#When in Rome Snippet

[welcometololaland]

SNIPPET - WHEN IN ROME AKA. EUROTRIP (TO BE POSTED 4 OCTOBER)

“This is my atrociously handsome friend, Henry,” Pez proclaims, even though Alex didn’t really need the description because he was fucking born with eyes. He’s vaguely aware that it’s probably strange that his first thought is that Henry is beautiful, but Alex has never had an issue with appreciating good-looking people and he’s very comfortable in his heterosexuality, thank you very much.

Henry gives him a small smile that looks a bit tense around the edges and Alex suddenly feels awkward because he doesn’t offer his hand to shake, picking up his short glass with both hands instead. Alex coughs awkwardly and takes a sip of his Peroni.

“Er, hi,” Henry says, rotating the glass in his hands. Alex wonders why he’s doing that. He imagines that it’s going to make the drink very warm. “I’m sorry,” Henry adds, cringing slightly, “it’s a bit uncomfortable when Pez introduces me like that.”

Pez snorts inelegantly and takes a sip of his own drink. “You think you’d be used to it, Hazza,” he says, waving a hand like Henry is some sort of irritating fly. “I only do it every second time.”

“What’s your other go to?” Alex asks, grateful for the distraction. He can feel a surging nervousness rolling off Henry in waves and wonders what his fucking problem is.

“Diabolical sex god,” Pez replies without a hint of irony, and Henry makes a sound like he’s choking on his tongue. Alex wonders how on earth someone so awkward could be an accomplished lover. Not that he’s thinking about it.

[scare-ard--sleigh]

me: i know that reality tv is deceptive and they use careful editing to keep me watching it, i know this . i won't fall for it.

rhobh: ;) coming up next ;) [absolutely Insane shit taken extremely out of context]

me:

[lokischocolatefountain]

Battlefront | At Your Service

Fandom: Gladiator II Pairing: General Marcus Acacius x Empress!Reader Rating: M Word count: 5.3k words Summary: General Acacius returns energized by battle when an unexpected guest makes themselves at home in his tent. Warnings: Historical inaccuracies, some historical accuracies, poor description of battle strategy. A/N: Listen, I know Rome never had a single reigning Empress. But seeing loyal husband Marcus Acacius has made me eschew historical accuracy. If Ridley Scott can have characters reading newspapers before their invention, I can have Marcus Acacius being devoted to his powerful Empress wife. I'm thinking of making it a lose series with snippets of these characters' lives together. Like my Married Javi series. So lmk if there's anything you want to read about them.

“What are you doing here?” 

The sounds of battle still rang in his ears. The strategies he’d laid out playing out in his vision as he sought to identify problems he could have failed to spot. His heart was restless, every beat reminding him how high the stakes were, reminding him that every young man there was his responsibility. And then you appeared. 

Like the brain cooled the body, the sight of you cooled him. 

“You dare ask what I do at my own battlefront?” You asked, an eyebrow raised. He stood in place as you took small steps towards him. He rushed ahead, calling attention to his broad shoulders that narrowed down to his waist. Your pace was wholly inadequate for his liking.

“This is not the battlefront, Caesarea,” he said, stopping in front of you and taking your hand in his. “These are my private quarters.” He bowed and placed a kiss on the back of your hand, looking up at you from behind soft brown eyes you did not believe capable of inspiring fear until you witnessed him in battle. 

“You forget your place, General. You have no authority to deny me entrance to my husband’s quarters,” you teased. His eyes darkened at your words and the implications they bore. Your relationship had been a delicate one since the two of you left childhood behind. But it was only more so with you on the throne and him the General at your command. 

“If you wish to assert your marital rights at this moment, know I will have to as well,” he warned, his hands itching to be upon you. Unlike his soldiers, Acacius had gone many months without the touch of a woman. Some high ranking officers brought their wives and some indulged in whores. Not Acacius.

“What man asks to claim his marital rights? I believed I belonged to a man who knew what was his and conquered it.” 

It was all he needed to close the distance between you. In an instant, your fearsome general, covered in the blood of enemies and grime of their land he claimed, pulled you to his chest. His large hands engulfed your face. His lips came crashing against yours, desperate and sloppy. You instinctively reached up to one, caressing his rough hand with your soft one. Teeth clashed against each other. Saliva dribbled down his lips, transferring the dried blood on his face to yours. Smearing you with evidence of his devotion. To you and to Rome. 

His hard iron armor covered in leather and embossed with gold dug into your chest in his desperation to feel you. One hand slipped to your neck, holding you in place with the force of a soldier and authority of a husband. His other hand slipped to your hip, rough as he guided you towards the thin mattress on the floor.

“I must have you…” he growled into your ear as his hands groped around through your clothes. He grabbed every part of you he could think of, squeezing as though planting flags on a territory he’d already claimed.

You nodded, the gold and gems that dangled from your ears glinting under the light of the torches that illuminated his quarters. 

“Good,” he muttered, pushing your coat off your shoulders, catching it before it fell to the ground and discarding it on a chair. The clips and fasteners that kept your linen, silk, and wool too intricate for his impatience, he tore through anything that did not yield. Delicate fabrics met their end at the hands of the ravenous beast he became at the battlefront, revealing delicious skin underneath. He needed this. Needed to plunge into your tight, wet hole and spend the aggressive energy that coursed through his veins.

He took whores, but that was before he wed you. Married men took other women both back home and especially when at war. As long as they were whores or any other women lower than his wife’s status. It was expected, encouraged. But he was married to the Empress. Anyone he took would be a disrespect to her. Sure, many mocked him behind his back as the Empress’ wife. It did not bother him. Not anymore. 

When men depended on one’s instructions to survive each day, they ceased to question his manhood. Further, it was hard to question a man’s ability when he lead the mightiest army the world had seen to victory. 

You were beautifully exposed in front of him, your veil, stola, and palla lying in defeat on the ground. Only your tunica, exposing your legs and the shape of your breasts. His lips claimed your neck, biting and sucking on everywhere he knew you favored the way he expertly mapped and attacked the vulnerabilities of enemy territory.

Every bit of skin he touched lit a fire in your belly, replacing the weeks of agonizing solitude with only your inadequate fingers for release. 

Buried in your neck, he inhaled your scent, of your sweat combined with the roses and attar from Arabia. He licked, grunting when your gold necklace tainted the taste of your skin. Reaching behind you, he tugged at the fastener, growling when it proved too delicate to be undone by his large fingers. You let out a laugh before slapping his hand away and undoing the offending jewelry in one swift moment. He liked you bare. Needed to rid you of any object that interfered with his preference be it fabric or lustrous gold and gems.

You were an oasis in the desert. For a man surrounded by young men with nothing but rage and fear coursing through their veins. No bath fully cleansed him of enemy blood, mud and grime. Grace to the gods, you were not a woman repulsed by his gory state of being. 

You whimpered as he forced you to the ground, laying you out on his small mattress before climbing atop. The pteruges of his armor tickled your thighs as he hovered above you.

“Marcus…I have longed for you every night,” you whispered, your words clenching his heart. You did not have the luxuries that other royal women enjoyed. The wealth and adoration came with a sword at your neck and the weight of all of Rome and her people. Rare was the opportunity to only be a woman in the arms of your husband.

“I think of you day and night. My duty to my Empress by day, my duties to my wife at night,” he said, peppering kisses along your jaw. You sighed, curving away from him to expose more of yourself for his kisses.

“Do your duty then. And allow me to do mine,” you said, reaching below to caress his thigh. 

He searched under his pillow and retrieved his dagger. He tucked the tip of the cold blade under your strophium. You gasped as he cut through the layers, your breasts spilling from their restraints. Hands that for months only knew the reins of his horse and the handle of his sword relished in the softness of your breasts. He was no barbarian. He knew to treat a woman with gentle touch and loving words. 

His appetite, however, was quick to defeat the gentle Acacius who was allowed his Empress’ hand in marriage. Your breasts filled his hands perfectly, like the gods had shaped them for his sake. For his touch. For his children to feed from. The image formed in the back of his mind, his child drinking from your full breasts as your belly grew with another. His cock twitched at the thought and he acted, forcing your legs apart with his knees.

Fear joined a familiar ache in the pit of your stomach as he slid the blade down your chest, resting it near your core. Your nails dug into his arm and your core throbbed with need. You yelped as he cut through your subligar. The night air caressed your cunt forcing you to feel how wet his bestial acts made you. Your hips bucked up in search of him, desperate to fill the void he’d left in his absence. 

He traced the dagger further below and rested it on your thigh. His eyes exuded a hunger you’d seen only in the exotic beasts that devoured gladiators. “Stay still,” he said and placed a soothing hand on your trembling thigh as the other reigned terror on its counterpart. With your nod of understanding, he moved the blade closer and closer until–

You shrieked as the cold blade sat at the edge of your opening. Before you could comprehend, he brought it up before your eyes and licked the blunt edge. His eyes closed and a moan rumbled from his chest as he tasted your arousal. 

“You drip for me, melilla.” 

“I have been aching for you,” you said through trembling breaths, thinking of every night you touched yourself in his memory. He had made your body his, rending separation tartarus on land. The closest your cunt had felt of him was the ring from his pinky he placed on your middle finger before his departure. 

He tossed the dagger aside and it landed with a clang. Your cunt clenched at the sound, thrilled by his animalistic want for you. He cupped your core in his hand, parted your lips and plunged two fingers inside you. It was already much more than you had in his absence, his thick fingers filling you better than your own. 

“Please,” you whimpered as he worked you open, your cunt dripping around his fingers with each stroke. He was always gentle with you, but not this time. You didn’t want him gentle. In peacetime, he bowed to you as your loyal subject. In war, when he overflowed with masculine power, you wanted him forceful. Wanted him atop you, taking you with the same ruthless power he did enemy land. You wanted to be unburdened of the weight of your empire if only for a moment. Be husband and wife, not General and Empress.

His hand slipped under your head, grabbing your hair between his fingers. You hissed at the sting of his grip on your hair and reached for his arm instinctively. He withdrew his fingers, pushing them between your lips when you whined to be filled. As you tasted yourself, he aligned his cock up with your weeping entrance. You choked out a sob as he split you open with his cock, your walls burning at the stretch. Tears clouded your vision, but you blinked them away to see your dearest, handsome even in war. Your bejeweled fingers weaved through his dark curls, needing to touch the familiar parts of the man you’d so long yearned to reunite with. 

His own hand and a few whores was satisfactory when he was a lone general who did not know the taste of a woman he called his own. He doubted he could find someone else to satisfy his desires now that he had you. His men found this sentiment strange as they chose to relieve their stress with whores and slaves. 

None of those fools had the fucking Empress waiting for them at home. 

“Look at you…” he rasped, luxuriating at the vision. You were divine. All goddess-like in your beauty even lying on his thin mattress, hair strewn across his pillow and your hairpins coming undone under his grip. No dingy military camp was worthy of a visit from such an ethereal creature. But you were no simple Lady content to stay in the palace surrounded by your riches. He doubted he could stop you from visiting him even if you weren’t the Empress but only his dear wife.

“You like me this way,” he said instead of asking. He did not need to ask. He had seen how you looked at him when he wore his armor. No stranger to combat, the blood and gore did not seem to rattle you. His other campaigns found you in the camps for celebrations. Too many times, he had to keep you at arm’s length out of respect for your station. Now that you belonged to him…

“Always… Always liked my General so. Always wanted to pounce upon you and fight those girls you chose over me.”

He snorted at the jealousy that returned to your visage though he was now all yours. “My severed head would have joined the barbarians had I defiled the Princess, my dear.”

“You should have abstained,” you said, the smile that played at your lips all he needed to know it was but a jest. 

“And deprive you of the fruits of my experience with the female form?” He taunted, angling himself to stroke the particularly sensitive place inside you. Your lips opened in a small circle, whatever witty remark you’d concocted now dissolved into a pathetic moan.

He pawed at your breasts, his large hands and the loss of etiquette making you feel mauled by a beast. You pushed up from the ground and into his hands, sobbing as he tugged your nipples, adding to the pain of penetration. He took you in long, hard thrusts, your needy cunt pulling him back in each time he withdrew. Each stroke soothed the pain he bestowed, eased by how he had you leaking around him.

“I need, I need… please,” you begged, too occupied by your lust to find better words.

“Anything you want, Carissima,” he whimpered, bending down and claiming your lips. He smelled of war. Of mud and blood and something vile that should repulse you. He did not kiss like he usually did. Did not explore you and drink your sweet sounds. He took you, forced your lips apart and invaded with his tongue. He bit and drew blood, the taste of iron adding to the familiar taste of your beloved.

