#this is not all of my thoughts on the matter | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

retrosabers · 2 days ago

Text

𝐰𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐝.

FICMAS DAY 5 - UNWRAPPING

A RETROSABERS X PANDAPETALS DOUBLE FEATURE

old man logan x fem!reader

summary: logan didn’t believe in exchanging christmas presents. so, you offer him something you know he can’t refuse. a night where’s he’s free to have you all to himself.

contains: 18+ content below the cut. MINORS DNI. making out, some dry humping if you squint, oral (fem receiving), implied age gap, a dash of angst, swearing

word count: 2.6k

a/n: you thought i’d let a whole season pass without a little taste of some festive smut? absolutely hilarious. this is my first time writing for old man logan, and i think i did pretty alright considering i have yet to watch the movie (i’m terrified of the pain it will bring)

any feedback is always greatly appreciated!

also, don’t be confused by the fact that this says day 5 when i still haven’t posted day 4, i’m writing these bad boys out of order

and finally, a huge shoutout & thanks to the wildly talented @pandapetals for agreeing to do a little collaboration! please go check out her blog and all of her amazing work! <3

FIND HER PART HERE

!! divider by @estrelinha-s !!

FICMAS MASTERLIST

“are you sure your eyes are closed?”

logan grunts. “they’re closed, darlin’. promise.”

he’s been sitting here for almost fifteen minutes now, waiting for you to bring out this so-called “surprise.” from the ambient lighting and freshly washed bed sheets, the man thinks he’s got a general idea of what it is, but you’ve been fiddling in the bathroom too long for him to be certain.

still, he appeases you, and waits patiently at the foot of your bed. even if it’s a little bit uncomfortable on his knees.

meanwhile you’re fussing over every little detail of your appearance in the groggy bathroom mirror.

this was your solution to getting around logan’s “i don’t need anything for christmas” rule. you always begrudgingly abided by it, save for the box of cigars that always mysteriously turnt up in his nightstand on christmas eve. you knew he could never turn it down, no matter how much he tried.

logan could never say no to a smoke break with a nice pack of cubans. and he most certainly couldn’t say no to you.

that's how you decided upon this whole scheme. dolling yourself up and donning a new set of lingerie themed to the occasion, knowing logan had no leg to stand on. because technically, you didn’t buy anything for him. you bought this for you. he just so happened to be the person who was going to help take it off.

or rip it off, knowing your man’s track record of impatience and eagerness.

you share the exact same sentiment, though your tendency to be anile overpowers all else. you know it doesn’t matter if you have a hair or two out of place, or if your lips are slightly over lined. perfection never mattered to logan, but it still didn’t stop you from doing everything in your power to be pretty damn close to it tonight.

even if it meant making him wait a few extra minutes.

you pay your reflection one final glance before sauntering out into the bedroom.

he smells you before he hears you.

your scent wafting into the room captures his attention more than anything else. logan’s senses may not be as keen as they once were, but the fragrance of you was something utterly unmistakable. a sweet yet sultry aroma that he ached to have on his skin, his clothes, anywhere, to keep him grounded. to remind himself that you were real and you were his. it only adds to the anticipation building inside, the mere seconds he has to wait dragging on like hours in his mind.

a wave of lust overtakes you as logan comes into view. somehow just the sight of him is enough to send a bout of arousal down to your core.

that crisp white dress shirt he always wears is unbuttoned at the top, sleeves rolled up to reveal those chiseled forearms you love to have wrapped around you. the soft glow of the lamp on the bedside table illuminates the weathered curves of his face so beautifully. a contrast to the ruggedness of his position; legs lazily spread wide and long, thick fingers tapping mindlessly against his thigh.

the picture of a real man. and he’s all yours for the taking.

the sound of your footsteps padding against the floor grows louder. obediently, logan’s eyes stay shut, despite the fact that the other aroma you carry is hot and heavy in his nostrils. his upper lip twitches with a knowing smirk.

so this is exactly what he had in mind.

on instinct, his thighs spread even further when he senses your approach, hands itching to find their place on you somehow. when your own stay glued to your sides, he takes that as his cue to do the same.

logan really hates to admit it, but there’s something about this little bit of mystery that’s got him going before you’ve even begun.

“you ready?” your voice comes out breathy, and if logan didn’t know any better he’d think you’re nervous. and truth be told, you were. not that logan wouldn’t get his kicks, you were certain of that. more so that you’d be unable to walk come tomorrow morning.

though neither of you would consider it a bad thing

“yes ma’am,” he grumbles in response, knowing exactly the effect it has on you. the cockiness on his face is inevitable when he hears your breath hitch.

tease. if that’s how he wants to play, you’re in for a long night.

with a quiet sigh, you splay your fingers over the expanse of his broad shoulders. the man takes it as permission, calloused palms wrapping around your calves and not daring to travel any further. he knows he’ll lose any remaining self control if he gets so much as an inch closer to the apex of your thighs.

“okay.” you murmur. “you can open your eyes.”

slowly, those dark irises begin to drink you in. his grip on you tightens as soon as he gets the whole picture, a visible tent forming in his dress slacks almost immediately.

logan thought you were the most beautiful women he’s ever seen under any conditions. didn’t matter if you were sick, if you were bare faced, none of that changed how otherworldly you looked in his eyes. but nothing, and i mean nothing, compared to the sight of you before him right now.

you look like something out of a dream. hair styled in a way that drives him particularly crazy, makeup done to highlight your features so elegantly in the dim light. the best, and quite possibly logan’s favorite part, however, is that your lips are painted a shade of red to perfectly match the ensemble adorning your body. it sparks a slideshow of rather lewd images in his brain, wanting the color scattered across his cheek, his chest, his cock. anywhere you’re willing to brand him.

he’s committed every inch of you to memory by now. countless nights of exploring, mapping out your curves with hand and tongue. and still, everytime he sees you like this, practically offering yourself on a silver platter, he can’t help but stare back as though this is the very first time.

especially when that crimson silk is accentuating your figure so nicely.

“do you like it?” you ask coyly, bottom lip tucked between your teeth like you’re not fully aware of the power you have over him.

logan scoffs out a laugh, dragging his hands higher and higher until they tug at your hips, pulling you to straddle his lap in one swift motion. you squeak at the sudden display of strength, forgetting that despite his age, he was still infinitely stronger than any man you’ve ever met.

even beneath the layers of fabric between you, the sheer size of him was impossible to ignore. fuck, and he wasn’t even fully hard. you bite back a moan at the outline of his length pressed between your legs.

“that answer your question?” he quips back lowly, smirking smugly.

you hum in content, pressing your hands further into his shoulders as you experimentally grind your hips. the pair of you preen at the contact, desperate for any form of relief after being pent up and waiting.

“careful,” logan grits out in warning. “gonna cum in my pants like a fuckin’ teenager if you keep that up.”

you tsk in response, cocking your head with faux concern. “can’t have that, now can we?”

logan shakes his head at your antics, eyes wandering back over your body once more. before tonight, his favorite set of lingerie you owned was a black lacy number. simple and classic. but the more time he spends inspecting what’s currently adorning your frame, the more he thinks that red might be his new favorite color.

something warm spills over him when he glances at your chest again. something different than what he normally experiences every time he catches a glimpse of your cleavage, anyways.

“is that a bow?” he questions, a little bit amused.

you let out a soft giggle, nodding in reply.

“wanted you to be able to unwrap your present.”

you can count the amount of times logan has laughed, really truly laughed, on one hand. and as much as it sounds like music to your ears, you’re rather confused as to why he’s laughing right now.

“what’s so funny?” you huff, brows knit together and bottom lip jutted in a near pout.

logan averts your inquiry, burying his face in your neck so you can’t see him grinning like an idiot. instead, he busies himself with dragging his lips up and down the column of your throat, reveling in the breathy moans spilling from your lips with each and every press against your skin.

from the moment you met logan howlett, you fantasized about that salt and pepper beard. longed to feel the delicious sting of scruff against every part of you. as addicting as it is, the sensation isn’t enough to keep you completely distracted.

“logan,” you whine, titling your head back to grant him more access. “m’serious.”

he doesn’t halt his ministrations, too consumed with making sure your neck is painted every shade of lavender under the sun. he only stops when you rake your fingers in his hair and physically pull him off, much to both your dismays.

you give him a look. that pursed lips, narrow eyed “what aren’t you saying to me” look that signals he’s going to have to fess up to whatever’s on his mind, or else the evening would be coming to an end right here and now. from the way he’s about to burst through the zipper on his dress slacks, you know he’s not considering weighing options.

logan sighs heavily. if you didn’t know all the variations of the sound, you’d think he was upset with you. but that was far from how the older man felt. he begins to examine your face, observing everything from the slopes of your bone structure, to the color of your irises. he studies your features like an artisan in a gallery, content on not missing a single detail.

after a moment, the corners of his mouth turn up a hair. eyes almost dopey; filled with a lovesickness he never thought could be possible.

“you’re somethin’ else, y’know that?” he murmurs into the air, rough fingertips tracing back and forth across your spine.

you speak the language of logan fluently, knowing exactly what the underlying message of his words were. in reality, he was saying, “what did i do in this life to deserve you? will you ever know how much i love you? i hope you’ll be mine for as long as you’ll have me.”

suddenly his round of laughter from before rings brighter in your ears.

instead of saying another word, you guide his face to yours, connecting your lips in a silent understanding.

logan always kisses you like a man starved, devouring you whole as though every kiss may be the last. there was nothing tame, or tender about the man they once called the wolverine, but you managed to slip between the cracks of his stony disposition, and bring forth all the parts of himself he swore he lost decades ago.

your hands encircle around the back of his neck, logan’s squeezing at the flesh of your hips. he pulls you impossibly closer, pressing the swell of your chest against his own. the feeling of your nipples pebbling through velvet fabric reminds him of the true nature of your current situation.

tonight was for him. his pleasure, his enjoyment. he knew you’d be heavily dissatisfied if he didn’t indulge in what you were offering.

and what kind of man would logan be, if he disappointed his sweet girl?

you’re not expecting him to be so gentle when he turns and flips you over, mouth never once leaving yours. a large hand spread across your back as he lowers you down onto the mattress with a care reserved for you and only you. a fact that adds to your current state of arousal. your legs open like second nature, and logan slots himself between them as though that’s where he was always meant to be.

the whine that leaves you when he pulls away would be embarrassing if it weren’t for the hunger in his stare. those normally hazel pupils now a brownish black that overshadowed bright white. he sits back on his haunches, glazing over your pretty little lingerie with a newfound appreciation.

he reaches to toy with the end of the bow tied snugly between your breasts, a teasing invitation that he graciously accepts.

at a tantalizing pace, he begins to unwrap his present, watching with lustful eyes as more and more skin becomes exposed. you arch your back the slightest bit to get the job done faster, the shoe of impatience now snug on your foot instead of his.

normally, logan would scold, spit something about “being a good girl and waiting.” but he’s just as riled up and eager as you are, and he gives the velvet one final tug that has your breasts springing free.

god you were absolute perfection.

he can’t resist running a thumb over your erect nipples, reveling in the way you squirm over such a small touch. your color coated lips swollen and shiny from his kisses. body already relaxed and pliant, willing to do whatever he so pleases.

a few minutes ago, he would’ve torn your outfit off without second thought and shown no mercy. let the shitty week he was having take control, guide him through the motions of achieving pleasure. but something inside logan urges him to be a little sentimental; take his sweet time on the off chance that he wakes up and discovers this was all a dream.

so he decides that’s exactly what he’s going to do.

the path down to your core was a familiar one, a route he knew like the back of his hand. sloppy, wet kisses trail down your stomach, a small crack in logan’s otherwise composed exterior. by the time he reaches the hem of your panties, tongue teasing beneath the waistband, you’re bursting at the seams with desire, unable to stop yourself from whimpering and bucking your hips upward.

“i gotcha honey,” he whispers against the inside of your thigh, rubbing soft circles with his thumb. “m’gonna take real good care of ya.”

logan knew you were soaked the second you walked into the room. didn’t need to see or feel it to know. still, he indulges his ego and stares proudly at the dark patch in the center of your underwear. knowing it was all his doing, that he was the only one who could get you like this.

when he pulls the fabric to the side and is met with your glistening folds, he can’t help the groan that rumbles in his chest.

