#none from both of them and one even from neither of them

[lilia-calderus-pet-goat]

RANDOM THUNDERBOLTS* HEADCANONS!!

Yelena is actually the one in the vents, because Kate Bishop mentioned that according to Clint, they were very comfortable. Speaking of Kate, they go for coffee, pastries and shopping once a month–and Kate gives her so much crap about taking up the Avengers mantle after shitting on it initially.

Ava, meanwhile, is in the walls. Thus she's heard argumentative phone calls between Bucky and Sam, or stressful phone calls between Mel and Val. This Tower is a prison.

Speaking of Sam and Bucky, they had been preparing to live together in Louisiana before Valentina ruined everything. 💔 Like the moving company was halfway doNE.

Ava, also, is like–always tired. A package deal with her chronic pain. She's an insomniac, however, with much trouble falling asleep.

It's like, a whole thing. Every night she'll be rushing through the tiwer restlessly instead of sleeping, opening the fridge for water, or generally making noise. She wakes others up and eventually it becomes a collective issue.

Like, none of them sleep well, but she's far too restless. And so they all start brainstorming to find ways for Ava to fall asleep more easily. Music, white noise, that sort of thing. Finally, it's John's idea that actually works: conversation. Apparently sleep was impossible for him too due to ptsd from Afghanistan–and apparently, the one thing that used to help was talking to Lemar until they both fell asleep.

At first Ava thinks it's stupid, but it works. She never outwardly tells him it did, she just keeps inviting him to talk about literally anything. They make a habit of it.

I like to think that each girl in this movie has her respective blorbo? Yelena & Bob, Ava & Walker, Mel & Bucky. Not romantically. Just vibes.

Yelena and Ava love texting each other/talking about whatever. Their favorite activity is obviously thinking of clever insults to throw at Walker.

In the universe where Antonia lives, Yelena becomes her big sister and Ava her gf. Just ‘cause.

Mel never called herself Mel pre-working for Valentina, or if she did, she did it in hopes of working for her. She was Melissa–then Val gave her the nickname Mel. Because Mel is hardly allowed or able to have an identity outside of Val.

Valentina is like... evil soccer mom. Via Mel. Makes all their appointments, trying to do enough PR work to make the american public conveniently forget the soviet assassins, the high level criminals, the goddamn void, the impeachment/investigation oN Val and the disgraced captain america who killed a guy in public. Photoshoots! Sponsorships! Partnerships! Advertising! Merch! Mel has never been so overworked in her life.

Yelena, John and Alexei will occasionally watch soccer/football together. There is a lot of yelling. Bob doesn't like it. Neither does Ava. The two of them get noise cancelling headphones and sit together someplace else. Bucky oftentimes joins them.

Bob does the most chores out of everyone, feeling the need to overcompensate his usefulness, since he can't be the Sentry without the Void.

Yelena and Alexei have both been desperately trying to get back in touch with Melina, but ever since Nat died, they can't find her anywhere.

Yelena makes Alexei watch, “Good Bye, Lenin!” after he says he's never even heard of it. He proceeds to think about it for days and loses sleep over it.

Ava misses her surrogate father, Dr Bill Foster. Like, desperately. Alexei's newfound bombastic dad energy sneaks its way into her heart.

Mel was a gifted kid desperate for academic validation. She also had severe mommy issues. A surprise to no-one. All in all her working for Val I'd a recipe for toxic workplace codependent disaster.

Ava is the one who starts calling Walker, “America’s ass(hole)” and at first Bucky hated it for being a Steve reference, but after everyone else began referring to him as such, he got over it.

Bob and Joaquin Torres have been unknowingly playing video games together for months. One day Bucky walks in on Bob, asks, “hey kid, what are you–” and recognizes Joaquin's username from something Sam had mentioned at one point. He loses his shit.

Valentina constantly makes really caustic and mean spirited jokes about how she would've treated Olivia, (John’s wife) better. Bucky, who technically doesn't disagree, but hates Val, tells her that he could have treated Everett Ross better. Valentina is gagged for approximately five seconds before laughing and saying, “well, obviously, your sexualities would be better aligned–” and she NEVER elaborates.

[riddlemearose]

Late to the party, but I have some thoughts on the latest Linked Universe update.

Wars spends the whole update essentially studying Wild in an attempt to sum him up and work him out.

–> He stays back so he can analyse Wild's fighting style. Him comparing it to Twi's is interesting for a variety of reasons, none of which I have the energy to list so I digress. –> Wars also pretends to forget Wild's background as a knight, either as a way to compliment Wild or draw a connection between them.

Also credit where credit is due for Wild acknowledging a knight is only as competent as their weapon is good.

Without a weapon or access to their items, the majority of the Chain is dead in the water.

Very little talking or casual interaction. Unlike Hyrule & Legend; Time, Four & Wind; or Twilight and Sky, Wild and Wars are very specifically positioned as far away from each other as they can feasibly be, as seen below.

Wars may be trying to bridge the gap between them with his words, but neither he nor Wild are particularly comfortable here.

Wars is relying on Wild’s experience, allowing him to take the lead as a sign of trust, so he's legitimately surprised to learn the difference between Shrines and Dungeons

Most of Wars’ dialogue for the whole update, but also notably when Wild is explaining the role of the shrines, is vague and open. This can run the risk of coming off either passive aggressively or uninterested in Wild’s mind, given the perception he currently has of their situation. This is not a criticism of Wars, bc it shows that Wars isn’t as confident in this as he’s pretending to be.

More on the arm joke in a moment, but Wars straight up doesn’t know how to respond to humour being used as a coping/deflection mechanism, which is 100% Wild’s go-to response. -> Wars is probably still working on determining exactly why Wild is deflecting, while Wild is trying to work out what the point of all Wars’ questions is.

Note that Wars isn’t offering any information back (nor is Wild asking for it) –> this is very one-sided, so it’ll be interesting to see how quickly Wars will notice (bc Wild definitely doesn’t want to initiate any conversations, given he thinks Wars is angry with him and won’t realise for a while that this is Wars attempting to work out where they stand)

Okay, the Arm Joke gets its own section, bc I think it's a very interesting part of the comic.

Wild joking about "hopefully still having his arm", while yes being a TOTK reference, also gives Wars some unfortunate insight into Wild's era. It'll be telling if Wars takes that as a reflection of Wild's impulsivity over the dangers of his era though. That runs the risk of making or breaking their interactions right now.

Additionally, Wars also accidentally misunderstood a fundamental aspect of Wild's era in his reaction to Wild's joke.

In basically every other era but Hyrule's, life planning is common bc their eras are "safer". So Wars' "where do you see yourself in 5 years" question would not be abnormal to 6 other Links. But to Wild, (and to Hyrule, even tho he's not here for this) thinking 5 years ahead is incomprehensible, because of how difficult life is. Life is still day to day to both of them. There's no reason to think 5 years ahead when you're still trying to manage potential foot shortages and monster incursions.

So Wild's making light of how dangerous his era is, bc that's the norm - to never assume your life will be a long one, but to have at least had a good life while you've got it - which Wars unfortunately but understandably gets mildly irked at, bc to him it's a simple question of "what job do you want to be doing and how are you going to get there".

I don't think Wars cares whether Wild does or doesn't want to be a knight. I actually think he would mind what answer Wild gave, so long as he got an inclination of what Wild's ambition is. He wants to know what Wild wants to do with his life, but that's a tricky thing to think about, given the world Wild comes from and Wild's own identity issues.

But that kind of question – given the state of tension between them and Wild assuming that Wars is just angry with him, not trying to get to know him better – runs the risk of making Wild close off more bc he may perceive that he's being judged for not giving the 'right' answer.

Art by @/linkeduniverse.

[yasministration]

which one - art d., patrick z.

summary: when some girl you don't know rudely asks which of the two tennis players you're dating at a party, you give her a response neither of them appreciates. wc: 0.8k

Chaos ensured inside the house, the loud music attracting most people at the party. After a few of hours of dancing though, you had decided to find peace in the backyard, resetting your energy. It didn’t take long for Patrick and Art to come find you, their attachment to you relentless. Patrick had scooped you off the wooden lawn chair you sat on, taking your place and settling you down on his lap.

With a beer in one hand, Patrick used his other to brush loose strands of hair away from your forehead, fingertips brushing against your temple. His hand trailed down, behind your neck, settling there despite the thin layer of sweat coating your skin. Art had disappeared back into the house to refill your drinks, leaving you alone with the much bolder boy.

Leaning down, you peppered kisses onto Patrick’s cheek, down to his neck. Patrick grinned, moving his hand to settle on your waist as you kissed him. “What, couldn’t stay away for long?” He teased. “Says you. Literally put me in your lap.” Patrick just hummed, waving Art over as he walked through the gap in the doorway, squeezing between the bodies blocking the exit.

Art hurried over to you, handing you a pre-mixed cocktail with a sweet kiss to your cheek. The blond boy settled himself down on the arm of the chair, settling an arm around Patrick’s shoulders to steady himself. “Do you guys want to go soon?” Asked Art, and you nodded eagerly. If you went home soon, it meant you could get all the unrestrained cuddles you wouldn't get from them in public.

A girl you didn’t recognise stumbled over to the three of you, giggling stupidly. She was at least tipsy as she put her hands on her hips, aiming her next question at you. “So which one of them are you dating?” You leaned back into Patrick’s chest, furrowing your eyebrows at her. “Excuse me?”

“Well, come on, it’s obvious you guys aren’t just friends.”

“I’m not dating either of them.” You huffed, clenching your jaw. “Besides, it’s none of your business.”

“Oh calm down,” She scoffed, waving a dismissing hand at you. Patrick’s grip tightened on you, pulling you against him snugly. “That means I can make my move on whichever one I want, yeah?”

You stiffened up in Patrick’s hold, and he pressed a soothing kiss to your jaw as you glared at her. She was staring directly at the both of you, eyes lingering on Patrick's arms, tight around your waist. But she didn't care. “Leave our girl alone.” Both you and the girl’s heads snapped towards Art, surprised that he was being confrontational instead of Patrick. “We’re not available, and even if we were, what makes you think we’d like someone with that attitude?”

Clearly startled, the girl stumbled back. She swallowed thickly before turning around and trudging away. Patrick patted your thigh, and you immediately stood up, a small frown on your face as he said “I think it’s time to go.” Patrick slung an arm over your shoulder, Art sliding his around your waist, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you like that Arty.” Patrick teased, leaning down to see Art on your other side as you walked out of the backyard's unlocked gate, down the street towards Art’s accommodation.

“She wasn’t very nice.”

“It was hot.”

Art smiled, looking at you with raised eyebrows at your comment before glancing back at Patrick. “You think?”

“Yeah, it’s good to see you take some control. Not acting like a pussy.”

Art’s arm fell from around you to lunge at Patrick, who jumped out of his grasp with a laugh. You giggled at the sight of your two boys, watching as Art kept up with his attack on Patrick, who gripped the blond boy’s forearms, pushing them away from him. “Hit me with your best shot, Donaldson.”

Art wrestled himself out of Patrick’s grip, but the but the brunette quickly moved an arm to settle around Art’s waist, waving you over with his free hand. Skipping over to them, you threw your arms over Patrick’s shoulders, pushing yourself up to press your lips to his. Patrick immediately parted his lips to deepen the kiss, but you pulled away, laughing joyously.

“I want one too.” Art announced, and you leaned over to kiss him softly. When you broke the kiss, you caught Patrick staring at the two of you, gaze glued to your lips. “Let’s just get to the dorm first.” Art chuckled, catching the look on Patrick’s face. “

“And then we can punish this one.” Patrick added, causing your head to snap up. “What!? What did I do?” Patrick inhaled deeply, shutting his eyes before putting a sassy hand on his hip and saying with a high-pitched, mocking voice “I’m not dating either of them.”

And surely, when they had you trapped underneath them in bed twenty minutes later, they had you repeat exactly who you belonged to, with Patrick pounding into you from the back as you choked on Art’s cock.

taglist: @animalcrossingshameless

[bluewxrld07]

Boy X - INSTA AU (6)

Lando Norris X Artist!Reader

Summary: In which a famous singer has the idea to collaborate with Formula one, crossing paths with someone else in the process...

Warning(s): None :)

next part >>>>

f1updates just made a post!

liked by user7, user1, user4 and 2m others

f1updates Looks like McLaren's top racer, Lando Norris, has a new fling??? He's been seen around the Monaco area lately with said actress and model, Magui Corceiro, and the two seem to be very out in the open with seeing one another.

