themoonbrokenbylife

she/her 30s, millennial that will forever hold onto her nerd interests and daydreams. I do beta reading and light editing. I love all things Marvel, F1, Star Wars, And many many MANY more ...

[inkmonster21]

Glitter, Clues, and Rooftop Sins

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x Fem!Reader

On Valentine’s Day, Johnny sends you on a glittery scavenger hunt that ends with a bracelet, a borrowed rooftop, and the kind of shameless, worshipful sex that proves you’ve already got all of him.

NSFW

You wake up to glitter.

Actual glitter.

The first thing you see when you open your eyes is a red paper heart taped to the ceiling above the bed. There are sparkles glued to it in a crooked outline that spells out one word.

HI

You blink. Squint. There is another heart on the wall by the door.

LOOK

Your brain registers three things at once.

One, he is not in bed.

Two, it is too quiet for him to be in the flat.

Three, of course he did something.

You sit up. There is a note propped against your lamp, folded badly, like he got impatient halfway through.

You pick it up.

Happy Valentines, bonnie.

Clue 1: Where yer coffee lives.

A badly drawn smiley face winks up at you. There is a little cartoon soap bar with a heart on it in the corner.

You roll your eyes and grin at the same time.

“Johnny,” you mutter, fond and already a little soft.

You drag yourself out of bed and pad to the kitchen in your sleep shirt. There is another heart on the cabinet door. Inside, on the shelf where your coffee is, sits a mug you have never seen before.

World’s Best Burden

You snort so hard you nearly choke. There is another folded note tucked inside.

Clue 2: Where ye get pretty.

The bathroom mirror has a third heart. Your makeup bag is sitting open next to the sink, brushes all lined up in a neat row like he thinks that is how you do it. There is a small box resting on the counter. Not jewelry box small. More like something that would hold a piece of candy.

Inside is a tacky plastic ring with a fake red gem the size of a marble. It looks like it came out of a kids machine.

You slide it onto your finger anyway. The note under it is more rushed, his handwriting bigger now like he was hurrying.

Clue 3: Where I kiss ye goodnight.

The couch.

You find the next heart on the armrest. There is a little bag of your favorite sweets tucked between the cushions and another note.

Final clue, lass.

Look where yer daft boyfriend keeps his boots.

You go to the front door, heart already beating faster. His boots are in their usual place. Next to them is a small black box.

This one looks like jewelry.

You hesitate for half a second. Then you pick it up and open it.

It is not a ring. It is a thin silver chain bracelet with a tiny charm. The charm is a little stamped metal circle with a soap bubble etched in it and your initial in the middle.

There is a second charm on the chain, separate, smaller. When you flip it over, you see his initials on one side and coordinates on the other. You recognize them.

The flat.

You press the bracelet to your chest for a moment, eyes stinging a little.

The last note is folded under the box, paper creased like he crumpled it and smoothed it out.

Thought about buyin ye something fancy.

Figured ye might like somethin that actually means I want ye here.

If ye hate it, I’ll pretend I lost the receipt.

PS: Turn around.

You turn.

He is leaning in the hallway, shoulder against the wall, arms folded. Joggers and a tight black shirt, hair damp from a shower, tattoos on his forearms on full display. He is grinning like he knows exactly what he just did to you.

“Morning, hen.”

“Johnny.”

Your voice comes out thinner than you mean it to.

He pushes off the wall and comes toward you, all easy swagger and soft eyes.

“You look cute in my shirt,” he says, gaze sweeping down your body. “Very Valentine coded, that.”

You suddenly remember that you are not wearing a bra under it, the fabric thin, hem brushing bare thighs. His eyes linger where the cotton tugs over your nipples.

You lift your chin.

“You left a crime scene of glitter in my bedroom,” you say. “You’re cleaning that up.”

“Worth it,” he replies.

He stops in front of you. His hand comes up, fingers brushing your wrist.

“Can I,” he asks. “Put it on?”

You nod. He takes the bracelet, his fingers surprisingly steady. He fastens it around your wrist, then turns your hand over and presses his lips to the inside, right where your pulse beats.

“Perfect,” he murmurs.

Your heart thumps so loud you are sure he can hear it.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say, because you have to say something.

He beams like you just told him he hung the moon.

“Aye,” he says. “And you love me.”

“Unfortunately,” you say, and then gasp when he grabs you, hands sliding to your hips and lifting you like you weigh nothing.

You squeak and instinctively wrap your legs around his waist. The box drops to the floor with a soft thud.

“Johnny,” you protest, hands flying to his shoulders.

“Whaat,” he drags the word out, eyes all fake innocence. “Ye told me turn around. I turned around. Saw the prettiest thing in the room.”

He presses you against the wall. His mouth is on you before you can come up with a smart reply, kissing you like he has been waiting since last night.

You melt.

His lips are warm, a little chapped. He tastes like toothpaste and sugar. His hands are firm under your thighs, fingers digging into soft skin. You slide your arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

He groans into your mouth, the sound low and hungry.

“Missed ye,” he murmurs against your lips. “Was hard as fuck not climbin back in the bed with ye when I woke up.”

“You could have,” you say, breathless.

“And ruin my very serious romantic plan?” He nips your bottom lip with his teeth, gentle. “Behave, lass.”

“I’m not the one who got glitter on my ceiling.”

“That glitter cost me two quid and a lecture from the cashier,” he informs you. “I’m committed.”

You giggle. He swallows the sound with another kiss, deeper this time, tongue sliding against yours. Heat curls low in your belly. You can feel him between your legs now, the firm press of his cock through the joggers, nestled against your panties.

You rock your hips without meaning to. He hisses.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Careful, hen. I’ve got plans.”

“What plans,” you ask, voice gone soft and curious.

He grins, nose brushing yours.

“Get some food in ye,” he says. “Take ye out. Bring ye back. Make ye forget yer name.”

There is no way you are going to argue with that.

He lets you down eventually. You scoop the little box back up and set it somewhere safe. You make coffee while he fusses with eggs and bacon, the two of you bumping hips in the tiny kitchen, laughing when he burns a slice of toast and swears at the toaster in rapid fire Scottish that you pretend not to understand.

He watches you put the bracelet back on like it is the most important part of his day.

“You’re staring,” you say.

“Course I am,” he replies. “Look at ye. Look at that. Means yer mine.”

“You were mine before the bracelet.”

“Aye,” he says. “But now I can prove it.”

You end up in the shower together. It is supposed to be quick. It never is with him.

