#and it's just. a lovely experience to get to know him and feel him in small pockets of time even if that's all we get. yknow?

[lighting-and-shadow]

Ikigai, Part 8

Summary: You’re desperately in love with a man who already belongs to another.

Ikigai (n.) (Japanese): "A reason for being," the thing that gets you up in the morning.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7

The walk to Sylus’ room is reminiscent of one to the gallows. You’ve seen those walks in people’s souls, how each step makes their throat tighten more and how they seem to mentally wait for each heartbeat to come. Like every step or every breath or ever beat is going to be their last.

That’s the only way you can think of to describe how you feel right now. A place that once meant safety and comfort to you has been tainted. It’s been warped, smeared, and destroyed in a way that a you from a few weeks ago would’ve never imagined.

Because now, you’re walking there with fear. Fear of Sylus of all people. Your partner in crime. Your confidant. Your closest friend. Your Morana.

You don’t want to think of him this way. Far from it. But Miss Hunter’s words, her shaky tone and fidgety hands, make you this way. The chaos of emotions in her threads make you this way. Everything about how she was when describing her time with Sylus make you this way.

Modification of her Evol.

You know very well what those words mean. You know what it looks like, feels like. You know all of this because it’s woven into her soul.

And her own soulmate tried to do that to her. Tried to split her open. Try to warp her and smear her and destroy what makes her her.

Rage and betrayal and whole other slew of emotions boil up inside of you. Each step makes you wonder when you’ll explode, when you’ll break from all of this.

You try to combat this with each breath. Each deep, hard-fought, breath. You try to embrace a wave of calm, to tamper down the craziness and be who you normally are: in control.

Nothing helps. Nothing works. And before you know it, you’re knocking at that accursed bedroom door.

Since when am I so polite with him?

A weak laugh escapes your lips. You stifle it down the moment the door begins to open.

Sylus is disheveled, an odd sight for someone who can look put together even in the middle of a gun fight. He just stares at you. His eyes refuse to leave yours, as if you’ll vanish if he so much as blinks.

It’s awkward, strained. An uncomfortable atmosphere that hasn’t been between you two in years. You can’t stand it.

“May I come in? I believe we have some things to discuss.”

Sylus says nothing. He looks deeply uncomfortable. It’s subtle, something most wouldn’t notice. But you’ve known him far too long. The slight flicker in his eyes down to the way he walks tells you everything. He’s off. He’s lost.

Not that you’re much different. Your tone earlier was cold, professional, and distant. Entirely lacking the usual playfulness or joy you’d have from simply interacting with Sylus.

You quickly step in his room once he moves aside for you. You don’t spare Sylus a glance. Any further looks would just deter you from your task.

This cannot go on.

Sylus’ treatment of Miss Hunter weighs on you. If you thought it was bad before, it’s far, far, worse now. Experiments? Changing her Evol? Scaring her so much she subconsciously rejects her own soulmate?

It’s arguable the worst start to any love story you’ve ever heard or seen. And you have more experience with that than anyone. You see them in every thread. You hear them in every soul.

All except mine.

You stare at Sylus’ empty bed to distract yourself from that rabbit hole of emotions, one you’re familiar with. You walk towards the bed. But you don’t sit on it. Rather, you just trace mindless patterns into the sheets to calm yourself.

Eventually, you turn to face the man whose room you stand in. Sylus stands with his back on the door. The lock is turned shut. And his arms are crossed, as if he’s shielding himself from you.

Since when were you two like this: weary and afraid of one another? After the argument today? After the one a few days ago? When Miss Hunter arrived? Or was it always there, brewing silently beneath your soft touches and charming smiles?

Whatever the case, you’ve never quite felt such distance from Sylus. You stand in the same room you two have shared for god knows how long, looking right at each other. And yet, you couldn’t be farther apart.

You tap your fingers on the bed like you did the night before Miss Hunter arrived. Tap. Tap. Tap. It’s the only sound that fills your ears until Sylus finally speaks.

“Can I explain now?”

To anyone else, his tone would be calm, demanding, and dripping with that usual hint of arrogance that he has. To you, he practically begs. Screams, even.

He only does that rarely. Like earlier today during your argument after your collapse. Which, given that specific context, made sense. Sylus was out of rhythm. His emotions were chaotic. He does care for you, after all. And you had just screamed your lungs out and passed out in front of him.

Who wouldn’t be shaken by that even a little?

You think over your next words for a moment, pushing that memory of your mind. What is there to explain? You’ve heard everything from Miss Hunter. You know what he tried to do.

Old wounds open up the more you think about it. The pinpricks of needles. Your home becoming a revolving door of doctors when you had no sign of a soulmate by age 10. The increasing prevailing sense of something being wrong with you the longer it went on.

They’re phantom pains, echoes of a past that only emerges when you sleep. They’re ghosts you tell no one about. They’re wounds that only you have ever dressed.

What was done to you was done in good faith. Much like what Sylus did. You could see it in his soul, see it in his thread. And it told you he wanted her to remember. He wanted his sorceress back at any cost.

But you wanted here his words. His interpretations and thoughts from his own mouth.

“Go ahead,” you gesture with your hand.

So Sylus does explain. Just not what you thought he would.

He goes into detail about his deal with Miss Hunter. About the brooch. About her search. About the twins and their pranks. About everything.

You look at him with scrutinizing eyes. You don’t search his soul; you have no need to.

In him, you find the truth and only the truth. You find no deception, no hidden meanings, nothing. It’s probably the most honest he’s been with you since Miss Hunter’s arrival.

“I never even had the brooch on me,” he chuckles a bit before he continues. “I don’t know why she ever thought I did.”

“Then where is it?”

“In your favorite book. On page 70. You know the scene.”

You absolutely do know the scene. It makes you smile even in this moment.

“Seriously? How on Earth do you expect her to know anything about my taste in literature?”

“You two spend so much time together I figured you were “besties” by now,” he says the words a great amount of sarcasm that makes you relax a bit.

It’s not much. But, you lean into the familiarity.

“Besides. Even if she didn’t know the significance of the book, I thought I’d do her a favor and introduce her to something good to read. She claims to be bored during her time here, and I wanted to be a more gracious host.”

You snort at his comment. Sylus tilts his head at you.

“What?”

You want to say, ”A gracious host? After kidnapping her and threatening her and almost turning her into a lab rat for the second time in her current life?” But you shake your head and say nothing.

Sylus seems to brush it off. His eyes soften and he takes a step towards you. When you don’t move away, he comes even closer, standing beside the foot of the bed while you stand in the same position next to the head.

“That’s all there is to what you saw. It wasn’t,” he pauses for a moment, searching for the words. “It wasn’t anything like you thought it was. Just a series of… interesting events.”

You just nod once more, turning your head to the bed again. You go back to tracing patterns in it, trying to rally yourself for the real conversation.

“Gamayun?”

You give him a quiet hum, but you don’t look up at him. You trace words into the bed, words from the scene of the book he placed the brooch in. They comfort you.

“Say something?”

You say nothing.

“What’s got you so quiet? Normally you talk my ear off, even when I’m being a fool.”

You make a hasty drag against the sheets, and the irritating sound that follows shocks both of you.

“Because I’m not here about what you just talked about and you know it.”

Or, at least, he should know it. He should know that him taking Miss Hunter to Philip is why you’re here. He should know why you’re so angry about him doing that. He should know.

He should know because he knows you were the one to find the twins. Two boys in agony, one covered in crystals. Children suffering because of selfish adults. Just like Sylus did. Just like Miss Hunter did. Just like you did.

The logical part of you knows that his goals for what he did weren’t anything like the ones that got the twins in that state. But, the other part of you, the one that made you come here, won’t listen.

That part of you remembers all those doctors. It remembers the padded rooms and the repeated cycles of accusations. It remembers the fear. It remembers the pain. And it remembers when you finally decided to run from all that.

That part of you is loud. It’s loud, it’s obnoxious, and it wants to cry. It wants to shed vicious tears and wretched sobs. But it doesn’t. It can’t. Because it wasn’t listened to in the past.

Why would this time be any different?

Because Sylus isn’t them, you remind yourself.

He’d listen to you. He has to listen to you. Sylus is a flawed man, not a monster. He’s a desperate and flawed man who just wants the love of all his lives back. He’s a desperate and flawed man who made a mistake.

And he has to know that, right?

“Than why are you here right now, my sweet Gamayun? Surely not to repeat the earlier interesting series of events? Or maybe go even further?”

“You’re deflecting,” you say immediately.

His usual jokes don’t make you flustered. Instead, they make you angrier as he avoids what you need yet again.

“That’s not an answer, sweetie.”

Something in you snaps. Maybe it’s the use of an old nickname. Maybe it’s due to another deflection. Maybe it’s both.

Either the case, you finally address the dreadful elephant in the room, “Why did you bring her to Philip?”

You ask because you want him to admit it himself. Hearing him say the words, the man you’ve loved for over a year, rather than Miss Hunter, the soulmate of said man, will makes things clearer.

Maybe it’ll undo the knot in your stomach and the dread that courses through your veins. Maybe his explanation will make the phantom needles go away, and drown out the screams of your precious boys.

Part of you knows that neither will happen. The other, more optimistic and the one that clings to your love, begs for something otherwise.

All that hopes drains away when you see the color leave Sylus’ face. His color seeps away at the same pace as your fleeting hope.

Oh God, what did you do, Sylus?

Miss Hunter didn’t give you any details. You can only speculate. But with this severe of reaction, especially coming from Sylus (who’s done a lot of questionable shit that he knows you’d never judge him for), you’re not sure you can handle the answer.

Miss Hunter avoiding your questions and looking apprehensive to tell you anything is one thing. Sylus doing it is a whole other can of worms. You steel your heart for whatever happens next.

“We weren’t resonating. I thought there was a problem with her. There isn’t, so we left.”

It’s about the same thing she told you. Enough to give you the gist. Enough to explain her fear and her discomfort. But not enough to explain Sylus’. Not nearly enough, given everything he’s seen and been through in both of his lives.

So you push, “Did you two rehearse your excuses, or did you both conveniently give me the same nonsense in hopes I wouldn’t press? Whatever the case, you ought to practice lying to me better.”

Sylus appears unaffected by your words. You, of course, know better. The slight knit of his brows, the way he holds himself and leans a tad more to one side. He’s so obvious to you that it’s painful.

“You really going to lie to me again, Sylus? After what happened last time?”

That full on makes him flinch. Your heart wavers as a result. That was a low blow. You both know that. And yet, you can’t back down. Because all you can see in your mind’s eye is the twins.

Luke trying to claw at his face, to etch in the same scars his brother carries. Kieran forcing himself to grow up even more as a result of that instability. The way they would both duck from mirrors, or even flat out shatter them, during those first few days.

Dozens and dozens of memories like that just sit in your mind. A weight unlike any weight you’ve ever carried. It festers there. It seeps into your veins, into your heart, and into your words.

You can’t escape it.

“What exactly are accusing us of, sweetie? Be specific. You how I hate to beat around the bush, and waste time.”

You do. And that’s exactly why you’re the negotiator of this business and not him.

Soon, she will take that place. Soon, I’ll need a new role in a new place.

“Is there anything in particular I should be accusing you of?” You counter.

“Not in my mind,” he glances you over from head to toe. “But that seems to be the case in your mind.”

A smirk crosses his lips. It’s not one of humor.

He words hit you to the core.

“That’s not an answer,” you shakily manage to get out.

“Well, if my answers aren’t satisfactory, maybe you can give me a direct question? As you say, it’s harder to avoid something if there’s no room to do so.”

That stupid smirk is still there. His eyes are still cold, colder than you’ve ever seen them directed at you.

“Did you or did you not hurt her?” You tone gets firmer the more you speak.

Sylus’ expression changes again. Not to one of humor or playfulness or anger like you expected. No, the Sylus before you was none of those right now.

He was betrayed.

“Who exactly do you think I am?”

“I don’t know!” You finally raise your voice despite all efforts not to. “I don’t know… why do you think I’m here? I need answers, Sylus. I need conformation that I’m missing something and that you didn’t do what I think you did.”

You pause for a moment, choking on your own words and emotions, “I need the truth from you. Please. I need the truth about this at the very least.”

Sylus says nothing for a moment. And you worry that this’ll be a rehash of your first fight. The fight that broke you. The fight that drove you away.

“My relationship to her isn’t your problem.”

Suddenly, you feel sick. But then, Sylus finally says something and you chase that nausea away, kicking it down with your professionalism.

“I want her gone,” he says with an odd amount of levity. “She isn’t worth the trouble she’s causing, so I pushed my plans forward ahead of schedule.”

You don’t entirely know what to say to that.

“Pardon?” You laugh a deranged laugh. “You brought her here. Why ever would you want her gone now after no progress on what ever it is that you need from her?”

“Like I said: she isn’t worth the effort. And I refuse to waste my time on useless things.”

“Useless? You have the gall, the absolute audacity, to call her useless?”

You aren’t yelling, despite how much you want to be. And that want gets stronger the amused Sylus appears.

“Why do you care so much about her, sweetie? She’s my guest, not yours.”

”Because she’s your soulmate. Because she’s the key to your happiness,” is what you want to say.

Instead, what comes out is, “Because I’ve become quite attached to her. And I find your attitude towards her appalling.”

“Of course you would, sweetie,” his voice gets quieter and softer. “Of course you would.”

Sylus gets close to you, putting his fingers beneath your chin and tilting your head upwards. You don’t resist; in fact, you embrace the small touch as much as possible.

“Because you have such a bleeding heart.”

You roll your eyes at him. Normally, Sylus says that to tease you. Like on negotiations where you spare the business partner in question. Or when you talk him down from simply killing his opponent and into seeing their usefulness. Or any of the numerous times you’ve brought in a stray animal and nursed it back to health.

He always says it in a teasing tone, almost mocking. But now, he says it with fondness.

Or love, your delusional and desperate brain says.

As soon as that thought cross your mind, you take a step back. Sylus immediately releases his hold on your chin, disappointment flashing across his face. Or, at least, that’s what you think you see.

“My heart aside,” you say to calm yourself and get your heart to stop racing. “That doesn’t change the fact that your behavior towards her has been reprehensible. Deplorable, even.”

“Why are so obsessed with her, Gamayun? Should I be jealous? She’s been tearing us apart just by being here. Don’t tell me she’s gone even further…”

He says it with jest and usual nonchalant attitude. But something in you tells you there’s more to it.

“Because of my bleeding heart, as you say,” you smile a bit before going back to a more serious expression. “And the fact that you two seem to hold so many secrets that I’m not privy too despite your less than stellar relationship.”

Suddenly, something in Sylus changes. You can’t quite put your finger on it, other than the fact that you strangely feel like prey. Like he’s hunting you or something like that. You’re on your guard. You’re waiting for him to strike.

Sylus lets out a bitter laugh. “You’re not being truthful with me either, sweetie.”

That makes you pause.

“This isn’t about me.”

“Isn’t it?” He takes a step closer to you, the smirk on his lips thinning and his expression shifting to a more softer one.

You don’t know exactly what’s in that smirk. Anger? Bitterness? Hurt?

Hatred? Annoyance? Grief? your thoughts whisper before you can shut them down.

“No, it isn’t.”

“Sure, sweetie,” he’s surprisingly genuine and not sarcastic with his tone. “Sure it isn’t.”

“What in the world are you going on about this time?”

Fear drips into your words. You hope it isn’t noticeable. But judging by Sylus’ face, you didn’t succeed.

I’ve lost my touch.

Being so utterly emotional for the past few days has done this to you. Made cracks in your armor that show more and more with every passing second.

Sylus reaches for you again. And you, again, accept the touch. He cradles you head, hands delicately cupping your face, thumbs rubbing your cheeks in a way he knows soothes you.

Foolish man and his foolish tenderness when you’re supposed to be angry at him.

“Your obsession with her. I’ve never seen you act this way.”

You’ve never seen me try to mend the bond between someone I love and their soulmate before. But, hey, there’s a first time for everything?

“I am not obsessed. I do not do obsessed.”

Sylus frowns. You’re the one doing the deflecting now. You’re the one using humor as a distraction now.

“Than what you call all this?” He keeps stroking your cheeks with a featherlight touch.

“Care? Empathy? Because, as you know, I have a bleeding heart.”

It’s getting harder to keep your tone light. You hope that your voice never wavers. You pray that Sylus doesn’t notice how your skin warms from embarrassment or how fast your heart rate is.

You can’t even look him the eyes. And you struggle with all your might not to squirm.

“Your bleeding heart has never gone this far. Nor made you this mad at me,” the chuckle he lets out at the end of his sentence is bitter, but his eyes are still as sweet as ever.

Every statement Sylus makes feels like he’s ripping you open more and more. Like the claws of the fiend he was has made their way around the individual bones of your ribcage and is slowly but surely prying them open. It’s like he wants to expose your heart to the world.

Your brain is beginning to fog. Your mouth is beginning to dry. And the urge to run from here is getting heavier and heavier. Your feet are glued to the ground, and at the same time, they feel like they want to take flight.

When was the last time I felt this way? When I was still back home? At the jewelry store? Or maybe my old bar job?

“Well, most people I deal with are people of the N109 Zone. They’re far more secretive and, how do you and the twins put it, murderous than little Miss Hunter.”

You speak in hopes of cutting off your own horrible train of thought. It doesn’t work very well.

So you keep talking, “Speaking of Miss Hunter, I’m no closer to having an earthly idea of why she’s here. And whatever plans you have with her seem sloppy for your standards. I’d give them negative reviews. Maybe that’s why you didn’t share them with me?”

Another crack in your armor shows with your final teasing question. A crack that Sylus sees judging by how he takes his hands off your face and a step away from you.

“Than I’ll share my ideas with you to get some feedback for a better showing next time.”

You consider your words. Because this is your chance. Your chance to be in the know. The chance to know the truth. The chance to hear from Sylus’ own lips about why he brought this woman here.

But, you’ll also have to hear about their connection. Their past. And their future as soulmates.

You couldn’t hear that. You can barely think about it and see the proof with your own eyes everyday. Hearing it… well, that’s another story.

If he had offered this before their bond, you would’ve taken it. Jumped for joy, even. But you can’t now.

I can’t hear you say that you two are soulmates. I can’t hear you talk about your destined love and what that means for your future. I can’t.

Because hearing that means I can’t lie to myself any longer.

Hearing Sylus’ conformation means you take away that last layer of protection you have, that last bit of lies you tell yourself. Because you’ve know for years what the threads you see mean. You’ve confirmed it several times since you first saw them at age 7.

But, with Sylus, sometimes you cling to thought of being wrong. Of not seeing what you think you’re seeing. His words are all that it would take for that temporary peace to come crashing down.

Who in their right mind would do that to themselves?

“No. After all, I’m just a lowly actress in this show of ours. I’m no director.”

“Oh, you are no actress, Gamayun. If anything, you’re my director and writer. I’m merely here to finance whatever your heart desires to create. So, let us discuss our visions for Miss Hunter, and draw up a new episode this season.”

“I’d rather you consider this my resignation from that role into a new one. Because acting is starting to sound more appealing.”

Sylus pulls back. His face falls, and lets out a deep sigh that shakes you to your core.

“Than what do you want from me, Gamayun?” He pulls you close again, your head resting on his chest. “I’m so tired of fighting with you over something, someone, so trivial.”

Tired.

That one words carries so much weight. It seeps into your lonely soul.

It’s exactly how you feel. How all that’s happened recently has made you feel. How all the secrets and the soulmates and the unrequited love has made you feel.

You’ve been tired for years. For so long you no longer know what “rest” really feels like.

Tired of loving a world that would reject you in a second. Tired of holding it together. Tired of lying.

And maybe that’s why you did what you did. Maybe that’s why you hurt Sylus. Because you’re tired of always being the one to run.

People in your life drifted from you, yes. But it was always you that had to put the final nail in the coffin of your relationships.

So maybe that’s why you’re so tired. And maybe you wanted to make Sylus tired. Tired of you. So tired of you and your shit that he just turns his back on you permanently.

Tired.

“I’m tired too,” is all you can muster at the moment.

You pull back from Sylus. But not for long. As soon as you slip out of his embrace, you sit on his bed and pat the place beside you. He sits down immediately.

The way you two sit, facing each other and knocking knees together, reminds you of the position you and Miss Hunter sat in not too long ago. It warms you heart in an ironic and bitter way.

But you chase those thoughts away to focus. Focus on Sylus and focus on what you need to do right now. You take his hand, giving it light squeeze, before you look him directly in the eyes and begin speaking.

“I’m sorry,” it’s hard to get the words out, not out of pride, but out of pain. ��For pulling away. For being so hostile earlier. For saying… no, threatening to leave you. And for not trusting you.”

For hurting you, and doing that so you’d chase me away. For making you believe I could just abandon you. For being jealous of you finding your destined love. For acting like a complete ass. For being hurt by some silly words.

I’m so sorry, my Morana.

“I’m sorry too.”

“For?” You press him, despite the discomfort on his face.

“For the lying. For what I said when you confronted me. For not telling you about my plans to bring Miss Hunter here. For not telling of my plans with—“

“You don’t need to apologize for that.”

The shock on Sylus’ face is evident. Even if he doesn’t completely show it.

“I’m not entitled to every little thing in your life. Just as you aren’t mine. We both need to learn to be okay with that.”

You pause before continuing, “And we both are entitled to space whenever we want and for however we want. Just as long as we communicate things.”

Sylus just nods. He squeezes your hand tighter. His eyes have his signature glimmer back. One so uniquely Sylus you don’t know how to describe it.

My selfishness dulled that glimmer.

As you and Sylus just talk for a bit, you think to yourself about your new plan.

I can’t just leave. And even with Miss Hunter as my replacement, I need a better idea for my departure. Somewhere away from the two of them, but with ties to my current life so that there’s no suspicion._  An idea hits you: Onychinus has many connections, many of which you forged yourself.

Kai did always want to recruit me. Maybe I’ll finally take her up on the offer?

Author's Note: Also, please go to the original blurb to ask to be added to the taglist (it's impossible for me to keep checking every part every time I update).

2nd Author's Note: Do you prefer long chapters or short chapters? This story will be pretty long regardless, i just want to see what people prefer.

3rd Author's Note: Ikigai, Fun Fact = I originally was going to make this a one shot (and then plot ran away after breaking my kneecaps) and one where Reader didn't realize they were dating the entire time (but I wanted Sylus to suffer more, so I just made them very touchy, but with a line in the sand).

Taglist: @eolivy, @rafayelridesfisheatsfish, @animegamerfox, @jasperjokester, @schrodingerskimdokja, @just--crys, @snowdynasty, @shi-thats-kiera, @mansonofmadness, @dwuclvr, @ameilli, @katiedoesstuff101, @everythingistaken00, @napa-the-yappa, @hanaluxx, @lovesick-sylus, @tenaciouszombiewombat, @ladyparamount, @applepi405, @midnight-reverie, @69-gojos-wife-69, @bellagrayson-wayne, @phisen, @idkmanimjusthorny, @munchychuusy, @autumn2534, @poptrim, @sillyfreakfanparty, @zaynesfirefly, @flamedancer13, @thissmartdumbass, @mrsllawliet, @jeondyy, @ssetsuka, @dels-page, @that-lost-one, @johnnysactualgf, @mariquitas-en-verano, @toelady, @sinnamon-bunn, @yesbiaswrecked, @doggyteam2028, @little-rays-of-darkness, @albatrossblue, @vyntheria, @silverianni, @browneyedgirl22, @tiklestar, @beaconsxd, @pepperushia

[palephilosopherautomaton]

Title: "Living History: Mr. Vale Breaks the Silence"

It started on a Tuesday, third period. Room 312. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly as a gaggle of half-asleep juniors dragged themselves to their desks, the smell of dry erase markers and stale coffee lingering in the air. Mr. Vale — tall, sharply dressed in his usual charcoal vest and old-fashioned cufflinks, with hair silvered not by age but experience — closed the classroom door, turned to the board, and silently erased “Unit 6: The Fall of the Roman Empire” from the schedule.

He turned back to the class. His voice, always calm, now had a strange weight behind it.

“Today,” he said, “we’re going to talk about what really happened.”

A few kids glanced up, confused. One yawned audibly.

“Because frankly,” he continued, tapping the cover of the textbook, “this thing is garbage.”

There was a beat of silence.

“You see,” Mr. Vale said, “I was there.”

Nervous laughter rippled through the room. Then he said it again.

“I was there. I watched Rome burn from the inside. I spoke with Attila the Hun. I helped write the edicts of Constantine — he was illiterate in Greek, by the way — and don’t get me started on Julius Caesar. The man couldn’t resist a pun, even mid-battle.”

A girl in the front row frowned, raising a hand.

“Wait… are you saying you’re like… immortal?”

Mr. Vale gave a small, tired smile.

“Immortality is a word humans use for something they don’t understand. I don’t age. I don’t die. And I’ve seen the world rewrite itself again and again to make sense of things it doesn’t want to believe.”

He walked to the window and pulled open the blinds. The spring sun fell across the room.

“So today, we correct the lies. Starting with Rome.”

Lesson One: The Fall of Rome (Spoiler: It Didn't Fall)

“The Roman Empire didn’t fall in 476 CE. That’s just a convenient date to make students feel like history is neat and tidy. Rome didn’t fall — it fractured. It whispered itself into the Church, into the laws, into the very language you still use. The so-called 'barbarians' didn’t sack Rome out of savagery; they were invited in by a senate too riddled with greed and fear to protect its own walls. And Odoacer? Not a conqueror. A caretaker. A man who loved Rome more than the Romans did.”

“I should know. I sat beside him when he crossed the Rubicon.”

Lesson Two: The Crusades (aka: A Petty, Blood-Soaked Family Feud)

“You call them holy wars. They were nothing of the sort. The Church needed power, and power loves a distant enemy. What better way to unify bickering nobles than to send them East in search of 'infidels'? Do you know what I saw in Jerusalem in 1099? Children crucified beside their mothers. Templars bathing in blood. And all of it done with the sign of the cross on their chest.”

“They called it God’s work. But I watched a man — a monk — break down sobbing on the Temple steps, asking me if God had gone deaf.”

Lesson Three: Napoleon Wasn't Short, and He Wasn't Mad

“He was meticulous. Brilliant. Terrifying. And he knew he was going to lose. By 1812, Napoleon understood he was a myth more than a man. That’s why he marched on Moscow — not for strategy, but for legend. He wanted to burn his name into the world so deeply that even ruin couldn’t erase it. And it worked.”

“You remember him, don’t you? The small man with the hand in his coat. Except he wasn’t small. He was my height. Taller, even.”

“But the British wanted a joke, and they told one. History remembered the punchline.”

Each day, more students paid attention.

Phones stayed in pockets. Heads lifted. And somewhere, between myth and memory, they began to believe him.

He showed them a coin minted in the reign of Hadrian — unweathered, glowing like it was struck yesterday.

He recited Beowulf in its original meter, correcting the textbook’s translation on the fly.

He described the Black Death not from a scholarly remove, but as one who buried a wife and two sons in Florence, and burned their bodies himself because no one else dared.

And through it all, he never aged. Never stumbled. Never forgot.

One day, a student asked the question none of them had dared yet:

“Why are you really telling us this now?”

Mr. Vale paused. He looked out the window again. The clouds were darker than before. His voice dropped lower.

“Because the world is spinning toward another forgetting. And this time, I think it may be final.”

“Because truth isn’t in books. It’s in scars.”

He rolled up his sleeve, revealing a spiral of runes etched into his forearm — some glowing faintly, others cracked.

“And because you — all of you — are going to need to remember what really happened.”

“When history starts repeating itself... it's not a warning. It's a signal.”

You are an immortal who has been alive for over 2000 years. Nowadays, you work as a history teacher. Thing is, a lot of the history textbooks are just flat-out WRONG, and you would know; you were there for a lot of the events they cover. Fed up, you decide to teach what ACTUALLY happened.

[sakachichi]

Drabble!Suguru fat cookie :p

Suguru loves your pussy — to say the least lol — he’s the type to help you shave, and he takes it seriously. Insisting that he has to help you, “it’s hard to reach down there, babe, lemme help.” And you just can’t say no. For him it’s an excuse to feast his eyes upon you, those 20 minutes of shaving you never gets wasted. He loves how plump and fat it is, how he can literally cup it in his hand completely, feeling your warmth on his palm. He adores it, and hates how insecure you can be about it, and his reassurance never fails to make you feel better about yourself. He always knows what to say.

