#roman plaster

[thesilicontribesman]

Wall Plaster, Dalton Parlours Roman Villa, West Yorkshire, 200-225CE, Leeds City Museum, Yorkshire

[duxfemina]

A depiction of me with my Roman beloveds

[somethingwithmoles]

Andrea del Castagno, The Last Supper, 1445-1450, fresco, 453 x 975 cm, Museo del Cenacolo di Sant'Apollonia, Florence

Source: Wikimedia Commons

[minterupt]

Sun Room Medium Minneapolis Example of a mid-sized transitional medium tone wood floor sunroom design with no fireplace

[hotspothutspot]

Eclectic Bathroom in Phoenix

[kneelingshadowsalome]

FATUM NOS IUNGEBIT 2/4

König x F!Reader

Summary: You have seen him in your dreams. The seer has divined his coming. But nothing has prepared you for witnessing him in the flesh. (Historical AU where König fights for the Roman Empire in an auxiliary unit, finds a cute barbarian woman and decides to keep her as his own.) Part 1 here. Word count: 5.1 k Tags/warnings: 18+ ONLY. Spoils of war/enemies to lovers trope, graphic depictions of violence, historical gruesomeness, pining, odd banter, mixed feelings, romantic fluff, dubcon cuddling, eventual smut. Captor/captive dynamic. König is a brutal warrior... and a gentle giant. A/N: Part two! I don't usually rec music for my fics but if this fic was a song, it would be Dead can Dance’s In Power we Entrust the Love Advocated.

You wake up with a giant plastered on your back.

His bed is far more comfortable than your own, soft and cushy, and there must be flowers somewhere in the hay because there is a surprisingly pleasant odour lingering in the air as you come to. The mattress overall doesn’t reek of too much sweat: some poor slave must change the fillings often enough for König’s stench not to settle on the bed. Actually, you’ve slept quite nicely, despite being embraced by an ogre the whole night.

König has slept like a stone, too, but stirs when you start to shift. You turn on your back and find his drowsy stare on you: it’s generous and warm as he pulls you closer to him. You could roll your eyes when you notice he’s hard down there again – he’s probably hard all the time, whether in bed with a woman or raging on the battlefield, sticking his swords into some poor man’s gut.

“Gut geschlafen?” He asks, and you reckon he’s trying to ask if you’ve slept well – in his domain, in his embrace, after he just slaughtered half of your village.

You give him another pout, which is starting to become your signature expression now. He replies to your grumpiness with a smile, his own trademark move, the one that threatens to strip you from all your arms. He squeezes you fondly against his chest, and then his hand starts to wander: he plays with your tits again, then slinks further down to brush your navel. When he crosses the border and heads straight toward your womanhood, you seize his arm.

He whines softly at your refusal, but to your surprise, he actually stops. You let him go as he moves back up and stay immobile under his touch, amidst the flowery scent and the faint stench of dirt and man sweat, sighing as he cups your breast again. He doesn’t seem to get enough of them, and they’re beginning to feel sore: he gave them so much attention last night already and is now at them again.

You pull his hand away, but this time, he doesn’t respect your wishes but resists you. Trying to hinder a man who’s as strong as a bull is futile, but you have an attempt at it anyway. It turns into a play fight: you wrench his hand down, he drags it back up. Up and down and up and down, as if your breast is a hill he needs to conquer at all costs. But he’s the only one who finds any amusement in your silly game: eyes narrowing again with a smile, a few soft chuckles under that hood telling you he enjoys it when you fight him a little.

It all ends when you finally slap him.

It’s neither a good nor a hard slap, and his mask muffles whatever sound was supposed to give you at least some measure of satisfaction. 

But he stops... And laughs.

“Ja, ich weiß. Ich habe deine Leute getötet. Ich verdiene eine Ohrfeige.”

His language is harsh and throaty, abrupt, and you tell him that, safe with the knowledge that he can’t understand a word you say either.

“You talk ugly,” you complain and watch him up and down, searching for a clue that would tell you that he somehow understands your insult. König simply thunders with another mirthful laugh at your morning crank.

“Es ist schön, mit dir zu reden. Aber jetzt muss ich weg.”

He looks down at you like he’s the Sun God now, thoroughly life-giving and kind. Then he dares to bend forward and press a kiss on your forehead.

“Go away,” you try to push him back with your hands - the hood prevents you from feeling his skin and breath and lips, but the… intimacy is still too much.

“Brute,” you want to spit the word out but end up sounding like a child attempting to quarrel instead. And he’s laughing at you again, both with his eyes and his mouth, covered by that darned hood. You don’t know why on earth you would think that such a charming laugh must come from an equally charming mouth.

He finally retreats and rises from the bed, stretching out his arms. The broad muscles on his back are exposed to the frigid air and his cock is jutting out, long and veined, completely unaffected by the cold. This beast is ripe and ready for another day, and you swallow when you see him in his full glory again, tall and wide and strong, looking like he’s about to eat an entire boar and fuck ten women in the process.

“Schön,” he comments as he turns to look down at you, lying naked and sweet there in his bed. He looks at you like you are the most lovely, adorable, difficult little thing. He even gives his horse cock a few good strokes while taking your sleepy little pouts in.

“Ugly,” you slur back, and he winks at you. 

Gods… You’re too hot and riled to even speak.

You choose to vehemently stay in bed as König starts his day: eats some fruit from the table - still naked - pours himself some wine and washes his mouth with it, tears a handful of bread from a loaf and starts to eat with his mouth open, munching loudly under that hood, walking around without bothering to cover himself and that ungodly erection that is bouncing in the air without a care in the world.

You, on the other hand, escape back under the warm covers of the furs, but your eyes never leave König. He draws the draping flap of his tent aside - still naked - giving his soldiers a good view of his morning wood, a lovely chance to get a look at their champion. Perhaps it’s his way of saying good morning, you think bitterly. Then he leaves, probably to take a piss, and you’re more and more convinced that this man is the worst beast that has ever walked this earth.

You’re still under the furs when he returns and finally gives you the grace of clothing himself. It’s stupid that you mourn losing the sight of those shoulders and feel a bit disappointed when his cock disappears under the red tunic. His manhood doesn’t look any less intimidating even when growing soft; it’s still long and veiny and thick, and you find yourself… curious. Just curious.

He doesn’t put his armour on this time, chooses to wear only his tunic and sandals and a pair of hard-boiled leather cuffs to protect the vital veins on the wrists. He does take one Gladius with him, though - a sign of distrust in his own men or a Roman custom, you can’t tell.

He’s already at the mouth of the tent when he turns and points at you, now with a good amount of sternness in his voice.

“Du. Bleibst.”

…

He’s away the whole day. Probably drawing plans at some field war council, eating and drinking and bouncing some poor girl on his knee. 

Even the thought makes your nose wrinkle and your stomach churn. Of course there are other trophies, and of course men want to show them off, pass them around, give their commanders a chance to give each woman a good squeeze. König has probably stuck that cock into a few women by now. Moaning, screaming women. 

Or then he just settles for annoying their poor senses out of them…

You can’t deny that you’re relieved he hasn’t thrown you to the wolves yet, not even after you denied him. Wondering why on earth he would even want to listen to your wishes gives you an awful headache, and the image of him laughing at - or with - some other shy captive girl is making you uncomfortable. So uncomfortable that you throw the skins away after noon, and decide you’re not going to just succumb to your fate, least of all give in to sadness and apathy. 

You eat this and that from his table like you’re not a slave girl but an honoured guest, a queen. You eat his figs and his bread and some smoked meat; you even drink some of his wine, as sour as it is. You’re a bit tipsy when you go through all his belongings, which are not as abundant or exciting as you thought they would be. 

You thought you’d find tiny chests filled with gold coins and rings. You thought you’d come by dried body parts taken as trophies, perhaps the crown of some long-forgotten Hibernian king. But there are only a few trinkets under his bed, a huge bow and some arrows, his armour and the second Gladius, perfectly stored above the ground so that rust and mould wouldn’t bite them. There are jugs of wine and some firewood and oil for the braziers, there’s water and benches and the table and lots and lots of candles in different shapes and sizes… But that’s it. There’s no hoard, no treasure, nothing to prove to you that this brute is just another Roman soldier trying to gather a fortune by raping and pillaging so that he can go and retire early from all the bloodshed.

And it makes you shiver. Does he do this just for the sake of it, only because he enjoys killing so much? What is his reason to fight?

The only item that sends an odd sting in your heart is a small wooden statue. You feel like a thief when you rummage through a small satchel you find next to his breastplate, the only place you didn’t feel like peeking into because it looked so… personal. 

Proving to yourself that you don’t care about his privacy or feelings, you end up pushing your fingers inside it anyway, meeting this peculiar carved piece of wood. There is nothing else there in the satchel, just the statue, and you feel yourself swallow a lump in your throat as you see it depicts a lush, buxom woman. Her breasts are nearly the size of her belly, larger than her head, and you realize that it is clearly the statue of the Great Mother this brute carries with him.

You put it back quickly, feeling a tingling in your fingers and a rapid flutter in your heart, as if you had just poked into something quite sacred. And it is sacred, the Mother. You wonder why, for the love of all the gods, this man would keep such a divine and fertile amulet near him. The statue is supposed to be a vessel for wishes and fortune; it is an idol of worship. König seems like the last man on earth to take up worshipping women.

You just want to get out of this place but can’t. There’s no one to go back to: your chief is dead, the people have fled, the rest of the warriors are scattered across the land. You have no idea where your brother might even be. 

You have no wish to escape this tent; you have no desire whatsoever to step a foot outside and show yourself to his hungry men. 

König comes back after nightfall and is not surprised at all to find you haven’t escaped. He’s not surprised that you have eaten some of his food either; he doesn’t even scold you. But then the eternal groping starts again as he gets undressed and lays himself down next to you.

You don’t even know why you allow him to touch you. Perhaps it’s because you know it’s better to just let him caress you if he wants; it’s better to suffer the weight of his hands on you if it means he won’t rape you with that cock. If you don’t complain, perhaps he will settle for squeezing and petting and stroking you.

But your body is a traitor: it’s hungry for him, for some ungodly reason, and always craves for more. You say to yourself that you only allow this to happen because it’s a condition, a compromise, a meeting in the middle. You never acknowledge the way your nether lips puff up like a fat flower every time he fondles your breasts. You pay no attention to how wet you get when he caresses your face, your waist, even your thighs, every part of you except the place between your legs, the place you kind of want him to touch... If only he would be gentle and didn’t get too excited, you’d let him touch you there, too, as sick and accursed as it is.

And it’s all good until he starts to hum. 

It may be some song from his homeland, the land of ugly brutes, but it’s not a crude giant song… In fact, it’s a rather beautiful, melancholy tune. Your body is relaxed and your pussy is wet; your nipples are tight and pleased as he pets you slowly, lovingly - but that song is too much. You don’t want him to see you cry, not even a single tear, and now there’s an entire flood about to occur.

“Don’t touch me,” you whisper, trying not to choke on your sorrow. He doesn’t stop - of course he doesn’t. He gets bolder by the day, and he can see that you’re enjoying yourself. In a way.

"Magst du es gestreichelt zu werden?" He asks, soft and tender, so incredibly gentle that the tears are about to burst forth at any given moment now.