“Anything,” he growled, filling you deeper. “I will make you feel me between your legs for days. Make you wince in pain when you ride your horse,” he said, his hot breath and the threat making you shudder. “Would you like that? Like the people who bow to you smell me on you? Make you strategize with my seed dripping down your legs under your dress?”

“Macrus, want…please” you blubbered, your intelligence leaving from his vicious ravaging. Your thighs burned from how wide he spread you to fit himself between your legs. It was an agonizing stretch without the aid of any oils, without his lips easing you open for his thickness. But none of it mattered for you ached more with longing. 

Fully immersed in you, he placed his forehead against yours, his eyes closed as though he were meditating. He was heavy, his large frame that mowed through enemy men and swung weighty swords through necks now being used to contain you. He took your breath away not only with his stature but with his beauty. You liked to believe him sculpted by the gods to put you in his thrall. To tame the wild princess into the tempered Empress Rome needed.

You needed him to move, to fuck you so thoroughly you would feel him with every move you made until you could reunite once again. But you did not have heart to push him. Not when he looked like a devotee at the shrine of his goddess. 

All men thought of in the midst of war was the people they left behind. It did not change when one rose to command the entire Roman army. He opened his eyes, sighing with relief when he found you still there beneath him. He had dreamt so many times lying all alone that he was home with you. He dreamt that the war had ended and he was sat by your side as you read scrolls from senators and discussed fucking sanitation of all things. He dreamt of you returning to his arms, of your kisses and your tight cunt holding him inside you. You were never there when he woke up. 

He pinned your wrists above your head, desperate to contain you so he wouldn’t be separated from you again. 

This was no dream. Even dreams of you didn’t feel as elysian as your true form. He fucked you in short thrusts, grinding against your clit as he did. You dug your heels into his lower back, your hips rising up to meet his thrusts. He cupped your cheek in one hand and you melted into his touch, confounded by his contradictions. He brought your hand between your bodies and you took his direction, rubbing your clit as he returned to a brutal pace. 

He grabbed your hip for purchase, his other hand mauling your breast. His balls slapped against your skin, the lewd sounds of skin against skin sounding through the camp. 

You cried his name as he rammed into you over and over until you could no longer find an ounce of regard for propriety in you. Word would’ve spread that you were here. Everyone knew the General to be fiercely loyal. Now they would know it was their Empress in the tent moaning like a whore taking their General’s cock. You clenched tight around him at the scandalous thought, wrapping your arms around him to anchor yourself to reality. 

He pulled you up off the ground and onto his lap, bouncing you up and down his cock as you kept yourself wrapped around him. You grabbed his hair and pressed yourself against his chest. His dark brown eyes bored into yours, soft even as he fucked you with animalistic vigor. You kissed him, his growl devolving into a mewl like a lion tamed. Your heart beat against your ribs, longing to escape its confines to find the man it belonged to. 

You trailed kisses across every bit of exposed skin. The patch above his jaw where his beard never grew called out to your lips and you rewarded it with kisses. He returned them, his strong aquiline nose pressing against your cheekbone. 

Full of him, the world disappeared from your thoughts. Your hips moved of its own accord, taking him deeper as he bounced you up and down his cock. 

“What d’you think they would say?” he taunted, breathless from the exertion. “Their unshakable Empress being used by her husband in the camps. Your perfect hair tangled, your jewels on the ground,” he growled and you simply mewled, the shame coursing through you only aiding him as he hammered into you. 

“Answer me,” he commanded, punctuating the words with harsh thrust. You opened and closed your mouth, eyes trained on his fiery ones as he demanded what he made you incapable of doing. A sob emerged deep from your chest, the only sign you were present in your body. 

He let out a mocking laugh. “All of Rome bows to your rousing speeches yet you become mute with a cock stuffing you full.” 

You whimpered his name, or you thought you did. You couldn’t be sure of anything in this state. Your thighs shook from the force of his thrusts and your hip hurt where his fingers dug in. Sounds you did not know yourself capable of producing escaped your lips. The fire in your belly blazed wilder and your vision blackened. You felt the pressure wind tighter and tighter. You threw your head back in pleasure, whimpering when you felt his lips on your neck. He lapped at your skin, devouring your natural taste and your sweat. He nipped and bit, mumbling words of praise you couldn’t make out in your dazed state. 

His name mixed with curses flowed from your lips as pleasure hit you like lightning. You felt your back hit the floor, your legs folded up as he rammed into you. Your hole spasmed around him as he continued taking you for himself but you lay limp, spent. His warm sticky spend spurted inside you, dripping out onto your thighs and his thin mattress as he buried himself deep before collapsing on top.

He tucked his head in the nape of your neck, panting as you both came down to Earth from the heavens. His body weighed heavy on you, as did his armor. He took the breath out of your lungs but you did not want to be without him. It was the antidote for your aching heart.

“That was quite the welcome, General,” you said, placing a kiss on his cheek. “I did not receive such treatment the last time.” 

“You were the crown princess when you last visited me in the battlefront.” 

“Ah. You needed me on the throne before serving me this way?” You teased, knowing full well how it pained him to restrain himself from having you before he won approval for your hand in marriage.

“I needed the Emperor to not have my head for defiling his daughter so,” he said, rolling you over and pulling you down by your arms against his chest when you attempted to sit up. You giggled as he placed kisses all over, delighted by how playful he became once he took his aggressive energy out on you.

“He should not have given his General his daughter’s hand in marriage if he was worried about that.” 

“Mmm, I don’t know dear. The princess was quite insistent she would only wed the General. Threatened to be caught in the General’s bed if denied.”

“Yes. I hope you are grateful,” you said, giving him your hand adorned in rings, the one he gave you from his little finger gleaming brighter than the rest. He took your hand and kissed it, his eyes so soft with love and devotion for you that you could hardly reconcile them with the hunger they exuded just moments before. The words were merely a jest, but he was indeed grateful. 

He was celebrated for his prowess in battle. For the many victories he brought Rome. Many men deluded themselves into the belief that this entitled them a victory of the princess’ hand. Not Acacius. Though your hearts reached out for one other through the years, you were the only one with the courage to act upon it. The one to show the Emperor why only he would be the right companion to a woman on Rome’s throne. For that, he would forever be grateful.

“How goes the battle?” you asked, getting up and depriving him of your warmth. He grabbed a scrap of fabric that was once your tunica and tossed it at you. You caught it and whispered a thank you before cleaning yourself up.

“Who is asking? My Empress or my wife?” He asked, propping himself up with his hands.

“Would your answers vary?” 

“They would.” 

“Give me both answers, General. Husband.” You asked, wrapping your furs around you and sitting back on his chair. 

“Caesarea,” he said, finally rising up. Something shifted between you. Your voice had altered from its girlish relaxed state. Wool covered your body. You were perched on his seat while he stood in front of you in submission to your authority. “We anticipated many deaths from illness but have been spared such tragedy by the grace of the gods. The Eastern front has advanced into the barbarians' territory and they have retreated. However, I expect them to recuperate and retaliate. Our men are advancing faster to take advantage of their momentary retreat. The Northern front is not faring well. Not as we’d hoped. We have received intelligence that the barbarians have armed even women and children to attack.”

“What is your next course of action?” 

“We’ve sent troops up North and we need more men to replace them. I was hoping you would grant approval for a few more men from our reserves.” 

“How many?” 

“One century and a centurion to replace the ones I sent north, and twenty cavalrymen.” 

“And how soon do you need them?”

“We can not hold out longer than seven days. Or we stand to lose ground in the East.” 

“I’ll see what I can do. Seven days are… It is not enough time. I must send word with Decimus and the men would take time to arrive.” 

“I understand.” 

“I hope you have told the men you’ve sent North to limit casualties. We are to rule over these people once you have conquered their land. I imagine killing their wives and children wouldn’t endear them to us.” 

“I have, yes. They are under the leadership of a good man- Faunus. He trained under me. I know him to be determined and level headed. Has children of his own as well.” 

“Being a father doesn’t stop many men from killing children. They simply learn not to see those children as children at all.” 

“I have seen that too.” 

“I trust your judgment, Marcus. Let us hope you are right about Faunus and his men. What of the rations? Are they adequate?” 

“I hear more grains are coming our way from the last harvest. If true, we will not be in want of food.” 

“It is, indeed. Is there anything else my General needs?” You asked, an eyebrow raised. 

“No. Nothing that needs your immediate attention.”

“Well, then tell me what answer you would give your wife. About how the war is going.” 

He smiled, his eyes softening and his shoulders relaxing at the permission to change role from General to husband. He stepped closer to you and caged you in with his hands on the armrests. He leaned down and placed a kiss on your lips and felt you relax. As he spoke, he peppered kisses across your face, enjoying his effect on you. “I would tell you that the end of the war is closer than it was the last time I wrote you. That I long for you every hour I spend in this wretched place. I would reassure you that I am unharmed and ask you to prepare our home for my arrival.” 

“Are you?” 

He tilted his head in question, making you clarify yourself, “Unharmed. I need to see.” 

“Is that why you have come so far? To ensure I am unharmed?” 

“Perhaps. I did not want my men to believe their Empress had forgotten them. I come bearing gifts. Letters from families who have not accompanied officers. Fresh fruits and nuts. Toys and books for the children. Some hearings to handle as you said in your letters. To boost morale.” 

“You have already succeeded with me there, my dear. My morale is higher than ever,” he said, nipping playfully at your ear and making you giggle. “Back to bed now,” he said and you obliged, wrapping your arms around his neck and allowing him to carry you. 

“A happy General makes for happy soldiers.” 

“Perhaps I’m not happy enough,” he said, laying you out on his bed, gentle unlike the man he was a while ago. “You must do more, my dearest. For the sake of the poor soldiers.”

You giggled and pulled him down to your chest, sighing when his weight settled on you. You traced the gold plating on his armor with a finger idly, saying, “Oh, iff it is for the soldiers…” 

He laughed with you and the two of you lied together, quietly taking each other in. Other high ranking men in your army had the privilege of bringing their families to the barracks, but not your husband. You hadn’t the duty to keep your home but to keep your empire. Though opposition to having you on the throne had begun to dwindle, you did not feel secure in your position. You couldn’t afford peace of mind. There was disease and conflicts awaiting your attention. Plebeians to care for without angering the patricians. Marcus unburdened you of all worries about the war for you knew he would bring victory to Rome. But you worried as wives did about whether their husbands would return at all.

“I will be here for four days,” you spoke up, needing a distraction from your burgeoning fears. “I must see to a few disagreements. Inspect the troops. Maybe I will even polish your swords like a good wife ought to.” 

“Oh? What else will you do?” 

You squinted, thinking of what else the women in the barracks did for their men that you knew to do. You couldn’t cook. Didn’t know to wash clothes. Did not yet have children to raise. You could spar with him, but that was frowned upon and not at all wifely.

“Clean your quarters?” 

“My quarters are clean, Princess,” he laughed softly. You pushed at his chest playfully but he didn’t budge. It had been a long time since you could push him around physically.

“I am not a Princess anymore.” 

“I meant it as a term of endearment, not as your title.” 

“Surely there is something I can do. I will have time aside from my duties to our people.”

“When you do, mea vita…” he whispered, hot breath tickling your ear. “Lie back here and open your legs for me.” 

“Whatever for?” You teased, wearing an expression of confusion as you pretended to think of the answers. 

“To do your duty to your husband. To please me,” he said, parting your coat and cupping your sex in his hand. He swept his ejaculate that dripped down your thighs and pushed it back inside you. He wanted it to take. Wanted you full and round with his child when he arrived in Rome victorious. It was their duty, yes. But he wanted children for more than duty and legacy’s sake. He wanted to experience the joy he witnessed in his men when they shared stories of their fatherhood. He could recall a time when he fought only to sate his bloodlust. Since you became more than his friend, more than his Princess, he began fighting to return home to you. He wanted one day to fight with his children in mind. 

He pumped his fingers in and out of you with practiced ease. You trembled, sensitive from his rough use, but did not pull away. You needed this.

“Have I not pleased you enough?” You asked, only half teasing. You did not have much experience with carnal pleasure. There were a few men and several women in your past. But the men were not interested in teaching you to please them. It wasn’t entirely their fault, of course. You did not want to please anyone before Marcus. It was a source of insecurity. You’d seen how women swarmed him since he developed from a little boy who sparred with you to a broad shouldered man with a deep voice. What if you were inadequate?

“You are simply too delectable, my dear. Each time I believe myself satisfied, I only want more of you.”

“I have duties to Rome. I can’t always be in your bed.” That was another insecurity you had. That he would find you lacking in wifely duties as compared to other women, those who did not have Rome on their shoulders.