The two of you will be laying in bed, both doom scrolling on your phones in a spooning position. One of his hands will snake its way down into your shorts cupping your clothed cunt, it’s a normal occurrence — and it usually never leads to anything.

He’ll stuff his face full of your pussy, relishing in your warm, puffy folds — rabidly, feverishly swiping his face from side to side. He enjoys it, he loves it, he loves how it makes you feel, how you taste. And when he’s finally made you cum on his face, he’ll stuff you full with his thick fingers, fucking you so deliciously with them as he kisses you — letting you taste yourself off his lips.

And he loves it even more when he’s easing his cock inside, watching the way your eager hole and puffy folds swallow him entirely. How tight you always are no matter how many times he fucks you, how wet you always get for him, how he fits — even with his girthy length — so snug inside you. Almost like you were made just for him. Missionary will always be his favorite position with you, getting to see your pretty face contort and your pretty pussy take him with ease adds everything to the experience.

Short but sweet 🥵 anyways happy Wednesday my beautiful primas I hoped you enjoyed this lol :p where my fat puchina primas at ‼️🗣️

[purplecoffee13]

Miss Possessive*

Summary: “You’ve been dating the ice hockey team captain for a while now, and while you’ve gotten used to his popularity, you can’t keep yourself from getting jealous at all the attention he’s getting at his house party…”

Tropes: ice hockey player!harry x medical student!y/n

Wc: 5k

Warnings: SMUT, possessiveness (surprise surprise), chok!ng, dirty talk, exh!bitionism (if you squint), overst!mulation and some angst and then some fluff at the end😊

A/N: hi y’all! I got two things to say!

1. I wrote this one-shot based off the song miss possessive by Tate McRae and this tiktok I saw of the hottest things guys can say in bed, and I incorporated all of them😈. Screenshot of the tiktok below:

LMAO, anyways…

2. I’m thinking of making more parts to this, like how they met and stuff, so let me know if that’s something you’d like!

Okay happy reading!!!

Oh here’s my general masterlist

Harry has been your boyfriend for almost two months now. It's so nerve wracking, but also the most fun you think you've ever had.

God... to think you found him such a pain in the ads when you first met him. The version of yourself that you were five months ago would be straight up laughing at you if she'd see you now. But then again, that version doesn't know what you know now.

Life works in miraculous ways. If Harry hadn't been one of the athletes you'd been paired up with for your assignment, you probably would've never talked to him. And if his physical exam results hadn't forced you to check up on him afterwards, you probably would've never ended up dating him.

So, despite the result being a bit negative, the positive thing is that you had to talk to him one more time, otherwise you would've never fallen in love the way you have now.

You also never would've been at a house party off campus organized by the ice hockey team.

You'd never been before, but Harry really wanted you to experience it at least once. Besides, it was his last year playing for this team, and as captain he had to be present for team bonding activities.

It wasn't like you didn't like to party, you just ran in different crowds before. It just so happened to be that you didn't attend the same parties as the student athletes. You usually found yourself more with the IT and Engineering people, who seemed to have a very strong opinion on the people who were more athletically inclined. You never shared that same opinion, not liking judgment all too much. Besides, any analyzing of athletes on your part usually involved a lot of gawking and not a lot of talking. You couldn't help it, you've always liked muscles.

Lucky for you, Harry is not short of them. Something you have found other people also tend to notice.

You're not entirely sure if it's your insecurities or the result of being an only child, but you've never particularly liked sharing what's yours. Harry had a blast with that fact when he found out, stating it was 'hot as fuck' that you were so possessive of him. While that's all fun and games, it's a little less nice when your boyfriend happens to look like he was shaped by a skilled group of greek gods.

It's why you were hesitant about this party tonight. Harry warned you that there's always puck bunnies at their parties, mostly because the single guys like to invite them.

The other day, you kind of had an argument about your possessiveness when you glared down a girl from his class that he had to do an assignment with. He ended up having to switch partners because the girl suddenly didn't want to work with him anymore. He got mad at you, telling you that you needed to get it in your head that he was yours, and that he didn't want anyone else.

You felt incredibly guilty, more towards him than to towards the girl, which was something you would unpack in therapy a week from now. You apologized and he forgave you immediately, because Harry hates to fight. But it does make you feel a bit queasy about tonight, because if there's going to be girls staring at him all night, you'll have to put a damper on your temper, which might be impossible if you've consumed alcohol. It always gets worse after a few drinks.

Doing some final touch ups in front of Harry's bathroom mirror, you give yourself a silent pep-talk. You won't do anything, unless they actively flirt with him. That'll give you enough grounds to play the jealous girlfriend card without it resulting in a huge fight.

The first hour of the party goes by pretty fast, and you've done surprisingly well so far. About five girls have walked up to Harry and struck up a conversation with him���not acting doesn't mean not observing—but he's handled it perfectly so far. You've talked about boundaries in the months that you've been dating, and he respects every single one of them.

You have to admit that you're a bit bummed out that you don't know many people here. Sure, you know Harry's teammates, but they're busy with other friends or people they're trying to hook up with. You're not going to be the annoying girlfriend and bother them while they're trying to get laid.

To be honest, you kind of miss Harry, despite the fact that he's in the same house. Then again, you knew he was going to know a lot of people here. You decide you'll find him and stick by his side as soon as you finish your drink.

You're still assuring yourself you're going to be fine tonight when a blonde girl with bright blue eyes appears from behind Harry and grabs onto his arm. You lean towards Connor, Harry's teammate, who's sitting next to you on the couch.

"Who's that?" You ask. Connor looks over at the pair and lets out an exasperated sigh.

"Sydney." He answers. "Why doesn't she ever talk to me..."

You look at the boy next to you who is now slumped in his seat and staring over at the blonde girl with the tiny figure with wide eyes, and suddenly your stomach turns.

"Hey." Dan, Harry's other teammate suddenly appears in front of you. "You okay?"

You don't answer, your eyes traveling to Harry who— isn't there anymore. Seeing red, you down your drink in one go. Dan is about to say something, but you push him to the side and walk towards the spot where your boyfriend was five seconds ago. Frantically looking around, you feel some sort of relief when you spot your boyfriend, but it quickly burns to rage when you see he's still talking to that girl.

Your blood is close to boiling as you march over to where Harry and that girl are talking. He doesn't seem to notice you nearing, and your organs twist when you see him chuckle at whatever the girl in front of him said. You can see she's reaching for his arm, stepping closer to him. You're next to him in a millisecond.

"Hi." You say, announcing your presence to your boyfriend as if he didn't already feel it two seconds before. The girl has retracted her arm by now, which is good because if she didn't you would've cut it off with the nearest kitchen knife.

Harry senses your mood, because he immediately wraps his arm around your waist to calm you down.

"Hey babe."

"You two having fun?" You quirk up an eyebrow, crossing your arms, not even glancing at the girl once. You swear you see a hint of a smirk on Harry's face before it fades away.

"I'm gonna go to the bathroom." The girl announces, clearly sensing an awkward situation on the horizon.

"Bye!" You chirp, still not taking your eyes off your boyfriend. He doesn't seem all too pleased with you, but you don't care because it's not like you can't say the same thing for him.

"What are you doing?" Harry asks once the girl has left the kitchen. He looks genuinely confused and somehow it pisses you off even more.

"I don't know, what are you doing?"

"Are you jealous or something?" He asks, taking a sip of his coke and bacardi. You let your eyes wander down his body, his gaze suddenly feeling quite heavy.

"She was hitting on you."

"We hadn't even started a conversation!" He responds.

"Well— she was trying to hit on you." You huff, because it's true. You know body language and you know girls, and you guess it's fine she couldn't have known that Harry isn't single, but that didn't mean you wouldn't just let her find that out herself.

Harry scoffs, and you're quick to look up at him. Your brow creases as you watch him shake his head in what appears to be disbelief.

"You know you don't have to do all of that." He says, and you can tell he's irritated. You try to control your breathing, trying not to let it waver from the turbulence you're feeling in your body. "Thought we agreed to talk about it."

That sends you over the edge for some reason. Partly, you know he's right. There is nothing for you to worry about. But for him to say it in this way, at this moment? It's so hypocritical.

"Talk? How? I thought I was going to have fun at a party with my boyfriend, but you've ditched me from the moment we stepped into this party." You bite back, and you can tell he didn't expect it, nor does he agree with what you're saying.

"What are you talking about? I told you I would probably run into a lot of people tonight."

"Yeah but you could've at least taken me along with you, couldn't you?" You frown at him. Harry stays silent, but when you try to slide past him to walk away, he grips your arm and stops you in your tracks.

"So, this is about you not getting enough attention?" He growls so lowly that it's almost a whisper, his eyes checking his surroundings to see if no one can tell that you're fighting. It rubs you the wrong way that he's annoyed with you right now, so you decide to get your claws out.

"Oh don't worry about me getting attention." You say slowly before shaking loose of his arm and walking back to the couch.

"Hey." Dan greets you when you appear again, standing up and gesturing for you to sit on the couch again. You thank him and sit down, letting out a sigh.

"What happened? Are you okay?" He asks again, and this time you answer.

"I'm fine." You brush it off because you don't want him to know the content of you and Harry's disagreements. You're a private person, and it's none of his business anyway.

"Is it because of Sydney?" Dan questions anyway. You look up at the guy next to you, a frown on your face. He shakes his head, throwing his hands up. "No, I'm just saying— if it is about her, I get it. Not the first relationship she's tried to fuck up."

Your eyes go wide, and your throat clamps up. Was your gut feeling right?

No.

You slowly shake your head, ridding yourself of that intrusive thought because just thinking it felt unfair and wrong. Harry would never do that to you, nor did he ever give you a reason to.

"That's a shitty thing of you to say." You say, getting up from your seat and heading for the stairs. This party suddenly has a bitter taste to it, and it's frustrating that you have yourself to blame for that.

You quickly do your business, but you stay in the bathroom unnecessarily long, fixing some of your make-up and your hair as a way to stall going back downstairs. After ten minutes of procrastinating you figure you've officially been here too long and it's time to get back to the party. You swing the door open and enter Harry's room.

You shriek when you see your boyfriend sitting on his bed. With your hand clutched to your chest, you let out a deep breath.

"Jesus fuck! You scared me. I didn't see—"

But Harry's already charging towards you, and before you can finish your sentence he's got you with your back against the bathroom door and his hand wrapped around your neck. You're stunned to silence.

"Is this what you wanted?" Harry asks, tightening his grip. Your mouth is going dry, and your heart rate picks up even more when you see his dark, lust-filled eyes. To the untrained eye you would think he was possessed by some feral animal, but you knew this is how Harry gets, and it's especially how you like him to get; unapologetically rough.

A slight smirk grows on Harry's face when you don't answer his question, just bucking your hips forward instead.

"What happened to all that attitude, sweet girl?" He asks as he strokes your neck with his thumb. Your eyes flutter shut as you feel his free hand roaming down your stomach and towards your inner thighs. When his fingers suddenly stop tracing, your eyes shoot back open again. He acts surprised, his brows a bit raised and his eyes slightly widened, but you know he's enjoying the hell out of this.

You whine incoherently, easily giving into to the role he wants you to play. You have no problem doing it, especially knowing what's going to follow when he gets like this.

"Hm?" He hums innocently, his hand traveling to your ass and squeezing it before he pushes your heat against his crotch. "Use your words."

You gasp at the contact with his body. Even after being together for a year, you're still so hungry for his touch every time. In fact, it feels like it's only magnified since you've been in a relationship. "Please..."

"Please what? Tell me what you want." He tuts you, his hand loosening on your neck and sliding over your chest a bit.

"Please touch me." You say in hushed tone, pushing yourself against him again. You can feel he's hard as well, but he's actually composed. You never understand how he doesn't fall apart in these kinds of situations, his self control is astonishing.

"Where?"

"W— what?" You breathe out. Why is he making this so unnecessarily hard?

"Take my hand where you want it." He demands, although the way he brings it might lead one to think it's a suggestion. Then again, you know your boyfriend; it's an order.

So, you do as he says and lead his hand from your ass to your pussy, pressing his finger against your clit. It's all Harry needs, the gentle direction, before he goes to work with his fingers. He rubs them over your panties, soaking them with each movement. You let out an impatient whine, the friction bringing so much stimulation and still it’s not enough. Harry laughs.

"So wet for me baby. Is this what I've been neglecting all night?" He asks sweetly, pulling down your panties until they fall to your ankles. The sounds of your drenched pussy filling the room is almost embarrassing, would it not be so fucking hot.

"Yes..." you say stubbornly, biting your lip to prevent yourself from moaning too loudly, which miserably fails when he slides one of his long fingers into you. "Oh..!"

"Could've just said you wanted me to take care of this." He goes on, a certain nonchalance to his tone that makes you go weak in the knees. His tone makes it seem like he isn't currently bringing his girlfriend dangerously close to an orgasm in a minimum amount of time. "Didn't have to run t'my teammates, now did you?"

You shake your head at his question when he slips in another finger. You've gotten used to the size of his fingers, but the harsh way he's thrusting them into you right now does somewhat hurt. He is punishing you by going rougher than usual, and the sole thought of that makes the pain melt away.

"Think I deserve an apology for that, don't you?" He says, slowing down his movements on purpose to get you riled up. He knows you want to come.

"I deserve an apology too." You say breathlessly, standing your ground despite the weak position he has you in. Harry raises a brow.

"Well I'm making it up to you now, aren't I?"

You're about to respond to that when Harry silences you by increasing the speed with which his fingers drive into you. Your jaw is slack as you feel the bubble in your lower stomach growing, especially as the heel of his palm continuously slaps against your clit. Your eyes are closed, so you don't notice Harry leaning in until you feel his hot breath fan against your ear.

"Apologize, and I'll let you come." He says, not slowing himself down in any way whatsoever. But you know your traitorous body by now, and you know how it always waits for Harry's permission to explode. It's as if he's in possession of a red button, and only when he presses it, it goes off.

"S—sorry..." you say, but it's barely comprehensible. You're beginning to fall apart.

"What was that, baby?" Harry's condescending tone matches his wicked grin as he waits for you to articulate yourself better.

"I'm sorry!" You sputter out, that explosion feeling awfully close by now. You throw your head back, holding onto the door knob for a bit of support.

"For?" He goes the extra mile, and you could kill him would you not be on the brink of death right now yourself.

"F—for being jealous." You cry out, your other hand quickly grabbing onto Harry's arm before your knees can buckle. He is quick to wrap his free arm around your waist to keep you upright.

"Good girl." He breathes out, his fingers soaked as they pound into you. You finally begin to explode. "You can come now. There you go, nothing to be jealous of. I'll always make you come baby... no one else."

Your cries are downright pathetic as you come around Harry's fingers, and as you ride out your release, you realize your mind is all foggy. You can't really comprehend Harry leading you to his bed and laying you down on it. The only thing you know is that he hasn't stopped moving his fingers.

"Harry..!" You croak out before you cut yourself off with a loud moan the moment that his tongue starts to suck at your clit. You begin to squirm, trying to get away from the sensitivity, but your boyfriend won't let you.

"N—no...oh!" It's hard to get a word out with him working on you so roughly. The sounds of his mouth and his fingers are extremely vulgar and equally the most arousing thing you've ever heard. "Harry I'm too— no!"

Your boyfriend keeps his pace despite your attempts to make him stop. You gasp when he takes his tongue off your clit for a split second. You look down at him, his chin glistening in your arousal.

"Beg for it." He commands, and attaches his tongue to your clit again.

Like a mindless fool, something switches inside you, and despite the uncomfortable sensitivity of your pussy, you find yourself begging for it, for him.

"Please, please, make me come!" You shout, and Harry really takes your begging to heart, because he adds even more pressure to your clit. And just like that, you explode again.

Despite having your eyes shut, you swear you're seeing the light as you convulse around your boyfriend's fingers. You can't control anything. The volume of your moans, the way your body spasms, or the amount of liquid that releases from your pussy.

Your cheeks are flushed and your ears are ringing by the time you open your eyes again. You look at Harry with tired shock in your eyes, but he just looks amazed.

"Fuck, I've never made you squirt before." He says, eyes flicking from you to the mess you made under him. He looks incredibly proud, which nicely compensates for the sheer embarrassment that has washed over your body.

He leans over you, whispering for you to look at him. You obey him sheepishly. The hint of a smile on his face is gentle now, and as soft as the thumb that sweep the lingering tear from your cheeks. He places a kiss on your nose, telling you you did good without saying anything at all.

"D'you need a minute baby?" He asks sweetly, but you're sure he must know you well enough by now to know what your answer is to that. You immediately shake your head. He smiles, fully this time. "No? You're ready to take me already?"

You nod frantically, and Harry chuckles as he unbuckles his pants and pulls out his cock. The sole sight of him makes your cunt ache to be filled up, and you find yourself moving towards him to hurry up the process.

"Aw, look how needy you are... already squirming and I haven't even been inside you yet." He tilts his head like the mean guy he is. You frown at your sadistic boyfriend, not saying anything. Instead, you buck your hips and hope your glistening pussy will speak for you.

It does, because Harry is quick to line up his cock with your entrance. However, instead of just entering you, he drags his tip over your slick folds, wetting his tip even more. You move your hips a couple of times, hoping it'll make his cock slide in by accident or something, but you have no luck.

"Harry!" You whine. "Please..."

The smirk on his face has turned evil once again as he drags his tip from your clit to your entrance.

"Poor baby..." He says in the most condescending tone that you clench around nothing. You swear you could come solely from that specific tone of his voice. "You getting frustrated?"

"Yes." You're swift to answer. "Please, I need it so bad..."

"Oh yeah?" He teases, pushing into you, but just the tip. You gasp at the crumbs you're getting, moaning in agreement.

"Yes! Please, more Harry, give me more." You try to convince him. He is painfully hard right now, so you know he's bound to give in sooner or later. It appears to be sooner, because with a moan, he pushes himself entirely into you.

You lose your breath as he fills you up all the way, getting more and more knocked out of you as he starts to set a pace. You can do nothing but cry out as he drives himself into your tight cunt, the sound of his groans making you even wetter.

He leans back a bit, observing you from above as he fucks you. Your tits are nearly bouncing out of your bra from all the movement, and your mouth doesn't do anything other than let out desperate moans as you let your boyfriend wreck your pussy. He relishes the sight.

"Taking it so well, baby." He breathes, pressing down on your lower stomach. "Can you feel that? Can you feel me?"

"Y—yeah! Oh my god..." Your eyes roll into the back of your head at the added pressure. Harry curses under his breath.

"God, if you could see yourself... You look so pretty for me right now." He mutters, his thrusts slowing slightly. You're lost in your pleasure, but you immediately notice when Harry's pulled out. Your head snaps towards him, confused as he pulls at your arm.

He doesn't say anything, just leads you to the bathroom. You're still a bit lost as to what is happening when he places your hands on the counter and forces you to bend over. You know what you're in for by the time he stands behind you.

"Watch yourself." He demands before pushing right back into and continuing the speedy pace he had before. Your strangled moans are hardly louder than the sound of skin slapping that echoes the bathroom. You do as he says, observing how your body moves in reaction to his actions.

A quiet gasp escapes your throat when Harry leans forward and tugs down the top of your bandeau dress, along with your strapless bra, causing your tits to recoil more heavily while he slams into you. Your knuckles go white from how hard you're holding onto the sink.

"F—fuck! I'm close!" You tell him, like he couldn't tell already by the way you're pathetically clenching around his cock.

"I know baby." He shushes your cries, but not slowing down in the slightest. In fact, his finger finds your clit, and when he starts to rub it, you realize just how sensitive you are.

"O—oh..! Wait, I don't know if I can—" You sob out, your head falling forward. You shut your eyes tightly, your orgasm starting to feel so incredibly big that you don't know if you can handle it.

"You can take it baby, c'mon..." He encourages you, and it takes everything in you to lift your head to look at him through the mirror. You don't want to miss his face when you come.

It's then that there's a knock on Harry's bedroom door.

"Fuck off!" Harry shouts, vigorously ramming into you like the interruption fueled him to stay focused.

You would've been thrown off by the door opening if you hadn't been so close to coming. That doesn't mean you're not slightly thrown off by the girl from earlier locking eyes with you through the mirror. You look back at Harry, who frowns and slams the bathroom door shut.

"I said fuck off!" He shouts angrily before his voice goes softer. "Come for me, baby."

That's all you need to climax around him for the third time tonight. The whole ordeal is too hot not to come like crazy around him, and your orgasm fuels his as he stills inside you with a loud groan.

"Fuck... So. Fucking. Good." He says, each word accompanied with a thrust as he spills his cum inside you.

Both of your breathing is still heavy as Harry collapses next to you. You lay there in silence for a couple of seconds, staring at the ceiling.

You slowly get up and enter the bathroom to pee and just clean yourself off a bit in general. Harry doesn’t come in, you think he doesn’t know if you would like that. You did just have a fight, and that girl barging into Harry’s room unprompted did kind of prove your point that she was trying to flirt with him.

When you walk back into the room, Harry is fully dressed again, sitting on the edge of the bed like he was when you came out of the bathroom the first time. The air is thick with unresolved tension. You take a deep breath.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry.”

Your eyes widen at the identical words that are coming out of Harry’s mouth. You didn’t expect him to say that at all.

“I shouldn’t have left you alone so much.” Harry says, standing up and walking over to you. “I got caught up in talking to everyone and I saw you sitting with the guys so I foolishly figured you were having a good time.”

“Harry—”

“No, wait. I swear, at every person I talked to I thought, after this one I’m gonna go to Y/N, and then I kept getting interrupted. But intending to do something and then not doing it is just bullshit. I didn’t mean to be a bullshit boyfriend, I’m sorry.” He adds before you can try to intercept him. You sigh, a weak smile slowly appearing on your face.

“I love you.”

Somehow it’s the only thing your mind manages to come up with. You haven’t told each other that yet, so your ears immediately go red. Harry looks shocked, you can tell, but his eyes are beaming and in a matter of seconds he is smiling from ear to ear.

“And I’m sorry.” You continue. “I trust you, I swear, I do. I just saw the way she was looking at you and I mean— I get it, but it also made me sick because I feel I look at you like that. And if she can look at you that way, then maybe— I don’t know… my point is I’m sorry.”

“Maybe she can what?” Harry asks, suddenly frowning. When you don’t immediately answer, he grabs your face, forcing you to look at him. Your eyes go a little misty.

“Nothing, I’m being overdramatic.” You try to wave it off, but Harry doesn’t let you. His single raised eyebrow tells you to spill it, and so, naturally you do.

You sigh. “If she can look at you like I do, then she might be able to love you like I do, maybe even better.”

“No one can love me like you do.” Harry answers, determined. Your brows crease.

“How do you know that?” Your voice is trembling, and by the way Harry winces, you know you’ve just cracked a piece of his heart.

“You want to know why I’m sure no one can love me like you do?”

You nod, wondering how he can be so certain about this, about you.

“Because I’m letting you love me like no one else can.” He says it like it’s a fact. “I know there’s this narrative that love is this uncontrollable force, but it’s not, not for me. I let you love me, because I wanted you to. You let me in too, didn’t you? Because I love you.”

“Yes.” You croak.

“Right, I need you to understand that I didn’t fall in love with you. I walked into this with my eyes wide open, and I didn’t even fucking blink once. I still haven’t, and I’m pretty sure I never will.” He tells you, and you swallow, your throat burning from his heavy words. “I choose you, this, us, every day, and it’s the easiest and most natural decision I’ve ever made and will ever make.”

You smile at him, a tear rolling down your face.

“And no random girl at a party or whoever the fuck else can come between that, because I don’t want them to.”

You let out a small sob, and even though it’s a happy cry, it still weighs a ton on your chest. Harry pulls you into an embrace.

“Don’t keep those thoughts from me. I understand your anger way better now that I know this.” He tells you, rubbing your back. “I promise I’ll be more considerate of it.”

“I don’t know what I did to deserve such an emotionally mature boyfriend.” You say, your words a bit muffled because your face is buried in his neck. Harry chuckles. You pull out of the hug.

“But I also need to figure out a way to prevent those thoughts from occurring, because I know they’re not true.” You say, sniffing a laugh. “I mean, I knew it when I thought it tonight as well. I was so mad it even popped up, but I guess what Dan said just kind of pushed me over the edge—”

“What Dan said?” Harry interrupts you. “What did he say?”

You bite your lip, afraid you might have said too much. “Just— that I was right to be jealous because it wouldn’t be the first relationship that girl has ‘ruined’.”

Harry’s jaw is clenched, and his eyes travel to the door. “I’m gonna have a word with him.”

You grab Harry’s arm, but he keeps heading for the door.

“Harry— stop!” You push the door shut when he opens it. He turns to you, and when you see the look on his face, you realize what’s happening.

“…Are you jealous?” You question carefully, and when he breathes out through his nose and looks away instead of answering you straight away, it’s only more confirmation that he is. “Oh my god… you’re jealous!”

“He’s been after you since that fucking assignment. I already reminded him you’re mine once, I have no problem reminding him again.”

The corner of your mouth lifts, and you cross your arms. “What happened to choosing to love each other? Don’t you trust that I’m choosing you— wait, what do you mean you already reminded him once?”

Harry rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t respond.

“When?” You urge.

“Couple months ago.”

You think back on a couple months ago, trying to figure out if anything was off, and then, suddenly you remember.

“You gave him that black eye?” You gasp, and he nods in confirmation. “Oh my god, he said it was from a game!”

Harry shrugs. “It was during practice.”

“That’s why you got benched?” You finally put the pieces together. “You little liar!”

There is not one ounce of regret on Harry’s face as he takes your small slaps to his chest. You’re not mad, in fact you’re amused. You’re so getting a free pass from now on.

“So what? You’re gonna beat him up because you want him to know I belong to you?” You tilt your head, and Harry winces, probably realizing how old-dated that sounds. You smirk.

“That’s so fucking hot.” You confess in a whisper. That catches Harry’s attention. You back up towards the bed, and he follows you like a puppy.

“D’you think you could put that on hold, though, and remind me who I belong to first?” You ask, sitting down and leaning back on the bed. The sight of Harry being so primal about you has fired your whole body up again for a round two, despite the three orgasms you’ve had already. Harry grins.

“You know I’ll never say no to you…”

[banj0possum]

Zombie horde and cure researcher reader? I want to know how the boys are gonna use their new vocal chords. Ribs probably can't sing good, but soda always has that half-drunk look whenever u draw him so i bet he knows a bunch of bar songs.

felt like doing a refresher with the Zombie Horde ! this was my oldest ask in my inbox! (had to go down a long ways to get this old thang) but i figured you guys needed a long awaited part 3 of these fellas after idk a year ?? so here ya go !

Zombie Horde x Cure Researcher! Reader

💀 With the boys showing more and more signs of healing, you quickly went to recording each and every new finding you come across, as well as their individual progress.

💀 You'd help them stretch and get used to their new joints. With them being less ravaged by rigor mortis, they can be quite...clumsy..

💀 And their hair could grow normally, which is promising for your cure! But that does mean you have to cut their hair every once in a while now..

💀 The most amazing thing that came out of your serum was the fact that their vocal chords have been restored, allowing them to speak, which is very very interesting experience.

💀 Screw loves words, or more like he loves getting your praise whenever he pronounces a word correctly.

💀 His voice wasn't as developed as the others, so he had a harder time when it came to speaking again, but he tries very hard!

💀 He'd find an object, run over to you, and slowly stutter out what it is.

💀 "B-b-b..bo..ttle..?"

💀 Gets all giddy when you tell him he did a good job, but he doesn't exactly giggle, it's more like a bunch of high-pitched squealing, purring, and cooing

💀 Vocal stims a lot like humming, pronouncing letters over and over, or just repeating a word or phrase.

💀 Give him a book or some of your papers, and he'll be glued to anything with words while trying to read them out loud.

💀 Maybe there's an old bookstore in the mall?

💀 Secretly planning to relearn how to write because he wants to make you a love letter like in the stories he reads!

💀 Ribs is non-stop screaming and shouting ;-;

💀 Calm down brotha you just got your voice back ;-;-;--;-;-;

💀 Has a very dirty vocabulary

💀 British ?

💀 You can hear him from the other side of the mall..

💀 Defo pretends to be a survivor when he sees other humans scavenging the mall and then scares them away.

💀 Bo has to step in and shut him up, but he does it again anyway.

💀 Loves singing with Soda, except he's shit at singing, he's kind of just yelling the lyrics.