“Ich glaube das tust du,” he rumbles when you don’t answer him. His hand is heavy and broad on your hip as he finally stops caressing you. You squeeze your eyes shut, and it causes the glimmer in your eyes to fall. Tears roll down your cheeks and into your hair, as you lie there next to a titan, about to shatter into a million pieces.

“Wurdest du schon einmal berührt…?”

You want to shout at him to shut up already, to stop talking so gently, asking you questions you don’t understand, to stop trying to find a way to communicate with you through song and hum and touch. The hand on your hip moves, slowly, with devastating cunning towards your core. He’s about to touch you there, to try and feel if you’re wet... If you’d like it that he pounded you a little. You wonder if he would do that gently too, and almost laugh through your tears. It will be your undoing if he finds out that you’re soaked all the way to your thighs, aching to feel him inside you, even a finger, just something…

“No… Nein,” you rule out sternly, opening a new way of communication. You don’t know if the word is correct, but he catches it immediately and stops. 

“Nein?”

He sounds both happy and sad; happy that you try to use his language, sad that you use it to give him such a disappointing command.

“No touching,” you repeat and open your eyes, finding his hazy figure hovering above you. You barely discern the gulf of sadness in his eyes, but it is there: undisguised, trying to reach out and join with yours. Gods… How strangely appropriate it is that you are both so very alive, wanting to be devoured by each other’s hunger and lust, only to find yourselves on the brink of tears and hollow loss.

“No... No touching…”

“Verstanden.” 

He takes his hand away from you and turns, not even joining you under the fur tonight.

…

The next morning, you wake up attached to him.

Somehow you’ve managed to wriggle under his furs and, on top of that, crawled to hug his side like this. You blame the spring cold for it, of course. Your heart bangs against your ribs as you notice how tightly you’re squeezing him, breasts pressed flush against his hard middle, belly fluttering against his hip. You’ve even draped your leg across his so that your poor, lonely cunt is resting right there over his thigh. 

You swear in your mind with all the words and terms you know and can think of.

How the hell are you supposed to detach from a giant without waking him up? His arm is around you, holding you loosely in a warm, pleasing shackle. He feels so, so good - blazing, big and safe, so incredibly nice. You never knew sleeping next to a man could feel so nice. You’re half asleep still, mainly because his body and scent make you feel like you’ve had too much wine again.

You allow yourself a few more moments before you rip yourself off him. Or at least, try to: the arm snares you the instant you attempt to move. It prevents you from leaving him, and you end up hovering awkwardly there, almost on top of him, tits pointing straight at his face, panicked, doe-eyed stare guided to his unwavering blue eyes, open, and regarding you with warm love.

And the damned man smirks again.

“No touching?” He inquires with silly, completely feigned shyness.

“Shut up,” you breathe and try to get off of him, but his other hand comes to brush your cheek next, and you freeze.

“Schön… Pretty,” he tries, and you nearly whimper at the sound of your native tongue in his mouth. 

Pretty… Is that what the word means, the odd ugly word he has repeated ever since he stole you?

His eyes are warm and his hand is gentle as he caresses your cheek, and the snare around your waist tightens. Softly… Invitingly.

“Stop it,” you whisper, on the brink of tears again, because this time, your shields and armour and weapons are gone. You just woke up to a feeling of odd contentment, fulfilment, even joy. 

And it’s not right. 

He has no right to be this gentle with you.

You sniffle and sigh, and cast your eyes down to the chest that belongs to a giant. But you can’t deny that there must be a heart under there. A human heart under your palm. Your hand is right there over the strong beat because you’ve tried to push yourself away, and he won’t let you go. Another tear falls somewhere in the hair of his chest, and he rumbles with such compassion that you want to slap him again, hit his chest with your tiny little fists and bawl.

What you do instead is break down and let the ocean take you. You cry and sob and wail, right there in front of him, until he turns you on your stomach and comes to rest halfway on top of you. Through your tears, you understand that he’s trying to soothe you with his weight. It’s pure insanity how well it works. It releases a whole well of grief, and you start to shake with the cries; your whole body shudders with the sorrow as you retch it all out while König continues to caress you like a pet. He strokes your hair, pets your back, he even pats your ass as if you’re just a baby.

You cry long and hard, so long that he eventually lets out a long, deep sigh. When you’ve calmed down a bit and remain still, sniffling occasionally while squeezing the furs in your fist, trying to remember what it is to be an animal with feelings other than just sorrow, he leaves you.

He simply rises, and gets dressed, and leaves.

That is very much what you don’t need right now, much to your surprise. He was good at consoling you, as odd as it sounds.

Cold starts to creep in when there is no warm body next to you, and your skin misses the calloused gentleness of his palms. You wouldn’t mind if he wanted to hum that song to you now. But the darned bastard had to leave just when you were about to turn and cup his hooded face in return...

König comes back after a short while, but he’s not alone. You gather the furs against your chest, horrified and angry when you notice he returns to the tent with a short old man, vigorous and busy, but so tiny in stature that you doubt he was ever a warrior. You wonder if this is another foreigner or if you have the dubious pleasure of meeting your first genuine Roman.

They both stare at you, quite nonchalantly, while you sit there on the bed and try to cover your nakedness with animal skins while having red eyes and a pair of uninviting, quivering, puffed-up lips. 

The short fellow looks you up and down, then turns to talk to König in what appears to be this giant’s mother tongue. It’s a curt suggestion, muttered under his breath, and you realize König must’ve fetched a translator for you.

Oh, good Mother... Great Mother.

You watch these two men before you in a state of stunned shock, as König looks at you, then back at the old man, and nods. The Roman looks slightly vexed as if he just got up too. Then he starts to speak.

“Excuse our manners... We are men at war. If you wish to get dressed, we will wait outside.”

You blink at your own language being spoken to you, perfectly discernable but accompanied by a thick accent. You nod, and the men leave, returning only after you’ve dressed and cleared your throat in the tent.

“He asks if he killed your husband,” the translator starts immediately while König goes to sit on his favourite Roman bench. You’re wide awake now, and the nauseating feeling of being suddenly in the middle of an interrogation rises to your throat with a clot.

“He… What? No,” your eyes dart to König, who is looking at you with his undying ardour. For a man with so much sadness in his soul, he’s surprisingly carefree when he wants to.

“Do you have a husband?”

You gulp at the questions levelled at you. König keeps watching you intently, and you choose to look at the old translator instead, shaking your head slowly. The men exchange a few words, and the Roman turns to scold you with his stare.

“Master reminds you that it is wrong to lie,” he says, putting a lot more weight on his words this time. Roman or not, he calls this giant master, which means that he is just another slave in this camp. You swallow again and try to think, think, think; all the while König’s stare strips you of all your pretences, garments and words.

He thinks you’re trying to hide some imaginary husband, you understand and consider whether you should say that you have a husband: if there is any benefit you could gain from such a lie. König would only probably try to hunt him down… But what if he found out you were telling him tales? Would he feed you to his horny war dogs then?

“I’m not lying,” you say through slightly gritted teeth.

There is another exchange of words before the translator turns to you again.

“Are you untouched?”

“What…?”

“Master asks if you are a virgin.”

The translator is utterly unfazed, and mainly looks like he has better things to do than get to the bottom of whether there has been a cock inside you yet.

“That’s none of his business,” you hiss. The old man turns and starts to translate your words with a dull look.

“Wait—don’t tell him that,” you take a panicked step forward. 

Oh good Father in the Sky… Strike these men down so that I may be freed from them.

They pay you no attention; a few sentences pass from mouth to mouth, and the old man nods.

“Master says you are clearly a maiden,” he declares. You peek a glance at König, who is looking at you with hunger, and not the kind of hunger people look at their breakfasts with. Your breathing is getting out of hand, and when he opens his legs wider, clearly making more room for a rising cock, you decide to throw caution in the wind.

“You know what? Your master can go fuck himself with a stick for all I care…!”

The old man turns. He doesn’t even care to sigh; he merely opens his mouth to give your words to König.

“Don’t you dare translate that!” 

Finally, the old man sighs. He looks at the ceiling as if begging his gods to take him away from this tent. König’s stare flashes between you two, and he is evidently curious. Clearly, this is the most exciting conversation he’s ever had.

“Was sagt sie?”

“Tell him that I want to be freed,” you hurry to say before the translator can tell your insults to König. After a brief conversation, König leans forward in his chair to see the effect his words have on you.

“He says he can’t do that,” the Roman informs. “His soldiers will find you and take you.”

You close your mouth and try to even your breaths. No one says, You don’t want that. Everybody in this tent knows you don’t want that.

“He asks if he killed your brother or your father.”

You sniffle, quite involuntarily.

“No. He didn’t.”

“Then why are you angry and sad?”

There is a hint of genuine interest in the man’s voice. Both of these men are confused as to why you would bawl your eyes out after the massacre of your people.

"Because… Because he…"

“He says it is a man’s duty to die in battle. You should be proud of your fallen ones, not cry and feel sorry for them.”

“Tell him that he can go fuck himself,” you shout, not giving a single shit anymore about whether he translates the words or not. 

To no one’s surprise, he does.

“He says he’d rather fuck you,” he returns to you with König’s message.

You can’t bear to look your captor’s way, and still, that’s exactly what you do. You look at the giant as he stares at you, keen and hard and patient. But you know his patience has its limits. It’s almost like a promise, the way he leans forward in that chair and looks at you from under the hood, shameless and challenging.

“Never,” you guide your words to König now. It’s a brave little whisper, but you know that it’s a lie. Even the Great Mother knows you’re lying. You almost hear the cackle of the old woman rising from the earthen ground, from the chthonic depths, to mock you and your vows.

You hear the old man’s words from somewhere far away, from underwater, as König’s stare wrestles you down and takes away your little knife. He subdues you even when he’s sitting, and shares a string of words: a harsh promise. You hold your breath as his cock gives a pulse under that tunic, and your eyes fall, fall, fall onto it, because there’s no escape…

“He says he can make you feel good,” the voice says, and you can’t even hear who speaks. Your mouth is full of water, but you swallow it down, then shoot your way up to the surface, up, up, up into the sunlight, until you can breathe again.

You rip your eyes from König and look at the Roman translator with loathing and contempt.

“You can leave now. This conversation is over.”

Then you turn, trying not to pay any attention to the hushed conversation that proceeds behind your back. The man leaves the tent: you can hear it, and you can also hear how König rises from the chair and walks right behind you.

“No… afraid,” his hands come to rest on your shoulders, but you don’t even flinch. You knew he was going to touch you again. Perhaps you were even looking forward to it.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you start to argue, but he doesn’t take the bait.

“You like trees?”

He speaks your words, not good, but he speaks them. You wonder if he has known parts of your tongue all along and has simply concealed it. Has he understood what you’ve said to him…? All the slurs and stupid things? Mother, grant mercy…

“Why would I like—What kind of question is that?”

“Climbed a tree,” he explains cheerfully behind you. You turn and look up, yet again rendered weak. Giants are supposed to be stupid. They’re not supposed to know the language of faeries…

“Nosy,” he brushes your cheek with a smile in his eyes.

“Nosy?” 

You huff - as if you wanted to be there and witness him.

As if you had a choice after the seer pushed you on this insane, cruel path.

“Wanted to see me so bad?” König tilts his head playfully.

Gods… You can only look at him with brows curling with helpless frustration, lip trembling from how he seems to know your every little secret. He nods when you don’t say yes or no. He’s perfectly happy to read all the answers from your eyes.

