, funny, popular, attractive- who frequently left you out on purpose. A drunken conversation in fifth year revealed that you were tolerable at best, a joke at worst. Always pushing in and so desperate for invitations that to extend them could only be ironic.

You think about that more often than you should. You’re constantly hyperaware of how tolerable you are, sure that you’ll say or do something which will make everyone else realise exactly why you’re not in any particular group. You can’t let that happen yet with all these people, so full of love for one another that even proximity to them feels like the experience of it. Still, they’re teenagers. Judgement is an automatic response, and Remus is clever in the way he jokes. He’ll retell this conversation to roaring laughter if you reveal too much- not that he’s ever unkind, but you sort of invite a bad impression, you think.

“It’s really fine,” You assure him. “I’m tired. It’s cold, too.”

“Right,” He nods, glancing downwards. You think you’ve won (as much as you can win, here) until he turns to James and Peter and says, “I think we’re going to stay here. Bit chilly.”

What?

James frowns, making a sound of protest. “Moony!” His eyes fall to you next, and you look away, guilty and embarrassed. You’d never even considered that pity would drive Remus to actually stay here, and now they’ll all hate you. Nice job, very well handled.

Marlene is next. “‘Cas has just finished growing the Alihotsy plant, though. We’re all going.”

“It’s been weeks since we all had the evening off- or at least, since Potter and Black didn’t have a detention each,” Lily reasons more kindly. She receives twin protests from the boys on either side of her, but remains unbothered, adding, “It’d be nice to spend a bit more time as a group.”

You’re awfully close to tears. All you’d wanted was to relieve them of yourself, to retreat to your room and wait until somebody explicitly invited you somewhere (if ever), and now you’ve gone and ruined everybody’s evening. You turn to Remus, more urgent than is likely normal. “Please just go with them,” You say softly, aware that your voice is all wobbly. “I’m just going to go to bed, I don’t want to interrupt all of you catching up. Please, it’s really okay.”

There’s a brief silence that spans the entire crowd. They’ve all heard, are all likely attempting not to laugh. Remus is giving you an awful look.

“...Are you okay, lovely?” Mary asks. You can’t look at her, can’t look at any of them, but you’ve always been alright at masking emotion in your voice when you really try. You force something like a smile.

“Yes! Yes, completely fine, I’m only tired. Post-holiday blues, maybe.” You laugh and it sounds terrible. “I’ve really only got to go to bed. You all have fun!” Silence again.

“We might join you all in a bit,” Remus says firmly. There are a few worried noises of assent, and they all head off. Now, you do see them looking at one another, frowning and looking upset. Poor Remus, you imagine them saying on their way to the greenhouses, stuck looking after her while we all escape.

Remus asks you to sit down again three times before you agree, still rather set on going to bed so you won’t cry in front of the entire common-room.

“What’s making you so upset?” He asks softly, once he’s finally detained you. You blink quickly and cast a glance around at the other students in the common-room, afraid to embarrass yourself more than you already have, but he’s quick to assuage the fear. “I cast a muffliato when James began talking about the Alihotsy prank- ages ago. Nobody’s heard anything, I promise.”

You swallow harshly. “Oh. Thanks. I’m sorry I’m being so- so-”

“If I could,” Remus says, firm but kind, “This will be a lot easier if we can get to the problem, here, rather than whatever you think you’ve done wrong.”

“I- right. Okay. Um,” You stammer. “They’re not really mutually exclusive.” “Why don’t you want to come? Did somebody say something hurtful?” You look at him, slightly startled. “What? It’s not that I don’t want to.”

Remus seems perplexed, looking the way he does when he’s working out a particularly difficult exam question. “No?”

“No.” You twist your fingers together so tightly that they hurt. “No, it sounds fun, it just… it’s not as if I’m going to demand to be brought along, am I?” The joke falls flat. You think you already knew it would, but it’s still a bit embarrassing to laugh and be met with a concerned frown.

You take a few longer breaths. You can fix this. You have to fix this.

“Look, it’s kind of you to stay here, but like Lily said- you all have the night off. It’s really not so bad not to spend it as a group. I want you to go, really.” The next smile is easier. You’ve done this before, convinced people not to feel bad for you.

“Why would you need to demand to be brought along?” Remus asks. “We made the plans while you were right here.”

“You all made plans together,” You explain slowly. “You know, having an evening to yourselves and that sort of thing. There’s no need for- you know, I’m honestly just tired. That’s probably why I’ve reacted so oddly, it’s my own fault.”

Remus looks at you for a long while, so intent that your skin gets prickly and uncomfortable. Eventually, he speaks, quiet and considered. “...You haven’t acted oddly if that’s how you’ve been feeling.”

“Tired?”

“No, excluded.” He says gently. “You really didn’t know you were invited?” You don’t answer with more than silence, and he sighs.

“You were. You’re always invited, dove, of course you are.”

Trying not to get to hung up on impossibilities, you shake your head quickly. “It’d be a bit rude to assume that.”

“It wouldn’t.” Remus replies immediately. Then, “Dove, what are we going to do with you?” Entirely too much to comprehend. You’re glad he goes on. “Would you look at me for a moment, please?”

You want to ask him why, or refuse, or run up to your dormitory, but you do as he says. You wonder if he knows that he could ask you to do almost anything and you’d say yes, if he’ll only keep looking at you with his coffee-coloured eyes.

“All of us- we want you to come along, wherever we are. You’re important to lots of people. Do you understand that?” “I- I just don’t want to push myself in.” You say, mortified.

“You aren’t. You’re being pulled, if anything, yeah?” His lips quirk. “When Lily said those things about spending time as a group, she meant you, too. If somebody said something that made you think otherwise, I’ll-”

“Nobody said anything,” You tell him feebly. This is all rather a lot to take in. “I think… maybe it’s more that nobody’s said I am invited, or a part of- I don’t know, it’s all sort of stupid.”

“No it’s not,” Remus disagrees. He pinches your chin quickly between thumb and forefinger, frowning again. Mary once commented that Remus would look sixty by the time you all left school, with all his worrying wrinkles. “Not stupid, but it’s not very kind to yourself, either. Why shouldn’t we want you around?”

You open your mouth and close it at his raised eyebrow. “Rhetorical question?”

“Rhetorical question.” He confirms amusedly. “There’s no point arguing, because we do. I do. I wish you wouldn’t think otherwise.”

“I’ve only been friends with all of you for a little while, though. You’ve all been mates since first-year.” At that, Remus outright scoffs. “Have we, now?”

You shrug.

“James and Lily always liked each other, then? Dorcas didn’t only just start hanging around us as well?” You look down, and he sighs. “However long everybody’s known one another, the most important bit is that we all like each other, yeah? It wouldn’t matter whether we became mates at eleven or two days ago- we’re friends. Or- you know.”

You definitely don’t know, but you’re going red anyway. He was definitely talking about Lily and James- that’s all he meant by ‘you know’. Isn’t it?

Remus scratches the back of his head, quiet for another second. Then, “...Why don’t we go down to the greenhouses? We’ll stick together the whole time, you’ll not be sat by yourself again.”

“I don’t want to make you babysit.”

Remus tsks, expression becoming sterner for a moment. “Don’t think that way about yourself. I’m asking because I want you to come- it’s not worth going if you aren’t there.”

The long moment it takes for you to decipher whether he’s only being nice or if that’s the truth is enough for Remus to decide that you don’t really have a choice in the matter. Tugging you to your feet, and seeming taller than ever with your proximity, he winds his own scarf around your neck and pushes some hair behind your hear. You let him, mostly because you’re too surprised to do anything about it.

“Let’s go, before they all decide to try some of the Alihotsy themselves. Gloves?”

You manage a nervous giggle, putting your mittens on when he hands them to you. “Thanks.”

“That’s alright. Come on,” He gives you a crooked sort of smile. It’s sometimes difficult to tell if Remus is aware how good-looking he is.

The entire group are far too enthusiastic at yours and Remus’ arrival fifteen minutes later, given the fact that it’s hardly been half an hour since they left. Either way, you’re quickly pulled into a squabble between Lily and James about- as Remus predicted- the logic of trying some Alihotsy for themselves.

“Thank Merlin you came, you’re the only one who won’t be completely daft about this!” Lily says, linking her arm in yours. You smile before catching Remus’ eye and looking down, feeling yourself flush. Smug bastard, you think fondly.

It’s an entire two hours before everyone heads back up to the castle, having thoroughly violated curfew but without (to James and Sirius’ chagrin) having tested any of the plant which would induce hysterical laughter. You find yourself walking beside the tallest of the group in comfortable silence, a few steps behind the rest.

“Thanks for making me come with you,” You say, perhaps a little more earnestly than you ought. “It was really nice.”

“‘Course, dove.” You look up at Remus to find he’s already looking at you. He clears his throat, glancing over at Sirius and Marlene where they’re pretending to push each other into the snow. It’s likely to end in one of them following through and the other swearing eternal hatred. “We’re all glad you came along. Could even make a habit of it.”

You exhale a laugh. “Maybe.”

He gives you a sideways look. “Oh, ‘maybe’, is it?” “...Conceivably?” You grin, darting away when he grabs at you and sort of wishing you’d stayed still just to see what he’d do. Remus fixes you with a teasing glare.

“Watch it, sweetheart.”

You blink, choking on words for a minute. Sweetheart? Sweetheart!? Sweetheart, sweetheart, sweetheartsweetheartsweetheartsweetheart-

“You alright?”

“Yeah!” You say, too quickly. Remus misreads your flusteredness as something else and softens, taking hold of your sleeve and tugging you towards him. You go easily.

“If it’ll help,” He says thoughtfully, “You can ask me if you’re invited to things. Or I’ll just tell you. Then you won’t have to go to the trouble of assuming either way.”

You like him so, so much. “That’s really nice of you, Remus.”

“Eh,” He shrugs. “You know me.”

Now, it’s harder not to smile than anything else. “I don’t want you to go to any trouble. It’s really my problem, I shouldn’t-”

“Enough,” He interrupts gently. “Just say yes, dove, if it’ll help. I won’t be unhappy either way.”There are several places within you, the more unkind parts, that say accepting his offer would be like accepting pity. But there are also places that are warmed at the thought, that remember how people reacted when you arrived in the greenhouse, that can start imagining a reality wherein nobody hated your presence by the sofas tonight, and those bits win the argument for the first time in a very long time. You look up at Remus, his soft eyes and fluffy hair dusted with snow, and nod.

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sipthegossip-if · 5 months ago

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SIP THE GOSSIP! is rated 18+ for explicit language, skippable sexual themes, drugs, alcohol consumption, extra marital affairs and more. Best to be avoided if romance and drama are not your cup of tea.

