Arthur w/ a cartoonist s/o HeadCanons : You are an independent cartoonist and have a lot of work, you often finish in the middle of the night. Arthur wants to participate your project, and shows you his gratitude.
Ideological Disability // Arthur's Opinion! //, pt. 1 , pt.2 , pt.3 : What if Arthur found the courage to face Thomas Wayne in a very very cynical way? Maybe teasing Thomasâs âculturalâ side, that side that he shows with so much vanity? Maybe the citizens may be way more cultured than him.
Arthur w/ dom s/o - request
Don't Leave Me (ff on AO3) [deleted, will re-write it]
Arthur flirting with Y/N - request
Age gap with Arthur - request
Arthur/Joker dating headcanons - request
SHORT - A kiss so desperate that the two wind around each other, refusing to let go until they are finished - request
Arthur x gn green eyes reader - request
Arthur and Joker's turn on's/off's - request
ABBĂ DE COULMIER
AbbĂŠ de Coulmier x Reader // Childhood friends HCs : Madeleine doesnât appreciate it, but youâve been known the AbbĂŠ for a very long time.
Maybe you're right. (AbbĂŠ x Best Friend!Reader): The AbbĂŠ is tired of the Marquisâs writings and you cheer him up.
Riddle of Time, pt.1 , pt.2 , pt.3 , pt.4 , pt.5 : Charenton hides hundreds of secret, and so every person in there do.
Protège-moi (Fluff / AbbĂŠ de Coulmier x Reader), pt.1 , pt.2 : You are the betrothed of a man that you donât even know, and the AbbĂŠ has a fit of weird and passionate jealousy for you. He sees you as someone to protect at all costs.
The Prince and the Rascal, pt.1 , pt.2 , pt.3, pt.4 : The AbbĂŠ is the victim of a fugitiveâs insistent attention, and he's not the best at handling his avances.
AbbĂŠ w/ pregnant reader - request
Crazy AbbĂŠ x Director!Reader - request (pt.1 , pt.2)
Abbe x gender questioning reader - request
JIMMY EMMETT
Turn-ons for Jimmy Emmett, Max California and Willie Gutierrez - request
Jimmy and Reader to the prom - request
SHORT - A kiss that lasts so long, they are sharing each other's breath - request
MAX CALIFORNIA
Turn-ons for Jimmy Emmett, Max California and Willie Gutierrez - request
Max helps his the reader with studying - request
COMMODUS
Commodus enjoys being a sub - request
WILLIE GUTIERREZ
Be my secret Valentine - request
Turn-ons for Jimmy Emmett, Max California and Willie Gutierrez - request
Willie being jealous of his s/o - request
SHORT - Tucking their hands beneath the other person's shirt, just to see them break the kiss and gasp in surprise at the sensation of cold/warm hands on their skin - request
WADE WILSON
Was it planned? - request
VIRGIL OLDMAN
The Best Chance, Prologue/Ch 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10- Virgil Oldman starts questioning himself completely at the tender age of 63.
Over the past two years, the mess that is generative AI has barrelled its way through human creative spaces. Itâs been⌠a shit show.
The effects of this hostile takeover are well reported: slop, enshittification, deepfakes, misinformation. AI came straight for creative work first (because it was illegally trained on it đ)âand yet, beyond the (very real) concern of industry redundancies, and the (dubious) claims of AI âreplacingâ human creatives, thereâs notably a lack of discussion about how itâs impacted creatives just being creative.
Writing, scrolling, reading onlineâthe basic ways we live our daily creativity are being impacted by This Thing, and it deserves more attention.
We know you have an opinionâand we know itâs good. Weâd love if youâd share it with us.
The survey is anonymous and takes about 3 minutes. Weâll compile some of the findings and publish for all to read. (And if you want to be quoted in a future essay or social posts, please feel free to leave your name/pseudonym or social handles in the optional contact form at the end.)
We're committed to supporting human creatives in the age of AIâand weâre working to build a human-led, human-affirming network to make sure that human creativity is protected. Because without art, weâd be really screwed.
So please, tell us how we can help! Take the survey here.
it's out of question weather the marquis and the abbe had sex, bc there is no way they hadn't
the true question is - how
i imagine it was quite unexpectedly, since the marquis wanted to bring out the real perversion in their affair. he fucked the abbe, i'm like 98% sure of that. but he didn't do it in a brutal way, not even close to the things he writes and talks about. there were no terribly obscene moments, no painful act, nor any other sadistic act.
no. he knew that there was one thing the abbe would see as the most perverted one; the one that would bring up so much guilt in him. he made love to him, tender and slow. he drew out every thrust, savoured every sound, whispered the abbes name. he held eye contact, ran his fingers of the abbes sweat slick body, he intertwined their hands and took him apart.
he made him desire the touch of a man, over and over again. made him sin. had him believe that he was no better than the marquis himself.
gay ships are so weird. cause why is it like "what in God's name am I to do with you? The... The more I forbid, the more you're provoked! .... Strip" And then we get a scene in which he strips slowly on purpose and then also "your breeches as well" and then he stares at his cock
Oh and the other guy be like "you started this little game... you finish it... Or haven't you the courage?"
And because that's not enough we've also got "It's a potent aphrodisiac... Isn't it - numbling? Having power over another man?"
Commodus the whore of the Empress Final chapter, Commodus x Empress!reader
Thank you all for reading through this story ! it wasn't planned to last so many chapters and once again apologies for how long I took to finish it but I wanted to end it the best way possible and for months I struggle to write an end that felt satisfying to me! I hope you will enjoy it
(link to part 1, 2 ; 3 here chapter 4, 5 )
Previously:
âI am doing you a favor by telling you as a token of our past allianceâŚâ he lied as easily as he breathed, his voice smooth like silk. âIf you took power, you would have an heir. You would have everything you desire. What you do with her afterwards is your business. But if you wait too longâŚ?â He detailed him with a hint of a superior air âYou should act before it is too lateâŚbefore that child is born. Before her rule becomes unquestionableâŚbefore she no longer needs you?â Falco leaned in, his voice dropping lower, pressing the final dagger of his words
âBefore you truly become worthless...â
Commodus told himself he trusted you. And for a time, he believed it. He believed in the silk-soft hush of your voice when you dismissed your advisors to call him in, in the warm weight of your palm, his heart beating so fast it made him forget the world. He believed it when your mouth opened for him, when your thighs parted, when you whispered his name not as an order, but as something sacred. But Falcoâs words had a poison all their own, the most effective on Commodus. Â
âShe uses you, Commodus. She keeps you fat and fucked so you donât see the strings above your head.â he had whispered with faked concern.Â
âGo fuck yourself. Youâre not even worthy of a dogâs attention.â Heâd laughed then, sharp and bloody. He was your servant, a faithful one...he wanted to be. But no matter how much he resisted, he had always been weak to paranoia, a victim of his own insecurities. Â
In the following hours, his reason started to be eaten away, replaced by a deep, growing sorrow. That evening, as he massaged your shoulders by the brazier, he considered confronting you. "My Empr-..." he started, but you glanced back, your expression unreadable, though he felt an aura of tiredness and unrest. He said nothing, not wanting to bother.Â
Later that night, as you lay draped across his chest, your fingers tracing lazy circles into his skin, his eyes were locked on the ceiling, thoughts knotted like ropes. âDid you ever lie to me?â He was dying to ask, yet he didnât find the courage. Instead, he buried a hand in your hair and waited for sleep to take you.Â
But keeping his worries, his doubts to himself had been a bad decision. The distance began to grow. He started to watch you not as a lover, but as a man trying to survive once again. He took mental notes, tried to peek at the scroll you read, sealed in unfamiliar wax, before you burned it in the brazier. His heart sank when a hushed conversation with Falco was severed the moment he entered.Â
He began to pull away. Just slightly, just enough to give you space and see what you did with it. He began sleeping with his back turned, and when you reached for him in the night, your hand found only empty sheets.Â
Of course, you felt the distance, it terrified you. You remembered that look from years past, from before he had been stripped of his crown, suspicion masked behind silence, tenderness held hostage by fear. And now, it was back. This wasn't about Rome; this was about you. You saw the way he watched you with calculation, as if trying to see beneath your skin. When he kissed you, it was soft but brief, as if memorizing something he expected to lose.Â
You began to consider Falcoâs proposal. Marriage, legitimacy. Protection for the child, for Rome, for Commodus. But the idea of Falco touching you was unbearable. Could the twisted love you shared with Commodus survive Rome? Could you protect him? The questions were a weight on your heart.Â
Your belly had begun to swell more, now unmistakable. You no longer drank wine, and you cradled it absently, your fingers unconsciously guarding the life within. You rarely went out of the palace, keeping the news a secret for now. You didnât speak of the pregnancy with Commodus; it felt too sacred, yet too forbidden. Sometimes, in the dark, you would guide his hand to your stomach, and he would feel the gentle flutter, the promise of something more. But you never spoke of the future, because you both feared it.Â
One night, you woke to the sound of his breath, uneven and shallow. He sat at the edge of the bed, his shoulders rigid in the moonlight.Â
"Commodus?" You called, sitting up, the sheet sliding off your chest.Â
"Do you love me?" he asked, his voice rough. He kept his back turned to you. You felt him deeply wounded.Â
"What?" you asked. He turned, his eyes wet, glinting with a raw plea.Â
"Do you love me?" he repeated, quieter this time, his fist clenching at his side.Â
âYou know I do.â you answered. You rarely spoke those words but they were no less true. But they brought him no satisfaction. He laid back down, his back to you. You reached out, but your hand landed on a stranger; he even winced at your touch. Confused and hurt, you wondered what nightmare could have been so bad that your words failed to soothe him.Â
Weeks passed, the silence between you had become heavier. You had not spoken of your fears, and Commodus, for all his gentleness, carried a silence now that was heavier than chains. But tonight, something shifted. You were reading alone by the fire when you felt it, not a faint flutter, but a clear, insistent kick. Your breath caught.Â
"Commodus." you called softly, your voice trembling. "Come here." You ordered, looking at your lover. He was nearby, polishing one of your jewels with absent hands. He obeyed, kneeling beside you. You took his hand and guided it to your stomach. A kick. Commodusâ eyes widened. Then another kick followed. For a moment, the years, the conflicts fell away. He was just a man, kneeling beside the woman he loved, feeling the life they had created. He even smiled, his eyes teary with the emotion of having created this baby.Â
"Commodus..." you spoke after a while, your voice low and firm as you reached to cup his chin. "What is going through your mind?" You asked. He looked at you, and for a breath, you thought he would finally tell you. But instead, he smiled, too quickly, too easily.Â
"Nothing." he said dismissively "Iâm just⌠nervous. About the baby."Â
"Commodus-..." He leaned forward and kissed your belly, his lips soft against the place where the child had stirred. He rested his forehead there, hiding his eyes. Â
"I didnât think I would ever feel this..." he murmured. "Not like this. Not with you."Â