“Ich wusste, dass es so war,” he changes into his own language, and you don’t need to understand the words he says.

You know he knows. He knows you, he knows you to your core, and it doesn’t really matter in which circumstances you two met. He knows far more than you, something about souls and how they’re supposed to meet, how little squirrels and giants belong together, as crazy as it is. That there is no chance in life: no, it was meant that you two meet. To him, it was no coincidence that you practically dropped into his lap from that tree.

“Did you like what you see?”

He holds your shoulders gently as you quiver and shake inside.

“No,” you peep.

“I like what I see,” he declares; a benevolent god.

…

A/N:. Thank you so much for your love and interest in this fic! As you may have noticed the fic now has 4 parts, which is because the 3rd chapter got too chunky and I had to split it 😇 Next part might take a while because I'm moving soon, but let me tell you... These guys will be put into *situations*. Oh, and a reminder that I don't have a taglist for this so please check any future updates from my pinned masterlist post 🩷

Translations:

Gut geschlafen? - Sleep well?

Ja, ich weiß. Ich habe deine Leute getötet. Ich verdiene eine Ohrfeige. - Yes, I know. I killed your people. I deserve a slap.

Es ist schön, mit dir zu reden. Aber jetzt muss ich weg. - It is lovely to talk to you. But now I have to go.

Du. Bleibst. - You. Stay.

Magst du es gestreichelt zu werden? - Do you like being petted?

Ich glaube das tust du. - I think you do.

Wurdest du schon einmal berührt…? - Have you ever been touched…?

Verstanden. - Understood. 

Was sagt sie? - What does she say?

Ich wusste dass es so war - I knew it was so.

[doobean]

ROMAN HOLIDAY ─ NAGI S.

synopsis: Nagi Seishiro has a plethora of secrets up his sleeves. He knows that Reo loves being in the center of attention—well, no, that's a fact. But one thing that Nagi knows for sure is that the Mikage Corporation is on the verge of filing for bankruptcy. And what better way to prevent that than to have an arranged marriage with another powerful company? You're intelligent, beautiful, and obedient. Unsurprisingly, it doesn't take long for Reo to fall for you, and you seem to be content with everything—at least, you pretend to be. Nagi knows you're head over heels for his best friend, but doesn't understand why you hate his guts.

contents: explicit content, afab!fem!reader, bathroom sex, kinda cheating/kinda not really, piss involved towards the end, dubcon, hate sex, nagi centric, reader comes from an affluent family, power/dominance play, frottage, descriptors of a curvy, busty reader, breast play/nipple play, facials word count: 4.8k a/n: this fic is for all the nagi haters out there ig @niitoshi + @pipppinn (u get a rest from beta reading ur enemy)

You’re an absolute menace. 

Nagi had no clue, when his best friend had introduced you as his potential fiancee months ago, just how big of an impact it was going to have on his life. In most cases of Nagi’s lack of social life, he originally had no intentions of befriending you, at least, outside of introductions and shorthand greetings whenever he crashed over at Reo’s apartment. To him, it didn’t make sense to get close to you, even if you were going to be a major part of Reo’s life. 

Unlike his best friend, you appeared reserved and uptight, much like all the other affluent students he surrounded himself with back in high school and university. Nagi thinks he’s only received one ‘hello’ from you, and that was just from the first meeting. You’ve always attached yourself to Reo, whenever he’s around, and Reo would somehow play it off as you’re just “shy” around others.

“Don’t take it the wrong way,” Reo had assured him with a firm shoulder clasp. “She’ll eventually warm up to you.”

And while Nagi still has a hard time believing that, he didn’t feel the need to continue the conversation knowing that Reo wouldn’t get the hint. You don’t flaunt your wealth and status around, but Nagi has always sensed that you were looking down on him. Why else would you always stare at him?

You come from a family of ‘self made’ entrepreneurs and billionaires. 

From all those last minute conferences meetings that Reo would have him attend, simply because his best friend would lose track of time whenever they’re together, Nagi knows that your father owns a famous construction company that’s somehow affiliated with the Mikage estate. From one shareholders’ meeting, he’s learned that your family owns 60% of all rental properties in Japan, and he doesn’t know if that’s something to be proud of. Coming from a semi-wealthy family himself, Nagi is well aware that there’s no such thing as an ethical billionaire.

He’s seen your family name plastered on billboards before, shining over the neighborhoods in Akihabara, and the company sounded impressive enough that Reo’s father didn’t hesitate to bring up the topic of marriage during a conversation about future prospects. 

Reo didn’t seem to mind, or rather he tried really, really hard to mask any trace of anxiousness and annoyance when he signed the NDA papers. Nobody wants to be in a loveless, arranged marriage, after all. Especially not when they still have their whole youth ahead of them. Though, needless to say, Reo fell for you rather quickly. Nagi’s aware he’s not the best at expressing his emotions, but anyone with a sensible brain could obviously tell you’re the standard stereotype of “wifey material”.

Quiet. Intelligent. Extremely obedient to the seniors around you. Nevermind the fact that your behavior reflects your style as well. Your makeup never strays from being “too little” or “too much”. The outfits you wear always reminded Nagi of those old British dramas from the late 90s, he thinks Reo calls it “old money” fashion. Whatever that means. 

He just knows that it’s classy and fits whatever housewife aesthetic you’re trying to go for. Even though he can easily see through how much you hate it. You’re always picking at the threads in annoyance, as if they’re tight, itchy, and alien on your body. Even when he watches your pretty, plump lips smile and nod towards everyone around you, you always quickly turn sour when you think no one’s watching. 

At age twenty four, Nagi carefully watches his best friend enter the room with you wrapped around his arm, from the corner of the banquet hall. Today’s a celebration, a huge one, because Reo just completed his accelerated MBA program and, therefore, is one day closer to filling in his father’s shoes as CEO of the Mikage Corporation. This also means he’s one step closer to becoming a married man. Soon, you’re going to be a permanent fixture in Reo’s life. That thought alone had his tongue swelling up in his mouth, and urged himself to get it together.

The event ends up being treated like a work gala. Everyone is dressed in black tie, the smell of warm leather fills the air, Nagi only half understands the business jargon being thrown around, and the food looks rather bland for what it’s worth. Most of the guests are crowded around Reo and his father, and he can only assume the business executives are trying to wiggle their way in to just get a chunk of free shares. 

He notices you standing to the side, in the midst of your own conversation with your father. Your outfit throws Nagi off, slightly. It’s certainly different from your previous choices, more modern and form fitting, highlighting certain assets that makes it slightly even more obvious why certain men in the room couldn't stop their gawking.

Somehow, even though you’re caught up in a seemingly heated conversation on the other side of the room, Nagi catches your stare. Your eyes, facial expression, and even aura feels uncomfortably blank, despite the small smile you force out. 

He merely awkwardly waves back and, for whatever reason, you take that as a sign to make your way over. He can only groan inwardly as he watches you exit out your current conversation and thread gracefully through the stuffy crowd, somehow showing up with two empty wine glasses in hand. Originally, his plan was to just show up for the free food, say hi to Reo, then prepare an Irish exit. With the look you’re currently giving him, Nagi feels like he can’t plan an escape. 

You turn around and reach for a bottle of wine on the bar cart, a brand that Nagi could never pronounce correctly despite the numerous times that he’s heard it leave from Reo’s mouth. It’s also the same imported wine from France that all three of you shared the day Reo had introduced you to him. From what Nagi remembers, it didn’t leave a good taste. 

You end up pouring the two glasses, then whirl back around to face him, quickly setting the drink down by the end table. Nagi picks up his glass as soon as it's available, but you clink yours against it before he could bring it up to his lips.

“Do you have a moment?” you mumble quietly.

“For what?” he’s honestly surprised to hear that many words coming from you.

“I…” you trail off, looking down into your drink and unconsciously hug your sides. Nagi uses this opportunity of silence to sip. Then, after a moment, you shake your head a little, clearly flustered over something. 

“I want to talk to you about Reo, about your friendship and me fitting into that. I’ve been thinking about it for a while but I haven’t had the chance to bring it up.”

Nagi just nods, sipping again, not sure if he’s pleased or disappointed by your response. Of course the very first thing you bring up after not speaking a word to him for months is about their friendship. 

He then notices that you’re suddenly rubbing your palms, hands alternating between them as you stretch your fingers out. You’re grimacing slightly, and Nagi leans back against the wall, something stirs inside of him at the sight of you appearing in distress. He’s not sure what to make of the odd feeling.

With a shrug, he tilts his head. “Go ahead with it.”

You meet his eyes and shake in disapproval, setting down your wine glass. “I need to speak with you in private about it.”

Nagi doesn’t say anything, and a moment of silence passes between you two as several high executives try to usher the rest of the crowd to the next room for an unrelated conference meeting. At one point, a clientele calls you over for a drink, and you disappear to join him for one, leaving Nagi to stew in his own thoughts once more.

A part of him wants to go over to Reo, telling him what happened, why you’re suddenly being so vague and direct with him after all this time. However, with one glance at his best friend, who’s currently knee-deep in a conversation between his father, the idea dies out. He’s never seen Reo this relaxed and determined before. 

Maybe the closest expression he shared was when they were both heavily sprawled out on the turf field after an intense football match back in high school, but even then Nagi doesn’t even think he’s seen Reo this content. He wants to believe that you’re simply just asking about potential wedding details, maybe to even join in on the planning, but that’s laughable. You seemed nervous, and not for the right reasons.

He shouldn’t be here, glass half empty, stomach barely full from all these damn healthy finger foods, sitting under the appraising and curious eyes from other businessmen and yourself. 

“Nagi, an answer?” you probe, as if hearing his thoughts when you finally return. 

Were you always this demanding? He shifts in place and adjusts the collar of his suit, and tries his best to sound unaffected. “Right now?”

You finally smile, and it lights up your entire face. “Right now.”

At that, Nagi downs the rest of his drink.

You eventually coax him to an empty hallway, down the corner next to the fire escape, while everyone else is preoccupied with the meeting. You kept reiterating that it’ll be quick, that Nagi will understand what’s the “problem”, but he doesn’t believe it one bit. Not when you’re squeezing both sides of your arms and keep glancing down the hallway, anxious to be seen.

Without warning, you blurt out, “Please, stop dragging down Reo. I want you out of his life.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, yet is drenched with anxiety and the barest edge of vexation. 

“What?” Nagi can’t help but be offended. The reluctance on your tongue contradicts the harsh order. 

“I’ve seen the way he talks to you. You’re a distraction to him and having you around will just—”

“He can say what he wants about me. Why do you care so much? Your only job is to sit by his side.”

“Nagi, please—”

“Forget it,” he can’t seem to find an answer to your demand. It doesn’t make sense, and even if he did make out an answer, his brain is currently too distorted and torn to process a coherent response. 

You stand your ground and the next few words are fumbling over the other, “I’ve… never liked you since the day I met you.” 

That doesn’t surprise him. You aren’t much of a talker, but then again, neither is he. Still, it doesn’t change the fact that you’re currently having an unusual personality shift—almost as if you’re revealing a bit of truth about yourself to him, and only him. Reo probably doesn’t know that this side of you exists. 