What does this mean for Lando and Y/N? Read more from the link in our bio!

load more comments

user4 oh nooo :(

user7 Wait was this what Y/N and her bff were hinting at??

user5 yourbff literally hinted at something on her story, this haaasss to be it 🫣

user2 Y'all he seemed so infatuated with yourusername there's no way...

user3 Y/N needs a guy who won't break her heart, this is so sad🤧🤧🤧

user1 Guys we don't even know if him and Y/N were dating, much less him and Magui. It could be PR for all we know...?

user9 Some are saying that Y/N knew about Magui and confronted him about it, which led to yourbff's Instagram story post. So there were probs signs showing that he was seeing some chick (Magui) without telling Y/N

user1 Wtf???? I never thought Lando would be that type of guy???

user9 Idk if that's even true, but sources that are talking about it are getting word from people that are close with both Y/N and Lando... 🤷

user6 I'm also seeing that it was Y/N that put a stop to it because of all the speculations going on, so who knows

user9 Either way this is so screwed up, poor Y/N first of all

New Direct Messages from Lando!

lando : I'm in Quebec for some training, I'd like to see you

lando : I know you've read my texts, but idk how else to get ahold of you, I want to explain what's going on

lando : I shouldn't have lost it on you, I'm sorry

seen

yourusername just posted on their story!

yourusername : 🧜🏼‍♀️

yourbff HOTTEST FIT THERE WAS FUCK 😛😛

findlayoconnell Drooling, absolutely drooling 🤤

lando liked your story!

lando fuck

yourusername just made a post!

liked by yourbff, maxfewtrell, findlayoconnell, lando, charlesleclerc and 9m others

yourusername Been busy lately

load more comments

yourbff I'm loving this new era 🤧

yourbff Who made you cry tho, I just wanna talk 👊🏼😡

yourusername We don't speak of it🫠

findlayoconnell These are everything

findlayoconnell Body is TEAAAA 😱😫😫

*liked by yourusername and yourbff*

charlesleclerc Monaco looks great on you 🤭

*liked by yourusername*

user4 ???!!!?!?!!?!??! UM? 😰😰😰

user5 Y'all she's in MONACOOOO??? And it's not with LANDO????

user7 WHO MADE THE QUEEN CRY 🤬

user3 probs lando lets be fr

user7 Ayo I wasn't gonna expose buuuuut

lando That's why you weren't answering

user1 Y'all chill, her and Charles are friends

user9 Yeah friends with benefitssss 🫣

yourbff how does one look so pretty crying tho is the real question

yourusername lots of heartbreak does that to you 😚😚

lando talk to me please

yourbff just made a post!

liked by yourusername, findlayoconnell, maxfewtrell and 3m others

yourbff Life has been cray cray lately, but here's a few to keep you busy hehe (Boys suck btw) 🤧

tagged yourusername

load more comments

user6 FACTS THEY DO

*liked by yourbff*

user2 LET THEM COOK 🍳🍳🍳🍳

user7 I cannot wait to see what they're conjuring up omfg

user9 Soooo does this post also mean that Y/N and Lando are actually no longer seeing each other??? Like what happened

yourusername Hottie with a body🫡🫡🤩

yourusername Ily🥹😘

yourusername Self love vibes tbh

yourbff No for real🫶🏼

user4 Some sources say that Lando has been trying to reach out to her, and some accounts caught Lando's comments on her last post before they got deleted. 🤡

user9 I don't blame her if she doesn't wanna talk to him if what everyone is saying is true tho😂😂

user4 Neither do I, but I hope it's all just rumors and they seriously talk things out

findlayoconnell My actual bestie boo's

findlayoconnell How did I get such hot friends wtf 😭

yourusername because you're hot 😛💕

yourbff hot people listen to Y/N L/N's music 😇

*liked by everyone*

yourusername just made a post!

liked by lando, yourbff, charlesleclerc, lewishamilton, jackhughes and 13m others

yourusername eyes on me

load more comments

user9 Y'ALL THIS EAATSSSSS

yourbff 4+4= WHAT?????! 🍽️🍽️🍽️🍽️🍽️🍽️🍽️🍽️

findlayoconnell ATEEEEEE ABOSLUTELY ATEEE 😫😫🤩😛❤️💕🫶🏼😘

yourbff truly a gift staring at you wtf

yourbff my eyes are on YOU 😳😳

findlayconnell Eyes on you always YES MA'AM 🫡

user1 I just love how most of the comments are findlayoconnell and yourbff hyping Y/N up, I'm living for this 💀💀

user8 SHOW HIM WHO DOES IT BETTER QUEEN 💅💅

user5 I can basically taste the new music coming pls drop it omfg

user4 I just KNOW lando is punching a wall somewhere rn 👊👊👊

maxfewtrell Why you avoiding me bestie I done nothing wronggggg 🥺🥺

yourusername Boy you know damn well I'm not avoiding you lmfao 🤡

maxfewtrell You are tho, answer meeeee

yourusername I literally declined your phone call ONCE today, don’t make the people think I dropped you now

maxfewtrell ok but one time is basically all the time sooooo

maxfewtrell ANSWER THE PHONE YOU MUPPET 🤬

yourusername 🙂🖕🏼

user7 The fact she had to clarify because we'd all think it's because of Lando 😭🤣

user2 they literally were streaming together two days ago, so we know she's not avoiding Max

charlesleclerc Just keep watching?? 🫡

yourusername shhhhh

user6 OH???? CHARLES WHAT'RE YOU DOING HEREEEE

[thecreaturecodex]

Xytar

"Tiger Lizard Creature" detail © Paul Perada, accessed at his ArtStation here.

[My last foray into the Creature Catalogue for now. The xytar appears in both editions of that book, as well as in the Mystara Monstrous Compendium. But neither of the art pieces it got in the Catalogue are very good, and it's not illustrated in AD&D at all, being lumped into the entry on lizards. In the Creature Catalogue, it talks about them being used as mounts by the sis'thik, which is that book's take on stronger, desert-dwelling lizardfolk. I already have one of those, the ssurrans from Dark Sun, so moved that relationship over. ]

Xytar CR 3 N Magical Beast This creature has orange and black scales and a head like a monitor lizard. It has six legs and holds its body off the ground, and its teeth are clearly those of a predator.

Xytars are fire-breathing carnivorous reptiles found in desert regions. Some scholars suggest xytars have a relationship to dragons, basilisks or both. They feed on a wide variety of different prey, from small morsels like hares and lizards all the way up to antelope, camels and horses. Their social structure is flexible in order to accommodate their harsh environment; when prey is scarce, xytars live and hunt alone, but thy come together in large numbers when food is more common. The presence of a caravan of men and horses may attract xytars from miles around, the lizard-like beasts following at a distance, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Xytars ignore any environmental heat less than a lava flow, and so often attack during the full of the day. When fighting in a pack, they are not especially coordinated, but tend to gang up on the largest, and therefore most nourishing, targets. Xytars use their breath weapons in battle as often as possible, as they like their meat well charred, and do not especially care to avoid other members of their own species. A xytar’s internal fires spark one last time when the creature is critically injured, granting them one last breath weapon as they fall.

Xytar packs typically only contain healthy adults, as juveniles and badly injured members may find themselves becoming prey. Xytars lay their eggs buried in the sand and well-hidden, abandoning them to their own devices. Xytars can be trained as guard animals and even mounts if they are raised from an early age. Ssurrans especially covet xytar mounts, and ssurran bands mounted on xytars are some of the most successful and terrible of all their raiding parties.

Xytar CR 3 XP 800 N Large magical beast Init +5; Senses darkvision 60 ft., low-light vision, Perception +7, scent

Defense AC 15, touch 10, flat-footed 14 (-1 size, +1 Dex, +5 natural) hp 32 (5d10+5) Fort +5, Ref +5, Will +2; +4 vs. fire Resist fire 10 Defensive Abilities heatproof

Offense Speed 40 ft. Melee bite +6 (1d10+3) Space 10 ft.; Reach 5 ft. Special Attacks breath weapon (20 ft. cone, 3d6 fire, 1d4 rounds, Ref DC 13), dying breath

Statistics Str 15, Dex 13, Con 12, Int 2, Wis 13, Cha 8 Base Atk +5; CMB +8; CMD 19(27 vs trip) Feats Endurance, Improved Initiative, Nimble Moves Skills Perception +7, Survival +3 (+7 following tracks); Racial Modifiers +4 Survival following tracks

Ecology Environment warm deserts Organization solitary, pair or pack (3-12) Treasure none

Special Abilities Dying Breath (Su) When a xytar is hit with an attack that will reduce it to -1 hit points or below, it can use its breath weapon as an immediate action, even if it has not recharged. A xytar can only use this ability once per day, even if it is healed and then reduced to dying again. Heatproof (Ex) A xytar gains a +4 racial bonus to saving throws against fire effects.

[isalisewrites]

Is Bellamort a misunderstanding of canon in your opinion? To be honest I find more sense in them but I don't dismiss Tomarry or anything like that, I respect your tastes. However, if we're talking about canon we also have to face the reality of what we might not like. Hinny falls into this category and is practically a parallel to Bellamort. Ginny seems to have been inspired by Bella in her personality and that doesn't diminish the character because JKR wrote both as complex characters.

My beautiful wife says, "I'm gonna hold your hand with a ten foot pole and say, No."

Damn, you got my girl to rant so much. Thank you. That was hot of her.

*coughs*

Anyway~

So, there are a few things to unpack here. Once again, I see we're talking about canon and what people perceive as 'making the most sense.' I also see a fundamental misunderstanding of Ginny's character and an inflated opinion of JKR's ability to write.

Okay, so.

One: JKR did not write Ginny and Bellatrix as complex characters. Neither are complex beings at all. Bellatrix is a fanatical simp for Voldemort in canon. Nothing more, nothing less. She is not shown to have anything more complex about her.

Meanwhile, Ginny is a cardboard cutout. She is a very flat character. My girl called her tofu, where other characters add flavor to her. Ginny loving Harry makes sense, but Harry liking her in return doesn't make much sense. My girl said, "Bellatrix/Voldemort makes more sense than Ginny/Harry because Bella is a fanatic." But the fact that you pointed out that Hinny and Bellamort could be parallels of each other... that just makes me dislike the ships even more, ngl. Gross.

Second: canon doesn't make sense. There are so many events in canon that DO NOT make sense. The amount of plot devices in the series is insane. Characters are often used as plot devices, rather than as living, breathing people who make their own choices in spite of what the Author God demands the plot to be. I can often tell when a character is being boxed into something because of JKR's writing.

The TRUE reality is JKR isn't a good writer. Have we been given something to play with, absolutely. But I will not put canon on a pedestal and act like it's god. It has many, many flaws that contradict itself on too many occasions. So, when people argue that I oughta accept what 'makes sense in canon,' there is no sturdy foundation to this. There's nothing that convinces me. Anything in canon can go anyway. The amount of pathway possibilities are immense.

And, again, I don't need anything to make sense in canon to do whatever the fuck I want in these fandom spaces. There is no reality that I don't like in canon. I don't need my favorite ships to be canon.

I don't want them to be canon!

You think I want JKR to write Harrymort??? Good lord, she'd butcher it. She can't even do Dumbledore/Grindelwald right. Why do I have to hear her in the behind the scenes of Fantastic Beasts 2 say, "Dumbledore and Grindelwald has a very strong, sexual relationship."

Bitch, if I don't see them in bed, naked under the sheets, I don't fucking believe you.

Anyway, JKR needs to keep her hands off our fandom ships. *shudders at the thought*

Finally, if I DID look at canon like I cared about it, I say Bellamort somewhat makes sense, but also no because I can't see Voldemort very often as a sexual creature. To me, it takes certain parameters for him to get to that point. A simpering Bella, to me, just isn't it. (And I'm a lesbian and I think she's fucking hot, okay??? None of this is because I don't like her)

ALSO, yall, do you know how many times I saw Bella lusting after Voldemort in fics and vice versa in the 2000s and 2010s before Cursed Child came out? Too many. So, the fact that it became canon just disgusts me because it feels like it was stolen from fandom. Smh. Ew. It pisses me off. Cursed Child just pisses me off. It's like a slap in the face. We wouldn't be having this discussion if it weren't for Cursed Child.

In conclusion, you don't have to justify why you enjoy Bellamort. You like Bellamort? Have fun. I'm sure there are some great fics of them. I will not be reading or writing it because it simply does not interest me. There are no 'realities to face because of canon' because canon has holes in it and is poorly written.

I can logic battle about why any ship is good and how it could come to pass, but instead, we should just go write them.

Fuck canon and go write the wild, fun ships!

Isa

[angstfactory]

They say comedians were cut from those that experienced a lot of unfunny things. Joking helped them cope. Tripps wasn't any different; the man treated most situations with levity, even when it wasn't appropriate to do so. Out of habit, even. Out of instinct, sometimes. Like now, when he cracked the tease about writing himself a reminder in his own journal, knowing Winter's predicament was serious. Before, these jokes had excusable (at least, in some aspect) because there'd been no guarantee yet, that Winter was telling him the truth. Once it was proven otherwise, however, Tripps had no excuses for making light of the situation anymore. It was simply the way he'd conditioned himself to cope, and forgot that they weren't acquainted enough for the other young man to understand, fully, that it was how Hubert functioned.

But he wasn't slow. Winter got quiet, and his eyes lowered; Tripps understood right away that the joke harmed him, rather than lifted his spirits. "Sorry," the apology came awkwardly, as he gently plucked at a stray in the quilt, "I didn't mean anything by it." He paused. "I thought it'd make you laugh." Clearly, it wasn't that easy, trying to be likable and charming. Tripps, especially, had plenty missteps.