You wanted to believe him. You wanted to pull him into your arms and crush the doubt out of his heart. But as he whispered reassurances that felt too smooth, too rehearsed, you felt... a fracture beneath the surface. And still, you said nothing. And neither did he.Â
The next day, his paranoia, momentarily quieted by the child's kick, roared back to life. It drove him to follow you. He could not stop doubting you; after all it wasnât the first time you broke his trust, he thought. He stopped outside your study, the door slightly ajar. Â
"...if you truly want to secure your future..." He heard Falco murmur "you cannot hesitate any longer. You and I both know this is the only way."Â
"Perhaps youâre right..." You answered after a moment of silence, the back of your fingers brushing over your lip repeatedly, a gesture she had absorbed from Commodus. Your tone was quiet, measured. No, he had misheard, it couldnât be.Â
"Good." Falco continued, pleased. "It will be done before the child is born. The moment will pass quickly, clean, decisive. No loose ends."Â
Commodusâs mind twisted the words. âBefore the child is born. Clean, decisive. No loose ends.â You were going to kill him. You had lied. You had fed him love like wine, only to poison the cup. He stepped back, breath ragged, his heart clenching like a thing trying to escape. It had all been a lie. Like his father, like Lucilla, like Rome itself, you would discard him. He turned, vision blurred with heartbreak and fury. He had to act first. Before you struck. Before he lost everything!Â
You heard a shuffling noise outside. Commodus was spying as he usually did these past weeks. He was building a twisted scenario in his mind and that could not last. It was enough. You would not let the empire crumble from within due to a snakeâs whispered poison. You would not lose Commodus to the ghosts that haunted his past. Â
The thought of Senator Falcoâs slick, ingratiating smile made your stomach turn, but his proposal, however repulsive, had been a key. A key to a door you could now lock forever.Â
âCommodus. Come here, I know youâre there.â you called your voice crisp and leaving no room for questions. âSenator Falco, stay.â You smiled, feeling the unease appear in the senatorâs stance.Â
You felt the shift in the air, the tension growing. Commodus passed the door, his eyes throwing daggers at Falco, then refusing to meet yours, looking at the ground, not respectfully but out of anger. You could see it at the subtle tightening of his shoulders. You ignored it, your resolve hardening. You needed to cut out the infection spreading in the palace, take out the virus before Commodus could not be saved anymore.Â
âSenator.â you began, your voice devoid of any warmth. âAbout your proposal. This marriage of⌠convenience. There are things I would like to discuss.â Â
âA wise choice, Empress. Marrying me would secure the dynasty and bring stability to the Senate.â Falcoâs smile widened, sensing victory, thinking this was another blade the empress wanted to throw on Commodus, wanting to watch him suffer the news. You stood, and stepped closer to the senator, your gaze like flint. Â
âLet me be perfectly clear. The only thing I would find convenient is seeing your head on a spike outside the city gates. I will not marry you. I will not have you. I will not suffer your presence in my court any longer than is necessary to dismantle the web of influence you think you have spun. You will retire from the Senate on the morrow, citing ill health. If you speak a single word of this to anyone, if I even sense your shadow near the palace again, I will have you crucified upside down along the Appian Way as a warning to all who think they can plot in my house. Do I make myself clear?â your spoke, your voice unflinching. You had let doubt invade you. You were the Empress damn it ! The most powerful man in the world, who had the power of life and death over anyone in this world, you reminded yourself.Â
Falcoâs face went through a series of rapid transformations, from triumph, to confusion, to a pale, slack-jawed terror. Â
âBut your Highness. What about the child?â He stammered, raising the question of the father of the baby.Â
âGet out.â you snarled. He scrambled backward, bowing and scraping, and fled the atrium like a whipped dog. You stood there for a long moment, a tremor running through you. It was done. You had publicly chosen to protect Commodus. You had chosen him. Now, you just had to make him see it.Â
But Commodus didn't see it. He saw a performance. He saw you toy with the Senator before dismissing him, a calculated display of power meant to hide your true alliance. He heard Falcoâs desperate plea about "the child" and your cold dismissal. In his mind, Falco wasn't asking about legitimacy; he was asking about the obstacle: Commodus. Your threats weren't a rejection; they were a promise to handle the "loose ends" yourself, away from prying eyes. He had heard you say you were considering the proposal, and in his poisoned heart, that was the only truth that mattered. The rest was just theatre for his benefit.Â
A coldness, vast and absolute, seeped into his bones. The love he had for you curdled into a hard, sharp-edged thing of pure, agonizing betrayal. He would not be a loose end. He would not be a ghost haunting your new reign. He would not be discarded again by those he loved.... he had been a fool to think he could ever be anything else than a nuisance. He quickly turned around and rushed away from your study.Â
âCommodus! Come here!â you called him, not expecting him to flee from the scene. You went after him, walking as fast as your belly allowed you to. Â
He led you to the chambers. The room felt cold, even though the braziers were lit. You found Commodus standing by the open balcony doors, a silhouette against the bruised twilight of the Roman sky. He wasn't looking at the view; he was staring into the distance, his posture unnervingly still, like a statue.Â
âCommodus.â you called, your voice softer than you intended. You wanted to go to him, to tell him you had fought for him, that you had torn down the threat for your love story. But the words felt fragile, and the air between was already thick with unspoken things.Â
He turned slowly. His face was a mask you had never seen before, not the haunted look of a broken slave, nor the proud glare of a wronged emperor. It was blank, terrifyingly empty. Â
âI hope he was worth it.â he said. His voice was not a shout, not a hiss, but a calm, quiet blade sliding between your ribs. You froze, the warmth draining from your face. Â
âWhat⌠what are you talking about?â had he not listened? Had he not understood what you just did for him?Â
âDonât.â he cut you off, taking a step forward. The placid mask cracked, revealing the raw fury beneath. âDonât you dare look at me with confusion. Donât you dare pretend you donât know.â He took another step, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. âWas it all just to keep me âfat and fuckedâ so I wouldnât see the strings above my head? So I wouldnât notice you making your arrangements?â The accusation, so close to Falcoâs venom, struck you like a physical blow. The fragile hope youâd carried in with you shattered.Â
âHow dare you...â You breathed, your own anger rising to meet his, a hot, defensive wave. âHow dare you question me after everything? After I took you into my bed? After I trusted you with my life? after I decided to keep your seed inside me?âÂ
âTrusted me?â he let out a harsh, broken laugh. âYou donât even know the meaning of the word! You whisper your devotion in the dark and then make deals with snakes in the light!â he raised his voice, something he had never done before.Â
âDeals? I was ending it!â you yelled, your voice echoing in the chamber. âI was protecting you! I was protecting us!âÂ
The word âusâ seemed to hang in the air, a mockery. He shook his head, his eyes wild with a pain so deep it looked like madness. âUs? Donât lie to me! Not about this! You were going to marry him, werenât you? Legitimize your reign, legitimize our child with his name, and then what? Were you going to have him thank me for the seed before you had me dragged away and executed? âClean, decisive, no loose endsâ? whatâs your excuse?!â he grinned bitterly. He was quoting Falco but you only heard the depth of his paranoia, the complete conviction of your betrayal. Â
âHe's playing you, you fool! He wants you to kill me so he can take our child!â you said, your voice dropping to a dangerously low whisper. âYou are just as broken as your father always said you were.âÂ
The mention of his father was the final, unforgivable blow. It was a wound you knew, a cruelty you had wielded before, but this time it was different. This time it was fueled by your own hurt. He lunged. Not with a weapon, but with his bare hands. He grabbed your arm, and your throat with the other hand, his grip like iron, his face contorted with a lifetime of betrayal.Â
You just had the time to cry out. It had the effect of bringing him back to his senses and let go. He sank to his knees, forehead at your feet, his body wracked with sobs. Â
"I'm sorry!" he choked out. "Gods, I'm sorry..." He cried as your praetorians came in, ready to assist you. But with a gesture of your hand, you stopped them.Â
You stood over him, your own body trembling with adrenaline and a profound, chilling sorrow. You had pushed him to this. You had seen the poison in his veins and had done nothing, waiting until he reached his limits. You had been careless. Â
Yet you did not kneel to comfort him. You did not pull him into your arms. You were an Empress, and you would not let your empire fall. Â
âFetch me the scrolls on my desk.â you ordered the praetorians who obeyed instantly. As soon as they handed you the scrolls, you dismissed them. Ignoring their wariness of leaving you alone with the rebellious slave. You walked to him and unrolled the map of your spy network on the floor before him.Â
"Look at me." you commanded, your voice cold as steel. He slowly lifted his head, his face a mess of tears and despair. "Falco told you I was going to kill you. He wanted to marry me and use our child as a pawn to legitimize his reign." You pointed to a name on the map. "This is the captain of the Praetorian guard. He has been taking Falco's money for six months and reporting every coin to me." You unrolled another scroll. "This is a confession from a scribe who was paid to forge a marriage contract. He has been in my custody for a week." You looked down at the man you loved, shattered at your feet. Â
"I am not asking for your forgiveness, Commodus. I am telling you the truth. I am going to destroy him. Not in a back alley, not with poison. I am going to strip him of his power and his life in the full light of day, in front of all of Rome. And you are going to help me." You walked to a chest and pulled out the heavy, iron slave collar. You threw it on the floor between you. "He is right about one thing. Your position is not secure. You are a slave. You are nothing in the eyes of Rome." He flinched, a fresh wave of agony washing over him.Â
"But..." you continued, your voice dropping to a lethal whisper, "you are my slave. my property. And I will not let a snake like Falco take what is mine."Â
He stared at you, his breath hitching in ragged sobs. He looked from the cold iron on the floor to your eyes. He saw the ruthlessness, the cunning, the absolute, terrifying power. And for the first time, he saw beneath it all. He saw a desperate, possessive love that mirrored his own. You weren't just protecting a throne; you were protecting your world. Your man. Your family. This was the language he understood better than any other. He reached out, his fingers brushing against the cold iron of the collar. He picked it up and held it out to you, his hands shaking, an offering of absolute, unconditional surrender. Â
"My Empress..." he breathed, and for the first time in weeks, the words were not hollow. They were a prayer. A prayer to forgive his weak broken spirit and love him. That was all he needed.Â
******Â
The day of the âtrialâ the Colosseum was packed to capacity. The Senate, confused and intrigued, sat in their honored box. Falco, dressed in his finest senatorial robes, was the picture of smug confidence, certain he had you cornered. He was ready to forgive your outburst of the previous day...as long as he had what he wanted.Â