“We barely had each other a week before I was sent here.” 

“Mmm… She sounds cruel, your Empress. Separating you from your new wife so early.” He could see how you sought to bury your fears with humor. Duty to Rome and your love plagued you despite reassurances of his unconditional support. The elders often turned their nose up at you, found you lacking as a woman. Though you’d proven yourself both in battle and in administration, old men set in their ways refused to accept you as Empress. Many already whispered about you not having conceived a child. 

“She is not cruel. My Empress,” he said, smiling. He wouldn't have you doubting his trust in you, be it as Empress or wife. Everyone was you tartarus, but he would only be your peace. “She is just. She is brave and kind with intellect as sharp as the tip of my sword. The right person to lead Rome into prosperity.”

You melted into his arms and he held you close to his chest, heavy with the weight of doing right by the Roman Princess who lent little Acacius her sword when he couldn’t afford one.

⌘ ⌘ ⌘

Read Part 2 Reward here

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[museenkuss]

“How I transformed my body in 90 days” type video but I’m becoming a Renaissance Woman. Vlog footage of me reading the classics for hours on end, writing vocabulary lists, drawing in my sketch book to epic music. On day 15 I talk about how I’m slowly adjusting to my elaborate home cooked meals and how I struggle with the genealogy of the Borgias. There are montages of me educating myself on history, astrology, astronomy and dressing well, I take horseback riding lessons and go to museums. Erasmus, Machiavelli and Lucretius are stacked on my bedside table.

There’s a segment where I say “it’s day 53 and I’m really struggling… I can’t even write a sonnet. I don’t see any improvement in myself. Is this even worth it?!” The stakes are rising. I’m shown ripping up pages of rhymes in calligraphy. I swear as I rush around the kitchen, trying to prepare my oysters. I sit at my desk and sigh, head in hands, my desk covered in stacks of notes, huge volumes on art history and printed out articles. The dramatic moment comes when I for the nth time try to walk and gesture with sprezzatura while balancing books on my head for better posture. I fall. The books topple to the floor. I’ve reached rock bottom.

Black screen. Voice over: “It was really hard. I felt like Dante, in the dark forest, having lost my way. And then, I realised what I needed: I had to go on a grand tour.”

Music swells again, there’s a montage of me packing and travelling in busses and trains. Landscape rushes past. I read Goethe’s Italienische Reise on the journey. Finally, there are snippets of me in Munich, in Vienna. I take a selfie in front of Parmigianino’s self portrait in a convex mirror, showing off my own elegantly contorted hand. I’m in Florence, breathing heavily with excitement as I walk along the outside walls of the Galleria degli Uffizi. “Oh my god, there he is—“ I film the Petrarch statue, the phone visibly shaking. “I can’t believe I get to meet him…” I whisper with awe. Cut. I’m blowing a kiss at the right Grace in Botticelli’s Spring (I have a crush on her). I’m in the Loggia di Psiche in Rome, I’m kneeling on a bridge in Venice to touch it, “Tintoretto walked on these very stones..”, I’m filming the ceiling of the Camera Degli Sposi in Mantua. I’m in the streets of Grasse showing off a bottle of Fragonard perfume I bought, I’m teary eyed in front of the Concerto Campestre in the Louvre. Cut.

I’m back home. “It’s now day…79. Those were the most unrealistic two weeks of my life. And the most expensive. But now I’m back on track. I feel like I can really do this.” With newfound vigour I get back to my battered Reclam German/Latin edition of Ovid’s Metamorphosis. Day 81, 85, 89. Emotional/hopeful music. I show a Shakespeare sonnet written in beautiful calligraphy. I’m in the museum sketching the composition of an annunciation and taking notes on a Venus by Cranach. I practice a speech I’ve written following Cicero’s rules on rhetoric. I’m back on horseback. I present a cake of some sort.

DAY 90. I’m at my desk. “Wow, what a journey. Now let’s see the transformation I underwent in those 90 days.” I show side by side footage of me from day 1 and day 90. I look the same, except day 90 me is wearing all black, Castiglione style, and has better posture. Back to the desk. “I changed so much. I learned so much about myself and my limits. I’m still not fluent in Latin or Italian. But what I learned is that beauty is everywhere, especially in the struggle, and it’s worth cherishing. And now, I’m back and stronger and more curious than ever. If you haven’t followed me on tumblr @Museenkuss at this point, what are you doing? Click the follow button and give this post a like because NOW, the fun really begins. A renaissance woman never stops learning.” From under the desk, I grab two books and put them on my desk. The Tale of Genji and Sei Shōnagon’s pillow book. “It’s time to expand my horizon.” Black screen.

[londonfog-chan]

Emperor Geta x Barbarian!Reader: Free Will Sacrifice

Jesus H Tapdancing Motherfucking Christ. Here we go.

Big, huge shoutout to @eddiemunsonmash for beta reading the clown shoes snippet I had written of Geta falling for a masochistic pseudo-viking, in a time where the vikings didn’t even exist yet.

Look, I love the idea of being a concubine as much as the next person, but I also want to be a gladiator secretly. Like a battered, tired warrior draped in silk holding a sword whose retirement consists of getting dominated on occasion by her insane emperor boyfie. Just two deeply, weirdly fucked up individuals being nasty is all I ask.

Gimme a break here, alright? I like to pretend that Geta thinks he can dominate anyone, meanwhile his partner can foist him over her shoulders and launch him into the sun.

Content Warnings: 18+ Only, Fem!Reader, Elements of power imbalance, dom/sub sadomasochism shenanigans that would not pass a vibe check under normal circumstances, slapping, choking, unprotected p in v, dirty deeds done dirt cheap by two fucked up individuals, you can fix him she can chase him with a knife to humble him, breeding kink

Summary: The northern barbarian allows the emperor to believe he is able to make her tame.

****

“ Soon we will be gone

A free will sacrifice

As free men we are born

And free we shall die “ - Amon Amarth

****

“No gods… no masters…”

A stinging backhand struck across your cheek and jerked your head to the side, a headache coming as your head was already bobbing listlessly up and down from the incessant pounding assault from below. The thrusts of his hips were brutal, erratic. You knew the taste of coppery sanguine from his rings splitting your lip wide open.

This was of course by design, purely by your own allowance. Should you want to, you could just as easily regain control of him, but you allowed Geta to take his pleasure as if overtaken by rut.

And you loved every minute of the pain he inflicted in a desperate bid for domination.

“You will not speak of gods or masters. You will only speak of me! You are mine, and mine alone. Now say it. To whom do you belong?”

Parched lips split into a wide grin. You knew then that among all the things he tolerated about you, he would never tolerate your flagrant disregard for authority, nor your atheistic views.

Cockhead stabbing at your cervix, he drilled into you as though he was a farmer armed with an aratrum, determined to sow the seeds of his bastards inside you. In a frenzied moment of madness, you hoped one would take. Even if it left you gravid and vulnerable.

To be used and manhandled as per your consent was the first stroke of indulgence you had experienced in this place. Such was an indulgence not to be overlooked. It was a blessing. A kindness.

Such kindness was foreign to you in this land. To Rome you were an aberration — the northern barbarian— your foreign blood was meant to be proffered as libation to the gods, your body merely altar bread to be thrown into the colosseum for the rats to consume.

Yet Geta saw in you something more.

By some twisted miracle of fate, you snatched freedom out of the hands of desperate half-starved men; they who were unused to the sting of hunger deep in their bellies stood no chance against your determination to survive. What was suffering to you? Nothing more than an itch of an insect bite. Meaningless. Worth less than, because, at the very least, the itch of the bite was acknowledged with a scratch. When nursed by clansmen in the piercing gales blowing across the glacier’s barren face, the only thing that mattered was the struggle.

Struggle to overcome the cold.

To survive to see each morning sun, shining against the blue ice and snow.

You did survive. Using a blade made strong from the bones of your ancestors, you cleaved that freedom from the enemies of the Romans to choose this life.

The co-emperor had asked what you wanted with this new found freedom. Despite the fact that you were a woman missing your lower lip, and plagued with blindness of one eye, Geta had offered you a choice. No law existed for free women, only free men were expected to live to tell the tale of their colosseum victory, living lower than the slaves in Rome’s underbelly.

Geta’s cruelty would have sealed your fate had you been taken under different circumstances. Aberrant conquests were plucked out specifically as offerings to Caracalla, lesser goods bestowed to his lesser brother to be ejaculated in and on. Had you not shown your ability as the strongest fighter the colosseum had known, Geta would have given you to his brother on a silver platter.

Yet he worried about you beating his poor, weak minded sibling into bloody pap with nothing but fists. Poor, simpering little Caracalla would never stand a chance before you castrated him in a blind rage.

Admittedly, Geta was intimidated himself. It took six men to hold back your berserker strength, and you did not calm down until a blade was held to your throat. He did not expect anything less than for you to ask for a seat as a general, to demand a place in his army barracks. He would have given it freely too. Anything to keep you out of the streets where the senate feared you would begin a massacre of the people in bitter vengeance for your capture.

In your northern tongue, you made one request, translated by a warrior — frightened army fodder— who just so happened to know your language.

You wanted Him.

You wanted Geta.

“Sire, the barbarian… She says she is the sword forged in the ashes of her kin. She is the war bringer, the northern wind that can cripple the Roman empire. She is the free will that defies the hand of the gods… Her only request is that she wishes to take whoever she so chooses to bed — for this night and all the nights after, and she has chosen you.”

Any lesser man would have laughed. Made light of the wish. Geta’s generals had laughed. Hard. Teasing and baiting the mutilated free woman who had the audacity to lust for the glimmering, golden perfection of the co-emperor.

But the emperor’s genitals had other motives, and instantly sprung to life at the mere mention of the request.

You saw it. Trying to maintain your composure, you turned your head to face his arousal with your eagle eye.

A desireable length. Uncut, favoring to the left.

Clicking your tongue against the roof of your mouth, you called to the emperor, like a man catcalling a prostitute.

Geta’s erect penis tented under the deep indigo of his toga picta when he heard this click. A primal response to a primitive call.

A call to he who looked into your one good eye, and saw passionate fire burning in your iris.

You knew he was yours from that moment on.

“Tame me…” you had told him, words translated by the frightened warrior, “Make me docile… Take me on the ground in the way that the animals do.”

His amber eyes darkened.

He would make you tame, and take you on the ground on all fours, like the animals took their mates.

You would become concubina to the co-emperor. Just as you asked.

“You will not defy me with your silence, heathen!”

The emperor hissed into your ear through clenched teeth, his shaking body bringing you out of an orgasmic trance as he ceased jerking you back and forth, spearing you on his length.

“I am your master, your commander, your ruler. Say it.” He demanded.

“You are… my Geta-…” you began.

The emperor’s hand lashed at your cheek once again. Harder. With purpose. His fingers tangled into your knotted hair as he yanked your head back. His other hand gripped your hip, holding you in place as he looked into your one good eye. You would not be permitted to use such affectionate familiarity while in the throes of being taken like a beast.

“No… you will address me as your emperor.” he hissed.

He leaned forward. Warm, boozy breath against your skin. Hot, dripping wet tongue lathing in your ear canal.

“I am your emperor, not ‘your Geta’. I am your ruler, your master… your commander... I alone will decide whether or not you are to live, or to die. Now say it. Say it, heathen of the north.”

“Mu… my G…”

It almost slipped out on accident. Pure reflex and poor command of the Roman tongue made you seem incompetent in his eyes. You could see his ring adorned hand ball into a fist in warning, could already taste the golden bands even though they were nowhere near you yet.

You decided enough was enough. You needed more. You needed to take your pleasure, aching and throbbing with need around his cock shaft.

“My Emperor…” you whispered, the word foreign on your tongue as you mispronounced it.

Geta’s body stilled.

My Emperor…

It had come out of your mouth all wrong, mispronounced and uncertain. But to him, it was a start. Something to be worked with. His fingers loosened in your hair, hand moving to cup your neck, a gentle touch as he throbbed inside you.

“Again…” he murmured, voice soft and commanding.

“My Emperor…”

In a single fluid movement you contracted around him, his eyes nearly fluttering shut as his brow wrinkled. Geta was holding back, the moan catching in his throat as he remained stoic.

“Say it again…” he said, voice strained, “Sweet siren, sing your song once more…!”

“My Emperor… Princeps… Augustus… Imperator…”

When he heard these titles, you felt his heart thrash against your back. In a frenzied stutter his hips began moving involuntarily, utterly captivated in his rhythmic dance of taking pleasure. You responded in kind. Mouth open, tongue lolling out to catch the warm, wine tinged saliva he spit into your mouth.

“Again…!” He croaked.