"When you were twelve? Out of nowhere?" he asked, brow furrowing. "Did he just decide the two of you were going to start a father-son beekeeping hobby together?" Because if the man's father had been into bees the entire time, why wait until his son was twelve to get involved with it? "My dad did something like that once," Tripps said then, with a small smile, "only it was with engines. He thought we'd learn how to fix up a car together because it'd be good bonding time, and it didn't go over too well since neither of us are mechanics." Indeed, if his vehicles needed any work, they'd be going straight to the shop.

Contrary to what Winter thought, Tripps hadn't found any of these stories depressing at all. "That's good, that you got something that keeps you connected to her in some way," he said. "My grandma is the reason I know how to cook," Tripps shared then, feeling like he ought to contribute something. He wasn't ready to divulge any deep, dark secrets of a weak immune system or past loser life, but he could share some harmless facts of life, at least. "She is a great chef," he continued, "likes to make everything from scratch, so I've spent a lot of my life in the kitchen with her. Got no idea how she stores all of it from memory, cause I still got to check the cookbooks for steps and stuff, most of the time, but I guess she's had a lot of years of practice. Eighty-two years old, and still making her own meals." The woman had slowed down some in recent years, but she was going strong.

At least Winter understood, none of what he'd said before had come with any malice. Wasn't particularly appropriate, possibly even stupid, but unintentionally so. "You know, I don't actually know much about you," Tripps confessed, laughing a bit, as his fingers idly toyed with Winter's fingers. "Everything before all happened ah, pretty fast," he went on, thinking back to the day, or what he could remember of it. "Met you at this house party, we were both drunk, and I remember you got bumped into me." He was smiling now, amused. "It was like one of those meet cutes in the movies, y'know? Literally had a Winter dropped onto my lap, you were pretty embarrassed at first, and I don't remember everything I said, but I know we didn't do a lot of talking after that." There had been instant physical chemistry and attraction, which the two men had heavily played into that night. "And I know we didn't keep in contact after that, but I'm pretty sure we had a nice time." His eyes lifted, almost shyly, to meet Winter's. "I did, anyway." Winter probably couldn't recall any of it, so there wasn't much they could say from his end, but Tripps preferred to think the guy didn't have a terrible time, either.

Another thing Winter was noticing about Tripps was the way he didn't seem to take a lot seriously. There were a lot of things he was noticing about what made Tripps who he was, and Winter wished he could jot down some notes. But now didn't feel like the right time, so he just had to hope for the best. His memory was really hit or miss, so he might remember some, most, or all of what he'd learned about Tripps. But Winter would definitely remember Tripps himself. But one thing that bothered him a little was the comment about his journal; it felt a little like a jab, though Winter knew Tripps (probably) hadn't meant it that way. Still, it was a little discouraging, and Winter looked down at the floor for a moment, sighing. He wasn't going to say anything though, and instead Winter just looked back up at the other man and smiled a little sadly, nodding at him. "Okay," Winter said simply.

But Winter didn't want to end the conversation despite this remark, so he tried to put it out of his mind. Laughing a little now, Winter replied, "I forgot, but it was like...regular forgetting. Not...you know, this." He gestured around to all the notes in the room. "I know it was regular forgetting because now I remember that you asked," Winter explained, thinking Tripps might want to know the difference. "My dad taught me all about beekeeping. We started when I was 12, and from the beginning it was like I had this affinity with them. Dad said it was like we could communicate or something." Winter had thought that was just a joke, though now that he knew he was a witch, he wondered if there was more to it. "And my grandma got me into quilting. I...don't remember a lot about her. But I remember this. Maybe that's why I do it so much. I think it makes me feel close to her, or at least this idea I have of her in my head." Winter knew this was a depressing little tidbit about his life, so he didn't dwell on it.

When he felt Tripps's fingers in his hair, Winter felt his skin tingle, a shiver going through him. "I like that," he whispered, closing his eyes for a moment. Opening them now, Winter said, "My dad does this too, and he's got a full head of hair. And it's okay, Tripps. I know you didn't mean anything. I mean, the story I told you was pretty sensational, so why would you believe it? And I understand now. I know that's not what you meant." Winter grabbed Tripps hand again, giving it a squeeze. "I think I like that you knew the me before," Winter told him. "I like that you remember the old me, even a little bit."

[redwidow616]

I love going to my mom's boyfriend's family reunions because 1. I can hate on people there without feeling guilty at all because I'm not related to them, i just acquired them in the divorce 2. They're always in really nice places and I love staying in hotels and 3. The old people go on and on what a picture perfect family the five (sometimes six) of us are and it's absolutely fucking hilarious how that is not at all the case actually because of all the issues every single one of us has and the fact that the "parents" of this family are not even married

[solar-eclipsed]

I need to stop falling in love with pairings in shows I literally haven’t fucking watched

[ettadunham]

sometimes i remember the hunger games and how nobody actually paid attention to what was in those books

[arolesbianism]

Been thinking abt her again

[lumsel]

AITA for not wanting my roommate to use my toothbrush?

Hi reddit. A few days ago I (NB27) was getting ready for work when I caught my roommate (NB27) in the bathroom brushing their teeth with my toothbrush. I got really mad at them for this, but they didn't think it was a big deal and said I was overreacting.

Their logic was that because they were my exact duplicate all our germs are basically the same anyway so it's basically like just one person brushing their teeth twice. But my opinion was that we became "different people" one year ago, when they woke up in my bed beside me one morning without any explanation. But this made them mad because they said from their perspective I was the one who woke up in their bed one morning without any explanation, and they accused me of claiming to be the original again. Things got really heated after this but neither of us was able to kill the other because our abilities were perfectly matched so we basically just declared stalemate like usual.

This whole ordeal had been especially disconcerting to me because up until this point there have been no real points of divergence in our personalities. Every time we have made a decision we would both make the same choice, all of our opinions and beliefs have been identical, and any time we converse it's difficult because we keep trying to say the same thing at the same time. So for us to disagree on anything is unexpected let alone something this big. I was hoping to use this as a clue to help prove I was the original but unfortunately none of my friends or family can remember my stance on toothbrush clone sharing so I was out of luck there.

Anyway they still keep using my toothbrush even though there's another one there because they "like the blue one more than the purple one" but the blue one is mine!!! I really don't think its unreasonable to ask them to use a different toothbrush here, especially since I was here first. AITA?

EDIT: mods this thread isn't a duplicate, they just posted the same topic from their perspective at the exact same time that i posted mine. stop flagging this for deletion.

EDIT 2: I can't believe I have to say this, but a perfect copy of dubious origin is a completely different category of person to a twin!! None of the social dynamics are the same, you can't draw equivalences between them. So when we have sex it is NOT incest. Can we please stay on topic here?

[spurbleu]

i really need johnny with a bird who’s never been eaten out before because I know that man is hungry.

johnny and you have been inseparable since the cradle. a friendship older than his siblings children. which means the both of you are entirely transparent with each other- the skin and bones of your stories is consumed without question. that includes, appropriate or not, sexual encounters.

when you tell him, he’s just shy of appalled. given, you hadn’t been with too many men, but enough that it’s strange none of them have even offered to get their mouth between your legs. especially with how good he knows they’d feel, on his-their shoulders. how sweet you probably taste. how hot it would be to watch you- fuck.

“ah will.”

you throw a confused look over your shoulder as you pour the both of you another cup of tea.

“you’ll what?”

“eat ye out.”

you feel the lavender go up your nose and steam your sinus until it short circuits. you miscalculate where the stove is, and set the pot down with a loud clank. wincing, you look back up at him, searching the blue of his eyes for any sign of humor.

when you come up empty handed you realize he’s entirely serious.

“johnny- i don’t think-“

“donae play coy nae, ah wanna show ye whatcha been missin’.”

your lips flatten into a harsh line. you run your tongue on the backs of your teeth, trying to collect any courage you’ve got in you to respond. friends don’t eat each other out…right?

but he’s doing it to help you. to…show you what you’ve been missing. a favor. a kindness between you and the strong, wide shoulders you’ve cried on.

your mouth is sticky when you respond. “okay.”

his grin is wolfish. “aye, tha’s a girl.”

he guides you to the couch, with enough gentleness to make you flush. kneels between your legs as you rest up against the pillows he set behind the arch of your back. slides your pants off with one hand, the other on your waist, thumb swiping in a soothing rhythm below your belly button.

you feel like syrup, leaning your head back and missing the way he licks his lips when he looks at your damp panties.

“relax, hen. yer gonna enjoy tis, promise.”

he does not eat you out with the same softness he prepped you with. slides your panties to the side and immediately shoves his nose between your mounds, and you gasp, spine arching away from the pillows instinctively. he laughs, but it’s muffled by your soaked lips.

explores every fold until you don’t know if you’re soaked by your own arousal, or his spit. but doesn’t matter, because soon he focuses on your clit, and your hands come to crowd his hair. tugging at his mohawk, rolling your hips forward into his face.

“w-wait…hah..”

he doesn’t, tongue ruthless against you. the sensitivity burns- new sensations flaring up from your core to your belly, legs beginning to shake. he feels it, and hooks them around his shoulders.

he’s messy, too. the sounds echoing off your cunt and against his nose are obscene, but he doesn’t quit it until you’re riding his face and to lost in your bliss to still operate under your usual shyness.

you silently wonder what he’s getting out of this. you’ve been friends forever, and although sometimes your banter feels flirtatiously charged, neither have ever acted on it. something you acknowledge but never name. water it and then shove it back in the closet you played dress up in as kids.

and now he’s eating you out. for fun.

you want to ask him, but you only get as far as, “J-Johnny…Johnny fuck- fff…w-why?”

you moan when he separates from your swollen cunt, only to be yanked from your stupor when he pulls you closer to his mouth by your hips.

“because,” again, eyes uncharacteristically serious, “ah’ve been tryin’ fer years.”

dives back in, and adds his two fingers deep into your hole as he sucks on your clit. at that, you cum over his face, limbs crowding his head with the incoherent curses your orgasms rips out of you.

when he pulls back away from you, he gives your cunt a harsh pat, and pulls your mouth apart with his thumb, before placing his fingers on your tongue.

“taste tha’?” his stare is hungry, like he didn’t swallow everything you had, “tha’s what the bastart’s you’ve been wastin’ yerself on have’bin missin’.”

you nod, like you’ve been taught a lesson. he pulls his fingers away, stands and stretches. when he looks back at you again, whatever beast possessed him is gone, and he smiles at you smugly.

“fun, yeah?”

you lean your head back, spent, “fuck off.”

“aw, c’mon nae, no tank yew? shame on ye, using me like tat.”

you throw your hands in the air. “you offered!”

he laughs, and the air is normal. you almost forget you’re naked. almost forget you came over his face.

almost miss how he pockets your panties before grabbing the cups of tea from the kitchen.

[stellamarielu]

on the job

joel miller x female reader

summary: you and joel are forced to work together, but neither of you can get past the others stubborn attitude or contractor!joel and interior designer!reader fuck in a walk-in closet

content: nsfw, 18+ mdni, pre outbreak!joel, he’s kind of a huge asshole sorry, teasing, degradation, dirty talk, slightly dubcon, fingering, use of nicknames such as princess sweetheart and good girl, finger sucking, unprotected p in v sex, rough sex, sex against a wall, kinda public sex bc it’s on a job site?? pull out game strong with this one

author’s note: based on this lovely request. i made joel a little mean bc it felt right but at the end of the day he will forever be babygirl. also, i know very little about both of these professions so i apologize for any inaccuracies in that department

You liked to think that you were easy to work with, always polite and mindful— pleasant even.

You mostly kept to yourself, especially when you were working on a project alongside others, however, not everyone shared your cooperative mindset.

In fact, you had worked with a multitude of assholes. Men who thought they held some kind of power over you, who flourished under the opportunity to demean and mock your job like theirs was more important, but none of them even held a candle to Joel Miller.

Your paths crossed when you were hired by a pretentious, middle-aged woman in Austin to help design the interior of her new home— a home that was still under construction.

To make yourself familiar with the layout, you visited the site multiple times in the weeks before construction was scheduled to finish.

It was always an easy and uneventful trip. You greeted the workers, took a few pictures, wrote down some dimensions and then you were gone in twenty minutes tops; but that all changed the day you met Joel. 

You waltzed into the house, waving to one of the men you had come to know from your previous visits and then you heard it, a deep berating voice targeted directly at you.

“Who the hell are you and why are you on my site without a fuckin’ hard hat?”

You stopped in your tracks as you were met with an unknown face. 

“Uh sorry. I’m working on an interior design project for the Johnson’s. They told me I was welcome to come check out the space if I needed anything.” You didn’t know why, but your voice was coming out in compliance, the tone hushed. 

The way this man approached you was incredibly entitled and unabashedly rude.