Nagi doesn’t bother to respond. He only rests his back against the bathroom door behind him, crossing his arms over his chest in irritation, and stares down at you. In that moment, he can see the raw edge of your bubbling… is it anger he’s sensing? Your body is filled with tension and he can’t imagine why. Your eyes are boring into his and refusing to let go.

Suddenly, Nagi feels his frustrations growing thicker. 

“You don’t know anything about me.”

You step closer, eyes narrowing, yet you look conflicted. “I could say the same thing.” 

The proximity of you—the blend of sweat, bergamot, and something that could only be described as bitterness—makes Nagi dizzy. The space of this hallway, once ample, now feels suffocatingly small. 

“Nagi,” you seeth out, a plea that’s both sounding an invitation and surrender. “This is a business deal. If this doesn’t fall through it’ll look bad on us and—argh, I really need this to work out, okay?” You quickly clamp a hand over your mouth, as if surprised that the words flooded out.

It wasn’t much spilled, but he understands the gist of it. Your frantic explanation earns him a curt laugh, one that’s distinctly him. He almost feels sorry that you were forced to do this, all of this. But you could’ve also easily gone against it, too. “You can’t think for yourself, can you? This is why I can’t stand these heirs and heiresses, you’re all a bunch of hassles to be around.”

“Fuck you.” you’re cracking under pressure. The makeup, dress, your hair… The facade of being perfect and plain slowly comes crumbling down the longer Nagi stands there, unwavering. “I can think for myself.”

“Prove it.” His tone is a dangerous one, spoken with an even tone. 

You take another step forward, slow and purposeful. It serves as a reminder that your background is influential, powerful, and that you’re no puppet. Nagi wants to believe that more than you do. 

He would be doing himself a disservice if he hasn’t admitted that there’ve been nights where he does think about you. What life would be like if you haven’t given him the cold shoulder, times where he wishes he could understand all the hidden languages spoken between you and Reo, and if you would’ve treated him any differently.

So, Nagi’s command is framed as a tease, and knowing how you really are now, you’re not going to leave until you give him an answer. Nagi Seishiro hates the rich, hates dependent people even more, but he’s a good guy when he tries to be. You, on the other hand, might be ruining that for him.

He watches as your plump lips part, and a needy little sound escapes. It sounds like a damn moan that’s absolutely dripping in desperation. Nagi lets out a breath, feeling his insides liquefy and overflow. His cloudy eyes search your face, and the dark overcast over your eyes instantly hooks him in. He can see the wetness where your lips separate, and suddenly he’s overwhelmed with the desire to trap your mouth between his.

Nagi drops his hands to both sides of your face and holds your cheeks tight in the expanse of his calloused palms, drawing himself closer to you when he feels your hand latch onto his forearm. Your cheeks are warm and soft beneath his touch and, without a second thought, you both close the gap.

You gasp into his mouth as his lips claim yours with a hunger that leaves no room for hesitation, a heated urgency that clears any uncertainty. He feels your other hand shooting up and roughly tugging at his silver locks, a stark contrast to your passive actions earlier. His hands roam over your body, tracing and mapping your curves with extreme possessiveness. 

Nagi wants more. Wants your hands even lower, on his thighs, between his legs, wants your pretty lips wrapped around the base of his cock. He wants you, but not here. He wants to leave here with you, see where you live, do this on the comfort of your mattress, inhale the scent of your sheets, and rid your mind of his best friend and that damn business proposal.

“Excuse me? Is somebody there?”

You pull away first with a concealed string of curses by the intrusion, gasping for air as soon as you separated, the hand you have on his forearm is now trembling. Whether it's from excitement, fear, or a combination of the two—Nagi can’t tell.

He peers over to find a security officer patrolling around, radio in hand, at the end of the hallway. From this angle, where the corner curves slightly, it doesn't seem like he’s able to make the two of you out, at least for now. The last thing he wants is for the media to highlight why you were seen alone with him. He’s already got enough on his plate with professional football on its own. Kissing his best friend’s bride to be is something entirely different. He doesn’t want to wait around to find what might happen.

“Fuck, fuck, where should we—”

“Quit freaking out,” he pulls the handle behind him and tugs on your waist, ushering you inside the bathroom as the sounds of sharp loafers against marble creep closer. Bewilderment flashes across your face as he shuts the door and locks it. He ignores your swarm of questions and props you against the sink’s countertop in an instant. 

You appear terribly confused with yourself as he cages you in between his arms, his head leaning against yours with a dark look in his eyes. Your lipstick is smeared at the corner of your lips, your hair is nothing but a disheveled mess, and your damn breasts— Nagi looks down and scoffs —you're not wearing a bra. He soon realizes that this look suits you better than any other outfit you’ve worn. 

“What was that,” you try to say, but he quickly keeps your busy mouth occupied again. His fingers trail up your shoulder blades, easily slipping down the top half of your dress, and soon your breasts fall free — round, heavy, and soft. 

Your chest heaves as you breathe in sharply, tongue darting out to wet your lower lip. “You’re such a dick,” you shoot him a misty glare, defiant in tone despite every bit of your body language screaming submission.

This is enough to set him off. Nagi’s fingers curl into your waist, sighing in pleasure when you whine at his harried touch. He lifts you from the counter, your legs instinctively wrapping themselves around his waist, as he pushes your back against the door. The frame and his greedy palms on your fleshy ass serves as support as he begins to shamelessly grind against you, the needy, aching pressure from his arousal fights through his slacks. 

God, he wants to fuck you right into the door.

You moan into his shoulder when Nagi dives against your throat, swearing under his breath as he finally gets a taste of your intoxicating skin, a sound of pure lust vibrating throughout your bodies.

“Don’t tease me,” he warns with a groan.

“I’ll do what I want,” you bite back, jolting in pleasure when his tight erection probes against your thighs. 

Nagi decesends, his mouth leaving wet trails across your collarbones and down your chest until he stops at your breasts. Gently, his teeth grazes over one nipple, nipping at it until he hears a sharp hiss from above. Before you could chastise him, he captures your nipple in his mouth, sucking the stiff peak between his lips. He feels the dampness of your panties rubbing against the clothed tip, causing his tongue to twirl aggressively over the wrinkled flesh.

“Oh, fuck,” your mews are growing louder and louder in pitch. Nagi hopes that the security guard from earlier is long gone by now. He’s also certain that his dick might come bursting apart any second. But he’s not going to admit that, not to you of all people.

Seeing you crumble under his fingertips makes Nagi’s heart swell. He pulls back with a loud pop and closes the distance between your lips again, pressing hard so you can feel the urgency from the heat of his tongue.

“Need you,” he finds himself whispering against your lips, pressing his entire weight of upper body into yours.

You choke out another desperate sound and begin fumbling with his waistband, hands blindly searching to feel him, trying to prove and show that you can provide the same fervent pleasure and attention. You both sigh when Nagi feels his cock springing free, hard and leaking with copious amounts of pre. He carefully watches your movements, there’s hesitation and surprise glassed across your face as you gently wrap your fingers around his length. 

It barely makes the full circumference. 

“Scared?”

Then a shudder rumbles through Nagi’s frame as you begin stroking him. It takes everything in him to not rip your dress in two and fuck you right then and there, but he’s trying not to be eager, caging his bloodlust. But it’s hard. Hard when you pull him into a kiss that leaves him breathless and grinding against your palm. 

Nagi can’t stop himself from the way he crushes his lips against you, nor can he stop the way his tongue slips forward into your mouth, his hands squeezing the softness of your waist when you melt in his embrace, pressing those soft breasts against his blazer.

You break the kiss with a moan, and it’s so messy that he can see the tether of saliva that stretches between you two when you finally pull away. Your face looks even more dazed than before, and you squirm against him, sending a hot flare soaring throughout his body when your thumb brushes against his leaking tip. 

“Sensitive?” you mimic his teasing tone.

Nagi’s now positive that you’re trying to kill him. He’s known it before, from the first moment he’s laid eyes on you, but there’s no reasonable explanation for you to be so beautiful and sexy all at the same time. The way you’re teasing his bare cock, rubbing your wet, clothed cunt straight against it, is doing nothing but sending him straight into a tailspin.

The truth is, when you first approached him, the only thing that had been on his mind was getting to know you more, same as it has been for months now ever since he’s met you. Now, with your lips looking glazed and pouty as ever, he feels like he’s on cloud nine.

“Turn around,” he commands.

You stare at him with wide eyes, and Nagi sees your brain rewiring in real time whether or not to follow through with your stubbornness, but after a moment, you obey. You unclasp your legs around his waist and he gently sets your feet down, letting your body spin around so that your palms are flat against the door, back arched, and ass pressed against his length. The look you shoot across your shoulder stirs something inside of him, and he quickly takes you by the hips, pulling aside your soaked panties with ease. 

“Is this okay?” he doesn’t know why he’s asking right now, despite everything that’s happened within the past few minutes. 

Regardless, it’s meaningless to wait for your response; the wave of pleasure from the way he’s playing with your breasts from behind, to the warmth of your puffy entrance teasing the tip of his cock, has you unable to respond with anything other than a loud moan. Nagi takes this as an affirmative response, and angles his hips from behind, sucking in his teeth as he watches the entirety of his length being swallowed and hugged by your gummy walls.

The mirrors in the room have begun to fog up when he starts the initial movement. Nagi grabs a palmful of your ass, grasping and kneading them in a way that has you widening your legs to deeper access. Your soft whimpers and moans ring like a siren’s call in his ears, and he doesn’t quite understand how you’re able to control his body like this, but you’re squeezing him just right as if you’ve known him forever. 

Nagi shuts his eyes and easily begins to lose himself to this bliss. The tight, velvety walls are all too euphoric, making him easily forget that you’re both in a random bathroom in one of the biggest, extravagant conference halls in the country. A vivid grunt escapes from his mouth as his shaky hands maneuver up to your hips, guiding them in a circular motion as the fat of your ass ripples from every thrust he spears into you.

“Fuck,” he pants out. “Just like that…”

But the rough, muffled sounds of sex in the room shatters as a knock pierces through the air. 

Your fingers, splayed across the door, come together close and form into fists as he watches you struggle to catch your breath. After a moment of silence, a tender murmur breeches the stillness. 

It’s Reo, and his call for you is automatically fear inducing. Nagi feels you clamping up more than ever.

“—are you in there?” he repeats through the door’s barrier. 

Panic flicks across your features and you scramble for composure, frantically pulling up the top half of the dress and craning your neck around to gawk at Nagi, wondering if he has any clue on what to say, or do. Little do you know, Nagi has absolutely zero plausible answers.

“It’s okay,” he leans down and nips your shoulder blades. “Just stay like this.” 

A sweet whimper exits from you as he continues his thrusts, slower and shallower. “A-Are you insane?! He’s going to know it’s us…!”

You’re afraid, intimidated by the position that you’re both in, but Nagi kisses you again and engulfs your hand with his. He offers a comforting squeeze before dining in the pleasure of the tip of your tongues touching.

“Stay quiet and he’ll eventually go away,” what is he even saying right now? He’s not being fair to Reo, but somehow there’s hardly any guilt flowing through his veins. 

His best friend, your future husband, faintly calls your name again. This time with more uncertainty. There’s nothing but stillness on either side of the wooden barrier, where neither of you are willingly to slip out a sound. Nagi just rests his head on the side of your neck, letting the sweat from his bangs seep down, as he focuses on your steady breaths while having to control his own. If it weren’t for Reo on the other side, he would’ve fallen asleep just by the rhythm of your heartbeat. 