“merry fuckin’ christmas to me,” he all but growls before diving right in.

it’s in moments like these where he wishes that photographic memory was his mutation, though he doubts he’ll ever forget this. his perfect girl, laid out so delicately beneath him, basking in the pale moonlight that seeped in between the curtains. his own personal utopia, paradise within the four walls of this rickety building you called home.

logan wonders if maybe he’s finally succumbed to the poison in his bones. because this sure does feel like heaven.

at the very least, it most definitely feels like christmas.

because having the privilege of watching you come undone was the gift that kept on giving all year round.

thanks for reading! <3

taglist: @alastor-simp @j4desblurbs @pandapetals @hextech-bros

!! if you would like to be tagged in the rest of the ficmas blurbs, please send me an inbox message or leave a comment !!

#retrosabers #sid writes shit #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett smut #old man logan #old man logan x reader #old man logan smut #logan howlett #xmen #logan #hugh jackman

419 notes · View notes

theonottsbxtch · 2 days ago

Text

MY PEACE | MV1

an: this was a request from a lovely first time requester ( @pinkinternetstarlight )i had so much fun with this except i probably went about this differently than was expected maybe? i don’t know but i hope everyone enjoys it

wc: 1.9k

THE MONACO SKYLINE GLITTERED outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of Max’s apartment, but the man inside couldn’t see it. Not really. He was slumped on the sofa, his head buried in his hands, elbows resting on his knees, still dressed in the sweat-soaked polo and race trousers he hadn’t bothered to peel off since getting home. The hollow thrum of the media circus still echoed in his ears—reporters’ voices, headlines dissecting every moment of his race, every mistake, every edge of aggression they couldn’t wait to sharpen into a weapon.

The living room was dim, the only light a faint glow from the kitchen where she stood, stacking plates from his barely-touched dinner into the dishwasher. He hadn’t asked her to come over; he never had to. She just… knew. She always knew.

She moved with quiet purpose, tying her hair back with a loose band, sleeves rolled up as she made her way around his space—tidying up the chaos he left in his wake. To anyone else, it might have seemed like she was cleaning for the sake of it, but he recognised it for what it was: her way of looking after him, of making sure that when the noise of the world threatened to cave him in, the corners of his life she touched felt a little less sharp.

He glanced up when she wandered back into the room, her bare feet soft against the wooden floor, carrying a folded blanket. She sat beside him without a word, the way she always did, close enough that her shoulder brushed his. Without asking, she unfolded the blanket and draped it over his lap, tucking it in just so.

His breath hitched—he didn’t mean it to, but there it was, like a crack in a dam he spent his whole life patching up. He turned his head slightly, enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume, and for the first time all day, the ache behind his ribs quietened.

“You don’t have to do this,” he murmured, his voice hoarse.

She turned to him, one corner of her mouth lifting in a small, knowing smile. “I know I don’t.”

He let his head fall back, tipping to the side until it came to rest against her lap. His body felt too heavy to hold up anymore, but here—here was lightness. Her fingers slid through his hair, slow and deliberate, untangling the knots the day had left behind.

The monster inside him, the one he kept chained under the weight of the world’s expectations, fell silent.

“Dinner’s in the fridge for tomorrow,” she said softly. “And I’ll stay the night if you want.”

He shut his eyes. He wanted to say he didn’t deserve this—didn’t deserve her—but the words wouldn’t come. All he managed was a nod, and when she leaned back against the cushions, her hands still in his hair, he let himself breathe.

The silence between them stretched on, but it wasn’t heavy. It was soft, the kind that let him loosen the grip on his thoughts, if only a little. He stared at the darkened skyline, the city lights casting faint patterns on the walls, and tried not to get lost in his head. But it was a losing battle. It always was.

The thought crept in before he could stop it. You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve her.

The words sounded like his own, but the voice behind them wasn’t. It was his father’s, sharp and clipped, laced with that same cold disdain that had haunted his childhood. His dad had always seen her as a weakness, a threat to his focus and discipline. How many times had he warned Max about letting anyone get too close? About “wasting energy” on things that didn’t matter?

And yet, here she was, the only person who’d stayed. The only one who’d made it through the wreckage of his life without turning away.

Her hand was still in his hair, her fingers slow and soothing, but he could feel the faint shift of her breathing as she glanced at the clock on the wall.

“Max,” she said softly, her voice cutting through the noise in his head. “You’ve got a flight tomorrow morning. You should shower and get some sleep.”

He opened his eyes, the weight of the day still pressing down on him, and turned to look at her. “I’ll sleep on the plane,” he mumbled, though he didn’t move.

“Shower first,” she said, firm but kind. “You’ll feel better.”

He didn’t argue. He never could, not with her. With a quiet sigh, he sat up, the blanket slipping to the floor, and dragged himself to his feet. The thought of standing under hot water—letting it wash away the grease and grime and whatever else the day had left on him—wasn’t as bad as he let on.

By the time he stepped into the shower, he could hear her moving about in the kitchen again. He let the water beat against his skin, his hands braced against the tiled wall as the heat loosened the tension in his shoulders. Still, his mind wouldn’t stop replaying the same loop: his dad’s voice, the doubt, the sense of never being enough.

When he finally emerged, towel slung around his waist, the smell of something warm and sweet drifted through the apartment. He found her in the bedroom, already curled up against the pillows, a mug of hot chocolate in her hands. On the bedside table sat another mug—tea, the way she always made it for him, a perfect balance of strong and soothing.

She didn’t look up as he walked in, her nose buried in a book, the soft glow of the bedside lamp making the room feel impossibly safe.

He took the mug and sat on the other side of the bed, cradling it in his hands as the steam curled up around his face. For a while, they didn’t speak. She kept reading, and he let himself lean back against the headboard, the warmth of the tea spreading through him.

It wasn’t until he was ready—until the words that had been choking him all day finally loosened—that he spoke.

“They hate me,” he said quietly, his voice barely more than a rasp.

She looked up from her book, closing it without a hint of impatience, and turned her full attention to him. “Who?”

“Everyone,” he said. “The media. The fans. Hell, even Checo, sometimes.” He laughed bitterly. “They don’t even know me, but they’ve already decided I’m the villain. And the worst part is… I think they’re right.”

Her brows knitted together, and she set her mug down on the table. “Max,” she said, her voice steady, her gaze unflinching, “you’re not a villain.”

He shook his head, staring into his tea. “I don’t know how you can say that. You’ve seen it—how I am on the track, how I am off it. I push people away, I—” He stopped, the words catching in his throat.

“You’re human,” she said simply. “You’re not perfect, but no one is. And everything they say about you? That’s noise. It’s not who you are.”

His hands tightened around the mug, and he looked at her, his expression raw, like he was seeing her for the first time.

“You don’t have to stay, you know,” he said, his voice breaking. “You could’ve left a long time ago. Sometimes I think you should’ve.”

She held his gaze, her eyes calm but fierce. “And sometimes I think you forget that I get to make my own choices,” she said softly. “I’m here because I want to be, Max. Not because I feel sorry for you. Not because you owe me anything. Just because you’re you.”

The weight in his chest shifted, just a fraction, but enough. He didn’t know how to respond to that—not yet—but when she picked up her book again, leaning against his shoulder as if nothing had changed, he let himself close his eyes and breathe.

For tonight, it was enough.

The tea was long forgotten on the bedside table, the room quiet save for the faint rustle of her turning a page and the soft hum of the city beyond the windows. Max shifted under the duvet, his body still heavy with exhaustion, but the ache behind his ribs had eased, just enough to let him breathe.

She lay beside him, her book propped against her knees, the light from the lamp catching the soft curve of her face. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, trying to ignore the pang of something sharp and unfamiliar blooming in his chest. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt it, but tonight it seemed impossible to ignore.

He adjusted his pillow and turned on his side, facing her. “You’re going to read all night, aren’t you?” he asked, his voice low, teasing.

She glanced at him, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Not if you need to sleep.”

“I always need sleep is what you say, no?.”

She laughed softly, her head tipping to the side as she closed her book, slipping it onto the nightstand. “Alright, I’m done.” She reached over and turned off the lamp, plunging the room into comfortable darkness.

He shifted closer instinctively, the warmth of her presence drawing him in. They’d done this a hundred times before—falling asleep in the same bed, his arm slung over her waist or her head tucked against his chest—but tonight felt different. The space between them was charged with something unspoken, a tension he didn’t have the courage to name.

She settled into the pillows, her back facing him, and he hesitated for a moment before closing the distance. His arm slid around her waist, pulling her closer, and she melted into him without a second thought.

“Goodnight, Max,” she murmured, her voice soft and drowsy.

He rested his chin lightly against the top of her head, inhaling the familiar scent of her shampoo. “Goodnight,” he said, though his mind was far from quiet.

The weight of the day, the weight of everything, seemed to dissipate as he held her. She didn’t demand anything of him, didn’t ask him to explain himself or prove that he was more than what the world saw. She just… was. And somehow, that was enough to quiet the storm inside him.

His eyes fluttered shut, the warmth of her body lulling him into something close to peace. And before he could stop himself, the words slipped out, barely more than a whisper, lost to the dark.

“I love you.”

She didn’t stir. Didn’t react.

For a moment, panic flared in his chest—what if she’d heard him? What if she didn’t feel the same? But as her breathing deepened, slow and steady in the quiet of the room, he realised she was already asleep.

Relief swept over him, and he tightened his hold on her just a fraction, burying his face in her hair. It was better this way, he told himself. She didn’t need to know. He didn’t need to ruin what they had, didn’t need to drag her into the mess of his life any more than she already was.

For tonight, it was enough to hold her. To let the monster in him fall silent, just for a little while.

And as sleep finally pulled him under, he couldn’t help but hope—just a little—that maybe someday, he’d find the courage to say it again.

the end.

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby

422 notes · View notes

p0orbaby · 3 days ago

Text

Spend the Night with You, Spend My Life with You

summary: sex, snow and three little words

warnings: SMUT 18+, strap use

a/n: these two are so hopeless it hurts

word count: 3.5k

part 1

The edge of the kitchen island bites into your stomach as Alexia pushes you forward, her hands gripping your hips with a steady, deliberate pressure. You splay your fingers across the cool marble, desperate for purchase, but the smooth surface offers nothing to hold on to. When her hips snap forward, the shock of it ripples through your entire body, a gasp catching in your throat.

Your hand shoots out instinctively, grasping for anything to ground you. It lands on the hammered copper bowl at the edge of the counter. The movement sends it spinning off balance, and a dozen oranges tumble onto the floor, rolling in lazy, chaotic arcs. The bowl clatters noisily, a sound that echoes off the tiled walls. Neither of you reacts. You’re too far gone.

Alexia leans into you from behind, her chest pressing against your back as her hands slide up your sides, over your ribs, her touch both reverent and possessive. The weight of her against you is grounding, her skin hot where it meets yours. Her lips find the nape of your neck, and she bites—hard enough to sting, hard enough to make you gasp again.

You feel her breath against your ear, hot and ragged. “You’re perfect,” she murmurs, the words almost swallowed by the sounds of your own shallow breathing.

Your head falls forward, your forehead brushing the cold marble. You squeeze your eyes shut, focusing on the weight of her hands on your hips, the way her fingers dig into your skin like she’s afraid you’ll slip away.

“Alexia,” you breathe, her name tumbling out of you unbidden, as if it’s the only word you’ve ever known.

Her answer comes in the way her hips press harder against yours, the rhythm she’s set becoming a language all its own. There’s nothing else, nothing outside the space you’ve carved out together. The world could be ending, and it wouldn’t matter.

Her movements are sure, deliberate, her hands sliding from your hips to your stomach, then lower, fingers brushing over the heat of your skin. You shudder beneath her, your legs threatening to give out, but she holds you steady, her strength a reminder of the control she wields effortlessly.

“Look at me,” she commands, her voice low but firm, cutting through the haze that clouds your thoughts.

You lift your head, craning your neck to meet her gaze over your shoulder. Her eyes are dark, endless, and they pin you in place more effectively than any touch ever could. There’s something in her expression—a tenderness that feels at odds with the raw, almost brutal edge of what’s happening—and it makes your chest tighten.

“I love you,” she says, and the simplicity of it leaves you breathless.