💀 Very giggly when he talks, especially when he's with you since he gets all shy.

💀 Mumbles incessantly.

💀 "Baby, baby! My sweetheart hehehehahahaAHH! So cute! So cute! HEEhehehehheee~~!"

💀 Soda had the easiest time to talk, his voice is very raspy yet smooth like honey.

💀 Rarely talks, mostly hums and sings, they're mostly old 40s jazz songs or just some random melody.

💀 Speaks up suddenly a lot with the most random things.

💀 "Motor oil is not a good drink..." "...what." "what.."

💀 Confuses both you and the others.

💀 Ribs digs it.

💀 Hype man to absolute nonsense.

💀 Screw and Bo just accept it, he may be a little goofy but he does have most of the brains of the bunch.

💀 And he can say some very sweet things in between all his ravings.

💀 He'd just be watching you work on your research and suddenly blurt out something.

💀 "You're the most beautiful flower I've ever seen..."

💀 Bo can talk pretty well, but it hurts the most for him since he doesn't have cheeks, plus the damage in his throat.

💀 Wouldn't say he speaks as rarely as Soda, but he does speak in very short sentences, you could 3 sentences at most in one shot from him.

💀 Prefers growling still, but talks when necessary

💀 Doesn't dare to sing, but he does love Soda's singing, not so much Ribs, but he stays to make him happy.

💀 Looks for stuff to read for Screw (he keeps newspapers for himself)

💀 Feels good whenever he gets to praise the others and you, he's a real giver :333

💀 He never wastes an opportunity to sweet-talk you, no matter how uncomfortable his vocal chords feel.

💀 "We're so lucky ta have you, doll~ Wish I could give ya a big 'ol smooch but uh... 'fraid I'm a bit short in that department.."

WAAAAA i missed writing for these guys!! auuuughhhhhhh lucky i managed to escape from my mr ring a ding hyperfixation for a while !

[dextivestudios]

Ah, shitty CGI effects in Doctor Who, how much I missed you lolololol

As a queer (aro-ace enby), I'd spend all the money on dinosaurs and leave nothing for the gay man as well. I'm glad Rogue makes an appearance.

I mean, this Doctor is functionally aro-ace??? Don't get me wrong, I actually like he has platonic dynamics with his companions for once. Most of the modern ones have been romantic in some way, so it was getting tiring.

But Chibnall somehow did a gay Doctor better and that is frankly disappointing, especially when gay male romance is way less represented than sapphic romance in media. (Which sapphics do deserve all that representation. No buts here.)

An aro-ace Doctor would be really cool, ngl, especially since a small arc about someone who is normally allo learning how to navigate not having those feelings anymore could actually be interesting. But I know Doctor Who is the type of show that is not making a big deal out of The Doctor being different types of people (honestly, having The Doctor adjusting to being a woman AND THEN a black man right after could easily be very repetitive as a storyline, and having that "not a big deal" type of representation is just as important as the front-and-center/integral-to-the-plot type.).

I'm both aro-ace and nonbinary, so I'm more inclined to want to see The Doctor as one or both of those identities. lol

But there is a difference between a Doctor who is deliberately aro-ace, and a gay Doctor being written by a gay man who chose to have him be largely romance-free. Which, unfortunately, I can't argue with a gay man and tell him he is writing his own actual lived experience wrong or that The Doctor is invalid as gay male representation in some way. It would be like if someone took issue with an aromantic Doctor being primarily written by an aromantic person having a love interest and called the writer's lived experience wrong or invalid due to it. Which, when put in that perspective for me? Yeah, that is absolutely weird and silly.

But what makes it worse is that this Doctor does have a love interest. He is not fully romance-free, and very much does have someone somewhere out there who is a neglected character instead of the subplot he deserves to be. I'm honestly worried that The Doctor will regenerate and no longer view men in that way before the romance with Rogue will have a chance to fully develop and be seen through.

Doctors have a normal lifespan of three seasons, and the third season is coming up. Though with the season lengths being half, 15's really should be six seasons. Going to sixteen next season would be an injustice and would raise a few eyebrows and cast a few suspicions on why the Doctor with a screentime that is second to Eccleston's in its shortness is the gay and black one.

All in all, I would love an aro-ace Doctor, but for fuck's sake, the homosexual man Doctor's romance subplot being neglected is not the way I want an aro-ace Doctor! It's not even representation for a-spec people, and gay men deserve better!

They had five dollars and a dream

[livsbuffy]

the long-term impact of buffy’s relationship with angel on her perception of love and her self-worth deserved to be explored more. the show touches on it a few times, but it didn't get nearly enough focus, considering how formative this first romantic experience was.

from the beginning, their relationship is doomed by the narrative : the soul curse, the slayer vs. vampire dynamic, angel's constant disappearing acts, etc. when angel loses his soul, he immediately expresses hatred for buffy. angelus doesn't feel an ounce of love for the girl. whatever angel felt never transferred to his uninhibited counterpart, angelus.

ANGELUS : She made me feel like a human being. That's not the kind of thing you just forgive. (Innocence, 2x14).

from the age of sixteen, buffy starts associating intimacy (emotional and physical) with punishment and hurt. her love is poison. it's the root of evil (angel losing his soul after their first time) and it hurts the people she loves (giles losing jenny). love becomes laced with guilt.

BUFFY (to Giles) : I'm sorry I couldn't kill him for you... for [Jenny]... when I had the chance. (Passion, 2x17)

angel taints buffy's sense of self. he makes her doubt herself. he never stops bringing up her age and immaturity (shocker, high school girl isn't an adult!!!!). it's a recurring theme in their relationship, one the show gives up on for some reason, but it was very much present in the beginning.

ANGEL : You're sixteen years old. I'm two hundred and forty-one. BUFFY: I've done the math. ANGEL : You don't know what you're doing, you don't know what you want... (Reptile Boy, 2x05)

this imbalance is a constant, but both shows gloss it over or try to reverse it. there’s a scene in angel’s spin-off where buffy finds faith with him and asks that she face legal consequences (a reasonable demand for someone who just stole her body). but buffy is painted as the irrational party by the writing. worse, when angel grabs buffy’s arm to stop her from going after a fleeing faith and she fights back, he justifies hitting her, completely disregarding her trauma and focusing on her physicality to distract the viewer from his emotional manipulation.

BUFFY :  You hit me. ANGEL :  Not to go all schoolyard on you, but you hit me first. In case you've forgotten, you're a little bit stronger than I am. (Sanctuary, 1x19)

the show insists on buffy’s strength, but ignores the emotional and situational imbalance. angel is older, more experienced, and constantly undermines her feelings. the narrative minimizes his mind-games by deflecting. angel twists buffy's need for justice into revenge. he takes her justified pain and shapes it into something vile, gaslighting buffy and invalidating her feelings.

ANGEL :  Buffy, this wasn't about you!  This was about saving somebody's soul.  (...) ANGEL :  You came because of Faith.  You were looking for vengeance. (Sanctuary, 1x19)

angel plays tricks on buffy's mind during her most formative years. every time he dismisses her pain and struggles, it confirms her insecurities and feeds the voice in her head telling her she's the problem.

there are moments where buffy actively tries to change herself, be someone she's not just to please angel. she tries to lose herself in a performance for the older guy. one notable instance is her halloween costume choice : a woman from angel’s era, prettier from buffy's point of view, a woman that he would have been attracted to back then. ironically, buffy actually does lose herself because the costume is cursed.

BUFFY (to Angel) : I just wanted to be a real girl for once. The kind of fancy girl you liked when you were my age. (Halloween, 2x06)

not only does her love for angel cause tragedy and evil, it also makes her feel small, not worthy, not enough. it touches her self-esteem. this is apparent when angel mocks buffy after their first time, tapping right into her teenage insecurities :

ANGELUS : You got a lot to learn about men, kiddo. Although I guess you proved that last night. BUFFY : What are you saying? ANGELUS : Let's not make an issue out of it, okay? In fact, let's not talk about it at all. It happened. BUFFY : I don't understand. Was it me? Was I not good? (Innocence, 2x14)

he is later painted as the older guy who changed after sex. the show veers off-course in season 3 and completely disregards this aspect of their relationship in order to paint them as a tragic romance instead of sticking with the original subtext : teenage buffy, the "kiddo", being groomed and blaming herself.

BUFFY : Do you remember that guy Angel? JOYCE : Angel, the, um... the college boy who was tutoring you in history? BUFFY : (...) We're sort of dating, were dating. Going through a serious off-again phase right now. JOYCE : Don't tell me. He's changed. He's not the same guy you fell for? (Passion, 2x17)

you can see the impact later with parker. buffy thinks something is wrong with her. her instinct when parker decides that she was just a one-night stand is to put the blame on herself and question her worth, reminiscent of her conversation with angel after their first time :

BUFFY : Parker did I do something wrong? PARKER : Something wrong? No, of course not. It was fun. (...) PARKER : I'm sorry if you missed something. I thought things were pretty clear. BUFFY : I'm sorry if I miss. I'm sorry. PARKER : Look, I really have to go now. BUFFY : Parker wait. I did this all wrong.

angel was the first love that turned evil because of her touch. he was the first love that didn’t stay. so in buffy’s mind, it rings “this is all my fault” alarm bells. she’s not worth staying for. people leaving is her responsibility. it's always the slayer's responsibility.

then she settles for riley despite the lack of love or passion, to regain the normalcy that was shattered by angel. her relationship with riley only happens because of the damage angel caused.

BUFFY : I think [Riley] cares about me but I just feel like something's missing.  WILLOW : He's not making you miserable? BUFFY : Exactly. Riley seems so solid. Like he wouldn't cause me heartache.  (...) WILLOW : The pain is not a friend. BUFFY : (...) Part of me believes that real love and passion have to go hand in hand with pain and fighting. I wonder where I get that from. (Something Blue, 4x09)

she stays with him even though she’s clearly not fulfilled (running away to slay vampires in the middle of the night instead of staying with him). but even then, riley leaves. being in a relationship with the slayer hurt him in some way (well, his ego). buffy was caught in yet another relationship where she had to change herself, this time because she was too intimidating for regular human riley.

all the men in buffy’s romantic and sexual life made her feel like she tainted them in some way. they were worse off with her. angel loses his soul. she wasn’t good enough for parker. she was too slayer-y for riley. she voices this insecurity to angel in the series finale :

BUFFY : I always feared there was something wrong with me, you know, because I couldn’t make it work. (Chosen, 7x22)

this all starts with angel and bleeds into every single one of her relationships because he shaped her worldview at such a young age. angel being completely unable to love her without a soul also made it impossible for her to accept spike's love, at first. because if spike could love her, then why couldn't angel?

BUFFY : And the joke is... [Spike] loved me. I mean, in his own sick, soulless way, he really did care for me. But I didn't want to be loved. (Conversations With Dead People, 7x07)

accepting spike's unconditional love for her, with or without a soul, would mean confronting the reality of her relationship with angel. it was a superficial love that never transcended soul, conscience or morality. it wasn't deeply ingrained in the deepest parts of him (angel and angelus). strip angel of his inhibitions and he only has loathing for her. strip spike of his soul, and the love stays. twisted, perverted, selfish, but there. real and strong enough to make him want to be better on his own, no curse needed.

for spike, the humanity he gained from loving buffy was a gift he was grateful for, because he's always longed for humanity and never fully severed the link with it.

SPIKE : I know that I’m a monster, but you treat me like a man. (The Gift, 5x22)

he tries to be better for her, as much as his lack of conscience allows. from the start, buffy planted the seeds of his soul quest. it wasn't a spur of the moment thing. it was a process. when willow's spell backfires in Tabula Rasa (6x08), spike, stripped of his memories, already thinks he has a soul. even then, he instinctively gravitates towards buffy and tries to do good. his bond with buffy doesn't depend on souls or memories.

buffy being better and stronger than him—because of her soul, her true goodness, her slayer power—never scared him or drove him away. it intrigued him. it pushed him to stay. spike keeps coming back to buffy. it's all about buffy.

DRUSILLA : You're all covered with her. I look at you, all I see is the Slayer. (Fool For Love, 5x07)

at first, spike tries to drag buffy down with him, to keep her in the darkness, where he belongs. he isolates her further from her friends after her resurrection. by then, corrupting her is the only way for him to have her.

SPIKE : That's not your world. You belong in the shadows... with me. (Dead Things, 6x13)

but spike ends up having an epiphany thanks to love. the only way is to rise to her level. he's beneath her and he accepts it.

SPIKE : We were never together. Not really. She'd never lower herself that far. (Seeing Red, 6x19)

this is the culmination of years and years of performing goodness to please her, failing, trying again, that lead to one conclusion : he needs the missing piece. it's love that leads him to this. he got his soul back to be her equal. buffy is intricately tied to spike's growing identity. she's part of him. buffy changed him on a fundamental level, in a way that was never seen before. she made him go against his vampire nature.

SPIKE : You know, everything used to be so clear. Slayer. Vampire. Vampire kills Slayer, sucks her dry, picks his teeth with her bones. It's always been that way. I've tasted the life of two Slayers. But with Buffy... It isn't supposed to be this way! (Seeing Red, 6x19)

love has become transformative.

and even after his ensoulment, he still kneels in front of buffy. he voluntarily puts himself beneath her, to profess his love for her just the way she is. spike loves all of her, the failures, the cracks, the shortcomings. he loves her for trying and failing and being imperfectly good.

SPIKE : I love what you are, what you do, how you try. I’ve seen your kindness and your strength. I’ve seen the best and the worst of you. And I understand with perfect clarity exactly what you are. You’re a hell of a woman. You’re the one, Buffy. (Touched, 7x20).

spike elevates buffy on her journey towards loving herself. he tells her what neither of the men who came before him ever did : she is better, she is enough, she doesn't have to change. he honors her.

caring for spike means loving the darkest parts of her. caring for spike means finally accepting that her love can be a power of good, that her relationship with angel doesn't define how she loves. through spike, buffy frees herself of the self-inflicted guilt in her failed relationships.

the last scene is extremely symbolic. spike gives buffy her fire back.

their clasped hands burn. fire symbolizes purification. when spike burns, it's the ultimate step of his redemption. purification of the soul. when buffy's hand burns with his, it signifies the change in how she views love. it's cleansed. it's pure. it's life-changing. it heals. she takes spike's burning hand because she's not scared of love anymore. because she accepts it, fully, in all its beauty and complexity.

angel was the problem. parker was the problem. riley was the problem. there is nothing wrong with her.

spike loved. spike stayed. spike changed. spike burned for her. spike became light because of her.

her love is light.

[muqingslover]

[ Back again! Did you guys miss me? I sure missed you! As a gift I offer Sylus' NSFW alphabet! I totally forgot about this after Caleb's im so sorry 😞]

A = Aftercare

After sex with Sylus is incredibly soft. He will make sure you don't have to lift a single finger and do everything for you. He will bathe you, dress you and then put you to bed, tucked away safely in his arms.

Sylus likes to talk to you just before you fall asleep. Sometimes about random topics, sometimes about something he has planned for the next day and, for most of the time, about you; The way your hair feels when he plays with it, how cute you look when you snuggle against him and of course, how much he loves you.

B = Bondage

Personally, he prefers bounding you compared to the other way around. Sylus is extremely hands on in the bedroom; Anything that will make it difficult for him to touch you as he wishes is just not ideal.

He will also go to great lengths to make sure the restraints used are custom made to be extra comfortable regardless of how much you struggle against them and won't cause any bruising or tearing on your skin.

C = Crying:

Given the fact Sylus is familiar with BDSM he knows to expect tears during sex. That however won't stop him from making sure they're from genuine pleasure and checking to see if you need a break. Once he is confident there is nothing wrong he actually enjoys knowing you feel so good it's a little overwhelming.

D = Dominance:

Soft dom!Sylus all the way! if you think otherwise then this blog is not for you.

A lot of people mistake doms for the "hardcore alpha daddy" stereotype because of media, but that couldn't be further from the truth. Sylus is a great example of it!

Being the dominant one is not only about what happens in the bedroom; The soft requests for you to take a seat where he points you to, picking out the clothes you wear, cooking your meals, being the only one you trust yourself with after a long day at work— That's all part of the play.

He has no need to degradate, break or physically abuse his partner to show his dominance. Keeping his partner, his sub, happy and satisfied is what's most fulfilling for an actual dom.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

I don't think Sylus has had any other partner besides you, but he has done extensive research on romance and sex.

One thing worth highlighting is that the first thing he learned was how to control his strength around you. Sylus didn't want to end up grabbing you too hard or doing something worse while excited so he took a lot of time to make sure he could use just the right amount of strength like second nature.

F = Favorite position:

Mating press. Come on now, you can't deny and say this comes as surprise.

This man also loves, and I mean looooves, when you're on top of him. Cowboy is definitely a favorite of his because then he can push his entire cock inside of you and watch the way you chase after your own pleasure.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Sylus is serious, but in the incredibly romantic way. He wants the both of you to pay full attention to this special moment and won't crack jokes or anything of the sort.

If you're feeling nervous then he will help you calm down with low, loving praises whispered in your ear and taking everything extra slow.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

For personal reasons only I like to think he has a bit of hair on his carpet. Nothing much, just enough. He simply doesn't overthink about that.

H o w e v e r

He will get that hair waxed (yes, WAXED.) the second his partner mentions any type of dislike or something similar towards it.

I = Impact play:

This will completely depend on his partner. Sylus personally does not enjoy hitting you, but as long as the two of you sit down and you explain to him you truly want it (and will enjoy it) he is willing to indulge you.

He won't do anything extreme, but you can expect him to make you count to fifteen while he smacked your ass with a soft padded tool as punishment.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He does not masturbate often nor does he truly enjoy it.

Go here for a full explanation.

K = Kissing:

Something very specific he enjoys is the feeling of your tongue against his. His tongue is longer than the average person's so you will struggle to welcome it, but that's just what is so delicious to him.

Sylus will often plant kisses right on the middle of your chest (in between your breasts if you're a lady) and on your stomach (iykyk).

L = Location (favorite places to have sex.)

The bed, though not any bed. It has to be one with a comfortable mattress and a steady headboard.

He also likes to have sex in the shower, holding you up in his arms while your back is pinned against the cold wall.

M = Masochism:

Not a masochist in any way. Sylus does not enjoy being inflicted pain (the same way he does not like to hurt you.)

Biting him and scratching his back is fair game though!

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Threesomes, group sex, public sex ect— Anything that involves sharing you or showing you to others is an absolutely no.

Making you bleed or burning you, breath play and degradation are also completely off the table.

O = Oral

Sylus is reaaaaally into blowjobs. The way you try and fail to fit his full length inside of your mouth, how the muffled moans that leave your throat feel against his throbbing cock and the teary look on your pretty little face is just what he needs to cum in no time at all.

Naturally he will return to favor anytime you want (or whenever he decides you deserve to "unwind" after a long day.) Sylus is a slow eater. He takes his time when exploring with his tongue, his nose adding such a pleasurable pressure against your hardened clit and feeling how you grow wetter each passing minute as he preps you torturously slow.

P = Patience:

Very much into edging and it's always accompanied by tons of praises, though a few teases will be thrown into the mix from time to time.

He is not trying to ruin or deprive you from your orgasm, Sylus merely wants to watch how absolutely adorable you get when you grow desperate enough to actually beg for it. So desperate that you feel no shame in asking him for exactly what you need and who is he to deny it after you've been so good?

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Not particularly his thing, but he is always willing to eat you out in between meetings (or have you give him a treat under his desk ;) )

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

A natural risk taker in general though surprisingly traditional once he's comfortable with a routine in the bedroom. Call him a creature of habit if you will.

Not that he's boring— Far from it — He is willing to try new things if you're the one suggesting it, but he knows how to spice things up based on your preferences and moods without needing outside influence.

I think it's worth mentioning BDSM plays commonly include some sort of routine so I also based this on that fact!

S = Sleepy sex:

Morning sex is number one of his absolute favorite things. It feels intimate, as if the two of you are the only people in the whole world and, most importantly, it feels safe.

The feeling of you so pliable and soft in his arms, the raspy and quiet noises from you while he gently works you open for him, how warm you feel around his cock when he slipped inside, the feeling of your back against his broad chest— He could go on for hours about why he loves it so much.

T = Top or bottom:

Stone top! He likes the role of caretaker and the general dominance that comes with it.

U = Underwear:

He prefers when you have nothing on, but if he had to pick then he likes silk! Night slips, robes, his own fancy shirts...ect. The fabric feels nice to touch and it won't irritate your skin even if things get a bit heated.

V = Voyeurism:

Letting others watch you? Absolutely not.

Him watching you masturbate however? Whew, the thought alone has him hot and bothered.

W = Wild card: (A personal headcanon that can be considered unexpected)

I don't know if this is unexpected (probably not if you follow me), but I will put it here because of what I've seen around this fandom.

Sylus likes gentle, loving and slow sex. The "violent", aggressive type is just not who he is nor will he bring it to the bedroom. Playing rough and being aggressive are two completely different things, remember that guys!

X = X-Ray:

I ain't doing this LMFAO sorry pookies dick anatomy is not for me. yk, a dick is a dick. Just know it's BIG.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

His sex drive is not overly high or super low. Sylus is a very "go with the flow" kind of guy for these things; If he sees you're in the mood or knows it's a good day for it then he will initiate something.

Z = Zones (His sensitive spot/s)

The middle of his chest where his scar is.

HIS BACK. Literally anywhere you touch him there just goes straight to his cock. Honorable mentions of his lower back and spine!

[heartyluv]

Note: This wonderful idea was based on an ask sent by @klossnite! (Click here to read it!) I’m doing my asks like this from now on because it started getting glitchy and weird when I would save them in my drafts. Anyways, she and I were chatting in the comments about Camboy!Caleb, the dynamic he has with his wife, and just how in loveee they are and she would like to see how they were on their wedding night. So know that this is prior to all the camboy fics!

And yes, I am making it canon and known right here, right now! Camboy!Caleb’s wife IS chubby!!!

Creds to @/anitalenia for the dividers!

Warning: Smut, Caleb is fingering you, self-depreciation (you weren’t as confident in yourself before you started making content with him)

Word Count: 2.5K

Summary: You were once a fan who paid Caleb to watch him come and whisper filthy things as he did it, and now you’re married to him. When your first night as newlyweds comes to close, something heavy arises inside your mind that only your husband can ease.

Camboy!Caleb/Reader ~ Newlyweds

From the moment you and Caleb woke up to drive to the courthouse early this morning right up to you making it off the plane as you landed in Greece for your honeymoon—it’s been an experience nothing short of surreal.

It never even became a thought to entertain that you’d marry him when you both were strangers as you were paying to show your support for his content creation a few years ago, but only the universe knew how deep your gratefulness went. Officially, you belonged to a beautiful man who had gotten teary eyed as he slid your white and gold diamond ring onto your finger.

The day he proposed to you was a simple one. It was a random morning when you woke up and he was staring at you as you laid beside him in bed. You’d been living together for two years—an official couple for three—and Caleb knew that just calling you his girlfriend wasn’t enough.

He said it softly as he gazed into your sleepy eyes.

“Will you marry me?”

And you knew you were just as whipped when you didn’t hesitate for a moment to murmur yes. He kissed you so tenderly, morning breath and all. It was a fairytale you would brag about until the day you died.

Neither of you wanted a grand wedding with people who outwardly or silently judged him for the work he did or you for being okay with it. So instead of spending thousands on an event that was mainly for other people, Caleb planned a trip for your honeymoon while you booked the appointment to obtain your marriage license with the intention for it all to happen on the same day. It wasn’t the wedding you thought you’d have when you were in high school—with a big gown, a detailed arrangement of flowers, and dozens of guests—instead, it was infinitely better.

You wore one of Caleb’s favorites—a backless light yellow sundress that made you feel like a princess, while he wore a simple white dress shirt with the top few buttons undone and black slacks. Your photographer was an older woman and her husband who took both you and Caleb’s phones to record and snap all kinds of photos for your memories.

The way he kissed you after your vows that came straight from the heart and the second you said I Do had told you everything—that you had absolutely made the right choice.

It was night time as you and Caleb were being driven to where your villa was. He had been guiding you through absolutely everything. The trip and all it would consist of was a secret until he showed you.

After you landed, he had taken you to a gorgeous restaurant that had food so divine that you wished you could’ve consumed more than you had. He then took you to markets that sold all kinds of clothes you adored and small stores that sold the most precious trinkets he knew you’d love.

You couldn’t wrap your mind around how he was able to find so many places that he knew would fascinate you, but you’d been floating through it all with immense happiness. The way he knows you, the way he loves you, is a gift you feel you’ll never be able to repay him enough for.

In awe you gazed at all the people who made these beautiful hills of land a home as you rested your head on your husband’s shoulder. You two were far from tired despite your excursions.

When you got to where you’d be staying for the week and watched Caleb bring your bags up the stairs and inside because he refused for you to lift a finger, you explored the space in comfortable silence. The large bed that faced double doors with a mesmerizing view of the ocean and overlook of the other buildings, the breeze that flowed inside with the comforting smell of sea salt, along with the detailed walls and wooden floors made you wish that you could stay here forever.

“What do you think about going for a swim?” Caleb suggests as he walks towards you with a grin. “Wanted us to have a good first day before I got you to myself for the rest of the night.”

You bit your lip as he kissed your neck, bracing your hands on his arms as he grabbed you everywhere he could. “I’d like that.”

“Go change.” He nipped your ear. “I’m gonna take a quick shower. I feel sweaty.”

You snorted, kissing his lips after you nodded. “Be quick.”

“Of course.”

While the shower ran, you went into your suitcase to pick your swimsuit. But when you actually realized what you had packed, the hesitation that flowed through you was strong.

Every single one was a two piece and that was thanks to a striking moment of confidence when you decided to step out of your comfort zone and ditch the one pieces you strictly wore.

Caleb has seen you naked and you two have had sex, but for some reason, as you slipped on the dark blue bikini set, you wanted to do nothing but cover up and hide yourself from him. You looked at yourself in the mirror that rested against the wall, turning to the side as you looked at how your plush stomach settled on the bottoms. You frowned when you tried to suck it in, wishing that you were smart enough to have packed at least one thing that was full coverage.

Your mind went to all the women you saw today, their flat stomachs a sight to behold in their beach attire as you and Caleb traversed through the tourist locations. It was then that you decided—I can’t go outside like this.

“Baby?” Caleb called out, startling you because you were so lost in thought that you never heard the shower stop or him open the door. “You okay?”

Your lack of response immediately raises the alarms in his mind. All of his attention and concern is on you now when he walks closer to look at you through the mirror.

You look at him with overwhelming love, thinking of how you met and what has come of it. That’s all that should be on your mind along with how you’ll be celebrating—not how you look in a bikini, but you can’t help it. Especially not when you can feel his hard and muscular body press against your bigger one.

You pull your cover up tighter around you and that makes Caleb’s eyebrows knit in confusion. “Woah, woah,” he places his hand over yours from behind. “What’s going on?”

Silence.

“Pretty, I can’t help if you don’t talk to me. That’s what we do, yeah?” He studies you as best he can. “We talk.”

“It’s nothing, babe,” you deflect, getting ready to move away, but Caleb doesn’t let you.

“Not only are you keeping something from me, but you’re lying about it. I don’t like that.”

You know you need to come clean. It’s not fair to ruin everything because of your insecurities.

“I just,” you huff, blowing breath through your lips. “I don’t like how I look right now, is all.”

“What’s wrong with how you look?”

“Caleb, we don’t have to talk about this—”

“What’s wrong with how you look?” he cuts you off, repeating himself with narrowed eyes.

“I should’ve brought something that covered up more, that’s it.” Your response is short—curt. And for that, Caleb has to fix it.

He leans down, kissing your shoulder then making you tilt your head to the side as he lips graze against the skin on your neck. “It sounds like you’re talking bad about my wife,” he whispers, sending shivers through you.

“You know I don’t like a lot of things, but one thing I’ll never accept?” He begins to peel your cover up down your shoulders, looking at you in the mirror as if he dares you to stop him with no words necessary to convey the message. “Someone badmouthing the woman I love—Especially, if that kind of talk is coming from her.”

His strong hands come around to grab your stomach, forcing you closer to him as you gasp.

“What are the two things I’ve always told you?” He kisses your earlobe.

“To be proud of my body,” you shudder at the way he holds eye contact.

“Good girl,” he coos. You feel his fingers against your skin as he reaches for where you tied your bikini at the back of your neck. “The second thing?”