✭ DEMO (TBA) ✭ FORUM (TBA)

You had everything in the palm your hand since birth. Success kissed your feet, the billboards sang of your symphony and the public chanted your name.

Until they didn't.

After years of a blockbuster after a blockbuster— ignoring the fact they were all your uncle's productions— you found yourself tangled up in serious allegations that left your reputation in shambles.

You lost thousands of followers across all your social media accounts and all your endorsement deals.

But you persisted. After things were resolved, you tried getting back on your feet. Starred in movies that had no connection to your dearest uncle.

But here's the thing : they all flopped. Badly, at that.

And you found yourself once again, at the rock bottom. After some time of having disappeared from the public eye you have decided to make a comeback and do what you were always good at— use your connections to gain a spot in the upcoming, very much hyped romantic series TO THE MOON AND BACK.

You will do anything to get your stardom back even if it means getting your pretty hands a little dirty.

✭ Play as male, female or non binary. Straight or queer. Customise your brand and appearance.

✭ Choose the article that destroyed the reputation you spent years building.

✭ Engage in a scandalous & fiery romance off and on set!

✭ Use whatever means you can to avoid being teared to shreds on the internet.

✭ It's been long since you have acted. You haven't forgotten how to bring those tear ducts to use, have you?

✭ Give interviews. Because isn't that what the blizz and bling all about baby?

✭ Engage with your fans. If they still haven't forgotten about you, that is.

✭ Escape or annoy the unrelenting paparazzi.

✭ Customise your public persona. Do things that transpire behind cameras differ from on camera?

✭ Choose the plot of T2MAB.

✭ THE BODYGUARD : Kai D'melio. [he/him or she/her]

Single and in early 30s. Stoic and all business. It's hard to get a read of them. They are a constant in your life.

Tropes : Bodyguard romance, slow burn, yearning, "crush" route.

✭ THE VETERAN ACTOR : Shiron "Shay" Hill. [he/him or she/her]

Married and in mid 40s, they continue to be a social media sensation to till this day. A friend of you and your uncle. They are the one who introduced you to the director and producer of To The Moon And Back and helped you score the lead role.

Tropes : Extra marital affair, steamy.

✭ THE DIRECTOR/PRODUCER : Victor/ia "Vic" Alvarez. [he/him or she/her]

Single, former actor and in mid 40s. An incredibly close friend of Shiron. They have been attached at the hip since the two first began working together in the industry. All their works have proved to be the public's favourites and you hope that is also the case with T2MAB.

Tropes : Work romance, steamy, commitment issues.

✭ THE M/F LEAD : Alexis "Alex" Sinclair. [he/him or she/her]

Co-actor and in late 20s. Charming and titled 'Industry's Budding Star' by People's Magazine. They seem to have a tendency to flirt with whatever that breathes. It would serve you best to not get involved with them, judging from their messy dating history.

Tropes : steamy, commitment issues.

✭ THE SECOND M/F LEAD : River Fox. [he/him or she/her]

Co-actor, singer and in late 20s. After having caught their now ex partner cheating on them, they seem to have a hard time trusting people. The fact that they dislike you for the means you used to get the role and the consequences it led to, doesn't help either.

Tropes : Slow burn, enemies-to-lovers, melting the ice king/queen, forced proximity, kind guy/gal who's mean to only you.

✭ THE CAMERA(WO)MAN : Arlo Kent. [he/him or she/her]

Single loyal to you and in their early 20s. They get all starry eyed and overly enthusiastic at the sight of you. More often than not, you have caught them not so discreetly keeping an eye you. You can only hope they are merely star struck and nothing more.

Tropes : Stalker/yandere fluffy romance.

#interactive fiction #if wip #hosted games #choice of games #interact-if #choice script #interactive game #interactive novel #if game #dashingdon #choose your own adventure #cog #cog game #choicescript #cyoa

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pedgito · 1 month ago

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𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑 | Marcus Acacius x f!reader

summary | A female gladiator plucked from the arena by the most powerful general in Rome, convinced to serve under his command. You learn that his taste for blood might not be so different from your own.

author's note | the horny demons strike again. this has a little plot, thanks to the beautiful minds of @ovaryacted and @kedsandtubesocks who deal with my crazy so generously.

content warning | 18+ mdni, set pre-gladiator ii, description of war & mistreatment of women in roman society, female gladiator, dark-ish!acacius, reader has minimal backstory, but is revealed to be nameless (uses monikers given to her: medusa, fury, minerva), fighting, m*rder, blood tw, gore tw, sa warning (i have it annotated further below with content, but nothing graphic) acacius covered in someone elses blood as he fucks you, copious smut, biting as a little treat

word count — 8k

“How much?” Acacius inquires, tapping his finger against the iron bars holding you prisoner, staring back at the men. The ginger twins and a man—no, a general. Dressed in a toga of thick material, embroidered with intricate designs, gold bangles at his wrist, a telltale sign of high honor.

“Oh, she is…” The older one, Geta, teeth digging into his bottom lip as he shakes his head, “priceless—quite the fighter, too.”

“Does she have a name?”

Geta smirks to himself, “They call her Medusa. She favors beheading, it seems.” Geta waggles a finger through the bars and smirks, nose scrunching as he addresses you, “Correct?”

You ignore him, responding with a stare—much like your given moniker; if looks could kill.

“She’s bested them all,” Caracalla boasts from beside his brother, Dundus fiddling with his hair from where she was perched on his shoulder, “even our lion that we’ve had since kids.”

“It was a stupid idea, your fault,” Geta retorts, “but—again, she’s not for sale.”

“I’ll conquer India within the next few nightfalls, a handful of new gladiators fresh for the choosing, for your entertainment—how does that sound?”

Greedy as they were and entirely too incompetent, Caracalla agrees before his brother can open his mouth.

“Will you bring her back to visit?” Caracalla inquires with an underlying excitement—the poor brother was nothing but a dunce, erratic and impulsive, but all too easy to manipulate. “The others may miss her.”

“Indeed,” Another swift but convincing lie, Caracalla and Acacius shake hands on the deal before Geta can retort, fuming with rage as he stomps away.

He’d taken a liking to your fighting style despite his distaste for the arena. Strategic and skilled, brute strength and a drive that was built around pure survival but somehow all while maintaining the perfect amount of gracefulness that men did not. Constant calculation, finesse, it was like an art.

He’s gone through several guards over his rule, some from sacrifice but others out of pure ignorance. He needed a strong base, malleable but resistant. He could shape you into a leader, he thinks. He knows.

Your hard stare is like ice as the keys jingle into the lock, a defining click a resounding echo of freedom and General Acacius extends his palm.

A gesture of freedom, a new life, trepidation fills you despite your yearn for a way out of this prison. Here it was, served up on a platter covered in intricate facets of white and gold, stubble brushing his cheeks and soft brown eyes offering kindness.

This was not a man of sheer violence, not the tales they tell about him—this was a man of trouble, conflict, and an instinct to protect himself. And he’d chosen you.

Your hands slips into his, a similar roughness to match his own and scars that Acacius knew well enough of—you were a true fighter, a warrior.

The two boys—calling the men would be too easy, they often acted like spoiled children, were already off to their own chambers, and Acacius had only dropped his hard facade slightly, still under the watchful eye of Rome’s guards, he led you onto your new life.

“I cannot accept,” You argue, as respectful as you could manage, hands crossed firmly over your front, near your waist as you spoke to General Acacius in his private office at home, a place few have stepped foot into, but yet somehow, again, you were given a free pass.

“Are you refusing my order?” Acacius counters, there’s pillowyness to his tone, almost taunting.

“Sir—er, General,” It was all new to you, formalities, structure, rules, “I…am a woman.”

“I am not blind,” Acacius squints his eyes slightly, before leaning back in the creaky chair, “my men—they will not question my choices. They listen, they do their duties. They need strong leadership. Gladiator, I believe you can bestow that upon them.”

“I am a stranger to you, you know nothing of me,” You tell him, a full truth, “General, I fear you may have made the wrong decision, I am not what you think I—”

Silently, Acacius fingers curl around the handle to a drawer hidden behind his desk, pulling out a sharp knife with a handle carved of bone, twisting it in his grip before he’s rearing his arm back, throwing it in your direction.

It zips by with force, the tip of the knife snagging and burying itself deep into the wall behind you, your head whipping to the side to follow it, the sharp blade barely missing the skin of your ear.

Quick reflexes. You turn back to a smirking Acacius.

“I am positive, had I thrown that between your eyes you would have caught it without overthinking the consequences—most of my men would do the same,” Acacius lectures, standing with his brutish frame and walking toward the wall, the soft flow of a breeze kissing at your fists.

“Though, I have another proposition,” Acacius says lightly, twisting the knife in his hand, the pointing spinning against his fingertip as he circles around you, “—attack me.”

“Sir,” You argue, “that surely defeats the purpose of—”

His fist balls up tight and aims for your side. Acacius sees it, the anticipation as you block his hand. He chuckles underneath his breath, “Please, continue,” He teases, twisting out of your grip to pull another punch that you block with ease—he was going easy, you think.

Natural reaction takes hold and his test quickly turns into a full-out brawl, twisting and slipping underneath his grip until you have him pinned against a nearby wall, teeth bared with his forearm pressed against his throat, struggling to grip his free arm.

The real test is here, as Acacius bares the knife near your neck, an immediate reaction to protect yourself rather than go for the kill shot, knowing that anyone of normal skill would be too full of bloodlust to think of anything other than killing you. Protection and defense came first, taking the small nick of a cut to your own forearm before you’re knocking the knife out of his hand and wrestling him to the ground with a swift kick to his leg, rendering him helpless.

“Indeed, you are exactly what I think you are,” Acacius says with finality, “I want you to lead my personal guard. Whatever it is I must do to obtain that, my lady I will do—riches, bribery—”

You push away from him with a heavy exhale, standing and adjusting your clothes, brushing your hair away from your face, “No need, I will do it.”

Acacius rolls to his back, hand extending once more.

This time, it is you offering the help as he uses the leverage to rise to his feet before speaking to you with a triumphant tone.

“Commander,” He grins, “let us plan.”

–

He often asks of your lineage, your home. But, there is nothing to offer. A long conquered piece of land now under the rule of Rome and a home that was never a home. An orphan you had always been, nameless, taking greedily whatever name was bestowed upon you.

In the arena it was Medusa, the tale of a vicious woman with god-like power. Caracalla had told you of the story, the boys having taken a liking to you in different ways. Geta was fiendish, hungry, often seeking you out for his own pleasure to which you wouldn’t deny. Couldn’t. He could be rough, but he wasn’t.

He seemed lonely, the poor boy.

Carcalla was only searching for a friend despite his unruly, chaotic nature. When he wasn’t ruling with tyranny over Rome, terrorizing the townspeople, he was telling you stories.