Johnny sings. Badly. Loudly. He mists the room with steam and the scent of your shower gel because he likes it on his skin. He insists on washing your hair, big hands gentle on your scalp, fingers massaging shampoo in slow circles that make your knees weak.

“You doing this to turn me on,” you ask, eyes closed, the spray hot on your shoulders.

“Oh, is it workin,” he teases.

“Yes.”

“Then aye.”

He does not push, though. He saves it. He kisses your forehead and smacks your ass lightly as you step out, laughing when you squeal.

“Tonight,” he promises. “I’m gonna take my time with ye tonight.”

You feel that sentence in your bones.

You choose a dress he loves. Nothing too fancy. Just soft fabric that hugs your body, shows your legs. When you walk into the living room, he visibly short circuits.

His jaw drops a little. The playful grin slips into something slower.

“Jesus Christ,” he says under his breath. “Look at ye.”

“You picked it,” you remind him.

“Aye, and it was the smartest thing I’ve ever done.”

He crosses the room in three long strides and spins you around, his hand splaying over your lower back.

“Give us a twirl,” he urges.

You oblige. The hem flares, brushes your thighs. His gaze tracks every inch of you.

“Fuck me,” he mutters.

“Later,” you shoot back.

He pulls you in and kisses you again, leaving your lipstick a little smudged. His thumb wipes the corner of your mouth.

“Better,” he decides.

He takes you out.

Of course he has plans. Johnny never really half does anything. The restaurant is not fancy fancy, but it is nice enough that there are candles on the tables and the servers wear actual shirts and not t shirts with slogans.

He holds your hand on the way in. He greets the hostess by name, because of course he has charmed his way into being a regular. There is a single flower on the table when you sit down.

“I swear to God, Johnny, if you bought that just so it would be there when we sat down…”

“Who, me,” he says, all mock offense. “Never.”

You catch the server’s amused look and know for a fact he did.

Dinner is good. He makes you laugh so hard you nearly spill your drink. He tells stories about training that are almost certainly exaggerated just because he likes seeing your eyes go wide. He keeps his hand on your knee under the table, thumb stroking lazy circles, occasionally sliding higher just to see you shift.

When dessert comes, he orders something over the top. Chocolate, ice cream, some kind of sauce that drips down the sides. He scoops up a bite and holds the spoon out to you.

“Open,” he says.

You narrow your eyes.

“I can feed myself.”

“Not tonight ye can’t.”

You roll your eyes and lean forward. He watches you take the bite like it is porn, tongue curling around the spoon, lips closing. The sweetness hits your tongue, rich and decadent.

He makes a strangled noise.

“Don’t look at me like that in public,” he mutters. “I’m wearin tight jeans.”

“That’s your own fault,” you say sweetly.

When you are done, he pays, ignoring your protests. On the way out, he wraps an arm around your shoulders, tucking you under him as you walk, the city lit up in reds and pinks and fairy lights.

“Where are we going,” you ask.

“You’ll see,” he says.

He walks you to a building a few blocks away. One of those old places with a narrow staircase and questionable lighting in the foyer. You give him a look and he laughs.

“Trust me,” he says. “I’m not takin ye to get murdered. You’re far too pretty for that.”

“You are so strange,” you tell him.

“Aye, but I’m strange for ye.”

He leads you up flight after flight of stairs. At the top, there is a heavy metal door. He digs a key out of his pocket like he has been dying to use it.

“You have a key,” you say.

“Gaz’s cousin,” he explains. “He does photography up here. Let us borrow it for the night.”

He grins and pushes the door open.

The cold hits you first, crisp and sharp. Then the view.

It is a rooftop. Not huge, but you can see the whole city from here. Lights spread in every direction. Streetlamps, shop signs, windows glowing warm. A string of fairy lights is stretched along the low wall, buzzing softly.

In the middle, there is a low blanket laid out. Two lanterns flicker on either side. There is a thermos and two mugs set nearby.

You blink.

“Johnny,” you say, quiet. “What is this.”

“Plan B.” He shrugs, suddenly a little shy. “Plan A was a karaoke room but they double booked us with some hen party. I figured ye did not want to spend Valentine’s listenin to drunk strangers sing Taylor Swift, so I improvised.”

“Johnny,” you repeat.

He looks nervous now. It is rare, but you know the signs. The way he shifts his weight, the way his hand goes to the back of his neck.

“If ye hate it, we can go home,” he says quickly. “I just thought, ye know, stars, city, full romance package. Soap approved it.”

That last part makes you laugh.

“I love it,” you say. “Of course I love it. It’s perfect.”

Relief floods his face so fast you feel a little bad for not saying it sooner.

“Aye,” he says, grinning again. “Knew it.”

He opens the thermos and pours hot chocolate into the mugs. It is actually hot chocolate, not spiked, which surprises you a little.

“I thought you’d sneak whiskey in there,” you admit.

“Nah,” he says. “Want ye to remember every second of tonight, hen.”

You sit on the blanket, knees tucked under your dress. He drops down beside you, close enough that your shoulders touch. He hands you a mug and clinks his against it.

“To you,” he says. “The best thing that ever happened to my daft arse.”

You roll your eyes so he does not see how that lands.

“To you,” you reply. “The glitter terrorist of my heart.”

He laughs, throwing his head back, the sound bright in the cool air.

You sit together and drink, talking about nothing and everything. The city hums below. Occasionally the door creaks as the wind shifts. The fairy lights sway a little.

At some point, he lies back on the blanket and tugs you with him. You curl into his side without thinking, head on his chest, the steady beat of his heart under your ear.

For a few minutes, the world is held in that bubble. Just you and him and the night.

“Johnny,” you say softly.

“Aye, love.”

“Thank you.”

He looks down at you, eyes softer than you have ever seen them.

“Ye don’t need tae thank me for wantin tae make ye happy,” he says. “That’s just what I want to do.”

You could cry if you let yourself. You do not. You lift yourself instead, shifting onto your side so you can see him properly.

His gaze drops to your mouth.

He licks his lips.

“Come here, then,” he says.

You do.

The first kiss up here is slow. Unhurried. His hand slides up your spine, the other cupping your jaw. You taste chocolate on his tongue and feel the faint scrape of his stubble against your skin.

The second is less gentle.

Something shifts. The air feels different. The blanket under you is suddenly less about sitting and more about having a soft place to fall.

He rolls, moving you onto your back, his body braced over yours. His knee slots between your thighs. The dress rides up as he settles.

“You cold,” he asks, breathing a little heavier.

“Not even a little,” you say.

He smiles, crooked and heated.

“Good.”