“To never be ashamed of what I want.” Your heart hammers rapidly in your chest.

“Perfect,” he says at the same time your top slips off to reveal your heavy breasts once he unwraps you.

“But being able to recite it to me doesn’t mean it’s instilled, right?” He slides his hands up your body to hold your tits in his hands, his thumbs grazing your nipples to make the peaks taut and just as needy as the rest of you.

His hand trails down the side of your body, tapping the outside of your left thigh with one command.

“Lift.”

You raise your leg, your hand bracing against the wall beside the mirror to keep yourself steady. Caleb caresses your inner thigh, smirking as you press your ass again his hardening cock.

“Tell me what you want.”

“You,” you plead desperately, whimpering as his arm comes over and his finger drags up your slit. He clicks his tongue, shaking his head.

“I’m already here, baby. Use your words correctly.”

“Your fingers.” You can’t help but to arch your back in anticipation as he skillfully pulls your panties to the side. “I want your fingers inside of me.”

Your mouth parts as you watch the simple silver band of his wedding ring catch the light of the standing lamp beside you two.

“My wife needs me to take care of her needy pussy, doesn’t she?” Your head falls back onto his shoulder when his thick finger gathers your slick from your quivering hole to bring it to your clit. He circles your bundle of nerves slow, occasionally stopping just to make you bend to his will. “Needs me to show her why she should love the body I plan to fuck my baby into one day.”

“Yes,” you pant without shame, needing any and every part of him inside you.

“Look at yourself when you fall apart for me. I want you to be just as proud as I am.”

You raise your head, watching and feeling how he stuffs you with his fingers. It’s a struggle to keep your leg up as he strokes the inside of your walls, but you refuse to take your eyes off of how wet you’re making him, how your juices make his digits shine while they move in and out of you.

“Caleb…” you cry, feeling the burn in your muscles ache so deliciously. “Fuck, that feels good…”

“I can tell by how you drench my ring, baby. Is this another way you’re choosing to claim me?” he smiles into your neck. “I like it.”

The sight in the mirror of your stickiness clinging to his wedding ring fuels your body with a primal urge you didn’t know you were capable of summoning. This man was absolutely yours, just as much as you were his. The way thin strings of your slick push and pull between your flesh and the band as his fingers coil inside of you is enough to show that.

“I don’t wanna come like this,” you whine, hearing how your cunt squelches like she’s letting him know how much she needs him before you do. “I want your cock…”

“Good,” he purrs, sliding his fingers out slowly to make your thighs tremble. Your leg finally rests and Caleb throws his towel away from his waist, the sound of the heavy material becoming a heap on the floor. He bends you just enough to bring out that arch in your spine that he’s taught you to do so well before spreading your legs wider. A man of his caliber needs space, after all.

You brace your hands on both sides of the mirror as you open up for him like a blooming flower.

“Taste yourself while I fuck you,” he commands and you feel his cock head brush against your entrance as he uses his tip to smear his hot precum between your lips. “You’re going to be proud of every part.”

His fingers push past your plush lips at the same time he guides his thick length into your weeping pussy. Your moans are muffled, his other hand gripping your hip to be able to pound into you like his cock wasn’t already imprinted.

You bring your eyes back to the mirror to see him already looking at you with pride, lust, but most importantly—love. Your tongue peeks out to take his digits deeper and taste the metallic of his ring, making him fuck into you even harder with promise that it was something no one would ever take from him.

Your tits bounce in response to how his tip kisses a part so deep that it makes your eyes sting with tears because it’s so fucking good.

“Don’t ever think about hiding any part of this from me, you understand? There’s a reason why we chose each other. It’s why we’re here.”

“Hmph—yes,” you mumble around his fingers as you continue to suck and indulge on your own sweetness.

“Use your pussy to make my cock feel how well you understand me, then.”

His balls slap your cunt and the sting against your clit is enough to make you cream around him like you were always meant to do. Any thought you had about your body being too much has faded as Caleb’s love and the way he makes you feel becomes of greater importance.

The mirror wobbles in your hold when you feel him stuff you full of his seed. You love how loud he moans at the way you milk his cock for every drop that he has.

“Look at how beautiful you are,” he breathes heavily, still pumping into you slowly after he’s filled you up like he doesn’t want it to stop. He pulls his fingers out of your mouth to bring it to his own, tasting everything that is you.

You listen to him, letting your gaze go along your puffy lips, your tits, stomach, and thighs, before you come back up to look at him.

It’s because of him that you see it. It’s because of him that you believe.

“I’ve never lied to you, have I?

You shake your head. “Never.”

He smiles, his intentions clear as he leans back to spit where you two are connected. “It’s always good to be thorough, don’t you think?”

He slaps your ass hard, causing you to moan at the sudden strike. “Get in the bed so I fuck my wife properly. Doesn’t hurt to consummate our marriage twice.”

Tags 🏷️: @mcdepressed290 @asiatic-apple @callads7 @caien @stargirlygirl @multisstuff @calebapplepie @littledarlingsthings @purpleamethyst25 @klossnite @lazygelpen @floatinginaer @meadowinthesky @floatinginaer @grackerzzz @nod4mnm3rcyy @loveinorion @ur-l0cal-crypt1d @brad-is-rad-blog

[theaxolotlkween]

Okay. So. I had to process this information. I think I'm still processing it a bit, not as much as I was initially, but like. Fucking hell.

So first I feel like I need to start with the obvious. I know that this is fiction. When I describe the experiences and stuff as if it is real, I am aware that this is fiction. That this never actually happened. But it's more in the spirit of the fact that, by participating in the story, you kind of become a character. So I guess I'm writing it from a "character" perspective, but also from a third person perspective a bit as well? I also might not entirely understand what exactly this is saying, I have been having some neurological issues lately. Also spoilers for The Social Experiments, obviously. Anyway, here we go.

I've been wanting to talk about the experience of having participated in The Social Experiments for quite some time now. It's been hard to put into words because I don't exactly remember them, but I remember mostly how I felt at the time. I don't know exactly if I can explain it, either—I've never exactly been the best at quantifying my feelings and my memory's gotten a bit screwy since then, so bear with me here. But so far I've not forgotten the feelings I felt, especially if I rewatch the actual VODs. I remember being a bit confused at first at the comedy aspect of it. It can be difficult to remember that there was a time before TSE, that there was a time before we knew exactly how things worked, what exactly the story was, not knowing about the Founder or the Hetch, all of that, back when the Lostfield Incident was being teased and talked about and theorised on, all that. But there was. I remember some emotional ups and downs at first, loving the comedy, Christian Hell is still one of my favourite jokes, frustration at that one tube puzzle in episode two (did it break? I think it broke), and then there was that gut punch of a finale. I don't remember if this is how it actually went, because unfortunately I can't find any chat messages from myself in the VOD, I think I was just too shocked to process it and type anything. Again, I am not the greatest at expressing feelings. But this is what I remember happening:

I remember feeling shocked, maybe a bit betrayed. We did everything right, didn't we? The Hero found the button! They should've exited! Why was this happening? Did we do something wrong?

I remember the choices. Live or Die. Well, obviously the choice is Live, right? We've been trying to save the Hero all this time, surely we're meant to pick Live? But... Die is there. Why is there Die? The chat exploded with a way to save the Hero; get it 50/50. Break the game, try to take control, to do something! Of course, no one knew at the time how accurate the vote was. No one knew at the time that there could never be a true 50/50. There was not a secret third option, no way that we could save him, nothing we could choose other than Live or Die.

I remember thinking, even in my blind hope that there was something we could do, wait, this doesn't make sense. What would us getting the vote to 50/50 even do? Was that even a real option? It didn't make sense. And then the Hetch dropped the bomb. There was no saving them. Not really. Not in the way we wanted to. The Hero could Live, forced for eternity to be put into these experiments, these stories. Bound to a fate of life eternal in this endless (not Christian) hell. Or, at least, until he no longer had a use. Or, we could kill them. We could end this. But he would Die. There wasn't an escape from this.

I don't remember if I initially picked Live. I don't think I did, but I can't remember. I just remember that, in the end, I picked Die. I know I did. The box slammed shut. The curtains closed. The mousetrap went off. And this time there wasn't a piece missing.

And that's how I learned that I was capable of killing someone if it came down to it. Great lesson to take away from all this, definitely information to learn about oneself, thank you RanbooLive! Or, I guess canonically, the Founder? The Hetch??? Idk. Either one of them, I suppose. It was a bit of a team effort kind of? Not really? Anyway...

I tend to joke a lot about TSE as "that one time I killed someone live on Twitch", and the tape of The Founder's Cut I bought is "the home video of that one time I killed someone live on Twitch" because, honestly, yeah. It's a pretty fun and silly thing to say. But at that point in that story, fully immersed, I felt bad. I didn't necessarily want to kill the Hero, who had been through so much. In character, I wanted this character to know that I didn't blame him for the part he played, that I didn't think they were a monster, et cetera, et cetera. Of course, when TFC came out, the ending hurt even more. If being there was a gut punch, then TFC removed my rib cage and its associated organs with that swing.

That, I think, brings us to now. All this information. I have been focusing mostly on the Hero in having to process this, because even though if you think about TFG, the Audience is responsible for all the deaths just by watching, but the Hero's death is the only one I feel culpable for. All the other information here is sickening as well. From the perspective of someone that is observing the story as an observer and one of whom's special interests is storytelling and being a sucker for those involving the nature of choice, I love this. I love how sickening this is.

However, from the point of view of someone who was there, someone who tried to save this person in the only way he knew how, from the point of view of my, well, character, I guess, it made me ill. It made me a little angry. I might be reading this wrong, because yeah, I might be reading thing wrong, anyone is capable of doing so, but to me the implication is that the Hero's corpse is still being used. Maybe I'm confusing the concept of "every time you watch TSE the story happens again" with the concept of "the Hero's corpse is now being puppeted in other shows and stuff too", because that's a thing that could be going on. But it got me thinking, did my choices actually matter? Did I really make the right choice? Can there be a right choice if you don't have all the information? If you don't know what all the consequences will be? There was never any way to save the Hero, though. Not really. Their brain was full of wires, and his mask was sewn onto his face. There really wasn't an escape for them. There never was. Was it still the right choice, then, if his corpse is still being used, Frank-style? At least they aren't alive for it, right?

My actual self, the one obsessed with stories and how they work and are told and the philosophy of choice, is, of course, eating this all up. My "character" self, the one part of the Audience and involved in GenLoss, is, of course, disgusted and maybe even angry. But that's the beauty of Generation Loss, isn't it? You get to be a character, an active participant in a story, one of many, and you get to be here, too. Maybe the reason it's hard to explain my feelings about Generation Loss because it's not really something I've experienced before. Active involvement in a story that hits all the right beats for me. Not just reading or watching, but doing. Participating.

So, thanks for that story two years ago that completely changed my brain chemistry and that I wrote this long-ass post about. I can't wait to see what's in store in Gen 0, and the rest of the story. I have a lot of other thoughts about Generation Loss that I could infodump about, thoughts that I can only say, "hey, someone should make a video essay about that" about it's me, I'm the someone that should make a video essay about that

Also we know that the symbol is called the hetch now so that's cool.

Now, here's a couple GenLoss drawings I did awhile back because I like these a lot and didn't have the time/energy/cognitive function to draw anything new as a reward for sticking to the end of this insufferably long post:

Happy Anniversary

[qivrae]

bruise theory - nsfw

spencer reid x afab!reader

a/n: NOT FINISHED and will never be:( just posting cause i need to post, reid getting jealous over a necklace 🤔🤔🤔

The living room smells fresh and the faint scent of Spencer’s cologne, still clinging to the throw blanket you’re curled up in. You’re stretched sideways across the couch, one leg resting over his. With a rerun of some old documentary playing quietly in the background. It’s the kind of night you both pretend to be productive—laptops open, mugs half-full but really, you’re just winding down from another chaotic week, letting the silence hum comfortably between you.

Spencer’s reading. Not just reading—annotating, muttering little facts under his breath, occasionally tapping his pen against his knee in that way that makes you look over every time. And every time, he doesn’t notice. Or he does and he’s pretending not to. You rest your head on the back of the couch and let out a quiet sigh. “You know, normal people don’t read scientific journals to relax.”

“Normal people have worse coping mechanisms,” he says without looking up.

You hum. “Touché.”

He glances over his glasses at you, eyes crinkling a little. “What were you even doing before I roped you into this?”

You gesture vaguely toward your phone. “Scrolling. Reading. Thinking about sleep.”

“At 9:58 p.m.?” he says, almost amused.

“I had a long day.”

He closes his notebook and finally looks at you properly. “You didn’t say much about it.”

You shrug. “Not much to say. I was in meetings all morning, then I came home and watched you pace around while talking to Hotch on speakerphone for two hours. I think that counts as an experience.”

He smiles softly. “Sorry. You could’ve told me to shut up.”

“And miss your weird little crime rants? Never.”

He shifts closer on the couch, just a little. “You know, you really should be nicer to the person who does your laundry.”

“You literally folded half a sock and gave up.” He laughs in a low tone that makes your stomach flip a little. You love that sound. Love when it’s just you and him, no cases, no profiling, no bloodstained files. Just this—warm light, quiet room, soft clothes and softer touches. You nudge your foot against his thigh.

“What’s that thing you were reading?”

He lifts the notebook again and flips to the page. “It’s a piece on cortisol regulation during chronic sleep deprivation. They’re arguing that the neurological impact is—”

You groan and toss your head back. “You asked what I did today and now you’re punishing me with your answer.”

“I’m educating you,” he protests, mock-serious.

“You’re boring me.”

“You love it.”

You grin at his words. “Maybe.” But then he lunges—quick, too quick. He tosses the notebook to the side and pins you with a grin, hands finding your sides as he starts tickling. You shriek, laugh and squirm away but he’s persistent. “Spencer—stop—”

“You shouldn’t provoke an academic,” he says, fingers digging just under your ribs. “We’re emotionally unstable.”

“You’re the worst—”

“You love it.” You’re laughing too hard to respond. He’s leaning over you now, grinning like he’s won, hair a little messy, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. You reach up in retaliation, fingers in his hair, tugging playfully. He stills instantly—his breath hitches, just slightly, and his eyes flick down to your mouth. The moment shifts.

“Truce?” you whisper. He nods slowly. “Truce.”You tug him forward by the hoodie strings and kiss him. Lazy, warm and familiar. The kind of kiss that comes with history. His hands slide under your shirt, palms resting lightly on your hips, thumbs brushing slow circles into your skin. You melt into it. Every time you kiss like this, it feels like time stops. Like nothing exists outside the living room, the couch, his mouth on yours.

He pulls back for a breath, and something shifts in his expression. His eyes narrow slightly.

“What?” you ask, still half-dazed. He brings a hand up, fingers ghosting over the side of your neck. His thumb brushes something there, careful. The mood dips—he’s frowning now, inspecting you like a crime scene. He lingers on a spot you hadn’t even noticed, his touch no longer soft—curious but tense. “What’s that?” he murmurs.

You blink, confused. “What?”

“That,” he says, a little firmer now. “On your neck.” Your fingers brush over the same spot.

“Oh. It’s probably from my necklace—I was messing with it earlier and the clasp scratches sometimes. It’s not what you think.”

His eyes stay locked on it but he doesn’t say anything right away. Then quieter but sharp enough to cut, “Who gave you that?”

Your breath catches. “Spence—no one. I just told you—”

“I’m not accusing you,” he says, though he really is, though he wishes he had a better reason to. “It’s just… it’s not from me.”

You sit up a little straighter, eyes meeting his. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“I know,” he says instantly. But he’s still staring, thumb pressing a little harder into the faint red mark like he’s trying to erase it. Or brand over it with his own. “It’s just—” His voice dips, quiet but pointed.

“That shouldn’t be there.” He leans in, close enough that you feel the heat of him against your skin. His mouth hovers by your ear as his hand traces a slow, deliberate path down your throat.“I should fix it.”

His voice is quieter now, but the low heat in it makes your skin prickle. “Take off your shirt.” You hesitate, heart climbing into your throat because it’s not a request and it’s not like him—not usually.

“Spencer…”

“I said take it off.” He’s sitting up straighter now. Still calm, still deadly soft. But the storm in his eyes is obvious, burning through you. “If you’re so sure it’s nothing, then show me.” Your fingers fumble with the hem of your tank top. The room feels ten degrees hotter as you pull it over your head, hair messy from the motion. You’re bare except for your bra and his gaze dips to the spot on your neck again. He leans in, one hand sliding around your back, the other brushing your hair aside. His thumb ghosts over the colored, slightly raised mark. “This,” he murmurs, “isn’t mine.”

“You’re being ridiculous—” He cuts you off by tugging you forward by the waist until you’re straddling him, your knees sinking into the couch cushions. His mouth is right at your ear.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not,” you whisper. “It’s—Spencer, it’s literally from a necklace. I wore the one with the thin gold chain yesterday. You know the one—”

He cuts you off, “I know what I didn’t do,” he says sharply, his fingers gripping tighter around your waist. “And I know what I should do.”You let out a shaky breath, hands braced on his shoulders.

“What are you gonna do?”

“I’m going to fix it,” he says, tilting his head, already leaning forward. “I’m going to make it obvious that no one else gets to touch you. Not even by accident. Understand?” You don’t respond fast enough. “Use your words.”

You nod, barely find your voice. “Yeah. I understand.”

“Good,” he mutters. “Because I’m going to cover you with marks that are mine. And you’re going to sit still and take it.” He starts slow. A kiss just below your jawline, soft and warm. Then one lower, a bit rougher. And lower. A bite. A suck. You can feel it blooming under your skin already, the pressure and the heat of it. And he keeps going. “You’re going to look in the mirror tomorrow and remember who this body belongs to,” he murmurs between kisses, one hand sliding up your spine and the other gripping your thigh to pull you closer. Another hickey. Right above your collarbone. “You’re mine,” he says, like a thesis. “You think someone else can fuck you the way I do?”

You shake your head, already pliant against him. “No,” you whisper.

“No what?”

“No one else can.” He pulls back just enough to look at you. His pupils are blown wide, hair falling into his face, lips slightly parted. He huffs a soft laugh, one hand threading into your hair. You barely have time to breathe before he’s pushing inside you—slow at first, thick and steady, inch by inch until you’re arching into him, gasping his name like a prayer. Your hands clutch at his back, nails dragging down skin, trying to anchor yourself to something solid.

Spencer groans, deep and ragged, forehead pressing to yours as he bottoms out. “Fuck, baby…” His hips are still, just for a moment. Letting you feel it. Letting the weight of it sink in.

“How are you still this tight for me?” he murmurs, like he’s baffled— like he’s never going to get used to this. “Every time—every fucking time.” You whimper, clenching around him and he laughs—quiet and breathless. Then he pulls back and slams back in, sharp and deliberate. He’s knocking the air from your lungs.

“You feel that?” His voice is low, right at your ear. “That stretch? That’s what it feels like to be ruined. To be owned.”

He finds a rhythm—slow and punishing, deep and pointed. Not for speed, not yet. Just for control. Just so you know who you belong to.

“Keep your legs open,” he growls when they try to close around him. “You take everything I give you.” You cry out and he catches your jaw with one hand, turning your face to look at him.

“Don’t look away.” His eyes burn. “You look at me when I’m fucking you.” You nod and he thrusts harder—deep enough to make your spine arch, deep enough that you swear you can feel him in your throat.

“God, you’re dripping for me.” He glances down, cock twitching inside you. “Making a mess on my cock like it’s all you know how to do.” He keeps talking, mouth pressed to your skin. To your neck, where the necklace mark used to be. He licks over the hickeys he made, one by one.

“Spence—”

“You think I didn’t notice the way that guy at the grocery store looked at you the other day? Think I didn’t see you smiling at him?” You blink up at him, breathless.

“That was nothing—”

“I know,” he cuts you off. “I know it was nothing. But this—” he thrusts harder, rougher “—this is everything.” You’re close. You know it. He knows it. He can feel the way your body tightens around him, how your legs start to shake. “That’s it,” he pants, snapping his hips forward. “Gonna cum for me, sweetheart? Gonna fall apart while I’m buried in you?” You nod helplessly, body already tipping over the edge. “Then fucking do it. Let me feel it.”

You cry out as the orgasm rips through you, your vision going white-hot at the edges. He doesn’t stop. Not even as you’re shaking beneath him, moaning his name into the warm air of your bedroom. Your nails are clawing at his back and he fucks you through it, groaning as you clench around him, soaking him. “Jesus, baby,” he grits. “Just like that. Keep going. Milk my cock.” You don’t stop. And neither does he.

[revelboo]

hello yes hi can I request an interludes scene where a bot catches feelings for a human he picks up on a whim, and they impulsively bond + conceive a sparkling within like 20 minutes of meeting each other? dealer's choice on which mech would immediately ruin his life like that for nonstop access to Earthling valve lol

….. I can think of a few needy, lonely Cybertronians. 🔞 Mass displaced mechs 🌶️ DP implied fem bits

Interludes Pt 16

Waspinator x Reader, Tarantulas x Reader

• “Oh,” you gasp bumping into someone and it’s just the big hand grabbing your arm that keeps you upright when you stumble. Eyes widening as you stare up at the big alien while his head tips, antenna lifting. And as strange as some Cybertronians look, this guy is winning for weirdness, his pretty purple optics doing little to detract from the mandibles, wings, and extra limbs. You’ve seen some animalistic aliens here, but he’s the first bug and as you back up out of his grip and bump into another one, turning and shivering at his equally weird friend, because that’s a lot of limbs.

• You’re going to run. They always do, him and Tarantulas banding together to try and find a willing human but quickly realizing they’re too alien. If other Cybertronians can’t accept them, why would anyone? Wings drooping as you looking from him to Tarantulas, Waspinator almost whines, antenna flattening back. Humans always acting just like Cybertronians. Like there’s something wrong with them. That they’re wrong, but you reach to tuck your hair behind an ear, flashing a nervous smile. “Spider and a wasp, right? That’s pretty cool. Different,” you say and Tarantulas settles a hand hesitantly against the small of your back. And you don’t flinch.

• “Different can be exciting,” Tarantulas coaxes, hating that he’s still hopeful after being turned down so many times. “If you’re a bit adventurous. I’m Tarantulas and my nervous friend is Waspinator.” And you relax slightly, not backing away from his touch. “Maybe you’d like to share a drink?” Or a room. Doesn’t want to push immediately though, because you’re the first human to meet his stare, to not shudder and back away. So tired of being alone. Of falling in love and being betrayed, but you wouldn’t betray him. Run from him. You’re so small, he’d be able to keep you.

• These guys are big like all of the aliens, the spider the bigger of the two and those extra limbs of his are dancing around him as his buddy’s, Waspinator’s, wings buzz. You’d come here to try something new, to have a once in a lifetime experience. To be able to mark it off that bucket list. “Or,” you say nervously. “We could get a room and get to know each other?” Because just once, you want to live vicariously, to be brave instead of shy.

• Wings flicking as you reach out and lay a soft hand on his arm, Waspinator can’t tear his optics from you. Choosing him? Them? They can keep you? “I’ll grab a token,” Tarantulas growls, hurrying away, lifting up onto his extra longs and making people back away and Waspinator reaches to touch your hair, back of his servo sliding against your soft cheek. Unable to really believe you’re choosing him. No one ever chooses him. And he steps closer, biolights pulsing for you, wings flaring. Hooking an arm around you and dragging you into him, mandibles brushing your neck on a whine as he pulls the scent off you deep into himself. And you wrap your legs around his waist when he lifts you. Letting him touch.

• Amused as Waspinator moves against you, Tarantulas own biolights flare when he returns with a token. Had almost given up hope of finding a willing mate. Slipping up behind you, his servos slide over your hips, pinning you between Waspinator and himself. Allying with the submissive little mech has been purely strategic, anyone willing to look past one of their appearances, might also accept the other. And Waspinator’s so broken and eager to please, the smaller mech isn’t as intimidating as he is. Using him to try and find a partner a stroke of brilliance. “I have a room,” he growls, hips rocking against you and you make a soft, needy sound that goes straight through him to his spike. Right before one of the nosy Autobots starts growling to not frag on the floor and he and Waspinator both hiss.

• Laughing at how offended they both get at the other mech for interrupting, you let Waspinator carry you as Tarantulas leads the way. Hands sliding against you, mandibles brushing you as they stumble to a room, getting distracted a few times, but finally making it inside. “Waspinator needs,” he whines, when you push at his chassis. Trying to get down to strip. “Don’t leave.” And he’s so desperate, you go up on tiptoe to brush a kiss against his mandible.

• “I’m just stripping,” you reassure him and Waspinator reaches to touch his mandible with a wondering ‘kiss.’ Because no one kisses him, no one touches him, except to hit him. Watching you peel off layers of coverings, he releases his spike with a whine. And you flush when you glance at him, but then Tarantulas pushes past him as you hesitate, his extra limbs spreading slightly.

• “If I may?” He growls, asking instead of just taking as his spike aches and you look up at him with uncertain eyes, but choose to trust him and his spark aches with it as he hooks his arms under you, lifting your naked body into the air, glancing at Waspinator to gauge the height and beginning to web you. He’s dreamed of this, webbing a partner like prey to get easy access to them and his extra limbs carefully wrap your waist, your thighs, and torso. So you’re hanging from the ceiling, thighs spread. “Lovely.” Clawed servos sliding against you as Waspinator circles and kneels between your thighs.

• Heart racing, hanging there helpless, you feel Waspinator vent against you, warm air fanning you before his mandibles brush you, spreading. And his inner mouth is on you, making you arch as his glossa tunnels inside you again and again. Trembling as the other one settles himself on the plush bed you’re apparently not going to use, releasing his spike and the plating underneath and his visor brightens as he fists his spike in one hand and dips a clawed servo inside himself, pumping lazily.

• Tasting you, scenting you, his little mate. Doesn’t even mind sharing with Tarantulas, the bigger mech a better fighter, bolder and more capable of defending you. Guarding their hive. Glossa tunneling inside your wet heat as you buck against his mouth, swinging slightly from Tarantulas’s web, moaning his name. You’re going to be such a good carrier for them, a soft, warm loving mate. So eager, his spike is beading with slick, already close to overload just from your taste.

• Jerking his spike as he pumps his servos inside his valve, he watches you tremble against Waspinator’s mouth. And you’re definitely what he’s been hunting for. A mate who’ll love him. Who’ll stay. He’ll just convince you and if he can’t, it’s not like you can escape them both. Groaning as you cry out with your release, his hips buck. Too needy and sensitive as he overloads, slipping his slick servos free with a shudder and sliding them through the mess he made, as he pushes off the berth and approaches you two.

• Trembling as Tarantulas kneels behind you and his slippery servos slide against you there, slicking you with his release before pressing a servo inside you there to make you arch. “Waspinator, come here,” he growls and the other mech crawls over on all fours, wings brushing your legs. Hanging there as Tarantulas growls something to him, you feel Waspinator move at your back before Tarantulas comes around you, his spike still erect.

• Releasing his spike and sliding against you, pressing against you to make you whimper, Waspinator grits his sharp denta. Slowly. Very slowly, Tarantulas said. Aware of the other mech standing in front of you. Burying his own spike inside you. And he keeps rocking against you, hearing you whimper as you take Tarantulas’s spike, the bigger mech trembling, but waiting and you finally relax enough he can claim you so you’re pinned between them both. “Slow,” he growls to remind himself, hips shallowly rocking and Tarantulas begins to move against you. And you’re arching between them on a whining moan. ‘I’ve decided we’re keeping you,’ Tarantulas says as your head falls back against Waspinator’s shoulder, moaning incoherently. The bigger mech getting rougher with you, hips pumping. Keeping you? His now? A little mate. Mandibles brushing the back of your neck, Waspinator shifts his plating and snares you in his spark, eager to claim you, spark you. And Tarantulas follows his lead, snaring you in his own spark as you cry out, overwhelming you, coaxing and demanding you accept them both and you’re trembling as you come apart between them.

Previous

[leighsartworks216]

“we can just stay in, blanket fort and all. no one needs to know.” with Zayne please? 🥺🥺🥺

Zayne being allowed to experience childhood whimsy? I'm on it, boss! o7

This ended up being the ADHD hurt/comfort I needed today 😭

Prompt from this list

First - Second - Third - Fourth LADs Masterlists

You're an adult. You have adult responsibilities. You have to go to the bank and the grocery store and the gas station. Not to mention all the work sitting on your desk

Yet here you are, stacking up pillows and draping blankets across chairs.