You sat on the imperial throne, a simple, elegant stola of deep crimson that did little to hide the curve of your belly. Commodus stood behind you, a silent, powerful shadow, his hand resting near the hilt of your ceremonial dagger. He was no longer a ghost; he was a coiled spring, radiating a dangerous energy that silenced any whispers. You raised a hand, and the roar of the crowd died down. Â
"Citizens of Rome! We are gathered today not for games, but for justice!"Â
You gave a signal. The massive gates below the imperial box groaned open. The crowd expected gladiators, or perhaps starving beasts. But it was not warriors who marched out. It was a line of men, senators in their togas, wealthy merchants, even a pair of grim-faced Praetorian guards. They formed a line before your throne.Â
One by one, they stepped forward. A senator accused Falco of embezzlement, producing ledgers. A merchant detailed a campaign of extortion, presenting witnesses. The two guards gave their testimony, their voices echoing across the sand as they recounted Falco's offer to betray you. With each accusation, the crowd's gasps grew louder. Falco's face turned from smugness to confusion, then to panic, as he realized he was not the prosecutor, but the prey. He had been outmaneuvered, outplayed, and utterly cornered. Â
He looked wildly around the arena, searching for an ally, for an escape route, and found none. The entire Coliseum was a cage of your making. You slowly rose to your feet, your voice echoing across the arena, imbued with the chilling finality of a judge. Â
"The people have been heard. The evidence is clear. Quintus Pompeianus Falco, you are guilty of treason against the Empire and against your Empress. Justice will be done." Your gaze swept over the arena before settling on the man behind you. You gave a subtle, almost imperceptible nod. It was time. The final act was about to begin.Â
Falco's punishment was not an execution. An execution would have been a mercy, a release he did not deserve. No, you declared his fate would be a spectacle, a living fresco of treachery's reward painted for all of Rome to see.Â
For three days, the Coliseum was your theater of cruelty. On the first day, Falco was stripped of his senatorial robes and dressed in rags. He was forced to scrub the bloodstained sand of the arena with a small brush, on his hands and knees, while the crowd hurled rotten fruit and insults at him. On the second day, he was pitted against a pack of mangy, snarling dogs, not to fight, but to run from, his dignity shredded with each terrified stumble. The final day was the most poetic. He was chained to a post in the center of the arena, and a herald read aloud his every crime, his every betrayal, while the people of Rome turned their backs on him in unison. He was not killed by a gladiator's blade, but by the hand of Commodus. The former prince gladiator making his grand return. His body was dragged through the city before being thrown away, broken, forgotten. It was a ruthlessness that sent a clear, chilling message to every enemy in the Empire.Â
But in the aftermath, a new legend was born. Not of an Empress's cruelty, but of her champion's prowess. To cement Commodus's place in the public's heart and to give him an outlet for the warrior spirit that still burned within him, you allowed him to fight. Not as a slave, not as a condemned man, but as Rome's greatest entertainer. He became the Lion of the Colosseum, his matches choreographed spectacles of skill and bravery. He fought with a ferocity that thrilled the masses, his victories celebrated with thunderous applause. He was no longer a disgraced emperor, the pleasure lave; he was a hero, a god of the arena, beloved by the people who had once called for his blood.Â
Months later, the roar of the crowd was different. It was not the bloodthirsty scream of the arena, but the adoring chant of a people celebrating their future. You stood on the imperial balcony, the sun warm on your face, your son cradled in your arms. He was small and perfect, a new dynasty swaddled in silk.Â
Beside you, a hand rested gently on the small of your back. You looked up at Commodus. He was no longer the gaunt, haunted slave or the desperate, bloody fighter. He was dressed in the white and gold of a ruler, his posture proud, his eyes clear. The Senate, in a move of frantic political pragmatism after you had exposed and executed Falco for treason, had formally rehabilitated him. He was not just your consort; he was Co-Emperor, his Antonine blood legitimizing your son in the eyes of all Rome. He was yours in public, as he had always been in private. You had won. Together.Â
Later, behind the heavy curtains of the imperial chambers, the weight of the day fell away. The gold and silk of the public triumph were discarded, leaving only the two of you in the flickering firelight. The air was thick with the unspoken, with the memory of blood on sand and a thumb pointed down.Â
Commodus stood before you, entirely yours. Slowly, deliberately, he sank to his knees, the movement fluid and sure. He pressed his forehead against the soft fabric of your stola, right over your stomach, with deep reverence.Â
âMy Empress.â he murmured, his voice a low, intimate rumble against your skin.Â
You buried your fingers in his thick curls, tilting his head back to look at you. His eyes were dark, filled not with fear or doubt, but with a burning, absolute devotion. The public adulation was a heady wine, but this was the only sanctuary that mattered.Â
âYou fought well today, my consort.â you whispered, a slow, wicked smile playing on your lips. A matching grin spread across his face. Â
âI live only to serve.â he replied, the words a sacred vow. His hands, strong enough to wield a sword and end a life, began a slow, reverent journey up the backs of your legs, tracing the curves of your calves. He nudged the fabric of your stola aside, his mouth finding the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. âMy goddess...âÂ
You gasped, your head falling back as his tongue traced a path of fire. He was the most powerful man in Rome, and he was on his knees, ready to worship you. But you wanted more. You wanted to see him lose all control.Â
You fisted his hair, pulling his head back sharply. He groaned, his eyes fluttering shut in pleasure. âLook at me.â you commanded. His eyes snapped open, locking onto yours. âDid you miss this? My touch? My taste? Being on your knees for me?âÂ
âEvery moment.â he breathed, his voice thick with longing. âEvery moment in the arena, every drop of blood I spilled⌠I thought only of getting back to this. To you.âÂ
âGood.â you purred, releasing him. You stepped back and began to slowly unpin your stola, letting the expensive silk pool at your feet. You stood before him, naked and powerful. âThen you will earn your reward. Undress.âÂ
He rose with a fluid grace, his eyes never leaving yours. He shed his own tunic, his body a tapestry of your love story, the fading scars of his flogging, the new, pink gash from the arena, the muscles honed by desperation and love. He was magnificent.Â
âOn the bed.â you ordered. âOn your back.âÂ
He obeyed instantly, stretching out on the vast bed, his body a feast for your eyes. His cock was already hard, resting against his stomach, a testament to his desire for you. You crawled onto the bed, straddling his chest, not yet giving him the friction he craved. You leaned down, your lips brushing his ear.Â
âI am going to use you...â you whispered, your voice a low growl. âI am going to take my pleasure from your body, and you are not going to come until I say so. Do you understand me, my good boy?âÂ
âYes, my Empress.â he choked out, his hands gripping the sheets.Â
You rewarded him with a slow, deep kiss, your tongue claiming his mouth, tasting him. Then you shifted, moving up his body until you were hovering over his face. âShow me how you worship me.âÂ
He needed no further instruction. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you down onto his mouth. His tongue was masterful, skilled from countless nights of practice. He licked and sucked with a desperate hunger, his moans vibrating against your most sensitive flesh. He wasn't just performing a duty; he was communicating everything he couldn't say. He was apologizing, he was worshipping, he was renewing his vow. The pressure built inside you, a tight coil of pleasure, until you shattered with a cry, your body trembling above him.Â
You gave him a moment to breathe before moving back down his body. You positioned yourself over his straining cock, teasing him, letting him feel your wetness without letting him enter. He was panting, his eyes pleading.Â
âPlease, Y/N⌠HighnessâŚâ he begged.Â
âWho decides when you feel pleasure?â you asked, your voice stern.Â
âYou. Always you.â he breathed, lifting his head, dying to kiss you.Â
âGood boy.â Then, in one smooth motion, you sank down onto him, taking him to the hilt. You both groaned as he filled you completely. You began to move, a slow, punishing rhythm at first, grinding your hips against his. His hands roamed your body, cupping your breasts, caressing your stomach, his touch both worshipful and desperate.Â
âFaster...â he pleaded. âPlease, Highness, let meâŚâÂ
âYou will take what I give you,â you snarled, though your own arousal was spiraling. You picked up the pace, riding him hard, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. You leaned forward, biting his shoulder, marking him as yours. He cried out, a mix of pain and ecstasy, his hips bucking up to meet yours.Â
âDo you feel that?â you breathed in his ear. âThat is my power...you belong to me...your body, your pleasure, your heart⌠it is all mine.âÂ
âYours...!â he gasped. âGods, itâs all yours...!â You felt him tensing, his body coiling as he fought against his release.Â
âNow, Commodus...!â you commanded. âCome for me!âÂ
With a guttural roar that was equal parts man and beast, he exploded inside you, his body arching off the bed as he poured himself into you. You collapsed onto his chest, both of you panting, slick with sweat and trembling with the force of your release.Â
For a long time, you just laid there, listening to the frantic beat of his heart slowing to a steady rhythm. His arms came around you, holding you close, not as a slave holds his master, but as a man holds the other half of his soul.Â
âI love you.â he murmured into your hair, the words simple, clear, and more powerful than any declaration in the Senate. You tilted your head up, kissing him softly, a gentle, tender kiss. Â
âI love you too.â you whispered. âNow, rest. Tomorrow, we rule an empire. But tonight⌠you are just mine.âÂ
And in the quiet that followed, as you lay tangled in the sheets, your head on his chest, the truth of your world settled around you. On the table beside the bed lay the laurel crown but on the floor, within reach of your hand, lay the cool, heavy weight of the iron collar. The world saw a partnership, a restored dynasty, a powerful couple ruling Rome.Â
"Only you, my beautiful Commodus..." you whispered "would wear a crown in public and a collar in private... and call it bliss."Â
A grin split his face, his eyes shining with love. He didn't wait for you to command him. With a steady hand, he fastened the cold iron around his own neck. It settled into place with a soft, final click.Â
He then laid his head in your chest, his body completely relaxed, his breathing deep and even. You stroked his hair, your fingers tracing the curls you loved so much. Â
The world could have their Imperial consort. You would always have your Commodus. And as you sat there in the firelight, with your consort collared in your arms and your child growing safe, you knew you had finally achieved what no emperor before you ever had: absolute power, and a love that was beautifully, twistedly, and unbreakably your own.Â
absolutely adored this finale, love how you wrote commodus as usual, and how you portray paranoia, its practically perfect T_T loved the final smut scene too lmao
local goth woman was tagged by her lovely mutual @scourgiez! we should totally talk about the phoenix brothers more often!