It’s the first time she’s said it, the first time either of you has dared to name this thing between you. And even though you’d already come to terms with your feelings in the quiet of your own mind, hearing it out loud is like a punch to the gut.

You turn your head back, pressing your cheek against the cool surface of the counter, unable to face her for more than a moment. But her hands are insistent, guiding you upright, pulling you back against her chest. One arm wraps around your waist, holding you close, while her free hand tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet her eyes again.

“Say it,” she whispers, her lips brushing against your ear.

You hesitate, the words lodged in your throat, but the way her eyes soften—hopeful and unrelenting—undoes you completely.

“I love you,” you admit, the words breaking on a gasp as her hand slides lower, her touch erasing any lingering doubts.

The air between you shifts, heavy with something unspoken but deeply understood. Her mouth finds yours, the kiss urgent and messy, teeth clashing and tongues tangling as if she’s trying to devour the words you’ve just given her.

Your legs shake, and she senses it, so she pulls out and scoops you up with an ease that borders on arrogance. Your thighs lock around her waist instinctively, the movement both desperate and defiant, and your arms loop around her neck like you might otherwise drift away. She doesn’t falter, doesn’t pause. She carries you as if you weigh nothing, as if your feverish kisses and clumsy, grasping hands don’t threaten to frustrate her with every step.

You’re not sure where she’s taking you; there’s no plan, only the friction of her fingertips digging into the backs of your thighs and the insistent pressure of her mouth on yours. You lose yourself in the motion, in the heat of her skin beneath her shirt—a cotton button-down you vaguely recall unbuttoning in a fit of impatience. It’s pale blue, maybe linen, and creases easily, but somehow, on her, even its rumpled state looks deliberate. The kind of effortless chic that you hate to admit you envy.

The bedroom is the goal, you think, until it isn’t. Until the two of you crash onto the rug in front of the fireplace. A soft furnishing you remember buying on a whim—hand-woven by a fourth-generation family in the Atlas Mountains, the kind of purchase that implies you’re a person with taste, with distinction. It’s soft in some places, coarse in others, but all you can focus on is the way Alexia’s body moves against yours, her breath hot against your neck, her hands mapping out territory she already owns.

“God, you’re perfect,” she murmurs, her voice rough, a little breathless, and it’s absurd how much the words undo you. You feel her lips against your collarbone, then lower, her tongue tracing a line along the curve of your breast before she takes your nipple into her mouth. Your back arches, your breath catching, and you’re distantly aware of the way your legs tighten around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer.

The fire is building, frantic and all-consuming, and you’re helpless to stop it. Not that you want to. Not when her hands are on you, coaxing, demanding, grounding you in a way nothing else ever has. You lose yourself in her touch, her voice, her everything.

Time becomes a blur after that. The weight of her body, the press of her hands, the sound of her voice—low and rough and threading its way through the space between you—it’s all-consuming. You don’t remember when you stopped thinking, when you let go of the need to control the situation, or her, or yourself. But it’s somewhere between her mouth finding yours again and the sheer mess of your limbs tangling together, her strength pinning you exactly where she wants you.

When it’s over, when the storm of her finally settles into something quieter, her head resting against your shoulder and her breath warm against your neck, you remember.

“We’re late,” you announce, your voice cutting through the silence with all the grace of a car alarm.

Alexia doesn’t move at first, her body still draped lazily over you, hot breath tickling the damp skin of your neck. “What?” she hums, not lifting her head.

“Skiing” you say, as though it’s obvious. “The booking. The gear hire. The… everything.” You gesture vaguely toward the coffee table, where your itinerary sits, printed and highlighted and unnecessarily laminated.

She looks up then, and for a moment she just stares at you, blinking, as if she can’t quite believe what she’s hearing. Then, to your utter dismay, she starts laughing. It’s not a small laugh, either. It’s full-bodied, rich, and entirely at your expense.

“You’re joking,” she says between breaths, though it’s clear she knows you’re not.

“I’m not,” you insist, pushing her off you, though the movement feels like betrayal—like cutting the power to a film just as the climax hits. “The lift tickets were pre-booked. There’s a window. A strict window that were going to miss”

“And whose fault is it that?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yours,” you reply, deadpan. “You’re the one who decided to… well, distract me”

Alexia laughs again, a soft sound that’s warm and infectious and entirely too easy to forgive. “Distract you? That’s rich, coming from the person who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves”

“Don’t deflect,” you say, sitting up to make a point this is in fact very serious. “Do you know how much coordination it took to set this up? The calls? The emails? The back-and-forth with their useless website that doesn’t recognise international postcodes? And the ski instructor alone was a nightmare to book. He’s apparently some kind of legend—teaches everyone from A-listers to politicians to royalty. His name’s Pierre, which is almost too on the nose, but I digress. The point is, he’s probably been standing there for twenty minutes now, wondering if we’ve been mauled by wolves”

She grins, shaking her head, and there’s something infuriatingly fond about the way she looks at you. “You’re very dramatic”

“No, I’m being organised,” you counter, scrambling to your feet and reaching for your discarded shirt. “This was your idea, remember? ‘Let’s try skiing,’ you said. ‘It’ll be fun,’ you said”

“It will be fun,” she says, still seated on the floor, her hair dishevelled, her shirt hanging off one shoulder. She looks maddeningly good like this, like she belongs in some high-end editorial spread titled Après Passion.

“Not if we miss the slot,” you mutter, pulling your shirt over your head and avoiding her gaze. “Do you know what happens if you’re late? They give your spot away. To people on a wait list”

She doesn’t move immediately, instead she sits there on your hand-woven rug watching you with an expression that’s equal parts fond and exasperated. “You know, you’re kind of cute when you’re like this,” she says, her voice teasing.

“Like what?”

“Frantic. Bossy. Pretending you don’t care when you obviously do”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite to it. “Just get dressed. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I can go back to not caring”

The beginner slope—charmingly nicknamed “Bunny Hill”—is far steeper than Alexia had anticipated. She stands rigidly at the edge, her boots clipped into rental skis that are alarmingly bright, the sort of neon green you associate with aggressive cycling brands or obnoxious trainers. You wonder if they’re intentionally loud, designed to help instructors spot the inevitable bodies sprawled across the snow.

Beside her, you’re dressed in a Moncler ski suit so pristine it practically sparkles in the sunlight. The stitching is quilted in perfect geometric diamonds, and the fur-lined hood is deliberately oversized, framing your face like the edges of a Vogue cover shoot. Your skis are top-tier: Fischer RC4 World Cups, chosen partly for their reputation and partly because the matte black matches your poles. You’ve already waxed them twice this season, though they probably didn’t need it. Your goggles, Oakleys with custom polarised lenses, sit snugly over your face, and you’re already warm, thanks to the base layer that cost more than the deposit on your first flat.

Alexia is, as always, frustratingly nonchalant. Her goggles, brand-new Oakleys you’d insisted on buying for her, sit slightly crooked on her face, the strap twisted in a way that makes your fingers itch to adjust them. The matching jacket, a sleek, insulated Patagonia shell in a shade of deep red that complements her complexion, fits perfectly—though she wears it like it’s just another hoodie tossed on before training. The trousers, Arcteryx, are so crisp they almost crackle, the tags having been snipped off mere hours ago. She looks every bit the part of a seasoned skier, though her posture suggests she’s waiting for the whole ordeal to be over so she can sit by the fire with a hot drink.

She shifts awkwardly, her poles dragging in the snow. “This is steeper than I thought”

You glance at the slope. It’s a nursery hill. Literal children are whizzing past with confidence, some barely old enough to tie their own shoelaces. A mother is halfway down, calling encouragement to a toddler in a lime-green snowsuit who is spinning in place, his skis forming an accidental snow angel.

“You’ll be fine,” you say, perhaps too casually, because she turns to look at you, her eyes narrowed.

“I’m not used to this,” she says, gesturing vaguely at the expanse of white in front of her. “You didn’t mention it would feel so… exposed”

You shrug. “You’ll pick it up quickly. You’re an athlete”

“Exactly, I don’t want to break my leg before the season starts”

Her caution surprises you. This is Alexia Putellas, who spends most of her life hurling herself into situations where bones break as casually as fingernails. But now, faced with the prospect of skiing, she’s hesitant, almost timid. It’s endearing, if not mildly irritating.

Pierre, your instructor for the day, is waiting at the bottom of the hill. His presence alone feels like an Arian tourism advertisement: flaxen hair, sharp cheekbones, and a jawline you could slice cheese on. His ski suit is a garish shade of blue, the logo of a the resort emblazoned across his chest. He waves at you both, teeth so white they practically refract the sun.

“Everyone is going to laugh at me,” Alexia mutters, her grip tightening on her poles.

“Maybe, but Pierre doesn’t count,” you say, ignoring the way she winces at the name. “He’s Swiss. They’re born on skis.”

She takes a deep breath and adjusts her goggles, the anti-fog coating catching the light. “Alright. I can do this”

She can’t do this, you quickly learn.

The moment she pushes off, it’s clear she’s underestimated the logistics. Her knees are too stiff, her weight too far back, and the skis seem to have a mind of their own. She picks up speed alarmingly quickly, her arms flailing in an almost cartoonish attempt at balance. You watch in horror as she veers toward the edge of the slope, narrowly missing a child who stares after her with wide-eyed bewilderment.

“Bend your knees!” you shout, though it’s futile.

Somehow, she manages to slow herself down enough to come to an abrupt, awkward halt halfway down the hill. She’s breathing heavily, her face flushed—not from exertion but from what you suspect is a mix of terror and mortification.

“What was that?” she calls up to you, her voice high-pitched.

“You were leaning back,” you reply, sliding toward her with an ease you know she finds infuriating. “Your centre of gravity was off”

“No shit,” she mutters, bending over to adjust her boots.

When you reach her, you make a show of stopping gracefully, your skis forming a perfect parallel line. You stand over her like an insufferable authority figure, which, let’s be honest, you are.

“Look,” you say, your tone breezy. “It’s all about weight distribution. Shift forward. Use your knees to absorb the movement. It’s physics”

She looks up at you, incredulous. “Are you seriously quoting physics to me right now?”

“Would you prefer I quote Pythagoras?”

“I’d prefer you stop being smug”

You grin. “I’m not being smug. I’m being helpful”

She scowls, but there’s no real venom in it.

Eventually, she makes it to the bottom, though not without incident. She topples twice, once taking out a marker pole and once nearly colliding with Sven, who watches the whole debacle with the stoicism of someone who’s seen far worse.

“I’m retiring,” Alexia declares when she finally comes to a stop, her skis splayed at an awkward angle.

“You’re fine,” you say, brushing snow off her jacket.

“I’m not fine. My pride is in pieces”

“Pride heals faster than a broken leg,” Pierre says, his tone unhelpfully chipper.

The lodge, when you finally retreat to it, is a welcome reprieve, a perfect cliché of alpine charm. The interior is all dark wood and exposed beams, the kind that might be reclaimed or might just be faux-rustic, it’s hard to tell. Roaring fireplaces anchor every corner, their stone mantels adorned with garlands of holly and pine cones sprayed with artificial snow. The air is thick with the scent of mulled wine, damp wool, and wood smoke, mingling in a way that makes the space feel both comforting and mildly suffocating.

Alexia slumps into a seat near the fireplace, tugging off her goggles with the dramatic sigh of someone who’s just endured a life-altering trauma. She drops them onto the table, where they skid across the varnished surface before coming to rest against a cast iron candleholder.

“I hate this,” she announces, slouching low in her chair like a moody teenager who’s just been told to tidy their room.

“You don’t hate this,” you say, sliding into the seat opposite her and unzipping your jacket with far less fanfare. “You hate not being good at it”

She glares at you, her jaw tightening in that way it always does when you’ve hit the mark. It’s the same glare she gives referees when a call doesn’t go her way, and it’s just as ineffective now as it is then.

“Admit it,” you press, unable to resist poking the bear. “You’re annoyed because skiing isn’t something you can dominate after five minutes of practice”

“I’m annoyed because skiing is stupid,” she retorts, though the defensive edge in her voice gives her away. “Who even decided sliding down a mountain with sticks strapped to your feet was a good idea?”

“Norwegians, probably,” you say, leaning back in your chair. “Blame them”

She grumbles something in Spanish, too low for you to catch, but the sharpness of her tone tells you it’s probably an insult aimed at both the Norwegians and you.