Normally you wouldn’t let some asshole like this get within two feet of you, let alone talk to you like that; but this guy had you questioning your morals for a split second. He was tall, and broad, and handsome. The southern drawl slipping from the smug curl of his lips and the flex of his biceps as his arms crossed over his chest, had your words stuttering.

“Well, until my job is finished, and the Johnson’s have the keys to their front door, I call the shots. And I don’t do well with unexpected visitors walkin’ around while my guys are trying to get work done.”

Your mouth nearly hung open at his words.

You’d barely said a word to him and he was coming at you with a disgustingly brash and assertive attitude. What the hell was his deal?

“Okay...” The word was drawn-out as it fell from your lips in annoyance.

“Well, it’s kind of funny, because this is probably the fifth time I’ve been here, and none of your guys seem to give a rats ass, so how about you let me do my job and I’ll let you do yours.” 

Finally, you had gotten past the stranger’s criminally good looks and stuck to your guns.

There was no way in hell you were going to let him reprimand you for doing your job. Afterall, you had every right to be here. 

“Yeah well, my guys will let you do whatever you want when you’re prancin’ around here in tight little dresses and high heels. You think they’re just bein’ nice for the hell of it?” 

His irritation was masked by amusement as he looked you up and down, dramatically raking his eyes over your body. 

“I don’t know who you think you are, but I’d really appreciate it if you could just drop the attitude and keep things professional.” The quality of your voice was stern, juxtaposing the way his eyes on your body had you suddenly feeling a rush of heat throughout your chest.

Anger.

The warmth was an angry fervor, definitely not one of lust or temptation. It was a burning irritation for the man standing in front of you, not a curious warmth for how his eyes clung to every curve of your body, taking his time drinking in any exposed skin.

His smile widened as he watched you falter under his stare. “I’ll drop my attitude when you drop yours sweetheart.”

“Listen, Mr-“

“Miller. Joel Miller.”

“Okay, Mr. Joel Miller. I have work to do, so I’m just going to walk past you, take a few notes and I’ll be out of your hair. Deal?” 

“Fine. But if I see you back here again you better be wearin’ a hard hat. Don’t need any trouble because you trip and hit your pretty little head.” He let his eyes wander down your body once more, his voice full of sarcasm.

“Yeah yeah, got it boss.” You scoffed as you pushed past his broad frame. You didn’t turn to look back, but you could practically feel his eyes burning into you as you swayed into the entry way, hoping it was the last time you’d ever have to speak to him.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t.

You ran into Joel a few more times, each meeting more infuriating and demeaning than the last. He always had a smart comment on his tongue or a mocking intention in his voice. 

Joel Miller had quickly become the bane of your existence; yet, for some reason there was a part of you, deep down, that always hoped to run into him when you went to scout out a new project for the house.   

Maybe because he was undeniably handsome, always walking around with a charming smirk on his lips and a devious glint in his big brown eyes. It was almost as if he were challenging you— seeing how far he could push you before you snapped. 

He continued to test your patience as you now stood in the giant walk-in closet off the primary bedroom.

You were trying to establish a color scheme sophisticated enough to fit Miss Johnson’s impossible to please pallet while Joel was making unnecessarily loud noises across the room.

He was far from graceful, the slamming and pounding of tools was all you could hear as he worked on one of the many intricate shoe shelves on the wall.

“I thought this side of the house was done.” You were speaking without looking in his direction, your eyes following the paint swatches on the wall. 

“Was.” Joel’s voice was gruff as he continued working.

“Until the queen decided she needed more storage for all her designer shit.” He was chuckling at his own words, side eyeing you from his spot kneeling on the floor. 

“You are genuinely the most unprofessional person I’ve ever met.” You dismissed his rude comment about the woman you were both employed by.

“That right?”

You refused to look at him, but you could hear the delight in his voice. 

“Absolutely.” Your response was curt, a quick and straight-forward delivery.

“Good.”

As if you couldn’t hate him more, the word leaving his lips had you turning your head sharply in his direction, an appalled expression plastered across your face. 

“God you get on my last nerve.”

“That right?” Again, his lips tugged into a smirk as he looked at you. 

You raised your brows in annoyance with a single nod of your head at his question.

“Good.” His voice was taunting as he watched you shake your head in frustration. 

You brought your eyes back to the wall in front of you, not giving Joel another second of your attention.

After a few seconds of silence his deep voice broke into the room. “You know, if you weren’t so uptight, maybe I’d ask you out for a drink sometime.” 

It took you a minute to register his words. Was he implying that he wanted to ask you on a date while insulting you at the same time? What a fucked-up, backhanded compliment; one that had your chest stirring with warmth.

“Well, I guess it’s too bad I’m such an high-strung bitch then.” Sarcasm dripped from your words as you kept your eyes trained ahead, your head spinning from Joel’s implicit interest. 

“I doubt you’d last one minute in the bar I’d take you to anyway.”

His comment had your head snapping back again. This time his eyes were already on you, waiting to see a reaction. 

“And why’s that?” Your voice cut through the room at his assumption. 

“Because it’s not exactly a five star establishment, and I think you’re just like all these pretentious fucks you work for.” He raised an eyebrow at you before turning back to the shelf in front of him, tending to a few finishing touches. 

“Always so put together, walking around here with your shoulders high.” He was nonchalant as he criticized you, hands busy taking measurements, not even paying an ounce of attention to the dirty look you were currently shooting at him from the other side of the room. 

“You think you’re better than everyone, but you’re just another pretty face with an overblown ego.”

There it was. The final blow that had your body tensing with anger.

You couldn’t believe that just a few seconds ago you were letting him flatter you, swooning under the smallest inkling of positivity he threw your way.

He was the worst kind of guy, the kind that built you up just to tear you down. The kind that wanted to make you feel worse about yourself so you would go running to him for a semblance of positive reinforcement.

Joel Miller liked the chase— thrived off being such a douchebag that women somehow ended up falling on their knees for him. But you, you weren’t going to be that woman. 

“Me? Talk about a massive-fucking-ego, take a look in the mirror Miller. You’re the one always making sure I know my place around here, acting like a fucking sociopath. It’s like you get off on being an asshole.”

He stopped what he was doing and looked directly at you, his expression unreadable, like your cruel words caused a switch in him to flip. 

“Maybe I do.”

“What?”

“Maybe I like gettin’ under your skin, watchin’ you get all flustered.” He spoke slowly, setting down his materials and standing to his feet.

“Think it’s kinda cute. You’re always tryin’ to act all big and bad, but I know I make you nervous. I can see it in the way you look at me.” He didn’t move, the smirk on his face causing your eyebrows to furrow in irritation. 

You crossed your arms over your chest, standing strong on your opinion that Joel was the world’s biggest asshole. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of letting his words get to you.

“You can stop wherever you’re going with this. I’m not here to play your little bullshit games, I’m here to do a job and get paid.”

“Who says you can’t have a little fun on the job?” His voice was laced with a deep seriousness as he set his tools down on one of the many shelves adorning the walls. You watched him over your shoulder but kept your back turned, your body still facing the wall.

“Turn around.” The command left his lips and you wanted to laugh at his attempt of authority but the sincerity in his voice stopped you in your tracks. 

“What? No-“

“C’mon sweetheart, I think we both know you like bein’ told what to do.” His voice cut you off, the signature smirk on his lips sending a buzz straight to your head.

You didn’t mean to, or maybe you did, but your body turned to face him, watching intently as he continued speaking. His broad frame emphatic as he stood across from you.

“I bet you like it, having someone boss you around. Makes you feel a little inferior.”

As the words left his lips he began walking toward you.

It was a casual stroll, not intense or threatening, yet you felt your pulse racing and your posture slumping at his advances.

“Oh please. You need a reality check Joel.” 

“Wanna give it to me princess?”

You kept the appearance of control as he continued moving forward, but internally you were fighting feelings of complete disarray.

You wanted to be offended— maybe even slap him across the face for his wildly inappropriate nickname and the implication of his words. But instead, you froze, his body now less than a foot away from yours and his words ringing in your ears. 

There was absolutely no denying the way his statement had your thighs clenching and your head spinning. Something in his delivery, smug and dirty with his eyes holding a perverted hunger and a promise of follow through, made you weak.

You kept your body from jolting when you felt the touch of his hand wrapping around your waist, finding purchase dangerously low on your back. 

“Bet you’ve never done anythin’ like this.” His voice was sturdy— rigid with power.

The weight of his hand was rough, his palm resting just above the curve of your ass. His touch was heavy yet temperate as he held you, softly pulling you’re your body further into his. 

“Lettin’ some guy you barely know put his hands all over you.”

You watched his eyes carefully, your lips parted but you couldn’t find any words to fill them. You weren’t sure if you wanted to tell him to stop or keep going. 

“Bet all the guys you hook up with are just as prim and proper as you. Can’t imagine that those dipshits graduating from UT with a business degree are fuckin’ you the right way.”

His other hand came to the small of your waist, the movement sending a faint gasp straight to your lips. Your reaction had Joel smirking, reinforcing his grip on your body.

“Probably don’t even know how to get you off.” 

“You’re disgusting.” Your voice was a whisper. The insult that you meant to hurl his way dissolved in a pitiful sigh at the way his fingertips were latching onto you.

“Am I? Bet you like that too.” This time he leaned in, causing his words to land directly in your ear, his breath warm on your neck.  

“Bet you want someone a little rough around the edges. Someone to fuck you real nice.” 

As he spoke, his fingers curled into your body. His grip on you constricting.

His frame pushed into yours, sending you shuffling backward until your back was met with the solid friction of the wall.

“Joel..” 

You were searching in your mind, trying to form an articulate sentence to explain why this was wrong; why you couldn’t be in this position with him.

But he had you trapped against the weight of his body— big and wide and rough.

Every single rational thought in your head dissipated, replaced by an instinctual need to have him fuck you against the wall of this ridiculously expensive closet.

He was right, you’d never done anything like this and the excitement of it— the risk, had your entire body burning with white-hot desire. 

“Tell me to stop and I will.” His hands were holding your hips, pressing you into the wall with his chest dangerously close to yours. 

“But I don’t think you want me to.” For a single second you could see an indication of honesty in his eyes as he looked you over, searching for any sign of distress on your face. And when he couldn’t find it, his stare narrowed and his hands held tighter, rotating your body in his grasp until your chest was pressed against the wall. 

“I think,” He leaned into you, your ass pushing against the bulge in his jeans as his hum landed on the skin right beneath your ear. 

“You want me to lift up this pretty little dress and fuck you nice and hard right here, against this wall.”

His hands found the hem of your dress, bringing it up just enough to bunch at your waist.

Your lower half was almost bare, the only clothing keeping your cunt from being fully exposed to him was the little black thong encasing the dripping mess that had now built up between your legs. It didn’t stop him from reaching between your bodies, pressing his thumb against your clothed entrance. 

“Fuck- you’re soaked princess.” The first word was a prolonged throaty groan, the rest of the sentence fumbling behind it. 

“How long you been thinkin’ bout this huh? Me touchin’ you, makin’ you beg for it.” He was having too much fun playing with you through your panties, his thumb threatening to dip into you even with the lace still covering your entrance.

He pushed against it, moving between your clothed folds and marveling at the wetness seeping through the material. 

“I’m not begging.” You managed to hiss out a response, turning your head to peer at him, your cheek nearly pressing against the wall. 

“Oh, so she’s always mouthy huh?” 

You watched the diabolical grin eat away at his face from the power trip of having you trapped under his weight.

You could talk-back all you wanted— be as bratty and uncooperative as possible, but it didn’t change the fact that he had you right where he wanted you. 

“Keep talkin’ baby, go on.” He innocently raised his brows at you, his voice taunting as the weight of his thumb danced between your legs.

“I Know you want this too. You act like you can’t stand me, but I see the way you look at me…” Your voice was quiet but strong as you held onto the last bit of composure you had left, using it to defy the man at your back.

You were trying your best not to lose your train of thought as you spoke. You wouldn’t give up the fight that easily, succumbing to his tempting words and lewd touches. You could tell Joel was used to getting his way and every muscle in your body ached to challenge him. 

“The way your eyes are glued to my ass every time I walk past you.” You glared over your shoulder as the words drifted off your lips in a gentle accusation. 

His dark chuckle filled the room as his eyes darted away from yours for a short second. Then his stare was back on you— more intense than before. The two of you watching each other, sitting in a pool of mutual revelation. 

You both knew it.

You knew since day one that there was a shared attraction, an unspoken sexual tension hidden behind rude words and unsavory exchanges.

What was happening now was just a detonation of built-up pressure that had been stewing for weeks; evident in the wetness at your core and the bulge in Joel’s jeans. 

“Anythin’ else you wanna say? Should probably get it all out before I have you all fucked-out on my cock.” His voice dropped to a low whisper as he hooked his thumb into your underwear, pulling the material to the side, not even bothering to take them off completely. 

A soft gasp slid from your lips at the cool air meeting your newly exposed center, the slick pooling at your entrance only adding to the airy sensation. 

“You’re so fucking arrogant.” 

The words barely left your lips when you felt his touch meet your core, his fingers spreading your arousal.