His mouth finds yours again. This time there is no pretense of casual. He kisses you hard, tongue pushing in, teeth catching your lower lip. You whimper, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt.

His hand moves, sliding down your side, over your hip, to your thigh. His fingers grip, squeezing, pulling your leg higher around his waist.

You feel him. Hard. Pressed against you through his jeans. The knowledge that he has been like this for you only, all night, sends a fresh wave of heat through you.

He drags his mouth from yours to your neck, sucking and kissing down the line, finding that spot that makes you gasp.

“There ye go,” he murmurs against your skin. “Right there, aye?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Johnny, please.”

“Please what, hen,” he asks, teasing and low.

“Touch me.”

He groans softly.

“Can do that.”

His hand slips under your dress, fingers skating over the bare skin of your thigh, then higher. Your panties are already damp, the thin fabric clinging. He presses his fingers against the center and swears under his breath.

“Fuck. Ye’re soaked.”

“Because of you,” you manage.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, hair a little wild, eyes dark.

“Say it again,” he urges.

“Because of you,” you repeat. “All you, Johnny.”

“Aye,” he says, satisfaction in every syllable. “That’s my girl.”

He hooks his fingers into the side of your panties and slides them aside. The air is cool on your slick skin for a second before his fingers are there, stroking through, spreading the wetness.

You gasp, hips lifting, chasing the touch.

He watches your face as he rubs, slow at first, learning how sensitive you are tonight. His thumb finds your clit and draws a lazy circle. The jolt of pleasure makes your back arch.

“There we go,” he murmurs. “That’s it, love. Let me see ye.”

Your hands scrabble at his arm, clinging to him as he works you. One finger presses at your entrance, then slides in, the stretch familiar and welcome. He moves it in and out lazily, adding a second when you start to whine.

You are already close. The whole day has been foreplay, his stupid notes, his grin, the way he looks at you like you are the best thing he has ever seen.

“Johnny,” you gasp. “I’m gonna…”

“Yeah?” His thumb circles your clit faster, fingers curling just right. “Come on, then. Give it tae me. I’ve got ye.”

The words push you over. You come with a sharp cry, muscles clenching around his fingers, thighs trembling. He keeps moving, gentle, letting you ride the pleasure out until it is too much and you grab his wrist.

“Stop,” you plead, breathless. “Too much.”

He stills instantly, then withdraws his hand. Your cunt throbs with aftershocks, slick and needy.

He brings his fingers to his mouth and licks them clean, eyes locked on yours.

“Taste like heaven,” he says. “Every fucking time.”

You groan, pressing your palms over your face.

“That should be illegal,” you mumble.

“If it’s illegal, they’ll never catch me.”

He chuckles, then leans down and kisses you hard, making sure you taste yourself on his tongue.

“Can ye stand,” he asks against your mouth.

“I don’t know,” you say honestly.

He grins.

“Good thing I can carry ye, then.”

“You are not carrying me down all those stairs.”

“Who said anythin about stairs,” he replies. “We’re not done here.”

Your heart does a weird little flip.

“Here?”

“Aye. Up here. Got the roof to ourselves. Would be rude not tae take advantage.”

You glance around, half expecting someone to pop out from behind the little access structure.

“Johnny…”

“There’s nobody here, hen. Gaz’s cousin is in Spain. I checked the other doors. We’re alone.”

He says it with the same tone he uses on missions when he tells you it is clear. You trust that tone with your life. You can trust it with this.

He watches the calculation on your face, the hesitation and then the way your thighs press together as the image hits you.

His mouth curves.

“Bet yer thinkin about it now,” he says softly.

You swallow. Hard.

“Maybe.”

“Think about it,” he repeats, leaning down to nip your ear. “Dress hitched up. My hands on yer hips. Ye lookin out over the city while I fuck ye full. Tellin me ye can see the lights and all ye can think about is my cock inside ye.”

The words turn your bones to liquid.

“Johnny,” you say, embarrassed at how it comes out.

He hums, satisfied.

“That’s what I thought.”

He gets to his feet and holds a hand out.

“Up ye get, bonnie.”

Your legs are definitely shaky, but you stand. The wind picks at your dress, teasing the hem. He steps in close, big warm presence against you.

He turns you gently so you are facing the city. The low wall is right in front of you, solid concrete. You put your hands on it automatically, palms flat, the cold seeping into your skin.

He slides in behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of him along your back. His hands skim down your arms to cover your wrists, holding them there, not trapping, just resting.

“You alright,” he asks quietly, mouth at your ear.

“Yes.”

“You tell me if ye want tae stop.”

“I will.”

“Good girl.”

One hand leaves your wrist and goes to your hip. He bunches your dress up, slow, fabric sliding over your thighs, your ass, gathering at your waist. The night air hits your bare skin, cool and shocking.

You squeeze your fingers on the wall and feel your cunt clench at the sudden vulnerability. You are outside, mostly naked from the waist down, the city spread in front of you, lights flickering like stars.

He makes a low appreciative sound.

“Look at ye,” he murmurs. “Fuck. Yer so pretty.”

You glance over your shoulder. He is looking down at you, gaze hot and hungry. He hooks one finger in the side of your panties and tugs them down, letting them fall around your ankles.

“Step out,” he says.

You do. He kicks them aside.

“Johnny,” you whisper. “What if someone…”

“No one’s lookin up here, hen,” he promises. “Even if they did, they’d see a lass in a nice dress on Valentine’s. They won’t know yer standin here with yer wee pretty cunt out for me.”

The way he says it makes you whine, face burning.

He chuckles, then presses himself against you fully. You feel his cock, hard and thick, straining against his jeans, pressing into the curve of your ass.

“Feel that,” he asks.

“Yes,” you say, voice thin.

“Been like that since ye walked into the living room.”

You hear the sound of a zipper. The shift of fabric. Then the heavy, hot weight of him against your bare skin. He drags his cock along your slick folds, slow, smearing precome and your wetness together.

You moan.

“Johnny, please.”

“Please what, love.”

“Fuck me.”

He groans, rough and low.

“Aye. I can do that.”

He pulls back just enough to reach into his pocket. There is the crinkle of foil, the slight curse under his breath when the wind tries to snatch the wrapper.

“Hold still,” he mutters.

You hear the soft snap as he gets the condom out, then the wet sound of him rolling it on. Your body buzzes with anticipation, every nerve focused on the promise of him.

He settles back against you, hand finding your hip.

“Ye sure,” he asks one more time.

You nod, fingers tightening on the wall.

“Yes,” you say. “I want you, Johnny. I want all of you.”