This time, he held back no shameful sound of lovemaking. His voice was cracked, thrusts becoming erratic as he pumped in and out, pace quickening with anticipation. Low, tantalizing bleats of erotic mania escaped from his ruddy lips. One ringed hand wrapped around your thick neck, squeezing the breath from you with one hand as the other was coated in slick spit, fully intent on either slapping your firm buttocks or your face. Whatever was more convenient depending on your answer.

He would not abate his abuse until you said it again. Would not allow you the sweet release of climax until you screamed his name to the heavens, to the gods you didn’t believe in, to all of Rome should he have commanded it.

“Princeps…!” You keened.

And you were rewarded. Two moistened fingers, vigorously creating friction against your clitoral hood.

His title left your mouth in a wail as you sprayed his sheets with the aftermaths of ecstasy.

“Imperator… Imperator…!”

[writingjourney]

deliverance // secondo x f!oc // 400 words

another snippet from a future fic, made to be digestible without context, unnamed/non-descript, pov third person ♡

It lingers, the thought that he can become a better man, that she makes it easy to forsake old vices. A certain type of innocence she carries, not naiveté, not a lack of knowledge. No, someone who protects themself from a certain type of corruption, knowingly, willingly, preserved innocence, the other option so unappealing to her that she can’t even allow herself the simple things, the things she does want.

And yet – she chose him, a man so deeply corrupted, perhaps drawn to the forbidden or perhaps simply drawn to everything she’s not. Perhaps it’s the same reason he’s drawn to her. He can ease her into indulgence as much as she can pull him out. Less alcohol, less smoking, certainly no smoking in front of her. He still sees her distorted features when that bishop in Rome blew cigarette smoke in her face, remembers the feeling of wanting to protect her lungs with his bare hands, break the man’s neck with those same hands until no toxic breath would ever leave his throat again.

His anger is a cold, quiet thing.

If it get’s the better of him it only shows in the margins, sharp words, some humiliation, the fantasy of revenge more appealing than the act. Yet it eats at him, leashed hounds baring their teeth, the thoughts circling back to his father, the similarities he sees in the mirror. He always thought it might kill him, this hatred, a fist forming inside of him until it wrings the very life out of him. Now he finds that it loosens, her fingers curling around his own, prying them apart, interlacing them with hers.

He wants to live a few more years, he thinks. If He sent her his way, his Lord must think the same. Not even the devil wants a devil like him in his house, not in the state he was in before he met her. The thought makes him smile. Is He trying to soften him up? Is this the reward for decades of suffering in such utter devotion? Not that it matters. He will light a candle in thanks every night, compose prayers unlike any he has spoken before, whisper them in the crevices of her body with her skin slick against his lips. He could die like that, he thinks. With her name lodged in his throat, perhaps the truest form of worship.

The only one that matters to him, anyway.

short fic collection

[mediumgayitalian]

try shit tuesday reference post

ongoing and (hopefully.) frequently updated! here is a list of my current ideas & hopefuls including any outlines or snippets i have available. the nsfw will be linked from a separate post on my sideblog, @subwillsolace. set up will look like:

idea

general outline/summary

snippet

5+1s (from yalls suggestions):

5 times Will wouldn't accept help and 1 time he did

cecil pov. five times, in the process of growing up, cecil watches his friend refuse help -- from his brothers, from chiron, from cecil himself (when his brothers were gone), from lou ellen, from his younger siblings. and one time cecil sees will accept help from nico.

"Solace, if you don't give me something to do right this second, I'll shadow travel myself right off a fucking cliff," Nico threatens. Will scowls. Cecil straightens, eyes wide. "Fine, you jackass," he grouches, all but flinging a roll of bandages at Nico's head. "Do it right."

5x Hazel had to learn something about the modern world and 1x she didn't

hazel pov. honestly i dont have much of an idea for this one yet so ill come back to it (& would be happy to brainstorm w the person who suggested this).

Will one 5x Apollo campers didn't make it and 1x one did

longer fic, will pov. cass's death, then diana's, then lee's, then michael's, then coming back to the overcrowded infirmary to realize he's alone. to kayla and austin's claiming, as if that will help, this time. and then one time he gets his siblings back -- from nero, when his father rescues them.

Will knows something is wrong because Michael doesn't let him see. Michael always lets him see. He struggles in Michael's grip but he doesn't struggle hard, because he is afraid. He can see the ends of Diana's hair but he cannot see Cass, and he can feel the grass, soaking beneath his bare feet. He does not look down. Instead he clenches the back of Michael's ratty hoodie and breathes through his mouth and says, "Michael, let me go. Please."

five times nico helps will fix his outfit and one time will helps nico fix his

nico pov. the first time he gives will clothes, which is a spare t-shirt because his got blood-soaked fixing a field injury. the second time is because they are going on a stealth mission and no, will, wearing all black is actually not conspicuous in any capacity, i know im doing it but it Fits With The Vibe, you are blond. yes i am discriminating. yes you are going to wear the polo shirt im giving you. sorry. the third time is a toga because will is visiting new rome and is Super pumped about it and oh my gods he looks good in a toga no one is supposed to look good in a toga??? it is a bedsheet???? huh???? the fourth time is. a very homoerotic collection of gifts. for his birthday. it is a wardrobe basically. like acessories and everything. he makes will try it all on in his cabin and it starts silly and gets real gay real fast. the fifth time is a full on tux he makes will wear to his cousins wedding because NO, a dress shirt and jeans is NOT black tie are you on crack. and there is a moment with fixing the bowtie that is. well its something. and there is dancing as slow songs play etc etc. the plus one is a horrible 'if lost return to mr. cullen' 'i am mr. cullen' twilight couple's shirt set will buys nico that he is so excited about that nico has to wear and then endure the immediate onset humiliation from all observing parties.

"Like -- this?" He pushes through the door, mouth screwed up in confusion, and Nico's mouth goes dry. He is -- Nico is not sure whom to blame, exactly. He does not make the robes, he left no instructions with the tailor, only get him a toga for the love of the gods he cannot go to council in shorts and please make sure it fits. But he had not thought to specify the robe be Roman; he had not thought he'd need to. Because what Will is wearing is a chiton. And it looks good. Nico feels his disgusting amount of honey cake do a full, enthusiastic barrel roll in his stomach, gunning for the track up his esophagus. "It looks bad, doesn't it." In other words, he is about to die.

five times nico can’t sleep and one time he can.

nico pov. once in early early camp days, where he misses his sister and sneaks out of the hermes cabin, sneaking up on and scaring the Shit out of a blond boy spying on chiron arguing with a camper in the big house. a second time the first night he is on the streets, sobbing, scared and furious and alone. a third time, half-delirious, trying to fix his own injury in a random country he has shadow-travelled to. a fourth time, in the barracks at new rome, aching with guilt over lying to percy. a fifth time, in the infirmary, watching will work. and in that same first time, when will quietly offers to help.

im leaving the following blank cus i dont have idea for them YET ill come back later

five times will gets trauma flashbacks and bottles it up and the one time he doesn’t.

five times will gives up his personal life for camp and one time he decides to put himself first.

five times nico is away from home and one time he returns

5 times people meet Will for the first time and 1 time he sees someone again if that makes sense

omg five times nico ends up at the infirmary (ill/ injured) and one time (the only one time ever) will gets nursed back to health again

five times will had an emotional breakdown and one time he finally explode (plus if nico is the one he break into )

five times nico didn’t accept will (thinking he doesn’t deserve him) and one time he finally does (bonus if will too try to accept nico) (bonus bonus the timeline is when they were new into relationship aka before toa)

bigger fic (aka probably several chapters) ideas:

lee's backstory.

starting with a pretty young lee. generally just a long story going through his life thinking hes a mortal, although a weird one, in new york, including the time his mother sits him down the nth time he freaks out about monsters he cant prove are there and quietly telling him schizophrenia runs in the family. his teen years as he gives up trying to make people believe him and just learns to take the monsters on himself, decking weird dog head things and stabbing cyclopes in their stupid massive eyes. he wakes up to a bow, once, on his bed. he doesnt tell his mother. he uses it. all the way to his first year at camp, where hes 15 years old and taken by a satyr when his school is blown up with him in it. all the way to the day he wakes up, older sisters already gone, battle on the horizon, and knows he is going to die.

He’s not looking at her when he walks in, just barely before the last second of the bell. She’s looking at him, though. “Lee Fletcher?” Lee whips his head up, pausing at his seat. The woman has the greenest eyes he’s ever seen — unnaturally so, like pools of chlorophyll — and they lock onto him like the scope of a crossbow. “Uh. Yeah.” There’s a click as the door closes. Lee swallows, sliding slowly into his desk, keeping his hand, as surreptitiously as he can, down low by his thigh, just out of view. “You the sub?” Cody sneers from beside him. “You having another episode, freak? Mrs. Cobb has been here all semester.” Lee glances over at — Mrs. Cobb. She watches him carefully, strange eyes carefully blank, scared hands still and stiff on the arms of her chair. He has been in this Calculus II class for seven months now. He has never seen her once. Cody hasn’t either. But Cody’s a fuckin’ dumbass. “Right,” Lee says lightly. “I’ll up to dosage to three batteries a night. Can always count on you, Codster.” Cody scowls deeper, kicking over Lee’s backpack. His books go flying across the front of the classroom, papers fluttering about like butterfly wings. “Whatever, tardo.” “Language,” says Mrs. Cobb. Her voice is low, gravelly; like Lee would expect for someone her age, only there’s an undertone to it, a smoothness he’s never head before. Like the rustling of leaves in the breeze right before you fall asleep. She watches him, again, eyes the only thing that track him, rest of her as stiff as a branch. “If everyone is ready, we’ll get right to it.” Without waiting for input, and completely ignoring the group of kids gossiping away in the corner, she wheels towards the blackboard and starts writing. It does not take long for the few students awake to lose interest. She doesn’t seem to care. “You have a desk, Lee Fletcher.” Lee blinks, coming back to himself; his books have been gathered and his backpack has been zipped. His knees ache, and there are at least four spitballs in his head. Mrs. Cobb pauses, tilting her head to the side. “It’s a challenge in the classroom, isn’t it?” Lee curls a hand around the strap of his backpack. “What is?” “The ADHD.” She taps her stick of chalk, tap, tap, snap. “Useful out in the world, though, I bet. Makes you quick.” There is no reason for her to know about that. Even if she has been his teacher this whole time — and Lee knows she hasn’t, even though he cannot recall who she’s replaced — the school does not have the information. Lee knows. He filled out the forms. He gives up on pretence. “Who the hell are you?“ “Your teacher.” She wheels around, thick eyebrow raised. “And your elder, so I’ll thank you not to speak to me that way.” Lee’s mind races. She is human-sized — Lastrogonians can’t hide that. Neither can cyclops. An empousa would never in a million years choose an elderly form, and their concrete brick of a school is nowhere near so much as a sprout for her to be a dryad, even one of the nicer ones. If it was a minotaur, he’d already be dead. He fuckin’ knew he shoulda read more in his Ancient Zoology: An Alpha to Omega Guide on Ancient Creatures book. Stopping at P was a mistake. “I know you’re not human.” He unzips, as quietly as he can, blindly ruffling through the smallest pocket. “You’re not fooling me, I’m not —” The background sounds of the school go white. Lee faintly, in the back of his tongue, tastes copper. Mrs. Cobb reacts half a second before he does. “Everybody down!” ——— He woke up to ash and heat. Slightly more heat than ash, if he had to quantify.

cabin 7 fic the one time will got really sick

the time will got a fever as a kid and his body went so sun hot when trying to fix it that he would burn anyone who touched him and his siblings just had to watch him suffer. lee pov. him slowly noticing that will is getting sick and then quickly trying to do something about it but it happens FAST and will gets a really really high fever but not just high for a human -- high for will. it burns to touch him and he glows so brightly it is impossible to even look at him without scorching your eyes. hes in pain and hes in danger and lee is terrified because he doesn't know how to fix it. (as referenced in the kayla & lee fic)

Lee probably would have caught it a little sooner -- any of them would. Except: Apollo kids don't get sick. Not really. Not when flu hits hard and fast, as it does every summer, not in '01, Cass tells him, and half the camp got cow fever, somehow. Someone needs to tend to the sick and dying. Their father knows that, and has blessed them. Lee can't really remember being sick ever, except a cold, once, when he was about four. At first he thinks it's another one of Will's migraines. These, all the blessings in the world cannot cure. There's nothing viral about inflamed blood vessels in the brain, there's nothing bacterial about a fever from white blood cells fighting off an illness that isn't there. When Will starts shrinking from the light and wincing at every scattered sound, that's when they know -- the four eldest, Cass, Diana, Lee, and Michael -- know to guide him carefully back to the cabin, pick him up if he's fighting, and send him to sleep before it gets worse. Pray it doesn't stick around when he wakes up. They're not perfect, and they miss it sometimes. They come on suddenly and fast if he's been crying, or if it rains. Sometimes he gets good at hiding it. This one they just miss.