Other times it was only she. Or her. Or just girl. The girl.

You were only what people assumed of you, expected you to be.

“Medusa, ay?” A greasy looking man confirms, one of the six men who were to be under your command, “The gladiator?”

“You will respect her,” General Acacius had warned them, “or an apology will be your dying breath.”

It had struck most of them with fear. Most of them.

And for many nights, countless, it seems—the transition of leadership was smooth. You had an unyielding grip on them, awaiting direction, following your orders. It was the kind of rush most would only dream of, and as a woman, it was an unforeseen privilege.

“They address you as Medusa, too,” Acacius notes during a roundtable session as the other men wander off for dinner, “do you wish for them to address you differently?”

“I have no name, General,” You admit, “I am whatever I must be. If they think of me as so, that is what I am. Though, I would love to turn a few of them into stone, given I was granted her powers.”

“I believe you could manage that feat without them,” Acacius jokes, “—but, nameless? Even at birth?”

“I know nothing of my birth parents. They told me I was found wrapped in cloth under the bridge that led into the town your army eventually turned to rubble,” A bittersweet feeling, speaking unusually out of term, facing him with the facts, “though, it does not matter. I enjoy the fear they have of me, keeps wandering hands at bay.”

Such an enigma, Acacius eyes you curiously. It was the most you’ve opened up to him since retrieving you from your cell, and even then, still forcing him to face the consequences of war.

The guilt followed him at every waking moment.

“Do you need anything further of me, General?” You ask politely, “You have spoiled my appetite as of late and your men are greedy with the stew.”

“You are dismissed,” He speaks distantly, turning over the thick, coarse paper with a drawn out map of the territory they were to invade soon, a lingering well wish leaving his lips, “sleep well, commander.”

Unfortunately, you’ve turned to sleeping with a knife under your bedroll—with a lingering ache of betrayal, you weren’t allowing yourself to lower your guard.

The attacks do not start at night. Rather during the day, when the General is off and away, scouting ahead further when half of his army while the other half sticks at camp, keeping claim.

That is when the insults come, the disbelief, the mockery.

Most of his men settled with the idea, having accepted your position even if it displeased them.

But, there was one. Like a bull—hardheaded and stocky, fists and arms like clubs, testosterone radiating from his body in crashing waves. He wants you to fear him, submit to him.

You feel it. You see it. And you’ve been through it before, other large and brutish gladiators thinking with their muscles rather than their brains. It wouldn’t take long for them to meet their demise, but this one was…different.

He approaches you with a smile than anyone could see right through, a finger brushing your cheek as he pushes a strand of hair behind your ear, leaning in to brush his lips against the shell of it.

“They are hungry,” He drips of vicious intention, “—I say, you give us a show. Entertain us, Medusa.”

Your eyes snap to him, staring him down.

“Pitiful Acacius isn’t here to save you,” He warns, “though, I have reason to believe he is as weak as most men—spread your legs and he’ll be begging for a taste, too.”

“I will gut you where you stand,” You warn, reaching for the thick machete at your waist, “you’re like a pig. Brainless and greedy for whatever you can get. Touch me, I dare you.”

The rest of the men are relatively quiet, but they do not stop him. Smirks and half-smiles hidden behind their cups, lounging on a log near their tents, enjoying the entertainment.

It was nightfall, the fire crackling between you and them, a towering presence at your backside.

And as he dares to, his hand slides up your waist.

Without hesitation you flip the weapon in your grip, grabbing at his wrist and slicing at his arm—a featherlight touch, it was merrily a glorified papercut, but his eyes widened in shock.

“Let us see how well you touch without fingers,” You threaten, flipping the machete until it is pointing in his face, death grip on the handle if he dared to take it, taunting him with the sharp end of your blade, “hands?”

That deep, rumbling sound of hooves approaches through the darkness, everyone slowly falling back into their paces as you welcome back your General with a forced smile.

Acacius hands off the reins to another rider, taking scope of the situation that seemed to be defusing in front of him, but still—he notices. His eyes trade glances between you both before he nods at you to follow him.

Speaking under his breath, “The others have coined you as fury,” He laughs softly at the pseudonym, “little fury, they tell me. Like the Furies. I cannot say I disagree with them. Has he been pestering you long?”

Your brow furrows at the reference, lost on your ill-informed mind.

“Long enough,” You answer honestly, “though, he was bestowed a parting gift this time.”

You raise your blade, his blood still painting the weapon.

He raises the curtain to his tent, allowing you to enter before him.

“Do you know nothing of the Furies?”

“I was not privy to bedtime tales, General.”

He nods, thoughtful as his lips pull together in a thin line, slowly removing his armor as he sits, directing for you to take a seat opposite of him, a few feet away on a decaying stump.

“Goddesses,” He states simply, “of vengeance, striking the wicked down. You have…fire, deep within you. Do not let them put it out, it is your weapon.”

You nod obediently, feeling the humidity stick to your skin, clothes glued to your body as you sit in the uncomfortable heat. There was no world in which you felt safe enough to strip down, quell your body of this unbearable summer weather. You would rather suffer, thick garb covering your body.

Acacius tilts his head, but does not comment.

“I require your protection tomorrow, we must scout an additional day and I fear danger is imminent—relay this to them,” He instructs, “and my lady, if you fear they will visit you at night, that they might strike when you’re vulnerable, you are welcome here.”

He already anticipates your response—he knows, but the gesture was an offer. A kindness.

“If they try, you will be searching for new men by sunrise, General.”

Acacius smirks in amusement, nodding to your words.

“It would not be difficult to replace them,” He notes, “though, little fury, you are irreplaceable.”

General Acacius wasn’t an easy man to protect, but you managed. Over the few weeks that you had taken point within his guard it has leant you plenty of opportunities to prove your worth, slaughtering opposing soldiers like cattle for the glory of Rome, his booming voice pronouncing vie victis as the dead are laid rest under fire and smoke.

But, conflict comes when you are faced with a decision as the camp was raided under complete, utter darkness. It was your shift to guard the General, perched outside of his tent with constant, roaming eyes. Eventually, you drift. It was peaceful, nature taking hold and pulling you under, awoken to the sound of blood curdling screams, the ground painted with the innards of both Acacius’ men and the others.

You were forced with a choice—defend the camp, something Acacius would have told you to do in a moment of desperation, a self-sacrificing man himself. Ironic, given your position, that you even think otherwise. Of course, your feet pull you toward him, whipping the flowing fabric of his tent door back.

There was a knife at his neck, a man towering over him. He’d snuck past—taken advantage of your exhaustion and your mistake was putting the General’s life at risk, his face stoic as he pushed back against the blade with his palm.

Without thinking, you rush toward the man, pulling back at his collar to plunge the knife pointed at Acacius into his own throat, a silent death through the notch of his neck, the blood flowing out like a river, tossing the lifeless man to the side before you’re reaching for your General.

“Do not worry,” He assures you as he rises, still groggy from sleep, “go—protect our camp.”

“But, General,” You plead, not realizing that your hand was grasping on his own, or that he had initiated the touch as a gentle push, a confirmation that he was truly alright, “it is my fault.”

His eyes peer behind you and to the man lying lifeless on the floor, blood pooling around his body.

“Though, it seems you have done your duty,” Acacius comments, head turned down as he stares at the body before his eyes peer up at you under his dark lashes, pensive, “now—kill them.”

You had lost a hundred or so men, nothing to the army of five thousand, but any loss was felt within General Acacius’ army—men of honor, with families or not, deserved a proper farewell.

Covered in the blood of many, some of your friends and some of strangers, hair matted and reeking of death, you approach General Acacius who was sending off a group of men to begin digging the mass grave to dispose of the bodies.

Your body ached, bruised and nicked from battle—you had killed at least five hundred men alone. Pure rage and fury, not a memory of it as you approached him now, a blank stare void of emotion that concerns Acacius, his hand reaching for your wrist as you begin to pass him, heading for your own tent to collapse in exhaustion.

“You did well,” He notes, catching your gaze as he turns his head to infiltrate your line of sight, “wash off before you turn in, you…reek. There’s a river beyond the bend—clean, warm.”

You nod despite only paying half-attention to his words, walking mindlessly toward the river before you are faced with the unfortunate crowd of men, undressed to their natural state, avoiding the watchful eyes and preying gazes, stripping your armor off down near the empty end of the river, pulling at your tangled hair, pulling off each remaining piece of clothing despite your body’s protest, screaming for relief.

It wasn’t unfamiliar, the looks—you bathed alongside all the men under the arena without a thought, knowing most of them were vying for freedom and wouldn’t dare risk it by allowing their cocks to work overtime, forgetting rational thought.

But, to them, you were a trophy. Someone—something, to be conquered.

The thin, flimsy undergarments come off last, stepping into the water and sinking down slowly. The blood washes away as you scrub, back turned as you dip your head into the water before committing entirely, plugging your nose as you dip underneath the water, finding peace in the silence.

“I had my doubts, Medusa,” A voice bellows from behind as you rise, your eyes peeling open with a quickly growing annoyance, “of you being a true woman, but—”

“Careful,” One of the men warned, a stable boy, “she will run to the general.”

It was the same man from many nights ago, big and brutish, always looking for a fight, even with the other men. He hadn’t learned his lesson, clearly.

“Acacius is busy,” He retorts, “so—what say you give us the show you owe us?”

You stand frozen in place, staring daggers at the man who seems only more amused as the anger in you builds, permeates.

(sa themes below: noncon touching, reader is naked in front of several men)

“Get out of the water,” He demands, “unless you prefer I come get you.”

You survey your choices, knowing that staying in the water wasn’t a safe option. They can and will wait you out. Your eyes track toward your clothes, further away than you had left them. Your eyes track the scar on his forearm and you smirk, teething peeking out behind your lips, “How beautiful,” You tell him, his eyes slowly following your own, “quite the scar, is it not? Fancy another?”

You spot the knife sheathed in his leather belt, taking your chances despite the vulnerability that remains with your naked frame on full display as you retreat from the water, he nods with confidence as you approach, a faint whistle in the distance that you’ve heard before. The oaf seems to ignore it, though. His large hand comes to your breast in an instant, body dripping wet and a sickness churning in your gut as the sticks of torch and fire approach amongst the murmuring crowd of men, less than subtle about the rowdiness that was ensuing.

He pulls you into his body with a greedy hunger as his opposite hands gropes at your backside, following the curve of your ass as your hand snakes toward the blade, but the voice that rips through the crowd is enough to wake the dead, silence falling over the area in an instant.

“Remove your hand,” Acacius voice travels, the same booming voice he uses to declare victory over a new territory, “or I will remove it myself.”