He exhales.

“Good.” His hand slides around to your stomach, holding you steady. “Open up for me, then.”

He nudges the head of his cock against your entrance. You push back instinctively, and he swears.

“Easy,” he says. “Let me.”

He presses in, slow, the blunt head stretching you. You gasp, the burn sweet and sharp, your body yielding around him.

He grits his teeth, little huffs of breath escaping.

“Fuck, yer tight,” he groans. “Always so tight for me.”

You feel every inch as he sinks deeper. His hand on your stomach presses you back into him, pinning you to the wall gently. When he is fully seated, his hips snug to your ass, you both pause.

The city hums below.

Up here, all you can feel is him. He fills you completely, thick and deep, the stretch perfect.

“Johnny,” you breathe. “God.”

“Aye,” he says, voice rough. “That’s it. Take a breath, hen. I’ve got ye.”

You do. In. Out. The initial intensity eases into deep, pulsing pleasure.

He moves.

He pulls back slowly, the drag of his cock along your walls making your knees threaten to give out. He catches you easily, hand tightening on your hip, then thrusts back in with a firm roll of his hips.

You moan, head dropping forward.

“Good?” he asks, right at your ear.

“So good,” you gasp. “Please, Johnny, more.”

“More?” His laugh is breathless. “Aye, love. I’ll give ye more.”

He sets a rhythm, slow at first, long strokes that let you feel every inch of him. The slap of his hips against your ass is muffled by the blanket under your feet, the night wind carrying the sound away.

He leans over you, chest pressed to your back, his mouth at your neck. His free hand slips from your stomach to between your legs. His fingers find your clit and start to rub in time with his thrusts.

The combination is devastating.

You whimper, hips rocking back against him, chasing the sensation. Every time he sinks in, he hits that spot inside you that makes electricity arc up your spine. His thumb draws tight circles over your clit, slick with your wetness.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Ye feel that, bonnie? All these lights, all these folk, and I’m the only one that gets tae see ye like this. Hear ye moan like this.”

You nod frantically, words half gone.

“Yes, yes, Johnny, please, don’t stop.”

“I’m not stoppin,” he says. “Not till ye come for me.”

Your body is already on the edge. The position, the rough concrete under your palms, the cool night air on your flushed skin, the sheer filth of what you are doing up here, it all piles on.

“Say ye’re mine,” he says, voice low and intense, right against your ear. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp. “I’m yours, Johnny, I’m all yours.”

He groans, deep and raw.

“That’s my girl.”

His thrusts get a little harder, pace picking up. The angle changes, his cock hitting that perfect spot every time, his thumb relentless on your clit.

You unravel.

Your orgasm slams into you like the drop from the rooftop. Everything clenches. Your legs shake, your cunt pulses around him in tight, rapid spasms. You cry out, the sound ripped from your chest.

“Johnny,” you sob on his name.

He curses, the word muffled against your neck.

“There ye go, love. That’s it. Fuck, ye’re squeezin me so good.”

He rides it out with you, fucking you through the waves, not stopping until you start to go limp against the wall, overstimulated and shaking. His hand leaves your clit, slides back to your hip, grip tight.

“Ye okay?” he pants. “Still with me?”

“Yes,” you manage, voice shaking. “I’m okay. I’m so good. Johnny, you…”

He cuts you off with a ragged groan.

“Gonna come,” he warns, thrusts getting more erratic. “Jesus, hen, I’m not gonna last. Ye feel too good.”

“Come for me,” you say, pushing back into him. “I want to feel you. Please.”

He swears again, long and filthy this time.

“Aye. Aye, that’s it. Hold on, bonnie.”

He slams in deep, hips jerking as his orgasm hits. Even with the condom, you can feel the throbbing pulses of his release, the shudder that runs through his whole body. He buries his face in your neck and moans, the sound caught between a laugh and a groan.

For a few seconds, all you can hear is the rush of blood in your ears and the distant city noise. His weight is heavy and comforting against your back, his cock still deep inside you, slowly softening.

Eventually he straightens, carefully pulling out. You whimper at the empty feeling and he squeezes your hip in apology.

“Sorry, love,” he says, breathless. “Ye alright?”

You turn your head, cheek pressed to your shoulder so you can see him.

“I’m fantastic,” you say. “That was insane.”

He grins, cheeks flushed, hair a mess.

“Aye,” he agrees. “We’re absolutely goin tae hell.”

“I’m okay with that,” you say. “If you’re there.”

“Ye can’t say shit like that to me when I’ve just come,” he complains, voice affectionate. “I’ll marry ye on the spot.”

You laugh, the sound a little wobbly.

He disposes of the condom, then helps you straighten. He pulls your dress back down over your hips, fingers gentle, making sure you are covered before he turns you properly. You wobble. He catches you, hands firm on your waist.

“Legs gone, hen?” he teases.

“A little.”

He looks smug as anything.

“Good date, then.”

“The best.”

He kisses you again, slow and sweet now, his lips soft against yours. The rooftop, the city, the cold, it all blurs into the background. All you really feel is him.

When you finally go back downstairs, he insists on carrying you the last flight, mumbling something about not trusting your knees and wanting to show off.

Back at the flat, he runs you a bath, makes you drink water, then pulls you into bed, tucking you under his chin like he is afraid you might float away.

You play with the bracelet on your wrist, feeling the cool metal against your skin. He notices.

“Ye like it?” he asks quietly.

“I love it,” you say.

“Aye?” There is that little bit of insecurity again, slipping through the bravado.

“Aye,” you mimic his accent, making him huff a laugh. “Very much. I like knowing I have a piece of you.”

He kisses your hair.

“Ye have all of me, hen,” he says. “Thought ye knew that.”

You smile into his chest.

“I know,” you say. “But this helps when you’re being an idiot.”

“Oi.”

You look up at him.

“I love you,” you say.

His expression softens completely.

“Love ye too,” he replies. “More than glitter, even.”

“That is the highest compliment you could give me,” you say solemnly.

He snorts and pulls you closer.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, bonnie,” he murmurs.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Johnny.”

Outside, the city glows. Inside, wrapped up in him, sore in the best way, bracelet cool around your wrist and his heartbeat steady under your ear, everything feels exactly right.