will is turned into a nine year old and keeps asking about his long dead siblings

the outline is huge im posting it separately and linking it here

Will wiggles his feet into falling apart, light-up Star Wars shoes, stomping them once to check that they work and grinning when they do. "Where's Lee, anyway? He's supposed to work mornings so he can do archery in the afternoons." He looks up, hands on his hips in a pose Nico recognizes, intimately; a pose that says I am about to reveal information I gleaned from being a diary-reading little snot and I'm cute so I'm gonna get away with it too. He says: "Allegedly it's because the range is less crowded in the afternoon but the real reason is because his boyfriend said one time that he looks regal in full sun. So." He looks out to the gathered gaggle of them, beaming. The silence rings louder than a mausoleum. No one speaks. "Oooookay," Will says, rocking back on his heels. "Michael, then? Where is everybody?" It is Annabeth, finally, who thinks quickly. "They're on a quest," she blurts. She clears her throat, looking away. "Uh, brand new. As of yesterday." Will tilts his head. "All twelve of them? I thought the rule was three." "...They're going on four separate questions." "Oh, okay. How come I wasn't allowed to go?" "Well, on account of you being nine." "Aw."

the one story where will has a ptsd episode in front of the entire camp and percy as the only one who recognizes it for what it is helps him through it.

another big outliner posted here

They're a lot, mostly. Enough that there is no one looking when a couple giggling Hermes kids load a whole watermelon into a half-rigged trebuchet. There is no one looking when it sails across the sky, thundering through the air; there are a few people looking, when it cracks clean across the ground, showering onlookers in a sea of red. But there are a lot of things sailing through the sky. Some more prudent than others. (Someone gets brisket-ed. That someone, coincidentally, begins their lifelong commitment to veganism.) There is no one looking when Will Solace freezes. There is no one looking when he stands, blank, to steady feet, and walks slowly across the warzone, miraculously safe from cakes and breads and fruits at all kinds of speeds. There is no one looking when he kneels, hemline stained crimson, in the wreck of the stone floor. There is no one looking when he pieces the chunks of jagged green rind in his hands, and starts to sing.

nico raising lee and michael's ghosts to make them give permission for will to get divorced.

this is so funny i’m so mad at past me for never writing it fully. will’s older siblings (read: lee and michael) convinced him that since this was an ancient greek camp they had to follow the ancient greek rules. and children had to get married before they were ten or they’d have to marry mr d. and will was CRYING about it terrified so he went and got married to cecil with like the ancient oaths and stuff so that he didn’t have to marry mr d, and when his siblings found out there were like oh fuck 💀 but like what are you going to do. unmarry them. so nico asks will out years later and will is like i. i want to say yes so badly. but unfortunately we’re going to half to get my husbands permission first. and nico is like your WHAT and will is like IM SORRY IM SORRY ITS SO STUPID BUT I DONT WANT TO PISS OFF HERA. IM SORRY. MY FUCKING BROTHERS WERE SO STUPID. lol.

“Oh, Nico.” The small smile drops completely from Nico’s face. Blood curdles in his veins, it feels, going sour at Will’s wide, round eyes; identical to his dropped open mouth, parallel to his arched brows. Rings of pity. Nico tries, barrenly, to mitigate the damage. He searches the blind-white plains of his mind for an escape, for an excuse; for a waved hand and laughter, for a quiet, dignified nod, for an easy shrug and a sharply turned heel. Instead the inside of his skull scrapes hollow, echoing the swelling pound of his chest, and his eyes burn hotter, hotter, hotter. “Nico.” The misplaced distress in Will’s voice is intolerable. I am so sorry, it says. I didn’t know you felt that way. Nico can feel the bricks rapidly laying in the space between them, thick and heavy and blocky, carved with don’t worry about it  and of course we can still be friends. He saves them the trouble and stumbles backwards, away from Will’s outstretched hands, strangled flowers scattering on the splintered roots between them.  “Nico, hold on –” The new air between them is cold enough to sting his face, and Nico uses it to propel himself into motion, stumbling backwards and flinging himself through the trees, through the shadows of them. Will follows quickly, still shouting, but Nico knows the forest better than he does and Will’s a klutz. Every other word gets cut off by a yelp, by the sound of branches snapping and dryad cursing, by frantic, distracted apologising.  “Nico, you fucking jackass, hold on a second! Let me – speak, godsdammit!” Not a half chance in Hell, except for the genuine anger in Will’s voice. Worry, he could understand – it is in Will’s nature to worry. About Nico especially, he has found. Guilt, even more likely; pity obviously.  But anger confuses him.  He hunches in the shadow of an old pine tree, half-shroud in its bending needles. Will runs right by him, needles catching in his frizzing hair, slowing to a stop in a burst of sunlight. “Feel free to help me fix this!” he shouts, face turned at the sky. Immediately, several thick clouds are almost dragged over to hide the sun, an astounding act of paternal bravery to which Will responds with several choice words about child support and two stark middle fingers. “Thanks a lot!” “You’re going to get smited,” Nico croaks. The state of his own voice startles him almost as much as Will, who jumps three clean feet in the air and would have twisted his ankle on the way back down were his bones not blessed with holy grace. "Nico!" he cries, dashing over. "Nico, my brothers were fucking stupid!" Nico pauses. He blinks. He swallows, glassy eyes drying. "Huh," he says, eloquently.

trans girl will.

in a hecate cabin mix-up, will gets turned into a girl. a few things are noticeable to nico: 1) will is very, very pretty. 2) his face falls, perceptibly, when well-meaning friends insist that regardless of what he looks like he is still the will they know and love and they should refer to him as such. 3) clarisse, stubbornly, refuses this. 4) will does not avoid her. 5) will does avoid nico. nico intends to get to the bottom of what is going on with his boyfriend. girlfriend. partner. maybe.

...brushing by Clarisse as he walked by. She caught him by the wrist, and he stopped, waiting. Even that was almost impossible to see from this angle. Clarisse looked at him firmly. “Don’t look at me like that, girl. I can play the villain.” “I know.” Will hesitated. “Thank you.” She nodded, and Will scampered off, ducking around the back of the pavilion and disappearing into the Big House. Nico watched closely. When Clarisse caught his eye, she snarled at him. Something was definitely up.

will’s garden of grief.

after the massacre of Every fucking one of his siblings will just went silent. totally mute, wouldn't speak a word. walked around camp like a ghost. and like. it's not that no one noticed it's just that Everyone was grieving right. no one was very attentive of everyone else. you were working thru ur own shit. chiron, tho, who is Millenia old and is unfortunately very practiced at grieving, did his best to help. by which i mean he kept naomi informed when she asked, because when she called her son he would just sit there. so i like to imagine around october naomi got tired and picked him up. drove him to the town they grew up. but not only is he silent hes Angry. and its obvious. he's stiff and miserable and fights but is impossible to fight with because he Wont Fucking Speak and hes thirteen years old so what is she supposed to do? honestly? hes thirteen and his eyes look thirty two. hes haunted. so she sends him to her parents. now naomi is no longer close with her parents. never could be after they kicked her out. will isnt much close to them either, but they love him, and theyve always wanted a relationship with him, even if its strained. so he gets booted off to their ranch and naomi cant tell if hes mad about it or just at the world. she doesnt go with. she stays home with di and cries a lot because she knew some of those kids, too, they wrote her letters, and shes grieving in her own way. in some ways she lost her son. and in his year at the ranch will learns to…live with his grief? kind of? its just work. day in day out. his grandparents care for him but they dont quite know how, so its not like hess talking about his feelings, not like theyd know what to say if he started. he just wakes at dawn and works til twilight. apollo comes to visit him once. grandparents dont know what to do. direct him to the stables will is cleaning. and apollo just sits. will keeps working. they dont say anything. will is furious with him and apollo knows it. apollo is weeping. hes grieving too. when will finally looks over at the end of the day the sun is setting. and apollo is gone. but there are packets of seeds where he was sitting. and will whips them at the fucking wall in fury. how dare he? thats what his siblings are worth? seeds? new growth? get fucked, apollo. get fucked all the way down. how dare you cry. but few days past and those seeds start growing. theyre no normal plants. not really. they glow, and they dont die. there's something odd about them. the animals are intrigued, but wont eat em. snakes and mice sit quietly together among the growing stalks. will's grandpa builds a fence around them. just to keep the horses from tramplin' 'em. they don't tend to, but it cant hurt. they're pretty to look at any way. slowly will comes to sit with them. and then to care for them. and slowly, he starts planting his own next to them. bay tree for michael. borage for diana. carnation for cass. chamomile for lee. flowers for all his siblings, every one, and then it keeps going, he keeps planting; moonlace for bianca, oak for beckendorf. he is obsessed. he spends all day in that garden. he barely sleeps. he barely eats. he passes out in the moonlight, in between the carnations. he heals in that garden. sobbing into his hands. one day he brings nico there. shows him the moonlace.

"Will. Say something, to me." There is nothing but the labored edge of his breathing. Even that is near soundless, muffled as it is; the phone is off the receiver and dangling halfway to the floor, she knows it is. She can picture him, leaned against the cracking office chair, blue eyes blank, connecting dots in the popcorned ceiling. Hands limp at his sides. Still. "Will," she begs, again, and tries not to cry. "Will, baby."

michael's videos.

everyone in the infirmary cus it’s a rainy day and they’re bored and they go to turn on the ancient vcr player and it starts playing a home video michael made. will drops what he's doing and half-walks half-crawls over to the tv, hairs on his fingers raising as they brush the screen. everyone watches with held breath, as they see and hear the thousands of different ways will was loved, will was taken care of.

“Will, I’m bored.” Nico will never say it to his boyfriend’s face. He’s smarter than that. But gods above, is it fucking funny watching his eyes twitch. In Will’s defense he is of course justified. He has been nagged all morning and afternoon. In fact, most of the brats whining at him in the infirmary probably don’t even need to be here — it’s just cold and rainy, grey and sad, and the infirmary is light and warm and sweet-smelling. If Nico had to listen to thirty complaining demigods waste his time for upwards of six hours, he’d lose his shit too. But he’s not the one with a saviour complex, so he gets to enjoy the several deep, calming breaths Will takes, sniggering into his DS. He gets to enjoy Will's eye twitching as he slaps a smile on his face, visibly shoving down the murderous urges. “The really cool thing about me not being your mom,” Will begins, voice carefully measured, “is that your boredom is not my problem.” “But Wi-ill!” “Fucksake, Cecil, fling a pen at someone! Count to three-hundred thousand! Hold your breath until you pass out, I dunno. But let. Me. Work.” He stands for a moment, glaring, then stomps off to the nurse's station muttering to himself, slamming a bunch of vials and jars onto the counter. Nico starts to feel a little bad. But then the complaining starts up again, and it is hard not to laugh.  Four people whine in tandem: “But you’ve been working all daaaaaayyyyy!” "You're boring," Gracie adds, sticking her tongue out at her brother.  “That one actually is your problem,” Nico points out. He ducks back down behind his DS when Will whips around to face him, betrayed, biting back his grin. Will's glare goes nowhere.  “Just saying.” “How about I punt you into the sun, di Angelo. Gods. You heal a guy outta the goodness of your heart.” The thing about Will, though, as much as he huffs and rolls his eyes, is that he does, in fact, care, and people’s discomfort does, in fact, bother him, even though it shouldn’t and he should probably spend less time going out of his way. Whatever. He’ll learn. Now, though, he stomps over to a forgotten corner opposite to the door and drags out the most ancient TV Nico has maybe ever seen, which is saying something because his family actually owned one of the first TV sets to ever hit Italy, and shoves it towards the middle of the room, because he hasn’t learnt, and probably won’t. “Woah.” Kayla blinks. “Where’d that beast come from?” "Dude." Will blinks right back at her, aghast. “It’s, like…been here.” “It has?!” “The whole time, Kayla.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “How many shifts have you worked in this building, again?” “Oh, shut up. Like you can name every single thing that exists collecting dust in this place.” “I can so! I clean it!” “Sure, Jan. The four inches of dust on the VCR play — gods, the VCR player, that’s fucking crazy — say otherwise.”

mortal diner au w hot goth drifter nico and absolutely whipped gone for him immediately waiter will.

will is working the diner easter somethin cus there’s no school and he’s finally old enough to get paid on paper (14). nico comes in, he’s 16, with his own car (pickup truck) and a job to do in town (tile the pastors backyard). will brings him his order and sticks, endlessly curious. nico is blunt but perhaps amused. every year nico comes on the same day to do the same job. he’s been emancipated since the day he turned sixteen and doing odd labour jobs, tiling mostly, all around the south. he reads in his spare time. and he writes will letters, to which he tries to reply but never knows where nico is so nico only ever gets them when he’s in the state with his p.o. box. every time he’s there he and will hang out for longer and longer. earlier when will is fifteen and it’s nico second visit he comes broken. scarred up hands from a year of working and a broken bone that ain’t healed right. will quietly has him come back to his and helps heal him up. THIS is the first time nico stays a while, but he gets spooked and leaves a little early. he sends a letter, though, to thank him, and will sends it back, and di grumps when she notices. comments on what shes heard about who will is writing letters to damn near every day and he should watch himself. naomi tells her its harmless and she had her puppy crushes too. di reminds her that this boy will is obsessed with is a deviant with an eyebrow piercing. and must she forget that the her puppy crushes on boys with eyebrow piercings is the reason will exists. and naomi has nothing to say to that but helps will smuggle his letters out when he needs to.

when will is seventeen he and nico spend The Night together, wherein they sleep together. this is after day after day after day of letters, and the rest of the day hanging out. clear for the first time that nico is serious about him. will is wide eyed and desperately desperately happy. will waits and waits the next year. eighteenth birthday comes and goes. college is right on the horizon and nico won’t know where he is. he plays with the defer sememser button, unsure. but nico finds him, the last sunday before september. wills stuff is already packed, he’s washing tablecloths. he hears nicos truck rumble and sprints out so fast nico damn near hits him, throwing open the already unlocked passenger door and pressing nico against the window, kissing him. he runs back in to write a note and jumps back in, and they drive into the sunset. based on the song suds in the bucket.