You're not sure what exactly prompted the idea. It could have been the rain pouring down outside. Or the fresh sheets warm from the dryer. Or even the childhood memories that feel so distant and so acute all at once.

Whatever did it, it had you immediately gathering every pillow and spare blanket in the house.

You lay out a blanket on the living room floor, coffee table pushed aside. Chairs from the dining room set up like walls, with pillows stacked up against them and a large blanket draped over them. The couch acts as a back wall, with more pillows piled on top of it for support. Any spare pillow, plush, and blanket gets shoved inside, where you form them all into a sort of nest.

By the time you've finished, the weight of all your responsibilities sinks in. You sit in the fort, feeling more guilty than before. Your chest aches with the knowledge that you still have so much to do and you've just wasted all this time not doing it. Not to mention the cleanup. And all your chores. And everything else that decides now is the perfect time to pile on to make you feel worse for doing anything that could bring you some joy and peace.

When the keys turn in the lock, you grab one of your plush snowmen and hide your face in its soft fabric. How can you bear to face Zayne, the king of steady focus and responsibility, like this? This is the man who graduated top of his class after skipping years of school, and became the youngest cardiac surgeon on top of it, plus all his awards and achievements! You couldn't even sit for two minutes to write one paragraph for work.

"Dear?"

His keys clink into the bowl by the door. His umbrella is set in the stand, coat hung up on a hanger, shoes exchanged for slippers. You listen to it all, counting down the steps it takes for him to cross over to your hiding place.

"My love, what's wrong?"

You peek out from the plush. Zayne's hair is lightly damp from the rain that got caught in the wind, sticking to his forehead. Little droplets gather on his glasses. His tie is skewed; soft slippers a heavy contrast to his work attire. He crouches down at the entrance, holding up the loose end of the blanket to peer in at you. His eyes flick over the plushies and pillows, but then they focus directly on you, your face, your body language, assessing the situation as best he can.

He waits so patiently. It only makes your admission harder, because you know you could do so much better. Work just as hard as he does, and come home with energy to spare.

"I didn't get any work done today..." you mutter, staring at the ground by his feet. It's easier than looking at his face. "Or anything that I needed to..."

He hums, thoughtful, neutral. He shifts in his spot. "What did you need to do today?"

You frown and hug the snowman tighter. "I needed to deposit a check at the bank and get stuff for dinner, and I needed to get gas; so we don't have anything to cook and I have to get gas tomorrow when it's going to be busy. And Nero needed my report on my last field mission, and Tara needed my help filing some stuff for her. But I didn't do any of it. I just stayed here all day, building this stupid fort..."

You drop the plush off to the side with a sigh. "I'll take it down."

He reaches out before you can. His hand wraps around your ankle, thumb stroking soothing shapes against your shin. "Leave it up. We can just stay in, blanket fort and all."

You finally look up at him, face contorted in a grimace. "But we don't have groceries," you rebut. "And if Tara finds out I didn't help her out because I was sitting in a blanket fort all day-"

"No one needs to know," he reassures with a soft chuckle. "I'll order some takeout and we can watch a movie. How does that sound?"

You stare at him. Take in the slight smile on his lips, and the gleam in his eyes behind his glasses. His skewed tie and slippers. His messy hair. Your partner, who just got home from working his ass off saving lives, giving you permission to rest. To stop beating yourself up.

Your eyes burn with unshed tears as you reach out to him. He responds without hesitation, crawling into the fort with you, crawling directly into your arms. He cradles the back of your head as you pull him close. Settles down on the blanket so he can wrap his arm around you in return. You can cry; you'll be safe in here, with him.

[hana-recs]

i do think it’s criminal that it’s taken me This long to read a user amourcheol fic but. IM HERE. and i'm so very ready – the premise of this was too good to pass up, especially because my brother recently watched gladiator 2 for the first time and info dumped about both movies to me (i watched the first sooo long ago and havent seen the second yet but. ANYWAY.)

their reunion…. mea vita…… kissing you with “the longing of a thousand lost souls”............ fia dont u know im INSANE. + the cameos from the boys just after are like a perfect touch of levity to balance out the gravity of the scene, Loved the characterisation of chan so much omfg what a cutie. ALSO “Soonyoung’s cock is as clean as the city sewers.” caught me so offguard i snorted.

Nodding your head, you put your hand upon the stone. “Jihoon, while you were gone, I had a life-changing experience.” Furrowing his brows, he put his hands on his hips. “And that was?” Exposing a little smile, you ushered him closer, gazing down at the said-experience. “My love, I gave birth to our son.”

^ the noise i MADEEE i literally did not expect this but. AGH. and i do think that’s a testament to how well you fleshed out the characters, their dynamic and their pure love for each other - i was not expecting to get attached so fast. but i AM. 

He could only watch the little bundle of life as he dreamed of things which he could not understand, tiny lips brushing against his tiny thumb. The man’s heart began to race at the sight of his closed eyes, the flutter of his lashes as he stirred in slumber.  So innocent the baby was—so vulnerable that he wondered whether people of his time even knew what innocence meant.

^ your writing is stupid good. like the stylistic choices to fit the world you’ve created are gorgeous, and the imagery….. sigh it’s just so good. you can Feel how overwhelmed he is, but also the tenderness and love he already harbours towards his son, and thats all done with your beautiful writing.

AND SEUNGCHEOL’S STORY…. why would u break my heart like this. have u heard of peace and love and happiness. Jokes aside, i do think it’s such a lovely addition to the fic – adds a whole new layer to their relationship by exposing shared grief and loss, which in turn sheds light on our main characters’ motivations. It’s so cleverly done fia u are a Genius.

“Thank you, my love, for bringing me peace.”

^ right well. it’s been fun. goodbye forever! (sorry but… her heart is his home,,, to love and to be loved is to rest, etc etc. i will cry)

“Perhaps it was better you did not give me a mere hour, vita.” You looked back. Leaning against the stone cot, he let his lips curl upwards. “It simply would not suffice.” The curiosity in your eyes had him further smirking. “I need an entire day to make up for the two years of absence from you.” It was sheer luck you were holding onto the doorframe.  “Careful, love,” he cooed, which only had you stumbling further out of the door in shock. His laughter followed you faintly as you left the room, blood rushing to your cheeks in drastic speed.

and all the scenes that come after……

“Let them have their fun!” Soonyoung roared, which had the baby crying louder. “Gods, Chan, you are the youngest after Cheol. Handle this sobbing mess!” “I have seen twenty summers,” Chan muttered. “Yes, so a baby in my eyes!”  “Of course you are going to consider Chan as a baby, you geriatric. It’s a wonder you did not collapse on the battlefield.”  "I will kill you in the next war, Seungkwan.”

JD.KLWEFUESGEL im literally obsessed with them sorry. Chan taking care of the baby is so sweet and soft,, and their memories of seungcheol??? such a specific brand of fond reminiscing that you portray SO well, u can so clearly feel all the affection they have for him 

AHSGFH anyway i just finished and i feel like i could wax poetic about this but instead i’ll drop a poem it reminded me of: 

fia every word you write is executed incredibly and i admire your brain so much. i think your world building is rich and immersive in a way that makes it feel like it’s always existed, and we’re just lucky enough to glimpse it through your eyes for 16k words. and your characters live and breathe, layered and memorable, even (older) seungcheol who is “offscreen” the whole time, and still you manage to create such a strong impression of him. you brought this world to life so beautifully.

ave, general

❝The Eagle of Rome has returned to you at last.❞

historical! au | fluff, smut, crack | 16.1k words

s u m m a r y : after your husband returns from the wars in foreign lands, you could not be more proud to see him be the shining pride of rome. however, even among the celebrations and your own personal news, lee jihoon only wanted one thing—some time alone with you.

c o n t e n t : roman! au, roman general! jihoon, husband! jihoon, father! jihoon, mother! mc, a lot of historical background and roman terms to add historical accuracy, soldiers! bss + wonwoo and chan, this is bss and friends, all of them are so annoying it's a wonder they aren't executed, seungcheol is, in a literal sense, a baby, this is a bullying chan campaign, the soldiers do NOT know how to talk to a baby, domesticity <333 mature content ↠ mentions of loss of loved ones, descriptions of war and death, dirty talk, petnames (my love, my sweet, darling, mea vita), fingering, oral sex (f. receiving), slight exhibitionism, unprotected sex (roman contraceptives are dookie), multiple orgasming, slight aftercare

t a g l i s t : @hyuckworld @gyuswhore @lexyraeworld @moonlightwonu @spooky-goose1003 @dvalitaes @cookiearmy @lllucere @syluslittlecrows @mrsjohnnysuh @fancypeacepersona @thepoopdokyeomtouched @monstacheol @xabsolutelynothingx @kyeomiis @icecream-sundaes @peachytokki @jihanniecheol @ourkivee

a u t h o r ' s n o t e : she is here!! i promised myself i would release this once i've watched gladiator II and she is back...changed woman...i guess this is a belated bday present to jihoon? thank u for inventing music king </3 enjoy reading loves !!

back to masterlist

“WHERE IN JUPITER IS HE?”

The maid whined as she focused on the crowd once more—thousands of citizens gathered across in the Capitol, the road cleared for the procession about to occur. Giddy conversations of every man, woman and child flourished for a mile, and you had to hold onto the girl accompanying you to not be trodden over.

“Careful, mistress!” Myrtia, your servant, warned as you dared take a step at the edge of the hill. “They will be here any minute now!”

You did not listen, holding onto your heavy shawl tighter as you waited in earnest of what was to happen. Rome was a city of chaos, but you did not hear the noise—despite the crowds, the instruments, the chanting, every single voice seemed irrelevant as you stood over the Capitolium. The little houses underneath you swirled around the hill, all evolving the temple behind you, the destination of the people about to be welcomed. Columned buildings made of stone and marble surrounded the crowds, speckled with garlands, its bright colours of vermillion shining in the summer sun. 

A small sigh left your lips. Today was the day he would come back home to you.

“By the gods!” Myrtia let out an excited screech, grabbing onto your arm and pointing towards the empty street, barricaded by the people. “They’re here, they’re here!”

Following her finger, you stared at the scene.

That was when the parade entered. 

Screams of elation spanned across the crowd as thousands of soldiers flooded in tight ranks, accepting the cheers with pride as they marched along, prisoners of war being dragged along by their chains. There must have been hundreds, spanning back beyond your vision, dirtied and haggard, but that was the consequence of challenging the Empire. The soldiers all adorned their red and silver uniform, smiling at the city which welcomed them.

Your eyes scanned the front of the parade, lips curving at the five men on decorated horseback. Each and every one of them had their distinguishable responses towards the people who sang praises to them, and you longed to see them ride up to the Hill where you could greet them.

When your gaze hovered to what rode in front of the men, it widened.

Four horses, adorned in the finest metals and blood-coloured clothing, led the chariot of the same colour, fully festooned in laurels. Gold swirls cemented on its front, making itself heard with its screeching wheels.

It was not the chariot you cared about.

No, it was the man who stood in it.

The man who was clothed in royal purple and gold, holding a laurel branch in one hand and a sceptre in the other. The man, whose wild black hair perfectly settled the golden crown that another beside him held. The man, whose ghost of a smile sent the crowd in absolute frenzy, beginning up a chant to his name.

“Hurrah for the Triumph!”

“Hurrah for the Triumph!”

“Hurrah for the Eagle!”

Your heart stopped to a standstill.

At last. At long last, the Eagle of Rome had come back to its nest.

“Mistress, look!” Myrtia exclaimed, pointing towards the star of the show, the lead victor in this parade. “Your husband achieved the Triumph!”

You glanced at her with unadulterated pride before focusing on the man in front, coming closer in your vision as he began the ride up the hill. The Triumph. A public celebration of a certain general who managed to lead Rome to a special, foreign victory. It meant the destruction of the enemy, complete desolation, which a mere centurion could not simply achieve. To receive the Triumph was to be respected by the highest of the Roman officials. 

You smiled at the notion. The destination for the parade was the Temple of Jupiter behind you, its columns holding up the huge, faded roof, towering over the few beloved relatives of the generals that led the soldiers. “I never doubted he would.”

The crowds grew wilder as the generals journeyed closer, halfway up the rocky hill—everyone opened their doors, leaving their houses to witness the rare spectacle. “Do you think they would let us speak to them?” your maid wondered out loud, following your steps as you turned your back, walking to the Temple. Standing right beside the steps, upstaged till they reached your height. “Gods, I forgot how big the temple is sometimes!”

“Wait here,” you said, holding onto the polished stone as you climbed up the steps. The thundering sounds of hooves on cobblestone entered your ears, and the few other relatives which accompanied you silenced, joy in their faces as the parade ascended. You turned before the show, the entire building shading you with its presence.

There he was.

With his four white horses slowing, neighing wildly at the company that arrived at the hill. With his red and golden chariot inciting excited Latin from the crowd, there he was, swiping past in front of his friends. The horses finally stopped, just before the steps, and the generals behind him followed suit, halting their own as they waited for their commander.

Their commander let go of the reins—stepped down from the chariot, purple robe flowing after the steps. The head that wore the crown turned to the Temple, laurel and sceptre still in his hands.

His calculating eyes skimmed the crowd, face exposing a little pride at the turnout.

He then faced his destination—right on you his stare settled, standing alone at the entrance.

You swore you saw his entire body still.

You were not wrong. The commander parted his mouth, eyes widening with who welcomed him past the steps. Gods, he nearly dropped the possessions in his hands, staring and staring at the woman.

No, not just a mere woman.

But you, his wife.

One of the generals, instantly noticing their leader’s change, got off his horse, same black hair glinting in the sun. He walked over, taking the objects from his hands, smiling knowingly. 

When the leader’s hands were free of the spoils, he willed his feet across the sanded street, first step atop the stairs. His gaze never wavered, unable to stray from the woman who haunted his nights. 

You, however, could not wait at all.

A choked sob escaped you as your own feet dashed forward, barely able to control themselves as you ran to him. His arms began to raise as you collided against him, wrapping your hands around his neck and crying into his purple-clad chest.

“Missed you...Jihoon…” your muffled murmurs slipped into his attire. “Missed you...so much.”

You felt strong arms envelop you, a rough-hewn face burying into your shoulder. “I thought of you everyday, mea vita.”

Mea vita. My life. A smile caught onto your tears as you hugged him tighter. “And I thought of you every night.”

He returned it, feeling his lips curve upon your skin. Placing a small kiss, he pulled away slightly, only to take your face with one of his hands and lean in closer. Enveloping your lips with yours, he kissed you with the longing of a thousand lost souls, finally returned to their other half. 

A soft groan threatened to leave your captured mouth, but then you felt your husband pull away, hands upon your waist. “I must stop here, my love, or I would not be able to stop afterwards.”

Cheeks burning, you did not let go of him. “Are you not finished?”

Shaking his head, he looked beyond you, to inside of the Temple. “I have to pay respects. It is the final part of the ceremony.” He turned to you again, aching to take you before the sacred grounds. “I cannot have you waiting for me that long.”

You were to object until the raven-haired boy behind him spoke up, waving his hand about. “We can escort her home, Jihoon,” he suggested, patting his general on the shoulder. “We do not need to go inside.”

“Are you sure, Wonwoo?” your husband asked, looking towards the other four. 

One of the centurions, with straight, cropped black locks framing his face, grinned smugly, holding onto his reins. “Oh, just let her leave with us!” he exclaimed. “We all know she missed us more than your stone-cold arse!”

You chuckled as Jihoon knifed the man with a glare. “A few hours in Rome, and Soonyoung is already a pain in my backside.”

The younger centurion beside Soonyoung scoffed, brown locks being caressed by the wind. “As if he is not a bother for us all.”

Soonyoung mocked a gasp. “Seungkwan!”

“Everyone, quiet down!” Another man declared, eyes closed and head raised in pride. “We all know our Captain’s wife wishes to ride with me.”

Soonyoung began to chortle at the claim. “_____, you might as well walk home than take Seokmin’s offer,” he mused, earning a near-death experience with a dagger thrown at him. 

Raising a brow at the bickering group, you raised a finger. “You know what? I think I shall ride with Chan.”

The said-boy perked up, eyes widening. “Me?” He asked, dumbfounded. “Well, of course, I just—”

“He would fall asleep mid-journey!” Seungkwan complained, crossing his arms. “It is already past his bedtime!”

“Hey!” Chan chimed in, but it did not help that he looked away, trying to stifle a yawn. Seungkwan pointed and laughed, proving his stupid point. 

“Enough!” Jihoon shouted, silencing them all instantly. “If _____ says she wants to go with Chan, then that is final.”

All of them began to complain, but one warning glare from their commander had them quieting like scolded children. Chan, being the one chosen, began to smile in innocent satisfaction, earning the evil wrath of Seokmin and Seungkwan. Soonyoung merely shrugged, whereas Wonwoo put a hand on his chest, heartily agreeing with his commander.

You glanced at the man in charge, looking as ever the victor in his royal robes. “Come home soon.”

Stealing another kiss from you, he squeezed your sides in comfort, smiling in reassurance. “I already am home, vita.”

THE LEGACY COMMANDERS ALWAYS KNEW HOW TO MAKE THE MOST NOISE.

Throughout the half-hour journey, the five men talked of their lives for the near-two years they were away—the battles they had won, and the siege they had laid over Alexandria, where Mark Antony and Cleopatra were finally defeated.

Chan glanced back every five minutes to check you were stable on horseback, urging you to hold tight whenever a rockier road was being taken. You patted him softly where you rested your hands upon him, showing him you were well. “Do not fret over me, dearest,” you assured him, earning an uneasy chuckle from him.

Unfortunately, the few centurions, riding right beside you two, heard your reassurance, and instantly resorted to striking fear. “Hanging onto Chan for dear life will not help you!” Seungkwan remarked loudly. “One wrong bounce of the horse and he is flying off!”

The youngest of the men, on instinct, tightened his hold on the horse, now fearing he would drive his commander’s wife to her death. Soonyoung laughed at the scene, but set his sights on the next youngest down. “Seungkwan should not be talking,” he crowed, galloping further ahead. “Pray tell us, how much denarii did you borrow off Wonwoo to heal your broken leg? You know, after you tripped over a tent rope?”

“Careful, Soon,” Seokmin exclaimed over the horses’ hooves. “Or Seungkwan will not hesitate to call on all the escorts you went bankrupt over in Egypt!”

Soonyoung immediately whirled his head to you, who eyed him incredulously. “_____, it is an exaggeration!” he deflected. “It was only one visit, merely to see what the women were like—!” 

“Is it true, Wonwoo?” you asked, who was fighting back a grimace at his friend’s endeavours. “Is our dear centurion as scandalous as he’s accused to be?”

The answer was swift. “Soonyoung’s cock is as clean as the city sewers.” 

As everyone cackled, the guilty flushing with embarrassment, he quickly switched the conversation to everyone’s adventures while on the road to Alexandria. Soonyoung did most of the storytelling, with Seokmin chipping in with great pride—Seungkwan had to tell the two of them off when they exaggerated their military prowess, while Wonwoo only laughed, narrating the truth of their adventures. Whatever they told you, though, you knew that they came out victorious.

The Legacy Legion was destined for greatness—especially if Jihoon Park commanded it.

By the time they were done, you had arrived at your villa, almost on the outskirts of Rome. The huge estate had been gifted to your husband by his superior, Octavian, who was thankful for the continuous loyalty he had seen from the Legion. Its exterior towered over the five horses, guards opening the gates to let you and your friends inside.

The estate was basked in whites and greys, roof the colour of baked bricks adding vibrancy to the faded walls. When entering, you were met with your bustling courtyard, servants hard at work with preparations for Jihoon's return. Within the four walls were different rooms which served different purposes—you could smell the different breads and meat being cooked on a slow heat, taking their time to be fully made. The boys began to salivate at the aroma, and when you felt Chan’s stomach grumble beneath your fingers you reined in a laugh, waiting for him to heave off before helping you down as well. 

“Take the horses to the stables,” you ordered one of the servants walking past you, who nodded, shouting for other men to come and help him. 

Seokmin groaned as he sniffed the air again, holding his armour-clad stomach. “I cannot take this any longer!” He whined, stomping to where the smell took him. “____, I must have cena now or so help me Ceres!”

“Stop complaining about lunch!” Seungkwan crowed. “I gave you half of my breakfast, and you pinched Chan’s bread too!” 

“Here we go again,” Wonwoo mumbled. He then heard grumbling in his abdomen, and knew he could not argue against his body. 

You watched the absolute creatures in tenderness, and waved them all over. “Come,” you began, walking inside the first door. “I wish to show you something.”

“This better be some roasted boar!” Soonyoung grumbled, earning a jab in the arm from Wonwoo.

The destination was not far, and with one further turn, you ended up in a smaller, yet spacious room, golden sunlight streaming through the windows. You ushered the boys in, taking up the entire space, and they were all about to complain when you showed them.

Every single man in the room melted at the sight.

“By the gods!”

“Tell me it is not an illusion!”

“This is a better sight than roasted boar!”

Laughing, you put a hand to your lips. “Not so loud now! Jihoon is not aware of this yet, and I wish to tell him myself.”

“Of course!” Wonwoo agreed, eyes dancing. “By Jupiter, he would be overjoyed!”

“I hope so,” you voiced out your wishes, glancing at the surprise. 

The boys were about to say more when they heard the distant sounds of thundering hooves near the villa, and everyone stilled. 

“Quick!”

“Everyone get out of here!”

“Seungkwan, move—”

The five greatest centurions of Rome scrambled to get out of the tiny bedroom, rushing into the courtyard where Jihoon now made his entrance, crown still upon his head. He saw the rather guilty exit of his men, and raised a brow at their strange behaviour.

“What are you all—” he was about to ask, but then the boys dashed towards him, each grabbing his arm and pushing him to their last destination. “Wait, hold on—!”

“This is of extreme importance, we assure you!” Wonwoo simpered, knowing his end was near with the behaviour he and his friends upkept. 

“Even more important than lunch!” Soonyoung added.

“Even more important than roast boar!” Seokmin chimed in.

Jihoon was about to throw them off when they pushed him into the small room, waving excitedly at you. “We will be looking for food!” Seungkwan called from the door, and Chan looked at you apologetically before following after his friends. 

Watching them busy themselves, he turned to you, cocking his head. “What was all that for?” 

“They are terrible actors, but they had good intentions.” You then bit your lip, glancing beside you. “Actually, they brought you here for a reason.”

“Oh?” He took a step forward. 

Nodding your head, you put your hand upon the stone. “Jihoon, while you were gone, I had a life-changing experience.”

Furrowing his brows, he put his hands on his hips. “And that was?”

Exposing a little smile, you ushered him closer, gazing down at the said-experience.

“My love, I gave birth to our son.”

You felt Jihoon’s world still for a moment.

Within seconds after, he closed the distance to the cot, following your gaze.

There, wrapped in blankets, lay a small baby, lost in sleep.

The general did not know what to say.

He could only watch the little bundle of life as he dreamed of things which he could not understand, tiny lips brushing against his tiny thumb. The man’s heart began to race at the sight of his closed eyes, the flutter of his lashes as he stirred in slumber. 

So innocent the baby was—so vulnerable that he wondered whether people of his time even knew what innocence meant.

He thought all good had withered from the world till his eyes beheld this child. His son.

“It was he that helped me cope with your absence Jihoon,” you continued, and you did not know why it began to hurt to talk. “You see, the boy looks so much like you.”

Your husband’s eyes flickered to you, catching the melancholy in your stare. He knew—of course he knew how you felt about him hardly being here.

You could not blame him, though. With a position of such esteem came great responsibility, which he would risk his life to fulfil. It was his honour, his undeterred loyalty in what he believed in, that made you fall so deeply in love with him. Still, you admitted that life was barely liveable without his magnetic presence near you.

He propped his hands on the edge of the cot. “May I...may I hold him?” 

“Of course,” you replied, slowly pulling the boy in your arms, cooing softly so he stayed asleep. When you were sure he was peaceful, you held him out to your husband, who took a deep, shuddering breath.

With shaking hands, he raised them towards his son, feeling the soft cotton of his blanket beneath his fingertips. Staring at Jihoon, you made sure that he would not let go—satisfied, you gave him the stirring bundle.

Another hard sigh escaped him.

The child, on instinct, nuzzled further into his hold, right into his chest, and he knew his answer straight away. His heart fluttered nervously, holding his breath to not wake him. It was so bizarre that his nerves heightened with every second, fearing he would let go—his sword was heavier than this child, yet his hold on him was shaky, uncertain. 

He wondered if he could ever get used to this feeling.

There were sensations he had experienced which brought him immense joy. His victories, his commandeering of the Roman legions, the subsequent victories that were guaranteed under his leadership. His centurions, who, despite their incessant complaining, shouting, general presences, were the catalyst to his success. You, who was behind the man that he was, and became—the reason he breathed. 

A small murmur escaped the little boy, and all the love Jihoon had lost these years had come back.

He was never the one to expose such extreme emotions, but gazing at the baby brought him such…peace. In truth, he had not felt peace in a long, long time, yet the feeling washed over him, like small waves upon the shores of a beach. Each twitch of his fingers, every kick of his feet brought his soul to a standstill, then revived it once more. 

He contributed to this creation. He was half the reason for the slumbering life in his hands.

His stare did not leave his son. “What did you name him, vita?”

Your gaze was rooted to him as you answered.

“Seungcheol.”

Jihoon’s rocking froze. 

His eyes darted towards you, and the pure shock which emitted had your heart breaking. His mouth parted, only for silence to welcome his tongue. 

It was now your hands which held onto the cot.

Seungcheol was not some ordinary name you thought up on the hour of the birth.

No, this name was originally held by the previous leader of the Legacy Legion.

Most importantly, the name was held by yours and Jihoon’s dearest friend.

Choi Seungcheol was a sweet, charismatic boy who had grown up in the same neighbourhood as you and Jihoon. He was the nail in your house of the trio, and the mastermind of the romance which weaved between the two of you. 

He had an incredibly bright future ahead of him. Under Octavian’s army he had achieved the title of primus pilus—the leadership of an entire legion—with all of the boys, including Jihoon, under his command. He was an advocate of justice, and had risked his friends many times for defending the rights of Rome and her citizens against tyrants.

It was these very tyrants that brought about his downfall.

Jihoon was never meant to leave your side these past two years. He was meant to stay in Rome under Octavian, but the rivalry against Mark Antony had crossed lines, and war was about to be waged. Seungcheol, forever the hero, vowed his undeterred loyalty to the former, and promised to shed Mark Antony’s blood.

That very night, the commanders of the Legacy Legion were celebrating the war when a group of assassins launched an ambush—the five of them managed to cut out and leave, but Jihoon was on the verge of death fighting. Your husband was to die that night.

That was when Seungcheol made a sacrifice. 

He hollered at the assassins to fight him, giving Jihoon the chance to escape. Your husband begged him to run, but he knew his friend would not listen. 

When Jihoon saw the dozen daggers slash into Seungcheol’s chest, he could not let the sacrifice go to waste.

It was this act that brought him the rage to accept command of the Legacy Legion. It was this dire need of vengeance that helped him cope with the months of stalemates across Egypt, when he thought Mark Antony was to escape.

It was Choi Seungcheol’s sacrifice that made Lee Jihoon the Eagle of Rome. 

Thinking of this particular past had your vision stinging.

Jihoon scoffed, stroking his baby’s brow. “Imagine how smug he would be now,” he mused, “If he knew we named our son after him.”

The thought had you rasping out a laugh. “Gods, we would never hear the end of it.”

He cracked a smile, gaze never straying from his bundle. He grew silent once again, clamping his lips together. Scared to wake him if he rocked him further, Jihoon settled the boy back into the pillowed cot, blinking back the stinging in his eyes. 

He turned to you, and seeing his change of expression had you stepping closer. “Darling?” you got out, your hands raising to touch his face. “What troubles you?”

Shaking his head, he wrapped his fingers around your wrist. Leaning into your palm, he replied, “Nothing troubles me, vita.”

Then, he pressed a small kiss upon your skin. “I have no more troubles now that I have seen him…and I have him because of you.”

His gaze settled upon you, eyes glossed with teary gratitude. “Thank you, my love, for bringing me peace.”

The words nearly made you cry.

