#sometimes the world is just beautiful man

[meadowfics]

in the ring

boxer!kang dae ho x f!reader headcannons

warnings: 18+

dae ho is fiercely protective of you.

he’s not overbearing, but his eyes are always scanning your surroundings when you’re out together.

years in the marines made him hyper-aware, and it shows in the way he instinctively places himself between you and any perceived danger.

he loves holding your hand with his stronger ones, but his favorite is resting his hand on the small of your back.

it’s second nature for him.

sometimes he’ll rub small circles with his thumb, sending a shiver down your spine.

if anyone so much as looks at you the wrong way, dae ho’s stare alone is enough to send them packing.

he never needs to say anything; the presence he carries is intimidating enough.

the second he looks back at you, that sharp gaze softens completely.

he’s a sucker for you watching him train in the boxing ring.

knowing you’re there on the sidelines, admiring how hard he works, makes him push himself even more.

when he catches you biting your lip as he pounds the punching bag, he’ll flash you a knowing smirk.

“do see something you like, baby?”

dae ho always smells like a mix of sweat, cedarwood, and that subtle hint of cologne you bought him.

after training, he loves wrapping his arms around you, sweat and all.

“thought you liked me raw and real,”

he teases, pulling you closer despite your protests.

"you know I do, big tiger."

he spoils you in the most unexpected ways.

he’s not flashy, but if he catches you eyeing something, it’s yours.

he has a weakness for jewelry, seeing his initials around your neck or a bracelet he bought on your wrist makes him feel like you’re his in every sense.

he uses his prize money from the matches he wins to buy everything you want <3

dae ho loves control.

the man has spent his life gaining it.

he’s the type to pin your wrists above your head, his voice low and raspy as he whispers how beautiful you are.

“mine,”

he growls against your skin, his lips trailing down your neck.

the way his rough hands contrast with his gentle kisses leaves you breathless.

sometimes, he’s soft and teasing, watching you squirm as he drags things out, loving how much you want him.

other times, after a tough match, he’s all adrenaline and dominance, needing to remind himself that he has you, that you’re safe and his.

dae ho’s strength is ridiculous.

he picks you up effortlessly, carrying you to the bed like you weigh nothing.

during sex, he will move you around into different positions without any struggle.

gosh those boxing armssss!!!!!!

he loves how easily he can toss you around.

sometimes, he does it just to hear your surprised giggle.

he trains like a machine, but when he’s home, he melts into you.

after a long day, he loves lying with his head on your stomach, your fingers running through his hair.

he hums softly, letting the sound of your heartbeat calm him down.

he has a habit of tracing his fingers along your skin when you’re cuddling.

calloused hands, rough from years of boxing, slowly gliding across your soft skin.

he memorizes every freckle, every scar, each one making you more beautiful in his eyes.

when he’s away for fights or training camps, he calls you every night without fail.

dae-ho's voice is low and soothing, telling you about his day before he insists you tell him everything about yours.

“i miss you, baby,”

he whispers.

“i hate sleeping without you.”

sometimes, he gets jealous, though he tries to play it cool.

if anyone flirts with you, his arm tightens around your waist, and he’ll lean down, murmuring something like, “they should know you’re taken.”

it’s possessive, but never in a way that makes you feel trapped.

it’s like he needs the world to know you’re his.

he loves teasing you. sometimes when you’re getting ready, he’ll sneak up behind you, peppering kisses down your neck.

“we could stay in,”

he whispers, his hands wandering towards your hips.

“who needs dinner when i’ve got you to eat?”

again, he’s a huge tease in the gym too.

when you come to work out with him, he’ll stand behind you at the squat rack, hands just barely grazing your waist.

“lower,”

he instructs, his voice dripping with amusement as he just stares at your ass and waist.

“that’s it, baby. perfect form.”

if you ever wear his boxing robe around the house, it’s game over.

seeing you in his name, his team logo stitched proudly on your back, ignites something primal in him.

“damn, baby,”

he groans, pulling you against him.

“you really wanna test me today?”

"come and find out what is underneath here, big boy."

at the end of the day, no matter how rough the fight or how long the training, dae ho always comes home to you.

you’re his peace.

“i love you, baby. forever.”

masterlist

author's note: this is based off of this inbox message someone sent me <3

taglist: @chunkzdeluluwife , @theredvelvetbitch , @martinasr00 , @ameliahaa , @googie-jeon , @casually-simping , @erinkeenan , @thewinterv , @breakmeoff , @breeisaslay22 

I do not own the pictures used above

[lazysoulwriter]

grumpy and irresistible - joel miller. (MDNI)

LOOK AT ME WRITING A SMUT! - trying. hope is gooood. w.c: 1.8k ~

---

Running into Joel Miller months ago was both the best and worst thing that ever happened to you. I mean… he helps you, he protects you… but he’s a fucking hottie. A goddamn delicious man. And you can barely get close! He’s so moody, so pissed off about everything. You're in the end of the world, of course… but damn. It’s not easy.

Most of the time, he doesn’t even understand how he ended up letting a girl like you tag along on this survival journey. You’re much younger, and despite being strong and brave, you can be a real pain in the ass. You’re chatty, you make him hug you when it’s too cold (okay, he secretly likes that part), and you stop in the middle of nowhere just to say things like, "Oh, look! A hummingbird!"

A pain. In. The. Ass.

And today was no different. As you walked in search of food, you looked at him intently, thinking about how damn annoying he can be sometimes—or how it’s a total waste for someone that beautiful to be so grumpy all the time.

And then… well, then something crossed your mind.

How long has it been since Joel last had sex?

Like… you haven’t had sex in ages, but you have your ways of relieving yourself. And you doubt he even jerks off. Maybe all this frustration, all this grumpiness, comes from that.

Maybe.

"Joooeel…" you hummed in that way he knew all too well. He just glanced over his shoulder, signaling that he was listening.

"Can I ask you something? I know you’re gonna get mad, but—"

"Then no. I don’t feel like getting even madder." He cut you off, his voice rough, trying to shut you up.

But that never scared you.

"Please! I’m gonna start begging…" you threatened, knowing full well he hated when you begged.

"Just say it!" His tone turned even harsher. "And if I get mad, you’ll go find something to eat by yourself."

"Oh, stop. You would never leave me—" you picked up your pace, walking alongside him now. "So… how long has it been since you had sex?" You tried to sound casual, like you weren’t dying of curiosity. "Or, you know… something like that."

He stopped. Abruptly.

Like you had just punched him in the face.

You blinked up at him, waiting for an answer.

"Why don’t you just mind your own damn business?" he muttered, narrowing his eyes in that way that only made him hotter.

"I’m just asking! If you don’t wanna answer, that’s fine." You shrugged and started walking again. Moments later, you heard his footsteps behind you, along with a deep, frustrated sigh.

"I don’t know, okay?" His voice came after a long silence, just when you were already distracted. "I don’t even remember the last time I touched someone like that. And I have no idea when I last felt something like that."

You just nodded. But now? That was your goal. You were going to fuck this man. No matter what. When? You didn’t know. But you would.

-

You let it go—for now.

But after that day, something shifted. Maybe it was just in your head, maybe not. But you started noticing things. The way Joel’s gaze lingered on you just a little longer when he thought you weren’t looking. The way his hand would rest on your lower back when he guided you through dark hallways or past abandoned cars. The way he sighed—deep, exasperated, but never truly angry—whenever you leaned too close, testing the limits of his patience.

And, most of all, the way he didn’t pull away. Not really.

Not when you brushed your fingers over his forearm while handing him his rifle. Not when you sat next to him by the fire, knees bumping under the weight of exhaustion. Not when you made those little jokes, the ones that pulled a rare, reluctant smirk from him, even if he shook his head afterward like he wished he could take it back.

And then, one night, it happened.

You’d just set up camp inside the shell of an old bookstore, a storm howling outside. The fire crackled between you, throwing soft shadows across his face. You could see every line there, every scar, every tired thing he’d never say out loud. He sat against the wall, boots planted on the ground, legs slightly spread. He looked exhausted. But awake. Watching you.

You sat across from him, hugging your knees, tilting your head.

"What?" he muttered.

"Nothing."

A pause. Then—

"Bullshit," he sighed, rubbing a hand down his face.

You grinned, slow and lazy. "I was just thinking... if you can’t even remember the last time you touched someone, then maybe you’ve just forgotten how."

That got you a look. A dark, warning glance that made your stomach flip in the best way.

"Don’t start."

"I’m just saying—"

"No."

You pushed up onto your knees, crawling closer, testing the waters.

"Not even a kiss, Joel?" Your voice was softer now, teasing but not cruel. "No wonder you’re always so grumpy."

He tensed, fingers twitching against his knee. "You—"

"You could just let me remind you."

His breath hitched. Just barely.

You sat back on your heels, waiting. Letting him think. Letting him decide.