"Trucker?" asks Lou Ellen, voice tinny over the landline speaker. Will hums, leanin' over the counter. "Contractor, I think. Tools in the back." "What kind?" "Contraptions, Lou, I dunno. Cutter, maybe. Blade'a some kind. One'a them -- mixer, thingies? Lotsa buckets." "Someone gettin' a pool in, maybe?" "Could be. Could be." Will's doodled-on homework slips to the sticky floors, facedown. He doesn't notice, busy reachin' up to his tiptoes tryna see 'round the cracked-open door. The engine finally kills, but the lights stay flicked on, spotlightin' a table in the far back corner that has yet to be cleared from its patrons this morning. "Betcha he's forty. Divorced, drifting 'round with nothin' to do on the holidays. Baldin'." "He's not baldin'," Will argues, laughin'. "You guess every man is baldin'!" "'Cause each one'a them is!" "Naw." Will flicks his eyes over to the clock, bitin' his lip. "Betcha he's cute." "Oh, you think he's cute. Shocker. Betcha he's short." "What, 'cause he's in a truck? He's a contractor, Lou." "Truck raised?" "...Yeah." "He's short. He's short and forty and divorced and will leave you a quarter for a tip, if any. Stop lookin' right now." "Well, I gotta feed 'im." "Yeah, pie. Put them other thoughts away." Will ducks his head to muffle his snort. He has no other thoughts -- well, not really -- but it's fun to rile her up. "Whatever you s --" The lights flick off, front door shovin' open. Will jerks his head up, eyes wide -- "Is he out? Is he short? Tell me he's short!" -- and leans so far over to follow the black boot that follows that he tumbles right over the counter and joins his textbook, shrieking. The poor landline clatters to the floor, cuttin' Lou's every other word. "Will -- what -- you -- okay -- murderer??? -- I'm --" He rushes to stand, managing to dust himself off just as the man pushes the creaky door open wide enough to walk in, glancing up at the bell-less frame. "Huh," he says. It's a boy. Or -- a teen, rather.

mortal au but it’s not actually mortal is it ft. slowly dawning horror and amnesia.

nico wakes up to nothing on his phone but one contact labelled ‘will texas’. cannot remember anything else. and is like well. shit. and calls going “are you — will texas?” and will laughs out loud he’s like well technically! who are you? what do you need.

and they meet up and it turns out nico had amnesia and has maybe been a victim of some kind of robbery?? or something. so will, the youngest doctor in the state — made headlines and everything — takes him to work to get him checked out. they even stay together, because will recognises him: they dated, for a little, in their late teens. the gag is they fall slowly in love. roommates to lovers kinda deal. but they also fall slowly into realisinf something is Wrong (the real will and nico have been cursed by a god to slip into a dream realm when they’re out fighting them or something, except they’re so down bad and so in tune with each other that they fall into the SAME DREAM and get each other out without realizing).

Nico jerks awake on a bus. Which feels — wrong.

teacher au

will was a paediatric nurse who noticed a lot of the long term care kids were falling severely behind and spent most of his shifts tutoring them, realised he loved teaching and went into that, where he met nico -- the band teacher ('failed' music prodigy, who ran from the practice when his sister was killed and has not been in contact with his father for years). (fair warning this one is gonna be set in. toronto. bc thats what i know. lol.)

The building is old. Run-down. Will waits, outside the doors with the broken windows. He is -- certified, still, technically. His friends tell him the hospital remains short-staffed in the two years he's been gone. He could go back, right now. Turn around. They'd take him. He inhales, squaring his shoulders. He forgets to exhale and sways a little. This does not bode well. He taps his fob on the scanner beside the doorbell and manages to walk inside without tripping.

retelling of canon from BoO

slight divergence where everything is mostly the same except the entire time nico can see the ghosts of lee and michael hovering over will's shoulders, accidentally clouding him from the sun.

There isn’t enough time to clear a cot. Will barrels in their direction almost faster than Nico can see, sliding to a spot on a clear spot on the grass, right before they drop him. There is blood everywhere. Pooling. The gets heavy. Like a ringing in his ears, Nico starts to hear strings. “Hear that?” murmurs Michael, grinning. He nods over at Will, where he is muttering, where he is shifting. The strings play louder, and louder. “That’s the violins.” Lee nods. “They play in his head.” There is a background of cello, Nico things, every two beats; arpeggioing over ever half-note, over every minor second. Paolo moans, and the music swells. Enveloped in green, in golden, Will slams his hands to the ground. In a perfect circle around them, extending to the edge of onlookers’ toes, grass dies — bees stop hovering, dropping like stones before melting into the ground, disappearing with the dandelions into the packed earth. Will inches closer to Paolo’s prone, bleeding form, waving a white-hot hand from skull to knees, breathing heavy. Nico kneels to the ground, slowly. He presses his hands over the soft grass, and exhales, closing his eyes: he winced at the onslaught of noise, of rapidly birthing and dying spirits singing so high they screech, scrabbling over each other for a spot, for a moment of touch to the solid ground. He pushes, slowly, as far as he can outwards, past the song of snake and slug, cell and skeleton; he extends his reach to the firm line of Will’s circle and pushes through the hardened ground. It is silent. His eyes fly open. “Sterile,” he breathes, mouth falling open. “It’s sterile.” “As a wine barrel,” Michael confirms, grinning. “Ah, yes. The yeast-addled wine barrel. Famously free of microbial life.” “Fine. Whisky barrel.” The archer turns to his brother, scowling, and punches him on his blood-spattered shoulder. “Man, you ruin all my fuckin’ metaphors. Sterile as a whiskey barrel. Sounds like shit. Asshole.” Lee grins through the broken V of his mouth, unrepentant. “Not my fault your metaphors are dogshit.” He shifts to put his crushed eyes in Nico’s direction, skull-pierced eyebrows wagging. “The music is getting louder. Something big is going to happen — keep an eye on the sky.” Nico glances up, dutifully, and indeed the few clouds are churning: they’ve circled, now, in the dead centre above them, previously powder-white cumuli darkening something serious. Nico hears muttering again and drops his gaze back down to watch it, to watch Will slow the blood flowing from Paulo’s stubs, watch him hold a hovering, heated hand over the rapid rise-and-fall of his chest, two waving lines extending from his thumb and pinky to circle around the protruding bone. He can understand it, for the first time, Nico realises. His muttering as he heals. Gravelly and under-his-breath, the koine Greek travels neatly to Lee and Michael’s waiting ears, echoey like weeping along the Styx. Lee, whispers the voice, tickling Nico’s cochlea, what do I do? Lee steps forward, humming. His cracked fingernails are gentle on the heated skin of Will’s neck. “Well,” he murmurs, squeezing his shoulders, “what can you do?” “Enabler,” Michael snorts, nudging Nico’s elbow. “He’s gonna get him smited.” The violins slow, and Will’s breathing follows. He closes his eyes for a half of a second, leaning into Lee’s touch. “Arms,” he orders, in English. Lee floats back. Several onlookers shift nervously. “Will —” “Arms.” Annabeth passes them over, shaking. He lines them up below both stumps, turning them carefully, and exhales, quick and sharp; when his closed eyes open again, they are nothing but sockets of pure light, glowing with every breath, pulsing along with every measure, with every intensifying bow.

no gaia au where a few years post Battle of Manhattan

nico is streaming a video game and gets attacked mid-game but the goddess he’s fighting sends him back in time as a final effort to beat him. it works, landing him in medieval europe, but he manages to keep his stream somehow. in his quest to get his ass back to the future and stay alive in this wack ass place where no one washes their hands he meets the town apothecary, will solace, who everyone thinks is insane and who, as a seer of the future, believes nico’s story immediately. nico takes him back to the modern world with him when he finally makes it back.

He panics and it is stupid, it is, because he is still a fucking demigod even though he is a demigod 500 years ago. He can fight. He can handle himself. He can shadow-travel wherever the fuck he pleases, for Hades' sake. But he's also human, with a human brain. And human brains have evolved very little since they were invented a hundred thousand years ago so when he gets chased with actual pitchforks and torches the part of his brain that can do calculus or whatever ceases functioning, and the bigger part of his brain that has been around since lizard times goes gronk should leave. And Nico, who is no greater than the stone age man clubbin' about in his noggin, leaves. At great speeds. He runs, is what he is trying to say. And shrieks a little. The mob is big, okay. There are like. Ninety people. And none of them can be hurt by his sword.

nico and will sending each other constant letters

nico leaves for a long mission for his dad in the underworld. will is convinced they were about to kiss goodbye but nico got spooked and is Furious and Blushy about it. few days later he gets a letter and ends up More Furious and Blushy. the fic gets both mellower (in terms of will's attitude) and more desperate as their letters get more poetic and yearning in nico's absence and will really, truly starts to miss his best friend. i haven't figured out how to end it yet i just Really want to write their letters.

And Will screamed his frustration so loud the camper jumped out of his skin, squeaking out an excuse, and walked quickly off, which was just as well because Will doubted he could be very much help when he was so busy stomping back to his cabin, burying his face in his pillow, and screeching until his voice went hoarse. "Fucking boys!" he shouted. Lou Ellen, in his cabin for some reason, flipped a page of her magazine, snorting. "Hear, hear." And that was that. -- -- -- Except that wasn't that. Because Nico sends him letters. "I don't get any of those," Percy observes , peeking over his shoulder. Will slams the paper to his chest. shoves his face away, and storms off, face burning. "Maybe because you are a tool," he mutters darkly, and flushes worse when he does not mutter at all, and Annabeth laughs so hard she chokes. He ducks into the stables and presses his steaming forehead to the wood, eyes squeezed shut, letter clutched to his chest as he waits out Annabeth's wheezing, Percy's hurt mumbling. "I'm not a tool, am I?" "Oh my gods I am going to pass out." Once she reassures him, giggling, and drags him off Somewhere Else, Will peeks out. There is Clovis, curled up on the ground, but he is out cold. There is Miranda, a little ways away, tending to an olive tree, but she minds her own business. There is Connor, rigging...something, but that is okay. Will knows his pressure points. He exhales, willing the heat away from his face. It doesn't work. He sits down in Guido the Pegasus's stall, anyway, shooting him a small smile in greeting, and smooths out the letter on his thigh. It reads:

i wrote these ones down but i cant remember what my idea was for the fuckin life of me so:

will's burn scars & abilities exploration ft. post- toa apollo.

the seer will mortal au.

that one little will pov piece from vampire money.

time loop fic where will wakes up every day as an eight year old, in his first year of camp, with all his siblings alive. every day it gets harder and harder to try and get out — it’s just so safe there, and he is surrounded by everyone who he failed in the present. to get back to the present he has to let go of the past. (i remember this one i just dont have a lot to say about it rn ill come back to it later)

royal au long story (i.e. from the beginning) (i didn't forget this one either but i can't find my fucking outline so i'll come back when i do find it)

nsfw list here

remaining (i think) 100 ways:

“No, no, it’s my treat.”