last song listened to: scarling - "black horse riding star"
favorite color: black and pink.
currently watching: molleigh and i are halfway through "final destination 3," and my daddy and i are planning to watch "stand by me" later this afternoon.
currently reading: about to begin "sweet valley high super thriller: on the run" :)
current obsession: river phoenix, of course <3
currently working on: a oneshot fanfiction, set in my river phoenix self-ship au, that draws a parallel between the marriage and babies of your girl me and rivvie and (rpf ship) eartha kitt and james ("jamie") dean. and college stuff, but i kind of doubt anyone wants a list of my college assignments, haha!
heyyy @lala-xiv thanks so much for the tag!! hope you don't mind I'm replying on my Joaquin blog (I'm @frillions)
last song listened to: Baby Monitor from Signs by James Newton Howard (was playing guess the movie score with my husband!)
favourite colour: to wear - black or burgundy, other - probably pink and yellow
currently watching: rewatching the Scream movies (Dewey, my beloved), rewatching Supernatural, and devouring ashleeinc on youtube
currently reading: Tales of the Supernatural by Agatha Christie, contemplating a third read of Project Hail Mary by Andy Weir, just read Remain by Nicholas Sparks & M Night Shyamalan (my god it was so good I can't wait for the movie)
current obsession: same as usual - Joaquin Phoenix, Ryan Gosling, and my comfort movies (particularly heavy on Scream right now!)
currently working on: *accidentally left the previous answer in - edited now đ * Dewey Riley fanfic series! And Lars Lindstrom gif series focusing on autistic experience and traits!
last google search: ghosting synonym (I'm writing a fic)
tagging (trying to find Joaquin mutuals who haven't been tagged yet, sorry if you have!): @napoleon-bonapartes-blog @commodussy @darknessisafriend @fleckism @the-glory-of-rome
last song listened to: The offering- Sleep token *_*
favourite colour: I tend to say black cause I do love black BUT I noticed I am very much attracted to blue (like azure sort of) I have a blue work bag and a blue car and a blue t-shirt some days XD
currently watching: The apotecary diaries season 2, it's so easy to watch when you are tired and want something cosy
currently reading: Reforged by Seth Haddon, love story between a contested king whose weapon is a magical lyre and his paladin bodyguard
current obsession: Joaquin Phoenix (this one has been going for 5 years now), ancient Rome, Outer Space
currently working on: The final chapter of Commodus the whore of the Empress and a Dom!Abbe de Coulmier x reader
last google search: court rules in ancient Rome
I tag : @galos-writing @smallratboy @lokischambermaid
Summary: An old man's icy heart is slowly melting. part 9 here
TW: mention of violence and suicide
10 - THE MIRACLE AND THE SLEEPER
â...man.â
â...Oldman.â
âMr Oldman.â
His eyes opened again, a thin slit open to catch the blinding white hospital light above him. Lucille and Matthew were hovering over him with worry in their eyes. Sometimes they exchanged some words, but the occasional ringing didnât make them clear enough for him to understand.Â
Virgilâs head was pumping hard, and the ringing hadnât stopped, even if it was lighter than before. Soon enough, he realised he was lying down on a hospital bed, his workplace suit still on.
Matthew was the first to notice the auctioneer was waking up again. He gasped with a faint smile. âHe woke up!â He exclaimed like a kid. A nurse rushed closer with a small torch without saying a word and helped Virgil to sit up, then gently forced one of his eyelids open to flash the light right in his eye, which worsened his headache.Â
âGood afternoon. Do you remember your name?â the nurse asked, still flashing the light in Virgilâs eye and staring at him with severity. Virgil was struggling to focus; his headache and ringing ears were killing him.
âUh⌠V-Virgil. Virgil Oldman.â
âHmh⌠Well, remember these words for later: apple; leather; vine.â
The auctioneer nodded, ignoring the hatred he felt for medical checkups. They reminded him of his age even more.Â
âDo you know where you are, Mr Oldman?â the nurse kept asking, now checking the other eye.
âIn a hospitalâŚ?â
âArenât you sure?â
âNo, no, I do am sure,â Virgil quickly answered. God forbid the nurse thought he was stupid or something. She nodded and let go of his eye. She walked to a desk to grab a paper sheet, then returned to him. Lucille and Matthew were sitting beside the auctioneer, observing the whole process in silence and tightly holding hands. From time to time, Lucille anxiously checked her phone.
âDo you remember the words I asked you earlier?â
âApple. Leather. Vineâ
The nurse nodded. âMr Oldman, do you remember what day it is? What month? What year?â
Virgil actually thought about the answer: that period had been so messed up that he lost track of time on multiple occasions in the past days.Â
âToday itâs 31st March, 2025â, he then answered.
â2026â, another voice gently corrected him to the opposite side from where Lucille and Matthew sat. The old bid callerâs focus immediately dashed to the new entry: his heart was lighter immediately.Â
âBillyâŚâ
The old artist brightly smiled at his friend, his thick white moustache curled upwards. âHow you doinâ, you old fox?â he tenderly asked. Virgil weakly chuckled, immediately feeling better at the sight of his best friend.Â
âWhere have you been, Billy? I was starting to be preoccupied; you did not want to indulge with me anymore. You didnât answer any of my emails.â
Billy shrugged. âI wasnât done being dramatic after you kicked me out of your car, I guessâ, he chuckled.Â
The auctioneer chuckled in reply again, but he immediately remembered that Billy and Matthew were in the same room again. âYou⌠heâŚâ, he stuttered.
âDinnae worry, Mr Oldman, weâre clear now. He apologisedâ, Matthew grinned. Billy nodded right away. âYes, itâs fine, now. I also met that Ange guy you told me about. Heâs cool, even if heâs gay.â
Hearing that name killed the blooming peace in Virgil in a second. âAnge⌠Ange!â he exclaimed, goofily attempting to get up and reach the boy, but Lucille quickly got up as well to invite him to stay put. The height difference and Virgilâs agitation made it look like she was trying to tame a wild horse.
âChill, chill, chill! Heâs fine! Donât worryâ, she spoke, genuinely touched by how much that man cared for her older brother.Â
Her words managed to calm him down; the dizziness that came with his fall made him stumble on his feet and lean on the edge of his hospital bed. âWhere is heâŚ?â
âStill cardiac ward, but he got moved from his room for further examinationsâ, the nurse replied, still checking her documentation about her prestigious patient.
Virgil nodded, passively accepting that answer before actually registering it: he frowned. âFurther examinations of what? And, now that I think about it, why had he been placed in that ward if his wounds are of a violent nature?â
 He noticed how Lucille lowered her eyes a bunch of seconds too late.
âMr Chagall has a heart conditionâ, the nurse answered with the naturalness of checking the weather forecast. âHis stab wounds had already been treated when he got placed into that ward. Mr Bennettâs outburst caused him another wave of stress, so weâre keeping him under observation before releasing him tomorrow morning.â
A heart condition. The revelation pushed Virgil to touch his own chest, to imagine the pain the young man endured. âHow is that possible? He regularly works out, has an active routine⌠arenât people like him supposed to avoid fatigue?â
Lucilleâs grim expression was forcefully suppressed to let an amused grin out. âYeah, but heâs a dumb himbo who needs to show off like a peacock. He wonât keep his ass down if that means not to do stuff that makes him look better.â
Mr Oldman didnât like that answer. âSounds shallow.â
Matthew giggled and shrugged his broad shoulders. âIt does, aye. But at least now he isnae the ugly duckling, eh?â he teased. The old man recognised those words in a flash; his cheeks turned a shy shade of pink.Â
âDonât tell me he got offended by itâŚâ
âMaybe.â
âWonderfulâ, Virgil huffed, too tired to hide his fluster. âAt least I know heâs not as shallow as he appears. I must admit, if I did not know him, I would have most likely wrongfully thought he was just a⌠a stupid, superficial himbo.â
Lucille snorted. âMaybe he wants to hide the fact that he was a fucking genius during high school. The typical clever boy who doesnât want to apply himself, yâknowâ, she explained, amused. âExactly the opposite of you, I guess, Mr Oldman. Maybe thatâs what attracts you the mostâ, she then teased.