And then—slowly, cautiously, like he knew he was making a mistake—Joel reached out.

His fingers traced up the curve of your jaw, rough and calloused. You didn’t move, didn’t even breathe, afraid you might break the moment.

And then he kissed you.

It was careful at first, hesitant, like he was relearning something he used to be good at. But when you sighed against his lips, when your fingers found the back of his neck and pulled him closer—Joel groaned, low and deep, and that hesitation snapped like a thread pulled too tight.

His hand slid to your waist, gripping firmly, pulling you into his lap without a second thought. The heat of him seeped into your skin, his mouth moving against yours with a hunger that made your head spin.

And just like that, you knew. You were right. He had gone too long without this. Without you. And you were going to fix that.

The kisses were getting more and more intense and desperate. You couldn't afford to waste time.

In seconds, your blouse was thrown on the floor behind you, exposing your lack of bra and earning a little smile from him that you had never seen before. Desire. He attacked your breasts like no one had ever done before. He massaged one, sucked, licked, and bit the other, while your moans were already too loud for your good. But fuck it. You almost cried when you saw him taking off his shirt on top of you, his strong arms now fully exposed, his chest too delicious to be true.

You pulled him back to your lips, which this time was even more urgent. Soon, you were completely naked and desperate for each other. "Are you sure?" He asked, lining himself up at your entrance. And you were already going crazy. You just wanted to be fucked. "Of course! Just fuck me, please." You begged and watched as his eyes darken even more – if that was possible.

Without any further warning, he pushed inside you. Both of you let out heavy sighs. He was big. Really big. But you were so wet that you didn’t even feel him pushing it all in. He didn’t move for a few seconds, as if he was savoring something he had wanted for so, so long. “I know you’re having a moment. But please, Joel! Move!” You whimpered, holding one of his arms tightly. You didn’t need to say anything else. You could feel every inch of him. Every vein. And how he was pulsing inside you. Your legs wrapped around him, pulling him even deeper, if that was possible. His moans were like music to your ears. Low, heavy. “Fuck, that’s it… That’s it…” You clawed at his back in a delicious way. He lowered himself a little more, just enough to pull one of your nipples between his teeth, taking you over the edge. And making you scream. The sound of the skin hitting each other was almost pornographic, making everything more intense with each moment. He grabbed your leg and brought it up to his shoulder. This new angle took you to an absurd wave of pleasure, Joel caressed you all over. Your whole body. And he stopped under your belly, just to show off and feel his cock there, filling you.

“You’re fucking delicious…” He murmured between breaths. “So fucking hot… I’ve always wanted to fuck that little pussy of yours. Always.” That brought you to your orgasm. Obviously. Joel fucking Miller telling you that? With that voice? Fuck.

Without a warning, you came on his cock, moaning his name and making him delirious. He was euphoric and ready… ready to fill you. “Can I?” He asked, about cumming inside. It’s not the best option, but at that moment it was all you wanted. And you would have it. “Please… Fill me up.” You whimpered again, holding your own breasts, which made him lose it. And in the next second, you felt the hot jets inside your walls. And then… Oh my. His expression. Completely lost in pleasure. He thrust a few more times and pulled out, only to look at your pussy spilling his cum. Totally filthy.

Joel collapsed onto his side beside you, chest rising and falling with deep, heavy breaths. For a long moment, neither of you spoke—just the sound of the fire crackling, the storm still raging outside, and the quiet hum of satisfaction between you.

His arm draped lazily over his stomach, fingers twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to reach for you or keep his distance.

You made the choice for him.

Rolling onto your side, you pressed your face against his shoulder, tracing light, absentminded patterns over his chest. His skin was warm, damp with sweat, and you felt the way his muscles tensed, then relaxed under your touch.

"Jesus," he muttered, voice rough. "You really don’t give up, do you?"

You grinned against his skin. "Nope."

His chuckle was barely there, but it was real. And you liked that. Liked knowing you could pull something soft from him, even now.

After a moment, he exhaled deeply and finally—finally—wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you in, letting himself hold you.

"This doesn't change anything," he murmured, his lips brushing against your hair.

You just hummed, pressing closer. "Sure, Joel."

You’d let him lie to himself for now. But you both knew the truth. This changed everything.

---

[idkwhylou]

Seeds of fate

Summary : It’s been four years since you’ve married the general Acacius. Four years of loneliness because of war. But when he comes back to Rome, he’s pushing you away, thinking it’s the best solution to protect you from him—or so he thought.

Marcus Acacius x younger!reader/f!reader

Warnings : sexism, mentions of patriarchal norms, mentions of war and violence, blood, injury, dagger, arranged marriage, age gap (reader is 20), angst, no y/n, reader has hair and wears dresses

Words : 8,7K

A/N : thank you so much for the 100 followers !!! I’m so thankful and happy, many people seem to enjoy my fics. I received many private messages that really touched me. To thank you, I’ve decided to write about our favourite general Marcus since the fic with Joel seems to have been well received (and I shouldn’t say it but I’m working on something else 🫣)

+ "Puella" means girl or young woman, but if used in a patronizing or dismissive way, it could carry a condescending tone. Sometimes used in a way that implies immaturity or inferiority.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

Four years. 

Four years had passed since you saw the great General Marcus Acacius for the first and last time of your life. Chance or aim, in both circumstances, it was in his hands that your fate was sealed on your wedding day. A political alliance. It had seemed like just another arrangement, one among many. A lineage, they said. A duty. You hadn’t even had the chance to know him before that fateful day. Before that, you had only glimpsed him from a distance, his presence like a looming shadow. Distant but always hovering just outside your reach. But even then, you had no idea what he would mean for your life—or you should say loneliness.

Your father had died when you were young, leaving your mother to raise you. She, a cold, calculating woman, had married him for status. Despite her frigid exterior, she had been a loving mother, doing her best to ensure you received an education that many women of your class could only dream of. Yet, her obsession with control and perfection left you feeling isolated. You had excelled in learning, but in a world that valued women more for their beauty and breeding than their intellect, it wasn’t enough. You knew the Empire would never accept a woman with an education, a woman who could think for herself—worse a woman with an opinion. And so, suitors bypassed you. Your education, your intellect, became your curse. What use was a well-educated woman in the marriage market when men wanted docility, not independence ? For years, you endured loneliness, your worth seemingly reduced to the absence of a proposal. But in Rome, things get known very quickly. The pressure of your single status weighed on you, and the whispers of society only grew louder. It felt like an impossible situation to escape.

Four years of persistent loneliness. He was a man of war, a name spoken in hushed tones across the Empire. The wedding ceremony had been hasty, almost mechanical. And that night, as you sat alone, abandoned on your wedding night, you felt a pang of bitterness in your heart. He had left. His absence, though predictable, stung all the same. Why had you ever expected anything different ? Why had you foolishly imagined that on the one night that was supposed to be yours, he would remain ? That he would offer you even a sliver of attention ? The truth was, neither of you wanted this union. An union born not of love, but of political necessity. You were a stranger to him, and he to you. His absence didn’t hurt because he was gone. It hurt because his presence had never been there in the first place. 

Four years of silence, of him never returning, of him never acknowledging your existence beyond the formality of a political union. You had been marry to a complete stranger who seemed to drift further away from you every day. You had been left in his villa, forced to navigate a life that was foreign to you. What did it mean to be a wife to a man who had never truly been yours ? At first, you had wondered what kind of man—now husband, if you could even call him that—was he ? How did he live off the battlefield, off the horrors of war, off the atrocities of his title.

You searched for signs, clues, anything that might reveal his true nature. But there was nothing. Nothing never came, nothing never showed. He never sent you any letter. What little news you had of him came from outsiders, but it was scarce. The thought of the General not returning had already crossed your mind, what would you become ? A widow at just twenty. How sad. His villa was cold and impersonal. But sometimes you spent time in his bedroom, as if some sort of connection was going to be made that way. The room was surprisingly small, sparsely decorated, and quite dark. What caught your attention, however, was his bed; vast and very wide. You vaguely remembered his physique after so many years, but you remembered his broad shoulders, dominating almost the whole room when you walked down the aisle.

Four years of pressure. The social pressure of being the wife of Rome's most respected General. During those years you had noticed the looks of envy and jealousy from the other women. If only they knew what your life truly was. They only saw the outward status of being the General's wife. They didn't know that this title was a prison, not a privilege. A tragic curse that had woven itself into the fabric of your fate, binding your heart to a life of endless longing, where love was a distant star forever hidden behind the clouds of duty and silence. The men, saw you as a prize to be claimed, not as a woman with a voice. Your worth was measured in your marriage, in your connections, not in who you were. They were predators watching their prey, ready to pounce on you at the slightest bit of bad news. Repugnant, hypocritical and absurd. Their insalubrious, almost perverse side made you sick. 