[metal-mouse]

Don't Ever Leave

pairing: Garreth Weasley x f!MC (M/F pairing)

themes: 18+ minors DNI. smut. fluff. so, so many tropes. pourn with plot. confessing feelings. idiots in love.

warnings: smut. p in v. unprotected sex. a hint of body worshipping. f receiving oral. not even an attempt to pull out.

summary: 7.1k words of whatever this is. It has been one year since you have graduated from Hogwarts. You've returned to Hogsmeade for some shopping, and you run into a familiar face. You spend the afternoon catching up with Garreth Weasley, when a rain storm rolls in preventing you from returning home.

note: I'm thirsty for Garreth Weasley and I'm a filthy slut for tropes. This got way longer than I expected it to. Editing? Never heard of her. Unicorns shed their horns like moose because I said so. I'll make a Garreth stan out of you if it's the last thing I do 😤

tagging @the-ominis-gaunt and @cuffmeinblack bc the red haired boi.

s/o to @anto-pops for letting me yell in the dms and also being an enabler and a pot-stirrer. luv u.

You called one last good-bye to Albie Weekes as you left his shop stepping into the cool November air. It had been well over a year since you’d last stepped foot in Hogsmeade, and it was nice to catch up with some old friends. Your next step would be visiting Parry Pippin, who had been most fond of you while you were in school. You’d always helped him make deliveries to Fatimah Lewang, which had gotten you a decent amount of pocket money. He had always paid you handsomely for having to deal with that unpleasant woman. You made your way up the street towards the potions shop, savoring the sights and sounds of the bustling village. Seeing students wander the streets talking and laughing filled you with so many fond memories. You could almost see yourself with Sebastian and Ominis, or perhaps Garreth Weasley, walking through the village and stopping in at the shops. 

Your mind lingered on the idea of walking through Hogsmeade with Garreth. The two of you had formed a very close friendship in your sixth year. You had been immensely fond of him, and something deep down inside of you had always hoped the two of you might become more than just friends. Besides Sebastian and Ominis, he was the one you spent the most time with. The amount of time the two of you had spent flirting was obscene, with delicate touches and priceless banter. Garreth had been quick to blush, and how you loved to make him blush. 

You got to the entrance of J. Pippin’s, and were jolted by the door opening suddenly. A man with a friendly face and a messy head of red hair bumped into you. 

“Garreth?” You said, momentarily wondering if you’d accidentally summoned him.

“What are you doing here?” He asked, and then frowned at his choice of words, “er… I mean It’s lovely to see you!” He added quickly. You couldn’t help but smile at the blush that bloomed across his cheeks. 

“I needed to buy a new broom, I figured I’d come and visit some of the other shopkeepers while I’m here.” You said. 

“Still up to trouble, I gather?” He asked. 

“Naturally.” You gave him a wink. He laughed, and opened his arms for a hug. You embraced him briefly before stepping back and inspecting him. In the year since you’d seen him last he’d grown out of being the boy you knew. He was taller, his shoulders broader and he looked obviously strong under his clothes - which you noticed were very well tailored. The boyishness of his round cheeks had lessened, his cheekbones and jawline more defined now. You’d thought him handsome while in school, but now… he was breathtaking. 

“I can’t believe you’re really here.” Garreth said, his eyes searching your face. 

“I only live over in Feldcroft. It’s not that far a journey. I’m more surprised to see you here.” You said. A sullen look flashed across his face so fast you almost thought you’d imagined it. 

“Feldcroft? Are you living with Sallow?” He asked, an unexpected bite to his voice. 

“Anne Sallow, yes. Sebastian and Ominis moved to London to be closer to work. What have you been up to?” 

“Oh… right! I… well… it’s a little embarrassing.” His hand reached up to push his hair back. 

“What, are you shoveling dragon dung for a living?” You asked. He shot you a scandalized look.

“No, I’m Parry Pippin’s assistant.” You arched a brow at his response. That seemed like a respectable job to you. 

“Why would that be embarrassing? Mr. Pippin is an excellent potioneer.” 

“Speaking of Mr. Pippin, he is patiently waiting for one Mr. Weasley to go gather his ingredients.” Parry Pippin’s voice made you nearly jump out of your skin. You looked over to the shopkeeper, who had his hands on his hips and a little frown on his face. Garreth’s face flushed again. 

“Hello, Mr. Pippin!” You reached out and shook his hand. 

“It’s lovely to see you dear, now, if you’re insistent on distracting my assistant, why don’t you make yourself useful and help him collect the ingredients I need? He could use someone to watch his back.” Mr. Pippin said sternly. It was your turn to blush. You looked over to Garreth who had a hopeful look on his face. You nodded, it wasn’t like you were expected anywhere else - not with Anne visiting Ominis and Sebastian - and there was no way you could say no to that face. You would certainly rather be with him than be in the frigid sky on your way to an empty house. After a final sharp word from Mr. Pippin, Garreth started on the road that would take you towards the Forbidden Forest. 

It felt a little surreal, to be walking down that familiar path with Garreth Weasley. Truth be told, you hadn’t anticipated running into any of your school friends. You hadn’t really been close with many students under your year, and most of your friends were busy with their new jobs. Natty was back in Uganda, Poppy was running around the wilderness looking for beasts, Ominis was apprenticing in Diagon Alley, Sebastian was working in the Auror’s office… Even Anne seemed to be spending more and more time in London. 

You did think it a little amusing that you found yourself yet again protecting someone while they entered a dangerous location. It had become a habit during your school years, and it seemed to be carrying into your graduate life. The villagers in Feldcroft often asked for your help when it came to potentially dangerous situations. 

“I needed a job so I could save up and open up my own shop - Mr. Pippin was looking for someone to help out around his shop, it just seemed right.” Garreth said, jolting you from your thoughts. His tone was a little dejected, as though it was a disappointment for him to not own his own shop. 

“It certainly gives you good access to ingredients for your experiments. You’ve only just left school, you have loads of time Gar. You’re brilliant, I know you’ll have your own shop in no time.” You said encouragingly. He really was brilliant at potion-making, despite his unfortunate mishaps with his personal experiments. 

“You think so?” He asked, a little smile on his face. You nodded in response, returning his smile. His green eyes seemed to sparkle as he held your gaze for a moment - before promptly tripping over his own feet and stumbling. You moved on reflex, your arms wrapping around his, and hauling him upwards so he didn’t fall down. 

“Even if you can’t walk in a straight line to save your life, yes I do think so.” You said, laughing at him. His face was red as he joined in your laughter.

“I can walk perfectly straight, thank you very much.” 

“Hurt your pride, did I?” 

“At least I can reach the top shelf.” 

“That’s a low blow, Weasley.” 

“Yes, because you’re so close to the ground.” 