Before you can tease her further, a server appears with hot chocolates. They’re obscene—decadent monstrosities served in oversized ceramic mugs. Each one is piled high with whipped cream, dusted with cocoa powder, and garnished with sugar-dusted gingerbread stars precariously balanced on the rim. A stray marshmallow floats in the froth, its edges beginning to dissolve.

Alexia stares at hers like it’s personally offended her.

“What?” she demands when you burst into laughter.

“Nothing,” you say, though your smirk gives you away entirely. “It’s just… not very you, is it?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks, narrowing her eyes.

“Nothing,” you repeat, though you can’t stop yourself from glancing pointedly at the gingerbread star perched on her mug like it’s auditioning for next year's John Lewis Christmas advert.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” she mutters, picking up a marshmallow and lobbing it at you without warning.

It hits your sleeve, leaving a faint, sticky smudge of melted sugar on your Moncler jacket. You look down at it, then back at her, your expression perfectly deadpan.

“Childish,” you say, flicking the marshmallow back at her.

She dodges it with the expected reflexes of someone who captains her national team, though the movement is so exaggerated it draws the attention of the couple at the next table. You give them an apologetic smile, but Alexia just grabs her spoon and scoops an alarming amount of whipped cream off her hot chocolate.

“Don’t you dare,” you warn, raising a hand in mock surrender.

Her smirk is pure mischief as she leans forward, balancing the spoon precariously. “You started it”

“And best believe me, I’ll finish it too,” you say, though your tone lacks conviction.

She takes this as permission and flings the whipped cream in your direction. It lands squarely on your shoulder, and the entire room seems to pause as you stare at the mess now streaking your ski suit.

“You're five,” you say flatly, reaching for a napkin.

“You deserved it,” she replies, utterly unrepentant, leaning back in her chair with a victorious grin that makes your stomach flip in a way you’re starting to find annoyingly familiar.

You shake your head, suppressing a smile as you wipe the sticky smudge off your sleeve. The lodge hums around you—soft chatter, the occasional clink of glasses, the crackle of the fire—and yet it feels like the world has narrowed to just this table, just her.

She’s still grinning when you glance back up, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you. It’s infuriating. And addictive.

“You’re a pain,” you mutter, more to yourself than to her, but she hears it anyway.

“Yet, you still love me,” she quips, her tone light, teasing, but there’s something in her eyes—something unguarded and fleeting, like a glimpse of light through a crack in the curtains.

It makes your chest ache, but not in a way that hurts. It’s the kind of ache you feel when you’re exactly where you’re meant to be, when everything finally clicks into place.

You shrug, trying to play it cool even as your pulse stumbles over itself. “Maybe I do”

Her grin softens, just slightly, and for a second, it feels like the world pauses. The fire crackles, the snow falls softly outside, and all the noise of the lodge blurs into background static.

Then she picks up her mug, takes an exaggerated sip of her hot chocolate, and smirks. “Lucky me”

Lucky her indeed.

#alexia putellas #alexia putellas x reader #fcb femeni #fcb femeni x reader #espwnt #espwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community

406 notes · View notes

zombie-bait · 1 day ago

Text

As an animation student I absolutely hate live action adaptations like the ones Disney's been churning out the last few years. They strip away all the artistic intent of the original pieces of media and turn them into grey, heavily cgi-ed experiences that don't even carry a quarter of the whimsy. The purpose behind these adaptations isn't to fully utilize a new medium and find a unique way of retelling the original story, it's just to make money.

Imagine you see a painting, let's say The Mona Lisa. Now, you can put on a black wig, pose in front of the countryside and take a selfie in the same pose. Is it fun? Yeah, sure. It's the kind of thing you can send to your friends or maybe post on an account. But to argue it is superior somehow because it's "real" is an insult. You could spend thousands of dollars on makeup, cameras and lighting but still, it will not carry the same cultural impact. It can't.

And don't get me wrong, photography and cinematography are 100% an art form. You can do beautiful things with a camera that cannot be done through any other media. Cosplay is another beautiful example of artists bringing their creative interpretations of characters into the real world. People who do those should be admired and appreciated. But we know that's not what's happening here.

You might not think The Little Mermaid (1989) or Beauty and the Beast (1991) are as artistically valuable as something like The Mona Lisa. That's the thing about art, no one really gets to decide what piece of art is or isn't superior to another. But all three are definitively intentional art. It doesn't matter if you're an overworked in-betweener for a mega-corporation in the 90's or a famous renaissance painter working on a portrait. Either way, you're pouring a little bit of yourself into your creation. Every choice you make has intent behind it and years of hard work, even if you're not conscious of that.

These adaptations are an expensive selfie boasted around as a superior product. Because that's all they are, products imitating art. You end up losing those intentional choices somewhere along the way as hand-picked colours, distinct silhouettes and visual storytelling all get dulled into the same "realistic" shape. And children deserve better. Not just because exploiting families by rereleasing content is scummy, but because I whole-heartedly believe that children deserve artistically rich, complex stories. Almost every animation student and professional that I know got where they are because they were inspired by something. Maybe it was Beauty and the Beast or My Little Pony or Animaniacs or How to Train Your Dragon. But there's something immensely powerful about being a little kid and being shown a completely new, beautiful way to imagine and interpret the world. And you find yourself sketching day and night to replicate that interpretation until suddenly you're creating something new, with intention, that's never been made before.

I'm sure there are plenty of kids who like movies with realistic-looking animals. But the animals aren't realistic because these corporations thought kids would enjoy them, they're realistic because studios executives that don't actually give a shit about art or animation think they are more visually impressive and needed to come up with an excuse to recycle content instead of daring to do anything new. They don't care about artists, they care about consumers.

Since we keep getting "live action" CGI remakes of already perfectly adequate animated movies, and because people need to understand that animation is a medium and not a genre, I have prepared this primer about the importance of Visual Language for Conveying Information.

Can you tell what the personalities of these two mice are?

Can you tell now?

Which of these two tigers feels safer to be around?

Which of these three dogs is the funniest one?

If you can answer these questions, then you already have experience with the idea of visual language and stylistic choices being used to impart narrative meaning. If you can understand why these choices were made to impart meaning, then you can understand why animation is a medium for telling stories that has its own inherent value, and is not merely a "placeholder" for the eventual implementation of photorealistic presentation (aka "Live Action" CGI). Animation does not need to be "corrected" or "legitimized" by remaking it into the most representational simulation of observable reality.

#I've already reblogged this weeks ago I think #But I'm reblogging it again #this time with a rant lmao #animation #disney movies #live action #animation student #2D animation #3D animation #also cgi can absolutely be used for art too #there are tons of great movies that use cgi or 3D animation #And I'm also studying 3D modeling #And I bet Disney works those poor 3D animators to death #but the soul is not there in these cgi remakes #and that part IS intentional

46K notes · View notes

temiizpalace · 1 day ago

Text

☆┊GINGERBREAD MEN

SUMMARY: someone made gingerbread men! you’ve decided to share it with a special someone of yours. how do they eat it?

CHARACTERS: all dorms + grim (-ortho)

GENRE: fluff, crackfic-ish

WARNINGS: cursing

NOTES: debated between this and an angst fic but im feeling festive and holly jolly so you got the fluff this year. merry christmas!!

reader is g/n, reader is yuu

EATS THEM LIKE NORMAL CAUSE THEY’RE “JUST COOKIES”

whether they’re in shape of a man or round, a cookie is a cookie. does it matter where you bite first? no! not like it has feelings—stop. he’s not heartless, these stupid cookies can’t feel anything. does not appreciate the way you look at him with a slight frown. he’ll acknowledge the fact they are more than regular cookies, does that satisfy you? please just say it does. you want to make houses for them too?! sighhh… get him the kit from the kitchen..

riddle, trey, leona, jack, azul, jamil, vil, malleus, sebek, silver

BITES THE HEAD OFF FIRST

snaps the head off and starts grinning like a fool. will literally INSIST it’s the most efficient way to eat gingerbread men and is not willing to reason. since he’s so mature, you’ve caught him one time biting the head off then putting the cookie back on the plate with red icing oozing from the top. nooo… he didn’t do that. the cookie was just bleeding, that’s all! don’t look at him like that, let him have fun. anyway, if you’ll excuse him. this plate of gingerbread wasn’t going to eat itself and these guys must be rushed to the guillotine. which was his mouth.

ace, jade, epel, idia

BITES OFF THE ARMS AND LEGS SO THEY “SUFFER FOR THEIR GINGERBREAD CRIMES”

if only you could paint a picture of the scene you had just saw. he throws the cookie onto the plate, interrogating it with questions straight out of a detectives movie. abruptly, he picks the poor cookie up and snaps off all its limbs, leaving the head before smiling at it wickedly. as he heard your voice, he turned suddenly. uhm.. you didn’t see that. he was just uh.. asking questions. to be fair this man owed time. wait, DONT YOU DARE TAKE PICTURES OF HIS SHAME. HEY! GET BACK HERE!

deuce, cater, floyd, rook, idia, lilia

POPS THE ENTIRE COOKIE IN THEIR MOUTH, SOMETIMES SEVERAL AT ONCE

feels like staring at a chipmunk. you had just watched him massacre what could’ve been an entire village of gingerbread men in less than 20 seconds because he thought it was funny. felt no regret whatsoever and will not hesitate to do it again. you try to explain to him why eating it this way was probably not a good idea, but fuck that!! who cares!! it’s christmas which means every man for himself!! and then he choked on cookies for 10 minutes so good luck to you, prefect.

ace, ruggie, jade, floyd, kalim, epel, lilia, grim

A/N: sorry, got busy again this month lol. here’s a xmas special to make up for the disappearance. merry christmas!!

date published: 12/25/24

293 notes · View notes

rowie264 · 3 days ago

Text

If someone criticizes something, it doesn't mean that they hate it. It also works the other way around. If you like something, it doesn't mean that it's done well from an objective point of view.

I love Jinx. Her design, her story, her personality, her character arc... I was just fascinated by her. Jinx has become one of my favorite characters in media in general. It was the continuation of her story that I was waiting for the most.

Jinx is still my favorite character in season 2. I love almost every scene with her. How she did Sevika's arm and the subsequent fight with the Smeech, the fight with Vi in Act 1, the prison break, search for Vander in the mines, epic appearance during the battle against Noxus.

I got a lot of positive emotions while watching s2 and especially during Jinx's appearance on the screen. But… an emotional response and objective assessment are two different things. And objectively, Jinx's character in season 2 is OOC and poorly written.

Removing very importand part of her story and personality. Her mental issues almost completely disappear. This is a very important aspect of her character. And no, Isha's presence and a "more favorable environment" would not heal her, the whole 2nd act is completely unrealistic and looks stupid, since all her problems with her mental health were magically solved off-screen;

Irrelevant piece of plot. Her arc of "Zaun symbol" passes by her - she becomes a symbol by accident, ignores the consequences and directly encounters all this revolutionary mood only during Isha's saving from Stillwater (at the same time saving her followers - an indirect action, not a purposeful one). So this arc is kinda about her, but she doesn't seem to participate in it herself, and it ends with literally nothing (like the whole Zaun revolution);

Making her more appealing to wider audience. Her hatred of Piltover and Caitlyn just disappeared. Yes, while she was with Vi in the mines she said "piltie goons who murdered mom and dad," but… that's all? Jinx doesn't kill a single enforcer in the entire 2nd season (although, for example, she could have in Stillwater) and tells Caitlyn "I didn't know your mother was there." Let me remind you that Jinx literally giggled in s1 when she killed a dozen enforcers during gemstone kidnapping, killed enforcers on the bridge without any care, she hated Caitlyn fiercely because she "stole" her sister from her, and she couldn't not know that Cassandra was a councilor. It isn't showed how and why she changed her opinion and this is important thing to her character, you can't explain such change with microexpressions or parallels;

Unrealistic happy family reunion. The reunion of Jinx, Vi, and Vander is a spectacular moment from Disney. Do you remember how Jinx reacted when Vi returned? Yes, she was happy but as soon as she spotted Cait she freaked out and immidiately thought that Vi betrayed her. Imagine what would happen if her supposedly dead - bc of her btw - father had returned and now looks like some animal;

Silco mattered much more to Jinx. A very "subtle" replacement of Silco for Vander in the role of father (Jinx calls him father, sniffs Vander's jacket and not Silco's), although Silco played probably a bigger role in this? And Jinx remembers about him like 2 times? Although it's been about 7-10 years since Vi's "death" in season 1, Jinx was still triggered by just a similar appearance. Apparently, Silco wasn't that important to Jinx (which is not true); I could still keep talking about Jinx, but let's leave it at that.