You had more to say to him, you wanted to tell him how annoying he was and how you had lost every ounce of decency by letting him talk to you this way, but the words were caught in your throat as he pushed two fingers into you. 

“Maybe I have good reason to be.” 

Your eyes were squeezed shut at the unexpected feeling of him filling you with his fingers, yet you could hear the smirk dripping in his voice.

“You ever think about that sweetheart?”

His words were impatient, the initial drive of his fingers into your entrance was rough, but now they slowly worked into you. His movements were careful— cautious even.

It was as if he wanted to take his time, watching your body and listening to the shaky breaths leave your lips.

His hand worked between your legs, searching for the exact technique that would send you spewing profanities and crumbling against the wall.  

He curled his fingertips at just the right spot, not too deep and not too forceful, just a gentle pulse that had an impulsive whimper pouring from your chest.

“Maybe I’m so arrogant because I know I’m good at what I do.” His words held a double meaning as he added a third finger to stroke your newfound sweet spot.

You almost yelped from the stretch, but you held it back as best you could, refusing to give him the gratification of your submission. 

The position he had you in; back arched and ass pushed out, made it almost embarrassingly easy for the addition of a third digit as he watched them to sink into you.

You couldn’t help but hum in approval as he stroked you repeatedly, rubbing against the inviting drawl of your walls. You tried not to lose yourself at his fingertips, knowing from the familiar coil of pleasure in your core that he could have you coming on his fingers at any given moment. 

“Thought you were gonna fuck me, huh?” Your voice was a string of moans as you tried your best to form a coherent sentence with his hand pushed between your bodies. 

As much as you didn’t want his movements to stop, you also didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of making you finish when he’d barely even gotten his hands on you.

Knowing Joel, he would never let you live it down. He’d ride around on his metaphorical high horse and crown himself the king of female orgasms. So instead of letting him bring you to the precipice of release, you met him with a phrase of defiance. But your challenging words were really just a gateway to get what you wanted. You could put on a tough act, but at the end of the day Joel was right, you did want him to fuck you in way no one ever had— hungry and hard against the wall, right here in your client’s house.

In fact, the thought of it had taken over every fiber of your being. The anticipation of feeling him rail into you was clouding your judgement and coursing through your veins at an alarming speed. 

“Think you can take it?” His growl stuck in your ears as he pulled out of you. The lewd noises of his fingers plunging into the slick mess at your folds was quickly replaced by the sound of him fumbling with his belt buckle. 

“How d’you want it, huh baby? You the sentimental type? Want it nice and slow and deep? Or d’you just wanna be ruined? Want someone to be a little rough with ya?” He was asking, but you couldn’t help but note the rhetorical quality of his words as you heard the rustle of his jeans pushing down his thighs. 

“That’s sweet of you to give me choice, maybe you don’t like control as much as I thought- “

Your sarcastic remark was cut short at the abrupt stretch of Joel’s length slamming into you.

“Rough it is then.” His voice was a deep grunt echoing from behind you as he paused, giving you a split second to adjust before pulling back out and thrusting into you again. 

“Shit princess, didn’t think you’d be this fuckin’ tight.”

His voice swam with amusement and pleasure as he watched the way his dick fully disappeared into you with each thrust of his hips.

Hands pulled at your waist as you felt Joel drive deeper with every breathless groan floating off his lips. 

“Look at you, takin’ me like such a good girl.” The words weren’t sweet, instead they teased you, shooting out of his mouth with a mocking tenor. 

You couldn’t keep your body from reacting to his praise, albeit contemptuous, the words still held a deep truth about the situation unfolding against the wall of your shared employer’s closet. 

“Oh, you like that don’t ya? When I tell you what a good girl you are?” His voice was a broken growl of grunts and sighs as he fucked into you— vigorous and desperate.

His pace was unrelenting as he held onto your waist, pulling you back to meet him with every drive of his hips into yours. 

He let one of his hands travel up your body until he was reaching for your jaw, tilting your head up and back until your body was arched at a sinful angle.

“See, I knew you just needed a good fuck.” His groan was right in your ear now that he held your head close to his, the grip he had on your jaw was firm.

It was becoming impossible for you to keep quiet, the strength and depth of his thrusts were causing explicit moans to skate past yours lips.

The hand that Joel was using to hold your face was now maneuvering to your mouth in an effort to muffle the obscene sounds rolling off your tongue. Two of his fingers pushed at your lips, hooking into your mouth. 

“Knew that little attitude a’yours was all for show.”

You closed your lips around his digits as he railed into you, a guttural moan sliding up your throat and humming onto his fingers. 

“Fuck.” His fowl groan was a direct result of your soft mouth sucking around his fingers, mimicking the way you had his cock encased between your legs.

You invited his touch onto your tongue, swirling around his thick digits and sucking him in deeper, earning a prolonged sigh from Joel as he fucked into you even harder.

Each stroke of his cock had your body pressing further into the wall— his pace was mean and unyielding, like he had something to prove. 

With the hand not in your mouth, Joel reached around your body, his fingertips finding your clit and rubbing quick careless circles over the bundle of nerves.

Your body faltered under his touch, your knees slightly buckling, and if it weren’t for the weight of his body trapping you against the wall, you’d be a puddle on the floor. 

He slowed his pace slightly, taking his time to find that spot along your walls again. The one that he discovered just minutes ago when he was three fingers deep in your dripping cunt. 

Whines of approval vibrated against the pads of his fingertips still pressing down on your tongue. His hips began rocking into you at just the right angle— slow and deliberate, with the goal of feeling you coming undone on his cock. 

“That it baby? Right there?” Again, his words were a sadistic tease, but his voice gave way to pitiful throaty whines.

You couldn’t speak, couldn’t even think with the way he was working you toward your release.

Everything felt so overwhelming, his unrelenting thrusts hitting you in the perfect place, his touch on your clit, rough and impatient and his fingers filling your mouth— all of it creating the perfect storm of inconceivable pleasure. 

A jolt of relief surged through your body as the pressure inside you snapped. You let yourself fall further into the wall as Joel’s name slipped from your mouth in a chant.

Hearing his name on your lips in such a distant and dazed voice, had Joel’s cock pulsing. Your walls were clenching from your climax, sucking him in deeper and he couldn’t handle the abundance of warmth enveloping him. 

Both of his hands came down to your hips, fingers digging into your skin as held tight.

His thrusts were merciless as he used you to reach his peak, chasing the familiar buildup of tension in his core as he drove into you at a startling pace. 

Then he pulled out abruptly. 

One hand on his cock, stroking just twice before spilling onto the skin of your lower back, the other pushing your dress further up your body to keep it from becoming a jizz painted mess. 

Silence filled the room.

Neither of you spoke as your hands pushed against the wall underneath your palms. You stayed pressed there, Joel’s body still behind you evident in the ragged breaths leaving his chest. 

Still no words were exchanged as you felt Joel take a step back, the warmth of his presence fading just slightly.

You dared to break your pleasure induced trance to look over your shoulder, only find him pulling his jeans back up his body and tightening his belt without even sparing you a glance.

You began to move until you were reminded of the thick warm mess resting on your back, keeping you from pulling your dress down.

Before you could do anything, Joel was back behind you, hooking his fingers into the waist band of your panties and tugging them down your legs. He stopped at your ankles to tap against your skin, prompting you to step out of them.

Once the lacy material was fully in his grasp, he brought them up to your lower back, using them to gather his spend. He cleaned his mess with the lacy material then pulled your dress back down to cover your lower half. A sticky residue was left on your backside as a plaguing reminder of what had just transpired between you. 

You turned to face him, watching as he crumpled up your ruined underwear and shoved it into his back pocket with a smirk on his face. 

“How about that drink? Could meet you tomorrow night, should be done here around five.” He was back across the room in an instant, gathering tools and not bothering to look in your direction.

His invitation was genuine, but his words lacked interest. 

“I’ll get these back to you then.” His hand came to rest on his back pocket, fingers tapping against the denim holding your used panties.

A self-righteous smile sat on his face as he shot you a look of pure deviance before his eyes were back on his hands as they worked to gather his materials. 

“Yeah, okay.” Your voice came out more flustered than you intended as you smoothed out your dress over your thighs.

Joel was heading for the closet door, tool bag clutched in his hand as he gave you one last gaze of victory.

“It’s a date.” The words were a grumble from his lips, the same ones that were busy parading a smug smile. 

Then he left you standing alone in the small room, your mind racing around itself and your legs still trembling.

A subtle grin rested on your face as you stared down at the floor, trying to find some sort of equilibrium before even attempting to move.

The giant walk-in closet still encasing a lingering heat of reckless choices as you prepared to go on with your day— business as usual.

my masterlist

[solxamber]

"Let's Break Up" with: Vice-Housewardens + Ruggie

more hurt/comfort for the soul

Other parts: Housewardens ; First Years ; Cater, Floyd, Silver

Trey Clover

The words slip out in frustration, sharp and final.

"Let's break up."

The mug in Trey's hand shatters.

The crack of breaking porcelain jolts you, the sound cutting through the tense silence like a gunshot. Shards spill across the floor, tea splattering everywhere, but Trey doesn’t even flinch.

Before you can react, before you can take back what you didn’t mean, he’s there—crossing the space between you in an instant, his uninjured hand cupping your face, warm and trembling.

His chest rises and falls too fast, his breath unsteady. His eyes search yours desperately, raw emotion flickering in their depths. “Please,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Reconsider.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. His grip tightens, just enough to ground himself, just enough to keep you here, with him.

“Take it back,” he pleads, his forehead nearly pressing against yours. “Tell me you didn’t mean it.”

Your heart is racing, but all you can focus on is his other hand—the one that had been holding the mug. Blood is pooling in the creases of his palm, little crimson beads welling up where porcelain had cut into his skin.

You inhale sharply. “Trey, your hand—”

“I don’t care,” he says, and he means it. He would let it bleed if it meant keeping you here for another second. “Please.”

Something inside you cracks.

Your anger, your frustration—none of it matters when you see the way he’s looking at you. When you hear the break in his voice. When you realize how much he loves you, enough to throw away every bit of his usual calm, enough to bleed for you if it meant making you stay.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice tight with guilt. “I didn’t mean it. I—of course I didn’t mean it.”

His shoulders sag with relief, a shaky breath escaping him as he presses his forehead against yours. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

Your fingers curl around his wrist, pulling his injured hand between both of yours. “We need to take care of this.”

He exhales, his body finally catching up to the pain now that the panic has subsided. “Yeah,” he says, but instead of letting you go, he pulls you into his arms, wrapping you in a firm, desperate embrace.

“I’m sorry too,” he murmurs against your hair. “I didn’t mean for things to get like this. I should’ve listened more. I should’ve—” He swallows hard. “I’ll do better.”

You squeeze him back just as tightly, breathing in the scent of him, the warmth of him, the realness of him. “We both will.”

For a long moment, neither of you move, holding onto each other as if letting go would undo everything. Eventually, you tug him toward the sink, already fussing over his hand.

Trey watches you, still catching his breath, still feeling the lingering ghost of fear in his chest. But for now, you’re here. He's still yours.

And that’s all that matters.

Ruggie Bucchi

The words slip out before you can stop them.

“Let’s break up.”

Ruggie freezes.

For a second, there’s just silence—heavy, suffocating. Then he lets out a laugh, but it’s wrong. It’s forced, brittle, a sound that cracks at the edges.

“That’s a joke, right?” His voice is light, playful—too playful—but his hands reach for yours, gripping them tight. “Your sense of humor sucks.”

His fingers are trembling.

You feel something deep in your chest twist at the sight of him, trying so hard to brush it off, to act like you didn’t just rip the ground out from under him. His tail is stiff behind him, his ears twitching with every unsteady breath he takes.

You want to say something, to take it back, but the argument still lingers in the air between you—frustration, hurt feelings, words neither of you should have said.

He swallows hard, staring at you like he’s willing you to laugh, to say just kidding, to let him believe this isn’t real.

But you don’t.

And in that moment, something in him wavers. His ears droop, and his fingers tighten around yours like he’s scared you’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold on.

His voice is smaller this time.

“…You didn’t mean that.”

You inhale shakily, stepping closer.

“No,” you whisper. “I didn’t.”

He exhales a shaky breath, and before you can say anything else, he’s pulling you into his arms, holding you so tightly it almost knocks the air from your lungs.

His face presses into your neck, his whole body going slack as if he’s only now realizing just how much those words had broken him. You can feel his breath against your skin, uneven, like he’s trying to keep it together, like he doesn’t want you to see how much it hurt.

You hold him just as tightly, one hand coming up to thread through his hair, the other rubbing circles into his back.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs against you. “I shouldn’t’ve—I didn’t mean—”

You shake your head, cutting him off gently. “Me too.”

His arms tighten around you.

For a long time, neither of you speak. He just holds you, pressed close, his tail weakly brushing against your hand in a silent plea—stay.

When he finally pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes are misty, his lip caught between his teeth.

“Don’t say that again.” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not even as a joke."