“General,” The man addressed in a drunkish manner, inviting, “she was offering—Medusa, tell him.”

Your silence is expected, his hand wandering toward your other breast, biting hard enough at the inside of your cheek that it draws blood—Acacius sees your hand wrapping around the blade and speaks again, approaches closer as the mud sticks to his boots, “I will tell you once more. Remove it.”

The man eyes you with disdain, dropping his hands away as you relinquish your hold of his weapon, allowing the breath caught in your chest to escape, but it doesn’t stop the touch that follows, taunting with its intention as his palm curls around the back of your head, tilting your head to the side as he squeezes, “I forget—you are the General’s property after all.”

(end of sa themes)

“Take him,” He orders the other lingering guards, men who’ve never shown you anything other than respect—they value their lives and limbs, as any sane person would, “and start the fire.”

Acacius looks around at the lingering eyes, “I suggest all of you return to camp. Now.”

That was all it took, most of them scrambling for their own clothes and armor as they retreated like scurrying mice or dogs with their tail between their legs, leaving you under Acacius' careful gaze. He reaches down to fetch you dirtied clothes, looking them over with disgust.

He removes the black cape around his shoulders without a word, opening it as an offering. Desperate to cover yourself, you slip your arms in the sleeves with his help, his eyes wandering no further than your face as you turn to him, tucking the cape around yourself. He reaches for the hood, pulling it down.

“Come,” He demands, “I would like you to witness.”

–

The screams are audible as you approach camp, a few feet behind Acacius as he rounds the fire and separates the crowd to create a path, approaching the man bound at his feet, one arm roped at his side and secured away, leaving him to fight the men that held him down.

“General, gen—general, I am sorry,” He pleads, “she—you do not understand, she taunts. She is poison, not a leader,” He continues, despite Acacius lack of response, making a motion with his hand to remove the man’s weapon and hand it to him, pulling it from it’s leather cover and examining the blade, he makes a soft sound to himself, “Acacius—you have known me for years. Do not let this woman trick you.”

“Gag him,” He ignores his pleading, leaning down to grip the hand of the man bound below, “your humility is amusing, but your greed is what is costing you. She has shown you mercy, but I will not.”

The cut isn’t a clean slice, either. It takes several swings before the limb detaches, blood spurting out of the appendage as the man screams in pain, dragged helplessly toward the fire before they’re cauterizing the wound—your body unreactive as you watch but silently stewing with frustration.

He had spared the man, sure. But, making a show of it? A mockery?

“Commander, with me,” General Acacius demands, waiting for you to snap back into reality, your eyes meeting his face, blood covering his armor and hands, somehow avoidant of most of the mess.

When you are alone, you don’t hold back.

“I would have handled him,” You tell him, “killed him myself.”

“This is not the arena, we do not go around slaughtering our men without reason,” Acacius retorts, “he will be demoted and replaced and be a reminder to the others that you—”

“I do not need you defending my honor, General.”

“Men will not change, this—society, it does not cater to your safety. To them, women are nothing but vanity and pleasure—”

“And property,” You remark, “lest you forget how you obtained me, General.”

Acacius approaches you near the table at the center of his tent, only a foot away as he removes his armor plate, pulling it over his head, “Had I not, you would have paid for your own freedom eventually. I needed a leader—strong, smart, powerful.”

“By punishing that man, you are sending the message that I need my battles fought for me,” You argue, “and as if these men did not already think I was the General’s plaything, what will they think now?”

Acacius sighs through his nose, pulling at the fabric of his tunic that bares his chest, “I believe they will behave,” He tells you, “because you will not be as kind when you take their heads. He was an example and a pain in my ass for years, he deserved more than that.”

“And what will they think of me now? I am naked under this cloak, your cloak. I must walk the path back to my tent surrounded by men deprived of the things your bestial minds crave.”

Acacius chuckles to himself, “I have been thinking,” He begins, “that you deserve a new name. Something indicative of all that you are. Some of the men award each other with monikers of war. Medusa seems to have become more of a taunt, in light of recent events.”

He unties the leather bands at his wrist, eyeing you with a mischievous gaze as he keeps you waiting, “Have you heard the tale of Minerva, my lady?”

It isn’t a surprise, but you shake your head.

“A goddess of many things—strategy, warfare, victory, and justice…but mostly importantly, wisdom. I have seen the way you command the battlefield, it is not lost on me.”

“You have…many stories, General.”

“My mother told me one every night as she tucked me, it seems they have stuck with me.”

Tell me more, the words linger in the back of your throat.

“I am barely standing, General. I must retire for the night.”

“Indeed,” He agrees, shamelessly stripping down to his undergarments to walk toward the clean bowl of water and wash away the drying blood, “and Minerva,” the name is completely foreign, but you respond with a hum, “your position is yours alone. You have earned it. Do not let them tell you otherwise.”

Like Medusa, the name sticks.

And thankfully, you were a few weeks away from a much-earned break from war, returning to Rome as a free woman for the first time, having finally fallen into a comfortable rhythm with the rest of his personal guards—a mutual respect that had been missing, men waiting for your command.

Long nights of planning spent in Acacius tent, surrounded by the other guards until they filter out one by one, growing curiosity and questions lead to many hours of conversation that you, for many months, had been deprived of in the arena.

“You did promise my return,” You remind him, “they will be expecting you to keep that.”

“They are young, fickle men,” Acacius berates with amusement, “I am sure they have moved on.”

“Do you fear them? The emperors?”

“They are spoiled brats,” Acacius responds, an answer in itself.

“They would visit me often,” You admit, “Caracalla seemed to be—it seems the syphilis in his loins was truly affecting his brains, often he would not even make sense. Or he would come to me, complaining of his brother.”

“You had built quite the rapor,” Acacius notes with a smile, sipping at the broth from his stew as he invites you to sit on his fancy, expensive bed cot. Much nicer than your own, cushioned and wrapped in velvet, “What of Geta?”

“He liked my breasts,” You begin bluntly, “and my—”

“He forced himself upon you?”

“I was property of Rome, Acacius,” You didn’t often say his name in such a relaxed way, blaming it on the full belly and exhaustion, “therefore I was his. I have suffered much worse than a lonely man searching for comfort.”

Acacius seems thoughtful, pensive as he stirs at his quickly diminishing stew. He does catch your lingering gaze on his face after a while, mesmerized by the scar underneath his eye, he encourages you.

“Ask, if you are so curious, my lady,” He places his bowl to the side, empty.

“Your scar,” You nod, pressing your finger in a mirroring way under your eye, “is there a story?”

“Nothing to be told with boast,” He chuckles, “a wound of battle, is all. Like many of the scars on my body,” He tells you, raising his naked forearm to display the various scars, noting the few that paint his clavicle, “and you, Minerva?”

It seems to have become a particular quirk of his, a lilt to his voice as he calls you by your given name—the others have become accustomed to it, too. But, with Acacius, it felt special. Treasured.

You raise your eyebrows at his question, quietly unlacing your top to pull it down your shoulder, sliding a hand over your breast to respect the dynamic between you both—him being your general and you, his subordinate. His eyes squint as he examines the jagged and staggered scar on the side of your breasts—not quite faded, healed but relatively fresh.

“He is a biter,” You warn him with amusement, “Geta.”

Only one scar, given by one of the emperors, somehow untouched from real battle. It was miraculous. You readjust your top, feeling the heat from your neck rise to your face at what you had just willingly offered over to Acacius. Unfortunately, he had a way of lowering your guard.

With that talk, it seemed like a true breakthrough in your partnership with Acacius.

He always allowed you to speak for yourself, never overstepping the boundary you had argued with him over, leading the charge with an iron fist and handling the younger, fresh faced soldiers who just seemed…lost.

It was hard to ignore the lingering glances over time, often during meetings as you spoke, not a look of attention but rather…ravishing. Hungry, but in a subdued manner. You weren’t sure where the lines had blurred, but they had.

Possibly somewhere within the long nights of conversation or the lingering touches that shouldn’t have been as charged as they were, handing over a piece of armor or blade and his calloused fingertips would circle your wrist, pause, before his brain would catch up to his actions.

“Go on,” He encourages after a final night of victory and triumph, many of the men howling and singing tunes around the fire, drinking from their cups and enjoying the pleasures of alcohol and comradery, “you are missing the fun,” He was unnaturally quiet, subdued to his quarters, leaning against the outside of his tent as he watched with amusement but subtle dismay.

A younger man approaches with his hand extended, a gleeful expression on his face, “Minerva, please—come, you must enjoy the party, too.”

The general gives you an expectant look as you let the young man lead you away, curling his fingers around your own and pulling you with vigor, cheering loudly to blend in with the energy of the men despite how you worry about the man several feet away, your eyes tracking his disappearing figure as he slips into his tent, eventually pulled away by another man, one of the guardsmen who adored you, asking for a dance.

You agree hesitantly as the crowd roars louder, eyes searching for the exact reason as you see a few men leading a line of women into camp, little clothing to allow them modesty, a less than subtle shushing come from the men as they lead them deeper into camp, and the fear in you tells you to run to the General.

“It is not what you think,” The young man tells you, “they are dancers—no harm will—”

You bypass him, straight toward the men leading the path, stopping them cold.

“They are not here against their will, my lady.” He assures you, though, that could be argued.

“Minerva, Acacius has made it clear that harming women, you—is far worse a crime than anything else. Truly, it is not what you believe it to be.”

“I am telling the General, informing him of their presence,” You admit, “so I suggest you and the rest of the cattle be on your best behavior?”

They both give crisp, curt nods.

As you make the direct line for Acacius’ tent, you are ignorant to his silent plea for privacy at the tied rope, intertwined with gold fabric, pushing apart the fabric doors without much of a thought, reality hitting you as you catch a glimpse of his naked frame, patting down his body with a clean cloth as he washed himself, other hand curved around his cock as he stretched his neck up and back, the water splashing as he dipped the towel into the basin, only aware of your present when you make a small, unrecognizable sound as a result of your own stupidity.

“I—General,” Your eyes widen as they take on a mind of their own, straight down the valley of his chest as he turns to you, quickly spinning on your heels, “I should have—I apologize, uh, the men…they are—”

“I was informed,” He assures, “and they have been warned, I assure you.”

“Yes, hm—um,” It was the only time Acacius had seen you flustered

“I assumed the rope was a clear message,” Acacius teases, “but—it is not your fault. I should have informed you of their…antics.”

He pulls the tight, fabric shorts over his hips, clearing his throat, peering over your shoulder you breathe a sigh of relief, “General, I would like to apologize for—” You swallow, watching as he turned barefoot on his heels, the fabric of the immodest undergarments curving around the stretch of his cock, half-hard under the fabric and the outline of thick head pushing against the linen.