Jihoon did not let you, though, when, with his other hand sliding around your waist, he pulled you to him. He enveloped his lips with yours, and with a whine you accepted him, closing your eyes. The kiss you shared was achingly soft, seething with months upon months of longing—he turned your head slightly, and his lips delved deeper, taking you fully with the strength of a waking beast. 

His hands dug deeper into your sides, feeling the desperation seep into his lips as he slowly pushed you back, your arms closing about his neck, needing him all over you. Sliding your hands within his locks, you revelled in its velvety softness, knowing you could live forever in him. 

The action had your husband humming into your mouth, a perfect incentive as he backed you against the wall, pressing himself fully against you, extinguishing any last atom of space between you two. You could not get enough of him, trying to make up months of his absence in this kiss alone, but you wanted more, needed more, or you would collapse in his arms.

It was fortunate for you that he understood you perfectly.

However, your dear friends did not understand at all, bursting into the nursery in utmost hurry.

Five pairs of eyes rooted to the passionate scene before them.

Chan let out a shrill scream.

You and Jihoon repelled from each other, breathless gasps emitting as both of you whirled your heads to the door. The five centurions gathered at the doorway, stunned at the show that went on before they interrupted.

Seokmin let out a groan, clutching his stomach. “I regret eating that entire boar now,” he rasped out, turning away from the panting couple. Seungkwan elbowed him harshly in the gut, making the former double over.

Soonyoung sauntered in, stepping past you two in mighty fashion. “You both are insufferable!” he yelled, bringing out baby Seungcheol and rocking him in his arms. “Carrying out such atrocities with a child nearby?”

“I apologise for the disturbance, general,” Wonwoo said, glaring at the man who now cooed comically at the baby. “We were just...um, we were to ask ____ of the plans tonight.”

“But y-you seem to be very preoccupied!” Chan added, pulling the men near him away from the door. “So we shall not disturb you again!”

“You should have thought about that before,” your husband hissed. “And what do you mean by plans?”

“For your return,” you answered, smiling a little as you regained your composure. “It has been too long since you stepped foot at home. Of course I am to celebrate.”

“And do we not exist to you?” Seungkwan demanded, armoured hands at his hips. “You include Jihoon only as if we were here in Rome partying this entire time!”

“I wished that were the case,” Soonyoung drawled, stepping beside you, swaying the baby the entire time. “I would rather the company of wine than you foul-smelling bastards anyday.”

Seokmin, recovering, scoffed, pointing a finger at his fellow centurion. “Oh, do let us know then, Soonyoung, who was calling us his dearest friends on the march to Alexandria?”

“That does not count!” he countered, waving off the claims. “I was beyond gone from wine, and everyone spews rubbish when drunk.”

“You spew rubbish anyway,” Wonwoo muttered.

“You are lucky I am holding Jihoon’s child right now, or I would have knocked you out.”

“Just Jihoon’s child?” you crossed your arms. “And what if you were holding someone else’s baby?”

There was a pause at that. “I shall not comment further.”

“Enough!” the general ordered, silencing the bickering group. “Out, the lot of you! Go back to your own homes and leave us alone!”

“But _____ said we can stay here and help with preparations!” Wonwoo voiced out, stepping forward in haste. 

“I never said that!”

“Please, Jihoon,” he continued anyway, “I have no wish to dump all responsibility on her.”

The said-man pursed his lips in thought, clearly in no hurry to keep his friends when he could be using this precious time to continue what he left off with you. Already his hands ached to linger further over your body, but if he was disturbed once again, then he would kill his subordinates without hesitance.

Seokmin stopped his train of thought. “Personally, I have no wish to do housework,” he jeered. 

Your husband then smiled, which was more a flash of teeth. “Brilliant. You can piss off back home, then.” He then directed his threatening stare towards the others. “All of you.”

Five pairs of eyes turned to you, hoping for your objection on the matter. However, you only shrugged, holding out your hands to the man beside you. “General’s orders, I fear.” When a series of groans followed at your verdict, you took Seungcheol from Soonyoung’s hands. “Do not whine like that, friends! I am giving you the chance to have more fun before tonight’s celebrations!”

“Whatever,” Seungkwan grumbled, turning his cloak as he stepped out of the room. “I am off to get more drinks! Anyone but Jihoon may join me.”

“Hey!” the commander shouted, but the men were already leaving, save for Chan, scratching the back of his head. 

Seokmin cocked his head in question at his friend’s stillness. “What are you standing here for, fool?”

“Well, um,” Chan started, his shy gaze levelling with yours. “I am not inclined to wine as of now, so I was hoping if I could...err, linger here and help around…” His eyes widened, raising his hands. “But if it is bothersome I will accompany the others!”

Your heart melted at his timidity. “What are you so nervous for? Of course you can stay. Those four idiots will only be causing trouble the entire afternoon.” 

“And we intend to continue such troubles at night as well!” Soonyoung declared, almost skipping to the entrance. “Honey wine, here I come!”

“Chan, are you sure?” Jihoon asked, gesturing towards the exiting group. “You should rest a little after months of fighting.”

“I am alright, I insist,” his soldier assured him, raising his arms. “Let me take care of the child.” When you obliged, handing him the stirring bundle, he slowed his movements, ever so careful not to disturb him. He darted his gaze over you. “You, uh,” he said, and he chuckled sheepishly, a blush rising upon his cheeks. “You both carry on with whatever you were doing before!”

Before you could say further, the man was hurrying out, forgetting to close the door as he took Seungcheol with him.

You and Jihoon watched him go, stunned at the sudden entrance of the centurions, and then the sudden exit within minutes. You could not help the huff of laughter that escaped you at their antics, catching his attention. “What is the laugh for?”

“Your commanders, darling,” you mused, wrapping an arm around your husband. “They are more bizarre than usual.”

Exhaling through his nose, he returned your embrace twice over, engulfing you within his hold. “My half-witted commanders,” he reminisced, running his fingers across your back. “They are delighted to be back.”

“I can tell,” you giggled out, leaning into him. “I missed them greatly.”

His face ghosted a little smugness. “But you missed me more.”

“You keep convincing yourself of the notion.”

Feeling his laughter reverberating off him, you felt yourself being pulled at arm’s length, looking up at him once more. Your husband leaned in then, gently pressing his forehead against yours. “No one is at home anymore, vita.”

A raise of your eyebrow. “Chan just asked me to stay here.”

“Oh, you know what I mean,” he insisted, brushing his nose with yours. “We are alone...with no one to bother us again…”

Much as you would like to follow his intentions, you feared the state of the pending party. It had been two years since the Eagle and his centurions’ return—their triumph will be celebrated without fault.

“Jihoon,” you murmured, taking great pains in retracting from his kisses. “I must go.”

His lips trailed down to your chin, making your willpower all the more weak. “Can you not spare me even an hour?”

If you could spare him half that hour, you would have gladly indulged him, but the party arrangements awaited. The soldiers, and your general, deserved the best of welcomes.

So you made yourself separate from his tempting hold, taking a few steps away from him. “I cannot offer even a second, my love.”

The man pretended to be beyond upset at your resistance. He waited till your feet landed on the entryway when he spoke.

“Perhaps it was better you did not give me a mere hour, vita.”

You looked back. Leaning against the stone cot, he let his lips curl upwards. “It simply would not suffice.”

The curiosity in your eyes had him further smirking. “I need an entire day to make up for the two years of absence from you.”

It was sheer luck you were holding onto the doorframe. 

“Careful, love,” he cooed, which only had you stumbling further out of the door in shock. His laughter followed you faintly as you left the room, blood rushing to your cheeks in drastic speed.

You hoped ardently, without shame, that he would carry out his intentions.

Then, you aggressively shook your head, heading straight to the kitchens. Not these thoughts at the moment, _____.

You have a party to prepare for.

THE NIGHT OF THE WELCOMING ARRIVED AS QUICKLY AS YOU HAD HOPED.

The guests began to enter your estate as soon as the sun descended on the empire, bringing words of praise and gifts to your husband and his soldiers. Your pride swelled exceedingly at hearing the positive messages, encouraging everyone to drink to their health. The smiles did not cease, widening further when the men and women fawned over your child. They wished for your baby to grow up just like the man he was named after, and you smiled, scared that one word from you would have your tears gushing.

You had everyone lay on their seated beds, surrounding tables filled with nourishment. Orders spilled from your lips to never stop the plates of beef and veal and fish and infinite other meats—tonight, your guests would feast like emperors. 

Eventually, the stars of the legion arrived, howling in celebration at seeing you adorned in indigo-coloured finery. You reckoned that they had drunk a fountain’s worth before showing up here, but you only hauled them inside, showing them to their place—cushioned couches all set up around low, circular tables, food nearly toppling off the edges. 

Seokmin drooled at the sight. “Out of the way, bastards!” He declared, running straight for the bedding in the middle part of the cushioned arc, settling himself nicely before digging in instantly. “Tell your slave Chan to bring us some wine!”

As if on cue, the soldier came rushing in with huge jugs of the featured drink, looking at you. “Is this alright?”

“Of course, Chan,” you said, taking the jugs from him. “Now you lay beside your friends! You have helped me enough.”

“Where is that man of yours, my lady?” Soonyoung drawled, snatching a cup of honey wine from the servants. “He did not accompany us this afternoon.”

“He had to go meet Octavian,” you answered, the rest of the centurions lodging themselves on the cushions. “There were honours he had to receive from him before he could officially celebrate here.”

“As long as he gets drunk with us, I do not mind,” Wonwoo voiced, raising his cup in toast. 

Seokmin, seeing Chan looking around in embarrassment, poured a cup full of alcohol and pushed it in his hand. “Drink up, boy! I am not having you shy away from your victories!”

The latter seemed much inclined to throw away the wine, but his friends began to groan. “Fine, fine, but only a sip!”

Seungkwan downed his cup, sighing into it. “He will never grow up.”

Wonwoo eyed you with concern as he plucked a grape from its pack. “Will you not have a rest with us?”

“You men have your fun,” you insisted. “I will settle when Jihoon comes home.”

Fortunately, that did not take more than ten minutes, you catching the sound of hooves outside the estate. Footsteps sounded from the entrance, and you whirled to see your new arrival.

The primus pilus of the Legacy Legion looked every bit his title—regal, powerful, magical in his purple robes, hemmed with gold as it draped over his loose white shirt, exposed on his right arm. His locks, longer than his hair months ago, curled slightly along his neck, roughening his usual soldierly demeanour.

Squealing, you rushed to him, greeting him with a kiss. “Come, come!” You exclaimed, ushering him inside.

“The general’s arrived!” Seokmin before you with the others following, albeit with more difficulty.

Jihoon directed a soft smile at you before sneering at his friends. “At least finish chewing on your food, you babies.”

“Care about your own baby before calling us such, you prick!”

“You are very lucky you are drunk, Wonwoo!” 

“Sit with them,” you said, tugging him to a free space between subordinates. 

As your husband obliged, he let his curiosity wander. “And where are you off to?”

Your gaze went beyond the dining hall, into the leeways that brought you to the kitchens. “I am a host, dear, and that means making sure all my guests are accommodated for.”

His grip on you was strong. “When will you come back?” He asked, thumb brushing over your hand.

You let your lips slip into a small smile. “Soon.”

And you were off, letting Jihoon’s eyes brush over you instead of his touch.

A few hours into the party and the chaos began.

You knew it was bound to happen eventually, with the amount of wine being consumed—your friends alone downed half the deposits, the consequences of such reckless drinking being exposed by their behaviour.

The centurions’ area was by far the loudest: Seokmin drank to the point he pissed in the jug that stored his wine, Seungkwan then threatening to topple that very jug atop his head. Soonyoung resorted to self-praise in his stupor, with Wonwoo shaking his head, yet laughing uncontrollably at every unfunny quip the former slipped out. Chan giggled as he sipped his alcohol, Jihoon watching all his friends with a full cup in his own hand. 

It was around midnight when you heard the voice of your beloved calling for you. 

“Vita!”

Excusing yourself from your tipsy guests, you walked to your dear men, who were creating a ruckus in your home. You felt soft fingers caress your shin within your dress, and you looked down to see your general smiling at you.

“Sit, my love,” he said, tugging you down to him. “You have made me wait a while.”

“Fine!” You exclaimed with mock exasperation, laying down next to him. 

He wrapped his arm around you, pulling you to him, your entire back pressed against his front. “There,” he whispered, and the proximity of his breath had chills running down your spine.

You hoped he could feel the warmth radiating off you.

“_____!” Seokmin exclaimed, pointing his cup at you in accusation, wine sloshing out and spilling. “I have a bone to pick with you!”

“Oh, gods,” Jihoon cursed quietly.

“So I found out from our esteemed general that you named your son Seungcheol.” The man scoffed. “How could you commit such an action?”

When you raised your eyebrows, he smirked in disbelief, gesturing towards himself. “My lady, I am offended you did not name him after me.”

Wonwoo spit out his drink, unable to control his laughter. Seungkwan poured himself some more, clicking his tongue in amusement. “Gods forbid we have another Seokmin in our circle.”

“Now what is that supposed to mean?” the man demanded, bunching his robes from his arms. 

“I know you are not that stupid,” was his sly answer. 

“Boys,” Jihoon seethed, glaring at the two about to send the estate down with their fists. “Lay off the anger or lay off the wine.”

Grumbling as they broke off their spat, you looked up at the mediator, swirling his cup. “You know you do not have to be a general here.”

Your husband hummed absent-mindedly, lazily running his hand along you. “I know, vita. Can I ever rest, though, when I have such rowdy dogs barking around me all the time?”

Chuckling, you leaned into him, his honey-like scent engulfing you. “Have you drank?”

“Only a little.” You felt a lilt to his voice as he continued. “Sober enough to see clearly how divine you look. Especially in this dress.”

You stilled as his hands began to wander downwards. 

Your voice barely came out as you said, “Jihoon, what…what are you doing?” 

He did not respond, instead adorning a small smile on his face as his fingers ghosted down your body, to your stomach. On instinct you stopped his trail with your own hand, gripping his wrist. “Jihoon!” you hissed. “There are people right beside us!”

“People who do not know what is going on around them,” he added, gesturing to his friends. Sure enough, each and every one of the centurions were out of their minds, save for Chan, who was too preoccupied trying to take away their drinks. 

Jihoon turned to you once more, eyes inviting. “I mean, I will stop if you wish.” His movements turned slower, your hand still on his. “If you have other…pressing matters.”

Your mind could only think of damning whatever ‘pressing matters’ there well to the underworld. Perhaps he could see it too. “If roaming eyes are what you fear,” he whispered, “Then let me solve that problem.”

In a flash, he brought one long slit of his toga, resting the huge sheet of fabric upon you so your entire body was cloaked, along with his wandering fingers. So casually he began his journey once more, widening your eyes with each finger spiralling downwards.

When he reached the spot, shielded only with your silk, his head rested softly against your neck. “There we go.”

He barely grazed the slit, but the very sensation had you squeezing your own hand upon his. “Easy, darling,” he whispered, as if he was not the reason for your change. “I haven’t even done anything and yet you falter.”

“Not my fault you went away for two years,” you hissed. It was a terrible thing to say, really, but your desire was bubbling. Your rationality, in turn, simply had to depart.

The comment only made your husband chuckle. “I was saving the Empire, vita.” His other hand, completely free, occupied itself, his solitary finger ghosting along your skin. “Would you rather I damn the world to the gods and serve at your feet instead?”

“As if you do not already,” you murmured, your hand loosening on his wrist. 

Earning another soft laugh from him, his new freedom had him sliding down further. “And where did this…newfound confidence come from?” he asked, one finger delving into your slit and eliciting a shuddered breath. “I’d only hear gasps from you before.”

His slow endeavours found your clit beneath the silk, and the seething gasp that tore from your mouth had the bastard sighing in satisfaction. “Ah, see?” He continued, his hand upon your shoulder now sliding beneath his cloak. It found refuge upon your breasts, perked from the sheer desire burning inside. “Fuck, I missed, I–” His fingers circled your clit, and you closed your eyes, heart beating rapidly underneath his other hand. 

Your breathing turned harsh, eyes darting to the members of your husband’s legion—completely unaware of the shuddering mess of nerves you had become. “Look at you,” Jihoon sighed out, fastening his fingers. “Acting out with our loved ones under this roof.” Your soft whines were music to his ears. “Whatever shall I do with you?”

“Maybe you should—fuck,” you cut off, your legs tensing, a dull, delicious ache growing at the small of your back. “Jihoon, I—”

Your line of speech was interrupted by another voice. You had hoped it would be your husband, taunting you further into oblivion, but it was a voice of pure concern.

“By the gods, _____, are you alright?”

You blinked back to see Chan, holding two glasses of wine, shaking off Soonyoung’s hands. Your eyes then widened, acutely aware of Jihoon’s fingers slowing, your release fading. 

Sly as an asp, your husband retracted his hands, still under his cloak. “What is the matter, dear friend?”

The centurion had his gaze fixed on you, confused at your state. “Is _____ okay, general? Her breathing, she…it sounds uneven. Even her eyes are dazed.”

Soonyoung, taking the lucky chance of his friend’s engrossment, snatched the wine from his hand, downing the bowl. “She is drunk, you fool!” he exclaimed, loud enough for Wonwoo to double over, cursing his rowdy mouth. “And you should be as well, instead of ruining our fun!”

“My lady, allow me to indulge you with wine,” Wonwoo sang out, trying to catch a jug of alcohol from thin air. 

Seungkwan snorted at his attempts, successfully stealing Seokmin’s drinks and chugging the lot. “Oi, you prick!” The latter yelled, nearly bringing the estate down. His friend merely laughed, calling him names and finishing the rest of the wine.

Chan, glancing for a moment away, focused on you once more. “Jihoon, I fear for _____.”

You feared for yourself too, but not in the manner the soldier spoke of—more your sanity at the pulsing, the near undoing now far from being reached. 

Jihoon pressed a kiss to your temple, smiling at Chan’s words, despite differing intentions. “You worry too much, Chan,” he said, beginning to get up from his cushions, taking you gently into his arms. “It is as Soonyoung says. Mea Vita here has had a drink too much.”

The centurion seemed a little unconvinced, but his trust for his commander outgrew any suspicions. Seokmin scoffed at the couple attempting to leave, shaking his bowl at you both. “And where are the lovebirds off to?” he demanded.

“Lady _____ is tired from the honey wine,” Chan explained. “Jihoon is helping her sleep.”

“Ha!” was the boy’s reply. 

“Are you really that dim-witted?” Seungkwan asked, laughing darkly at the youngest’s naivety. 

“Huh?” Chan glanced at his general.

The general declared to his guests, “I will be retiring with my wife, but enjoy until dawn, friends!”

Cheers arose from every corner of the estate, no doubt eager to live up to his request. Jihoon then rested his eyes on his soldier, who looked up at him with great bewilderment.

He only offered a sly wink before slipping into the hallways. 

Chan’s confusion only deepened. 

Soonyoung spluttered into laughter. “You poor fool!” 

Seungkwan’s smirk was prevalent as, taking the bowl filled with fresh honey wine from the tables, he sat beside Chan, offering him his first drink. “Let us educate you, dear man, on what exactly is about to happen between our general and his wife.”

IT TOOK APPROXIMATELY TEN SECONDS BEFORE YOUR PATIENCE SNAPPED IN YOUR DARKENED HALLWAYS. 

You slapped your hands against Jihoon’s purple-clad chest, and tried to push him back into the stone wall. Of course, when one had the strongest general in the Roman Empire as a husband, physically overtaking them is an impossible action.

Which was why he began to laugh at your efforts before casually taking your wrists, whirling you about.  Suddenly your back was against the wall, with his face near inches from you. 

“Cannot control yourself for even a minute?” He purred, bringing your hands above your head. “Has the journey to our bedroom become too difficult?”

“Stop fucking about with me” you got out, aching to have your hands freed, touch his face, his lips, but he was too strong. 

The man leaned further. “No, vita…it has been too long.” 

He brushed his nose along with yours. “Don’t think I’ll be satisfied with simply fucking you against the wall.”

His words alone had your heart beating faster, eager to see how he would play the night out. It had been far too long since you had felt such promise of pleasure in these years.

“I won’t be either, general,” you mused, and the fire that sparked in Jihoon’s eyes could have very well brought you your undoing then. 

That was enough for him to swoop in, damning all sweetness to the underworld as he collided his lips with yours. 

You swore you could never tire of Jihoon’s lips as he moved hungrily, grip on your wrists tightening. A small noise lodged in the back of your throat, aching to be released but to no avail. His mouth refused to pull away, miss even a moment of how you felt against him. 

The years away made you realise how much you missed his touch—lips in sync, bodies snuffing out any distance left—you had no choice but to whine into his mouth, opening yourself up fully to him. You wanted him all, without a single drop of hesitation.

Feeling the exact same, he happily delved further, an eon-old kernel of fire singeing his lips and searing you with his desire. His tongue, catching onto his lust, slithered past your teeth, swirling your tongue with his and increased the volume of your moans. 

Gods, your moans, your little voices of passion were like victory trumpets to his ears, every single ah! or fuck! riling him further into a frenzy. He had not forgotten these glorious sounds when he was thousands of miles away, but it had been so fucking long since he had heard them in person, and not just his dreams.

So he relished in your moans. Completely engulfed himself in your bubble of desire as his one hand strayed from your wrists, skirting downwards along your body. Grabbing hold of your skirts, he raised them to your hips. He caught sight of your cunt, and he swore his mouth watered. 

“Stop it…stop stalling, Jihoon,” you seethed, soul almost withering in wait for your husband to ruin you already.

Fortunately for you, he was the most accommodating man.

His hand freeing yours, it journeyed downwards to the real treasure. Your eyes widened at his finger sliding inside you, and the pure, ethereal sensation of his touch finally attaining your cunt had you dazing off completely. Your mouth forgot all words, as if forgetting how to speak the languages which Jihoon whispered now on your skin.

With your hands gaining newfound freedom, they carded through his hair, finding refuge in the soft, growing locks, tidied for the party. You would have done more had Jihoon not circled your clit, and the delirious sensation was back—your legs nearly gave way, and you let out a whimper as you held onto him tightly, lest you fell at his feet. 

His sharp eyes caught onto your weakening state, slowing his ministrations. “How about I take this somewhere else?” He rasped in your ear. 

Not waiting for your answer, he slid his hands underneath your thighs and picked you up, you instinctively wrapping your legs around him. He did not cease his kisses, his tongue dancing inside your mouth while finding the door to the bedroom. 

He did not waste a single moment—kicking the door open with his foot, he settled you on the table right beside, throwing the objects to the floor. Giving you a small peck, he journeyed downwards, slowly kneeling before you while opening your legs.

His husky chuckling rang in your ears. “Gods, after so long…” he could not even finish, pressing airlight kisses upon your inner thigh, each phantom touch nearing the kernel of arousal. “So…fucking long…”

The minute he reached his destination his tongue slipped free of his mouth. Holding onto your thighs, he let himself take the last step.

His tongue sliding along your cunt had you melting on the table. 

You were certain the table had crumbled beneath you, the ground fading as your husband explored you, lapping up the arousal dripping since the moment he graced you with his touch. A satisfied noise left his occupied mouth, you tasting like the honey wine you poured for him not an hour ago.

This. This made fighting relentlessly for two years worth it. This made every single drop of blood, buckets of sweat and floods of tears worth it. Life was hard, torturous even away from Rome, from you, but all that dark anguish in the time lost between you two was worth it if this was his reward.

And Jihoon would make sure this, too, would be worth it for you.

His tongue found your clit, and if you were not a mess before, the tendrils of pleasure that came with reduced you to cinders. He circled the bud like a slow march, growing faster with each passing beat. You moaned his name, a mantra on your lips which only rang louder. 

“J-Jihoon,” you kept whimpering, and his tongue would circle faster. You begin to thrash against him, unable to sit still while he brought you such unadulterated thrill. You would have happily grinded against his face had his hands on your thighs not tightened, indicating to stop fidgeting.

In honesty you tried—you endeavoured to be composed, but the bastard made the task impossible. The writhing continued, and would have kept going had Jihoon not halted his actions.

You let out an agitated yelp. 

“I’m sorry, vita, but you have to stay still,” he replied, fingers running along your thighs. “Do you not want to enjoy this?”

His lips glistened as he spoke, courtesy of your cunt. With his head in between your thighs, he was a feast for your eyes. “Fuck, Jihoon, I…I already am.” 

Maybe he agreed that he was a fine feast, for he curved his shining mouth in a dark smirk, eyes not leaving yours as he slowly slung a leg over his shoulder. “Well then,” he began, repeating with the other leg, fingers skimming the naked skin. “Let me add to your pleasure.”

This time, when he dove in, he was relentless.

You gripped onto the edge of the table, fingers digging into the wood as he quickened the rhythm of his tongue, working on your bundle of nerves so deliciously you wondered how your soul still survived inside your body. 

The wondering stopped, your questions answered when his finger joined in on the ravishing, sliding inside you and knocking the breath out of you. He was so undeniably good, knowing you liked the insertion slow, almost testing the waters before completely undoing you.

And gods bless him, for that is all he intended to do. The Eagle of Rome only knelt for the gods, but you, your whines, your writhing pleasure he drank like a man parched…

You had become a deity in his eyes; and a celestial figure deserved the best of service — hours upon hours of honing your desire because he was the only one who was capable of ruining you.

Another finger found itself inside you, and your cunt began to pulsate at the fullness it achieved, inching along the growing tension bubbling deep within your gut. Beads of sweat dripped down, your willpower to not thrash against his face about to snap, and when he fastened his pace an obscenely loud moan ripped through your mouth. 

You were much too close to the final high.

“Fuck, Jihoon—!” you nearly cried, hands unable to stray from his hair, his wonderful, lustrous hair. “Jihoon, please, I’m so clo—”

His free hand on your thigh squeezed you ever so slightly, as if aware of your near absolution. He only sped up his work, his fingers gliding in and out so quickly you could not keep up. If that was not enough, his mouth sucking on your clit was ready to bring the sky down on your head.

But Jihoon was ready to risk the destruction of all the world. Ready to face the gods in his last hour as he swirled your swollen bud with his tongue one last time.

That was enough to come undone.

Your release came crashing, curls of pleasure riding all through your body as your mind misted into fog, no thought or idea save for the slow assistance of your husband, easing your throbbing. A lust-struck sigh came out of you, hand falling from his hair onto his tensed shoulder. Sensing your high washing over, he slowed his tongue, fingers withdrawn from your cunt.

He caught your gaze in his, two slick fingers hanging between you two. He dared you to look away as he brought them to his lips, slipping them inside and tasting the residue.

That sight alone could have made you come for the second time. 

The bastard knew it too, for a ghost of a smirk exposed itself on his face, once his fingers were clean of your arousal. “Could not let it go to waste,” he murmured, as if your wetness was liquid gold. 

Hands back on your thighs once more, he lifted himself up gently, toga in disarray over his service. With you sat upon the table, his fingers found home upon your chin, lifting your line of sight on him.

Pure hunger lay dormant in his eyes. 

Not just his eyes, but his mouth still, when he leaned in and kissed you. You returned it without question, desire coiling around your soul as if it had not been released mere minutes ago.

You did not care. Not when you had waited so fucking long.

The man smiled between the burning kisses, humming at your lusted agony as he slid an arm around your waist. “My love—” a kiss upon the corner of your mouth —”What more shall I do—” another kiss, to the other corner—”For you?”

If he kept at it like this, you were going to forget your mother tongue. “Inside me…” you mustered between his lips on you, on your skin. A pathetic attempt, but your mind was still recovering from your release.

He paused, a malicious grin curving. “Pray, mea vita, my sweet, was I not just inside you?” Tugging you off the table, he held on tight as your knees buckled. “See? Even your body speaks for me.”

Your leg brushed against the weakness of his argument, almost tenting his toga. “Does yours?” you managed to remark, catching the defeated furrow of his brow. 

His stare had you silent once again, butterflies forming in your stomach. Leaning in, his lips brushed against the shell of your ear. 

“I’ll have your body screaming for me when I’m done, vita.”

Your body, in his response, shuddered against him.

Jihoon did not wait for more as he slotted his mouth along yours, igniting the flame again, unable to have enough of you as he whirled you around, eliciting the same little whines he adored so ardently.

He swooped you up in his arms, knowing your legs could not take the walk to the bed. Never stopping his kisses, he knew where to go by memory, hands skirting along your skin as he neared the final haven of tonight. Despite his words, he laid you gently upon the bed, continuing his trail upon your cheeks, your jaw, anywhere where you would allow him. 