You cup his cheek, wiping away the dampness there with your thumb.

“I won’t.”

Ruggie exhales shakily, leans into your touch, and this time, when he lets out a breathy laugh, it’s real.

“…Guess we both suck at fighting, huh?”

You let out a weak chuckle, pressing your forehead against his.

“Yeah.”

And for now, that’s enough.

Jade Leech

The words slip out before you can stop them.

"Let’s break up."

Silence.

Jade just stares at you. The ever-present amusement in his eyes is gone, leaving them bare, unguarded in a way that makes your stomach twist. He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t scoff, doesn’t even tilt his head in that condescending way he does when he’s about to say something cutting.

He just looks at you, frozen in place.

You don’t know what you expected—maybe anger, maybe something cruel and sharp to push you further away, to give you an excuse to slam the door behind you. Instead, there’s nothing. Just the way his eyes widen ever so slightly, like you’ve said something impossible.

Your chest feels tight, but you force yourself to turn away. You don’t get more than two steps before a hand grips your wrist—firm, but not forceful. You barely have time to react before he pulls you back, arms wrapping around you from behind, his face pressing into the crook of your neck.

"Don’t go."

It’s a whisper, but it shatters something inside you.

You tense, your breath catching in your throat. And then—you feel it. The faintest, almost imperceptible wetness against your skin.

Jade is crying.

A cold wave of fear crashes over you. You’ve never seen him cry before, never even imagined him capable of it. He’s always so composed, always in control, always one step ahead. But right now, he’s shaking.

Your frustration dissolves instantly, replaced by something heavier, something unbearable.

“I didn’t mean it,” you say, barely able to get the words out. “Jade, I didn’t mean it.”

His grip tightens around you, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers. His breath is uneven, ragged in a way that makes your heart ache.

You turn in his hold, reaching to cradle his face in your hands. His eyes are glassy, red-rimmed, his expression raw in a way you’ve never seen before. He looks lost.

“I—” His voice breaks, and he swallows hard, trying to compose himself. “I didn’t think… you would ever say that.”

You shake your head, your own eyes stinging. “I was angry. I didn’t mean it.”

For a moment, he just stares at you. Then, with a quiet, shaky exhale, he presses his forehead against yours.

“I pushed you too far,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse.

You close your eyes, fingers curling into his shirt. “And I let it get to me.”

Neither of you say anything after that. You just stand there, holding each other, breathing in the quiet between you. The storm of emotions still lingers, but it’s softer now, no longer a force trying to tear you apart.

Jade exhales slowly, his hands settling on your back, grounding himself. When he finally speaks again, his voice is steadier—but there’s still a fragility to it, something uncertain.

“Don’t do that again,” he whispers.

You nod, wiping a stray tear from his cheek with your thumb.

“I won’t,” you promise.

He doesn’t let go for a long, long time.

Jamil Viper

The words leave your lips before you can stop them. Sharp, impulsive, thrown like a dagger meant to wound.

“Let’s break up.”

The room falls into an unnatural silence.

Jamil stands frozen, his expression unreadable—no anger, no sadness, just… blank. It’s unsettling. You almost wish he’d lash out, argue, anything but this suffocating stillness.

Then, he laughs.

It’s soft, bitter—nothing like the amused chuckles you love hearing from him.

“…Okay,” he says.

Two syllables. Two syllables and he sounds so distant, so removed, like he’s already walking away from this, from you. Like it doesn’t matter.

But it does. It does, you can see it in the way his hands are clenched into fists at his sides, in the way his breath shudders ever so slightly, like he’s forcing himself to stay composed. Like he’s holding himself together by sheer will alone.

“If that’s how little this meant to you…” His voice is calm, even. A practiced neutrality. But you hear it—the smallest break, a splinter of something raw and aching beneath the surface. “Then fine.”

And he turns away.

And you see them.

The tears in his eyes.

He turns too late to hide them from you, but he still tries, tilting his head just enough that you almost don’t catch it. The effort, the control, the desperate attempt to maintain his composure even now.

Your stomach twists violently.

“Jamil.”

You reach for him without thinking, grabbing his wrist, tugging him back. His skin is warm beneath your touch, but his body is stiff, unyielding. He doesn’t move, doesn’t look at you.

You don’t let go.

“I didn’t mean it,” you breathe, voice shaking. You’re already shifting closer, hands moving from his wrist to his arm, to his shoulders, to his face, desperate to get him to look at you. “I didn’t mean it, I swear.”

His breath catches. He still won’t meet your eyes.

“You can’t just say things like that.” His voice cracks, and your heart breaks into pieces. “You can’t.”

The weight of what you’ve done crashes down on you. You had wanted to make him feel the frustration, the anger, the helplessness you’d felt in the heat of the argument. But not like this. Never like this.

His shoulders shake.

“Jamil…” Your hands cradle his face now, fingers trembling as you wipe at the tears streaking his cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

For a moment, he stays frozen beneath your touch.

Then, with a shuddering breath, he moves.

His hands grasp at the fabric of your clothes, clutching onto you as if you might disappear if he doesn’t hold on tightly enough. The tension that’s held him rigid for so long crumbles, and he presses his forehead against your shoulder, his entire body trembling.

“I don’t want to fight,” he whispers. “I don’t—” A breath, uneven, desperate. “I don’t want to lose you.”

The sheer vulnerability in his voice threatens to unravel you.

“You won’t,” you swear, voice raw with emotion. “You won’t.”

He lets out something like a laugh, but it’s broken, strained, wet with the remnants of unshed tears.

Then, his legs give out beneath him, and you both sink to the floor, tangled together, arms wrapped around each other like lifelines.

Neither of you let go.

Rook Hunt

"Let's break up."

The words barely leave your lips before Rook is on you.

One second, he’s standing before you, the next, he’s grasping at your arms, pulling you close, desperate. His hands tremble as they cradle your face, and his voice—normally so composed, so theatrical in its beauty—is breaking apart at the seams.

"Non, mon amour, non, non, non—tu ne peux pas—please, don’t do this." His words spill out in frantic, overlapping murmurs, a tangled mix of languages, as if one language alone isn’t enough to hold the depth of his despair. His breath is uneven, his hold almost frantic. "Je t’en supplie, tell me this is but a cruel jest. Tell me you do not mean it!"

You’ve never seen Rook like this before.

You've seen Rook in many states—amused, playful, reverent, even solemn—but never like this. Never so utterly shattered. His eyes, always gleaming with some unreadable mystery, are bare now, stripped of all their usual playfulness. He looks at you like a man standing at the gallows, waiting for the final blow.

His hands tighten around you, as though afraid you might slip through his fingers. "I will fix it, I swear it! Whatever it is, however I have failed you, tell me, je t'en prie! Let me make amends!" His voice hitches, and when you finally dare to meet his gaze, your breath catches.

His eyes—so often gleaming with mirth, with mischief—are glossy with unshed tears.

Your heart clenches. "Rook—"

His hands cradle your cheeks, thumbs brushing over your skin with a reverence that makes your chest ache. "I love you, mon cœur. I love you more than words can weave, more than poetry can hold." His voice breaks—an unsteady breath, barely a whisper—"Ne me quitte pas."

You reach up, pressing your hands over his, steadying them. "Rook, stop."

He freezes, breath caught in his throat, as if waiting for a verdict that will decide his fate.

You swallow past the lump in your throat. “I didn’t mean it.”

For a moment, neither of you move.

Then, a sharp inhale—a breath of air after near drowning—and suddenly, he’s crushing you against him, arms winding around you with near bruising force.

"Mon dieu," he breathes, his face buried in your shoulder. "Merci, merci, merci—" His grip tightens, as if he still can’t quite believe it, like he needs to feel every inch of you to be sure you’re still here.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper against him, voice thick with emotion.

"Non, mon amour, I'm sorry." He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, shaking his head, remorse etched deep into every line of his face. “I have hurt you, haven’t I? Tell me how, tell me where, and I shall do better, I promise.”

You nod, hands gripping the fabric of his shirt. "Then we’ll both do better."

A breathless laugh escapes him, half relief, half lingering disbelief. And then he's pulling you close again, arms firm around you, his lips pressing against your temple, your hair, your hands—anywhere he can reach as if to assure himself you won’t slip away.

And you let him, because neither of you are willing to let go.

Lilia Vanrouge

"Let's break up."

At first, Lilia laughs.

It’s soft, breathy—almost amused. “Oh, that’s quite the joke,” he chuckles, his usual teasing lilt in place. “You nearly had me for a second.”

You don’t respond. You just look at him, expression unreadable, arms crossed, waiting.

His smile twitches, just barely, but you catch it. His amusement fades as realization sinks in, and something shifts in his eyes.

“…Oh.”

The room feels quieter now, despite the argument that had sparked this in the first place. He tilts his head, as if examining you from another angle will make this not real. Then, slowly, he reaches for you, his movements careful in a way that is deeply uncharacteristic of him. His fingers hover near your face, uncertain, hesitant—like he’s waiting for you to flinch, waiting for you to pull away.

"Come now," he says, softer now, a touch strained. "Don't do this. You don't mean it."

Your lips press into a thin line. You’re still frustrated, still convinced you have a point, but the sight of him—his sharp, knowing eyes turning glassy, the slight tremor in his breath—makes something uneasy settle in your chest.

"Lilia," you say, but you don’t get to finish.

Because he pulls you in.

His grip isn’t suffocating, but it’s desperate. One hand cradles the back of your head while the other clings to your waist, firm and pleading. His breathing is uneven, his usually composed demeanor cracking at the edges.

"I—" He stops, swallows, tries again. "I am sorry. I never meant to make you feel like this." His voice is quiet now, almost fragile. "If you truly wish to leave, I won’t stop you. But please, tell me—tell me this was only spoken in anger."

You exhale, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders, feeling the tension in them. His heartbeat is rapid against your own, and for the first time since knowing him, you think he’s the one who might fall apart first.

"It was," you say at last, barely steady. "I didn’t mean it."

Lilia lets out a breath that shakes, just slightly, before pulling you in impossibly closer. His fingers curl against you, grip tightening for a fraction of a second before he steadies himself.

He exhales a weak laugh against your skin, a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You mustn’t be so cruel to this old heart of mine,” he murmurs, his voice uneven with something too raw to name. “One day, you’ll be the death of me.”

His hold lingers—just a little longer than necessary—before he pulls back, just enough to look you in the eyes. There’s something softer in his gaze now, something fragile and achingly sincere.

"Promise me," he says, and though his voice is gentle, it leaves no room for refusal. "Never again."

You huff softly. "Alright."

Lilia presses his forehead to yours, exhaling slowly. “And I’m sorry for pushing you to that point.” His voice is quieter now, reverent. “I love you.”

You nod, your grip tightening around him. “I love you too.”

Lilia hums, gently swaying as he holds you. “Then let’s stay like this a little longer, hm?”

And you do. You stay, wrapped in his arms, letting the warmth of his embrace soothe the lingering ache.

Masterlist

[hederasgarden]

Post tenebras lux

Summary: You are gifted to Lucius as a reward for his prowess in the arena. Pairing: Lucius Verus x F!Reader Word Count: 5.9 K  Rating: Explicit, 18+ only. Heavy angst with a HEA, dubious consent (reader and Lucius are coerced into having sex), public sex (PIV and f receiving), mentions of spousal death, and brief descriptions of blood/injuries from combat in the arena. A/N: I futzed with the timeline in this fic. Instead of coming home after conquering Numidia General Acacius is sent out on another campaign for the emperors. Also, fun fact — the Romans considered oral sex taboo. A HUGE thanks to @aliensupastar, my beloved B, @clairewritesandrambles, @ryebecca, and @faebirdie for their help with the fic. Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Gladiator Masterlist ♡ Masterlist

The warm steam of the bath clings to the air, thick and heavy, as you move past the large pools where gladiators soak and laugh. Their rough voices fill the humid air and the afternoon sun filters through the open atrium, casting a muted, golden glow across the water. None of the men bother you as you make your way to the quiet alcove at the far end of the room. If Lucius's reputation in the arena hadn’t been enough to keep them away, the man whose hand he took for daring to touch you certainly was.

You’d learned quickly that in this place violence was power, and your gladiator wielded it well. It was a far cry from your life as a fisherman‘s wife, and then as a slave in Macrinus’s household. When you were gifted to Lucius, you braced yourself for the brutal ways of his world, where strength ruled above all else, and men like him took what they wanted without hesitation. But he never did. Instead, Lucius treated you with something you hadn’t expected: respect and kindness. His touch only ever lingered long enough to offer reassurance, never to claim.

In time you both learned to play your parts to survive. By day, Lucius was the victorious gladiator, and you, his spoil of war. They were roles neither of you had chosen, but ones you took on to survive. The night became your refuge, a time where the weight of your reality could be put aside, if only for a while. Curled around one another on the thin cot the ghosts of your past weren’t silenced but shared through whispered admissions. You could speak of the people you had once been – before Rome twisted you both into something unrecognizable.