“Sorry I’m late.”

“Watch your step.”

“It’s not heavy. I’m stronger than I look.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Look both ways.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“Drive safely.”

“Well, what do you want to do?”

“One more chapter.”

“It looks good on you.”

“Close your eyes and hold out your hands.”

“That’s okay, I bought two.”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“I picked these for you.”

“I’ll drive you to the hospital.”

“Did you get my letter?”

“I’ll do it for you.”

“Call me when you get home.”

“Are you sure?”

“Have fun.”

“I made reservations.”

"I don't mind."

“I’ll pick it up after work.”

“I’ll help you study.”

“I did the dishes.”

“You didn’t have to ask.”

“I bought you a ticket.”

“I’ll meet you halfway.”

“We can share.”

“Do you want to come too?”

“I’ll still be here when you’re ready.”

“Is your seatbelt on?”

“Stay there. I’m coming to get you.”

“You can tell me anything.”

“I hope you like it.”

“I want you to be happy.”

“I believe in you.”

“You can do it.”

“Good luck.”

“I brought you an umbrella.”

“Take a deep breath.”

“Be careful.”

[queenjunothegreat]

I know the last time I gave y'all a snippet from my Valgrace Hallmark fic it was sad, so have some absolutely disgusting flirting this time instead. >;3c

Leo made a comically disgusted sound. “Really? You’d put all my hard work to waste like that? I know I don’t like Audies, but she is a beautiful car. Surely you care about her a little.”

Jason involuntarily wrinkled his nose. “Uh, not exactly. Very few fond feelings about this thing, actually.”

Leo paused his work and looked up at Jason with one eyebrow cocked up. “Something tells me there’s a bit more to that story.”

Jason considered that and shrugged. “Not really. I mean, it was a gift from my dad for graduating law school. I mean, it’s a really nice car, and it’s useful when I need it, but I specifically asked him to not buy me a sports car because I don’t like driving.”

“Yeah? What did you want instead?”

“Promise you won’t make fun of me for being a rich kid?”

“You wouldn’t like me half as much as you do if I could make promises like that,” Leo countered, grinning like a shark. Jason just chuckled and dropped his gaze, seeing as he couldn’t even begin to argue. Leo poked him with the wrench in his hand. “Come on, nepo. Tell me what you asked Lawyer Santa for Christmas.”

Jason let out a heavily put-upon sigh. “Rome.”

“Rome? You asked your dad for a city and you wanted me to refrain from making fun of you?”

“No, not the whole city,” Jason corrected, rolling his eyes. “I just meant a trip. I’ve been obsessed with Ancient Rome since middle school, and I wanted to see it in person.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm. I actually went and got a tattoo when I found out my dad canceled my trip. Probably not my best decision, but I like it.”

Leo’s eyes were bright with interest. “Can I see?” Then he paused and looked at Jason suspiciously. “Wait, it’s not on your ass, is it?”

“One way to find out,” Jason quipped, reaching for his belt. When Leo turned vermillion and spluttered, he laughed. “No, it’s not on my ass. It’s on my forearm. Look.”

Jason rolled up his shirt sleeve and Leo shuffled around the car to do as he was told. Rough fingers delicately traced over the laurel design and each letter, leaving behind a grease smear and sending a shiver up Jason’s spine. “SPQR? What does that mean?”

“Senatus Populusque Romanus,” Jason recited. “It’s Latin for the Senate and People of Rome.”

“You know,” Leo said conversationally, still running his fingers over the crisp clear lines of Jason’s tattoo. “You told me I couldn’t make fun of you for being rich, but there’s one thing you forgot.”

“Yeah?” Jason asked, pretending he wasn’t starting to feel a little breathless. “And what’s that?”

Leo craned his neck to look up at him, his eyes sparkling and all of his teeth glinting like a smug crocodile. “You didn’t tell me I couldn’t make fun of you for being a fucking dork.”

Now it was Jason’s turn to splutter while he was laughed at. After a moment, Leo hip checked him and teased, “Don’t worry about it. Dork suits you. Very well, I might add.”

[myownwholewildworld]

hi! another wip wednesday, woohoo! thank you so much to @almostfoxglove and @pedgito for the tags! 💖 so i come bearing goods... this is my new brain rot baby for freya's angst challenge, which i've titled the road to rome. i am pretty deep down the rabbit hole rn doing my research on roman history (albeit with some historical licenses). hope you like this lil snippet, i'm so excited! <3

*

“We’ll use her as leverage,” his friend thought out loud.

Dread sank to the bottom of his stomach. Caesar could be… awfully creative sometimes.

His thirst for power, for notoriety, was very well known among the political sphere that surrounded Rome. Caesar had amassed gold and immense power over the last six years on Gaulish land. Julius had told Marcus in the past that this seemed to worry his allies in the First Triumvirate. With Crassus’ death last year, it was only Caesar and Pompeius Magnus who kept the political alliance intact.

But Marcus knew Julius wanted more — he’d heard his friend spoke of future plans that could hinder the Roman Republic. Those talks strayed far from what Marcus thought Caesar stood for, but they were more recurrent now, bordering on coup ideology.

Where Marcus would stand when, or if, that time came… He wasn’t so sure. He’d supported Caesar in so many of his quests and conquests, it would feel like a betrayal to the only man who believed in him.

Perhaps it’ll never come to that, he always reminded himself.

“Leverage? How so?” Marcus forced his voice to sound flat, uninspired, when, in reality, an uncomfortable feeling settled in his tummy.

“Glad you asked, Acacius,” Caesar’s smirk only reinforced his fear. “Since Crassus’ death last year, I fear my alliance with Pompeius Magnus might suffer. Although I trust my sister Julia will keep him bound and loyal, I need to ensure more allies and reinforce the ones I already have,” his friend explained, sitting up on the chaise lounge. “You are to bring the hostage to Rome. We’ll marry her off to General Marcus Antonius’ brother, Gaius.”

Dread mutated within him, rage taking over.

If there ever was a man to walk this earth whom Marcus despised, that was Gaius Antonius. One year younger than his notorious brother, the man was as despicable as one could get. A drunk philanderer, Gaius could always be found in one of two places: in a private house drinking himself to death and gambling, or in a brothel satiating his lust. The man’s manners were lacking, his ill fame well-deserved. Always so confrontational, looking for a fight to entertain himself.

Everything Marcus hated culminating in one singular person. The times they had run into each other, Gaius had always been so condescending that Marcus had to rein in the need to gut him right there and then. Antonius’ younger brother had mocked him for his humble origins, telling Marcus it didn’t matter how hard he tried, he’d always be a farmer.

So delivering a woman—any woman—to that shitbag of a man… it didn’t sit well with him at all. It would be a life sentence for you — because if you didn’t die at Gaius’ hands, you might as well wish for a quick death.

And what was worst, Caesar knew all of this, but still asked anyway.

A true friend wouldn’t, Marcus ruminated but drowned such treacherous thought.

“That would take weeks, General. With all due respect, I’ve got other responsibilities that—” Marcus started his plea, hoping to be released from such a mission.

“You’re the only man I trust, Acacius. I wouldn’t ask otherwise,” Caesar cut him off, standing up in front of him. One of his friend’s hands landed on his shoulder, gently squeezing. “I confide this assignment to you because I know you’ll get it done. Your word, Acacius?”

Marcus was between a rock and a hard place. Fear gripped him tight, his throat running dry with unspent poison pooling on his tongue.

He didn’t want to do it. But there was no way out.

“My word, Caesar,” he husked, slightly bowing his head down.

The agreement that would seal his fate.

*

npt (sorry if you've already done it and i've missed yours!): @joelmillerisapunk @baronessvonglitter @iknowisoundcrazy @inept-the-magnificent @slimybeth69 @gothcsz @yxtkiwiyxt

[whencyclopedia]

Cleopatra: The Woman Behind the Stories

"Cleopatra" by Alexandra Stewart is a beautifully illustrated children's book that introduces young readers to the real Cleopatra. It teaches readers about her exciting life as Egypt's last queen, full of glamorous parties and big battles. The book is based on cutting-edge historical and archaeological assessments of Cleopatra’s reign, making it a good resource for dispelling myths about the queen.

While Cleopatra is one of the most famous women in history, there are many myths and misconceptions about her life. This book tells the true story of Cleopatra’s life and explains popular misconceptions in a way that is understandable to young readers. It is incredibly well-researched, drawing from the research of Egyptologists like Joann Fletcher. The author’s attention to detail and commitment to accuracy make this book a good educational resource for classrooms.

Readers are introduced to Cleopatra’s world, beginning with the history of her family, the Ptolemaic dynasty, who came to Egypt from Greece. As part of the main story, it includes snippets of information about ancient Egyptian gods, life in Egypt, and Roman politics. Important historical figures like Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, Mark Antony, and Augustus make appearances in the book. Readers interested in learning ancient history, especially Egypt and Rome, will appreciate this addition to their collection.

Even as a child, Cleopatra had to outsmart her opponents to survive and hold onto her rightful place as queen. As she grew up, she dedicated her life to protecting Egypt’s independence. Her reign was dominated by constant wars, plots, and disasters. However, it was also full of joy, love, and hope. Cleopatra’s love of study, her courage, and her cleverness make her a powerful role model for young readers.

Hannah Peck’s charming illustrations appeal to both adults and children. The double-page spreads are colorful, detailed, and historically accurate. Ancient cities, festive banquets, and epic battles are conveyed through sweeping paintings. Many illustrations appear to be based directly on real places and art from ancient Egypt. Simple timelines and maps help kids to understand where and when the story takes place.

Cleopatra is portrayed as she is depicted in surviving ancient art. These more historically accurate illustrations look very different from Cleopatra’s appearance in movies, which may surprise some readers. The book explains the confusion surrounding Cleopatra’s appearance in its opening so that readers are not confused. Throughout the book, she appears in various costumes, dressing like a Greek goddess, a Pharaoh, or an exiled fugitive.

There have been many books intended to debunk myths about Cleopatra, and this is one of the best recent offerings. Although it is intended for young readers, it might also interest adults who prefer shorter, more easily digestible books that can be consumed in a single sitting. Around 30 pages long, it covers almost every aspect of Cleopatra’s life, leaving readers with a surprisingly complete understanding. It is easy to understand without being overly simplified. A small glossary at the end of the book explains unfamiliar terms.

Parents should be aware that the book contains some difficult themes, including brief mentions of death and suicide, which may need to be explained to very young children. Its complexity and seriousness make it a better choice for older children. However, it should be noted that mature subject matter is handled sensitively and age-appropriately and is only included where necessary to describe major historical events.

Alexandra Stewart is an author and librarian who writes history books for children. She studied modern history at Oxford University before becoming a news reporter. Since retiring from journalism, she has written several illustrated history books including Everest and Jumbo: The Most Famous Elephant Who Ever Lived. Hannah Peck is an illustrator of fiction and nonfiction for children and adults.

Read More

⇒ Cleopatra: The Woman Behind the Stories

[welcometololaland]

(i know it's not a wip-day, please don't yell at me, this is just to encourage myself).

The pause on the other end of the line tells Henry that Pez hasn’t revealed his masterplan to Bea. “You left Pez in Rome?”

“Why would I leave him?” Henry asks, perplexed. “He left me. He’s probably on an extravagant yacht in Mallorca, embroiled in a bridge tournament with several incredibly wealthy Spanish women.”

“That’s very specific.”

“But terribly on brand,” Henry insists. “In any case, he didn’t tell me where he was going, only that he wanted me to get out of my comfort zone.”

“Oh, I’ll kill him with my bare hands,” Bea threatens, which Henry hates to admit is incredibly endearing. “He left you alone?”

“Well, not alone..."

“He left you with a stranger?!”

“Sort of,” Henry says quickly. “Although, I must admit that—”

“Are you being held against your will, Henry? Because you should—”

“What? No, Bea, I’m fine.”

“I’ve seen ‘Taken’,” Bea says seriously. “I know how this goes.”

“Bea, I promise you,” Henry repeats. “If Alex is in the human trafficking business, he’s atrocious at his job. He can barely read a train timetable and he doesn’t know a single word of French.”

“Is French really necessary for human trafficking?” Bea asks, apparently still confused. Henry doesn’t blame her, he’s still a little confused by the Alex situation.

“It is if you’re in France.”

“Right,” Bea says, apparently still unconvinced. “I think you better explain.”

just tagging in my angels @rmd-writes and @celeritas2997 in case they're interested to read &lt;3

[pedritosgirl2000]

A snippet of what’s to come

You weren’t supposed to meet him. You aren’t supposed to be here. This is wrong but it feels like it was meant to be like- like it was destiny.