Four years since you became a woman. You had grown but not in the way you had once hoped, but in ways you had never imagined. You became a real woman. Not by choice, but by necessity. You were only sixteen when you married the General. You were so young, innocent, inexperienced, naive. Since he left, you had learned more than you ever thought possible. You had learned to live without love, without even the hope of affection. You had learned to fill the silence of your nights with your thoughts, to distract yourself from the aching void of your life. Your mother, your only role model, had failed you. She had abandoned you to this cold, solitary existence. Leaving you to wander through the empty hallways of the villa. Searching for something, anything that would give you purpose.

You had become the wife of Rome’s most respected general, but in truth, you were little more than a shadow. Your role was to be a wife, to bear children, to play the part society had given you. But you were more than that, weren’t you ? You had learned to think, to question, and yet, in this life, thinking was not something a woman was allowed to do. And so, you carried on, pretending to be the perfect wife, the dutiful woman. But deep inside, you knew you could never live up to the expectations placed upon you. And as much as you tried to bury your discontent, it always resurfaced, the weight of your life pressing down on you with every passing day.

Four years. 

And today, after all these years, the General was finally returning to Rome.

You stood far from the Imperial Palace, out of sight of the bewildered crowd outside, cheering the General's glorious arrival. The two emperors at the top of the stairs were watching with a winning smile the rise of the man who had once again enlarged their Empire. They had offered you to welcome your husband, but such a reunion—which you could almost called meeting—was best held in private, far from any pressure or unwelcome glances. So, you waited patiently in the central atrium, dreading his arrival. You felt the anxiety consume every cell of your body. Then suddenly, in the darkness of the setting day, the General appeared. He strode confidently forward, oblivious to the stares cast by his servants and slaves. But when his gaze landed on you, he slowed down. His eyebrows furrowed and you rose from the chair you’d been sitting on, letting him observe you more easily. 

“General.” You greeted him as he stood still, continuing to scrutinize you intently. 

His hands clenched behind his back, the weight of war still pressing against his shoulders. Yet, when his eyes found yours, something else burned within him—something just as dangerous. His gaze, fierce and unwavering, held you captive, as if the battlefield had shifted, and you were now the center of his war. It was a look that consumed, devoured, seared through the space between them. A fire of longing, rage, and restraint all at once. His jaw tightened, his breath slowed, but his eyes—his burning gaze—never wavered. It was as if he was holding back an inferno, as if you were the one thing in this world he could not afford to want. You should have looked away. Should have fought against the heat creeping up your spine. But it was impossible. His stare was a touch without contact, a whisper without sound. Marcus seemed satisfied with what he saw. You could feel your heart trying to get out of your chest as he watched the woman you had become. You blinked and looked at his torso. He was dressed in bright white, contrasting with his matte skin, which made him stand out even more tan. He exuded a symbol of honor, and the gold details that adorned his armor indicated his high status. Your observation was cut short by him clearing his throat, you raised your head suddenly. 

It had been four years. Four years since he had last seen her—the woman they had bound to him in name alone. Back then, you had been little more than a stranger, a girl with downcast eyes and quiet steps, a mere formality before he had turned and marched off to war. But now… now you were standing before him, and you were not the girl he had left behind. His breath stilled, his world narrowing to the space between them. It wasn’t your posture, now poised with a grace that demanded acknowledgment. It wasn’t the way the candlelight traced the curve of your cheek, nor the way the years had shaped you into someone striking. It was your eyes. They met his without any hesitation; steady and unreadable. No longer wide with uncertainty, no longer seeking permission to exist in his presence. They held stories he had never been there to witness, strength forged in his absence. They belonged to a woman who had learned to stand on her own, without the name she had been forced to take, without the man who had never been there. And for the first time, he truly saw you. Not as an obligation. Not as the quiet girl he had left behind. But as something untouchable, something dangerously real. 

Something he had never been prepared for.  

“I'm exhausted and need rest for tomorrow night. It seems to me you are capable of being left alone. Good evening.” He didn't even give you time to reply as he left, his shoulder brushing yours as he headed for his room. You blinked, realizing you had held your breath. 

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

All the most influent and powerful people were gathered at the Palace this evening to celebrate the General's return, but above all his success. One more conquest for the glory of Rome. You had opted for a delicate green stola, embroidered with brilliant gold details. Your hair was pulled back into a bun, fixed with a gold pin. The journey had passed in a heavy silence, as if you could almost hear the thoughts of the General beside you. Since his arrival last night, you hadn't spoken to him, and he hadn't sought any contact with you, not even a simple compliment.

When you entered, all eyes were on you. You observed the same jealous glances from women. However, the men's misplaced and disturbing glances no longer seemed to appear because of the man standing behind you. Placing his hand on the small of your back, he was pushing you forward into the room. The warmth of his touch seeped through the layers of fabric, lingering like an ember against your skin. And then, just as suddenly, it was gone. Leaving behind a whisper of heat, chased away by the creeping chill of his absence. Turning your head in his direction, he shifted to announce that he had to talk to senators, telling you to go and get yourself a drink. You obeyed. It wasn't appropriate for a woman to attend such discussions, and you knew it. But what bothered you was not the societal exclusion you suffered because of your gender, but the fact that the General was certainly using these discussions as an excuse to avoid being alone in your presence. 

Marcus had no interest in talking to these men, each more corrupt than the last. Coming back from war, he had only one desire : rest. But duty called again. He couldn't bear to be in your presence, and what annoyed him even more was the fact that he couldn't explain why. Yet Marcus preferred to flee, get as far away from you as possible. There was something in your eyes that unraveled him, a quiet power that left him unsteady. But last night, when you rose to greet him, even the sound of your voice unsettled him, like a whispered temptation. And then, again, your eyes. That spark. It flickered with an allure he couldn’t name, pulling him toward you with a force as inevitable as the shepherd’s star guiding a lost soul through the abyss of night.

Yet, he dared not follow. That light could be an illusion, a siren’s call meant to lure him to ruin. He told himself it was a danger he must resist. He could not let himself get close. He could not afford this mistake. He just couldn't. Because, in the end he would hurt you. You became everything he could desire—worse everything he needed. You were a beautiful woman, seem too clever for your own good and he felt like standing at the edge of something dangerous. 

Everything seemed so much easier when he left you at the altar. 

And yet, all evening, his gaze kept returning to you. He couldn’t help it. You drifted through the room like a shadow, untouched by the warmth of conversation, unmoved by the lively murmurs of the other women. Instead, you lingered at the edges, watching the world pass you by, detached yet entirely present. Wherever he went, whatever group he entertained, there was always a remark, a knowing glance, a murmured congratulations, a question too bold to be polite. He brushed them off, let them roll past him like waves against stone, but still, their words clung to the corners of his mind.

By the time he had made his final rounds, exhaustion settled deep in his bones. Tomorrow would be relentless. Meetings, obligations, a mountain of responsibilities that left no room for pointless indulgences like this wretched feast. He had no reason to linger. When he scanned the room one last time, he didn’t see you. A strange unease coiled in his chest. It was foolish, irrational. You couldn't have gone far. Then, a draft, a sliver of night air slipping through the open balcony doors. His heart beat once, hard. He wasted no time. And there you were. Just as he had expected. Your back was to him, your figure framed by the moonlight as you leaned against the balustrade, your gaze lost in the vast darkness of the imperial gardens. The night stretched before you, heavy, endless, and for a fleeting moment, he wondered were you searching for something in the abyss, or simply waiting for it to swallow you whole ?

The soft breeze that had risen carried away the fabrics you were wearing, a warm blast of air caressing Marcus’s cheeks. One of your locks had fell from your bun, and the way it tickled the nape of your neck was a bewitching sight for the General. The way you held yourself, making your body curve- but he came to his senses, remembering why he was looking for you. You could hear his heavy footsteps behind you. It had to be him, but you refused to turn around. So, still in dead silence, he settled down next to you, imitating your position. His scent came first to your nostrils, then out of the corner of your eye you could catch a glimpse of your proximity. Your gaze remained fixed on the basins as you felt his cold gaze on you. He couldn't look away, trying to memorize your profile in his mind, as if you were going to disappear at any moment.

“It's getting late.” He broke the silence in a husky voice. 

You didn't move.

“I've got a lot of work tomorrow. We should go home.” He continued in a harsher tone. 

You turned your head slowly in his direction, keeping a neutral expression on your face. “After ignoring me all night, the only time you acknowledge my presence is to order me home ?”

The General's eyes turned dark. He didn't like your tone nor your provocation. He straightened up, towering you with his body. “It is not about that-” 

“It is not ? Then what is it about, General ? You can't ignore me and think I'm not going to blame you.”

He was surprised by your answer. He didn't spend time with many women, but none of them would dare, even think of talking like that to their husband. He could feel the patience evaporating from his body at your attitude and couldn't help but sigh loudly. You imitated his position and crossed your arms, revealing a defensive feeling he didn't like at all. “You are my wife. You are supposed to obey me.”