Trust came with time. And now, as you approach the alcove where he waits, you can feel some of the tension leave your body. You are safe with Lucius, a thought that would have been absurd to you just months ago. 

You shift the small wooden tray — laden with fresh bread, olives, figs, and a jug of strong wine — to your other hip. The soft scrape of your sandals against the stone floor alerts Lucius to your presence. His dark gaze lifts from the water, meeting yours with the quiet intensity that you’ve come to expect. Even in the haze of sweat and steam, his presence is impossible to ignore. 

Where others would let their gaze wander lower, drifting toward the rest of his bare form submerged beneath the water, you always look at his face. It‘s there that you find what you seek: the sharp edges of your own pain and anger mirrored in his dark eyes. It’s a reflection of the hurt you carry, of all that Rome took from you both. 

“You fought well today,” you say, settling beside the pool, the water lapping at the stone. 

The words come easily, practiced—part of the familiar routine you’ve both come to rely on. Though the bath is quiet and you seem to be alone, you know better. You’ve learned the hard way that the walls have ears. Every word, every glance, carries weight here, and even in the relative solitude of this alcove, your interactions could be reported back to Macrinus. Only when you’re hidden away in the cell you share each night can you let the pretense fall away. 

Lucius hums in response as he lets his head fall back against the cool stone. His muscled arm rests on the edge of the pool and you offer him a brief, gentle touch before withdrawing. The tension in his frame eases a fraction and his eyes flutter closed, but the sharpness of his presence doesn’t fade. He’s aware of every shift in the air, every sound around him. Even in the quiet comfort of this place, Lucius is never truly off guard. 

You pick up a ripe fig, its skin velvety and fragrant, and drag it slowly through the warmed honey. Gently, you bring it to his lips, offering it with a quiet gesture. Lucius sighs—softly, almost imperceptibly—and then his lips part, taking the fruit from your fingers. As he bites into it, you feel the heat of his tongue brush against your skin. You try to ignore the traitorous feeling that springs to life in your belly. That feeling has become a frequent companion, one you never asked for, and one that sits uneasily beside the grief you still carry for your late husband.

“You must eat too,” Lucius commands. “You will need your strength for later.”

His rough words carry no real threat, but you react like they do, tucking your chin to your chest in a subtle gesture of submission. At times, it feels like a performance—like you're both actors on a stage, with an unseen audience watching every move. You eat in silence until the tray is bare and the goblet empty. When he rises from the pool, water cascading from his sun-kissed skin, you reach for the fresh robe laid carefully over the stone bench. 

“Do you wish…” you begin, lifting your eyes to Lucius, only to falter at his expression. His eyes flicker briefly past you, and then, just as swiftly, return. He gives no warning before he pulls you forward and drags you into the water. Your cry of surprise is swallowed by the splash your bodies make as ripples spread outward. The wet robes cling to you like a heavy second skin and you sink deeper into the water.

“I’ll have you here,” Lucius announces loudly. He grasps your biceps and easily forces you to straddle him. Your face shields his from the outside world. His expression softens and even as his lips part to speak, you shake your head, stopping him before the words can leave his mouth.

You understand, without needing to hear it. The two of you are no longer alone.

He leans back, arms stretched along the edge of the bath. “Ride me,” he commands. 

You struggle out of the heavy outer robe and your knuckles unwittingly brush over his abdomen. Lucius tenses beneath you. You offer him a quiet apology before withdrawing and rising to your knees. Your hips shift forward in a facsimile of his request, meeting nothing but a swell of water as you keep a careful distance from his body. He groans and you answer him with a quiet moan of your own. You rise up and down almost mechanically, staring at the chipped stone above his head. His hot breath fans over your neck, the heat of it lingering on your skin. You shudder as a warmth that has nothing to do with the pool gathers under your skin, shame twisting your insides. 

Lucius grabs your waist urging you to move faster, and the sounds of his pleasure rise in intensity. The muscles of your thighs protest, burning with effort as you hold the distance between your bodies. The air around you shifts and the murmur of conversation in the other pools begins to fade as the gladiators are drawn in, listening to your performance. The silence grows almost suffocating, but you force yourself to push through the charade. This is just one of many indignities you’ve endured since Rome descended onto the sleepy fishing village you called home. It pales to what could await you if it were gifted to a different gladiator. 

“Fuck,” Lucius growls loudly, abruptly stilling your movement to feign his pleasure. 

After a beat you gather the courage to look over your shoulder, meeting Viggo’s stare. You tense. Calloused fingertips brush lightly over your jaw, drawing your attention back to Lucius. You stare down at him, taking in the light flush of his dusky cheeks and the steady rise and fall of his chest. His touch lingers for a moment more before his hand disappears beneath the water. 

“Use my robe to cover yourself,” he instructs roughly. 

It’s then that you realize how transparent your dress has become in the water. Your cheeks burn with embarrassment and you slide away, only to freeze when your thigh brushes over an unexpected hardness. Your eyes jump to his and Lucius’s throat bobs, the usual intensity of his features faltering for a brief moment.

"I will fetch more wine," you stammer after a pause, your gaze flicking nervously to Viggo still lingering at the edge of the bath, all too aware that Lucius cannot leave in this state. 

Wrapping your arms around your chest, you rise from the pool. The cool air instantly prickles your damp skin. You reach for a robe nearby and pull it around you quickly, grateful for its modesty. Viggo shoots you a brief, assessing glance, but it’s Lucius who commands his attention next.

"Come to admire what isn't yours?" Lucius taunts.

He leans back casually, as though completely unfazed by the situation. It’s effortless the way he slips into his confident, unshakable mask while you hurry away, eager to break the silence and escape the strange weight of the moment.

–

The clang and clash of metal from the arena become a distant hum, fading into the background as you clean the wounds on Lucius's body. Ravi is occupied, tending to the more seriously injured men, so it falls to you to care for your gladiator. You kneel between his thighs and the coarse sand scrapes against the soft skin of your knees. The heat of the day clings to you both, the air thick with the smell of sweat and blood. But beneath it all, there's a scent you’ve come to recognize as uniquely his — a mix of earth and salt that’s oddly comforting. 

You gently press a cloth to one of the deeper gashes, cleaning away the blood before you begin stitching the wound. Lucius hisses as you draw the needle through his parted skin, and you glance up at him in concern, but his eyes are closed, his breath steady despite the discomfort. His fingers curl into the edge of the cot, gripping it tightly. You smear the thick, fragrant paste Ravi left over the wound once you’re done. 

“You’re getting better at this,” Lucius observes.

“Flesh is not so different from cloth,” you reply.

“A far cry from mending fishing nets,” he says, and for a moment, your eyes meet and you share a small, pained smile.

“And you are a long way from a farm, gladiator,” you acknowledge, shaking your head. 

You help him stand, your hands steady as you support his weight, but you pause when you spot Viggo standing in the doorway. Lately, he seems to haunt your every step, his presence a constant shadow. On instinct you shift a little closer to Lucius, your body seeking the reassurance of his proximity just as he draws you near. The subtle movement doesn’t go unnoticed. A small, knowing smile tugs at Viggo’s lips. It’s a look that sends a trickle of unease down your spine.

“Macrinus is entertaining some important guests tomorrow evening, and you are required to attend,” he announces looking at Lucius. “They wish to see a real gladiator up close, to witness your strength and skill firsthand.”

Then, to your surprise, Viggo turns his gaze toward you. “Your presence is also required,” he adds. Although his tone is casual there's an edge to it that makes your stomach tighten.

Lucius doesn’t speak, but his fingers flex against your hip as he considers the other man’s command. You both know there’s little room for refusal when it comes to Macrinus.

“I understand-” you say at the same time Lucius’s voice cuts through the silence, low and firm.

“She is not needed. I alone will attend.” 

His gaze never leaves Viggo, and you can see the challenge in his eyes. It’s an attempt to shield you, one you appreciate but understand is futile. 

Viggo’s smile remains unchanged. “Macrinus insists.”

The matter is settled and you bow your head, waiting for the other man to leave. Once he is gone you look to Lucius, voice tinged with concern. 

“You should not challenge him.”

Lucius steps away, anger rolling off him in waves. “And you should not submit so easily.”

You touch your throat, then turn away to busy yourself with the bloody scraps of cloth and scattered supplies. There’s no point in arguing. You know the truth: that sometimes submission is the only way to survive in a world ruled by men like Macrinus. As you work the silence between you stretches on, thick and charged before Lucius steps toward you. 

He sighs, his breath warm against the back of your neck. A moment later, his hand rests on your shoulder. The calloused pads of his fingers graze the nape of your neck, sending a fleeting sense of unexpected longing through you as they briefly sweep over your skin.

“I….” His voice trails off and you close your eyes.

“I know,” you say quietly. 

So much of what transpires between you seems left unsaid. You reach back, your hand finding his briefly as the two of you share a quiet moment before he must return to the arena. 

–

The bangles on your wrist are heavy and ornate, far too extravagant for a slave. They feel less like adornments and more like shackles. Beside you, Lucius looks equally as uncomfortable in his fine clothes. They’ve trimmed his beard and his tunic—lined with gold thread—glimmers in the dim light. From across the room, Macrinus raises his goblet to the two of you. All around you his guests mingle, sharing hushed conversation and knowing smirks that deepen your discomfort. 

The servants, once familiar to you from your time as a slave working in Macrinus's kitchen, all avoid your gaze. You spent years alongside them before you were plucked from that world and thrust into Lucius's service. Their hesitation, the way they look past you, is more than simple discomfort, it’s a warning you don’t yet understand. Your fingers tremble where they rest on Lucius’s arm.

“Something is not right,” you whisper, fear rising in your throat.

Before Lucius can reply, the conversation around you falters, and the air grows still as Macrinus moves to the center of the room. Then, with a sharp clap of his hands, the noise dies completely. 

“Our entertainment is about to begin,” he announces, beckoning you forward.

As you approach, his eyes drift between you and Lucius. His smile widens, though it never quite reaches his eyes. “I hope you enjoyed your meal. You’ll both need your strength for the show,” he says. 

“I am to fight?” Lucius questions, his voice edged with suspicion.

“No, not today,” Macrinus replies. “My guests are eager for a performance of another kind.”

Your brow furrows and Lucius stares blankly at Macrinus until two servants, moving in unison, pull a table forward. It is laden with the remnants of the earlier feast — half-finished plates, empty goblets, and discarded silverware. They work to clear away the table until it is left bare. 

“It is no bed, but it’s finer than your cot,” Macrinus assures.  

Lucius jerks back as if struck, his body stiffening in shock while cold dread settles over your shoulder as you both understand Macrinus’s meaning. He watches the small exchange between the two of you with amusement.

“Or, if you prefer not to,” he offers, watching Lucius intently. His voice is smooth with mock consideration as he continues speaking. “I’m sure another gladiator would gladly take your place.”

“No,” Lucius snarls. Before he can move, you dig your nails into his forearm, trying desperately to hold him in place.

Macrinus leans in close, his next words meant only for the two of you. “I expect a good show. Not like that mummer's farce in the bath.”

Ugly surprise washes over you as the full reality of your situation sinks in. Beside you, Lucius shifts and you see the familiar spark in his eyes. It’s the look he gets before a fight when the fire that lives inside him is ready to explode and consume everything in its path. You’ve seen it a thousand times in the arena, and it always ends the same way: with blood. 

You almost wish you could let him fight, but you know better. You step closer to Lucius, your presence a quiet plea for him to stop. It takes a moment before he meets your gaze and when he does you see the pain beneath the rage, the knowledge that this moment is slipping beyond his control. 

There’s no glory in this—only survival. Yet that truth doesn’t make it any easier to watch the fire in his eyes fade as he steps back. It’s the kind of defeat that no arena or battle could ever impose on him. 

“My guests are eager for the show,” Macrinus says and gestures to the table. 

You straighten your shoulders, willing your body to follow the courage your mind struggles to summon. Lucius follows with heavy footsteps. You stop before the table, heart pounding, and take a slow, steadying breath to gather your resolve before you turn to face your gladiator. You know the role you’re meant to play, this moment is just another part of the spectacle your life has become.

Without a word, Lucius steps closer and his hands come to rest on your hips, guiding you to sit on the edge of the table. When he moves between your legs, you can’t read his expression. Unexpectedly, one of his large hands cups the side of your face, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheekbone. He leans in, his forehead pressing against yours.

“Focus on me,” he urges. “It is just us here, no one else matters. Do not think of them. Do not think of anything but me.”

His words are a command and a reassurance all at once, grounding you in the moment even as your pulse quickens. 

When he speaks again, his voice is louder, carrying across the room. “Lay back.”

The table is hard and cold beneath you as you follow his instruction, the chill seeping through the thin silks you wear. Lucius pulls you forward until you’re at the very edge, your legs hanging loosely off the sides. Gently, your dress is peeled away until you’re bare to him. His broad frame blocks the crowd from seeing much but you still feel vulnerable and exposed. You curl your fingers into the palms of your hands, trying to remember Lucius’s words as you close your eyes.