You and Garreth bickered back and forth as you walked along, without realizing you were still holding onto his arm. You loved spending time with Anne, and you did appreciate your neighbours in the village, but this was wonderful. It had been a long time since you’d laughed like this. Before you knew it, you stood at the entrance of the Forbidden Forest. You dropped his arm, pulling your wand out of the hidden pocket inside your coat. 

“Alright, I’ve got to find unicorn hair and hopefully some unicorn horns. They’re shedding this time of year.” Garreth said. 

“Really? That’s not going to be easy. I know where some unicorns stay, but it’s very deep in the forest.” You said, frowning a little. You’d gone to see the unicorns several times during your time at school, especially after you’d chased all the poachers out of the woods. You wondered if they would remember you - and if they would just run from Garreth. 

“You know where their den is?” He looked at you with an amazed expression. 

“Well, Poppy Sweeting wasn’t the only one who was fond of magical beasts.” You said, stepping through the gate towards the forest. You’d never shown anyone the Room of Requirement, preferring to keep it your own little sanctuary. There was no way Garreth would have known about your beast rescuing services. He merely tilted his head in agreement and followed you through the gate. 

It had been a long time since you’d set foot in the ancient feeling forest, and it was just as unnerving. Despite going into the forest countless times, the feeling of it was something you’d never gotten used to. It was always so unnaturally quiet, despite the abundance of life you knew dwelled under the dark canopy of trees. Garreth’s hand quietly found yours, and you didn’t have it in you to tease him about it. The forest could really be scary. You didn’t speak as you guided him down the path, trying to remember the way to the unicorns all while listening carefully for the tell-tale signs of trouble. You navigated the twisting paths, taking the route which you recalled to have the least amount of spiders. 

You both froze when a spine-chilling howl echoed in the distance. Garreth’s hand tightened over yours. You had no idea what sort of beast had made that horrible noise, and you weren’t in a rush to find out. Dark mongrels you could handle. Werewolves, you weren’t all that eager to try and fight. Anything else… Unless it was small and easily defeatable, you truly weren’t interested today.

“Please tell me we’re not going towards that.” He whispered to you. You shook your head, looking towards the direction of the noise. It was, thankfully, in the wrong direction. 

“I can’t believe he wanted you to come here alone.” You whispered, unwilling to speak any louder. You wondered in part if that was because of Parry Pippin’s cowardice. The man wasn’t exactly known for his bravery, which was showcased so brilliantly in the delivery job he’d given you. If he wasn’t able to face Madam Lewang, how in the world would he have faced the forest and its denizens? Perhaps you’d have to have a talk with the master potioneer upon your return. You gently tugged on Garreth’s hand and started walking again - increasing your pace when another howl echoed. 

“You never said what you’re doing now that school’s done.” He said quietly, clearly desperate to break up at least some of the tense silence. 

“I’m not really doing much these days, I mostly help around Feldcroft and take care of Anne. St. Mungos reckons they’ve nearly got a cure.” You said, stepping over a large root and turning slightly to make sure Garreth didn’t trip over it. After everything you’d done, from stopping the Goblin rebellion to destroying the poacher trade in the Scottish Highlands, you figured you were owed a well deserved break - not that you were doing much relaxing. 

“That’s wonderful to hear, I always did like Anne…” He trailed off, as though there was something more he wanted to say. Heavy footsteps made the ground tremble slightly, and you shoved Garreth into the shadows against a tree before pressing against him trying to make the pair of you as inconspicuous as possible. He made no noise as a troll thumped across the path. You were steadily growing more annoyed with Mr. Pippin by the minute. What if he had been alone? It was inexcusable! You at least knew you could take on a fully grown troll. He may have been decent at defense against the dark arts, but Garreth had never fought a troll on his own. Hell, even Sebastian struggled and that was with your help. It was a tense few moments before the troll moved deeper into the forest.

“Come on. He didn’t see us.” You kept the steady pace up. 

“This is awful. How in the world are you still alive? I am so sorry for asking you to collect ingredients for me all the time.” Garreth hissed as he followed you. You snorted, his requests for you to go into the forest were often the least dangerous adventures you went on. The forest got darker as you ventured deeper, and now you really had to be on your guard. You jumped when something wet and cold dripped onto your face, and looked up with your wand out. You sighed when you felt more drops and realized it was just raining. You wondered if you’d lost your nerve, which was not helped when Garreth huffed a laugh at your reaction. 

“Not a word out of you, Weasley.” You shot a glare over your shoulder. 

“Are you frightened of the rain? Do you need me to protect you?” He teased. A stick cracked nearby, and with a nervous gasp he moved closer to you. You smirked a little, not even needing to tease him for his face to go red. You fell into silence once more, hoping the rain would stay light. If it was storming by the time you were due home, you weren’t going to be happy about it. Hand in hand and wands at the ready, you and Garreth pushed on into the darkness. 

You smiled when you heard the soft nickering of horses. You pulled Garreth to the side behind some bushes, quietly casting the disillusionment charm on yourself. He did the same, and you guided him forwards a little. You let go of his hand, beaming at the sight of the unicorns in front of you. You could feel him looming over your shoulder, his fingers gently pressing against the small of your back. It was a stunning sight, to have so many of these rare beasts all in one spot. 

“They’re beautiful.” He bent to whisper in your ear. You nodded despite the fact he couldn’t really see you. 

“Stay here. I want to see if they’ll let me approach them.” You whispered back, stepping away from him and removing the charm. You stepped forward slowly, letting yourself be seen by the unicorns. A massive white stallion moved forwards, staring you down with deep-set eyes. His coat was majestic, it almost seemed to glow despite no light hitting it. You stopped, and lifted your hands carefully. A loud whinny made you look to your left, and you gasped when Hazel the unicorn trotted happily towards you.

“Hazel! You look wonderful, my friend.” You said, smiling at her as she stopped before you. You lifted your hand and gently stroked her forehead. She truly did, her coat was shining bright as ever and she was plump from eating well. You flicked your wand, summoning a horse brush to give her a nice brush down. You momentarily forgot about Garreth as a few other unicorns you recognized moved in closer - including Hazel’s mate who you had named Ares, and the now-grown foal they’d had just over two years ago that you called Honey. You were laughing now, greeting each of them and letting them all take their turns with your brush and summoning little treats for each of them. 

You took a moment to glance around the clearing that they lived in, and indeed there were a few horns littered around the ground. You looked over your shoulder to where Garreth was hidden behind the bush, and carefully beckoned to him. The unicorns froze, going on high alert as he took a careful step into the clearing. 