Your heart sang at what was to come. Memories flooded you, passionate nights of years ago reminding you of what had been, and what distance had snatched from you. You had never forgotten the last time you both had made love, the very last night you both had been offered before he was to sail away to satiate his need for vengeance. He had asked nothing from you, not a single request, even though he knew you would have given it to him in a heartbeat. 

No, that night, he had explored every inch, every crevice of your body—burned his presence onto your skin till the entirety of Rome knew that Lee Jihoon had left a piece of himself in you. That piece morphed into the child you bore, but Jihoon had never really left your soul, despite the thousands of miles stretching between you two.

“Never again,” you let yourself whisper as he broke away, your hands fisting themselves in his toga, tugging off the fabric which was another form of distance. You needed him once again. Yes, you had withstood miles upon miles away from him. But now, you could not handle even inches apart.

He understood. He always understood, slipping off the clothing till it reached his hips. Climbing over you, his abdomen exposed, you could not believe your cheeks burned at the sight of him half-naked before you. A small chuckle escaped him, and he stole a quick kiss before burying himself into your neck.

His fingers reached for the loose straps of your dress, barely of use. “Take these off for me, darling,” he whispered, and the order vibrated along your skin, ready to be followed. While you desperately tried to pry your dress off, he pressed open-mouthed kisses along the base of your throat, making your simple task an impossible mission.

One strap fell, and Jihoon’s teeth slowly sank into your skin, sucking at the spot with such passion a soft groan trambles out of you, unsure whether you could get the other half of your dress off. Thankfully, with someone as accommodating as him, he pressed an unironically chaste kiss before finding the last straps himself. 

The pure smugness in his eyes had you in near tears. “One little kiss, and you’ve ceased working,” he drawled breathily. “Must I do all the work, my sweet?”

You would have cursed his ancestors had he not brought your dress down, tossing the clothing to the side and drinking in your bare figure. 

A breath shuddered out of him, certain that you could inhale the pure lust oozing from him. “I can’t…I cannot believe I went two years without…without this—”

The words were left unfinished as he wasted no time, indulging your mouth for moments before pouncing downwards, taking your left breast in his mouth and skimming his teeth softly against the nipple. The man was riling you up now, you taking his hair in your hands, certain you were trying to tear his locks out with the way you held onto him. Jihoon did not seem to mind, too occupied with your breasts to pay heed to your damage.

“Jihoon, please, I need you to—fuck!” cut off with his tongue encircling your breasts, you nearly had had enough. Your cunt ached for the final descent, your patience growing thin. “Please, I-I need you inside me!”

His answer was allowing one last lick to your right nipple, cold striking your breasts as he looked down at you, eyes glossed over with carnal delight. With his hand he ripped away the toga pooling at his hips, and his cock was freed, almost enraged to be cloaked away in silk. 

You looked like a fool staring at it, but you could not help it—you did not remember it being so huge, even though it has been inside you countless times. Another piece of evidence that he had been away from you long enough.

“Ogled enough, darling?” his voice snapped you back, and you were almost embarrassed at the shit-eating grin that lit up his face. 

“Shut up,” you mumbled, but you could not say more, you being silenced with his searing kiss. 

Pulling away, his forehead rested against yours, black locks tickling your cheeks as he held your one side in one hand, and his cock in another.

Nudging your legs apart, the tip brushed against your folds, and your soul nearly departed from the ghost of a touch. “Careful,” he warned, thumb stroking your hip, and he stole a glance at you.

“I love you, vita,” he whispered.

And began the final descent.

His cock slid inside, slowly, ever so slowly, but with every inch you felt each layer of your spirit stop to a standstill. Jihoon never stopped watching—catching your parted mouth, the shallow, uneven breaths you took, the knitted brows, your fingers holding onto him for dear life. He could not help it, see—these few seconds, these few, transitory moments, where both souls are on the edge of the world, and none know whether they’d hang on, or fall to their doom.

This moment encompassed such an image within the features of your face.

And he relished it. Captured the image, and used it as fuel to his carnal fire as he buried himself into you, releasing a breath he kept inside the entire time. Maybe it was after so long, but the two of you stayed still, your husband fearing you might snap. A frivolous thought, of course, but one can believe anything when one is so vulnerable.

One look from you, though, had his doubts disappearing in an instant. You let a small smile escape, and it was all he needed before he slowly withdrew, the mere action so gratifying you wondered whether it was another one of your dreams, a vision granted by the mercy of the gods.

Maybe the gods were extra pleased, for Jihoon was no dream—only a very pleasing reality, waiting for your whimpers to fill the room before thrusting back into you again. The rhythm was beginning to strike, and you were its follower; the shy hesitations started to fade, and you could feel his desire burning with every slide out, and every slide in of his cock into you, holding onto your hips to keep you steady. 

With each thrust you felt the stakes of your pleasure reach higher and higher. Tendrils of delight rippled through you with his movements, quickening yet keeping his fluidity, like an elegant dancer in a warfield, somehow managing to emerge victorious with his body alone. Of course, you could never doubt your husband. He was the favourite of the Empire for a reason.

“By the gods, you—” he plunged into you once more, and he grazed a certain spot inside you that had you seeing the universes. “You’re so fucking good to me, you—”

Never finishing his sentences, never even finishing his line of thought, the sole thing in his mind being your delicious fucking folds, your cunt which felt so perfect around his cock. He leaned in further, teething sweet love bites onto your neck, revelling in your pleasured groaning, growing louder and louder with each quickened thrust. “Yes, vita, just like that!” he exclaimed, never stopping. “For all of Rome to hear!”

He did not care a bit if the world heard them now. All that mattered to him was you, you and only you.

More so when that familiar, growing ache of nerves was back, warning you of your impending release. Jihoon was ruthless to you, relentless with his cock, unforgiving with his tongue and teeth which managed to devour your every inch. There was no escaping it—the ache was like a tightened knot, with his actions well on its way to unravel it.

“I-I’m close, Jihoon,” you breathed out, pressing your lips on his chest, his shoulder, anything you could grasp. “Please, love, I need to—”

“I know, vita,” he guttered, as if he, too, was close. He did not care much for that, though, when all he could focus on was you, all broken words and teary gazes beneath him. “I know.”

To add even more to your doom, he brought back an older prospect, fingers circling your clit and heightening the delight swirling within your gut ten times over. The nerves were pumping, faster and faster, and you were deathly aware that it was now or never.

Your eyes, seeing stars throughout, found your husband within the mist of desire. “J-Jihoon…”

Everything was forgotten. Not a word remembered in the fog of your mind but your vita’s name, your lover’s name, bright as the summer sun, as bold as the royal colours he adorned in his triumph.

As true as the love never lost between the two of you.

It was enough for the Eagle of Rome to capture your lips, holding you in a heart-wrenching kiss.

It was enough for you to completely ruin yourself.

Your cries drowned onto his mouth as release came crashing, legs shaking as you died and resurrected all at once, came undone within his hold. The world slipped away in that moment, with him as your anchor, saving you from being eternally lost.

While you lay breathless, Jihoon slipped himself out of you, breaking away from your kiss to cry out himself, spilling himself onto you and the sheets. A haggard fuck escaped him, arcing over you before throwing himself beside you. 

Silence welcomed you after that.

The din of the party remained, and both of you gasping, but a silence followed, like a warm winter blanket. Both of you stared at the ceiling, the moonlit parts of the surfaces, trying to catch your breaths after what you both just experienced.

Turning your head, you caught Jihoon already stealing glances. They were heavy-lidded, unsurprisingly, yet you found it endearing, despite the circumstances.

“What?” you got out, cocking your head at his soft staring.

He shook his head, smiling tiredly. He stretched his arm out towards you, murmuring, “Come here.”

Obliging, you followed under his arm, resting your head against his chest. Despite the granite-hardness of his body, no other surface would suffice. Your head rose and fell along to his uneven breathing, a small comfort. 

As the general gazed down at you, the softness returned; his thumb stroked along your cheeks. “I…” he began, voice huskier than usual, you humming in satisfaction. 

“Yes?” you got out, hanging onto his every word. 

Glancing away for a second, he looked to the window, and the view it offered of the world beyond.

He then glanced back at you, a better world he had found of his own.

“I am…so happy…” he whispered. Whispered because he had to tell his world what he felt. “So happy to come back to you.”

Your heart but into a thousand butterflies.

A smile as wide as you could muster was your response.

And as he continued stroking your hair, and you leaning into his hold, you too, knew that you felt the exact same.

For the Eagle of Rome had returned to you at last.

CENTURION LEE CHAN HAD WITNESSED HORRORS.

He had seen thousands of dead men, scattered across the sands of Egypt. He had seen ships sink before his very eyes—by the gods, he had even seen the beginnings of death, when he nearly drowned at the final naval battle that secured Legacy Legion its victory.

None of these events, however, made him more queasy as realising that you, while you were laid beside your husband, were not experiencing intoxication from honey wine. It was an exhilaration of a completely unusual kind, a feeling that had the tips of his ears reddening. 

His fellow men’s reactions only made it worse. “What did you think they were going to do?” Seungkwan only demanded. “Sleep it off on their first night together?”

“Well, how was I to know?” the youngest visibly shivered. “I do not know how married people work.”

“Poor soul,” Soonyoung tutted out, no plans for pausing his drink. “I fear for when he is to wed.”

“I still do not understand,” Seokmin voiced out. “They have a whole child together. How did you not…”

“My apologies for not pondering over our general’s intimate life,” Chan grumbled. “How idiotic of me.”

“Do not mind these deviants,” Wonwoo assured him, handing him a fresh cup of wine. “You just drink their awful comments away.”

He spared a fearful glance at the cup, filled with honey wine. “I should not,” he meant to declare in a confident stance. His voice, already weakened from a previous revelation of his commander’s, had rendered his declaration as a childish mumble. “The baby would need my attention sooner or later.”

“Fuck the baby!” was Seokmin’s great exclamation, clicking his tongue. “He is already the star guest of this damned celebration. We—!” he patted his chest repeatedly—”We were supposed to be the ones our people fawn over!”

“Your need for attention never fails to astound me,” Wonwoo remarked, circling his drink. “The boy was named after our murdered friend.”

“It happens to men like Seokmin,” Seungkwan drawled, slinging an arm around him, “To those men who received no attention at home.”

“Fuck off!” Seokmin jeered, rasped out from the alcohol buzzing in his system. “At least our Roman women fawned over me this afternoon. Where were your girls?”

“My, my, our dear Seokmin’s imagination runs so wild!” The second-youngest cooed condescendingly, grabbing Wonwoo’s cup, which had the latter furrowing his brows. “He dreams of female attention when we have seen no evidence of it!”

Soonyoung wished to join in on the bullying, chiming in, “And now he envies a child that cannot control its own piss!”

As everyone laughed at the poor, drunk soul, who genuinely looked as if he might cry, Wonwoo waved his large hands around, as if attempting to calm everyone down. “No more harassing the unloved virgin.”

“We were not talking about Chan though,” Soonyoung instantly piped up, his next said-target narrowing his eyes. 

“Just because I choose to save myself for someone I love,” he grumbled, which had chuckling resonating around the group.

“Gods help her when she turns up, then,” Seungkwan sighed out, drinking Wonwoo’s wine. 

Perhaps Chan might have said something in retort—might have even garnered the strength to punch the honey wine out of his friend’s insides when one of the servants came hurrying. 

He identified her as Myrtia, your personal maid, who looked incredibly distressed. “Centurion Lee,” she immediately began, “Seungcheol keeps crying!”

“Oh, gods,” Soonyoung crowed, “Wet-nurse first, soldier second, is it?”

“At least he is not a whore first, Soonyoung,” Seokmin muttered.

“Both of you, shut up!” Chan finally snapped, turning to Myrtia once more. “Where is he right now? Will _____ not tend to him?”

“Our dear _____ is a little occupied being tended to herself, remember?” Seungkwan reminded him, his smirk malicious. 

The youngest flushed scarlet, shaking his head. “Right, of course…” He heaved himself off the cushions, to much of his friends’ agitation. “I will see what to do.”

“What?” Soonyoung sat up, but the alcoholic daze had him swaying slightly. “Wait, wait, wait, don’t just leave!” 

“Take me to Cheol,” Chan said to Myrtia, but before she could even agree, four rounds of disapproving voices hurled towards the poor boy.

“No!” Seungkwan exclaimed first, taking great pains to hoist himself off the long tables. “No, no, you cannot go on your own!”

“Exactly!” Seokmin joined in, using Seungkwan’s toga to try hauling himself up. “You will die in there!” 

Wonwoo clicked his tongue, even though he, too, was beginning to follow after his friends. “Chan is not going to die with a mere child.”

Chan watched his superiors rise carelessly from their furnishings, already feeling a little frantic. “What are you all doing?”

“Why, coming with you, of course!” 

“Myrtia, my sweet,” Soonyoung purred, patting a hand on her shoulder, “You lead us straight to the baby!” 

Hurriedly nodding, she turned and headed towards the destination, five centurions hot on her heels as they were led down the familiar hallways. Chan muttered to himself, but did not have time to self-ponder when he was constantly being distracted.

“How much longer is this going to take?” Seokmin whined, holding onto the walls for support. “And since when did the lamps on _____’s walls start shaking?”

“It has not been a minute and you’re complaining!” Seungkwan snarked out. “It’s a wonder you managed to walk forty miles everyday, lazy git.” 

“Not lazy enough to slice your mouth right off!” 

“Just this door here,” Myrtia said, turning into the empty doorway, dipping her head in respect as she stepped out of the way, allowing Chan to enter first, the rest stumbling behind him. 

Sure enough, the first noise heard in everyone’s ears was the wailing—a screechy, whiny sound which reverberated off the stone walls, striking discomfort, irritation, turmoil in the hearts of whoever heard them. The man who felt it the most dashed to the cot, brows joining together in agitation over the sight of the baby. 

“You would think Chan was the father,” Seungkwan retorted. “Do something about this crying, boy!” 

“You really are heartless,” Wonwoo scolded, following after the youngest. Observing the crying child, he pursed his mouth into a thin line. “How does one…stop a baby from crying?”

“Only a mother can take care of her child,” Seokmin voiced out, as if he thought of a ground-breaking notion akin to Plato’s wisdom. 

“We are not disturbing _____,” Seungkwan rebuked, shaking his head vigorously. “Those two have waited nearly two years to fuck each other again.”

“Let them have their fun!” Soonyoung roared, which had the baby crying louder. “Gods, Chan, you are the youngest after Cheol. Handle this sobbing mess!”

“I have seen twenty summers,” Chan muttered.

“Yes, so a baby in my eyes!” 

“Of course you are going to consider Chan as a baby, you geriatric. It’s a wonder you did not collapse on the battlefield.” 

I will kill you in the next war, Seungkwan.”

As the rest started grumbling amongst themselves, the youngest gently picked up the bundle, slowly rocking him in hopes to calm the crying. Seungcheol’s face was reddened with the constant sorrow, and it broke Chan’s heart a little, hoping that he would gain some newfound power and solve whatever problem ailed him. 

A sigh escaping him, he began to mumble sweet nothings to him, morphing those whispers in a quaint song he heard from his own childhood. His melody was like honey wine, words so soft, his voice so sweet, that the men that accompanied him began to quieten, turning their heads to the origin.

Wonwoo watched the scene, smiling lop-sidedly. “You are a natural!”

“It is quite embarrassing,” Seokmin admitted, scratching the back of his head, “That the youngest of us is the only one able to calm a child.”

“None of us claimed to be good with children,” Seungkwan thought out loud, observing the younger soldier tend to the sobbing, which had quietened to mere whimpers. 

Soonyoung tried to raise a brow—strong on tried, but he was too drunk to carry out such a simple action. “You always boasted of your relationships with your nieces and nephews.”

“That is different. I could care less about random urchins.”

“Seungkwan!” Seokmin exclaimed. “Seungcheol is no urchin.”

“He was though, was he not?” The man scoffed, albeit a bit tenderly as he began to reminisce. “Gods, did you forget how insufferable he was?”

“Always on our arses, too,” Soonyoung agreed, snickering. “Do you remember when he got us in shit with Octavian?”

“Talking back to Caesar’s successor during our first military session.” Wonwoo visibly shivered. “The punishment still haunts me.”

But the distant memory only made the rest chuckle, as if the centurions had not received verbal lashings from the leader of Rome at that time. Silence bathed the room, only Seungcheol’s voice sputtering through the surface of calm. It had only been a meagre two-and-half years since the inspiration behind his name had passed, but with the hardships of the Alexandria campaign, it had felt like decades. Even Chan felt the age of this campaign, although he was young when he suffered the loss. 

He sensed the loss a little more that night as, walking away from the cot, he leaned against the wall. As if unable to stand, he let his legs buckle a little, sliding down and settling on the floor, feet spreading out before him. “I sometimes see him in my dreams,” he admitted. 

There was a heavy pause. 

Then, “He visited me more a year back.”

Everyone focused on Soonyoung. Travelling to where his youngest friend sat, he copied his position, continuing, “I told Jihoon about it, actually, right before Actium…I deemed it a sign of the gods.” A small laugh huffed out of him. “He then corrected me, saying it was all Cheol.”

“Typical,” Seungkwan said, smiling. “Take all the might of the gods and reward himself for it.”

“I cannot blame him, though,” Wonwoo countered, wandering over to the seated duo, looking down at their general’s son. “A loss of faith can come with a loss of a loved one.”

“Yes, but look at us now!” Seokmin reasoned, gesturing to them all. “Victors of the coming generation!” 

“But these so-called ‘Victors’ cannot stop a baby from crying,” Wonwoo murmured, sitting beside Chan. “I doubt we deserve that title.”

“Hey, at least Chan deserves it.” Seokmin hurried to sit beside the former, watching tenderly over at the baby. “Look, he is silent now!” 

“No way!” Seungkwan exclaimed, sauntering to the group and settling beside Soonyoung, reaching over to inspect the claim.

Sure enough—at the centre of the most powerful soldiers in Rome, almost slumbering in complete peace, was a silent Seungcheol, happy Seungcheol as he stirred only if Chan moved his hand, or shifted his legs. It was not as if they had not seen a mere child before, but, once again, this bundle, so full of life, was different. This was their commander’s legacy. Their leader’s soul extended from his own life-force, his evidence that he loved. 

This Seungcheol that the five men stared at was the new beginning. 

It was a long time before anyone spoke. “Do you think he looks more like one over the other?” Wonwoo asked.

“All babies look the same to me,” Seokmin offered his opinion. 

By Seungkwan’s incredulous glance, it seemed it was not appreciated. “No one let this idiot have a child of his own.”

The accused frowned, genuinely hurt. “Hey! I should like to have a family one day. Give you all opportunity to become uncles again.”

“I would recognise your baby anywhere,” Soonyoung crowed, “Because it shall be the ugliest out of ours.”

The gasp that escaped Seokmin had Chan choking out a laugh. Seungcheol stirred at the action, which had the latter immediately stilling. “You guys need to insult each other’s future children a little quieter,” he whispered. 

The former had other plans, though. “Wait, can I hold him?” 

Chan shot a concerned glance. “Fine, but be careful!” he insisted, slowly handing over the bundle to Wonwoo, who, after smiling at him, passed him over at the end.��

Seokmin began rocking the child, who glanced up at him, languidly blinking up at the soldier. He was ecstatic, softly touching the tiny nose, and feeling his mouth widen into a grin. “See? He likes me already!”

“Yeah, after Chan has done all the hard labour,” Wonwoo commented, beaming at the baby’s expression. 

“I want Cheol after you,” Soonyoung demanded, crossing his arms, “So he can see what a real man is like.”

“Real jester, more like,” Seungkwan muttered, earning himself a hard elbow in the side. 

What Seokmin wanted to do was tell the eldest to wait his turn. He did not have the opportunity when he smelt the air around him, and found it most foul.

Chan noticed it immediately as well, and within the next few seconds, the others caught on. Five pairs of eyes whirled to the baby, who had the audacity to giggle.

Seokmin let out a scream. 

“BY THE FUCKING GODS—!”

Everyone scrambled to their feat, the rest struggling to hold back their amusement. “Not so loud!” Chan hissed, though he was restraining a laugh, only successful by the finger on his lips. 

“Stupid damned baby!” Seokmin screeched, holding the bundle at arms length. 

Wonwoo could not help his laugh, which spluttered out of him. “You cannot blame a baby for acting like one! It is like scolding a dog for running after a bone.”

The comparison had Soonyoung bellowing out, holding his stomach. “I always knew Seungcheol was annoying, but shitting on us is another low!”

Seokmin visibly shivered, patience running thin. “I hope he is rotting in the underworld,” he cursed, completely merciless. 

“I hope he is laughing at you,” Seungkwan prayed instead, wiping a few tears from his eyes. 

Chan only shook his head, walking to the doorway and stretching his head out. “Myrtia!” he called out, catching her tending to the guests in the dining areas. 

Quickly she arrived at the scene, understanding immediately what had occurred, judging by the men’s reactions. “Hand him over, Centurion,” she ordered, he obliging her instantly. 

“Sorry?” Seokmin offered, as if he was the one who soiled his toga. That had the others laughing even more, which had him furrowing his brows. “You men are the worst!”

“After ruining Chan’s night with all our complaints, it is only fair that we turn to you!” Soonyong explained, as if that was perfectly reasonable. 

Seungkwan cackled darkly. “We really are each other’s worst enemy.”

Wonwoo somehow found that incredibly sentimental. “I would not have it any other way,” he said, slinging his arm around Chan, ushering the other three to join in. “After all, who knows us better?”

“You make a stellar point!” The eldest clasped onto Chan’s free side, poking him in the cheek. “I would not wish to befriend any other wretched bastard.”

“You do not possess the ability to make friends, Soonyoung,” Seungkwan pointed out. 

“Then what are we?” Seokmin demanded, offended, the last to join the group. 

“Comrades?”

“Colleagues?”

“People who have seen me naked?”

But it was Chan, who was quiet all this time, observing his older—usually irritating, sometimes diabolical, yet always beloved—superiors, there formed an answer which had been settled in his heart the moment he had found their company nearly a decade back.

“Brothers.”

The men surrounding him stilled, gawking at the centre of their group—the centre that was always the core of their brotherhood. Although there was ample opportunity to poke fun at the situation, they found no ground for such humiliation. They only watched as, in an almost comical image, four pairs of eyes softened at the boy who had grown right in front of them. 

Wonwoo ruffled the youngest’s mop of waves. “And you are the dearest out of us all.”

“And do not forget it,” Seungkwan said. “Even if we make you seem otherwise.”

Chan smiled at them all, face flushing at the amount of attention received. A comfortable silence fell over them, everyone pondering over different notions, reminiscing of their times together. 

Soonyoung, however, possibly still a little intoxicated, thought of a completely different opportunity—thoughts of the very near future. 

“Men,” he began, “I have a proposition.”

The soldiers perked up, about to brace themselves for a revolutionary idea.

“Who wants to spy on Jihoon and _____?”

There was a momentary pause. Chan, visibly horrified, whirled his head left and right, praying to the gods that his fellow brothers felt the same. 

“Go on, then.” 

And as the four eldest centurions shuffled to the nursery’s entrance, Chan scrambled for a solution, because he would have rather been Mark Antony’s prisoner than listen to his commander and his wife…solidify their reunion.

He sucked in a sharp breath. 

“Wait!” 

The men paused, looking over their shoulders. “What is it?”

That intake of breath was released in complete devastation. So much for calling these utter shits brothers. 

“How about we all drink? I shall…” A hard gulp. “I shall join you properly all this time.”

They could not believe it at first. Chan, however, trudged over to them, grabbing onto whatever shoulder was nearest. “I mean it.”

He swore his brothers seemed happier in that moment than they had been cradling Jihoon’s child. 

“Well, what are we waiting for?!” Soonyoung roared, already leaving the entrance. “Let us empty the coffers!” 

And as the five most powerful men in Rome ran to be utterly gone with alcohol, Chan could not help but huff out a laugh, and hoped he had done his primus pilus a favour. 

YOU HAD ALWAYS ADORED THE WAY YOUR HUSBAND SLEPT.

As one of the most esteemed, strongest generals ever walked on Roman soil, Lee Jihoon looked as vulnerable as your baby son as he lay next to you. His body rose and fell with every breath, his arm a strong comfort around you. 

You could not help the smile that slipped past your mouth, watching him rest so peacefully after two years. You loved every single inch of your husband, but these little pieces of him, offered to you on rare occasions—with the sun bleeding through the bedroom windows, cool air drifting inside, kissing your skin—were a treasure rarer than all the wealths of the empire. 

You dared not wake him, lest the moment ended, only allowing your fingers to stretch a little forward. Your fingertips caressed the small cuts, scars on his skin, wishing you could fill every crevice of his battle-worn face with your liquid love. 

How beautiful he was, with or without what his experiences added onto him. 

Perhaps he could feel the adoration radiating off of you, for he began to stir faintly, humming to your caresses. His arm around you pulled you closer, and you were mere inches from face. 

What fortune to be so close to him, because you witnessed his eyes flutter open. Dark, chocolate irises welcomed you, and you wished with your heart that you could dive into them, and be forever lost in their haze.

“Morning,” you uttered, smiling.

He offered a lazy one in return. “Morning, my love.”

You almost beamed. “I love it when you say that.” 

His brow raised absentmindedly. “What? Morning?”

You tutted. “I think you need to sleep some more.”

“Hmmm…” he nuzzled into your neck, closing his eyes. “I will if you sleep with me.”

“But I already am.”

He craned his head back, nestled in your chest. “I think you know what I mean, vita.”

Involuntarily, you caught your lower lip between your teeth, and by the look on Jihoon’s face, he had half a mind to copy your actions.

Perhaps you would have let him too, if you did not hear a suspicious sound.

You perked up, head turning towards the door, where the origins of the voice—voices, as you listened in—lay. Your husband, catching onto your change of countenance, stretched himself before sitting up straighter, eyes squinting at the door.

Grabbing onto your clothes, which lay unceremoniously on the floor, you half-dressed yourselves before you reached just before the entrance of the room. The voices were much louder, a sense of agitation filling each one.

The loudest of the noise, amongst all the bickering, was a soft wail.

“—you stupid prick, I told you not to feed it that!”

“Well how was I supposed to know what it likes?”

“I hope you and Seokmin never have children—”

“Gods, Jihoon is going to be raging mad—!”

“What it deserves for being called Cheol—!”

You did not get to hear the end of the discussion, for Jihoon grabbed onto the doorknob and burst open the door.

Shrieks were heard on the entrance, five centurions stumbling into your bedroom, one with a special, wailing package in his hand.

“By the gods!” your husband exclaimed, shaking his head at his subordinates, scrambling to stand straight. “What are you all doing, muttering about behind our door?”

“Uhh…general!” Wonwoo declared, earning a sharp hiss from his friends. “We actually…uhhh…” He looked at the others, confused. “What were we here for?”

Soonyoung, rubbing his temples, seethed, “Seungcheol, you idiot!”

“Ah, yes!” Wonwoo straightened, deepening his voice to pretend sobriety. “Seungcheol!” 

Seokmin’s eyes widened. “But Seungcheol died years ago!”

Seungkwan then smacked him around the head. “Not that Seungcheol, you fucking idiot!”

You are the fucking idiot, you ugly bastard!”

You glanced at Chan, whose focus only lay on the crying child. The one who held him looked as if he might burst into tears too, but you spoke up before you had any more crying children in the house. “Here, let me tend to him.”

The boy handed you your son, but you noticed he dared not look you in the eye. “Is something the matter?” you asked him softly.

Soonyoung scoffed at your question. “Silly little virgin has been shitting his toga ever since he heard you two fucking like rabid dogs.”

“Watch your filthy mouth,” your husband guttered, which had the scolded-man shrinking back behind Wonwoo.

Seokmin snickered, Seungkwan smirking as you glanced at the youngest. “Chan…” you trailed off, not really sure on what to say.

Thankfully, your husband seemed to have a solution. “Chan, please grow up,” he remarked, crossing his arms over his tousled clothing. “You were holding my child mere seconds ago.”

“He just needs to stick his cock into someone,” Seungkwan said, a bit too matter-of-factly.

“Or something,” added Seokmin, the honey wine clearly still talking.

You saw Chan physically recoil from the statement. “What did you even have in mind?” Wonwoo asked, nose scrunching in distaste. “Actually, I do not want to know.” 