Virgilâs cheeks boiled in an instant. âWh-Whatâs that supposed to mean? I donât like your implication, Missyâ, he muttered. Yet, he knew exactly what she was referring to.
Her maliciousness left no space for wondering for Billy. âNot everyone bothers to buy a big bouquet just to apologise.â
The old artistâs relaxed face crunched up slowly. âWaitâ, he spoke, looking at the auctioneer. âYou bought that boy⌠flowers??âÂ
âI bought them⌠those were for Miss Ibbetson, my⌠current clientâ, Mr Oldman quickly corrected, straightening his back and fixing his tie, ignoring the pool forming in his stomach.Â
âCasually, Miss Ibbetsonâs favourite colour is pink, the same as my brotherâsâ, the girl smirked. âSo believable.â
âSheâs a girl. Girls generally love pinkâ, the old bid caller tried to dismiss, shrugging. He noticed how Lucille was looking at him with a sardonic smile, crystal clear in his peripheral view.
He decided to ignore her and looked up at the nurse. âThank you for treating me, maâam. I feel much better now, so may I leave the hospital?â
The nurse shook her head. âNot yet, Mr Oldman. If you insist, you may sign a lease and take full responsibility for going home in your current state, but I personally donât recommend it. I suggest you stay for at least another hour.â
âBut thatâs nonsense! I spent my whole lunch break and more to come and see Ange, I ought to get back to work immediately!â Virgil snapped, forcing himself on his feet again, but his body dangerously shifted, threatening his balance. Matthew and Billy dashed to support him.Â
â...yeah. Thatâs what I was talking aboutâ, the nurse spoke again, not bothering to hide a certain annoyance at being there.Â
âGreat⌠I was surely looking forward to staying trapped in a hospital room. Me, Ange, Claire tooâ, Virgil muttered, sitting back on the edge of the bed, gladly accepting a small pretzel stick from Lucilleâs bag. âSpeaking of which⌠how is she?âÂ
âMrs Claire Graves next door? Or Miss Claire Nelson in the maternity ward?â the nurse asked, checking a long list of patients in her palmtop. âMaybe Claire Jarvis, the little girl in the A&E with a broken leg?â
âWha⌠no!â the auctioneer frowned; his anxiety for the agoraphobic woman turned to vexation. âMiss Claire Ibbetson! I personally brought her to the A&E two days ago.âÂ
The nurse frowned as well, starting to furiously check on the palmtop.Â
âMy brother told me about her. Or rather, how you care for that girlâ, Lucille commented, a sheepish smile on her black-tinted lips contrasted with her punkish style and general behaviour.Â
Virgil cursed his flushing cheeks. âItâs not that⌠wellâŚâ, he stuttered. âI care for her the exact way a father would. The same goes for your brother, of course.â
The girl nodded hesitantly, a hand combed through her freshly lavender-dyed, short hair, ignoring the nurse who ran out of the room, perhaps for further information about Claire Ibbetson. Billy had been silent the whole time, detailing how Virgil interacted with the two young adults.
Virgil noticed and cleared his throat. âVery well. As we wait, I suppose I must introduce you all accordinglyâ, he said and attempted to get up, still leaning slightly against the bed; the headache and ear ringing were totally over, leaving space for a feeble dizziness now that still didnât allow him to move. Apparently, he hit his head harder than expected.
âLucille. Mr⌠uhm⌠sorry, I didnât quite catch your lastâŚâ
Matthew widely smiled and dismissively waved his hand. âJourdain. Matthew Jourdain, but tis just Matthew fer ye.â
Virgil subtly smiled and bowed his head at him to thank him.Â
âLucille. Matthewâ, he corrected himself and pointed at Billy. âWilliam âBillyâ Whistler, my greatest friend and companion in the art field for yearsâ, then he pointed at the young woman. âBilly, this is Lucille Chagall, Angeâs younger sister. She and her brother had been clients of mine seven years ago. Heâs Matthew, her boyfriend.â
He watched with contentment as they all shook hands. âA pleasure to meet you. I think Virgil mentioned you and your brother years ago. He showed me the instruments you asked him to bid away: true treasures of music. Where did your father find them?â
Lucilleâs mouth stretched into a smile. âWell, I⌠I donât really know. I suppose he bought them in smaller auctions, as well; he never got to tell us how he got to lay hands on themâ, she explained. Billy nodded, catching a mix of French, British, and American accents in her voice.
âBut why sell them?â Billy asked more; his smile was sincere. Matthew uncomfortably shifted and took Lucilleâs hand, who looked down for a moment.
âPapa was a sucker for music. He was a pharmacist, but in every split of free time, he would rush home and play the piano for us, or learn a new instrument. Every bit of quirky instrument, he had it, no matter the cost. But he could afford it, and we enjoyed spending time with him. Our mother, on the other hand, wasnât the same as him. After years, I still canât understand what Papa saw in her: she was such a materialistic, coldly pragmatic, egotistic bitch. Ironically, she was a collège Maths teacher. We werenât poor: our parents both earned well, but I hate to admit Papaâs collection wasnât affordable at all, so our lifestyle wasnât as comfortable as it was supposed to be. We were happy, though, as long as Papa loved us and taught us more of his magic. Our mother, however, never lost the opportunity to blame him for everything. We still donât know what exactly she was blaming him for, but still everything, for our living condition in generalâ, she explained, rolling her eyes to avoid them swelling up in tears even more.
Each word punched Virgil in the stomach: he barely remembered the explanation the Chagall siblings gave him about their choice, and he recalled it lately with Ange, but all those details were unknown to him. Billy, on the other hand, was speechless, fidgeting with his beard.
âTurns out, our mother was cheating on Papa with the director of the school she was teaching in, consequently breaking the manâs family and marriage, too. She never regretted what she had done to our dad or to the directorâs poor wife and kids. Angie and I even started mocking her with Edith Piafâs song, but Papa always scolded us. He didnât want to stain that beautiful song. Mentally, he was already pretty weak, but his wifeâs cheating had an impact on his mental healthâ
âOh⌠woe be meâ, Billy breathed out. âIâm sorry. Really. Maybe I shouldnât have asked.â
Lucille shook her head. âItâs okay. Thanks to Mr Oldman, Ange and I managed to have the right closure with our dadâs⌠passing. Aside from the valuation and bidding process, he gave us great emotional support, which was unexpected since everyone told us he was a demon in a suitâ, she bitterly giggled.
Mr Oldman softly chuckled as well. âI couldnât help but empathise with you and your brother. I know well what it means to grow up without a parent.â
Billyâs eyes were wide: he didnât expect that story to end with the death of someone. âOh, damn⌠Iâm so sorry.â
âItâs fine, I told youâ, she smiled brighter. âPapa loved us and taught us his love for music. And we couldnât be happier than this, despite both my brother and me ending up doing something else in life.
After he died, my brother waited for me to turn 18 before moving to England together. I was 6 when he passed away, and for all those years his sister kept his instruments in a garage.
But she passed away as well, of old age, and our mother decided to claim them to sell them, and get married to her partner with the money. We didn't want her to sell those instruments to randos, so we went to trial to get custody of those instruments. And in the end, we called Mr Oldman to help us bid them away properly to actual music experts and lovers willing to pay the due value for those lots", she explained, making sure her explanation was clear enough for the old artist. Mr Oldman briefly smiled in pride.
"Only thing thatâs still a mystery to Angie and me is when and where Papa learned how to tie a noose."
The last sentence made a deafening silence fall in the room.Â
She cleared her throat. âIâm sorry.â
Still silence.
Suddenly, the door opened again. The nurse was back.Â
Virgilâs eyes lit up as he finally managed to stay on his feet. âAny news? How is Claire doing?â
The nurse pressed her lips together, taking her glasses off to put them on her head. âMr Oldman, I have bad news.â
The auctioneerâs smile disappeared in a split second. âOh⌠whatâs wrong? Is she ill?â
The nurse slowly shook her head. âNot really, Mr Oldman. The thing isâŚâ, she approached to show the man her palmtop. âWeâve never registered anyone called Claire Ibbetson. We managed to understand who you were talking about purely out of logic and guesses.â
âWhat do you mean?â Virgil asked, worry was choking him, making him struggle to speak. âY-Your colleague clearly assured me the hospital would have managed to find Miss Ibbetsonâs updated documentation. Care to explain what happened in the meantime?!â he suddenly snapped, unable to contain himself anymore.Â
âMr OldmanâŚ", the nurse softly spoke, looking at him with pity. "The girl ran away from the hospital.â
Summary: An old man's icy heart is slowly melting. part 8 here / part 10 here
TW: active violence, and mention of it
9 - ON MELANCHOLY HILL
Another sleepless night passed for Virgil Oldman.Â
The man was totally wrapped in his blankets, his burning eyes staring at the empty side of his king-sized bed.Â
Many times, he had longed for someone to hold in their sleep. He had longed for Claire to fill that space, embracing him after a long chat, or something else he didnât dare to fantasise about.
Yet this time, the events that filled his last 48 hours were all he could think of; meeting Ange Chagall at the hospital was, for some reason, predominant among his memories.Â
He had multiple occasions to meet the Frenchman and investigate Claireâs phantom novels with him. His mailbox was full of emails from the young man: lists upon lists of books he read or just knew about, that somehow could get close to the answer. But he was groping in the dark, and Virgil was too, to the point that he was starting to lose hope and motivation on reading said novels.
If Claire wanted to keep her work away from him, so be it - he told Ange one day during a stroll in the park after lunch - so they better give up.
He knew for a fact his decision had disappointed the young man, since he didnât hear from him for a whole day. His silence was unnerving, but Virgil preferred to label it as Ange just being a pouting drama queen, rather than engage in further examinations. There was nothing amicable between them.
⌠right?