You let out a scoff at his remark, shaking your head. How dare he use that argument after four years without even considering you as such. “You have no right to tell me what to do, General.”

“I am your husband. I don’t know what you’ve been up to for those four years. But from now on you will learn to listen to me and submit like any wife should do.” 

“I am not a child anymore !” You threw your arms down in frustration.

“I know ! And that's the problem!” He shouted.

You took a step back, the air between you thick with the tension you could no longer bear. His presence was looming. But it was your own breath that betrayed you, shaky, uneven, as though it carried the weight of your surrender. Without meeting his eyes, you turned your head just enough to avoid the intensity of his gaze, the words hanging in the silence like a fragile thread. “You're right. It's getting late.” You murmured, your voice barely audible, soft with the resignation that had crept into your heart. The fight drained from you, leaving only the bitter taste of defeat. The struggle, the back-and-forth, it wasn’t worth it anymore. He had won. Turning away, heading home, felt like the only escape—an act of survival, a way to dodge the storm brewing in his eyes.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

Since that night on the balcony, Marcus had avoided you entirely. He rose early, just before the sun, to eat a quick breakfast in solitude, careful to keep from sitting with you. Always, there was an excuse, a meeting, a task, a reason to leave the domus and avoid crossing your path. And when night fell, he came home late, long after you had retreated to your room, as if by some unspoken rule, he could no longer share the same space with you. He hadn’t liked the way you had spoken to him. The soft defiance in your words had stung him more than he cared to admit. But when he had reached for your eyes, only to see you turn away from him, he understood he was the one to blame. 

It was too late.  

As he had feared, he had ended up hurting you. It seemed that was the only thing he was truly capable of. Killing, hurting, and being violent. Giving him something as delicate as you had been a fundamental mistake. He was a man of war, scarred and hardened by his past. He could not afford to show weakness. The walls he had built over the years were not just to protect him; they were to shield others from the damage he could cause. He was a weapon, a force of destruction, and he could never lower his guard. He had always lived alone. He had never tolerated the presence of another in his home, especially not a woman. It was safer this way. For your own good, he had to stay away. Keep his distance, to protect you from the inevitable harm he would bring. He was a brute, violent and bitter. If it wasn’t his words that would hurt you, then it would be his hands. And that, he could never forgive himself for.  

One evening as he returned from a long and exhausting day, thinking that you were certainly already asleep, Marcus walked unconcernedly to his office. But then, as he entered the room, his gaze fell on you. On tiptoe, you reached for a book when you noticed his presence. You stopped your action and quickly retrieved the books you had placed on his desk into your hands. 

“I was planning to leave” You explained, not wishing to find yourself in the same room as him. 

But just as you were about to leave, you stumbled into the carpet, causing you to topple forward. Spontaneously, Marcus took a step forward, stretching out his arm to catch you. But you were quicker than him and caught yourself on his desk. However, when your hand met the furniture, you let out a cry of pain. Marcus watched as you suddenly withdraw your hand, which was now bloody red. You looked down at your trembling palm, dropping the books from your other hand. Your face grimaced from the pain as you took your wrist in hand, squeezing it to try to stop the tingling of your cut. The General's gaze shifted from your hand to his desk on which lay a dagger, now also dyed with a touch of red. He approached you but before he could take your hand in his, you pulled away, letting your noisy breathing be heard. 

“I'm fine.” You said through your clenched teeth, trying to make him believe that you could take care of your wound on your own. But you should have known that he wouldn't let it go. He was one of Rome's greatest generals after all, thus he was used to wounds. 

“Come here.” He ordered, positioning himself in front of you so you couldn't run away. 

“I told you-” 

“Don't make me repeat myself.” Again, that harsh tone, the unmistakable edge of rising anger in his voice. You could feel the weight of his restraint, the way he fought against the urge to snap, to lose control the way he had before. There was a flicker of hesitation in your eyes as you met his gaze, weighing your options in the silence between you. He held out his hand, and before you even realized it, your feet moved forward, as if your body knew what your mind couldn’t decide. He gripped your wrist with a force that sent a jolt through you, pulling you closer with brutal efficiency. A low groan escaped your lips at the contact, the animosity of his touch sending a sharp reminder of his power. His eyes flicked down to the cut, a flash of something unreadable passing through them. And then, softly, almost in contradiction to his actions, he whispered an apology.  

“Sit.” He ordered; the command sharp but not unkind.  

You sighed, a sound that seemed too loud in the tense air, which made him growl. He turned to pull something from the drawer. When he returned, he held a small bottle and a white cloth in his massive hands, his movements almost mechanical. Without a word, he set a second chair in front of you and sat down, never once meeting your gaze, though you could feel the tension in him. Your eyes lingered on his every gesture, tracing the carefulness of his movements. And though he knew you were watching; he couldn’t bring himself to look back. The silence was heavy, yet somehow, his restraint felt like a battle in itself. One he fought quietly, desperately.

Taking a breath, he reached for your hand. It felt so small, so delicate in his grasp. His fingers were rough, but there was an unexpected gentleness as he inspected your wound. It wasn’t deep, just enough to draw blood. Enough to make his brow furrow in concentration. He placed the back of your hand on his thigh, the warmth of his body seeping into your skin, and dripped the liquid from the bottle onto the cloth. His focus was entirely on you now. Though his gaze remained fixed on the task at hand, not daring to look up. And in that stillness, you could feel the struggle within him to keep his distance, to remain untouched by whatever was rising between you both. 

“It may sting, I warn you.” And without giving you time to retract, he passed the cloth over your wound. 

“It burns !” You cried, quickly withdrawing your hand. 

“I warned you-”

“No. You said it would sting.” You spat as he clicked his tongue in frustration, looking at you through his lashes.

You clenched your jaw, silently offering your hand back to him. He resumed, his movements steady, as if the silence between you both spoke louder than anything else. When the fabric met your palm again, a low groan escaped your throat, the sting of the cloth against your wound causing you to clutch the fabric of your tunic with your other hand. He looked up, his eyes meeting yours with a second, with an almost apologetic glance. Yet, he couldn’t suppress a satisfied smile at your discomfort which caused your unwilling submission. If only you knew how much he had endured all these years. Stretching his arm, he rested the back of his hand on your thigh, the pressure solid and deliberate.  

“Squeeze it.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, refusing to give in, holding your ground. But when the now-pink cloth brushed against your bruised skin, you couldn't help it, your hand shot out, gripping his hand tightly, squeezing with a force that betrayed your pain. Without a word, Marcus quickly resumed his task, focusing entirely on the wound, not sparing you a glance. Your eyes shut tight, and a small wrinkle formed between your brows. He smiled faintly, as if the sight of you, vulnerable yet defiant, pleased him more than it should. He tried to be gentle, not wanting to hurt you further. Every time he applied pressure to your wound, your hand squeezed his a little tighter.

Once he finished, you opened your eyes and without a word, withdraw your hand from his, your fingers trembling slightly from the intensity of the moment. He slid his palm along your thigh, quickly squeezing it before pulling his hand away. As Marcus got up to put his things in order, you stayed seated, still reeling from the unexpected tenderness of his gesture. You cleared your throat, trying to steady yourself, and then, in one swift motion, stood up. Without saying a word, you turned and left the room, the books you had come for forgotten in your haste.  

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The days that followed were filled with little moments between you. Marcus took his time in the morning so that when he finished breakfast, you would appear in front of him. You would wait a few more minutes before going to bed, like that night in his office. He would start wandering around the gardens when you came out of them. You would never put the books you borrowed from him in the right place. He would leave you the figs the maids brought him from the market, and you would leave him the pomegranate seeds you had meticulously removed from the fruit. And with each seed he would put in his mouth, he would think of you. The unspoken longing to devour you, a desire he dares not confess. In the quiet of the moment, he feels your gentle heart, soft against the bitterness of his words. Yet neither of you spoke to the other. The silence still echoing through the walls of the villa. A silence that wasn't empty but filled with answers. He was screaming, suffocating, suffering. But he was beautiful. Beautiful because he made sense in a way that only the two of you could understand. 

This evening, you found yourself invited to a meal at one of the senators' domus, surrounded by politicians and their wives. The General sat beside you, engaged in conversation with the men next to him, his attention fully directed toward them. But as his head turned away, you couldn't help but steal a glance at him. You were so rarely this close. Your eyes traced his side profile, a study in sharp angles and quiet strength, so noble it seemed as if it had been sculpted in stone. His nose, proud and commanding, was shaped like that of an eagle—majestic, a symbol of his power, his unyielding dominance. You couldn’t help but follow the line of his jaw, sharply defined, down to the strength of his neck, where veins pulsed with a vitality that matched his presence. Your tongue brushed over your lips, though you didn’t even realize you had done it, so captivated by him.