Another agonizing moment of silence passes before Reo mumbles out an apology, saying that he’s got the wrong person, and retreats. The sounds of heavy heels from his loafers hitting against the floor burns deep into both of your memories. 

By the time he’s gone, Nagi doesn’t waste any time and throttles against a spot inside of you that has you squealing like an animal. 

Pulling his hands away from yours, he brings them up to your chest, teasing your nipples while you throw your ass back against him, fucking as hard as you possibly can. He feels you drifting far away, bringing yourself closer and closer on his length, and a tight familiar coil begins building inside of his core.

Suddenly, you try to pull away, stumbling over your next words, “W-Wait, stop, I feel like I have to go—!” 

Nagi huffs and readjusts his grip around your waist, snuggling his cock deeper, “Then go, what’s stopping you, heiress?”

“I’m being serious…!”

Lowering his mouth to your ear, he whispers, “And so am I.”

He doesn’t care. Nagi positions his hand lower, keeping the other arm wrapped tightly around your waist, and his long, callous fingers pull your folds up, applying pressure against your full bladder. Vibrations of your whines send him to set a wicked pace until you’re creaming white around the base of his cock. The wet sounds, your moans, and the sloppy grip—it’s all too much, too exhilarating for him.

“Have to be patient…” Nagi murmurs, but his words are starting to jumble. Heat gathers and twists throughout his stomach and he winces, trying to not cum all in an instant. 

Your voice is nothing but all breathy moans, puffs of air rushing all around, and you mumble something unintelligible, but it’s all the confirmation Nagi needs. He shudders when he feels the warm wetness finally spill from your pussy as you climax at the same time. Your lewd moans are buried deep into your shoulder, and the sound is forever imprinted in his mind. He feels thousands of sparks ignite between his thighs at that saccharine note.

Nagi relishes in the warmth, until he finds his own release and pulls out, cumming all over the front of your chest, and even striking the bottom of your chin. He leans back with a gasp, gripping the sink counter for balance, his heart thundering as the bliss ebbs away entire chunks of his brain. Slowly, the haziness begins to fade, and Nagi tucks his throbbing cock away, reminding himself that he’s in a restroom of all places. 

“Fuck…”

Suddenly, Nagi hears you crying for his name and sees your entire body shaking, trying to calm down from the high of your orgasm. Wet, fat tears are streaming down your face, but he wraps one arm around the front of your body, pinning you against him. You’re both breathing heavily, covered in the sticky warmth and heavy sweat, but the feeling of your racing heartbeat is soothing him. 

Nagi holds you tight, letting his fingers get caught in your damp hair.

© 2023 DOOBEAN. do not copy any of my writing and translate/repost.

[dyeher]

“We should get married.”

The sun is too hot. You’re too sweaty and dehydrated and horny and miserable to even entertain Mikey’s lackluster proposal. It’s not even a question. It’s a statement.

He looks serious too, and hot and sweaty and delicious. You want to lick the stray beads of sweat that have collected at the base of his throat.

But you can’t because it’d be unprofessional. So, you ignore him. Adjusting the lens on your camera to snap a few more pictures of him in the natural light.

There’s a giant hibiscus tucked behind his right ear and his head is tilted up to face the sky. He’s glowing. Between him and the orange hibiscus you’re not sure who the sun is loving more.

“Did you hear me?”

“Don’t move,” you instruct, ignoring him again. He’s turned to you for acknowledgment and the light catches in the strands of his hair. It frames him in a halo of light, and in this position the hibiscus pales in comparison to him. Him and his entirely too beautiful face. His upper body flexes lightly with the movement, exposing his tattoos for the camera and when he lifts a brow at you, your mouth goes dry.

“Don’t ignore me.”

“It’s too hot Mikey,” you complain. You’re still snapping away because Mikey is moving and every shift in the muscles of his arms as he turns toward you fully, the clenching of his abdominal muscles, you aim to capture them all.

“This was your idea,” he points out.

He’s right. It was your idea and you don’t regret it. Not when you get to see him like this (because there are very few people who can see him like this and you’re truly honored to be one of them).

He sits back, pressing his hands into the soft grass behind him and elongating his torso. His jacket falls open wider and more of the small tattoos scattered across his torso are revealed. You snap a few quick shots of him from the neck done.

“I know,” you smile as you sink onto the grass next to him to click through the last five pictures you’d snapped. They’re your favorite so far.

The first is a body shot that highlights the golden pendant that’s nestled in the hollow of his throat. There’s a small butterfly tattoo on his left collar bone and Roman numerals on his right. The tattoo above his Adam’s apple matches the wording in the pendant. ‘Monster’ printed in typewriter font.

The second is a torso shot. His skin is damp from a thin layer of sweat and the sun casts his normally pale skin in a golden glow. You’d managed to capture a bead of sweat as it trickled down between his abs.

The third makes you freeze.

“Delete that,” Mikey says from over your shoulder. The heat from his body seeps into your thin shirt as he plasters himself to your back.

He’s smiling in the picture. His head tilted downward as he looks at you through his lashes, a secretive smile playing on his lips. It’s breathtaking. You’d captured his entire top half. The flexing muscles in his arms, the bunching of the muscles in his shoulders.

“Nope!” you giggle, holding the camera out of his reach. Mikey glares playfully at you.

“The only way—” he lunges, eyes locked on your own, and snatches the camera from you, ignoring your indignant yelp“—you’re keeping this is if you say yes to marrying me.”

You squint, folding your arms in front of you. “You’re not serious.”

Mikey places the camera down carefully and turns his attention to you. “I am.”

He reaches for your hands and drags you into his lap, guiding them to his shoulders and settling his own on your waist. Your eyes narrow further as he pulls you closer to him. “I’m very serious.”

You’re a little taller than him like this and when he tilts his head up to look into your eyes the hibiscus falls free from behind his ear.

“I want to marry you,” he continues. “And then you can take as many pictures of me as you want.”

You swallow, your heart suddenly thundering as Mikey continues to stare at you. “As many pictures as I want? Do you promise?”

Mikey chuckles. “I promise.”

You eye him skeptically.

He presses a soft kiss to your chin. “I’ll even let you post some of them.”

Your eyes widen. “Really?!”

He presses a kiss lower to your throat, his hair tickling your chin as he nods.

“You’re not trying to trick me into saying yes right?”

Mikey lifts his head to level a blank look at you. “Would I need to trick you?”

“Fair point,” you acquiesce.

He leaves a kiss on your right cheek and then the corner of your mouth and when his tongue comes out to lick along the seam of your lips you sigh.

He takes advantage of that and kisses you deeply. When he pulls away you blink dazedly at him.

“Ask me to marry you again after I’ve had a shower,” you blurt.

Mikey’s brows furrow. “What?”

“I’m too sticky and sweaty and hot to think straight and your cock is right—” you roll your hips, dragging your clothed sex along his erection “—there! I’m not thinking straight.”

Mikey chuckles. “How about after I’ve fucked you ?”

You pause. “In the shower?”

Mikey groans, head falling against your shoulder. “Sure, I’ll ask you again after I’ve fucked you in the shower.”

“And I’ll say yes.”

“You fucking better,” he says. “I’d hate it if you forced my hand.”

You pretend you don’t hear the threat in those words.

[foone]

idea: a lazy historian with a time machine.

they are tired of having to catalog all these battles and figure out where they were fought and who died in them and what strategies were used so they go back in time and prevent the war from happening.

they go back and stop poisonings and such so that the monarchs will have long uneventful reigns.

yeah, we learned a whole lot about roman life because of how much of it was preserved when mt. Vesuvius exploded, but who cares about that? we've got a time machine now. no volcano day, Pompeii was never destroyed. No artifacts we have to dig out from under 12 feet of ash, no bodies preserved as empty cavities we can fill with plaster of paris, it's too much fucking work.

we could study a bunch of different accounts and research random architects showing up a decade later who for some reason know latin, but you know what'd make the mystery of what happened to the princes in the tower much easier to solve? if they never got put there in the first place.

Who shot JFK? NO ONE, BECAUSE YOU WOULDN'T STOP ASKING ABOUT IT.

Their spouse works for the National Transportation Safety Board. You know what's the easiest plane crash to investigate? one that didn't happen.

[blueiskewl]

Breathtaking New Frescoes Found at Pompeii

Stunning Roman frescoes have been uncovered by archeologists in Pompeii, the ancient city destroyed by an eruption of the volcano Mount Vesuvius in the year 79 AD. Experts say the newly discovered frescoes are among the finest ever to emerge at the renowned archeological site.

The works of art line the high walls of what was once a large banquet hall. The walls themselves were painted mostly black, and the figures on the frescoes appear to emerge from the shadows. Site director Dr. Gabriel Zuchtriegel told CBS News partner network BBC News that the dark color was likely used to hide stains from the lamps that lit the hall after the sun went down.

"In the shimmering light, the paintings would have almost come to life," Zuchtriegel said.

Two pieces dominate the hall; one depicts the Greek god Apollo trying to seduce the priestess Cassandra. The second piece shows Prince Paris meeting Helen of Troy.

About a third of the "lost city" of Pompeii remains obscured by volcanic debris from the eruption almost two millennia ago. As scientists make new finds, they quickly move them to a storeroom to protect them from the elements.

The newly discovered frescoes, however, cannot be moved, so they have been protected with temporary roofing. Plaster glue is also being injected into the walls behind the artwork to stop them from falling down.

"We have a passion and a deep love for what we're doing, because what we're uncovering and protecting is for the joy also of the generations that come after us," chief restorer Dr. Roberta Prisco told the BBC, adding that the work was very stressful.

The dig site is much bigger than just the banquet hall.

Another fresco recovered from what was once one of Pompeii's grand properties had been on a ceiling, but it was smashed by the eruption that destroyed the city. Archeologists were able to lay out the pieces like a puzzle and recreate landscapes, theatrical masks, and Egyptian characters.

"This is my favorite discovery in this excavation because it is complex and rare," Dr. Alessandro Russo, co-lead archeologist on the dig, told the BBC. "It is high-quality, for a high-status individual."

In a bakery next to the grand property, the skeletons of two adults and a child were discovered.

Archeologists believe they may have been slaves who were trapped and couldn't flee the eruption, and were killed by falling stones.

"When we excavate, we wonder what we're looking at," co-lead archeologist Dr. Gennaro Iovino told the BBC. "Much like a theater stage, you have the scenery, the backdrop, and the culprit, which is Mount Vesuvius. The archeologist has to be good at filling in the gaps — telling the story of the missing cast, the families and children, the people who are not there anymore."

The team's discovery was just one of a number of recent revelations from the site, after they found other mythological-themed frescoes in early March and then, just weeks later, a construction site that was being worked on right up until the eruption.

The archeologists said near the end of March that they'd found a home construction project that was frozen in time by the eruption, with materials such as bricks and tools still piled up in the reception area of the home.

By Haley Ott.

[mediumgayitalian]

When Nico asks him out, there is vomit on his scrubs. His hair is disgusting. The bags under his eyes are actually the size of Texas, and he was born there so he says it in good confidence.

Also, it goes right over his head.

“Gods, yeah,” Will sighs, relieved. “Yeah, I could —” He laughs, a little hysterically, scrubbing his hand over his face and trying to blink the sudden onslaught of dizzy away. “I’m starving. I am — tired of this stupid room. I could use dinner out.”