His train of thought was running too fast in his mind, making him toss and turn in his bed: every attempt of his to shift his focus to Claire was immediately defeated, creating a perfect replica of his last memory with Ange in his hospital room, and what they were telling each other.Â
He remembered every detail of the tattoo artistâs face with delight: his green, vibrant eyes; his full lips; his sharp cheekbones and nose dusted with freckles; the face piercings Virgil despised so much. Each patch of skin presented an imperfection. Ange wasnât even trying to be physically appealing to Virgil, yet he managed to.
Claire, on the other hand, was perfect. Her pale skin had no marks or spots, her traits were soft and innocent, her eyes were pure. Yet, she was always wrapped in mist when Virgil tried to imagine her: his mind filled the blanks it couldnât remember.Â
Exhaustion finally took a toll on Oldman, who dozed off without noticing.Â
As his brain and body freed themselves from the weight of consciousness, he could swear he felt soft and warm hands caressing his face, someone kissing and hugging him in that bed too big for him alone.
He felt his eyes open up to see a graceful, long-haired, blurred figure hovering over him with a smile. Perhaps his sense of loneliness was shaping up in his head, approaching to kiss him again as a scent of citrus invaded his nostrils.Â
âLove⌠ClaireâŚâ, he whispered against the figureâs lips as they were about to exchange another kiss, but it frowned and sat up again.Â
The old man immediately panicked and tried to reach out to the figure. âClaire? Whatâs wrong?â he asked, grabbing its wrist, but it just yanked away from his touch as if he burned its skin.Â
âClaâŚâ, the figure didnât even wait for him to finish, and heavily slapped him in the face.
Virgilâs eyes shot open, gasping. His eyes were stuck on the white ceiling, nothing if not the fresh air of the morning above him.
He quickly touched his cheek; the phantom sensation of that slap was still there, but no pain with it.Â
The sun had risen already, penetrating the old manâs retinas with its first rays breaking in his room through the shutters. A lazy huff blew his night turmoil out of his body as he grabbed his charged phone from the nightstand.
Two missed calls from his office; one missed call from Ange.
Knowing that the Frenchman had attempted to reach out made Oldman sigh in relief, a faint smile formed on his lips without his noticing.
He was tempted to email his assistant Lambert and warn him that he would stay home one more day, but boredom was starting to make its presence felt: he, so devoted to his career - to the point of reaching his office with a high fever from time to time, decorating his own home with lots of unique pieces of art he himself had analysed with so much love and passion - was seriously pondering the idea of ditching his employees one more day. All just for a silly, superficial emotional turbulence.Â
Bollocks.Â
Oldman quickly checked the time before getting up and starting his morning routine, wondering who the figure in his dream was as he shaved. But he was sure it was Claire.
She was surely hating him for dragging her out of her safe space in that crowded hospital; maybe thatâs what that slap was about.Â
He missed her.
When he reached his workplace, his secretaries and assistants immediately politely welcomed him back as he walked along the corridor that led to his own private office. Odd, he thought, they never showed so much concern and joy to see him again; nor did it ever happen for him to be absent for so long.
He sat at his desk and took a deep breath, so immediately the rest of the world disappeared again: it was him and his art once again, as it was meant to be. No violence, no tears, no fights, nor jealousies.Â
Never had he worked so gladly, discovering a renewed glee in the sense of peace and belonging his job gave him. He soon forgot about his dream.
That fresh bliss lasted until an email notification appeared on the screen of his mobile phone: Angeâs new mail was there, on top of everything else, loudly claiming the auctioneerâs attention:
Juste wanted to inform you that thĂŠ hĂ´pital IS going to let me go Home soon and im very Happy :-)Â
âVery clever to specify it with words and a smiley faceâ, Oldman thought, amused.Â
Ă nurse also told me that it is possible for both of US to presse chargĂŠs against Pierre for what he did to US. Will you bĂŠ mây witness please? Biz :-***
ps weâre idiotes because we didnt think of the chance of Claire as Ă ghostwriter :-PÂ
Sent from my iPhone
Virgilâs so-treasured peace of mind was obviously bothered, but that was nothing he hadnât foreseen already. He accepted Angeâs sugarcoated request and reassured him with a few words, despite the gnawing sensation in his stomach that was feeding itself with the anxiety rising like dough.Â
He almost didnât greet his assistants goodbye as he hurried along the long corridor to the lift. Why was he in such a hurry? He had no appointment to attend on timeâŚ
The automated entrance of the hospital was suddenly as scary as the mouth of a dragon. The smell of disinfectant gave nausea and cramps to his already growling stomach.Â
Oldmanâs cheeks were on fire as he choked a big bouquet against his chest. The pink tulips stood out proudly, the lavender hugging them, all wrapped in white paper, with a small, elegant pink ribbon tied around them. He wasnât a flower expert, but he picked what looked best and what the florist suggested.Â
He bought those flowers for Claire, but he wasnât sure he could face her already: who knows what a plethora of insults she was cultivating, how many ebullient words she was ready to throw at him for dragging her out of her fortress and dropping her in enemy territory.
He knew she hated him, but he wasnât ready to take accountability for her justified loathing, yet.Â
âAh, Mr Oldman,â a feminine voice spoke behind the auctioneer, startling him and waking him up from his mental paranoid parade. Lucille nonchalantly waved at him. Her boyfriend Matthew, the waiter Billy argued with at the Steirereck, was some metres behind her at the cafeteria, purchasing a black can with a neon green M on, a drink Virgil wasnât familiar with.Â
âMiss Chagall, good afternoon,â Oldman politely spoke, maybe too frigid in his manners. âAre you going to visit your brother?âÂ
âYah. Ange canât take it anymore and wants to go home, so I come here as much as I can when Iâm not working or at rehearsals,â she replied with a smile. Her French accent was less obvious in her voice.
The old man frowned and tilted his head, but decided not to investigate further on her personal life. âI⌠see,â he just said.
âYa here for my brother, too?â She asked with a little smile.Â
That question made Virgil remind himself of who he went to the hospital for in the first place. âActually, yes. I wanted to discuss something with him.â
âGonna sue Pierre, huh?â
Virgil nodded. âCorrect. Ange sent me an email while I was at work and told me everything,â he said. His lips pressed, and he swallowed down. âListen, Miss ChagallâŚâ
âJust Lucille for you,â she smiled, shoving her hands in her black jeans pockets.Â
Her kindness erased part of his turmoil, letting him smile back. âLucille⌠I wanted to apologise to you too, for what I did to your brother.â
She nodded. âThanks, man. I kinda understand what you went through, like, you couldnât do much in that situation,â she replied with a smirk as she eyed the bouquet. âI see you know how to make it up for your fuck-ups.â
The bid callerâs face flushed a deep red, clenching his bouquet tighter. âItâs, uh⌠a little nothing, my sincere wish for a speedy recovery.â
âSure,â she jested. Her widened smirk revealed a shiny, silvery ring stuck underneath her upper lip.Â
Virgil wanted to talk back, but really had to hurry, so he just scoffed, swallowing his pride, and marched away to Angeâs hospital room.Â
Two knocks at the door. A middle-aged nurse stepped in with a warm smile.Â
âMr Chagall, thereâs a visit for you.â
Virgil was right behind the nurse, peeking above his shoulder. Ange looked up from his phone and pulled an earbud off.
âWhoâsâŚâ The young man attempted, but his voice died in his throat when they made eye contact. Virgil cursed his inflamed cheeks and instinctively hid the bouquet behind his back.
The tattoo artistâs green eyes widened before he brightly smiled and waved. âHello, Monsieur Oldman!â
The nurse stepped aside to let Mr Oldman proceed towards the patient. âItâs good to see you so cheerful, Mr Chagall. I hope youâre doing better than the last time I came to visit.â
Ange eagerly nodded. âThe doctors say my wounds are healing fast; the glass cuts are basically already healed, and the stab is closing after being stitched.â
Virgil gently tilted his head as he listened; his grey eyes landed on the boyâs bandaged abdomen. âWhere exactly did he stab?â he asked, holding back from staring too long.Â
âRight here. Fortunately, heâs shit at using weapons,â the other grinned, his finger pointed at one specific spot on his muscular belly.Â
His words made the old man frown. âWasnât he part of the army?â
âHe, in the army!?â Ange burst out laughing. âHe wished! The moron tried so many times and always failed,â
Virgil just shrugged. âI donât⌠I donât know. His clothes, his hairstyle and his behaviour genuinely reminded me of a retired soldier, or even a veteran,â he replied, suppressing his embarrassment.
âA retired terrorist, you mean.â
The auctioneer let a lonely scoff out of his nostrils. âWell, then I really hope that this will make you forget his existence for a while⌠and how I behaved, as well.â
Angeâs focus fell on the bouquet Virgil was holding in his arms. He gasped, his own cheeks turned beet red as he covered his mouth. âMonsieur, you didnât have toâŚâ
âI know I didnât, and maybe I shouldnât have, but⌠I cannot get away with what I did with a simple back-handed apology, donât you think?â
Ange giggled as he accepted the flowers; his eyes were madly in love, unable to look away from them.
âOuais, that apology sucked. No offence.â
âI actually am very much offended, thank you,â Oldman giggled, sitting in the same chair he sat in only two days prior, his body softening from its usual stiff posture. âNow, Iâd love to keep chitchatting, but we have important business to take care of.â
âYou mean Pierre? What of him?âÂ
Virgil blinked, deeply puzzled, and frowned. âWha⌠you tell me: what of him? Are we still proceeding to sue him or not?â he asked with impatience.
The tattoo artist looked like snapping out of a mini-trance. âOh, right! Yeah, absolutely, itâs about time we have a chance to fuck him,â he smirked.
Virgil pursed his lips. âIn reality, you didnât sound excessively bothered or worried in your email. Your postscriptum didnât add up to the urgency.â
âIt has sense, though!â
âIt makes sense,â Virgil quietly corrected, obviously ignored.Â
âSince none of the books we checked can be hers, maybe she just writes for someone else. Technically, she didnât lie to you,â Ange shrugged. âAnd even if she did, who cares. People lie all the time, and youâre giving her too much importance.â
âSheâs my client, Mr Chagall,â Virgil reminded him with a crescent vexation. âAnd quite the fragile character, she is, so of course Iâm willing to give her importance.â
Virgilâs voice was sharper: it was about Claire. Ange scoffed and rolled his eyes. âRight, you wouldnât miss her calls at night.â
âThe majority of people usually sleep at night, something you apparently donât know, judging from your last access,â the auctioneer smirked as he fixed his posture on the broken chair.