I love Jinx even in season 2. I like watching scenes with her. But my emotional attachment doesn't stop me from seeing that Jinx's character in s2 is not a continuation of Jinx's character of the end of s1. Her image is broken, the arcs are not completed, the relationships with other characters are poorly written.

#arcane #arcane s2 #arcane critical #jinx #jinx arcane

281 notes · View notes

ooc-miqojak · 3 days ago

Text

Considering the vile things said to me by my CVS manager when he made up reasons to fire me when I was a young 20 something who had only missed work due to a severe bladder (maybe it was my kidney?) infection... and still desperately needed the shitty $8.60 an hour (that they would not raise no matter how I tried) he suddenly deprived me of at the time? (This was roughly around 2010/11?) Fuck CVS.

They were bad to everyone who worked there - the pharmacist I worked for had such bad anxiety, and they compounded it so much, even through his meds... he quit. The other pharmacist and the rest of us would take turns on who cried at the end of the day every Wednesday bc we were overworked and understaffed. I would stay late on those days sometimes, off the clock, and help my friends tidy up the pharmacy even, not out of any love for CVS, but to help my fellow workers be able to leave on time.

They also sold record numbers of cigarettes to college students, since we were in Charleston, so we were technically on the campus of the College of Charleston - and shockingly, tons of snowbirds send their kids to Charleston for school... where cigarettes are coincidentally cheaper, so they would buy carton after carton to take home for holiday trips and re-sell for a profit in NJ and NY. It always struck me as grotesque for a pharmacy/healthcare based drugstore to pump people barely into adulthood with a deadly, carcinogenic substance.

So yeah fuck CVS and their CEO - leave that bitch listed. They would rather I have come into work while in agonizing pain to the point where I couldn't move, than miss even one day of work... so the manager made something up about me taking off too much time to hang out with friends and party/drink (because he saw that I hung out with a Hashing group on Facebook - a group known for running and drinking: except I never drank when we did our infrequent runs with them... I always had water, and even got teased for it, since I DON'T LIKE BEER, and all alcohol had already begun to give me a headache by then... plus I was fresh out of military school and was like 'alcohol while running is bad??' So I was fired for a made up reason my manager thought up after looking on Facebook.)

lmao now they're just straight up trying to wipe the names of executives off of the internet. the light switch has been thrown and the roaches that have infested this house for far too long are scattering like never before.

#united healthcare #united states #wikipedia #twitter #us news #deny defend depose #disgusting little 🐀 scurrying off a ship - anyone who wanted to harm a CEO isn't looking up your name NOW #they would have looked it up months ago while planning #anyways I miss Hashing #on-on

35K notes · View notes

salemlunaa · 18 hours ago

Text

∘˚౨ৎ no need for desperation ౨ৎ∘˚

no matter what you’re going through, the state of pure consciousness is yours.

∘˚౨ৎ ACT I | why desperation isn’t needed…

“I need to “enter” RIGHT NOW, my circumstances have gotten 100x worse”

“you don’t understand i need help, an instant method, something”

“time is running out i need to induce pure consciousness and get my dream life”

You need to stop with that, take a second now and breathe. 1: Time doesn’t exist, you say you can get all the time back you’ve supposedly “wasted” if you properly apply what you know. 2: You don’t need anything, kill that thought of being the one in need, because you aren’t. 3: circumstances aren’t real, they are nothing. and everything will be worth it when realise you already have everything.

∘˚౨ৎ METHOD | the only one you need.

Whether you’re sooo desperate for pure consciousness or not, whether your life depends on it, this is the only method you need: (at anytime of the day, mind you)

eyes closed

breathe, relax, let go of everything around you

you don’t have to be in a certain position and you don’t have to be a statue, both dumb pieces of misinformation, scratch that itch, lay where you’re comfortable

you are “I Am”, whether in pure consciousness or not, you can remind yourself of that by affirming “I AM” if you believe it helps you,

or your mind can trail off and think about ANYTHING, whether that be your new life or one of your favourite songs, take that mind off the 3d

before you know it, you’ve induce pure consciousness

this is all you need, not some grandiose, 50-step intricate method. Just relax and focus on all but your 3d THATS IT BABE

you don’t need to be desperate for something so easy

there’s is no “it doesn’t work for me”, you’re not exempt from the law of shifting awareness, you’re not some special person who “just can’t” make it work. Inducing the “I AM” state is in our nature.

౨ৎ˚∘ACT II | get out of the cycle, you aren’t yearning anymore.

This desperation won’t get you anywhere. And it puts you in a vicious cycle. You’re desperate to change your life → you see the void state as the only ticket out of here → you put all your faith and adoration into the state of pure consciousness instead of you → you put it on a pedestal → you believe pure consciousness is the only thing that can pull you out of your misery= therefore, you are relying on external factors for something you must do.

And if you look at the base law for loa: think as if you have it. Would you have feelings of desperation if you’re a void master, if you supposedly have your dream life?

So leave the circumstances behind, like now this time, really don’t say you’re going to and go back to complaining in 2 days

“i have school soon and if i don’t induce-” no.

“i NEED to induce before-” shhh. you can do it right now, you know that.

“my circumstances are getting so bad and-” what circumstances?

“no you don’t understand how life is getting-” i thought you had your dream life?

The days of desperation are no more. No more will you beg for something that is so easy, something that is owed to you. No more will “fail”, failure doesn’t exist for you. Just believe it.

There’s nothing to be desperate about because circumstances aren’t real and you can have your desire whenever.

Would a baker be desperate to get ahold of the recipe for a cake he already knows how to make?

🎄🎅 it’s your reality, don’t allow external factors to make you desperate for something so easy.

also merry christmas lovies (and happy holidays regardless for those who don’t celebrate) hope you guys are digging the theme 😏

361 notes · View notes

missadangel · 17 hours ago

Text

The Heart of Rome (Marcus Acacius x OC)

All Chapters List

XIX. Trouble (Smut!18+!MDNI)

Nulla sunt arcana quae tempus non indicat.

There are no secrets that time does not reveal.

J.R.

"Hanno?" You stammered slightly. It was strange to see him standing before you after such a long time and even more confusing to feel uncertain about how to respond. "Is that really you?"

He smiled, displaying his familiar smile.

"I think so."

That was exactly the sort of response he'd give.

"There he is!"

A man shouted from behind, momentarily distracting you. Hanno narrowed his eyes and swore.

"Get him! Quickly!”

Before you could even think, Hanno grabbed your arm and whispered in your ear, "I'll be at the popina (wine bar) near the gladiator school tomorrow." He took a quick look over your shoulder.

Geta looked alarmed when he saw the men running towards you. "Aurelia! Protect the princess!"

"I have to go now. I'll wait for you there, Aya."

You opened your mouth, but you couldn't say anything; you just watched him running down the street, getting away. The men stormed past you and ran after him, while Geta and the guards came to your side in a hurry.

"My lady! Are you alright?"

Geta grabbed your shoulders. "Did he do something to you?"

You shook your head.

At that moment, the sound of horses neighing echoed around.

"General!" one of the guards called out, looking backwards.

You both looked over there.

Marcus jumped off his horse, eyes narrowed, which made you nervous. He was looking at Geta's hands on your shoulders as he walked quickly towards you, so Geta swiftly removed his hands from your shoulders.

"Acacius, you are very intuitive."

But he did not look at him, his eyes fixed on yours. You smiled at him, though it was weak.

"My lady, I was not aware of your intention to visit here." His voice was filled with curiosity. He turned his eyes to Geta.

"I have asked her to accompany me here."

You were about to answer yourself when the men who had just chased after Hanno turned around with him, grabbing both arms. Geta stopped them with a raised hand.

They bowed to him.

"Who is this man? How dare you touch the princess? Speak!"

You looked at Geta, getting mad at him for mentioning 'touching thing' in front of Marcus. Just as you expected, he clenched his jaw, tensing up.

“I said speak!”

Hanno didn't answer, he just glared at him menacingly, which made them even more tense.

"Emperor Geta asked you a question!" Marcus snarled.

"He escaped from the gladiator school, Your Majesty. We've been looking all over for him." One of them replied.

"He's from the colonies, your highness. He only speaks his native language." The other one explained.

Your eyes widened as Marcus gripped the handle of his sword.

"He meant no harm," you said, your voice cracking.

"Gladiator?" Geta tilted his head and studied his face. He then looked at them and yelled. "How could you let him escape and roam free on the streets? You useless bastards!"

Hanno looked at Marcus in a slightly odd way; there was a clear sense of tension between them.

"What the hell are you waiting for?" Geta gestured with his hands. "Get him out of here now!"

You placed both hands on Marcus' as he gripped his sword. "I'm alright," you reassured him.

Your touch had the usual calming effect on him. But his expression didn't soften until the men pushed Hanno into the prisoner's carriage. Hanno gazed at you from within the cage as you watched his departure, and you struggled to keep a straight face while trying to suppress your feelings. Marcus looked at you, examining your face. "Are you certain you're alright?" he asked, knowing you well enough to read your facial expressions correctly.

You smiled and nodded. "I am, really. But I thought you were in the barracks," you said, glancing at Octavius behind him.

"I was..." Marcus said then turned his gaze to Geta. "There is an urgent matter. I need to take you to Palatine Hill."

Geta narrowed his eyes. "Is it about that bastard cousin of mine?”

Marcus glanced at the children gathered around you, and the people looking at you with curious eyes. "I think you'd better see for yourself when you get there. Shall we?"

"I simply hope that one day will pass without incident! Just one!" Geta grumbled as he walked with the guards to the carriage.

Marcus smirked then he turned towards you. "I believe you would like to come with us, my lady."

It wasn't a question or a request, but the way he was acting made you curious.

"I'd like to come with you, General, if that's alright. It's been over a month since I paid my respects to my father anyway."

"As you wish, my princess.” He was usually a bit hesitant about you going there, but not today, apparently. He helped you onto the carriage and winked at you before walking over to his own horse and getting on.

"General Acacius. Commander Darius. What is the meaning of this? Tell me what's happening here at once!”

You were as bewildered as Geta as you took in the scene before you on Palatine Hill. Nerissa, the slave girl you thought was dead, was alive—and she had a baby with her.

"Your cousin Elagabalus was holding this girl captive, Your Majesty," Darius explained. "My men found her and brought her here."

Geta's eyes widened in surprise. "Why would he do that?" he asked loudly.

You sat down next to Nerissa, who looked frightened. Embracing her, you felt her begin to cry. The baby was crying too; it seemed he had been born only a few weeks after your own. As a mother yourself, you could tell that the baby was hungry. “Why don’t you gentlemen talk outside?”

All three of them looked at you and nodded, except Geta, who frowned instead of nodding.and then all left. The girl then explained to you everything that had happened to her while she was breastfeeding the baby. After Flavius and his men had attacked all the slaves and wounded her, the other guards, the ones under Macrinus captured her. And after Macrinus was executed, they cooperated with the men of Leptis Magna and handed her over to them. And she said that she was already close to labour when Elagabalus found her. Poor girl was so exhausted and weak that she thought she was going to lose the baby. Compared to your chubby Marcius, the baby looked thin, he was two weeks to pass his first month and you couldn't hide that you were a little worried about him. In fact, Nerissa was a noble Greek, not a slave, she had told you her story before. Maybe that's why she was kidnapped. If Macrinus cared about this girl there must be certain reason of her importance. Suddenly the baby started crying again, you checked her breast, she must be low on milk.

"Give him to me," you said, holding out your hands.

"But, my lady…”

"My breast milk is enough for both my Marcius and your baby," you said with a smile.

She returned your smile and placed her baby in your arms. Unlike your chubby Marcius, this baby had silky golden blonde hair on top of his head, just like his father. She thanked you and prayed for you as the baby suckled at your breast. Just as you were about to hand the baby back to her, Julia burst into the room.