“Great,” Nico says, rocking back on his heels. He twists his skull ring around his finger, like he does when he’s nervous, but there’s a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth that Will has learned, in the past few weeks of his help in the infirmary, is a smile. “I’ll — um, I’ll pick you up at seven?”

Will glances down at the rapidly-drying splatter of vomit spreading from his right shoulder all the way down to his belly button. The nasty brown-yellow colour of it clashes so violently with the mint-green of his scrubs that it might be a felony, actually. The one whole spaghetti noodle smack in the middle of it does not help.

“Yeah, I’ll need at least that long in the shower.”

Nico’s face goes through a very complicated string of emotions. “I think you look nice,” he offers.

“You and I have very different definitions of ‘nice’, di Angelo,” Will snorts. He gestures behind him. “Bye, Nico. I’ll see you in a few hours?”

“Right. Bye, Will.”

“Hey, first name status!”

“Shut up, Solace. Go change your shirt.”

Will snickers, jogging down the Big House stairs with a backwards wave. He hustles past campers jogging towards their daily activities, ducking into the Apollo cabin before someone can ask him for something.

It’s been a busy few weeks.

The Giant War was…well. It’s over, now, is the point, but it was not without casualties, and it was not without injury, and injury, and injury. Plus the flu that just had to hit right before the Romans were about to head back to California. Will has spent more nights in the infirmary in the last few weeks than he ever has, including after the Titan War. Understaffed does not begin to cover it. He had to beg Cecil for his secret Redbull stash after his third straight day on his feet, praying to his father, his aunt, and any other god who was listening to keep his hands from shaking. Without Nico’s help — well, he doesn’t want to think about how things would have gone without Nico’s help.

He’d slept through his promised three days in the infirmary. Will had restitched his werewolf scratching (—his werewolf scratches his fucking werewolf scratches his fucking shitting goddamn werewolf scratches that he stitched with sewing thread and left for gods know how many days and Will is going to quit his job, he is, he is going to live in a hut in the Florida Everglades and chase questers away with a fucking broom—) as he slept on the first day, then spent the next days glaring at him in seething jealousy.

He had wanted to sleep. He had wanted to sleep so godsdamn badly. And yet. He was plastering salve on the translucent fingers of a dumbass who pushed himself too hard.

“You can’t tell me what to do,” Will had mocked, ignoring the yelled you’re losing it, Willy! from Kayla as she passed by. “Nyeh nyeh nyeh. I can shadow travel wherever I want. Nyeh nyeh nyeh. Catch me I’m about to pass out. Nyeh nyeh nyeh.”

“I never asked you to catch me,” muttered Nico, groggily, and Will had screamed.

Not his best moment.

Luckily, his string of colourful cursing had killed any idea that Will was scared of him, or something, and the list of chores he’d doled out the second he made sure Nico could walk had put the idea in the grave.

He still can’t quite believe that Nico actually, like…listened. But he’s a good bandage cutter (very accurate) and, as a super fun bonus, the Romans were all scared of him, so when they tried to get out of their cots while their limbs were literally hanging onto them by a thread, Will just had Nico stand behind him and glare at them until they sat their asses back down.

(“You are without a doubt the best nurse I’ve ever had,” Will had grumbled, sticking his tongue out at Austin, who lazily tried to trip him. Nico had rolled his eyes, huffing as if he thought Will was joking.)

“Wow,” says Cecil, sitting in Will’s bed for some reason. He rakes his eyes up and down his body, whistling appreciatively at the towel around his waist. Will rolls his eyes and starts digging through his dresser drawers. “Look at you! So human-like! No zombie eyebags to be seen!”

“Showers don’t erase eyebags, dick for brains.”

“True, but you’re so hot when you’re not covered in blood and vomit that I can overlook them.”

“Kiss my ass, Cecil.”

“Really? Is that permission?”

Will laughs, admitting defeat. He tugs on a pair of boxers, then tosses a few clothing options on his bed.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s good to be out, Zeus’ beard. Nico’s taking me to dinner; d’you know if it’s cold in the city? And I should probably wear real shoes, right, Annabeth mentioned something about New York bacteria —”

“Woah, woah, hold on, William, pause there for a second.”

Will looks up, frowning. “What?”

“Nico’s taking you to dinner?”

Cecil’s eyes are wide. Reflexively, Will pats his chin, paranoid he’s got something on his face.

“…Yes? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Nothing! Nothing, nothing.” Quickly, Cecil schools his face back to its usual smirk, leaning casually against the bedpost. (He misses. Mercifully, Will decides to let it slide and wait for him to straighten himself. He’s a good friend, like that.)

“Well, obviously something.”

“Nope! I’m just —” He softens. “I’m glad you’re taking a break, Willy. We’ve been worried about you. Remind me to send him a lock pick set.”

“Most people send fruit,” Will suggests gently. He cuffs Cecil playfully on the jaw, rolling his eyes when Cecil catches his hand and presses a loudly exaggerated kiss to it. “Or flowers. Also, don’t call me Willy.”

“Sorry, Willy.”

“Gods, you’re infuriating.”

“Mhm. And yet you adore me. Oou, wear the grey plaid shirt, it makes your eyes look bluer. And for the love of Hermes, do not wear shorts.”

———

At seven o’clock sharp, there’s a knock on the doorframe.

“Uh, hi?”

“Nico!” Will says brightly. “Hi! You don’t have to wait by the door, dorkus. Come in.”

With a second of hesitation, Nico steps in. The usually creaky floorboards are silent under his black Chucks. Will chooses to believe that’s on purpose, because it’s cooler.

“You can sit if you want! Unless we gotta leave right away. I wasn’t actually sure, are we just going to McDonald’s or something? Also, I told Cecil he couldn’t come, I figured three would make it a party or something but lemme know if we’re bringing friends along and —”

“We’re not,” Nico interrupts.

“—tell them.” Will blinks at him, then smiles. “Just you and me, then.”

Nico clears his throat. “Yeah.” He glances up at Will, and away again, like he can’t hold his gaze for too long. He looks a little flushed. “You, uh. You braided your hair.”

“What? Oh!” Will touches the French braids on either side of his head, smiling. “Yeah, I finally had the time. Keeps my hair back better than much else. Hey, Nico, you good? You looked flushed, maybe you should —”

Nico catches his hand. He smiles.

“I’m fine, Solace. You just look nice, is all.”

Will snorts. “No kidding. Anything’s better than the vomit shirt.”

———

Nico refuses to answer any of his questions about where they’re going.

Or, well. Will asks him and endless string of questions and receives only hums or nods in response, except for the odd huff of laughter when Will pouts.

“C’mon! Can’t I just know where we’re going?”

“You’re about to.”

“I mean now, Death Breath.”

“Well, now I’m definitely not telling you.”

“Ugh.”

Nico places a fleeting hand on his elbow as they reach the base of Half-Blood Hill, stalling him.

“Wait.”

Will pauses, listening. His heartbeat picks up. Monster? Monsters?

He glances over at Nico, noticing the tension in his face, the twist to his mouth, the —

Oh, no he doesn’t.

“Hold it, Gerard Way!”

Nico startles.

“What?”

“I know that face! You are not shadow-travelling us to the city, no way, no how, do you want to dissolve —”

“Will,” Nico interrupts, laughing softly, “Will, trust me for a second. Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

Nico blinks. Will flushes.

“That was fast.”

“Well! Well.”

“I’m not shadow-travelling,” Nico promises, changing the subject when it’s clear Will has nothing to say. “I’m just summoning our ride. I promise it won’t drain me.”

“…Fine.”

Rolling his eyes fondly, Nico screws up his face again. The tiny freckles on the bridge of his nose are more obvious when he wrinkles it. Will has to shove his hands in his pockets to keep from touching them.

One moment, there’s nothing but empty road in front of them. The next, there’s a massive fucking limo, driven by what Will can only describe as a ghoul.

“There,” Nico says happily. “Our ride!”

He jogs over to the sleek black limo, leaving Will gaping. With a quick hand to keep the driver from getting up, he opens the back door, gesturing broadly.

“C’mon, Sunshine.”

Will recovers quickly. He’s never been in a limo before — hell, he’s hardly ever been in cars. He slides into the black leather seats, gaping, barely noticing Nico ducking in and closing the door behind him.

“Cleveland and Merrick, please, Jules-Albert.”

Limos are crazy.

If hotel mini bars were, like, physical places rather than tiny bottles in mini fridges, they would look like limos. The windows are tinted, so the interior is dark, illuminated a softly glowing red by strips of LEDs. There is an actual TV screen, although it’s not on. Will feels like James Bond.

“Gift from my dad,” Nico explains. “He knows he can’t always be there to drive me around, so he got Jules-Albert to take me places. He’s cool. He even answers to me, technically, and not my dad, so if anything happens back here he won’t snitch.” Nico gets so violently red he damn near goes invisible under the LEDs. “Not that — I mean, it’s more like —”

“That is so cool,” Will breathes. “Oh my gods, Nico, you are literally the coolest demigod in the world.”

“Hah,” says Nico weakly. The limo (!!) slows to a stop. “We are — here, let’s go!”

Nico practically throws himself out of the limo. Will takes one last look, thanks Jules-Albert, and hurries out after him.

———

“You gotta be kidding me.”

“What?” Nico looks at him defensively. The corner of his mouth twitches. “I thought it was pretty funny.”

Apollo Restaurant Diner, reads the garish, flashing yellow sign. Seniors half-off!

Will nudges Nico’s side as they walk in. “You should ask for the discount.”

“Keep it up and you’re paying for yourself, Solace.”

Nico guides them into a booth by the window before he can say anything. In seconds, a server is strolling up to them, popping their bubblegum and grinning.

“Welcome to Apollo’s, where if we don’t predict your order, it’s free! I’ll get you guys some sodas, and…hm. Fries to share, I think.”

They’re off, ponytail bouncing, before either of them can say anything.

“Well,” says Nico after a moment. “I guess we’re having fries.”

Will snorts. “You love fries. You love anything fried and battered, because there is nothing you love more than poor decision making.”

“Caught me, Solace.”

“Aw. I thought —”

Their server pops back in with their sodas, nodding as they thank them.

“— I thought I was bumped up to first name status! You called me Will earlier.”

Nico slurps obnoxiously at his cherry coke.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Did too!”

“Not a jury in the world will believe you, Solace.”

Will blows his straw wrapper at him. Nico barely dodges, laughing — a real, open laugh, where some of the guard drops from his shoulders, where his smile is wide enough to show his teeth, where his dark eyes cringe near shut.

“You’re so lame. Get your stupid straw wrapper away from me.”

Will feels like he doesn’t respond for ages, mesmerized by the crooked curve of Nico’s smile. There’s mischief in that smile, and oddly it makes shyness bloom in Will’s chest, it makes the tips of his ears red, makes him duck his head.

Will’s saved from trying to come up with a comment by the massive — truly gigantic — platter of fries set between them.

“Holy shit,” breathes Will, alarmed.

“Holy shit,” breathes Nico, eyes wide. The smile grows wider. “Holy shit!”

Will’s stomach growls. He’s reminded how truly hungry he is, and without another word, the two of them dig in.

They end up ordering another platter. Will theorizes that, in total, they eat at least seven whole potatoes.