“This is Garreth, he’s my friend.” You said, the word friend leaving a slightly bitter taste in your mouth. He came to stand beside you, careful not to move too quickly. He didn’t want to frighten them. Hazel moved a little closer to you, assessing him carefully. You swore that she understood everything you ever told her, and when she turned her head towards you and then back to him you felt that she knew just who he was. You held your hand out for Garreth’s, and he placed his hand in yours without hesitation. You lifted his hand, gently pressing it to Hazel’s forehead and stroking it downwards in the way she liked to be pet above her nose. You watched him while he repeated the motions you showed him, reveling in the awed look on his face. His green eyes were wide, and almost sparkling. A smile slowly spread as his nerves faded, and he met your gaze. He was so handsome it almost hurt. To see him so happy to be doing something that you loved… you hadn’t expected it to make your heart pound like this. 

“Hello! It’s lovely to meet you.” Garreth addressed Hazel, and you thought you were going to drop dead at the way that made you feel. You thought about how so many witches and wizards completely disregarded beasts and their intelligence, and to see someone so important to you regard beasts with respect… you were getting flustered with the overwhelming urge to kiss him. 

The rain really started to pick up now, and you were reminded that you stood in the middle of the Forbidden Forest, probably surrounded by dangerous creatures. You and Garreth got to work, he searched for fallen horns while you brushed unicorn tail hairs out carefully. 

“You know, this has turned out to be a very pleasant adventure.” Garreth said conversationally, coming closer to you to help with harvesting some tail hairs.

“Are you only saying that because Pippin won’t be complaining about his unicorn ingredients now?” You asked with a grin. 

“Not at all! It’s nice to see you again. If I’m being honest, I wasn’t sure I would. I’d assumed you would disappear wherever Sallow went.” He said, giving you a nervous glance. Your brows furrowed as you thought about what he’d just said. Why in the world would he assume that? 

“With Sebastian? What do you mean?” You asked. 

“Well… It wasn’t just me who thought this, of course, but I thought you would end up marrying him. You two were always so close.” He said awkwardly. You were close with Sebastian, and you had been through a lot with him, but not once did you see him as a romantic partner. You could understand why others may have thought that; the man was an unbearable flirt after all, but he’d never sought you romantically either. In fact, you’d played wing-man for him far too many times to count. 

You shook your head, “Sebastian and I were never romantically involved, nor will we ever be. That would be like kissing my brother.” You cringed at the thought of kissing Sebastian. Garreth was quiet for a long time. You looked over at him and saw him deep in thought as he gently brushed Honey’s tail. 

“Oh… so, you’re not… involved with anyone?” He asked, tilting his head cautiously. 

“No, Garreth, I am not.” You said. Your love life was indeed woefully empty. Some part of you still clung to the idea of somehow being with him. Why would he even be bringing this up? Did he truly care about your love life, or was he being polite?

The rain was lashing down now, leaving you both absolutely drenched while you worked. The unicorns began to retreat deeper into the woods now, looking to find some sort of shelter from the rain. You had started to shiver from the cold rain, chilling you down to the bone. Hazel was the last to leave, leaning against the palm of your hand one last time before turning and walking through the trees into the darkness. It was bittersweet, seeing the unicorn go. You resolved to come back and visit more often - you’d handled the forest as an inexperienced witch, you had so much more skill and experience now to navigate the twisting paths. You looked around, wrapping your arms around yourself to try and gain some sort of warmth. The thick clouds in the sky and the rapidly setting sun bathed the surrounding forest in an impossibly dark shade of black. 

When the clearing was suddenly bathed in light, you turned to see Garreth holding his wand with its tip shining brightly between his teeth as he finished stuffing unicorn hairs and horns into the satchel he’d brought with him. He looked at you, and you squinted as the light hit your eyes. 

“You’re blue! Come on, let’s get you somewhere warm and dry.” He said, taking his wand out of his mouth. You frowned, not happy that your little adventure was coming to an end. Garreth was right, you were freezing. Your hands had gone numb, and you could feel your teeth starting to chatter a little. It was going to be a long trip back to Feldcroft. You lamented your loss of the Hogwarts floo system, an annoying decision Phineas Nigellus Black had made upon your graduation. 

“I’ve g-got to p-pick up my br-broom from Alb-bie. Got t’ f-fly home.” You stammered out, the cold effectively locking your jaw. A powerful gust of wind made the trees swish and made you even colder. 

“Don’t be stupid. You’re going to fly home in this? You’ll catch your death.” Garreth shook his head, holding his hand out. You took it, and he apparated before you could even put another word in. 

You looked up at the little cottage you stood in front of, blinking in surprise. You supposed Garreth did have a point - the wind had picked up far too much now, flying would be dangerous. You’d go see Sirona again and see if she had any rooms available. Garreth unlocked the door to the cottage and practically dragged you inside. The door closed behind you, and the lamps flickered to life lighting up a cozy little living area. Garreth wordlessly waved his wand towards the fireplace on the wall adjacent to the door and it roared to life almost instantly flooding the room with delicious warmth. 

You moved closer to the fire, looking around the room as you did. There were two narrow bookcases crammed full on either side of the fireplace, and a squashy green armchair and matching loveseat with a small wooden table in front of the fire. On the next wall was a potions station complete with an extensive storage system. On the other side of the room was a small kitchen with a little dining table that had only two chairs. A door on the very back wall led to what you assumed was the bathroom. It was a charming little house, somehow very maximalist despite not having much for decor - how typical of him. Leander Prewett had once described their dormitory to you, and he apparently hadn’t changed much in terms of taste. 

“Are you listening?” Garreth’s voice jolted you out of your snooping. You looked at him, shaking your head. 

“I wasn’t, I’m sorry.” You said, your jaw still tight. Your wet clothes were extremely uncomfortable. 

“I was saying that I’ll find you something dry to wear, just follow me.” He sounded equal parts amused and concerned. You nodded, and followed him up the narrow flight of stairs that led up to a loft. A four poster bed lay under the window, with a desk on one of the other walls and a large armoire across the room from the bed. The walls up here were much less bare, with the Gryffindor coat of arms hanging above the desk, and banners from different Quidditch clubs decorating the walls. He also had some artwork on the walls, including photos from school. You turned, and watched him open the doors to his armoire and dig through it looking for some dry clothing. He tossed a soft looking green jumper onto the bed, and dug around a little more before pulling out a pair of pyjama pants. 

“Thank you.” You said, taking the pants out of his hand as he walked towards you. You set the pants on the bed next to the jumper. You were too cold and too uncomfortable to care that he was still in the room as you began to fumble to take off your soaked clothing. Garreth made a startled noise, whirling around and looking away from you. 