As he moved his hands while responding to a question, your gaze fell to them. They were so large. So strong. You had noticed before how small your own hands seemed when placed next to his, but tonight, you couldn’t look away. They were mesmerizing. Agile and dexterous, his hands spoke more than his words ever could. Despite the countless battles they had endured, there was a gentleness to them. They were immense, yet somehow comforting. You recalled, almost involuntarily, how those same hands had once enveloped your wrist. Their grip firm but tender. You tried, for a fleeting second, to recall the feel of his touch on your thigh. The warmth, the subtle power in his proximity. But it had been too long, too much time had passed, and the memory now seemed distant, slipping through your mind like sand between your fingers. 

“Puella ?” One of the senators called out to you. 

You suddenly lifted your head in his direction, choosing silence over confrontation, unwilling to let the way he had addressed you escalate the tension. A smile forced its way onto your lips, though it felt stiff, almost out of place. Marcus glanced at you from the corner of his eye, sensing the subtle shift in your demeanor, the quiet disapproval that lingered between you. It would be a lie to say he didn’t care, but he was well aware of the fine line he had to walk. He knew better than to challenge the authority of one of the senators.

“One of your little forgetful moments, I presume ?,” He scoffs, glancing at the General on your right. “Tell me, I heard you were interested in politics ?” He asked with a false innocent tone, letting appeared on his lips a witty smile. 

You felt the General tense up, but you didn't pay any attention, "Yes. Since I was very young actually," You tried to look confident, letting him feign a certain self-confidence you didn't possess.

You stood upright, head held high, as the senators around you all burst out laughing, some of the women following too. You frowned, "I told you so !" Cried one as if it was the most surprising news they'd ever heard until now.

"You know, it’s not usual for a woman like... well, like you." Said one of the women at the end of the table, her cheeks rosy with alcohol.

"How can you let this happen my friend ?" Another addressed the General directly. 

He didn’t even flinch. The comments came and went, unchallenged, unaddressed. He said nothing. Offering no defense, no protection. Marcus knew exactly how this would unfold, so he straightened his posture, smoothly steering the conversation elsewhere, his focus never once drifting toward you. You told yourself you didn’t need his reassurance. But a disapproving glance, or just a flicker of acknowledgment, would have been enough to settle the storm inside you. He didn’t even offer you that. The women beside you, exchanged knowing glances and whispers. Their judgment clear in the way their eyes flicked to you, sharp and uninviting. You didn’t dare meet their gazes, choosing instead to fix your attention on the glass of wine before you.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

"Why did you not stand up for me ?" Were the first words out of your mouth once back in your—his villa. 

The first words since that evening in his office, the first words since all those gestures, the first words since his heavy silences, and the first since he allowed those people to make fun of you. They hung in the air, charged with everything unspoken. Every second had felt like a thousand. And now, with those few words, you were breaking the silence that had stretched between you both, but it didn’t ease the tension. If anything, it made the gap between you even wider.

"I beg your pardon ?" The General turned to you. 

"You heard me. You let them speak without interrupting." You positioned yourself directly in front of him, closing the distance between you until he had no choice but to meet your bitter gaze.

"What did you want me to say ?"

You frowned, "You're supposed to be my husband, General. You're supposed to protect me, defend me and assure me."

"Isn't that what I'm doing already ?" He crossed his arms over his chest as you let out a sneer, you felt animosity building inside you. 

"No ! You let them talk about me like I was an idiot ! Doesn't it bother you that they talk about me, your wife, like that ?" 

You let yourself be swept away by the flood of emotions, while the General remained unnervingly still, as if untouched.

“Maybe they’re right.” He added, his tone dry, void of any warmth, signaling that he wasn’t in the mood for a fight tonight. 

His words struck deep, sharper than any physical wound, sinking into your chest like a dagger. It felt worse than the cut on your palm. His words were as bitter as pomegranates, leaving a sour taste in your mouth. You parted your lips, ready to speak, but before you could form a response, you closed your mouth again, the words choking in your throat. You clenched your jaw, fixing him with a hard, burning stare. Letting the humiliation radiating from you. He raised an eyebrow, almost daring you to retort, his gaze expectant. But instead, you turned your back to him, and walked away, heading for your room. He watched you disappear into the shadows, the sway of your hips a silent defiance in the stillness of the night. 

Once out of sight, he turned his head, staring at the floor before muttering to himself as he started walking. He could still feel the anger burning in his chest, his eyes dark and his jaw set. The argument reverberated in his mind. Each word rekindling the embers of his irritation. As he passed the massive table in the center of the room, his blood boiled with a final burst of uncontrollable rage. With a brutal gesture, he thrust his hands under the heavy, carved wooden tabletop and, with disproportionate force, toppled it over. The table flew violently across the room and crashed against the wall. The silence that followed was oppressive. Marcus, short of breath, stared for a moment at the mess he had just made, his fists still clenched. Then, without another word, he turned and left the room. Leaving behind the chaos of his anger. That night he had trouble falling asleep, remembering the words he had said to you. How stupid he had been. Maybe he was made for that after all. Maybe he was just good at being a heartless brute. Maybe he was only capable of hurting you. 

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

He was even angrier now. Weeks had passed without a single sign of life from you. He searched for you. His eyes scanning every corner of the villa, but you were nowhere to be found. Remorse gnawed him from the inside, relentless and consuming. He let himself be swallowed by the torturous silence you had cast upon him. Marcus was going mad. You appeared in every corner of his mind, but when he looked closer, you always disappeared. He thought he could hear your voice echoing through the hallways near your room, or imagined he could smell your scent wafting through the gardens, amidst the fragrance of all the flowers, hoping to run into you there. But despite everything, he refused to apologize. He had to wait. He had hurt you, and he understood you needed time. But his patience was running thin.

Sometimes, late at night, he would stand outside your bedroom door, his heart racing as he silently begged you to come out so he could reassure himself that you were still there. When the hope of seeing you faded, he would press his ear to the door, hoping to catch even the faintest sound of your breathing. Yet every time, there was nothing. As if you knew he was there, standing behind your door, and you deliberately chose silence. Finally, he overheard the maids talking about how you would leave very early in the mornings, just before he awoke, and return only after he had left the domus. Marcus was offended. The humiliation settled deep in his chest like a stone. Suddenly he stopped. He stopped searching for you, stopped waiting outside your door, stopped calling for you, stopped pleading. The silence between you both had grown too thick, too suffocating for him to bear, and he let it swallow him whole. 

You entered the Imperial Palace dressed in a deep, ruby red, almost crimson. A rich, intoxicating shade of red that mirrored the one worn by the General as you walked through the grand doors. Once again, the emperors had insisted on your presence at their lavish gathering, and tonight promised to be a long night of debauchery. Without sparing him a glance, you quickly distanced yourself from the General, making your way toward a group of women he vaguely recognized. From where he stood, he watched you. The way your lips moved when you spoke, the delicate gesture of your hands as they lifted in the air, the soft strands of your hair brushing the nape of your neck with each movement. A pang of jealousy gripped him as he watched those women at your side, the one who had the privilege of your attention, your thoughts. But deep down, Marcus knew it wasn’t his right to feel this way. He had no right to claim you. He deserved your indifference, even if it tore him apart. 

Marcus watched the various couples around him, a growing sense of regret weighing heavily on him. The way men stayed close to their wives. He had long believed it to be the other way around, that it was the women who clung to their husbands. But tonight, the General realized just how wrong he had been. It wasn't this senator's wife who clung to her husband; it was him who desperately sought contact with her. The way their arms intertwined was almost instinctive, as if it were a need they couldn’t live without. She remained patient while he spoke with others, her hand discreetly pinching his arm as if to remind him of something, of their bond. They were almost one, their connection so fluid, so intertwined. She needed him, but it was clear, he needed her even more. Marcus looked away, unable to bear the sight any longer, so unfamiliar to him. 

The time crawled painfully slow. Marcus wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone. His mind wandered, constantly searching for a way to approach you, to break the silence between you, without risking your anger or your indifference. Then he saw you. No longer with a group of women. You were now with a man he didn’t recognize. You were close, too close. Closer than you had ever been with him. His jaw tightened, but he made no move to intervene. You didn’t need him to disrupt your conversation. This man was certainly giving you the attention you had lacked since you and Marcus stopped speaking. The General poured himself another glass of wine, nearly draining the first one in a single gulp. But no matter how hard he tried to distract himself, his eyes kept falling on your figure. And every time, he clutched his glass a little tighter.

Then someone approached him, and he forced himself to listen, trying to focus on the words being spoken. But he couldn't care less. He knew he had to maintain his distance, just as he had done for weeks—or almost. But when the man beside you casually brushed his fingers against your shoulder, whispering something in your ear, Marcus could feel something inside him snap.

That was it.