You don’t realize how long you’re staring until he’s approaching with a tap of his finger on the underside of your chin, “There is no need for that,” He assures you, your nose scrunching up in confusion at the sudden touch, feeling the subtle shift as he reaches behind you for the clothes folded on the table at your backside, “surely you must return to the party,” He encourages, “celebrate a well-earned victory.”

“Why?” You counter, “When you will not.”

“Minerva,” He warns.

“You are distracted,” You note, watching as Acacius now avoids your gaze, “it is worrying me.”

He cannot admit the reason why. That it may be you.

“Acacius,” You call his name, hoping that will break through to him.

“Leave me,” He asks, rather than demanding, “I need to rest.”

It was a lie, but you do not fight him on it.

–

Silence blankets the camp in the early morning hours—the witching hours, as you’ve come to know them. Sleeping securely in your tent, bedroll tucked under your head as you drift. Unaware of the creeping men planning your untimely demise, assuring that the entire camp was asleep before they strike, arms and legs rendered useless as the third shoves a piece of cloth into your mouth and ties it around the back of your head, screams muffled behind the fabric, stripped of your weapons. Helpless, they think.

During the struggle, one of them grows frustrated, banging the hard rock against your skull and plunging you back into darkness.

When you come to, you are unclear of where you are, but it was outside, arms above your head against the thick limb, feet bound tight as well, a sting and a string of wetness running down the side of your face as your blurry vision becomes clear.

“Little Minerva,” the voice begins mockingly, all too familiar to your ears, “he has named you—you must feel special, ay?”

He kneels in front of you, the one hand he has left curling around the forearm of what was left of his other appendage, “And you expect to return back to Rome as a free woman,” He laughs, snorts wetly through his nose, “I assure you that will not happen. Rather, you will be a dead one.”

The other two lingering figures join in on the laughter.

“How did you say it?” He taunts, “I will gut you where you stand?”

“It took three of you to capture me,” You retort, “your confidence is lacking sorely.”

He clears the back of his throat, rearing up a ball of saliva in his mouth before he’s spitting at you.

“I will slaughter all of you with my hands,” You promise, “untie me, unless you are fearful.”

Driven by ego, it doesn’t take much for him to agree.

But, as he had underestimated you the first time, and the second, he would regret the third.

The two men come at you first, enough tussling and your teeth ripping into the ear of one of them, searching blindly for a thick, heavy and sharp edge branch that would handle the weight of piercing through skin and muscle, finding the right weapon at the perfect moment—the attacker rearing back as the other approached, driving the make-shift stake through his chest as the other tackled you to the ground, a poor miscalculation on his part as you get your legs around his neck, arms pinned at an painful, awkward ankle until his neck snaps from the force, the ox-like man awaiting in the shadows like a coward, blood spilling from your mouth as you scream.

The heavy hooves approach like roaring thunder and the instant your attacker catches on, his attempts to flee are ruined by the barricade of men at all angles, General Acacius at the head of the charge, a rageful expression on his face. Feral unlike you have ever seen.

He jumps off of his horse, ordering the men to capture the surviving man once again, looking around at the lifeless bodies beside you, assuring his men he would handle you and the mess, demanding they return to camp at once.

You look around aimlessly, blood staining your face as Acacius struggles to capture your attention, eventually resorting to a strong, demanding hold on your face, cradling your head with his hands.

“Are you wounded?” He asks, then notices the trail of blood from your scalp, pushing away the hair to reveal with gash from the rock they had attacked you with, grimacing as he runs his finger over the wound in worry.

Suddenly, you are stricken with a need, “Give me your sword,” You tell him, eyes flicking up to meet his own, “I need your sword.” His movements are too slow, still concerned with you that you reach for the weapon yourself.

Pulling away, you approach one of the dead men with the sword, swinging it up over your head and down with force, beheading him in one go, before switching to the other man, less finesse as you swing—again and again, until there is nothing but a pool of blood, bone, and brain—Acacius steps in eventually, tossing the sword away as he holds you arms in his fierce grip, letting the screams rip from your chest as he sways with you, eventually falling to your knees in exhaustion. He uses his bare hands to wipe the blood away from your neck, your face, feeling the soft shake of your body as you sob in silence, overcome with an emotion you so rarely let surface.

–

The public execution follows the next morning, everyone rousing from their tents to the loud, blaring horn from the ship just off shore—Acacius had assisted you back to camp on his horse, slumped against his back as you rode until the trampling finally stopped, sliding off the horse and into Acacius’ arms as he led you inside his tent.

He didn’t sleep the entire night, watching over you instead—he rarely blinked, staring off into nothingness as he tried to keep the vicious rage at bay, by morning, he was itching.

“You may stay,” He tells you, “your head—I cleaned it while you slept.”

You shove his hand away as he attempts to help you sit, slowly dressing yourself, eventually putting together the fact that Acacius had undressed and bathed you at some point throughout the night, not a speck of blood or spit remaining.

“Are you ordering me to stay?”

Acacius shakes his head, his hand still hovering close by.

“Then I will attend.”

He doesn’t argue against it and there is, despite your weariness to admit, a relief of your chest as Acacius rears back his blade, silencing the final scream the man lets out, pleading for his life. The blood sprays over his face, a strong grimace at the sheer strength it takes to behead the man, but the general manages it with one strike of his blade.

His speech follows, a deep and unsettling warning to all of his men. A final one.

Men, wide-eyed with fear, agree without resistance before he sends them off to ready the ship for departure and a meal before they begin their long trek back to Rome—he is less than gentle as he grabs your wrist without warning and pulls you alongside him, back to his tent.

–

He ties the rope with a stiff tug, before turning to you, stumbling on your feet as pull off his cape, having offered it to you for a second time, assuring that dressing in your usually armor wasn’t needed today, not as you began your travels, a flowing dress tied at your shoulder and waist that you were used to wearing during the showings back in Rome, parading you around like a prize.

“Acacius, perhaps you should sit,” You suggest, watching his hands curl into fists at his sides before he’s spinning on his heels and toward you, cradling your face like he had the night prior, but even this close, it felt like he was trying to keep you at a distance, “—I am sorry, if I did something—”

“I crave you,” Acacius admits, “you must know.”

Your lips part, gearing up the courage to speak, but falling short.

“Nights I have spent,” He breathes, shaking his head, the curls tickling your forehead as they meet, “thinking—wondering—”

“Acacius, why now?” You question him, “As we are homebound, back to your wife. Surely, she would have my head.”

Acacius shakes his head with a soft, but fond laugh.

“Our marriage is complex,” He explains, “Something I do not care to explain in great detail at this moment, you see—,” His hand curves around the side of your neck, tilting your head up, lips grazing against his own as he speaks, “I had no such intention for things to get like this, but you have proven to make things…difficult, for me,” He breathes out through his mouth, his eyes opening slowly to meet yours, “and I need you, should you have me.”

You could easily deny him, knowing he would back off in an instant. But, like this, clearly driven by adrenaline and instinct, riding the high of such a charged execution, he was craving something deeper than an outlet to release the built up tension.

He craved connection—through little moments of conversation and touches, someone at level-ground, an equal. You were his equal. He’d given you so much since, and you would be lying to yourself if you denied the thoughts that had riddled your mind too.

“I do not much prefer a soft touch,” You finally reply, “or gentle care.”

He silences you with a kiss, bruising and tense as he licks into your mouth, hungrily searching for more areas to taste and devour, licking along the column of your neck as the blood of another smeared into your skin, his fingers working quietly to undo your dress, in turn wrestling with his armor and clothes, nearly ripping the fabric of his shirt from his body as you claw at him.

Wet kisses and clashing tongues fill the silent room, a screeching sound as your back hits the roundtable before he’s lifting from the back of your thighs and scooting you onto the surface, naked and bare as he spreads your thighs apart to move between them, clearly restraining himself as he licks, teeth grazing carefully.

“I enjoy them,” You admit, “Do not hold back, Acacius. They are what I will keep with me, if this be the only time.”

Like a dog cut loose of his chain, his teeth sink into the breasts mirror the mark of the other, hissing as his teeth break through the skin just enough for the subtle trickling of blood to rise to the surface before he’s soothing the wound with his tongue, staring up at you through a half-lidded gaze, prowling for more. He dips lower, falling to his knees as he pulls you toward the end of the table, ass hanging near the edge as his teeth sink into your thigh, near the swell of your cunt as you moan, fingers digging into sweaty, matted curls.

“Acacius,” You plead breathily, “I want your mouth.”

Where—it did not matter. But, Acacius fulfills that need as he licks a broad strip through your cunt, nose buried in the coarse curls, still smelling of the fresh soap he had bathed you in, taking delicate care as he washed your body, letting you slump into him, soaking him in the process.

“Yes, that—” You respond airily, eyes fluttering shut as his tongue dips inside of you, swirling your slick around on his tongue and sucking harshly at your clit, staring up at you daringly from his position beneath you, unwavering, “oh, gods above…”

Acacius chuckles below you,the sound vibrating against your cunt as your moans increase rapidly, thick fingers dipping inside your pulsating core, “This high—it feels like—”

He rises to press a kiss against your stomach, climbing, tongue licking over your belly button and between your breasts, “—like…” He encourages, “come on, my lady, do not sell out on me now,”

“Like a battle high,” You admit with a faint laugh, “though, different, but….”

He understands, driven by unbridled need, uncapped adrenaline.

“Well, vae victis,” He taunts, “now—come here,” He squeezes at your hips and pulls you to him, his cock stiff, throbbing between your legs before he is twisting and spinning you around, feet planting against the ground as he bends you over, fisting himself tight as he rubs his thick cock head between your folds, watching as your wetness coats him, sinking into your fluttering hole with little resistance, a sweet cacophony of noises releasing from your throat as you grip onto nothing, hand curling into a fist as you moan, open-mouthed and shameless.

“Harder,” You beg, forcing the word out between thrusts, blunt fingernails clawing at your hips, attempting to pull you in closer despite your proximity, as if he could consume and even that wouldn’t be enough, “Acacius, please.”

It was like instinct, his hand sliding up the back of your thigh to lift your leg up, pinning it up—up, until you feel the ache in your sore muscles as he holds you in place with a fist between the bend of your knee, heaving breaths at your neck as he fucks you into the hard surface of the table.

It was a pain you would feel in your bones, that would carry with you into the morning, marks that would last for longer, a remnant of this moment, the mess of blood smearing on your own skin as he melts against you, forehead resting against your shoulder as his gaze follows the movement of his hips, slow but powered thrusts that drilled into you, clawing at his skin to leave your own bruises. The hand that brushes against your core is your ultimate demise, feeling breathless as your orgasm pulls you under, muffled sobs into your fist as you bite down, fearful that it might draw attention. Though, Acacius seems preoccupied, still.