Ange opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He just pouted, fidgeting with the petals of a pink tulip. âYou want me to believe these flowers arenât for her?â
Virgil cleared his throat and looked away, his chest was more puffed.Â
âYes.â
âSwear it.â
Fuck.
The bid caller subtly swallowed. âC-Can we please focus on our cause? I bought you flowers, that should be enoughâŚâ Virgilâs voice was steady as he stared at every piece of the boyâs face, every single one but his eyes.Â
Ange didnât answer immediately. âI donât knowâŚ. I kinda feel like a plan B.â
Oldman frowned once again. âPlan B of what, exactly?â
âAh, forget it. I was thinking out loud, patati et patata,â the boy chuckled, intensely interested in a soft branch of lavender. âHow did you know I love pink?â
Virgil didnât.Â
âYour⌠hair, I finally noticed your layer of pink hair, and⌠your backpack is pink,â he giggled.Â
The blond boy actually giggled with him, his cheeks dusted with a soft redness. âYouâre right. Iâm pretty prĂŠdictible, hein?â
The auctioneer stood on that chair, utterly enchanted. He didnât correct the Frenchman this time, not daring to interrupt that laugh.Â
He eventually managed to unfreeze. âNext time youâll call, Iâll answer, no matter the hour,â he let out, unaware of his own flushed face. âWhat did you want to tell me tonight?â he then asked.Â
The Frenchmanâs face got even redder as he shrugged. âI donât remember, so it wasnât that important. Maybe just wanted to hear from you,â he smiled, the bouquet lying on his lap.Â
Oldmanâs stomach grumbling interrupted the moment of silence between them. He cleared his throat, subtly covering his belly with his arms. âPardon.â
Ange held a laugh back. âYou havenât eaten yet?â
Virgilâs humiliation at being asked that, just like a careless child, had no equal. âI usually donât eat much at lunch. Iâm fine,â he declared with a proud tone. The younger one rolled his eyes. âTypical answer of who forgot to have lunch. Now I see why youâre so thin,â he grinned, and handed him an almost full packet of Oreo biscuits. âHave one.â
The old auctioneerâs eyes lit up at the sight; the sugary smell of the biscuit attracted his interest like nectar with bees. âNo, thank you.â
âDo you really want me to beg?â The younger man asked, waving the packet in front of his face. âJust help me finish them, or my sister will force them down my throat.âÂ
âThen eat them,â Virgil shrugged, fighting his urge. Ange made a face and put the packet on his nightstand, where his phone was also resting. âNot a fan of sweets. Iâm a spicy fiston,â he teased, winking at him.Â
Virgil tried to ignore that cheeky answer and keep a straight face, but he couldnât stop a little smile. âAlright. Then I know how to treat you next time I leave you at the mercy of a psychopath,â he grinned back. Â
The tattoo artist couldnât hold back and laughed, maybe louder than he intended at that non-joke.Â
âI didnât know that flirting was included in medical healthcare,â a male voice cut the boyâs giggling, sharp and bitter.Â
Both Virgil and Ange flinched, turning towards the door, only to find another man resting on the threshold, a little bouquet of red roses in hand, staring at them with venom.Â
âHi, love! I didnât know you were coming,â the tattoo artist replied, his voice becoming higher by an octave as he waved at the newly arrived. âThis is Mister Oldman, the man who helped Lucille and me when we moved here the first time.â
âGood afternoon,â the man sneered as he approached, looking at the bouquet Ange held on his lap. He grabbed it and shoved it against Virgilâs chest, just not strong enough to feel like a direct threat. âYouâre kind to show up, but you can take this back. He doesnât need this kind of support.âÂ
âYou have no right to kick me out of here. Iâm here to discuss important matters with Mr Chagall, so Iâm not moving,â Mr Oldman exclaimed, his outrage reaching the ceiling.Â
âOh, yeah? Do important matters need such a big ass bouquet like that?â Julian bitterly laughed. âDonât curse like thatâŚâ Ange murmured. âHeâs⌠just here to say hi after a lot. He was here for someone else.â
Virgil completely forgot about Claire.
âHe was about to leave,â the boy added, to the satisfaction of Julian. The auctioneer activated again, as if his blood resumed its flow through his body.Â
âNo, I wasnât,â he said, approaching the man. âWe were conversing and got lost in chattering. Is that a problem?â
âSure, so said X,â Julian scoffed, making Ange widen his eyes: his lover saw the incriminating post. âI know you. Youâre the guy who was out with my boyfriend the day he got assaultedâ
âWeâve met already years ago,â the auctioneer spat out. âAnd now Angeâs been helping me in the pursuit of a book. Thereâs nothing scandalous in this, if the lens of social media is removed.â
âThereâs nothing scandalous in being protective of my partner, either,â Julian spoke, pointing at Ange with his small bouquet. The blond man could be heard scoffing, catching the other twoâs attention.Â
Julianâs brown eyes locked with Angeâs hazel ones. âYou have something to say, babe?â he asked, his voice was eerily calm.Â
âForget itâŚâ the blond one muttered, insistently staring at his phone as Julianâs inflamed gaze pierced through his boyfriendâs figure.Â
âMaybe your partner doesnât really agree on your choice of words. âProtectiveâ may sound a tad sugarcoated, doesnât it?â Virgil asked, breaking the silence. Ange looked up at the auctioneer and smiled.Â
âItâs the truth, though. After what Pierre did, Iâm the one who actually cares about his feelings,â Julian grinned, his whole standing figure dripping with pride to the core.Â
âThen where were you when I called you, after I got stabbed?â Ange suddenly asked.Â
Julian shrugged. âWorking, you know that.â
âYou donât work the Sundays.â
The other man let an exaggerated sigh out as he passed a hand through his brown curls. âHere we go again⌠I had an overtime work meeting.â
âA work meeting?â the tattoo artist actually laughed. âJulian, youâre a shop assistant at fucking GameStop. No work meeting has ever stopped you from going to your weekly soccer practices or playing with your friends all night whenever you feel like it. Monsieur Oldman is the director of an auction house famous all around the world. People pay him thousands to attend auctions abroad, and heâs full of work every day, yet he managed to come and see me in the middle of the night.â
Virgilâs cheeks reddened once again as Ange described him so highly; his chest puffed once again.Â
Julian was absorbing fury like a sponge, but he managed to appear calm. He turned to Ange and approached, his hand on the blond manâs jaw. âThen Iâll make it up for you, babe. Just me and you, next week, Netflix and chill, and takeout pizza, your favourite.â
The patient moved away from Julianâs hand. âPizzaâs your favourite.â
âHuh?âÂ
Ange pushed Julianâs hand away. âPlease go back to your home, Julian. And make sure Salem is fed, and his litter is clean before you go fuck yourself.â
âYouâre⌠breaking up with me? WhyâŚ?â Julian asked, his pride deflated in a pitiful, pathetic breath. His brown orbs flashed on Virgil, who was witnessing the scene with awkwardness. âYou bastard-âÂ
âDonât you dare blame me for all of this. I am here merely to discuss with your⌠well, ex-boyfriend, now,â the auctioneer couldnât hold back genuine glee as he spoke.Â
Irked at the provocation, Julian lunged at Oldman. âGet the fuck out! Out, I said!!â he shouted, pushing Mr Oldman towards the door. âThis is your fault!â
âItâs- Itâs not!â Virgil readily answered, defending himself the best he could; his feet tried anchoring on the floor, but his black and shiny derby shoes werenât helping in his battle.Â
The younger man gave another harsh push, making the older man stumble over Angeâs backpack, his back and head hitting the entrance door violently.Â
The world started spinning at full speed, making the auctioneerâs head hurt even more. He was struggling to open his eyes, every sound was muffled, and a loud ringing echoed in his ears as he tried so hard to get back on his feet. He didnât even know what he was saying, but he was 100% sure he let out the words âpayâ and âarrestâ, but his certainty didnât land on any correct syntax.Â
He eventually managed to see through a thin gap in his pupils, and although his sight was blurry, he could spy on the way Ange grabbed Julian by his white shirt and pushed him out of the room.Â
He closed his eyes.Â
The gap slightly widened, and the tattoo artist was now kneeling beside him, speaking to him and touching his hair, but his words werenât louder than the ringing.Â
Eventually, the ringing faded, with everything else around him.
Could you please write some Valentine's Day headcannons with Fem!reader x Joe Cross? Could it also be smutty?
Hey there! here it is^^ I hope you will enjoy it ! you will noticed I have a kink for glasses slipping from his nose XD but Joaq makes it so sexy :p
Valentine's Day for you two isn't about fancy restaurants or public declarations. It's about shutting the world out and existing only for each other in the quiet of your shared space without anyone there to judge.
Joe is not one for big, flashy gestures, but the effort he puts in is all the more meaningful for it. He would spent the day planning, securing the perfect, rare vinyl, and probably picking up a bottle of that expensive whiskey he only drinks on special occasions. The real gift, however, is his undivided attention.
The lights are low, maybe just a few lamps and the flicker of candles. The vinyl he chose is spinning on the turntable, something with a deep, soulful rhythm that seems to match the mood perfectly.
He's dressed down, in a soft, worn-in t-shirt and jeans, his hair well combed, his glasses slightly slipping from his nose. He looks completely at ease, a stark contrast to the intensity he usually carries. It's a look reserved only for you.
He doesn't rush, he has all the time in the world for you. As you come home, he offers you a bunch of flowers and also a box of your favorite chocolates âFor when you feel down at work, their sweetness will sooth your spirit.â he cooed
Then he would take you for slow dancing in the living room, his body pressed against yours. Both his hands are wrapped on the low of your back. He looks at you tenderly âI love you.â he whispers without expecting you to reply. He just is very verbal about it. Then, you would kiss him, your bodies barely swaying, his lips would ghost over your neck as he murmured about how you're the only thing that's ever made sense.