“How many fries do you think is in one potato?”

“A yukon?” says Will. “Like, twenty-five, at least. Wait, hold on, pass me your napkin, lemme do the math.”

“Gods, you are such a nerd.”

Will loses count of how many times they refill their sodas. Too many. Camp food is usually very healthy — as head medic, Will has to set an example, but it’s just Nico, here. Will eats himself into a minor food coma and relishes in it. When Nico asks if he wants to order one of the giant milkshakes, he doesn’t hesitate.

“Duh. Strawberry.”

“Gross, Solace. Vanilla or nothing.”

“Basic ass bitch.”

“At least I’m not vying for strawberry!”

By the time Nico gets up to go get their bill, the sun has long since set. Will realises he forgot to put his watch back on after his shower, and has no idea what time it actually is.

“Nine-thirty ish,” Nico says, opening the limo door for him. “We’ll be back at camp at ten.”

Will grimaces. “Fuck. Will Jules-Albert chill overnight? If we try to go back to our cabins, the curfew harpies are gonna eat us.”

“Scared, Solace?”

Nico’s eyes are bright and teasing. Will wonders how the hell other campers find him so frightening — the little twitches of his mouth are so obvious. Some people are just oblivious.

“Of course I’m scared, you dickhead. What am I gonna do, sing a hymn until they go away?”

Nico snorts. “You worry too much. They’re afraid of me, you know. They’ll steer clear.”

“You have a lot of confidence in how much you scare people, which is crazy for someone who’s five eight.”

“Oh, piss off.”

Will grins. “Never.”

The drive back to camp feels shorter than it is. The limo’s seats are stupid comfortable, and Nico is a warm presence beside him, and more than anything, Will is exhausted. Last time he slept was — Thursday? He’s pretty sure? He definitely slept on Wednesday, and he’s pretty sure Kayla locked him in the back office with a pillow on Thursday. But maybe that was this morning.

“Will, hey.” A cool, calloused hand brushes over his forehead, and he leans into it, humming. “Get up, you loser. We’re here.”

Will groans. “Five more minutes.”

The soft, gravelly chuckles are the most musical things he’s ever heard. “Up you get, Sunshine, or I’ll let the harpies eat you.”

That gets Will up fast. He shoves Nico away, who’s still snickering at him, grumbling as he crawls out of the limo.

“It’s like you want me to die of stress.”

“Nah.”

They wave goodbye to Jules-Albert, who disappears in a blink. Halfway up the hill, a hand closes around his. Will glances over to Nico in surprise, but he looks resolutely ahead.

“I can feel you freaking out.” He clears his throat. “I told you, Solace. I’ll protect you.”

“That’s not what you said,” Will grumbles, but it’s hard to get his attitude across when his cheeks ache from smiling.

Nico ends up being right — the harpies steer clear of them. He looks very smug about being right, smirking all the way up to the Apollo Cabin door. He walks him up the creaking steps, pausing at the door. He lets go of Will’s hand, which is kind of a bummer. Will had liked holding his hand — physical proof that Nico was becoming more comfortable with him.

“So,” Nico says, rocking back and forth on his heels.

“So,” Will parrots, grinning. He grins wider at Nico’s scowl, gently illuminated by the soft glow of the Apollo cabin. “I had fun tonight, Nico. I needed that.”

Nico’s whole face softens. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Will smiles at him again. “Thank you.”

For a second, Nico’s slight smile melts into a more serious expression. Will finds himself lingering, searching Nico’s face. Waiting.

Quick as a dart, Nico leans up and presses a kiss to Will’s cheek.

“Oh,” Will breathes, eyes wide. His fingers come up and brush the spot Nico kissed, skin tingling.

Nico looks at him nervously. “Was that okay?”

It takes Will a solid few seconds to answer. Even then, it’s not any recognizable words — more of an embarrassing hnnnnngh wha.

Nico grins. “Goodnight, Sunshine.”

“Nico — wait.”

“Harpies, Sunshine.”

Will could swear he sees Nico’s shoulders shaking with laughter as he walks away. Which — huh! Pardon! Excuse.

“Nico! Was! Was this a date!”

“I’ll see you in the morning, Will.”

“Nico!”

Nico disappears down the bend without answering. Will manages to catch the curve of his smile before he goes.

He doesn’t sleep a wink.

[thesilicontribesman]

Reconstructed Ceiling Plaster Panel from the Bathhouse Frigidarium at Wroxeter Roman City.

The painted panels were intended to make it look like a coffered ceiling for a vault.

Later Second Century CE, Wroxeter Roman City, Shrewsbury, Shropshire

[k-hotchoisan]

congrats on five hundred darling! so proud! 🥳💕

for the this or that... number 3 perhaps??

keep going! love your work 🫶

3. Tease Yunho with toys or Jongho controlling the vibrator inside you for an entire day?

OK WAIT NOT U CALLING ME DARLING STOP IT \(//∇//)\ This one is a toughie bc boTH SOUND SO FUN…. But OKAY IMAGINE CONTROLLING YUYU…..

I feel like writing yuyu fics are my Roman Empire

When you finally catch the Cupid and decide to confront him in an unconventional way.

Warnings/genres: smut, Drabble, Eros & psyche au!, orgasm control, orgasm denial, toy play, orgasm,

Tag list: @bro-atz @diamond-3 <message me to be in my tag list✨)

K’s 500: this or that? Masterlist here!

You know you had to spend almost every week in the dim-lighted room, with a man who you didn’t even know, and you could only hear his voice and feel his touches. When he first did touch you, you never thought it would be so electrifying and it got you hooked on so quickly. Even though the both of you were always drenched in darkness, your body reacted almost automatically when you feel him cup your jaw and you immediately submit under his soft touches, as he whispered sweet nothings to you.

The only thing that stung your heart other not knowing your companion’s identity, was that by dawn break, your bedside would be left empty and cold. You didn’t mind at first, but as you spent more time together, it was inevitable—you were starting to feel something for this man, and you were getting gradually frustrated.

“You know what you should do? Fucking trap his ass”, your friend says.

“I want to, but how?” You huff in frustration.

A confident smile plasters on your friend’s face, as she pulls out a pair of glowing cuffs, and a bullet vibrator. You cock an eyebrow, picking up the vibrator.

The night came quicker than you thought, and as your heart is beating loudly in your ears. You only had one chance for this. You were always so curious of how your lover looked like, but were you ready to find out who? You almost decide to just leave it be, but the sudden reminders that you were always left alone and cold in the morning only solidified your resolve to find out his identity. You bite back the cowardliness that nips your nerves and hatched your plan.

You see his figure on the bed, obscured by the shadows of the flickering flame. He’s not leaned against the headboard waiting for you like he usually is, rather, he seemed to have fallen into slumber, his comfortable and soft breathing making him look all the more vulnerable. You almost feel bad for what you’re about to do, almost.

You climb onto the shared bed and straddle his lap, hoping it’s enough to trap him, because you know he would never hurt you.

Yunho eyes flutter open. He’s confused for a moment, until his eyes adjust to the familiar dim room around him. You definitely took awhile to arrive that he ended up taking a short nap. He realises two things:

1. You’re on his chest, sleeping soundly;

2. He tries to move, but he can’t. He looks up, and realises he’s been retrained against the headboard.

You stir, when the shaking of the chains disturb your sleep.

“Y/n?” He calls out. You shift, lifting your head as your rub your eyes.

“Hi Yunho”, you greet back, acting like nothing’s happening.

“Hey. I think I’m stuck”, a rattle of his wrists, before you feel his gaze go back to you.

You sit up, your crotch right on his, and you shift to look over, ignoring the way he groans softly under you, looking over at the cuffs you trapped him in.

“Right. You need help with that?”

You feel him nod beneath you.

“That’s gonna have to wait.”

Yunho is confused. He stares up at you, and he puts two and two together almost immediately.

“You’re not going anywhere tonight, Yunho”, you whisper.

“Wha-“ he doesn’t get a chance to complete his sentence, and terror washes over his face when you take the oil lamp seated on the nightstand, and move the light close to his face.

His facial features slowly come into view, and he’s so much more gorgeous than you thought—a face truly sculpted by the gods. It’s the first time you finally feel your eyes lock onto Yunho’s under the light. He looks at you with such softness, and all the more you want to ruin him.

You settle the oil lamp down, and Yunho opts for the smart decision not to wriggle beneath you so he doesn’t get burned (unlike the previous Eros).

“Now you know how I look like, would you let me explain and release me, please?” Yunho pleads, his pupils growing larger. A small pout appears on your lips, as your fingers trace his lips, your thumb swiping his bottom lip. His pleads sound so lovely. But it only feeds into the greed you have—being in control.

The memories of him constantly leaving you alone every morning resurface again, and your smile grows more sinister.

You grind against his slowly hardening cock, and Yunho gasps as you lean into his ear, and the words that leave your lips has shivers sending down his spine.

“No.”

“ Why are you doing this?” He asks, watching the way you remove yourself off his lap, tugging his slacks off him, his cock springing out, long and hard despite his confusion.

“For the mornings you left me cold and alone,” you simply answer, as your fingers wrap around his length, giving it a couple of pumps as you hear Yunho’s breath get caught in his throat.

“Y/n, wait-“

“We can always stop, and never see each other again.”

Yunho’s eyes widen. The truth is, he’s as attached and in love with you more than he realised. What begun as a simple mission from his mother, turned into something more than that. He knew that one day, you would discover his identity, and that it would be over, but when that though crossed his mind, he realises that he never wants to leave your side.

And the thought of you being in control for once? He has no complaints. He just never thought this day would come so soon.

“I guess I could just break Aphrodite’s rules once in awhile.”

Now you’re in between his legs, as he watches you give small licks to his twitching cock. Your eyes dart back and forth to his and his cock, watching his expressions. You relish the sounds of his soft groans and sighs before you take his cock whole in your mouth, and Yunho bucks his hip, a longer drawn groan leaving his lips.

“Fuckkk!” He cries out, trying to fit as much of his length into your mouth. You choke slightly, letting your saliva dribble past the corner of your lips to his cock. You begin to slowly bob your head, creating a rhythmic sensation that only pulls out more cries from the Cupid beneath you.

As his cries only climb in octaves, the many sessions you’ve had with him had conditioned you to recognise his reactions, and you halt, dragging your tongue upwards alongside the underside of his cock as you hear a whine.

Yunho stares at you with such a glazed out look as you’re seated upright again, licking the slick on your lips as Yunho watches on helplessly, the action only causing him to feel more sexually tensed. You pull out the small vibrator.

“Y/n, darling, what are doing?” Yunho asks, trying to hide the shivering anticipation coating his words.

“Venting my frustrations”, you reply as you stroke his thighs. The Cupid calms down slightly, as he watches you lick the device, covering it in your spit before switching it on, as it buzzes to life.

You tap it lightly onto the tip of his cockhead, and the reaction is immediate—Yunho’s whines grow high pitched, and his cockhead spurts out more clear fluid. You shift the vibrator awfully slowly across the skin to the place you know he’s extremely sensitive, and it pulls more cries out of him.

“Oh cupids, oh my gods. Y/n, please”, he begs, his legs opening on instinct, as he tries to control himself. He hates leaving you alone when dawn breaks, because the more he does it, the more it gets harder for him to do so. But he decides that he probably deserves it.