“Sober up, the lot of you,” you said, unable to stay serious, despite the death glares Jihoon offered them. “I need you all to help me clean the place up today.”

Everyone unanimously groaned, causing the latter to get irritated. “If I hear a sound from you pathetic drunkards, then it’s 40 miles around the city.”

Soonyoung turned his head to you, clearly exasperated. “_____, did you bite his cock or something?”

“Soonyoung!” You gasped. 

“I need to lie down,” Wonwoo groaned, turning towards the door. “I shall be dunking myself in a well nearby.”

“Take Seokmin with you,” Seungkwan drawled, fixing his hair. “Maybe this time he will actually drown.”

“If I drown little man, I’m taking you with me,” the man snapped. 

“Chan, dear, please sort them out,” you requested, hearing him sigh.

“I shall try my best, my lady,” he mumbled, knowing that his best efforts will be in vain. 

As he began to leave, you called out his name. He looked back, and you smiled as you rocked Seungcheol in your arms. “You are his favourite, Chan.”

The revelation had his frown morphing into a small smile, bowing his head ever so slightly before turning to his centurions. “Let us give our general some privacy.”

Seokmin grumbled underneath his breath, following after Chan. “As if they had not had enough privacy…could have made another baby for all we know…”

Jihoon focused his gaze on Soonyoung and Seungkwan. “Remember. No fucking about or it’s 40 miles.”

The latter waved his hand, opening the door. “Yes, yes, we are aware.”

Soonyoung mocked a salute, adorning a most dramatic drawl. “Of course, your excellency, no doubt at all, your royal highness, please, do give us further idiotic orders to taunt us with, your magnanimous majesty!”

Jihoon’s glare did not waver. “Get out.”

“…right on, general.”

And so the last of the centurions were out, you standing at the door as they made to leave. Before they exited, though, they all simultaneously waved at you, some a bit too enthusiastically, others a soft gesture. 

“Ave, _____! Ave, general!”

And they left, laughing already with plans to bring more merriment into their lives.

Your husband joined you, leaning against the opposite door frame. “I have a feeling they’re going to drag poor Chan into some brothel.”

“I think the boy would pass out before that would take place,” you said, chuckling as you glanced down at your child. “At least he takes care of Cheol well.”

“Does he?“

“…better than the average soldier, then.”

“At least they had fun yesterday.” Jihoon took a step closer, observing his son giggling at his mother’s entertainment. “Though they test my patience everyday, they deserve all the reward.”

“Do not exclude yourself, my love,” you reminded him. “You did not enslave yourself to your armies to disregard yourself like that.”

“I do not exclude myself.” His hand reached out, holding Seungcheol’s little head. How strange, that his entire head could fit in his palm. “I am simply happy with what I have right now.”

He offered you a smile. “I am more than happy with you and my son beside me. I ask for nothing more.”

You returned his smile, heart bursting at the seams as he leaned in, enveloping your lips with his in a sweet kiss.

And as the two of you played with your son in the morning light of the Roman sun, you snuck glances at your husband, the light of the Empire. The Eagle of Rome.

Finally, your home was now complete.

[gay-dorito-dust]

If you’re still taking requests for Bob, can I request something where reader is demi-sexual (this doesn’t need to be explicitly stated) and they never had a connection with someone that would lead into reader having romantic feelings for, until they met and get to know Bob. They don’t know what to do about it and decided to ask the other Thunderbolts for advice. This might not be too interesting, so feel free to ignore if you don’t want to write it!!

You didn't think you would ever find someone whom you could yourself developing romantic feelings for in your lifetime, everyone wanted to get right to the meat of it without bothering to allow romance to flourish properly or let it blossom naturally as it needed, you didn't think you would ever get the chance to experience it until you met Bob. You had found him in the vault along with Ava, John and Yelena and quickly found yourself a friend in him as easily as he had found one in you, always seen next to one another from that moment onwards and making small conversation whenever the rest of the team squabbled like children.

'Are- are they always like this?' He would ask you as Ava and John were once again at each others throats.

You shrugged your shoulders. 'i wouldn't question it or look too deeply into it. just accept it as their form of...bonding.' You tell him.

His brows furrow as a frown pulls at his lips. 'bonding is...certainly a word i'd use.' you both stayed in silence a couple seconds afterwards before smiling at one another when Ava stole John's shield and phased through the walls while John collided with the solid wall before remebering he couldn't phase like Ava and muttered angrily under his breath.

You stopped laughing first as you watched Bob's face become the image of pure happiness, a smile stretching across his face as crows feet peered at the corner of his eyes, his body relaxed as he slightly leaned agaisnt you for support. You smiled becuase Bob was happy, you laughed becuase Bob was laughing, you liked him this way where he wasn't locked in a continous battle with Void insde his head. You felt a tickle within your stomach that day, a tickle that you couldn't put your finger on, so you thought it as a feeling you get when seeing your friends that you deeply care about be genuinly happy, that despite everything they've been through they're faces still remebered how to smile.

However this tickle within your stomach would only grow stronger the more time you spent with Bob whether it's in the kitchen making breakfast together, or when you went to the corner bookstore with him and you both reached for the same book at the same time, hands brushing agaisnt one another in a way that felt much like an electric shock and felt good symultaniously while being a short lived experience with how fast you and Bob retracted your hands from one another.

'i'm sorry.' you say, gesturing for him to take the book.

'no you take it, i'm pretty sure i have a copy of it somewhere.' Bob would reply while gesturing for you to take the book instead, his cheeks slightly tinted red, his soft eyes twinkling under the artificial lighting of the cosy shop you both loved.

'How about we share it?' you suggested, hoping to appease both you and your friend as the tickle in your stomach grew stronger when his eyes remained on you, listening intently. 'One of us can read it -perferably you seeing as you can read quite fast- and then when they're done the other person can have it. simple solution.' You watched your friend as he mulled over your idea within his head before humming.

'I was serious about having a copy of this bopok somewhere in my room, but if this is easier for you then yeah sounds simple enough.' Bob agrees as you handed him the book, your fingers brushing agaisnt one another while doing so, feeling that electric shock run up your arm again but also a warmth that soothed you afterwards, you didn't know how to explain it and it seemed that neither did Bob as he was looking in to your eyes softer then ever before; a beat of silence passed you both as you let out the breath you didn't know you were holding.

Something in you had shifted but you didn't know if you had ever felt like this before with anyone else, you knew that you wouldn't be able to look at Bob the same way again after this, but something within you told you that you wouldn't mind it at all just as long as you got to look at Bob for all the moments after this. Soon enough after the bookstore incicdent the man was consuming your every thought, his smile, his eyes and his voice were intergrained within your head that you could recagnise him without ever having to open your eyes.

It had seemed that as of recent Bob had wormed his way into your very soul and you didn't know how to deal with the repricautions of his seemingly innocent actions. You didn't know how but you woke up each day with a giddiness within your chest and a urge to find Bob, for even just a glimpse of him was more then enough to make your day, you wanted to say it was platonic to be happy in seeing a friend first thing in the morning but you had an inkling that this went a little deeper then that.

So you went to the only people you could to help you with your dilema; your teammates.

'So what i'm hearing is that you've got a crush on Bob. big deal.' John said as he Aelxei, Ava and Yelena had squeezed themselves into your room upon your request, all of them were sitting on the floor infront of you as you poured everything out to them in hopes of finding the best solution.

Ava glares at him, nudging him in the side before looking back at you with a look of understanding. 'Don't listen to John, it's a big deal and you shoudn't feel afraid of it becuase it just means that you've found your person in Bob and it's hard not to see that given how close you two are compared to the rest of us.' She tells you as Yelena agreed.

'You should tell him how you feel, tell him how he makes you feel when he touches you, how he's the air you breath and more.' She says as she rests a hand on your knee, causing it to jerk up slightly as you didn't usually liked anyone touching your knees in general, smiling at you reassuringly as her thumb caresses your knee in a grounding gesture. Alexei was up next and from how quickly Yelena's face contrted into one of a grimace of embarassment, you were prepared for the worst advice possible, but what came out of his mouth was unlike anything you had expected from the Red Guardian.

'Young love, it is beautiful, so you must not watch it wilt and die my comrade.' Alexei begins. 'If the foundations of yours and Bob's friendship is as strong as you say then this confession will merely be the transitioning you've both been waiting a long time to happen, it is only natural for relationships to change but he will still be your friend first, for that was what he is and your lover second.' Everyone had fallen silent as you all listend to Alexei, leaning towards him, eager to hear what else he had to say. 'Bob will become you're confidant, your compaion in life and your one and only person whom you want to go through life's worst and best moments with becuase he's the only thing that will ground you to him; and you are home to him.'

Alexei then reached out to pat you on the hand that you didn't know was clenching the bedsheets, relaxing enough for him to hold it between his calloused ones in the way a father would when comforting his child from their fears, like he was silently reminding you of your strength through hand squeezes. 'Bob would be lucky enough to have you Dorogoya as you are lucky to have him in your life, you two are compatible in my eyes and should be together happily as life will allow you both to be, and all because the happiness you should ever feel is becuase he makes you that geuinly happy. So i must ask this: does Bob make you happy?'

'Yes, he does without ever knowing that he's the reason i'm smiling and feeling this giddiness in my chest. i feel happy before i see him and i feel even more happy when i'm with him. so yes Bob Reynolds makes me happy.' You tell Alexei, who had been looking you dead in the eyes as had Ava, John and Yelena at this point, all of them hooked on what Alexei was trying to get across to you, for as the older man smiled the air within your room had become warm and jovial; almost like a celebration had just taken place in you admitting to such a simple yet powerful thing.

'Then go to him and tell him so.' Alexei then points to your chest. 'say it with your whole chest and never let that man go. ever. we belive in you dorogoya.' He finishes and you were left to look into the eyes of your teammates, your family as they all gave you a look that told you that they belived in you and that they'd support you in however you wanted to confess to Bob.

'You've got this.' Ava said smiling.

'what's the worst that could happen, besides we're pretty sure the man is smitten with you.' John pitches in.

'He won't run away from you afterwards, he cares about you too much to do such a thing.' Yelena adds on, giving your knee a firm squeeze.

'Like i said before, Bob would be lucky to have you.' Aexlei finshed and that was enough to give you the strength to slip a note under his doorway later that evening asking him to come up to the roof after dinner with the team.

The night was cool on your burning skin of your cheeks when you saw Bob had beaten you to the roof, having waited paitiently for you as he occupied himself with the stars above that winked at you, urging you to stop overthinking and just let it all out. You slowly made your way towards him and stopping only when your shoulder brushed agaisnt his own, making him look away from the stars and into your eyes kindly and warmly, the wind ruffled his hair in ways you wish you could run your fingers through. 'Hi.' he says.

'Hi.' you reply as the feelings you had beforehand coming to the roof, before heading the words of your teamates and write him that note, everything that made you feel cold and second guessing became feelings of warmth and giddiness the second he came within view. 'I need to confess to something and i hope you stay with me afterwards.' You add and Bob furrowed his brows, reaching a hand out to grasp one of your own, intertwining your fingers together tightly before rasing his brows in a silent gesture for you to continue and you took a deep breath in and just let everything go.

'I like you, more then a friend should and i haven't felt anything like this in a longwhile, everyone wants a relationship but never want to build up to one properly and so i never felt a romantic link with them the way i feel one as strongly with you.' You admit as you look deeply into hie eyes, falling deeper in love with all the colours that made them up and made them expressive as they were now. 'You are my bestfriend and i have fallen for you hard from the moment our hands touched in that bookstore, maybe even further back i'm not sure but i know that from that day i only wanted to hold your hand, to feel that feeling when our fingers brush against one another i can only describe as-'

'Electric.' Bob interupts softly, staring at you the entire time as his eyes looked a though they were permamently fixed upon you, never to glance elswhere when everything he ever needed was here holding his hand, confessing to things he had only wished to be said to him for a long while now. 'Yeah i felt it too that day. I feel it almost every day when you touch me even if it's on my shoulder or my elbow, i feel that electric feeling so many times over that i never wanna feel anything else in my life other then your touch and that-'

'Spark.' You interupt him this time as you feel his tumb rub the pulse point on your wrist, feeling that jolt of electricity run up your arm before the feeling of a serene warmth in the aftermath, a grounding feeling that tied you to him in ways you could barely describe. The silence that followed wasn't weird, it wasn't awkward, in fact it was calm and understanding as you and Bob knew that your relationship had shifted from those shared echanges alone. You both understood that you had cross the line and have entered new and uncharted terratory, all the while holding onto each other's hand like they were your lifelines that you never wanted to let go.

While the confession itself might not be as romantic as the movies like to make them out to be, but it was more then enough for you and Bob as neither of you needed any grand gesutures to let the other know how you feel, you didn't need fireworks in your name to spell out how he felt for you and he didn't need you to scream that you loved him from the rooftops where the intimate whispers shared between you both was more then enough. You might not have kissed that night on the roof but with how closely pressed your palm was to his you felt you might as well have, Bob reciprocated this feeling by tightening his hold on your hand and caressed your pulse point in three languid but gentle strokes.

It was small moments and touches like these that were more then enough for you both to know that your feelings were mutual, that this was the start of something new but neither of you were scared for as long as you had each other to hold onto for the rest of your journey together, then the darkness and unknown ahead of you both had no power over either of you. You had your bestfriend and your now lover to brave into the unknown with and he had you, his bestfriend and now lover to fall back into the awaiting arms of, knowing you'll never let him fall as he wouldn't let you fall either without going down with you in a lover's embrace.

You were so glad to have lived the life you have so far as it had made you fall hard for your friend and you could never be more happier to have fallen into his awaiting arms, content and happy with the fututre you'd both have with one another.

[saturnyo]

Preacher's Daughter

Pairing: preacherjoel x reader

Warnings: Religious themes/conflict, Religious themes/conflict, Sexual tension/repression, Age gap, Emotional manipulation, Blasphemy/taboo religious imagery,

WC: 2.9 k

Summary: You're the obedient daughter of a strict preacher, raised to fear sin and suppress desire. You've never stepped out of line—until your father hires Joel Miller, a rugged, fallen-but-redeemed new preacher. There's something dangerous behind Joel’s eyes, something that pulls at everything you’ve been taught to resist. Despite your upbringing, your fascination with him begins to crack your rigid self-control.

An: I know this isn't everyone's cup of tea, and that's fine. But please, if you do not like to see this, do not attempt to harass or hate on me or anyone who likes this post. Everyone has their own tastes, and we respect that on this blog. Anyway, I forgot I had this in my notes on my phone and just found it again, and I couldn't get preacherjoel out of my head

Song Choice: Ultraviolence by Lana Del Rey

Tell me—would you kneel for salvation… or would you kneel for sin?

Would you allow your flesh to be tangled into wicked ribbons while wearing a rosary, praying for god's love to come and save you? As you commit the act of blasphemy, knowing that god's eyes are always watching as you give in to your depravity. Your prayers twist into profanities—each breath a corrupted psalm—and when you finally give in, your body trembles like a saint touched by divine wrath.

Not kneeling before the cross, but on your back beneath him, your eyes rolling white—not in prayer, but in something far more profane. A false rapture, a holy blasphemy.

Your upbringing always cautioned you against giving in to the sins of the flesh. The concept of purity was woven into your vocabulary since you could walk, putting you onto the path that your parents, especially your father, made for you.

You were the perfect daughter. Always obedient, always kind. Even when you consistently kept your gaze towards the floor, you could still feel God's judgmental gaze upon you. Somehow, he's reading your depraved thoughts toward your church's newest preacher, making you sink in shame.

Joel Miller

His name dances on your tongue, suddenly making sin taste so sweet. You felt like a martyr in your own skin. When his gaze first met yours, it was like hearing a silent sermon, condemning and absolving all at once. Your upbringing taught you to lower your eyes before such fire, to kneel humbly, and pray for forgiveness. But in that instant, you felt it burn through the armor of your innocence, a twisted grace, a mercy only sin could grant.

You remembered your father's sermons: "The lust of the flesh is the root of all evil." But here he was…Joel, standing there like a walking contradiction. an altar of temptation in human form. He's exactly the type of man your parents warned you about the moment you could talk.

Each night, you knelt at the end of your bed to do your prayers like any other day. But this time, you were praying for another reason. To free yourself from the shackles of your torment. He continuously filled your thoughts, making you slip up and become distracted. Making you forget the hymns you sang with your family in the church pews.

You felt possessed—no longer God’s vessel, but something else’s, not of your own body. Every time you were in church or bible study, when he would glance your way, it was an out-of-body experience. There was no remedy, no cure. Just a dark paradise with something so sacred and profane colliding into a hymn of desire. In a space between salvation and sin.

You tried to turn away, retreating into the safety of your faith, but the pull was undeniable. Kneeling was no longer an act of submission to God—it had become surrender. Not to holiness, but to something darker. Something more achingly, ruinously human.

The first time he ever talked to you was after evening mass. You stayed behind after everyone left, leaving just you standing in front of the big cross on the wall behind the pulpit. You had secrets, ones that were beginning to be too hard to contain.

Confession

You needed to confess your sins, your unholy wiles, to the man who has infected you with the very notion of desire. You stood there, fingers crossed, you looked like a pious girl, but there was no more prayer in your chest- just a hurricane. He was there waiting for you, so patiently, because he knew that you were going to come to him.

He'd seen it long before even you did. The way your eyes seemed to wander during morning service, looking directly at him as he spoke about whatever your father asked him to. Everyone else in the church was watching him speak about the devil wreaking havoc on this earth and how we should combat it, but with you?

You weren't listening, you were feeling it. You won't hearing sermons, but the way his lips moved when he said temptation. You didn't look at him like a pastor, but a man whom god breathed to life and carved from marble.

With you, there was no salvation; there was surrender. Knees bruised from kneeling on the wooden floor, splinters in your skin, trying to will the whispers of the devil's sultry promises from your mind. The sound of boots thuds against the floor, making the pace of your heart quicken like a prayer said too fast.

It was him. You knew it was. And he knew why you were there. He knew you needed to confess.

And god was he going to give it to you.

His breathing was measured, shallow, and completely in control. Each step, each breath has a purpose. Each sound he made was a ritual only he understood. You stayed on your knees, spine straight waiting for him.

Joel stopped behind you. Close. Close enough that you could feel the weight of his presence pressing against your back like invisible hands. His voice held a command, it was low and calm.

"You came here to be forgiven…"

It wasn't a question

Your mouth opened, but no words came out. just a sharp, deep aching. Because yes. god forgive you, yes. or don't

"What exactly do you need to be forgiven for?" he takes a slow step forward, boots echoing in the silence like the ticking of some unholy clock.

You didn't dare to meet his eyes. Your gaze fixed onto the floorboards, the light blood-stained coming through the window like a broken promise.

"I've been…." you swallowed, breath shuddering. "thinking about things…"

His eyes burned into you, but not with judgment. They held understanding, permission. Each breath, each step had a purpose. He was biding his time, teasing you in a sick way that made your spine straighten waiting for his touch. A touch that would make you burn brighter than fiery brimstone.

“Oh?” He said so calm and calculated. How he’s speaking, the long drawn out syllables trying to pull you into vice and ruin. “What things?”

His question was more of a statement. Joel already knew why you were there, he’s known for a long time. He just wanted to hear you say it. He wanted to hear your sweet voice that whispered to him at night, making him burn. It was like midnight wine- sweet, slow and sacrilegious. He wanted more, he needed more.

“Thinking about….” you hesitated, afraid of speaking those thoughts out loud, especially in the house of god. “Thoughts about you….sinful ones”

His breath was warm against your neck as he circled around you, his statuesque body now standing directly in your line of sight. The church was quiet save for the sound of your ragged breathing and the creaking wood. Your knees already raw from the floor. You’ve been here before, bowing your head praying and singing along to hymns but now? you are here not for repentance or prayer….

but salvation….

He gently lifts your face by your chin making you look him in the eye. There is a war brewing within them- one between a man wanting to stick to his faith but also a man wrestling with his unbridled desire towards you, your innocence, and your grace. The altar behind you seemed to shine in an unnatural glow, like a waypoint towards your penance and sacrament.

“Up,” Joel commands. his words leave no room for questions, his command settles over you making you shiver in anticipation. You finally stand up, the scent of cedar and smoke stuck to his preachers frock. the smell excites you, it sinks into your skin, filling the air with something as sweet as the fruit from the Garden of Eden, a taste of paradise itself. You were Eve being seduced by the snake to take a bite of the forbidden fruit.

oh how you were going to bite that apple

Your dress flows at your knees, swishing as Joel guides you over to the altar. Your body was burning up, the anticipation was killing you. you needed his lips kissing you on your neck, his hands gripping your hips, everything about him was a benediction of sweetness.

“Why here?” you whispered. his thumb caressed your cheek, with such affection that you don’t experience at home. this is a safe place-you standing in front of Joel by the altar as he looks you in the eye with the softness of a prayer, as if seeing you was a holy thing.

He hesitated, a flicker of guilt crossing his face. “Because here, everything is laid bare. No pretense. No hiding.”

The unholy blend between predator and preacher, thumbing your lip as your eyes fluttered closed savoring it all.

“This is your choice. We can stop right now.”

The intensity in his gaze continued to unnerve you. Never have you seen or experienced someone looking at you like you held the stars and the moon, but here he was, under the glow of dusk, making you feel more secure than ever in your faith—but damning you all at once.

A ritual of pain, past mistakes, lust, and desire began to collide the moment his lips fell onto yours.

His tongue slipped past your lips like a secret unspoken too long—sultry, slow, shameless. He tasted like sin and storm, and you clung to him like the world outside his mouth didn’t exist. His kiss deepened, grew greedy, like he was starving and your breath was the last goddamn thing on earth worth devouring.

Your fingers tangled in the back of his hair, yanking, needing something to hold onto as he drove you backwards, step by step, until your spine kissed the edge of the altar. Hard. It didn’t matter. That pressure lit you up. He pressed his body into yours, firm, thick, blistering hot even through the clothes you both wore far too long.

“I want to hear it,” he rasped against your mouth, his voice guttural, ragged, as though speaking cracked him open. “Say you want it. Say you’ll take every filthy thing I give you.”

You gasped when his hand slid down, past the sharp curve of your waist, not stopping until his fingers gripped under your thigh and hoisted your leg up around his hip. That position. That closeness. Your bodies fit like a puzzle made of pure need.

“I—fuck—I want it,” you breathed, and that was all it took.

“Such naughty words from a pious girl”

His hand slipped under your shirt, fingers pressing firmly into your ribs, like he needed to memorize your shape just by touch. He bit into your throat, leaving marks—not a gentle tease, but a possessive claim. Tomorrow, you’d see his mouth’s bruises in the mirror—and you’d love every aching inch of them.

Then he dropped to his knees, like it was some kind of worship, or hunger, or a damn threat. His eyes burned into you, lips curling into that wolfish smirk. “Don’t move. I’m not done ruining you yet.”

You heard the rustle as your dress was pushed up to your knees, cold air suddenly hitting your skin. A gasp escaped you, followed by a soft whimper, because his mouth was right there—licking, tasting, his tongue parting you like scripture, like sacred words. The sounds he made while doing it? Shameless. Animalistic. Loud enough to drown out your moans.

His tongue flicked, swirled, flattened, sucked—like he knew your rhythm better than you did. Like he wasn’t just trying to make you come—he wanted to break you, shake every bone in your body loose. When his fingers joined in, pumping deep and curling like some cruel promise, you almost screamed.

Through it all, he never broke eye contact. Not once. Never blinked. Never looked away.

Joel pulled you into corruption, as your hands laid flat palmed on the altar as his fingers gripped your thighs keeping you in place. he wanted you to fall apart beneath him, taking a piece of you with him.

you shattered around his mouth, like glass catching moonlight—sharp, bright, impossible to piece back together.

Your thighs trembled under his grip, breath hitching in your throat as every nerve fired wild. He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Just dragged his tongue through the mess he made with a low groan, like he could drink you straight from the source. The kind of hunger that never ends—feral, focused, obsessed. His stubble scratched your thighs raw and god, you wanted it.

“Look at you,” he growled, voice thick, filthy, praising and punishing all at once. “You were made for this, weren’t you?”

When he stood, fingers slick with your release, he dragged them across your lips like communion. You opened your mouth without hesitation, tasting yourself off his fingers like some depraved offering, and he smiled—devoured you with his eyes like the altar hadn’t just held you, but blessed you.

He didn’t need a god. Not when he had you trembling, ruined, praying to him.

He didn’t let you come down.

Hands still gripping your thighs like they belonged to him—like you did—Joel spun you around, your cheek hitting the altar’s cold stone. Your breath fogged on it, chest heaving, knees shaky and useless. You didn’t even try to stand. Couldn’t. Not when he was behind you, dragging his belt loose with that sound, that snap, a low chuckle rolling out of him like thunder.

“You think I’m done?” he rasped, leaning over your back, pressing his mouth to your ear. “Sweetheart, I’ve barely started.”

The tip of him slid against your soaked folds, slow, torturous, like he was savoring every shiver that ripped through you. He didn’t thrust—not yet. Just teased. Dragged it along your slit, pressed it against your entrance, pulled back. Again. Again. The tension stretched so tight your nails clawed the altar, legs spread but trembling, breath catching every time he almost gave it to you.

Then—without warning—he snapped his hips forward, filling you with a brutal, punishing thrust that knocked the breath out of you. You screamed—choked on it—his hand clapping over your mouth as he fucked into you like a man possessed. Each stroke brutal. Deep. A rhythm built for destruction. Not love. Not lust. Ruin.

“You’re gonna take it,” he growled, voice dark with triumph. “Take all of it. Every fuckin’ inch.”

The altar creaked beneath you. His other hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back, forcing your spine to arch as he slammed into you again and again. Filthy words spilled from his lips—praise, degradation, a mix so intoxicating your body couldn’t tell the difference. All it knew was need. Heat. That coil tightening again, impossibly fast.

He reached down, fingers rough, wet with your slick, finding your clit and rubbing in brutal, tight circles. You cried out—couldn’t stop it—your body going taut, muscles clenching around him so hard he hissed, cursed, then leaned in to bite your shoulder, marking you, claiming you.

“Come again,” he snarled. “Now. Let me feel you.”

And you did. Stars bursting behind your eyes, back arching as your orgasm ripped through you so hard your legs buckled. He caught you—held you up with his hips still slamming home, chasing his own release. One last thrust, deep, grinding, and then he was spilling inside you with a broken sound, forehead pressed to your back, panting like he’d just survived a war.

But he wasn’t done.

Not even close.

He didn't let you move—not far. Just enough.

Joel's hands gripped your hips as he pulled you back from the altar, your legs jelly, slick dripping down your thighs. You tried to speak—ask something, anything—but the look he gave you over your shoulder stole every word. A command. A promise. A threat. He guided you stumbling down the stone aisle, past flickering candles and broken prayers, until he found the front pew—solid oak, old, the wood worn from years of kneeling.

He shoved you down across the bench, your chest hitting it hard enough to knock the wind from your lungs. One hand pinned your back; the other kicked your legs open, spreading you wide as he dropped behind you. The pew creaked under his weight, groaned like the church itself could feel what was about to happen.

“I should fuck you right here every Sunday,” he muttered, dragging his cock along your entrance again, teasing, punishing, letting you feel the heat and weight of him before slowly sinking in. “Let the whole goddamn choir hear what a good girl you are.”

The stretch was slower this time, deeper—meaner. He buried himself to the hilt, hips flush against your ass as he growled your name like it was a blasphemy. Then he started to move.

Not the ruthless rhythm from before. No—this was deliberate. Grinding, dragging, thrusting in a way that made every inch of wood press into your belly while every inch of him wrecked you from behind. The church echoed with your gasps, his breath, the slap of skin on skin. He reached forward, fingers wrapping around your throat, pulling you halfway up so he could hiss against your ear.

“You feel that? That’s me. Inside you. Owning you.”

Your name left his lips again, lower, filthier, as he drove into you harder, rougher, the pew rocking beneath you. His fingers slid between your legs again, circling your clit, coaxing another orgasm from you like he knew your body better than God ever could.

When you came, you screamed his name like it was scripture—half prayer, half curse. Joel didn’t slow. He gripped your waist, used you, pounded through your climax and chased his own with a savage groan. He came inside you again, deeper this time, staying buried while his fingers tightened on your hips like he never wanted to let you go.

And then he laughed. Low. Dark. Delighted.

“Bet you’ve never confessed anything like this.”