He apologized to the person next to him, abandoning his glass of wine on the banquet table as his steps toward you became almost mechanical. His heart pounded, and each stride he took felt heavier than the last. He couldn’t let this happen. Not here, not now, and certainly not in front of all these people. You had every right to ignore him, to turn your back on him in public or private. But this. This closeness with another man ? It was unacceptable. It wasn’t a matter of duty anymore, or the image he needed to maintain. It was primal, instinctual. He couldn't stand another minute of this.

You were supposed to be by his side. Where he needed you. 

His pulse raced as he tried to keep his composure, to avoid causing a scene or drawing unwanted attention. With a calm that only barely masked the fury seeping through him, Marcus placed his hand firmly on your shoulder, possessive and commanding. Surprised, you turned to him, eyes wide, not fully understanding his sudden action. But his gaze was locked on the man in front of you, burning with silent aggression. The other man didn’t flinch, unaffected, but Marcus was determined. He wanted to make sure he felt the threat hanging in the air.

"Enough." His voice was thick with restraint, rough and edged. His eyebrows furrowed deeply, a sign of just how tightly his control was slipping.

Your breath caught in your throat as you felt the shift in the atmosphere, the tension growing around you. You had to act fast. Apologizing to the man, you grabbed Marcus’ forearm, tugging him away from the scene and pulling him into the dark, quiet refuge of the imperial gardens. Once out of sight, you released your grip, turning to face him. The pale moonlight illuminated his tanned skin, casting shadows that deepened the lines on his face, making him appear even more untouchable. But there was no way avoiding what had just happened. What he had just done. The way his gaze had shifted from that cold indifference to something sharper. The tension in his voice. The possessiveness that had suddenly flared up. 

Weeks of silence between you, of him distancing himself, and now he acted as though he could claim you whenever he wished. His sudden impulsiveness rattled you. Part of you—a part you hated—had felt a strange, almost delighted thrill at seeing that crack in his mask. Seeing him lose that grip he always had over his emotions. He had been so cold, so distant for so long, yet now he had the audacity to act as if he could control you. As if you belonged to him. You stood there in the dim light, emotions swirling inside you, at war with yourself.

You were angry, yes. But you were also confused. Part of you wanted an explanation, but you already knew what his response would be. Deflecting, denying, refusing to acknowledge the truth of what just happened. It would always be this way with him, wouldn’t it ? Walls so high you could never break through, a fortress so impenetrable that even your desire to understand him, to reach him, would only cause you pain. And yet, as always, you would keep trying. Because no matter how much he hurt you, no matter how much he pushed you away, you were still compelled to try.

His fists were clenched, he knew what was coming. "Why ?"

"Why what ?" He kept a calm tone despite his previous anger, but his eyes gave him away. You approached him, crossing that distance you always left between you. 

"You had no trouble ignoring me for weeks, but tonight..." A lump formed in your throat, "tonight you act as if it bothers you that someone is actually paying attention to my presence. I am not one of your trophy, General."

Marcus didn't answer right away, unable to look you in the eye. His silence was heavy, but then he murmured softly, "Because it bothers me."You froze. He was finally admitting what he felt. A fragment of truth he had never dared speak. This revelation had the same effect as a torrent of waves carrying you far out to sea, stirring and shaking you in every direction. But Marcus couldn't bear the softness of your gaze weighing down on him. He felt exposed, disoriented. His head seemed to be spinning, but not because of the wine. He hated feeling vulnerable. Gods—he had no right to. As a general, he had the duty to display courage and self-assurance. But tonight, he wasn't on the battlefield.

Tonight, he was facing you. And surprisingly it seemed far more complicated than any battles he had in his life, all the deaths on his conscience, all the blood that had spilled were nothing compared to you. The great General, who had conquered kingdoms and crushed rebellions without hesitation, now stood before the one battlefield he feared the most—his wife. You were no enemy, yet you were the first to shake his resolve. No sword nor spear could wound him as deeply as your silence had. No siege could break him like the way your eyes searched for answers he could not give. He had faced death, had laughed in the face of men who swore to end him, yet before you, he felt small, unarmored. For the first time, war did not rage around him—it raged within. You were the greatest battle of his life, not to be conquered, but to be understood. And for the first time, he did not know if he was ready to fight. 

Immediately he looked away and added more coldly, "But that doesn't change anything."

But you refused to let him get away with it; you were ready to take the risk. You put your hand on his arm, forcing him to face you. "Of course it does.”

The atmosphere was heavy. Too much left unsaid, too many accumulated feelings. For the first time in months, you were speaking to each other with such honesty, even if it was in anger. You were close, too close. Marcus' gaze slid over your soft lips before he abruptly turned his head away, forcing himself to step back. 

"You should leave."

But you didn’t. 

The silence was burning like the desire that kept growing in his heart. The General had turned away, but he was tense, like a wild beast ready to pounce. His fists still clenched, his gaze hard and his shoulders stiff. You weren't moving. And yet you should. But you weren't moving. Instead, you reached out and silently grabbed his wrist. A simple gesture, but one that had the effect of a thunderclap. Marcus in turn felt swept along in this torrent of waves that he couldn't control, and he hated it. He hated himself right now. He hated how you succeeded to destroy those walls. 

"Tell me it doesn't matter... Tell me what you did tonight doesn't matter, and I will go." 

He said nothing. Letting his silence answering for him. You moved a little closer to him, until you felt the warmth of his body. He remained frozen. Unable to move. Unable to flee. His brown eyes burned with the weight of unspoken torment. Brimmed with frustration that crackles in its depths, a storm restrained behind the prison of his lashes. Desire, raw and unrelenting, smoldered beneath the surface. An unbearable ache. A war between pride and yearning. His eyes, once steady as a soldier’s blade, now betrayed him. His armor, once impenetrable, felt fragile beneath the weight of your presence. He feared lowering his guard. Feared that if he let you in, he would hurt you once more with the sharp edges of his own restraint. And yet, the distance between you was an agony he could no longer bear. To hold you was risking breaking you, but to stay away was to break himself.

"Marcus..." you murmured. 

He looked up at you. It was the first time you had ever called him by his first name. You had always kept a certain distance. Since the first day when he had returned. That very first time when you had called him by his title. Not his name. His title. He never thought he would enjoy the sound of his name coming out of your mouth. The satisfaction of hearing it roll off your tongue, caressing your lips just to smack him in the face. He had spent months keeping his distance, pretending that this marriage was just a political alliance, refusing to admit that you had taken a place in his mind, in his body, maybe even in his heart. You were the first and last thing on his mind every day.

That evening in his office, he had let himself get carried away but hadn't regretted just for once his gesture. The way his hand gripped your upper thigh with a quiet desperation, a touch that burned like a sin whispered in the dark. It was neither gentle nor cruel, but something far more dangerous—an unspoken confession, a plea he could not voice. His fingers pressed into your skin as if trying to anchor himself, torn between the damnation of holding on and the salvation of letting go. That moment of intimacy had soothed him, leaving him in the days that followed with an intrepid desire to consume you like the seeds of the pomegranate. Letting your juices spill all over his hands and lips. 

Tonight, there was no escape. 

In a sudden, almost brutal gesture, Marcus grabbed the back of your neck and kissed you. The kiss wasn't soft or gentle. It was overflowing with anger, desire, everything he held back for too long. You didn't try to resist him, you responded to his kiss with the same feverish intensity. There was no hesitation, no space for second thoughts. You had enough of these games, these pretenses. Your fingers clung to his tunic, as if anchoring yourself to the moment, terrifies he might retreat into the shadows once more. But he didn't. Not this time. His grip was firm, his mouth insistent, devouring the distance that had long kept you apart. The line had been crossed, and there was no turning back—only the ruinous, intoxicating fall into each other.

[pricesdahlia]

john price is literally fucking insane and deranged and kills people for a living without even batting an eye. he’s an unstoppable force and leads men in his own task force.

oh, but i could fix him. like genuinely i believe i could. he just needs the sweet love and affection from a fat girl and i’m here to deliver. to others, he’s the strong willed captain price, but to me, he’s just john.

he’s such a sucker for his sweet wife. i just wanna bake him cookies and cakes and big, filling dinners and spoil him with the tlc he so desperately needs. like, the man has been in the army for over half of his life! let that man unwind i the arms of his loving, gentle wife!

he deserves to come home and see his beautiful wife in a pretty, floral apron making him dinner, candles lit around the kitchen and the faint sound of music playing while cooking… he comes behind casually just to wrap his arms around her waist, feeling how soft and warm she is in his strong embrace, smelling like home.

maybe drawing him a nice bath after a long day, giving him a massage to ease that tension in his shoulders where he sometimes feels like he’s carrying the whole world… peppering sweet little kisses all over his face until that stern look melts and he smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling… spending the night in each other’s arms and feeling his soft, warm wife in his embrace, knowing i’m safe… domestic john price <3

[rinniewvrld]

𝗬𝗔𝗡𝗗𝗘𝗥𝗘!𝗔𝗖𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗠𝗜𝗖 𝗥𝗜𝗩𝗔𝗟 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗖𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗡𝗦 .ᐟ

summary, felix always believed he was destined for greatness. he was smart, rich and "hot" as some might say. but his empire breaks when a new kid break into the scene

featuring, yandere!academic rival x gn!reader

tags, unhealthy power dynamics, clingy and kinda pathetic yandere, delusional and obsessive behavior, implied isolation, abuse of power, he's a bit egoistical

notes, this is a pretty old draft from my wattpad account ermmm this is heavily altered from the one i published at wp

♡ Felix Escoffier is a serious man that follows strict rules and principles. He's the only son of a famous fashion designer who practically owes everyone's parents, so it's natural that they follows his every whims. Even if at times his so-called 'policies' can be overbearing, borderline senseless.