His hand seeks your neck, digging in as he pulled you up, “To your knees,” He demands softly, your body moving out a memory, dropping to the floor—though, the sight is much more tantalizing, Acacius fisting his cock tight, feral as he teeth were bared, like a man fresh from the slaughter, he comes with a deep and guttural groan, your tongue sliding against the underside of his bulbous head, thick spurts coating your tongue, his body shaking as you pull away, swallowing all that he had offered with a steady, locked gaze. He assists you upright, steadying you.

“For a man who has such a distaste for unnecessary violence, you wear it well,” It wasn’t a compliment, rather an observation, his eyes tracking your naked frame, fingertips tracing the curves of your body in admiration.

“You are quite inspiring, Minerva,” He admits, gathering your thick dress and helping you redress in silence, tying the material around your body, “not everyone deserves mercy.”

Your smile is rare, but it is beautiful. And he wasn’t a man for such dramatics.

But, it could bring him to his knees, he thinks.

#general acacius #marcus acacius #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius x y/n #general acacius x reader #general acacius x you #gladiator ii #gladiator ii fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal smut #my writing

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loverboyfae · 3 months ago

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although humbert humbert is the kind of stereotypical image of a pedophile (does what he does because he’s attracted to children (though i mean unreliable narrator he could be lying)), lolita is SUCH a good text to childhood studies with. like humbert retains power over delores by telling her that he is her only guardian, and that escaping her would mean winding up as a ward of the state where she will be treated even worse. he uses the power he has over her and specifically draws attention to the fact that he has so much power over her because society leaves her completely powerless; were she to go to the police about him, she wouldn’t be able to choose to take care of herself or choose who gains ownership over her in the future, so she might as well stay with the guy who rapes her but at least buys her things

the tragedy of her ending, then, in part is the fact that the only person she could manage to go to for help is someone who will also sexually exploit her, but (at least she believes) less than humbert will. her school notices that she is struggling, but the only recourse they have or even seem interested in is informing the guardian who is causing the abuse, a very common issue for abused children in schools. as much as conservatives hand wring about schools taking over their parental rights, they really have nothing to fear even now into the modern day, as only the most blatant and obvious child abuse can be addressed without involving parents; every other action schools have available to them is to consult the child’s owner, their parent(s), first and foremost. nobody in a child’s life, as lolita reflects, is able to materially aid a child without the parents’ permission or else they are breaking the law. as such, delores’s only chance for escape was to go with a man fine with breaking the law, and that wound up being another pedophile.

the criticism of systems of power in lolita is criminally underdiscussed, but a lot of that is also because criticisms of systems is often glossed over in most discussions of csa. people are somewhat aware that pedophiles, like other rapists, are more interested in power than attraction, but the imbalance of power between child and adult is fully naturalized. while obviously some aspects of that are innate (the physical difference, for example), there is also plenty about that difference in power which is socially and legally constructed, ESPECIALLY between a child and their legal guardian, who retains ownership over them even above the child’s own autonomy

#personal #lolita novel #i have written a more extensive essay about this and other elements of childhood studies in lolita #but i kind of just realized the thing about the inevitability that she would be ‘rescued’ by another abuser #due to the legal ramifications of that

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beloveds-embrace · 21 days ago

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Can we please get that Duke König with the neglected Reader please Noona I am begging

The sun was beginning to set, painting the garden in hues of gold and pink. You sat alone on the stone bench you’d started occupying often, the cloak König had draped over your shoulders still providing its comforting weight. He had been here again today, as he often was now, seeking reasons to remain in the duchy far longer than any diplomatic duty you knew required.

He never came empty-handed, of course: a carefully chosen book, a delicately wrapped sweet, or today, a small bundle of lavender tied with a ribbon. Simple, yet thought out gifts. Gifts with you in mind.

König’s approach was always quiet, unobtrusive. He never demanded, never insisted, always leaving space for you to breathe, to speak if you wished- or to remain silent if you didn’t. His presence was unlike the others you were familiar with: gentle, steady, unhurried. You felt at peace around him, pressure not pressing down on your shoulders.

Today, he had sat beside you, his massive frame hunched to match your height, the soft timbre of his voice like a balm. “The Lavendel,” he’d started. “is for peace of mind. It helped my mother when her days felt too heavy. She would place it under her pillow.”

You hadn’t spoken much, but the corner of your lips had twitched upward, just slightly. That alone seemed to light his face with a kind of hope you hadn’t seen in years.

Inside the manor, the atmosphere was tense. John stood at the window, watching the garden from a distance. Kyle leaned against the wall, arms crossed, jaw tight. Johnny sat stiffly on the armrest of Simon’s chair, and the latter simoly stared at the crackling fire.

“She smiled at him today,” Kyle muttered, his voice heavy with bitterness and sorrow. “… Haven’t seen her smile like that in months.”

Johnny ran a hand through his hair, his throat working as he swallowed. “An’ he’s the one who gets it. Him.”

“He’s a better man than we’ve been,” Simon said bluntly, tone cutting and sharp, but not wrong. “And she deserves better.”

John turned from the window, ashen. “It doesn’t matter what we think. What matters is what she chooses.”

“And what if she chooses him?” Kyle asked, his voice sharp, though the anger wasn’t directed at John alone. “What then?” The rumors would be dangerous…

None of them had an answer.

Days slowly turned into weeks, and König’s presence became as steady as the rising sun even as you began recovering more. He never pushed, but he was always there- when you wandered the garden paths, when you sat by the fire in the library, even once when you’d stood on the balcony, staring out at the horizon as though searching for something you couldn’t name.

It wasn’t grand gestures that softened you, truthfully, but his quiet consistency. The way he listened, the way he treated you as though you were more than a shadow. The way he looked at you, not with pity, but with reverence. You were not an afterthought to him; you… existed. Really, trully, existed within his eyes and he treated you as such.

And slowly, against all odds, you began to bloom again. A soft laugh here, a tentative question there. König never rushed you, only offered his steady patience and a safe space for you and only you.

They could only watch from the distant edges, the weight of their regrets pressing down on them like suffocating fog.

They tried to tell themselves it wasn’t too late, that they could still fix this. But every time they saw you smile at König, every time you turned to him instead of them, the truth became harder to ignore. They had chances once- countless chances- to reach out to you. To make things right. And they had squandered every single one and now there was just… nothing left.

And König? He was just waiting to finish this deplomatic meetings so he could take you with him to his nation. The divorce process should be easy to deal with, and he’d finally free you from this miserable life.

You would want for nothing with him, and he will ensure not a single rumor of your unhappiness will ever spread again.

#noona.asks #noona.writes #cod x reader #cod #cod x you #konig x you #konig x reader #konig drabble #konig imagine #john price x reader

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inkskinned · 11 months ago

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yesterday while feverish i wrote about how boats can moor next to each other like pigeons, cooing with the gentle rap of water against their hull. you once said that that the way i see things - birds in the water, feathers in marina paint - was "childish and naive." you said i'd been misdiagnosed - "it can't all be adhd. you might be just kind of stupid and lazy."

i still do certain things like how you taught me - turn the pillow case inside out before putting it on. drive defensively. hate myself entirely.

the prompt for this poem is "mahler's fifth." i wish it wasn't, but mahler's fifth was our song. it ended up in my book. every person that knows your name has promised me they'll give you one swift rabbit punch, right to the face. dean read the book and showed up on my front porch, drenched in sweat from running the 8 miles at 4 in the morning. he was shaking. pacifist and gentle - he works with children - i'd never seen him furious. a punch isn't going to do it, he said, and then said i'm sorry. i had to come to see if you were okay.

mahler's fifth was mine first, like my girlhood. i like the way each movement piles onto the next movement, each instrument bleeding into the next. i like the horn version the best. before i met you, i danced to it on grass still-wet from sprinklers.

later you would tell me that the way you heard it was somehow better. you understood something in it that i couldn't quite wrap my fingers into. once, on our anniversary, you asked the classical music radio station to play it for us. we missed hearing it because we were fighting. one of the things people get wrong about abuse is that sometimes victims are, like, brutally aware of the stupidity of our situation. what do you mean that you thought i wasn't good enough for you? you? you're just... nothing.

sometimes people can pull the poetry out of your life. i watched my words become clothesline, and then thin out into kite twine. i watched you chew through every good syllable of me. so many good songs and places and moments were ruined. i am glad you didn't like most of my music - less to tie back to you.

but still mahler's fifth. the music swells, and i am 21 and throwing up in a bathroom on my birthday. a woman i will later refer to as lesbian jesus runs a cool hand down my back, her perfect pantsuit starch-pressed. she told me to leave you. she said - and this is true, and not an invention of rhyme or fantasy - i'm you from the future.

i am 22, and i got home from an award ceremony, and i remember you telling me - you act so proud of yourself when you're actually so fucking embarrassing. i took you to disney world. you took my virginity. i gave up visiting spain for a week with my family - i instead choose you, to spend the time just-cuddling. you called it "our fuck week." the music swells. it probably should have been a red flag that for about 3 years - i just gave up on crying. my grandfather died and you said nothing. my uncle died and you ghosted me for 3 weeks. you said i need to protect myself from your ongoing tragedy.

every so often i come back to the memory of one of our last afternoons in person. i had just told you that i wasn't going to law school, despite the free ride - i was going to join a creative writing program. master's in fine arts. i was going to finally do it - i was going to follow my dreams. this blog was already internet-famous. however reluctantly, i would occasionally refer to myself as a poet. i got into umass amherst's writing program for fiction authors. it is one of the the top 5 programs in the country.

wait are you seriously considering actually attending that? dumbfounded, you turned completely towards me in your seat. for the 3rd time in our relationship, you almost crashed the car. you actually want to be a writer?

the first time i went viral, it was for a poem i wrote about you:

he wants to say i love you but keeps it to goodnight because love will take some falling and she's afraid of heights.

every time i see that, i want to throw up. you weren't in love with me, you were in love with the control you had over me. a little truth though: i am afraid of heights. you caught a rabbitgirl and skinned her alive.

mahler's fifth still makes me sick.

give me that back. give me back music. give me back everything i had before you. give me back fearlessness. give me back bravery. give me back a scarless body.

give me back what you took from me.

#nosebleed club #sorry stephen not ur fault #just like. thinking #writeblr #spilled ink #warm up #every time nat is like - oh let me get that for u #im like .... this is a trick right like ur gonna be mean now bc u did something nice rn #so obviously if ur being nice now either u did something mean and im about to learn about it #or you're going to BE mean #or ur gonna hold this over my head forever and i'll never get a nice thing ever again?#and every time nat is like .... babe i just actually like u #lesbian jesus story is 100% real btw. she also told me not to be an event planner #literally changed the shape of my life

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reignpage · 26 days ago

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Piercer!Geto

Yamaha XT500: slowing down

Contents: bts of Yamaha XT500, providing context of their conversation, slight sexual language, angsty, inappropriate workplace behaviour?