His touch is deliberate. Tracing the curve of your spine, thumb stroking the skin just above the waistband of your jeans. Every movement is designed to build a slow, burning heat that settles deep in your core. You smile, amused, flattered. Joe always had this way of making you feel like you were the most beautiful woman in the world.
The transition to the bedroom is seamless. He lifts you effortlessly, his mouth claiming yours in a deep, possessive kiss that tastes of whiskey and desire.
He's a worshipper. He lays you out on the bed and takes his time, mapping every inch of your body with his hands and mouth. He pays attention to every gasp and shiver, learning and re-learning what makes you fall apart.
His praise is reverent contrasting with his silver fox hair and the glasses slipping from his nose "Look at youâŚ." he'd groan against your skin. "So perfect. All mineâŚ"
He's in no hurry. He'd use his mouth and fingers to bring you to the edge, backing off just enough to drive you insane before finally letting you crash over. He loves watching you come undone for him.
When he finally sinks into you, it's with a shared sigh of relief and rightness. The pace is deep and grinding, his eyes locked on yours, making it impossibly intimate. He wants to see you, feel you, connect with you on every level.
He's vocal. Low grunts and harsh breaths against your ear, whispering your name like a prayer and a curse. He'll tell you how good you feel, how much he loves you, and how much he thinks about worshipping you.
He'd flip you over, pulling your hips up to meet his. The new angle allowing him to hit that spot deep inside that makes your toes curl. One hand grips your hip, the other snakes around to rub tight circles on your clit.
The second orgasm hits you harder than the first, a blinding wave of pleasure that leaves you shaking and crying out his name. He follows right after, burying himself deep with a guttural moan as he finds his own release.
He doesn't pull away immediately. He collapses on top of you, his weight a comforting anchor as you both catch your breath. He presses soft, lazy kisses to your shoulder and the back of your neck. You bury your hand in his silver curls, kissing his forehead.
After a moment, he would roll off, pulling you with him so you're draped over his chest. His heartbeat is a steady, reassuring rhythm under your ear. You smiled, filling his neck with small kisses, inhaling his comforting scent.
Joe loves to give aftercare. He is quiet and gentle. He'll wipe you down with a warm cloth, pull the blankets over you, bring you something to drink and just hold you. Then, he would turn on a romantic movie or your favorite.
"Happy Valentine's Day" he'd mumble into your hair, his voice thick with sleep and satisfaction. And in his arms, you know it couldn't have been more perfect. You would doze off wrapped in his warmth and the sound of the love cocoon you had created.
Hey there my sweet friend đ I wanted to see if I could put in a request for our dear Max California đđ Something NSFW but romantic like where the reader has just had the most mentally draining day at work and all she wants is to eat, bathe and chill with her favorite guy and he tries to help relax her đ Thank you so much!đđ
Here you go darling! a cute evening with Max! I feel like he would be one of the best guys for comfort <3
Forget the day- Max California x you
The smell of takeout hit you the second the front door clicked open, but even that couldn't fully drown out the throbbing behind your eyes. You dropped your bag on the floor with a heavy thud, not caring where it landed, and leaned back against the wood, letting out a sigh, your fingers rubbing the bridge of your nose.
"Rough day?" Maxâs voice asked from the living room. A moment later, he appeared in the hallway, looking the way he always did, a dark worn out shirt, messy dark hair that looked like heâd been running his hands through it all day, and that soft, concerned gaze that made your chest tight.
"Rough doesn't cover it." You muttered, kicking off your shoes. "I want to burn the building down. Or at least my desk. Haven't decided."
He huffed a quiet laugh, crossing the distance between you in a few long strides. His hands found your waist immediately, grounding you, pulling you in until you were pressed against his chest. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in, sweat, old leather, and that scent of smoke that always clung to him. You would never have expected it would become the most comforting thing in the world.
"I vote for the desk." he murmured against your hair, his lips brushing your forehead. "Less paperwork to explain to the cops." You smiled despite yourself, your fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket.
"God, I'm exhausted. I just want to eat, wash the day off me and chill. Without having to think of anything.â You sighed against his skin.
"Consider it handled." He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, his thumbs stroking your hips. "Go start the water. I'll get the food set up."
You didn't argue. You let him go with a lingering squeeze to his hand and headed straight for the bathroom. By the time you had the tub filled with hot water and stripped out of your suffocating work clothes, the reality of the day was starting to fade, replaced by the steam curling around the mirror.
You sank into the water with a groan, leaning your head back against the tub and closing your eyes. For a while, there was just the sound of water and the muffled noises of Max moving around in the kitchen while humming one of his songs. Then, the door creaked open.
You didn't open your eyes, but you felt the air shift, cooler for a second before the warmth returned. The lid of a container clicked open.
"I smell General Tso'sâŚ" you mumbled, keeping your eyes shut.
"Only the best for a disaster day." Max said. You heard the rustle of him sitting on the edge of the tub, and then the faint clink of a fork against ceramic. "Open up."
You cracked one eye open. He was watching you, that intensity in his gaze that used to intimidate you but now just made you feel safe. He held a piece of tofu out to your lips. You leaned forward, taking the bite, the spicy-sweet flavor exploding on your tongue.
"Good?"
"Perfect." you hummed in pleasure, swallowing. Asian food was your top comfort food "You're spoiling me."
"Someone's gotta." He fed you another piece, then took one for himself, watching you eat like he was memorizing the way your lips moved. "You look like you're about to fall asleep right here."
"I feel like it. The water's amazing."
He set the container down on the floor and reached into the water, his hand sliding up your calf under the bubbles. His touch was gentle, almost experimental, just tracing the lines of your muscle, but it sent a shiver straight up your spine that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.
"You're tense." he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, rougher than before. He shifted closer, his knees bumping the porcelain. "Turn around."
You obeyed without thinking, turning your back to him and drawing your knees up to your chest. His hands found your shoulders, his thumbs digging into the knots there with firm pressure. You let out a sound that was half-gasp, half-moan as his fingers worked the tension out of your neck, his palms hot and slick against your wet skin.
"MaxâŚ"
"Right there?" He leaned in, his chest pressing against the back of your head, his breath hot against your ear.
"Yeah. Don't stop." You melted into his touch, your head heavy against his chest.
He didn't. His hands moved down your back, caressing your skin, his touch shifting from therapeutic to something more possessive. He dragged his nails lightly down your spine, making you arch back into him, the water sloshing gently around you.
"You work too hard." he whispered, one hand sliding around to rest on your stomach under the water, pulling you back against him. "Let me take care of you tonight. I want to make you forget all about it." He suggested, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below your ear, his teeth grazing the skin there. Whatever was left of your work stress evaporated.
There was only him, the heat of his body, the roughness of his hands, and the way he was looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
"OkayâŚ" you breathed, turning your head to capture his lips in a slow, deep kiss. "Please doâŚ"
He kept his lips pressed to yours, swallowing the little noises you couldn't hold back, but his hands were busy beneath the water. The soap made everything slick, his palms gliding effortlessly over your wet skin. He broke the kiss just enough to look down, watching the way his hands moved over you.
His palms slid over your ribs, his thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, teasing the sensitive skin there without actually touching you where you wanted him most.
"MaxâŚ" you breathed, your head falling back against his shoulder.
"I got you." he murmured, his voice rough against your ear. "Just relaxâŚIâm hereâŚ"
He shifted his weight, one arm wrapping around your waist to hold you steady against him while his other hand moved lower. He didn't rush. He let his fingers trail over your stomach, tracing the lines of your hipbones before dipping between your thighs.
You gasped, your legs parting instinctively to give him room. His fingers found you immediately, sliding through your folds to check how ready you were. He groaned low in his throat when he felt how wet you were, mixing with the bathwater.
"Already?" he teased, though there was a smirk in his voice you could hear rather than see. "I thought you were tired."
"Shut up." you muttered, splashing him with a bit of water, making him laugh. You turned your face into his neck to hide the flush rising in your cheeks. "Just⌠don't stop."
âAt your service babe.â he smiled, kissing your temple as he circled your clit with slow, deliberate pressure, the contrast of his calloused fingertips against the slick, sensitive flesh making your hips buck. He held you tighter, pinning you back against his chest so you couldn't move away from the sensation.
"Is this helping?" he whispered, his breath hot against your temple. He pressed harder, dragging his fingers in a rhythm that was designed to unravel you. "Helping you forget?"
"God, yesâŚ" you whimpered, your eyes fluttering shut. The water around you felt heavy, grounding you, while his hand was the only thing that mattered. It was perfect, the combination of his overwhelming presence and the way he was touching you, only that mattered.
He curled his fingers inside you just right, his thumb never ceasing its torture on your clit. You could feel the muscles in his forearm flexing against your stomach as he worked you, his pace steady and merciless.
"That's itâŚ" he encouraged, his lips grazing the pulse point in your neck. "Let go. I've got you."
The tension in your body, which had been coiling tight all day, suddenly snapped. You cried out, your back arching off his chest as the pleasure washed over you, intense and overwhelming. He didn't stop, drawing it out until you were trembling in his arms, completely spent.
When you finally came back down, you were slumped against him, the water cooling slightly around you. He pressed a kiss to your damp shoulder, wrapping both arms around you to hold you close.
"Better?" he asked quietly, almost lulling you in his arms.
You nodded, unable to find your voice, turning in the water to bury your face in his chest. He rested his chin on top of your head, his hands idly stroking your back under the water, letting you float in the afterglow.
âLet me grab a towel and dry you. We can go to bed and watch your favorite rom com.â he suggested softly, one arm grabbing a long towel.
âYou hate rom comsâŚâ
âI never said that. I will just make shitty comments during the entire movie.â he grinned, making you giggle. That sounded like a perfect night. You didnât realize it, but you had already forgotten your bad day.