♡ Though his power doesn't only come from his father's connection. He's the student president, as well having the highest honor out of everyone else. He's popular among the school staff and favored by the teachers for his achievements marking a good reputation for the school.

♡ This is his perfect empire where he and only he strictly rules among all the inching worms. The top of the food chain, the king lion. Nobody can stop him from reaching greatness now. Until you did.

♡ After acing his final exams without much of a break, Felix decided to check the ranking board to see where his rank was. Of course, he's confident to see his name at the number one spot, but he needed the boost anyways. However when he arrived at the board, he almost fainted.

♡ He was second to your name. Just who are you? You never appeared in the Top 10 before, so where did you come from? It took every single part of him to not black out right then and there.

♡ Rumors began spreading all the school, the strange new transfer student became the student body's buzzing gossip. Not only did you utterly crushed a man's entire life in a single day, but you were just a commoner. A commoner who managed to get inside such a prestigious school through a scholarship. And not like paying the fee like everyone did! Everyone believed you must've cheated the system.

♡ While the entire school was in shambles, you, on the other hand, couldn't care less. The only reason you managed to topple over the king bee was because your friend had betted that you won't be able to demolish the school ranking in one night. (Guess who had a 100 bucks under their name now?)

♡ Felix couldn't take it. Of course, he was his father's child! The expected successor of his business, the soon-to-be ruler of the fashion emperor! He wouldn't let himself be taken down by anyone, not by the likes of a commoner no less.

♡ So he made the decision to confront during lunchtime, prepared to absolutely obliterate you in front of everyone and ruin any chance of yours to strike back!

♡ But oooh, you so much different from what he heard in the rumors. You weren't disgusting or ugly, and you certainly weren't a cheater when he had tested your knowledge with the hardest question on the exam. Even he got that question wrong multiple times before. And you were so beautiful his jaw dropped at the first sight of your face, he couldn't even utter a single world to stop you from walking away.

♡ When you brushed him off so casually, it hurt his pride a bit. Sure, he had originally planned to ruin your social life, but upon realizing what a valuable asset you could be in his journey of taking over his father's business, but he couldn't let you go now!

♡ He stuck to you like an annoying bug. Always buzzing in your ear and demanding that the two of you must study together despite proudly declaring you as his arch-nemesis in public. Sometimes he gets too close to you, his heartbeat would spike up and his hands get clammy to the point he could barely hold a pencil. Just brushing his arm against yours was enough to make his nose bleed.

♡ Plus, he's always complaining if you don't wear your uniform correctly. But anytime you take your blazer off— or god forbid unbutton the first button if your blouse —the little skin revealed makes him flustered to the point of him running away to deal with himself.

♡ But in the next exam, your ranking immediately dropped to the bottom. It made the student body stir with confusion at this development and prompted a lot of questions from classmates and teachers alike. But Felix was more than just mortified to see the change and nearly fainted when checking the board again.

♡ He had to confront you again, of course, there's so much to discuss! Did you perhaps give up or did he scare you off? No matter, he'll just drag you back so you'll be his rival again! That is until he saw you hanging out with your friends.

♡ Of course, the only explainable reason why your ranking dropped was because of those delinquents! Despite your brilliance, your social awareness must not be as sharp as he thought. These braindead hooligans are influencing you and dragging you into their mess! Don't worry, he'll guide you back on the right path.

♡ So he made the proper arrangements. He used his power to forcibly change your schedule to match his, so he can always watch over you even during classtime. The teachers are now much harder on you, so you can focus on your studies more instead of goofing off with your so-called 'friends' (devils, he calls them), and everyone begins moving you out of fear of facing his wrath.

♡ It won't be too long until he's all that you have left. You're completely isolated from everyone at school, and your mountain of schoolwork isn't helping with your ruined reputation.

♡ However, fear not. Just let him help you with you and just depend on him. He'll mold you into the perfect rival, just for him.

[charmac]

Did my last ask go through because sometimes tumblr eats them 😭

I did get it, I just don't agree or wanna publish something like that to my blog, sorry.

Rob is very obviously a straight man, imo.

He is actually a beautiful example of sexuality not being a choice: guy who has a lot of gay family/friends and is so immersed in the community and really loves it, feels like he belongs to a point where it almost seems incorrect that he isn't queer, but he's "tried" and just. is not into guys. and has to admit that means he's straight.

And that's okay, because the majority of the world is straight, and we actually really value and need allies like him in the real world: straight guys who talk about queerness wistfully, who praise the community and think the concept of guys sucking each other off is awesome, if you're into that, and consistently reaffirm those ideas under a spotlight.

Rob being an ally in the way that he is is actually really important to me, and the reason I have an annoyingly soft spot for him

(and I promise if he was sexually attracted to men to any sliver of a degree, he would claim to be bisexual in a heartbeat. He wants that.)

[wisdom-devotee]

It’s Mother’s Day here in England and my actual mum is working so since I can’t spend time with her today I’d like to talk about some of my favourite motherhood myths of Greek mythology! This’ll only include the goddesses, though — sorry Penelope, Clytemnestra, Deidamia and Danaë </3

Thetis and Achilles

The Song of Achilles ruined Thetis’s reputation, in this essay I will—

This is an experience applicable to that of a mother whose child is suffering from a terminal illness. She knows, especially once Achilles is in Troy, that Her child is going to die and there is nothing She can do to stop it. She has known that for most of his life, but it became more real by the time we get to the Iliad, and Thetis spends the whole book in mourning.

She frequently brings up the fact that She must be the least respected goddess of all of them, because She was forced into marrying a mortal man, when the other gods knew he would die, as would any offspring they had together, and Thetis would be alone. Peleus is old at the time of the Iliad, and Thetis stays at the bottom of the ocean by the Greek War Camp in Troy rather than in Her own home, because She can’t bear to see old age take him.

She went to so many lengths to protect this son she loved so much, going as far as to dip him into the River Styx in the hopes he wouldn’t die. And it was all in vain.

And yet, She loves that boy endlessly. Every time She appears in The Iliad it is to be there for Her son, to do everything She can to make sure that his last days are joyous instead of miserable. She’s grieving someone who isn’t even dead yet. She’d already given Achilles the urn that She wanted him to rest in once he was gone.

And the only reason this is Her fate is because there was a prophecy that Her son would outdo his father, and Poseidon and Zeus (who’d previously both wanted to make love to Her) didn’t want to be outdone, obviously, so they had Her marry a mortal man.

Athena and Erichthonius

So in this myth, Athena was pursued by Hephaestus who was upset over His divorce from Aphrodite and Her affair and such. Athena, being the virgin goddess that She is, wanted nothing to do with any of it and fled. He managed to get to Her and ‘dropped His seed’ on Her leg. She wiped it off in disgust and didn’t realise that in doing so, Gaia became pregnant with Erichthonius.

Gaia of course didn’t want to raise this child and gave him back to Athena, who raised him herself in Athens, where he later became King and started the Panathenia festival and built Her statue in the Acropolis.

Athena, for this myth, is sometimes regarded to have a very specific relationship with motherhood in that She raises those born under unusual circumstances. Ericthonius being one example, She also in some versions helped Leto with the birth of Apollo.

Demeter and Persephone

You can’t make a post about divine mothers and not include Demeter. I hate the way this myth is retold in the modern day trying to either basically write out Demeter or make Her a horrible mother who is just overprotective.

This myth can exist without it demonising any party involved. This is one of our death myths about death taking a young person before their time, leading to insatiable grief for Demeter. It represents how the death of a child affects their mother and as someone whose had a sibling die, being able to see my own mother reflected in the gods (particularly Hera and Demeter) is genuinely beautiful to me.

But this myth is also written on the context of the Ancient world in which it was common that mothers and daughters would be separated by marriage without their consent. Hades is taking Persephone, but Demeter is a goddess, so She has the power to get Her daughter back, which most of the mortal women of the time would not have been able to do.