You’re nervous.

The past week has been uncomfortable and awkward. Your boss was preoccupied with another girl, and you know you shouldn’t be jealous; she’s a client. But to watch him be so attentive, so patient, and so accommodating of another girl, it made your chest hurt.

There you were, sitting behind your desk with a smile, waiting to greet your boss but he’d barely glance at you, gliding past to his office without even a word. When you’d bring him coffee, he wouldn’t even look up, he’d just continue scribbling or typing on his computer.

Sure, he was busy.

Everyone was.

But it wasn’t right for him to give you so much attention the first couple months and then take it all away like it meant nothing. Like you meant nothing. Your sister said it hurts a lot for you because it’s your first love, and whilst you’re not sure that what you’re feeling for Suguru is love indeed, you still appreciate that you’re new to this whole thing.

Why are men such mysteries?

How ever did Helen of Troy, or rather of Sparta, circumvent this maze?

The romance books you’ve read couldn’t give any insight. They all somehow follow the same pattern of ‘boy meets girl, they like each other, boy hurts girl, boy kisses girl, and girl forgives boy, and they live happily ever after’.

And pardon your French, but that just seems like utter lunacy!

Technically, Suguru hasn’t done anything wrong, he’s just doing his job. But he still hurt you and you can’t give in to his sweet words and pet names, no matter how they make you blush and press your thighs together.

So, after his messages insisting you have lunch together, you wait out at the front of the studio. It’s getting colder and you wish you had brought a thicker jacket, but you only have your sister’s hoodie. You hope she isn’t walking around town today otherwise she’ll rip it right off you.

It’s only fair you take her jacket when she took your heels to go to a party, sneaking past your room like the little devil that she is.

“Ready to go, pretty?”

There it is again.

That smooth tone and heart-fluttering pet name. You’re blushing again when you turn to meet his eyes. He’s so tall, kind eyes smiling at you as he closes the door. He takes a quick sweep of your figure before he sighs and drapes a scarf over your shoulders, tying a knot so that your neck is all warm and cozy.

Don’t fall for it!

You thank him and then step aside so he can lead the way. Both of you stroll through the neighbourhood, smiling at passersby and weaving around tourists who take up the entire pavement. Having watched a bunch of romance shows too, you’re painfully aware of the fact that he’s following the sidewalk rule, standing as a barrier between you and the road.

It was a seamless move, done as if on autopilot, as if he’s simply the type to sacrifice himself. He’s a really good boss. Always choosing to stay overtime to finish up on paperwork instead of letting another member of staff handle it, taking the brunt of complaints and nasty customers, and his officer door’s always open for his employees.

Except, of course, that one time when you had shut it so you could have a little…well, you don’t know what to call it. But whatever it was, it’s been stuck in your mind since then. And you can’t even count the number of times you’ve cum to the thought of it, to the feel of his hands on you.

Thank goodness your sister’s out so often.

“The weather’s taking a turn for the worse, you should start wearing thicker clothes,” he advises.

You tuck your chin into his scarf, smelling that familiar scent of musk and late nights, and the faintest hint of gasoline. When he glances down at you, you nod.

“Yeah, I will.”

Earlier in the week you had ran into your friend. She was frazzled over the lawsuit against the university and the ugly professor, hands frantically typing away and hair tied up haphazardly in her unofficial spot in the corner of the library, facing the south windows.

You hesitated to talk to her in case she was really busy and would feel burned by a conversation, but when she saw you, she let out a genuine, but strained smile. The case had been taking a lot from her. You admire her so much. Always so hardworking, so easy to approach, and so eager to help, no matter what she’s going through.

She pushed her laptop to the side and gestured for you to sit. And for half an hour straight, you complained about your problems with your boss. Looking back now, you can only cringe at the memory. How thoughtless of you. It’d be wise to avoid any pool of water, lest you fall into your own reflection.

But she still took the time to hear you out and give advice.

“I don’t really know this Suguru person, but it does sound like he was genuinely busy. I think it’d be good to hear what he has to say and go from there.”

And of course that makes sense. It’s rational, logical, the kind of thinking a law student would have. Perhaps you should have gone to a drama student who would have told you to faint in front of him and pull at his heartstrings.

Before you know it, you reach a cafe.

Suguru lets you in first, placing a hand at your back to direct you to a table by the window. It’s a seat with a great view of a park, the leaves have turned various shades of orange and red, drifting downwards in spirals, descending with grace.

You sit in front of him, unravelling the scarf and placing it on your lap. Oddly enough, as you both look over the menu, it doesn’t feel awkward like you had been expecting.

It feels normal.

Like you’ve done this a million times before.

And it’s only once the server takes your orders, that you both look at each other. He’s still smiling both with his lips and his eyes, and it’s the kindest, most reassuring smile you’ve ever seen. The kind of smile you find yourself searching for in every stranger, only to come up empty-handed.

But there’s something else there, resting on his features. The crinkles by his eyes are ever so slightly more visible, and the circles under them are just tiniest shade darker. Suguru’s really been worked to the bone recently.

“Is the campus more chaotic than usual? With the protests and all.”

You shrug. “A little. People are really upset with Eden’s decision to only suspend Professor Mahito despite the mounting evidence against him.”

Suguru nods thoughtfully, accepting the drinks that the server brings over. You’ve opted for a hot chocolate and he’s drinking coffee. He doesn’t tease you over your order of extra whipped cream like your sister does.

“And you believe the accusations?”

“Of course!” You say that with a little more passion than intended, likely feeling offended he even needed to ask. You’re embarrassed but he doesn’t laugh at you, only lifts his cup to hide his amused smile.

He’s always smiling.

But most times it never feels genuine.

After a sip of his coffee, he adds, “I believe them too. Much of the pro-Mahito rhetoric centres around his work as a professor, but not much about his character. And if I may, my run-ins with him during my time were never particularly pleasant.”

You nod. “I just hope it all gets settled on. Everyone deserves peace.”

Something about what you said pleased him because then his smile is widening and he places his cup down and leans back in his chair. You know what this means; he’s going to get serious.

The talk is going to happen now.

“About my client,” you suck in a breath, “you think she was something more?”

Biting your lip, you consider your words very carefully. “I think you gave her special attention. One that you don’t give to any other client, not even celebrities.”

The food arrives and you glance up at him before taking a bite, wondering why he isn’t answering immediately. Is he considering his words carefully too? If he is, what does that mean for you? Is he doing it because he doesn’t want to hurt you or because he doesn’t want to let you in any more than he must to keep the peace?

Your mind is racing, and you chew without even really tasting your food.

His finger taps against his fork, and then he drops his smile and sits up straight.

“You’re right. She wasn’t just another client. She was special.”

A chill pierces your chest. It stuns you, rendering you frozen, forced to bathe in the words like a cold plunge. You want to throw up and run. But you’re pinned to your seat with his steely gaze. It’s insistence, urging you to listen. You can’t look away. Not when, even at the worst moment of the time you’ve had with him, he still looks so mesmerising, a marble statue carved only with the most ardour and the brightest hope for mankind.

Suguru lets out a breath, perhaps relieved you haven’t left. At least he understands why you would. He owed you that much at least.

“There are clients,” he begins with an authoritative tone as if his words are factual and you’re captivated by the musical cadence of his warmth, like he’s telling you a bedtime story, “who come, not with money but, with stories.”

You don’t really know where he’s going but you place your cutlery down and reach for your mug of hot chocolate like its searing heat could keep you grounded, keeps you tethered to the ground and protected from his lulling voice, a pied-piper amongst normal men.

“They’ve been seen the darkness the world has to offer, ventured into places we can’t even fathom. And certainly, places I would never wish for you to have been.”

Something about his cautioning words compel you to nod.

When his fingertip touches yours and sends a tingle through your hand, following the veins, you realise he’s inched his hand closer, to feel yours, even just to feel the atoms breathe near other seems to calm him. Perhaps he needs tethering too.

“Riko was special -is- special. She’s a girl who’s been through a lot.”

You’re breathless, dazed from the feel of his skin. You want to pull away so you can have clarity of mind, but you can’t. “She’s been to those places?”

Suguru nods, a bitter flash crossing his features.

“She was running from people who wanted to take from her. Who only ever saw her as a vessel and not as a person. And she’s come very far on her own. She wanted something to remind her of who she is. Not a little girl, not a vessel or a mere victim, but a survivor.”

Your lip trembles.

The girl you had seen was so bright, she grinned with mischief and spoke with so much energy you felt invigorated just by listening, even when you didn’t want to. The extent of what she’s faced is something your mind just cannot venture to. And you’re wracked with guilt, it gnaws at your heart, squeezing in punishment.

You might throw up for a whole different reason.

This entire time you had been cursing her out in your head, feeling jealous of all the attention she was getting, but it never even occurred to you that she might have needed the attention, needed to feel normal and cared for, in the way you do.

You lick your lips, tasting the sweetness of the chocolate there and force your features to lighten. “I understand. Thank you for sharing that with me.”

Suguru doesn’t look convinced, and he opens his mouth to carry on but you only press your finger to his like one would boop a baby on the nose. It’s what your father does to you and your sister when you argue, an effective way of disorienting you enough to shut you up.

It’s the first time you’ve ever done it but it works wonders because your boss only tilts his head and watches your hand do it again. His expression lightens too.

There’s a renewed atmosphere to the table, like a veil had been lifted; you hadn’t realised just how heavy it all was until you’re grinning and spooning more food into your mouth.

“She’s okay now, though?”

And when Suguru nods, you’re pleased with the answer. Truly.

Wherever Riko is, whatever she’s doing, you hope she’s safe. And above all, happy. And if she must return to Uzumaki for solace, for protection, for friendship, you swear there and then, you’d welcome her with open arms.

“Did you hear about Gojo’s fiancee?”

Suguru laughs, images of his best friend’s faces flashing in his eyes. “Have I ever? Satoru hasn’t stopped complaining. He spams me day in and day out, sends a bunch of voicemails to both my personal and work phones, and when I wouldn’t answer, he’s been showing up at work.”

You’re giggling. “I know! Nowadays he just walks in and groans at me that you’ve abandoned in his ‘time of need’, whatever that means.”

There’s a softness in his tone, even as he makes fun of his friend, and you feel its embrace when he admits, “Satoru’s always been very dramatic, but he’ll be fine.”

“My sister says his fiancee’s like the complete opposite of him, appearance-wise. Something about being goth?”

“I’ve met her,” he smirks when you gasp. “Don’t look so surprised. You forget I was once a student at Eden. She and I were classmates. And she’s going to him a run for his money.”