You see him now, a man stripped from his title and thrown to the lions den. The man you had met when he was the feared, powerful general, now fights for his life in the colosseum.

You aren’t supposed to be here. You don’t belong here.

Rome 211 AD is not where you belong.

[bluelolblue]

Biscuit

Summary: Santino found an abandoned puppy and decided to take her home. He named her Biscotti, and she quickly became a new family member, getting along with Dog and Santino's husband and bodyguard, John.

Rating: Teen, lots of fluff

Relationship: Santino D'Antonio/John Wick

Note: This fic is a gift for my dog Lara, for her birthday! I decided to write this because I needed something wholesome, and because I also think Lara wouldn't want any dog to be abandoned. They all deserve a nice home. This fic also means a lot to me, I put some of Lara's characteristics into Biscotti, and I think it really fits her and how Santino and John handle everything. They love dogs so why not give them a little fluffy puppy ^ ^

☆ SPECIAL THANKS TO @mrssimply ☆ for beta reading and helping out with it! I'm so glad you enjoyed it and got to read it first ehehe!

Enjoy Santino and John being dog parents :3

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ૮ ᴖﻌᴖა ｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Snippet

“When are you coming back?”

“Tomorrow afternoon, probably. I settled things down here,” John said through the phone. He was sent to Italy to do one of Santino's jobs. Why should the Crime Lord himself get his hands dirty when he had a loyal bodyguard... who was also his husband who would die for him?

“Good, I can't wait. There's something I want to show you.”

John could tell Santino was smiling even through the phone. He didn’t often hear that soft tone over the phone so he was actually really curious to know what made him this happy.

“Did you do something?” John asked, smiling to himself. Usually when Santino was being honest he sounded like this, meaning John could indeed expect something. Probably something good.

“No… kinda. You'll see.”

“Alright. I'm looking forward to whatever it is,” John said, “And I can't wait to see you.”

He could hear a faint chuckle and what he assumed was Dog whining playfully in the background. Although, it sounded a bit more high pitched.

“Can't wait to see you, too. Be careful on your last day there. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

What could've Santino done in one day? John knew him pretty well, he was married to him, he knew his habits, his mood, everything. And he knew how sometimes Santino could be unpredictable, but that never changed the way John felt about him.

He was thinking about Santino the whole day, he couldn't wait to return back home and see whatever Santino had been preparing. He missed Dog, too.

Thankfully, he could rest today at the Continental in Rome. He’d done what he had to do, there shouldn't be any problems, he could allow himself to rest.

He took a nap so that time flew faster, and that nap turned into a full deep sleep which was good. However at some point at 2 am he was awakened by a notification on his phone, and it was from Santino.

He sent a picture of Dog curled up on the bed on John's side, followed by a text, “He misses you and wishes you good night.”

Read the rest on ao3

[itwasntimethatdidit40]

Wip Wednesday

Thanks for the tag @arcanefox207 ❤️

Hey, it's me, here we go again with the same fic I'm writing since forever LOL It's the one for @mushgloomz's PPCU SMUT writing challenge.

I swear I'll finish it sooner or later, it's becoming the most self indulgent thing I've ever written.

Marcus A. is your neighbor, you both live in Rome and a particular event pushes you to ask him what you always wanted: a date with him 😏

Here's another snippet:

The buzz bounces off the walls like a swarm of crazy bees. You can't hear a single thought in your head, but it's all too much fun. Especially the way the big man takes your orders, commenting on your beauty, winking at Marcus, laughing cheerfully as he encourages you to speak Italian. He's loud and friendly, like the rest of the place around him. He returns after a few minutes with a carafe of house wine and a basket of warm, fragrant bread that fills your nostril in the most delicious way. You and Marcus laugh a lot, chat about your week, and finish your pasta dishes quickly. You're not drunk, but you definitely feel intoxicated by him. When he looks at you with those brown eyes, you feel like you're swimming in them, like in a lustful, sweet fountain of chocolate.

npt: @milla-frenchy @aurorawritestoescape @baronessvonglitter @thedilfdiaries @gothcsz @thundermartini @slimybeth69 @probablyreadinsmut @nonbinairyboi @cas-readsandwrites @whocaresstillthelouvre @sizzlingcloudmentality @guiltyasdave @myownwholewildworld @almostempty @604to647 @yxtkiwiyxt and anyone who wants to share something, consider yourself tagged by me! 🌺

[demigod-shenanigans]

Jason, Piper and Leo trying to play one of these elementary school jump rope games on the Argo 2

I was trying to figure out how to write this as a snippet however it’s been ages since I myself have last done a jump rope game and it turns out I have no idea what I’m doing so I hope it’s okay in headcanon/summary form instead! The good news is that way it’s gonna be a bit longer which I hope will be nice :)

-This is most definitely happening on the way from Camp Half-Blood to New Rome. Everyone’s got a lot of nervous energy and there is so much riding on all this and also Leo and Piper are about to meet Jason’s first family/former friends for the first time and everyone is stressed about it!

-Piper initially suggests it as a way for them to distract themselves and get some excess energy out. Leo is immediately down. Jason is just confused because he’s never done jump rope games before and asks if it’s a training exercise. Piper and Leo just stare at him

-Alternatively, if Jason is just pacing/wanting to be alone for a bit pre getting to New Rome, maybe Leo and Piper are doing it on their own at first (potentially like a Buddy Jumping thing where they both hold one end of the rope and try to jump synchronized. They’re very bad at it) and Jason eventually walks in on this and just stands there being all ????

-I think they have children’s games in New Rome to be clear I just don’t think jump rope is that common (also even if it was, Jason probably wouldn’t remember it due to the whole wiped memories incident combined with him being a child soldier/terminal workaholic)

-Either way, Leo promptly declares it’s his and Piper’s Sacred Duty to teach Jason jump rope games until they get to New Rome to help distract him

-Also for the record they’re not using an actual jump rope. Someone would have had to pack that and no one did. They’re using whatever kind of workshop rope Leo’s tool belt gave them when prompted.

-Piper and Leo swing for a bit and at first they’re really baffled that Jason seems to be way too good at this for someone who’s never done it before, until one of them is like hang on and suddenly notices Jason is just. Floating slightly above the ground so that’s why he has no trouble avoiding the swinging rope

-Jason does not understand what he’s doing wrong since he thought the point was just to avoid the rope. They explain it again and Jason is like “oh okay so it’s like a leg exercise thing I get it now” Leo has his head in his hands going “it’s not a training exercise dude it’s just for fun!”

-Jason is way worse now and also comments at least once that actually this isn’t even fun but he does kind of enjoy it and also just appreciates the distraction (he does totally still think of it as a sort of training exercise but honestly that probably just means he enjoys it more for that reason. Not that he’ll admit that to Leo and Piper tho)

-When Piper and Jason swing the rope for Leo, Leo keeps insisting that Jason use the winds to make the rope go faster because he’s good at this and wants to show off. It does not end well. Piper actually does better than Leo and he is very grumpy about it

-By the end of this whole thing they’re all in a heap on the floor tangled in the rope but they’re also laughing so that was totally worth it

[hannahssimblr]

I’m running again. It is the hottest day of the year, with the sun blazing down on me, but I’m running anyway, because this is what I do. It's become the pattern of my life. I sleep like shit. I get up, I run, I shower, and then I sleep the afternoon away. 

This morning at six, I talked to Alison. She was in the airport, crying in a bathroom stall. 

“It’s so weird that literally nobody knows I’m here,” she said. “The last time I left the country was for our school tour to Rome, can you imagine? That now I’m doing this?”

“You’re going to be okay,” I said, though I didn’t really know it to be true. How could I? Who am I to even say that to her, as if I could ever be sure? As if I am a person capable of making anything okay. I think that all I ever did was fail her, and she is alone and scared today, so I am failing her again. 

“I would have come with you,” I told her, in a voice that sounded weak and pathetic to my own ears. 

“I didn’t think I wanted you to, but now I do,” her sob echoed off the bathroom tiles. “Now that I’m here, I don’t want to be on my own anymore.”

“I can still come,” I said, but it was a lie. It was too late. I suppose that’s always been the nature of our relationship. I’ve acted too late, and reached her when the damage has already been done. 

For the rest of my life, I’ll think of Alison and feel regret. Her face and that feeling, intertwined forever. 

When we hung up, I stared out at the sea for a long time, the gentle pull of the tide, felt the heat of the sun that poured in the window that reminded me I was real and alive, then I put on my shoes and went for a run. 

It’s a day for swimming, not for running. The sea is still and glasslike today, clear turquoise and gently washing over the shore, as seagulls draw lazy circles overhead. I will swim, just not now, not while there are still heavy thoughts in my head. 

It seems I am the only person in town stupid enough to run on a day like this. I know sunbathers are watching me as I go, and I catch snippets of their incredulous remarks. “What is he at?” someone mutters to his friend. “He’ll be dead before he gets to the end of the beach, I’d say.”

I might be. Within minutes, my t-shirt clings to my body and sweat from my hair dribbles into my eyes. It stings. I wipe my brow with my arm, which is salty with sweat and unhelpful, so I commit to partial blindness for the rest of the run, kept on track by the slash of shore to my right. 

The beach is a blur of colour. Towels scatter the sand, and the vague suggestion of parasols jut above the masses of flesh coloured blobs, but the shape of her is unmistakable. She’s coming in my direction with her phone to her ear, ambling along the strip of damp sand the tide washed earlier. I can’t hear what she’s saying. There’s too much noise, but she hangs up abruptly as soon as I reach her. 

“Hi, Evie!” I wipe my brow again and act casual about my atrocious sweat patches. 

“Oh, hey! I didn’t know it was you.”

“Just out for a walk?”

“Yeah, enjoying the sun.”

“Same here. Hot, isn’t it? Sorry, I’m so sweaty.” Perhaps drawing direct attention to it will lessen the awkwardness, but then again, maybe it will make it all worse. What if, somehow, she hadn’t noticed until I pointed it out? 

She smiles sweetly. “I suppose that’s what happens when you go running in a heatwave.”

“I know. There’s no escaping it, though. It’s just been hot all the time lately.” I glance toward the sea. “At least I can swim after it. The water looks so nice.”

“Yeah, it’s lovely. I’ve been getting in three times a day.”

I smirk at her. I should ask her if this is some kind of competition, or if she just likes to brag about all the swims she takes. It would be funny, but now I think I’ve left it too long, and saying it now, after such a long pause, would make it seem like I have thought too much about it. I think I actually have thought too much about it. I look down at my feet, and a bead of sweat darkens the sand in front of me. 

“Hey, I’m sorry I didn’t… I didn’t, um, text you after that night we went to the graveyard.”

A smile. “Oh, no, well, I didn’t expect you to, like I wasn’t waiting for a message or anything. It’s fine.”

“I know. I just said that I would when I was free and I didn’t. I’ve been kind of distracted the last couple of weeks.”

“It’s okay, I understand! I get like that sometimes, too.”

“I just have a bad habit of saying I’ll do something and then not doing it, like, I’m a flake. I hope you weren’t waiting to hear from me.”

She tosses her air over her shoulder and laughs breezily. “No way. I didn’t notice. Don’t worry, I honestly do that all the time. Things just get in the way.”

I am desperate to get out of my sweaty clothes. The sea calls to me like a siren. “Well, if you want, we can hang out now. Are you busy today?”

“No, I’m free.”

“Okay, well, do you feel like a swim?”

 She frowns. “Right now?” 

“Why not? Yeah.”

“Oh, well, I don’t have my togs with me at the moment.”

“Me neither. I was going to go in naked.”

She blushes. “Wha- oh, um, really?” 

Bad joke. Maybe I should put more considered practice into shutting up. “No.” I pinch the hem of my polyester shorts. “I’ll just wear these. They kind of double up as running shorts. Look, you don’t have to if you don’t have anything to swim in. I just thought I’d ask. Maybe we can hang out later if you don’t have-”

“No!” She cuts me off in such a frenzy that I blink, surprised. “Just give me a sec. I’ll run up to the mobile and grab my togs, just… just wait here.”

Without giving me a second to respond, she sprints up the beach, sand flying behind her in cartoonish clouds. I watch her go all the way to the end of the beach, where the tiny figure of her scrambles up the side of a steep dune and leaps over a fence, gone from sight within seconds. 

I wait for her by the shore, my body too tired to do anything but sit and pick handfuls of sand from the ground. I could just get into the sea and swim now, but going in without her feels like a betrayal. She might want to do something competitive and race me anyway, and I might like to let her. 

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