Nobody has to be a villain here — Demeter’s grief is understandable and allowed to exist. Persephone is allowed to be scared. But Hades and Zeus are not in the wrong either, necessarily; they’re going along with the status quo. And in Hades’s case, going with the death metaphor, that really isn’t His fault.

In this myth I think it’s notable that, as far as I’m aware, Persephone is okay. It was a rocky start but She’s respected as Queen of the Underworld and is incredibly powerful. That surely must have been reassuring for women in antiquity who were terrified of what marriage would be like, to know that it could be fine.

Fun fact: apparently girls in Ancient Greece who died before marriage would be called Brides of Hades.

Nemesis and Helen

In most versions of the myth, Helen’s mother is Leda, queen of Sparta, wife of Tyndareus. But others have her mother as Nemesis, the goddess of Divine Retribution.

I personally love the version of Helen with this parentage because of the implications it has on the fate of Troy. Helen, the supposed cause of the Trojan War (which was fated to happen) is the product of The King of the Gods, and the Goddess who balances the scales of good and bad fortune. Basically suggesting that Helen was always going to be a significant figure in the game of fate. Additionally, if we look specifically at Nemesis’s vengeance and how She punishes acts of hubris, plus Zeus’s domains over Xenia rights, then Helen being kidnapped against Xenia and that leading to the downfall of Troy is also really interesting as an aspect of her parentage — like she is the embodiment of a punishment for Xenia not being adhered to.

However, I also want to talk about the myth itself in which Nemesis has Helen. In this She is chased by Zeus. In some versions, He is Her father, in others, she is the child of Nyx alone. Either way, Zeus took the form of a swan, while Nemesis took the form of a goose to escape Hum. (As a side note, Helen’s family has a lot of weird connections to seabirds and I’m so here for it.) Nemesis did not want to have a child with Zeus, but was forced into doing so anyway, and Helen was the result.

It means a lot to me that even the Goddess of Divine Retribution can, Herself, face suffering and hardships and be a victim. That idea that being a victim does not make you powerless, and that even the one in control of fortune isn’t immune to it, is something that can be incredibly reassuring.

In this version of the myth, Helen is still raised by Leda and Tyndareus, as Nemesis gives her up. Yet another aspect of motherhood that I find to be so important is that sometimes people are just not able, not prepared, or even do not want to be parents, and this is not wrong of them. It is also emphasised that, as much as what Nemesis experienced was cruel and She was not bad for giving Helen up, Helen herself is still the most beautiful mortal woman, and therefore it is not the fault of the child themselves what the circumstances of their birth were. Which is, of course, obvious. But it means a lot for it to portrayed.

Hera and Hephaestus

I know She’s often depicted as a cruel mother who is awful, but honestly most of the awful things She does are to the children Zeus had during His affairs, not Her own. Of course, there is Hephaestus, but He’s actually the one I wanted to talk about when it comes to my favourite myth of Hera and motherhood — shocking!

Unfortunately motherhood isn’t always sunshine and rainbows, and this myth demonstrates that. Hera was furious when Zeus had Athena, proof of another affair, and in vengeance decided to give birth to Her own child without His help too. Hephaestus was the result of that. There are ofc versions of Athena’s birth where Hephaestus already existed as He took the axe to Zeus’s head to free Her, but in those versions I’d guess Hephaestus was born after some other affair of Zeus.

I see Hera throwing Hephaestus from Olympus when She discovered He was disabled as a depiction of postpartum depression. It was common for a long time for a child born unhealthy to be seen as the fault of the mother, and since Hephaestus didn’t even have a father, there was nobody to blame but Hera. This would’ve caused Her so much shame, and didn’t prove the point she was trying to make against Zeus and Athena at all.

Perhaps She felt that if she’d failed already, there was no way she could give him a good life or show anyone what she’d done. So she threw him from Olympus not because she found him ugly, but because She was at such a low emotional point that She was sure it would be better for Him to not have to be raised by Her, and for Her to never need to think about Him again.

He was taken in by Thetis, who had been raised by Hera, so I also like to imagine Thetis looking after him FOR Hera’s sake, knowing She isn’t in the mental state to do so Herself.

Their relationship in The Iliad is so important to me because while Hephaestus is angry at spiteful about what Hera did to Him (and rightfully so!) they also have a few moments of genuine care for each other. And I love that, because parental relationships can be so complex.

[sol-thorne-shitpost]

Sometimes I'll think life is bland and devoid of love and then I'll remember the people who hum they favourite songs when they do chores. Who make playlists based on fictional characters. Who read their books several times, annotating their favorite moments. Who will leave the last biscuit in the box for their roomate. Who smile at strangers on the subway. Who give names to their inanimate objects. Who look up their friends' hyperfixations to know more about them. Who will listen to a song and send it to a specific person because "it made me think of you".

And then I smile.

[starrynightarchive]

it makes me want to tear my hair out when someone mentions that platonic relationships need to have sexual/romantic undertones to be interesting. friendships that blur the lines between romantic and platonic is great, friendships that have sexual relations are great, any kind of friendship is great. but these days im seeing this awful thought of "friendship needs to not be strictly platonic to be interesting and platonic" and people don't realise that this is just "friendships are less important than romantic/sexual relationship" in a different font. im very intense about my friends and each of my relationship with them is different than the other. one of my best friends is also almost like my partner. another one of my best friend is just my best friend. there is nothing romantic or sexual orientation whatever between us. i love both of them dearly and one relationship here is not more important than the other to me. i smile so wide my face hurts when i see her walking towards me. we used to live a few streets away and yet everytime i saw her i used to run to go embrace her. i have seen them in their lowest and they have seen me in mine. i do not want to kiss her on the lips or make her my girlfriend. the thought has never crossed my mind. but she has saved my life multiple times. she is a part of my soul. she is my friend. and if you say "yeah, that's what i mean, that emotion and its intensity is inherently romantic!" then that means you haven't experienced the height of love and care friendship can offer and im so sorry for your loss. also you are subscribing into the inherently harmful thought of "everything that is intense and meaningful is romantic". like my wonderful friend vik once said, "they're not my just anything. they're my friends."

[notbecauseofvictories]

inexplicably sad about the loathly lady. I just can't imagine being brave enough to ask anyone whether they would prefer you be attractive in the sight of their friends, or attractive when they fuck you. that those are the only two options. I can't stop thinking about how there are many other answers to that question, and almost all of them are wrong.

[channie-binnie]

I swear every time I see anything relating to ATEEZ my eyes would always go to this man

BYE OMG WHY IS HE SO BEAUTIFUL????

This is a different type of ethereal beauty because wtf

He is a fairy 🧚

[volivolition]

wiggles my fingers at you ouuuu… you want to tell me about solace so bad…

HKJGG wiggles my fingers back lovingly!!! i really do, i fuckin LOVE solace :3 hey did you know i really like making fake skill descriptions?

SOLACE

Follow the north star. Find light in even the darkest places. Cool for: Optimists, Recovering lost souls, Sweet summer children

Solace is the skill you tucked away long ago, at the bottom of Pandora's box. The little one that tells you: despite it all, there is still hope. It needs a lot of nurturing -- and it's far from being the most helpful for police work -- but taking care of it is basically self-care. It enables you to find the glow in yourself that you often ascribe to gold lungs or brilliant halos in others. It encourages you to wake up and watch the sunrise, to play board games with someone you love, to forgive yourself and let yourself be a gentler kind of animal. Constantly looking forward to a brighter future, it also helps shield your morale from damage.

At high levels, Solace gives you a heightened sense of childlike optimism - which isn't always the sense to lead with in this precariously harsh world. Always looking for the bright side will blindside you with naivety. At low levels, however, you may just extinguish whatever keeps your soul alight. You've already lost her once. You may not survive the desolation if you let her disappear again.

[pigeonclaw]

I love thinking of the Dark Forest as this strange place with many eerie but beautiful locations that don't quite make sense. A place that would be really scary to the living as a result of its strangeness, but a place where those who are stuck there can appreciate its wonder. A dark twisting of the scenery you can find in the real world, uncanny but still bearing the splendor of real nature.

If I knew how to draw scenery, I'd be drawing these settings constantly.

[twilight-good-yall-dumb]

don't mind me, I'm just having a breakdown over feeling unloved and being terrified that I will never find a man who loves and respects me as I would him.

[polysyndetonaddictsupportgroup]

he doesn't know what this assless boy has done to bewitch such beautiful men and it torments him

I fell off my bed laughing 😭 your tags are so fucking hilarious like legitimately no offense but they're better than your actual replies

None taken I find my own tags delightful and am glad you like them too

[litrallytyrus]

also it’s been days but i still can’t believe they made ej say “there is nothing in this world like high school” oh my god SHUT UPPPPPP SHUT UPPP!!!! BOOOOOOO THROWING TOMATOES 🍅🍅🍅 BOOOO