The conversation continues with laughter, a feather-like lightness carrying you both along. For two hours, even well after both of your plates are empty, you chat. You update him on what you’ve been up to for the past week, rambling about the most mundane things like they were a crisis and he nods along, never once interrupting, as if content to sit there for however long and listen.

And when you walk back to the studio, there isn’t a moment of silence. Not even when both of you have stopped talking.

This is perhaps the only time since you began working at Uzumaki that you’ve spoken, not as boss and employee, and not even as two people with an inexplicable tension of the sexual kind. But rather as friends.

It felt good.

To know where you stand with someone.

Sitting back down behind your desk and watching Suguru flash you another smile before he retreats into his office, you reach a conclusion.

Friendship is good for you and him.

You need it before anything else.

And those are the terms he’ll have to agree with.

#jjk x reader #jjk fluff #Suguru geto #suguru x reader #suguru smau #suguru fluff #Suguru angst #jjk angst #jjk drabble #jjk fic #suguru drabble #suguru fic

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shan-yee · 23 days ago

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•𝘋𝘢𝘺 𝘝 = 𝙉𝙨𝙛𝙬 𝙖𝙡𝙥𝙝𝙖𝙗𝙚𝙩 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙑𝙞𝙠𝙩𝙤𝙧 [𝘼𝙧𝙘𝙖𝙣𝙚]

•𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩 = 𝙑𝙞𝙠𝙩𝙤𝙧 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝘼𝙧𝙘𝙖𝙣𝙚

•𝘞𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 = 𝙎𝙚𝙭, 𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧, 𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙣𝙚𝙧, 𝙜𝙞𝙧𝙡𝙛𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙙, 𝙙𝙞𝙘𝙠 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙨𝙚𝙭𝙮 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚, 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙚𝙩𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣.

•𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 = 2150

•𝘈/𝘕 = English is not my first language, please let me know if you see any mistakes ! Enjoy ✨

Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

⇰ Viktor is often tired after a session but he always takes the time to caress and kiss his partner while asking her how she feels.

⇰ He is extremely gentle and it’s with pleasure that he will take a bath with her while trying to beat his fatigue, generally he won’t stay long and will go to bed after being sure that she no longer needs of him.

Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

⇰ Honestly he doesn't like much about himself, but if he had to choose he would probably say his hair. He takes great care of it, keratin product, shampoo, conditioner, etc.

⇰ He particularly likes it when his partner runs her fingers through his locks, it's a very intimate act for him and he generally doesn't let anyone touch them.

⇰ About his girlfriend ? He loves everything about her but especially her hands. He often caresses them absently and loves to hold them during the act.

Cum (Anything to do with cum basically…)

⇰ Viktor likes to finish inside or in a protection depending on whether his partner is taking contraception.

⇰ I think that at the start of his relationship he won't like cumming on his girlfriend's body, feeling like he's dirtying her. But when it happens by accident and he sees that the reader likes it, he will end up secretly enjoying doing it.

⇰ He has an average amount of cum, maybe a little less than most men.

Dirty secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

⇰ I think that he would keep it to himself but Viktor feels a certain attraction to Jayce, sexual but above all romantic. He would act as if he doesn’t and try to convince himself, but the more time passes, the more he will realize it.

⇰ After a few years he will become more attentive to the relationship that his partner shares with Jayce, secretly hoping that she too, is not insensitive to his charm.

⇰ However, he won’t ever think about leaving the reader for him and will never do anything behind her back.

Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

⇰ To be honest, Viktor wasn't really experienced in love or anything sexual before meeting his partner. He had neither the desire nor the time to be interested in this kind of thing.

⇰ Once in a relationship he will do a lot of research and perhaps ask advice from Jayce, in whom he trusts enough to confide.

⇰ Over time he’ll know what he is doing and will like to learn by listening to his partner's desires, in fact, he will surely be the type to ask a lot of questions during the act.

Favorite position (This goes without saying.)

⇰ Viktor likes to be close to his partner and feel her warmth, or coldness, against his skin. Depending on his state of health, some positions can be quite complicated.

⇰« Face off » is one of his favorites since it provides great proximity and he does not need to move, which allows him to save his strength.

⇰ He really likes missionary although over time he finds it a little difficult to support himself, cowgirl is also a good option so he can keep his energy up.

Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

⇰ Viktor is quite serious and romantic, he thinks that sex is an intimate moment and he would not like to burst the bubble of calm that he and his partner will have created with a poorly placed joke.

⇰ On the other hand, at the beginning of his relationship, when he is still inexperienced, one or two little jokes from his partner will help him realx a little.

Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

⇰ Viktor is very well groomed, from hair to his —non-existent—beard to pubic hair. He will not remove everything but will make sure that there is not too much and that it does not bother his partner during a blowjob for example.

⇰ Also, I don't think that he really cares if his girlfriend shaves or not. He will never impose this choice on her and if she asks his opinion he will answer that she is perfect with, as without.

Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

⇰ As said above, Viktor is very romantic and sweet. He wants everything to be perfect and takes great care of his partner.

⇰ He will often ask her how she feels and if she likes what he does, especially at the beginning of their relationship when he won’t be very sure of what he does.

⇰ He's the type to plan a romantic dinner, even though he doesn't really know how to cook and doesn't have time, and a nice hot bath before sexy time.

Jack off (Masturbation headcanon)

⇰ Before being in a relationship he didn't really think about it, maybe once a month. He was far too busy with his work to feel any lack of sex.

⇰ Once he begins to explore his intimacy he will feel a little more desire but he will wait to be with his partner most of the time.

⇰ He finds that his hand does not give him the same pleasure that is girlfriends hand does.

Kink (One or more of their kinks)

⇰ I already talked about it above but a treesome with Jayce is clearly on his mind, I even think that it's more than a fantasy and that he has real feelings for his friend although he’s struggling to accept it.

⇰ Maybe a breeding kink ? I feel like Viktor would want a family, but he never talks about it since he finds it would be selfish to have a child knowing that he probably only has a few years left.

Location (Favorite places to do the do)

⇰ Viktor prefers above all the comfort of his sheets, he is rather classic and his condition does not allow him to do it everywhere, the bathroom and the living room are also good options.

⇰ He would be willing to try in the laboratory, but i will talk more about it later.

Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

⇰ Honestly, he doesn't need much, Viktor is a big fan of caresses and kisses. Usually a few kisses on the neck are enough for him.

NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

⇰ Viktor will never agree to hurt the reader, even if it wouldn't bother her, he simply wouldn't be able to do it. Everything that is impact play, breath play or electrostimulation is a no no for him.

⇰ Same for humiliation and dirty talk, he wouldn't be able to speak badly to his partner, he loves her too much to call her a "whore" and "slut" and for dirty talk he simply wouldn’t know what to say.

Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

⇰ Viktor likes to provide pleasure in many different ways and oral is one of his favorite ways. He loves hearing his partner and feeling her thighs tighten around his head.

⇰ Even though he had no experience, he learned very quickly by listening and watching his girlfriend's reactions.

⇰ He will never say no to a blowjob even though he clearly prefers to give. I think it's also because he doesn't do much during penetration and for him, foreplay is a way of making up for.

Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

⇰ His condition does not allow him to do crazy things and, anyway, Viktor likes to take his time and savor the sensation of being inside his partner.

⇰ Generally it’ not him who moves and he will not be very complicated, he’ll follow what his partner wants and will help her as best he can with his hands on her hips.

⇰ It's a bit the same thing for foreplay, he watches the pace that his girlfriend prefers.

Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

⇰ Viktor is not a big fan of quickies, I don't think he would refuse if his partner initiated one, just before a meeting for example.

⇰ But it is true that he clearly prefers to take his time in the comfort of their bed. A quickie doesn't really allow him to take care of his girlfriend and for him foreplay--yes again-- is very important.

⇰ So maybe once or twice a week.

Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

⇰ At the start of his relationship no, it's still very new for him and he prefers to explore his sexuality calmly and secretly.

⇰ But with time and if his partner wishes, he would be willing to add a little bit of risk in their sex life, a quickie in his laboratory for example.

Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

⇰ It all depends on whether we are only talking about penetration or we are also counting foreplay, and the positions used.

⇰ Viktor likes to make foreplay last, because he likes to provide pleasure to his partner but also because he knows that during penetration she will surely be the one who moves the most. Generally these last around thirty minutes and more if his girlfriend decides to take care of him.

⇰ Depending on the positions—for penetration—used, it could last three or even four rounds if he is in good shape and has been able to rest. Unfortunately, the more his health deteriorated, the more difficult it would be for him to last long and catch his breath.

Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

⇰ Before being in a relationship he never had one, but after a few discussions with his partner and if he sees that she enjoys using them he will do some research and decide to get some for her.

⇰ He won’t use them on himself but will like to give pleasure to the reader with them, compared to some men he does not think that using them means that he does not know how to satisfy his partner.

⇰ Maybe if he finds himself having free time and especially if the lab is free, he would be able to create one himself. He will take into account the toys that give the reader the most pleasure and make combinations or others—yes I saw the hexstrap—.

Unfair (how much they like to tease)

⇰ Viktor is not really a tease, he may tease his partner here and there by preventing her from cumming once or twice but generally it does not last long.

⇰ He prefers much more to hear her take pleasure and admire her losing all her means.

Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

⇰ The first times Viktor will be quite embarrassed by his moans and will try to hold back but it’a stronger than him, with a few reassuring words he will let go and no longer hold back.

⇰ He grunts more than moans and closes his eyes while frowning, he is very expressive in the act.

Wild care (Get a random headcanon)

⇰ I think that Viktor would like his partner to find someone after his death. He will hesitate a lot before getting into a relationship, telling himself that it would be selfish.

⇰ He would talk to her about it, telling her that she deserves to be happy after him, he would not be jealous and would simply hope that she does not completely forget him after his death, that she keeps a small place for him in his heart.

X-ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants)

⇰ Physically Viktor is thin but slender, so I think that his dick is the same thing, so maybe 16cm in length and 12cm in girth—i’m bad at this so i’m gonna stop here help.—

Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

⇰ Quite moderate, before getting with his partner he never thought about it.

⇰ Also, Viktor is often overwhelmed by his responsibilities and work, so he is exhausted most of the time. However, this does not prevent him from feeling desire for his girlfriend, on the contrary, he wants to touch her every time he sees her.

⇰ I think that if he were less tired and had better health, he would be much more active.

Zzz (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

⇰ He usually falls asleep first, after about ten minutes and a few cuddles. The next day, having the habit of waking up very early, he will make up for it with a breakfast in bed which he will often have difficulty making.

⇰ The more the years pass, the less he will be able to perpetuate this little ritual and finally, he will simply wake up his beloved with kisses filled with love.

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