“What do you think you're doing?”

You glared at her and handed the baby to her mother, who flinched in fright. You stood up and approached Julia, not liking the way she looked at the girl.

"You get the hell out of here right now and take the child with you!"

She sat up but you stopped her by raising your hand.

"Why would she? After all, she gave birth to a boy, it's Geta's."

"So? The child can't inherit the throne unless Geta weds her."

"I am aware. You must free the girl first, then wed them."

"She's a slave! How dare you think she's worthy of our emperor?"

'You know your son's interest in her. She's a concubina, not an ordinary slave."

"Yet she's not his wife! The Senate wouldn't accept the child as an heir since it wasn't born from legal marriage.”

“That is why I’m saying you must wed them. She’s a captive of war, forced into slavery. Her family is noble, isn't it, Nerissa?"

The girl nodded, looking at her hesitantly. "Yes, my Empress. If we were to send word to my family in Athens, I'm sure they would be able to send you an answer.”

Julia put her hands on her waist, thinking. "You dumb girl. Why didn't you tell me all this time?"

Her cheeks flushed and she bowed her head. "Because I loved Emperor Geta with all my heart. He didn't want me to tell anyone about it, not even his brother Emperor Caracalla."

"All those fights they had... It wasn't just to share your cunt huh?"

"Lady Domna!" You barked.

She approached her, ignoring your glare. "Even if I can convince the Senate, I can't convince Geta. He's really determined not to get married." She looked at you out of the corner of her eye.

"I'll talk to him." You said without looking at her. Then you turned and looked at Nerissa. "Don't concern yourself. No one can get you thrown out of this palace. I'll make sure your family is notified."

"I'll take care of that, you try to convince Geta if you can. But I wonder one thing Aurelia. What's in it for you? What's going on inside that beautiful head of yours I really wonder?’

"Don't confuse me with yourself, Lady Domna. Some favors are given without expecting anything in return.."

She laughed hysterically. "You may deceive others with your gentle and innocent face, but not me. Helping all those poor people and winning the love of the people with this way was a good move. I would never have thought of doing such a sneaky thing. Well done."

"You wouldn't understand even if I told you about it, so I won't tire myself out."

You turned your back on her, leaving the room.

As you left Geta's chambers and walked towards the great hall, you noticed Octavius and the other Praetorians standing outside. You could hear Geta's loud voice coming from inside, so you went to talk to Octavius before entering. "I spoke with Decima," you said.

He looked up at you, a bit surprised.

"I will make sure to mention it to the general, so you can feel assured."

"Thank you, my lady. I really appreciate it. But if it's all right with you, I would like to speak with him myself first."

"Of course, Octavius," you replied with a warm smile.

He walked you to the door and the guards opened it for you.

Marcus and Darius looked at you. Geta however, his back was turned, resting his hands on the table. He then turned his head when he heard your footsteps.

"Commander Darius," you said, looking at him. "Would you please give us some privacy?"

"Yes, my lady," he replied, motioning for the other guards to step outside.

Geta poured himself a glass of wine and settled into the lectus behind the long golden-colored curtain.

Marcus grabbed your arm, "Perhaps it’s best if we don’t get involved."

You reassured him by touching his hand. "I just need to speak with him."

He let out a sigh, "I’ll be right here."

You smiled at him, then turned around and walked towards Geta. As you pushed the curtain aside with your hand, you noticed that he had already finished his glass. He turned it upside down and shook it. Quickly, you picked up the decanter from the table and poured more wine into his glass.

“He looks just like you, you know,” you said.

“Oh please!”

“What's the matter with you? Aren't you happy to see her again?”

“I'll die of happiness!” he replied sarcastically. You sat next to him. “You must marry her so the child can be your legal heir.”

He looked at you sternly, a look you had never seen before. “That's not how it works in Rome!”

“I know the truth about her,” you insisted.

“You know nothing, Aurelia!” he barked, then stood up angrily.

Marcus watched the two of you from a distance, clearly feeling nervous, but he waited patiently.

"We need to let her family know about all this. If you wed her quickly-"

"She does not have a family." He interjected emphatically, taking a moment to inhale deeply. "Caracalla had all of them executed."

"What did you just say?" you wailed.

Marcus stepped towards you as soon as he heard your loud voice. Still unable to believe what you had just heard, you didn’t notice him until he touched your back.

“It was before the revolt in Egypt. Her family came to Rome; they wanted to take her because she was the sister of their princess. That was one of the reasons the Greeks supported the revolt, Acacius.”

You looked at Marcus. It might sound a bit strange, but that rebellion actually brought you to him in a really unique way. After a moment of silence, you feel more determined to convince him.

“She must have had family left behind. You need to inform them about the situation. If you marry, it could be possible to establish peace between them and Rome, right? Additionally, if you appoint your son as your legal heir, you will regain their trust and take a step towards improving relations too.”

He folded his arms, “Marrying a Greek? I don’t think the Senate would approve of that.”

‘"Well, you must convince them, right?"

“I shall undertake that responsibility!" Julia's voice echoed through the great hall, filled with joy. "You must wed her, my son."

Geta looked at both you and Julia. "You two agree on that, huh? I’ll be damned." He then turned to Marcus. “What is your perspective, Acacius?”

"I am not a politician, Emperor Geta. However, it is undeniably advantageous for us that the Greeks refrain from participating in any future rebellions against Rome. So I agree with my wife, Lady Aurelia.”

You respected him; despite his modest denial of being a politician, he displayed considerable wisdom.

"I think I owe her that much," Geta murmured.

"We must start preparing for the wedding right away," Julia said with a smile. "But first, I need to invite the wives of the senators and discuss everything with them. They might be upset with me about this." Suddenly, her expression changed as she looked at you. "Aurelia, perhaps they'll be more easily persuaded if you join me. They respect you."

"Being in the same room with those women again? Not for me, Lady Domna," you replied. Julia was about to protest, but Marcus's stern gaze seemed to silence her.

"Then we ask for your permission to take our leave," Marcus said.

Geta nodded. "You may leave."

Marcus extended his arm, and you accepted it as you both departed from the hall. As you made your way out of the courtyard toward his horse, Marcus leaned in, whispering; “Aurelia, what is your intention?”

You met his gaze and lightly touched his face. “I am seeking to protect our son.”

He looked confused as he tried to understand your meaning. You took his hand. “Let us return home to continue our discussion; I miss our son deeply.”

He responded with a smile, gently kissing your hand. “So do I.”

“What you mentioned earlier...” Marcus said as he poured wine into his goblet. “I am curious about what you meant by protecting our son.” Marcius, seemed full, releasing your breast. He made the most beautiful sounds that filled the room with warmth and then drifted off to sleep peacefully.

“I meant to prevent him from being seen as the heir to the throne.” You stood up and gently put Marcius on the small mattress next to your bed. He seemed to fall into a peaceful sleep; at least, you hoped so. Marcus handed you one of the glasses and then moved over to watch him sleep. You took a sip from the glass and began to remove the fancy hairpins from your hair.

"You're afraid he might become emperor..." he said, covering him with the small blanket. "More than anything," you replied as you placed the hairpins into the box. "The weight of such responsibility is immense, Marcus. There will always be those who seek the throne and those who would want to harm him and manipulate him. How can I live with this fear? How can we live?" When you turned your head to look at him, you found him gazing back at you. He stood up and stepped toward you.

"I will be so relieved if Geta gets married as soon as possible," you said, yawning involuntarily. It had been a long and tiring day, first because of Hanno and then Geta.

Marcus's big hand reached behind you, grabbing your hair and sweeping it over your shoulder, leaving your neck exposed. Your tiredness instantly faded, replaced by something else entirely.

"I can't disagree with that." You swallowed as his warm breath licked your neck. And you gasped as his lips found your jugular. You closed your eyes, surrendering yourself to the sanctity of his touch. He wrapped his arms around you, under your arms, and pressed himself against you. One hand slid down, under the fabric of your tunic, touching your folds. You moaned quietly as he stroked your clit with his thick fingers. "Are you ready to be mine, princess?" His tone was so seductive that you would be damned if you did refuse him.

"I am-mmph..."

Your delighted moan was muffled as he mashed his mouth against yours, aggressive and lustful. You shuddered and wrapped your arms around his neck without missing a beat, mewling submissively even as his hands left your clit and moved to your hips instead, grabbing them firmly and sending jolts of excitement up your stomach. He then lifted you up making you laugh unashamedly as his hands squeezing your butt-cheeks beneath fabric even as your lips stayed connected. His tongue prodded your lips and you parted them instantly, letting out a horny whine as it invaded your mouth and dominated yours with embarrassing ease. As if to comply with that he held your ass more firmly, that being the only warning you got before he roughly laid you down on the bed. The little one's cooing made you break the kiss. But when you looked at him he seemed happy in his sleep. You whispered to him as Marcus' impatient fingers quickly grasped the hem of your tunic. “I love this tunic of mine, so please be gentle.”

“With your tunic maybe, but not with you.” He said grinning, sending a shiver of pleasure down your spine. He leaned down, his lips grazed down your collarbone, breath hot against it, and a moan rolled off of your tongue as he kissed the top of your breast and then sucked upon it harshly. You found yourself afraid that might be hurt but it didn’t.

The thought was purged from your mind though as he swiftly snatching your other nipple up in his mouth. You gasped, your hand ending up in his curly hair and tugging it; utterly melting as you felt his tongue swirl around repeatedly before he gave it a wet-sounding suck, tugging it out until your nipple sprung from his lips and left your breast jiggling a little. His face placed between your breasts a mere second later, growling lustfully as he rubs them and tickled you with his hot breaths. He didn't stay there for long. Planting another few quick kisses upon your flesh then with a rush of eagerness, he undressed himself, his movements fast, impatient. Simply making you aroused more.

Just like he said before, he wasn't gentle when he grabbed you by the hips and pulled you towards him. He had just placed your legs over his shoulders when a soft cooing stopped him. You both looked at each other, remembering that there were three of you in the room now.

“How about we skip this part for now?”

Marcus smiled and kissed your knee. “I'll make it up to you, I promise.”

He leaned down and kissed you; it was passionate, tender, eager, and even a little rushed.

But then, however, there was his erection resting against your stomach, precum dripping onto your flesh. You ran one hand through the precum and along the length. He gasped at the touch, pulling away from the kiss. You met his eyes as you brought him to your entrance. He grinned, baring his teeth.

“Eager I see,” he said in a heated whisper.

With a playful grin, you pressed your finger to his lips and whispered, "Acta non verba, my love.”

Then, with a seductive lean back and spreading your legs, invited him in. He had his need pushed against your clit, along the sensitive skin, through your wetness. You cooed, writhing for him to feel inside you. He gave you one more kiss before shifting slightly to grab the backs of your knees and spread your legs wider than you had them. He pulled out a few inches and pushes back in, easing you into his thrusts before he starts picking up and every time he thrust into you, stretching you, made you crave more and more. Sweat dripping down your brow as he thrust deeper, lifting you by your knees and bending your legs towards your torso. In this position where you couldn’t move very much, he took control, finding sweetest spot with his aching need. You couldn’t stop moaning and mewling, crying out his name as he goes faster.

When your moans became louder, his big hand covered your mouth, silencing you. "Sssh, you'll wake him up, love," he whispered, finding your ear through your hair. "And I don't want our fun to end just yet." You nodded and continued to moan into his palm. He kept covering your mouth with his hand as he carried on thrusting, each one deeper than the last. He was sweating from his brow and the sweat was dripping onto your chest. He wiped the sweat with the back of his hand and pushed his hair back, but it was no avail; it swayed downwards as he leaned down to give you a messy kiss.Then you two drew back, inhaled a breath, and reconnected. Eventually he removed his hand from your mouth, he just wanted to bring you both to the climax, he didn't care about anything else at this point. Effortlessly, he threw your legs over his shoulders and leans forward, bracing his hands on either side of your shoulders and taking you just right. He then reached around to get his fingers on your clit, rubbing relentlessly.

“Marcus” you cried, “Marcus please—”

You can barely heard him over the wet-sound of slamming against your body. “That’s right, my love. Say my name. Come for me.”