The murmurs of the observers increase, and you feel them shift, edging closer. Then, a woman’s gasp cuts through the tension, followed by a wave of hushed surprise that ripples through the gathered Romans. When you open your eyes you can only see the top of Lucius’s head from where he kneels between your thighs. Guilty anticipation zips through you, followed by a spark of heat that flickers low in your stomach at the sudden realization of what he intends to do. 

“Barbaric,” a man utters, his voice thick with disdain.

“Now now,” Macrinus says with a slight chuckle. “Remember, our gladiator hails from Numidia. Their customs are not ours."

The first touch from Lucius is barely there, a whisper of contact against your inner thigh, but it grows firmer the higher his fingers climb. Instinctively, you hold your breath, waiting for him to reach the most sacred part of you. At the first touch of his mouth to you, the rest of the world fades away.

Lucius builds your pleasure with slow, steady strokes while his calloused hands knead your thighs. His touch is an anchor and spark all at once. There is little resistance when he curls a finger inside. A second joins the first a moment later and without thought, you thread your fingers into his curls. A long, shuddering moan leaves him, and the vibration tightens the coil in your belly. Lucius’s touch grows rougher and more demanding. He drinks from you like he’s starved for it, as if every drop is the only thing keeping him alive while his fingers work you open.

You come with a throaty cry, your hips leaving the table. Every nerve in your body is alight. You cannot help but hold Lucius against you until the mere brush of his nose against your center makes you quake again, sending waves of warmth through your veins. As much as you want him to stop, you’re desperate for him to continue and keep you in this moment where nothing but the two of you exist. 

Lucius pulls away and reality crashes in with starting clarity while the eyes of the crowd cut through you like a thousand sharp edges. Before it all overwhelms you, he climbs onto the table. He lowers himself onto his forearms and the weight of him presses against you.

“Eyes on me,” he murmurs.  

You open your mouth but the words you want to say seem to get caught, trapped somewhere between your chest and your lips. To your surprise, wetness gathers at the corner of your eyes. But even that feels like something you can't fully surrender to. You’re trapped in this strange, painful moment where nothing feels real and everything feels too real all at once. It’s all too much – his tenderness and the horror of the situation.

There’s a subtle, almost imperceptible shift in Lucius’s expression in response, but it’s enough to reveal something beneath the surface and allow you to see the guilt he bears. The lines around his eyes seem to deepen and the tension in his expression makes him look older, wearier, and more vulnerable than you've ever seen him. The desire to soothe him is enough to break the strange spell on you.

"All is well," you assure him, gently brushing your nose against his. “I am no maiden.”

“Fuck her already,” a voice shouts and Lucius pulls back, his handsome face twisting into a snarl. You feel the tension in his muscles, coiling like a spring, ready to snap—and a knot of anxiety tightens in your chest. 

You breathe his name, soft and pleading, and he stills, the clench of his jaw betraying the war within. “It is only us,” you remind him, repeating his own words back to him. 

He stares down at you, nostrils flaring and then suddenly he bows his head. You feel the fight leave him as he chooses restraint over the violence you both know he’s capable of.

"Only us," he replies, strained. 

You hold his gaze as you feel his knuckles brush against your inner thigh to line himself up. He pushes inside slowly and you lift your hips. Your body welcomes him with only the briefest flare of pain, eased by his earlier attention. 

“Oh,” you gasp.

Your eyes close as he fills you completely. The sensation is both comforting and alien all at once. You can’t help but think of your late husband, so different from Lucius in every way. You wonder fleetingly if the man above you is thinking of his lost love too. Does that unspoken grief weigh on him as heavily as it does on you?

Before your mind can wander further, Lucius begins to move and your thoughts fizzle out. He curls his powerful body over yours and keeps up a steady pace that makes your skin buzz. You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders and the smell of him surrounds you, familiar and comforting. As you move together each breath and shift of your body becomes a silent conversation between only the two of you. 

“Gods,” he groans into your ear. “You take me so well.”

His unexpected praise has you rocking into him, needy for more. The table creaks each time he thrusts back into you. His lips trail along your neck and you feel that familiar climb to ecstasy begin, like a delicate crescendo inside you. Your nails dig into his skin and his rhythm stutters. 

“Sweet girl,” Lucius sighs, pulling back just far enough to meet your gaze.

The tenderness in his eyes is unexpected. Since Macrinus gifted you to Lucius nearly six months ago, you’ve shared many looks; full of pain and grief, anger and understanding, but this is something new, fragile. You stroke his cheek and he surges forward, kissing you roughly.

His lips on yours are a revelation. A storm of emotion rolls through your chest, crystallizing into the realization that you want him. You long for him in a way that goes beyond the need for protection, or a desire for connection. You grasp his face in both hands, your fingers trembling against the hard line of his jaw, and return the kiss with urgency. It’s desperate, almost frantic, as though you’re trying to pull him closer, to merge with him in a way that makes the world outside of the two of you disappear. 

He responds with a sharp thrust, angled so perfectly that it sends a flash of heat up your spine. You taste yourself on him when his tongue delves into your mouth. He hardly lets you catch a breath as he pours himself into you over and over until another orgasm washes through you. It’s more intense than the last, bleeding into his own as he comes with a quiet moan. 

He gives a few more thrusts and stills, his lips hovering over yours as you share the same air. Your thumbs stroke the soft skin under his eyes and you hold his gaze. In the depths of it, you feel a thousand words rising in your chest, aching to spill out, but you are all too aware you’re not alone. 

Before you let the world back in you tilt your chin up, lips brushing over his in a slow, tender kiss that he returns with heartbreaking gentleness. When you finally pull apart, the applause from Macrinus makes you flinch, and Lucius’s expression clouds over.

“What a performance,” Macrinus exclaims.

A titter of applause follows from the audience as though they’ve witnessed something to be praised. Lucius pulls away and you wince as he slips from inside you. A trickle of his seed follows and cold air blankets your body. You curl in on yourself, feeling vulnerable and anxious. When Lucius moves to stand, he carefully pulls your dress to cover you. Then, he helps you upright, and draws you into his side, shielding you with his body. He lifts his chin and offers the crowd a sharp, almost vicious smirk that’s more a baring of teeth than a smile. 

“I thought you might fuck like you fight,” Macrinus says. He lays a hand on Lucius’s shoulder like they are old friends and leans close. “I’m pleased to see that I was wrong.”

There’s some other meaning in his words that you don’t catch but Lucius seems to understand. Anger flickers across his face, but beneath it, you see something more unsettling, something you’ve never seen before. Fear. 

“We will do a great many things together, I think,” Macrinus continues in a pleased tone, his gaze lingering on the hand Lucius settles possessively on your hip. “A great many things.”

This time when he smiles it reaches his eyes; cold, calculating, and full of something far more sinister.

You spend the rest of the party seated on Lucius’s lap, his arm banded around your waist while the other rests on your thigh. He’s tense and angry as you expect but his focus seems distant, lost somewhere far beyond the room. He rubs the fabric of your dress between his thumb and forefinger, the motion almost absentminded. The wine you sip is overly sweet and sits like a sour stone in your belly. Neither of you speak. Occasionally, some guests, perhaps emboldened by drink or bravery, approach, but Lucius quickly sends them on their way with nothing more than a look. 

Only once the party dies down are you dismissed by Viggo. On the journey back to your cell Lucius’s grip on you remains firm, as if he's afraid you might slip away. He doesn't speak, and you notice every so often, his free hand curls into a tight fist at his side, his knuckles turning white from the pressure. It’s not until the door closes behind you, locking you both inside the small, dimly lit space, that Lucius finally speaks. 

"You know my true name,” he begins pacing the length of the cell. “But there are things I have not told you."  

He speaks slowly, each word carefully measured, as though he’s weighing the cost of revealing what’s hidden. He tells you the truth of his origin, and with each sentence, you sink deeper into the thin cot you both share, the weight of his words pressing down on you. When he finally falls silent, you remain there, frozen. A thousand thoughts flood your mind, but none of them seem to form into anything coherent. 

"Does this mean-" you begin, words faltering as you try to process the magnitude of what he’s revealed to you. “Does this mean… you are the rightful emperor?”

“I am.” There’s no pride in his admission, only worry. He releases a harsh breath through his nose like he’s trying to clear something from his chest before he speaks again. “There is a plan in place, with my mother and Acacius, but he will not return from Persia for several weeks yet. We cannot wait for them.”

“What has changed?”

“Surely you must know,” he whispers, regarding you softly.  

You shake your head, a quick, instinctive denial, but a deeper part of you already understands. Or perhaps, hopes you do.  

“You," he says simply. 

It’s the way he says it, so certain and knowing, that makes your breath catch. You stare at him and your heart throbs in your chest, low and sweet like a song.

“I never thought I could want someone again,” he admits. His unexpected words summon the ghost of all you've both lost, and they rise between you like a shadow, lingering for a long painful moment. "I thought it would feel like..." His words trail off.

“A betrayal,” you finish for him, keenly aware of what he must feel. 

The vulnerable look on his face awakens something deep and real inside you that you never expected to feel again. You rise from the cot without thinking and move to stand before him.  

"It feels right," he continues, his voice softer now, but no less certain. "As easy as breathing." 

And then he kisses you, tentative at first, before he grasps your jaw, seeking more of you. The way he holds you, possessively, protectively, makes you feel like you’re the only thing that matters, like you're his lifeline in a world that’s about to crumble. It fills you with such longing that you chase his lips when they part from yours.

"Macrinus knows now. And he is planning something," Lucius says, his voice tight with urgency, "and whatever it is, it will be at odds with the good of Rome. He will use you to get to me. And I cannot lose you."

“What will you do?” You ask.

"I'll send word to my mother in the morning," he replies. "You and she must leave Rome. It’s the only way."

You shake your head, unwilling to part from him.

“I will come for you when it is safe,” he promises, capturing your lips in another kiss before he pulls away and rests his forehead against yours. "But tonight… tonight, I need you again. Will you have me?” He questions.  

You answer him with your lips and he gathers you in his arms. The coarseness of his beard against your chin and the firm press of his lips to yours ignites a bone-deep need within. Suddenly all the danger, the uncertainty, and the inevitability of what’s to come fades into the background. It's just the two of you, the heat of his touch, the depth of his kiss, and the unspoken promise in his embrace. 

When he pulls you down on the cot, urging you on top of him, you let his momentum carry you. 

“Ride me,” he pleads desperately, framing your hips with his hands. 

He gazes up at you with such a mix of desperation and love that you couldn’t deny him, even if you wanted to. The shudder he gives when you take him in hand emboldens you to stroke his length. He groans and pushes his head back, exposing his thickly corded neck. You rise up and sink down on him slowly, savoring each inch. It’s near perfect how he fills you, and even though you’re still sore from earlier, the blend of pain and pleasure thrills you too much to stop. 

“Your dress,” he pants, “remove it. Please. I want to see you. All of you.”

You pull the fabric from your body and shed the bangles on your wrist while Lucius removes his tunic. You’re familiar with every inch of his body from tending to his wounds and time in the bathhouse, but you gaze down at him now with renewed appreciation, resting your hands on his firm shoulders. His eyes are filled with affection and desire as they roam your body. 

“You’re beautiful,” he praises. 

He cups your breasts and draws his thumbs across your nipples until they grow hard. The touch sends sparks of pleasure along your nerves and you twitch around him. He moans and rolls his hips. His arms encircle you, holding you close while he fucks you with strong, powerful thrusts. You bury your face in his neck and drag his skin between your teeth. He answers your action with a groan. 

“Gods, the way you feel. You’re perfect,” he praises. 

You sit up and plant your hands on his chest, moving your hips to take him deeper. You gasp his name and arch your back, rocking forward with an urgent need that eclipses everything else. For the first time in what feels like forever, you close your eyes and let yourself simply feel. There’s no need to shield yourself, no barriers to maintain.

“Look at me,” Lucius begs, grasping your waist to take control of your movements.

Your eyes flutter open and meet his, the beginning of your orgasm rising to the surface like a tide pushing its way to shore. It grows steadily until it finally crashes over you, flooding your senses and leaving you breathless in its wake. Lucius finds his own end moments after with a low, shuddering gasp. It takes several moments for your breathing to return to normal and when it does Lucius sweeps his hands up your sides comfortingly.

"Stay with me like this,” he asks. 

You acquiesce and he gently guides you to rest your cheek against his chest. His hand slides to the middle of your back, his palm warm and steady as he holds you close. Even though he remains inside you still your body relaxes, pooling in his. You close your eyes and listen to the steady drum of his heart, feeling a profound sense of stillness. 

You’ve always felt safe in Lucius’s arms, but now, you feel loved in a way you never dreamed you’d experience again. It’s a kind of peace that settles into you, filling all the broken, hollow spaces in your heart where your grief and pain have lingered for so long.

Whatever comes next, his love and strength are something you can hold onto. And for now, that is all you need. 

♡

Also part of this series:

Ab Initio

Finis

Protego te

My inbox is open for your thoughts on this story, requests for drabbles with Lucius and further scenes with Lucius and the Fisherman's Wife.