You push the toy harder against the area, and Yunho elicits a high pitched cry. It feels so fucking good, he wants you to keep doing that, he wants you to torture him like this, he wants to fucking cum-

And then it shifts, and Yunho’s eyes snap open wide, horrified, as he watches you drag the toy down his shaft. It feels so good that it hurts. You know his body as good as he knows yours and it’s a double edged sword.

The toy is at the base of his cock, and Yunho feels his balls tighten at the sensitivity—it’s so close to his balls but so far, he feels the ripples of the vibrations but it isn’t enough.

“It’s not that I wanna do it… Aphrodite…” Yunho’s mind is just turning into mush the more his stomach tightens.

You stare back into his glazed eyes, stroking his cheek endearingly, as you watch his face contort into one filled with pleasure as you trail the device upwards again, pressing against his tip.

“Aphrodite is a fucking bitch, you know. So what if she created you?”, you pout, watching him squirm as he tries to chase another orgasm, only for you to remove the toy from his cockhead, and his breathing is so erratic and heavy.

“She doesn’t need to know that I found out how you look like”, you continue. All Yunho could do is nod desperately, as he feels you press the buzzing toy right at his tip again. “For a goddess of love, she has weird rules.”

“Fuck. It’s too much”, Yunho sobs, the constant pleasure building, and being pulled away from him and then immediately flooding his senses.

“You could just break them”, you say as a matter-of-factly, twirling the device around his cock head, looking at the way he flexes his abdomen every time you brush against the sensitive area of his red-tinted cock. “She doesn’t have to know.”

“Do you think you deserve to cum?” You finally ask, albeit way too causally.

“Let me cum, darling, Angel, baby, please”, he tries again, his eyes oh so full of desperation. “I’ll do anything for you. Anything.”

You lean back, deciding to be kind for now, and up the vibration of the toy, pressing it painfully against the tip of his cockhead, and sounds Yunho makes sends so much dopamine into your brain. Your pretty little Cupid, unravelling right before your eyes.

“Cumming, cumming. Oh fuck-“ he cries, as his cock twitches uncontrollably, spurting so much thick cum, the vibrations only sending him into deeper layers of pleasure.

“So fucking good. Oh gods, it’s so much, haah-“ his moans are slowly turning into sobs, as his eyes roll back from the overstimulation. Your breathing is ragged now, seeing your partner in such bliss, that you are almost jealous.

You bite your lip as you drop the vibrator onto the bed after turning it off, as you reach over to uncuff his wrists. Deep down, you knew he had to go since you found out about his identity. But the moment you release his shackles, his wings grow wide as it spans and towers over you, as if his big frame wasn’t enough.

Now he’s on top of you. Yunho has a frenzied glint in his eyes, and it’s your turn for your heart to thump in anticipation.

Yunho has you trapped beneath him this time, as he stares at you hungrily. You’ve never seen him like this before.

“You’d best believe I’d defy Aphrodite. And on top of that, you’re not leaving until I fuck you so fucking sore, not even when dawn breaks.”

[hedgehog-moss]

About translation. I remember reading a translated version of the Illiad and the pre-note praised the translator because he had managed to balance making the translation work in Swedish while also keeping the original greek feel. It's often regarded as one of the best translations there is (in Sweden) and it makes me feel as if translating a book/poem/text is an art in itself.

Oh I love when translators do this, when it works—writing with an accent, by echoing the voice of a historical period. Marguerite Yourcenar did something similar with Memoirs of Hadrian—it's not a translation of a classic text but she wrote it in French as if it were, so it would feel authentic as the autobiography of a Roman emperor. Translation was an integral part of it: she would translate her first drafts from French to Latin or Ancient Greek (as Hadrian spoke both), which allowed her to notice phrasings that sounded wrong, too modern, and then she'd edit the French sentences accordingly.

It was translated in English by Marguerite Yourcenar's gal pal life companion Grace Frick, but I've not read the English version. It would be interesting to see how she made the archaisms work, considering English and French haven't preserved the same words from Latin and Greek. (To say nothing of Swedish or other translations!) For example the word "janiteur" appears in the French text to refer to a servant or guard; it comes from Latin ianitor and is meant to sound archaic or odd in French as we don't have this word; but American English does have janitor from Latin so the "classic" feel is lost and you'll have to use a different word and compensate for it elsewhere...

(Yourcenar couldn't predict this but since French has a lot more English loanwords nowadays than when she started writing her book in the 1920s, janiteur now sounds like an anglicism rather than a latinism. I wonder if she'd feel upset or intrigued if she knew that a modern-sounding word has sneaked into her carefully-chiselled text simply because another modern language we often borrow from has kept it alive)

Literary translation is definitely an art and I love that it can be used as a tool to cultivate a unique writing style too :) In her postface describing her writing process, Yourcenar said that translating her French sentences into Latin or Greek made the modern vocabulary, phrasings or even ways of thinking, as visible as plaster on a marble statue. She also compared the process to archaeological excavation, letting the voice of a Roman emperor emerge from under the layers of time and new words and syntax that were keeping it buried.

[pawnshopbleus]

Miller's Girl - Part One

Professor!Joel Miller x Fem!College Student!Reader Very Loosely based off of the new movie, Miller's Girl, starring Jenna Ortega and Martin Freeman

Summary - Your landlord decides to raise the rent in your studio apartment the day you are fired from your job. In need of money, you sign up for a babysitting service your friend suggested. You didn’t expect to get an offer so quickly, and you also didn’t expect to come from your professor.

Series contains - cursing, mature language, teacher x student relationship, age gap, smut, fluff, angst, non beta read chapters and everything else I forgot to mention

College, no outbreak, and modern AU

The record store in downtown Austin was filled to the brim with people excited to have their items signed by their favorite band. The crowd was a mix of teen girls with their dads and middle-aged men on their lonesome. The band in question was some underground band from the eighties that you had never heard of. 

Your co-worker, Emma, was in charge of keeping the crowd in check while you were manning the register. This wasn’t the first time you had done these signings. In the two years that you have worked here, hundreds of artists have come in and out of those doors. They attract their loyal fans to the store which can give it more publicity and customers. 

Your eyes scan the crowd. It was still pretty full, but the line had stopped trickling out of the doors and onto the sidewalk. You look over at Emma to see her standing with her weight on her left hip and her arms crossed. If you didn’t know her, you would have thought she looked like a bitch, but in all actuality, she is the nicest girl you know. 

The doors open and the bell above it rings. Your boss comes in and surveys the store. His bald head nods as he skims it. Nothing had been stolen and the customers looked happy. When his eyes land on you, your heart drops. You know that look. It was the same look he gave your other co-worker that look right before he fired him. You cross your fingers under the counter and plaster a fake smile on your face. 

Your entire world looks like it’s in slow motion. Your boss steps closer. Each step he takes makes your heart thump in your chest. The sound his thousand-dollar shoes make on the floor sounds like the bombs used on the battlefield. 

You don’t know if you either blacked out or passed out, but the next thing you knew, you were in the staff room gathering your things. This would be the last time you would ever step foot in this record store as an employee, but that should have been the least of your worries. You needed this job. Without it, you won’t be able to afford rent. Luckily, you were smart enough to get a full-ride scholarship for the university you attended, but there were still other expenses that needed to be paid. 

The hallway of your apartment building seemed colder than it usually is. The usual shushing of dogs who aren’t supposed to be in the apartment is replaced with static. The crickets weren’t even chirping. The sound of your breathing brought you out of your tiny rut. At least you were still alive.

The pink paper in front of your door made you stop in your tracks. You could read what it said from where you stood. ‘Rent will be increased to a thousand dollars a month’ was typed out in Times New Roman. Only pretentious bitches type in Times New Roman. 

You were sure that this was the work of the couple that bought the building six months ago. They promised the residents who lived there that the rent would stay the same, but the promise had just been broken. You were worried for yourself, sure, but you were also worried about the elderly people who couldn’t afford to go anywhere else. 

You wish nothing but the worst for the new landlords and make your way into your studio apartment. It’s a mess, just the way you left it this morning. Your cat, Bill, lays outstretched on your couch as if he were the one who just worked eight hours only to get fired at the end of it. 

You flop on your couch and sigh. For the first time in a while, you don’t know what to do. You just got fired and your rent got increased. If you can’t pay rent then you’ll become another homeless college student. Just another statistic to the state and a burden to the university. 

Your phone chimes and you almost cry with joy as you see your best friend’s caller ID flash across the screen. 

You pick up the phone and she begins talking immediately. She goes on and on about some boy she saw a the mall. He had icy blonde hair, but his roots were showing which meant that he wasn’t a natural blonde. This was a good distraction for about a few minutes until you realized that you wouldn’t be able to afford to go to the mall anymore. 

Your hot tears dribbled down your cheeks and fell onto your chest. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Cherry, I just got fired from my fucking job because my boss wants to buy more fucking shoes and my rent just got fucking increased because my landlords are fucking bastards!” You say through tears. “I think I just heard you say ‘fucking’ in that one sentence more times than I have heard you say it in your entire life,” Cherry laughs. 

“It’s not funny, Cherry. I'm going to be homeless!”

“Stop being dramatic. Sign up for flowers for one dot com. It’s a babysitting website where single parents find a babysitter for their children. My cousin did it for about a year and made more money than she does at her regular job.” 

For the first time in a very long time, Cherry gave you actual good advice. She gave you a solution to all of your problems. 

“Thanks, Cher, bye.” You hang up before Cherry has a chance to say goodbye. 

Your phone drops onto the couch and bounces off, falling on the floor. You suck in air through your teeth and grab your phone off the floor. You should be more gentle with it because you can’t afford to get a new one if it breaks. 

Flowers for one dot com was a simple website. It got straight to the point. No fancy explanation of ‘who are we’ or ‘why do we do this.’  You include the fact that you are certified by the Red Cross in CPR and that you are a senior at The University of Texas at Austin. You also add that you are majoring in architecture and the fact that you want to become an interior designer. 

Your profile is up and running in an hour. You look over it again and close your laptop. Your life is falling apart piece by piece, but maybe you should clean up a bit. 

The dirty clothes that were being neglected in the corner of your room are now in your hamper. You can see the hardwood floor that you’ll be paying a thousand dollars a month for. 

Your phone chimes once again, but this time it’s an email from the website. You almost drop your phone again as you read who it’s from. 

Joel Miller, Professor of Architectural Studies at The University of Texas at Austin.

I'm the pretentious bitch that writes in Times New Roman 🙋🏿‍♀️

[tiny-librarian]

Plaster cast of a child's face, from a mould accidently made when cement seal of sarcophagus leaked inside and covered childs face, found in France in 1878, Roman, 1st century AD, cast 1878-1920

The handwritten French label on the reverse of this tiny plaster cast explains its history. In 1878, a stone Roman burial sarcophagus was found in the gardens of a Paris convent. When a tiny Roman child died 1800 years before, cement sealing the sarcophagus leaked inside and formed a mould of the child’s face. This plaster cast was created using that mould sometime between its discovery and 1920. The translation states the child was buried with a perfectly preserved small glass bottle. However, there is no indication of the cause of death.

The label indicates the child came from Arènes de Lutèce, a prosperous and important Gallo-Roman town within modern day Paris. The Roman remains of Arènes de Lutèce were rediscovered in the 1860s during excavations for the building of a new tram stop.

Source