All the stimulation gets to you and you obey. You gush on his length to the point where he has to pull out and watch as you make a complete mess of the bed. The rest of your body trembling, hips thrusting on their own, and fingers clawing at sheets. You scream at this point and he has to cover your mouth again, but this time not with his hand, but with his mouth. You moan and whimper into his mouth, hoping that you have not woken the little one up.

"Look at that," he groaned, rubbing your throbbing cunt and you clenched. "Well done, my princess. You’re a good girl.”

Desperate for his need and his orgasm, you pressed your heels against his back. "Inside. Inside me, Marcus, please."

Saying your name, he suddenly plunged back in. You responded with another scream, arching your back and taking every hard thrust. His breath faltered and his moans grew louder. And... You'd just had a second orgasm, but if he kept it up, you'd have a third.

“Wish me to fill this beautiful cunt of yours up…hmm?”

“Yes,” you said between his thrusts, “Yes, my love, fill me in, Gods!”

“I will gladly grant your wish…” He snarled.

Marcus' at his loudest when he came inside you, giving you everything you want and more. As he pushed himself into you, you come again. This time there is no concern or intention to be careful not to make a loud noise. You tightened around him with every thrust, moaning with him and accepting the messy kiss he giving you. It was hard to kiss back when your breath is stolen, when every emotion hits all your nerves and you can’t think straight. He didn’t move once he gives you his last drop. A moment passes where the two of you simply catch your breath. And eventually, as a result of all this noise, the final expected happened and little Marcius began to cry.

You both looked at him, panting, and then back at each other, grinning triumphantly and mischiveously. When you feel the soreness hit, you wiggled your legs and Marcus got the hint. He carefully placed your legs back on the bed. You whimpered as he pulled out, and you could feel the mix of fluid drip out of your cunt. When Marcius started crying louder, you tried to sat up, but your most sensitive parts were throbbing a bit and your legs felt numb.

“Marcus, will you give him to me? I can’t feel my legs.”

He kissed your cheek. “Forgive me. Couldn’t help myself.”

You smiled. “Couldn’t help myself, either.”

He gave you a kiss before getting out of bed and you leaned against the headboard while you watched him tenderly take Marcius in his arms and kiss his head, caressing his little nose with his own. It was something you never got tired of watching, it was so sacred, so beautiful. Before Marcus placed him in your arms, he put a pillow behind your back and kissed the top of your head as you smiled up at him. He was rough when he made love to you, but he always blew your mind with his incredible gentleness and tenderness afterwards.

After having breakfast together in the room, you and Marcus visited the stables. You had become quite skilled at grooming lately, and it was incredibly peaceful. However, there was another reason for your visit. While you were absent-mindedly combing Unio's mane, thinking about what Hanno had said. You were having second thoughts about going to the place he mentioned. Would he have to escape again to get there? How had he ended up in Rome? How did he become a gladiator? You were startled by Marcus' touch on your waist. Unio let out a neigh as you accidentally tugged on her mane. To soothe her, you gently touched her nose and gave her a kiss.

"I see you really enjoy that, my lady," Marcus said with a warm smile.

You returned his smile. "I do. It has such a calming effect." You tapped the brush to remove the hair from its bristles.

Marcus let out a light sigh. "Well, I must admit that what I'm about to ask you to do might not be as calming." You raised your eyebrows in curiosity and narrowed your eyes when you spotted the wooden sword in his hand. "But this... it's made of wood..."

"I wouldn't hand you a sharp sword for your first lesson," he said firmly.

You placed the brush in the basket and picked up the sword, clutched it with both hands, examining. It was heavier than it looked. "It feels a bit like a toy," you murmured.

He touched yours with his wooden sword. "Rule number one: Whatever weapon you wield, you must forge an unbreakable bond with it; treat it as part of your arm.”

Your caring husband, Marcus, had quickly transformed into your stern General, Acacius.

"Yes, General," you muttered.

He smirked. "If you master this, you can begin using a real steel sword.” he encouraged you. "Remember, finding balance is essential in your early lessons."

"Balance?"

He nodded. "It's like dancing—using the right steps. Come with me; I'll show you what I mean." He took your hand and led you out of the stables, where he had taught you how to use a knife.

"Aren't you supposed to be on duty today?" you asked.

"I am, but I have time before I take my leave. Come."

When you reached the wide open space, Marcus took the wooden sword from your hand and stood in front of you.

"First, you must improve your agility. Catch it, princess!"

He tossed one of the swords towards you, but you weren't able to catch it, so it fell to the ground. “Whoa!” You bent down to pick it up. “Why did you... "It's not as if I'm planning to attack my enemy by throwing it."

He narrowed his eyes. “I see you’re feeling confident. Alright, what are you going to do with it? How will you use it? Tell me.”

"I should just stick the pointy end into my enemy, right?"

He grinned smugly. “Do you really think it’s that simple, my lady?”

You shrugged. “It shouldn’t be too difficult.”

He opened his arms. “Very well then, strike me.”

With both hands, you gripped the sword tightly. Suddenly, you realized it wasn't as easy as you had thought, but you were determined not to embarrass yourself in front of him. Marcus struggled to hold back his laughter at the expression on your face. Ignoring him, you raised the sword and lunged toward him. As you initiated your attack, he effortlessly pushed your sword away with a flick of his hand, barely moving his arm. You staggered backward, nearly dropping the sword.

"It’s not as easy as it seems, is it? That’s why I’m telling you to focus on your balance first. In time, you’ll understand what I mean, and when I throw it to you, it will be much easier to catch. Now, think of it as a real sword and show me how you hold it. Try again." This seemed simple, but it quickly became clear from the look on his face that I was doing something wrong. “Now you are standing wrong. Turn your body side-face, yes.”

He came over and put one hand on your waist and the other under your chin. "Just, so, yes." Then he looked at your feet. "Spread your legs."

"I can do that," you said, grinning widely, thinking about things you did in your bedroom, like how he spreads your legs in there.

Be ready to be mine...

He kissed your cheeks, where they had blushed, and your naughty thoughts were replaced by a desire.

"Focus, princess."

"Apologies. I was thinking about something..." You batted your eyelashes.

He brought his face closer to yours. "Are you trying to get away from your training by seducing me, hm?"

"Maybe I am." You giggled.

"Well, you succeeded."

He leaned in and kissed you on the lips.You let go of the sword and put your arms around his neck, and the moment you touched his hair, the inevitable thing happened again – he lost it! He wrapped his arms around your waist, deepening the kiss. You let his tongue enter your mouth, and everything else in the place and the reason you were there flew away, there was only him and your warm breath through your nostrils, caressing each other's cheeks. Your hearts were beating rapidly with excitement. When you heard footsteps approaching, your lips suddenly stopped moving, breaking the kiss. Pulling himself back with some difficulty, he smiled at you, licked his lips, then turned his head in that direction.But you didn't, instead, you ran your eyes over his side view, admiring his gorgeous face.

"General!"It was Cato's voice.You pulled your hands away, but Marcus' hands were still around your waist.

"Cato, is something wrong?”

"I've been informed the Council is meeting today, sir. And Emperor Geta said he'd like to see you there during the session." Then he looked at you. "You too, my lady."

You frowned.

"Thank you Cato, get the carriage ready then."

"There's no need," you said firmly. "I’d better not attend."

Marcus lifted his eyebrows. "Do you have other plans, my lady?"

You looked away. "It’s an official council meeting. I don’t think there’s any need to disturb the Senate members with the presence of a woman. Besides, I planned to visit my cousin Paulina today."

For some reason, your tone sounded so convincing that it even surprised you.

"Is that so? You didn't mention that," Marcus said.

"I was going to..." you lied, feeling a wave of self-hatred wash over you.

Marcus's eyes weren't skeptical as they roamed over your face. "Well, I think it's better that you're there than at the council."

"I agree. Come, let me help you dress appropriately," you replied, grabbing his arm. He smiled, allowing you to pull him inside.

After Marcus left the villa with Cato, you made your decision to meet Hanno. You nursed Marcius and handed him over to Norell, then went up to your chambers to get dressed. It was almost noon by this time. Everyone in the villa believed you were going to visit your cousin, including Decima, who accompanied you in the carriage. However, when the carriage was halfway to its destination, you ordered the driver to take you through the streets of Rome instead. You put on your cloak, ignoring Decima, who looked at you in astonishment.

“I thought we were going to your aunt Antonia’s house?”

“No, we’re not.”

She opened her eyes wide. “Are we going to stalk the general again?”

You glared at her. “No, of course not.”

“Then where are we going?”

You tied the laces of your cloak and replied, “Decima, trust me and don’t ask questions. I promise I’ll tell you everything later. Stop the carriage!”

The coachman obeyed your command and halted the carriage on the east side of the Colosseum. The gladiator school was on its left, and the popina was at the corner of the street.

“There are no houses or shops here,” she muttered.

“I know,” you said, pulling the hood over your face and stepping out of the carriage. Decima stood up as well, but you stopped her.

“I’ll go alone.”

“But Aurelia—”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be safe. I won’t be long, and Decima, this is between us, alright?”

She nodded. “Fine, but please be careful.”

“I will be,” you replied with a smile and began walking into the crowd. You weren’t wearing much jewelry; the last thing you wanted was for someone to realize you were their princess.

The street was less crowded than you had expected. Many people were discussing today’s council meeting and moving at a brisk pace toward the Roman Forum. Perhaps most people had gathered there, which would work to your advantage. When a group of passersby glanced your way, you quickly turned your head.

“Did you hear that General Acacius is attending too?” one person said.

“Yes, I wonder if the princess will be there,” another replied.

“We’re going there to see her anyway,” one continued.

“I think she will definitely attend,” another added.

“I’ll finally get to see her up close,” someone else said.

You smiled to yourself. “I’m sorry,” you mumbled quietly.

After passing through a few more people, you looked around. You were now passing the gladiator school, and you shuddered as you remembered how you had last been imprisoned there. Then you thought of Hanno—how did he end up here? It was just one of a thousand questions you wanted to ask him. You quickened your pace, and when you saw the popina’s signboard, your heart began to race with anxiety.

The harmonious music, accompanied by the sounds of laughter and conversation from within, extended into the street, fostering an inviting atmosphere but not for everyone, apparently.

Please don't let anyone recognize me. Please don't let anyone recognize me.

You pushed open the double-leaf door. The people standing nearby turned their heads to see who was coming in, but they couldn't see your face and soon returned to their chat. One person glanced at you with curiosity but quickly looked away. Suddenly, the music stopped, and you froze, but it had nothing to do with your entrance—it was just a coincidence.

Soon, the music began again. You took a deep breath of relief and moved forward, scanning the tables one by one. You noticed a man in a black cloak sitting alone in the corner. You moved there and tilted your head to see his face, but first, you glanced around to ensure no one else was sitting alone. It must have been him. You leaned toward him and whispered, “Hanno?"

You were so startled when the man looked up at you that you jumped back. A bulky man with numerous scars on his face scrutinized you and then raised his eyebrows with a low curse. “Am I high already?” he asked himself.

“Oh, forgive me. I thought you were someone else,” you stammered.

He grinned widely, showing all his teeth. “I’ll be whoever you want me to be, beautiful.”

Just as you were about to turn away, his large hand grabbed your wrist. “Come on, sit down and have a drink with me—just one drink.” He pulled you toward the chair.

Was he drunk? At this time of day?

You struggled to free your arm, but you couldn’t even budge it. “Let go of my arm!”

“Come now, don’t be stubborn. A beauty like you doesn’t come along every day.”

“Look, I’m a married woman, and you wouldn’t even want to know who my husband is.”

He frowned.

“Let her go!”

You turned your head in the direction of the familiar voice. Hanno had pushed the man's arm away. “Damn it, Aldhard, didn’t I tell you not to drink after the opium?”

You crossed your arms. “So you two know each other?”

Hanno rolled his eyes. “Don’t ask.”

The man stood up and looked at both of you. “You little shit. You never told me you had such a beautiful friend. So that’s why you’re always running away, huh?”

“Go back and get some rest. You can’t go out in the arena tomorrow like this.”

The man huffed as he turned to walk away. “That’s why I’m drinking, you bastard.” He left, muttering curses in his native language that you had never heard before.

Hanno turned to you. “Forgive me for being late. But it’s hard to get out of there.”

You sat down in a chair and exhaled deeply. “Hanno, it’s strange to see you here after all this time. Especially as a gladiator.”

He settled into the chair where his friend had just been sitting. “It’s quite the story,” he said, raising his arm to catch the keeper’s attention. “I’m surprised you came, you know.”

“It wasn’t easy,” you replied.

“I guess you came secretly from your husband.” He smiled crookedly.

“I came secretly from everyone. You know why.”

"Yes, I was quite surprised to hear that. I can't believe you're a princess. I always knew you were special, but..."

A little later, a young man brought you a jug of wine and two glasses, along with a platter of chicken for two.

"The chicken here is really good. Come on, eat,” he said, spooning some onto his plate, opening his mouth wide, and starting to eat with appetite.

You reminisced about the meals you had shared together in the tavern back in Egypt.

“Forget about me and tell me about yourself,” you said as you dipped your spoon into the food. “How did you get to Rome? How did you become a gladiator, and where have you been all this time?” You brought the spoon to your mouth, not because you were hungry, but because the smell was enticing, and you wanted to taste it.

He didn’t look at you and continued to eat. “I was brought here by your husband.”

You nearly choked on your morsel, coughed, and sipped your wine. “What did you say?”

“As a prisoner of war.”

“Or did you fight alongside the Persian army against Rome?” Your voice was louder than you intended, causing nearby people to turn their heads. Hanno glared at them, and they quickly looked away.

“Hanno, what happened? Tell me everything.”

His blue eyes clouded, and his expression hardened. “Alright. That night…” He took a deep breath. “I mean, the night the rebels raided the Roman military camp. By the time I got there, they had taken all the Medici from the Valetudinarium.”

“Oh, right. Where were you that night?”

“I heard one of my friends was injured during the revolt, so I decided to go help him. When I entered the room to tell him I was leaving, Vicius mentioned that you were asleep. That turned out to be the last time I saw both you and him." He took a sip of his drink, looking gloomy. "The next day, Vicius' body was brought to the Valetudinarium along with the other Medicii. I personally took care of his funeral, all of his friends were deeply saddened. However, what was even more haunting was what they said. They claimed they saw you among the prisoners. They had killed him, and not only that, but they had also taken you as a prisoner. I was so angry that I ran to the harbor, but I couldn't catch up. The Roman ships had already sailed out to sea, just about to disappear over the horizon."

Your eyes filled with tears as you recalled that night.

"I apologize for not coming here sooner. My mother was sick, and I was occupied with her treatment, but I couldn’t save her. There were also many other patients to care for. Vicious was a skilled medicus; he was irreplaceable."

“Hanno, I'm sorry.”

“Aya, or Aurelia,” he said with a sad grin. “Why did you marry him? How did it happen?”

“Hanno, look…”

He interrupted, “After what happened to Vicius, all I could think about was coming here, finding you, and running away with you. I was certain you would be sold into slavery, and I couldn't sleep at night knowing you might be living a terrible life.”

“I wasn’t, actually. I love him, Hanno. He’s my life now. "We were planning to come here with Vicius, and now you know the specific reason why.”

“So, it turns out you and Vicius had a secret, huh?” He laughed. “All that time you were hiding in the Valetudinarium, trying hard to pass as a man, never going out in public, and his overprotectiveness toward you… I mean, it was obvious there was a reason, but I never expected you to be a Roman princess. I don't know what to say.”

“I found out when I came here, but how did you know I was married to the general?”

“Last week, I saw the two of you at the temple. People are always talking about you two. That day, they made us put on a little fighting demonstration at the Roman Forum. Honestly, I had a hard time recognizing you at first; you looked quite different from before.”

“I’m still the same person.”

“I doubt that.”

“What do you mean?”

“You're different; you've changed. Maybe your experiences have altered you, just like they have for me.”

“Why did you fight with the Roman army? You're not a soldier.”

“They needed a medicus and promised high payment. And you think I can't fight or something? Have you forgotten how many times I saved you from those filthy rats? They kept saying you were a scrawny young man and forced you to fight with them. Don’t you remember how I beat them up, girl?”

You laughed. “Yes, I remember.”

“Fighting against Roman soldiers seemed tempting to me. They said the rebels had joined forces with a small army in Syria organized by a Roman consul.”

“Macrinus?”

“No idea. I've never met him.”

“You can't. He's dead.”

“I bet your husband killed him, great Roman general.” He said mockingly.

You frowned and said, “Please don't talk about him like that. He's the bravest, most honorable man I know, and he's not as bad as you think. He’s also kind and understanding.”

“How touching. He wasn’t so innocent when he slaughtered hundreds on the battlefield, you know. He was like a beast.”

“It’s called war. What did you expect him to do? That’s what you did too—you fought and killed people, didn’t you? Besides, Vicius was killed by one of his soldiers, and he avenged him by killing that soldier in return.”

“But he took you prisoner—made you a slave.”

“He didn’t know who I was.”

Suddenly, he was distracted by the loud laughter of the women at the next table. You both turned your heads to look in that direction. Hanno reached towards you and pulled your hood more in front of your face.

“Don’t stare at them; we’ll get in trouble if they recognize you. And the ones sitting right behind us? They’re Spaniards. Believe me, they hate the Romans as much as I do. So whatever you do, don’t attract their attention.”

You didn't even want to ask why, but it was clear that the men and women were romantically involved, and the Spaniards seemed to be quite fierce characters. Suddenly, you realized that coming here might not have been such a good idea.

“Hanno, who bought you? If I talk to your master, maybe I can persuade him to set you free.”

He laughed. “I’m not a Roman, but I know that’s not how it works here. Tomorrow, I must fight in the Colosseum and win. That will bring me one step closer to my freedom.”

Your chest suddenly tightened. “But the Colosseum is too dangerous.”

“Are you worried about me?” he grinned. “Don’t be. I can take care of myself.”

“I’ll talk to my brother. I don’t know; there must be a way.”

He laughed hysterically. “Your brother? You mean the emperor? It’s not like he’s going to care about me. I don’t suppose you’ve heard the rumors about him.”

“He’s changed. He’s an emperor who cares about his people now.”

“Is he now?”

“Tell me his name. Who bought you?”

“Aya,” he growled.

“Tell me.”

“What will your husband say if you buy me?”

That was the real question. You sighed nervously.

“That’s what I thought.”

He raised his glass to his lips and drank it all.

Then he looked back over your shoulder. “Shit.”

“What the—”

“When I say so, we’ll run outside together, alright?”

“What? Why?”

“They realized I escaped. Again.”

"But why am I running? You're the one they're looking for."

"It's him! Stop right there!"

You stood up and looked over. It was the same guys from last time; they knew who you were. You tensed and took a step back, but suddenly you realized someone was touching you on your hips. In a fit of rage, you turned around and hurled his drink in his face.

"Do you think I'm a whore, you filthy bastard?"

As the man angrily wiped the wine from his face, you immediately regretted what you had done. When he stood up, the others did too. “Jódete, maldita perra (Fuck you, stupid whore)!”

“Watch your mouth, cabrón!” Hano yelled.

Your eyes and mouth widened when the men drew their swords, and you instinctively hid behind Hanno.

"I suppose you have a reason to run now," Hanno whispered to you.

One of the men who had come to take Hanno held up a hand to stop them.

"Return to your table now," he ordered.

“Do not tell me what to do, maricón!”

“What did you say?” He drew his sword.

“He said arsehole to you,” Hanno translated with a grin.

“Damn Spinards, I shall cut your tongue!”

Hanno seized the opportunity amidst the chaos and pushed him onto the other man, causing both of them to collapse to the floor. The impact knocked over a table, spilling drinks and food everywhere and creating quite a mess. Suddenly, the atmosphere shifted dramatically, and everyone began to fight with one another. Hanno grabbed your arm and shouted, “Time to run!" He pulled you along as you both fled the scene.

When you got out into the street, you kept running faster, because the other men kept running after you.

“So you can speak spanish!” you shouted as you ran alongside him, your eyes scanning for the carriage.

“Only swear words!” he replied.

“Ugh! I hate you!”

“I’m not the one who spilled his drink all over his face!”

“You're the one swearing at them!”

The guys chasing after you were shouting something in spanish, and it was not hard to guess what they were saying.

“Aren’t you a gladiator? Can’t you fight them off?”

He laughed nervously. “I don’t think you realize how many there are.”

You looked back, and your eyes widened when you saw at least ten people.

“Where the hell did they come from?”

“I warned you about Spaniards! They are overprotective!”

“The carriage is just over there!” You said, pointing east of the Colosseum. “If we can get there-“

“No, not the carriage! They'll catch us before we get on!”

“What are we going to do?”

“I know a safe place; if I hide you there, I can escape them myself.”

When you looked back, they were still running insistently. Desperately, you searched for the carriage, realizing you had no choice but to follow Hanno. Fortunately, you soon reached the place he had mentioned. It was the barn of a house.

“The owner is old and deaf; he doesn’t come to the barn much,” Hanno said as he removed hay bales one by one to create a hiding spot for you. “Come, you’ll be safe here.”

“But for how long? What will you do?”

“I'm going to make them follow me down the road and I'm going to grab a sword from one of them and fight them. After I get them away from here, you run to your carriage, alright?”

You nodded. “Be careful.”

He smiled and looked back as the voices drew closer. "Hide well," he said before leaving the barn. You could hear his footsteps followed by those of his pursuers. You waited patiently until all the sounds faded away. Soon, the only noise was the gentle bleating of the lambs.

Standing up, you began to push the hay bales aside one by one. The smell was almost unbearable; if you were pregnant like before, you would have been violently sick. You brushed the straw out of your hair with your hands. Your legs ached from running, but you knew you had to reach the carriage no matter what.

You slowly stepped into the courtyard of the house, observing your surroundings. Fortunately, no one was in sight, except for the chickens, which, frightened by your presence, scattered away. The street was quiet, with just a few people who looked at you with curiosity, but you were too exhausted to care. After walking a bit further, you realized that you were very close to the street where the carriage was located, so you picked up your pace and walked there with relief.

Decima asked you questions along the way that you struggled to answer, and you responded as simply as possible. However, your real fear was what you would face when you got home—your clothes and everything else were a complete mess. You needed to get home before Marcus arrived. You couldn't help but worry about Hanno. Would he be able to fight those guys off? Would he be able to save himself? You had known him well since childhood, and you shared many memories together that were impossible to forget. No one could have predicted that things would turn out this way; it felt like a cruel twist of fate.

When you arrived at the villa, it was already evening. You and Decima got out of the carriage and walked into the courtyard. As soon as you stepped inside, you froze. Marcus was standing in the center, still wearing his formal white toga. He struggled to drape the shawl over his shoulder, as he didn't often wear this type of toga. However, the stern and confused expression on his face wasn't due to this difficulty; it was because he saw you with your clothes in disarray.

"Leave us alone," he said sharply, his gaze fixed on you. There was no one else around; he had directed that command at Decima. You bit your lip as she left the courtyard, leaving the two of you alone. He stepped towards you, inspecting you from head to toe so quietly that you wondered if he was trying to suppress his anger. Finally, he exhaled a deep, ragged breath, his dark brown eyes boring into yours.

"Where have you been?" he asked in a deep, almost growling voice. "I need an explanation right now."

@orcasoul @pedroslut4eva @immyowndefender @lailathepedritofan @screechingchildfury @shinymusicpanda @somedayheaven @ivoryandflame @negrita2345 @music-lover09 @javiismyhsbnd @idontcareihavenoidea @jisungandpedrolover @mmkkzz @ro-nahime-things @indiegirlunited @kluvspedro @movievillainess721 @berriesarepunk @bonadeamo @heramj @blushingwueen @smoochispoof @littlemisspascal @kirashess @okaaaadereeee @this--is--music @mmkkzz @ro-nahime-things @indiegirlunited @kluvspedro @movievillainess721 @berriesarepunk @bonadeamo @heramj @blushingwueen @smoochispoof @littlemisspascal @kirashess @melsunshine @meetmeatyourworst @footballfangirl94 @daejangandimja @ariesandwolves @hooomansstuff @vlonerv @chewie-bars @dendulinka6 @lucienofthelakes @superqueenearthquake

your likes, comments and reblogs are soo important to me, and thank you for all support, love you all❤️

if anyone wants me to tag them please comment or msg me :)

230 notes · View notes