“Do you want me to go?” He asked in a panicked tone. 

“Don’t care. Too cold.” You mumbled, shedding your wet clothes onto the floor and pulling the jumper over your head. It was an immediate relief. It was massive, hanging almost to your knees, and so warm already. You pulled on the pyjama pants which were far too big for you. You took a step forward to pick up your wet belongings, and the pants promptly dropped right to your ankles making you giggle. Garreth turned around at the sound of your laugh, and saw the pyjama pants pooled at your feet. 

“A little big, I suppose.” He said sheepishly. You waved him off, picking up the pants and putting them back onto the bed. You’d just go without, you were fully covered - what difference would it really make? 

You took your wet clothes downstairs so he could get changed in peace. You pushed open the door to what you thought was the bathroom and were pleased to see you were right. Along one wall was a rope with some clothes already hanging to dry, you just added yours to the mix. You took a moment to towel dry your hair, before standing directly in front of the fire to capitalize on the pleasant heat with your eyes closed and hands outstretched.

“Enjoying yourself?” Garreth asked, and you nodded without opening your eyes. He chuckled and nudged you to the side so he could also capture some of the warmth of the fire. You blinked your eyes open, looking up at him. His hair hung in his eyes, messier than usual thanks to the rain. It was strangely intimate, seeing him in a comfy jumper and pyjama pants with wet hair. It was something so mundane, but it felt… personal. You forced your eyes back to the fire with a newfound determination to just never look at him ever again. Your eyes slowly closed again, this time from the day’s journey catching up with you. Garreth huffed another laugh, and hooked an arm around you to help you back up the stairs to his bedroom. 

“You’re asleep on your feet, you can just sleep here.” He said, helping you sit down on his bed. You didn’t protest, allowing him to pull back the thick quilt while you made yourself comfortable. Garreth mumbled something about delivering the ingredients to Mr. Pippin, and he disappeared. In his absence, you couldn’t fight the sleep. You were so warm in his soft bed surrounded by the smell of him, and you drifted off to sleep. 

There was no way to tell what time it was when you were startled awake by a loud clap of thunder. 

“It’s only a storm.” Garreth’s voice came from the floor. You sat up, rubbing your eyes and blinking. The room wasn’t completely dark, the light from the fire downstairs gave the loft a dim light. As the blankets fell from your shoulders, you shivered against the cold air. 

“What’re you doing on the floor?” You asked. 

“You’re in the bed?” He said as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. You rolled your eyes and beckoned towards him.

“Don’t be stupid, you wouldn’t do anything I didn’t want you to anyways.” You grumbled. Sleeping on the ground? You were adults, you could share a bed. You’d only bite if he asked, anyways. He stood up and sat down on the edge of the bed beside you. You absently reached out and fixed his hair so it wasn’t in his eyes. His eyes searched your face with a cautious expression.

“Am I a fool?” Garreth asked you suddenly, making you frown. 

“A fool? What for?” You asked.

“For thinking that there is something to that look in your eyes. That there is some part of you who might want more,” Garreth’s hand closed around your arm and you stared at him stupidly, “there have been so many times I’ve wondered if I should just kiss you, or if it’s all a hopeless daydream. This past year without getting to see that look has been agony. I haven’t known if it was all in my head, if you were with Sallow or someone else, if I ever stood a chance.” An agonized look passed across his face in the dim lighting and he looked away from you. All of your breath left your body like you’d been punched in the chest. This day truly had taken a turn you’d never expected.  

“Gar…” You murmured. 

“A week ago, I’d thought that I could try to move on, and now you’re here. You’re in my house, you’re in my clothes, in my bed… I feel like I’m going mad.” His voice was thick with emotion, and his distress was visible. His hand left your arm. Garreth reached towards your face, but hesitated and started to pull his hand back. You took it and brought it to your cheek. 

“I..” You opened your mouth, cursing your sleep-addled brain for being unable to come up with a reasonable response. You wanted to tell him how you felt about him. You wanted to tell him that you loved him, and you’d been hoping and wishing he’d say he felt the same about you. A flash of lightning showed Garreth’s pained expression as he awaited your response. There weren’t enough words in the world that could adequately describe the way he made you feel. You would rearrange all the stars in the sky if he asked you to, and you didn’t know how to tell him that. 

“I love you.” You whispered instead, and watched as Garreth’s expression changed from stunned to bright as sunshine. You let out a gasp as he lunged forward and kissed you with so much fervor he knocked you onto your back. He pulled back and started to apologize, so you wrapped your arms around him and tugged him back down as you kissed him. Garreth’s strong arms held you tight against him. His kiss was sweet as honey, and you poured every drop of emotion you held into it. You might not be able to tell him how you feel, but you could certainly show him. As your tongue brushed against his lower lip, Garreth let out a groan that seemed to settle right between your legs. You wondered what other delightful noises he was capable of, arousal swiftly spreading through you. 

You spread your legs a little bit, and he fell right between them with a surprised noise. He lifted his head a little, looking at you with a look of disbelief. You could see the want in his eyes, but you could also see the hesitation. You gently squeezed his waist with your bare thighs, and you could see his cheeks going an even darker red. 

“I want you.” You whispered, tugging him down for another kiss. Garreth relented with a gleeful look in his eye, his hands gripping your hips holding you in place as he gently ground against you. He kissed you deeply, his tongue lazily exploring your mouth. His broad hands slowly moved under your borrowed jumper, stroking over your skin slowly and gently. The feeling of his skin against yours was heavenly, and he already had you wanting more. It was unfair that he had this effect on you. 

“You have my heart, darling.” Garreth murmured against your lips, his fingers curling slightly into your skin. You couldn’t stop your smile, your heart beating just a little bit faster. You’d waited years to hear those words. Garreth’s lips trailed kisses along your jaw and down your neck. He nipped gently at your pulse. His hands worked in time with his kisses, pushing up the jumper to expose more of your skin to him. Impatiently, you pushed him back a little bit and pulled it over your head, dumping it onto the floor. Garreth’s green eyes scanned you up and down, his jaw slack. You wondered if you’d caught him off guard by being completely bare under his jumper. 

“You’re beautiful.” Garreth breathed out, his hands reverently running over your skin without restraint. Your back arched as his warm hands cupped your tight breasts, massaging you. The slight roughness to his hands made the most delightful sensations on your skin, you let out a small string of moans as he gently tweaked your already sensitive nipples. He continued to grind against you, becoming more breathless himself. You looked down, watching him work his hands over your skin. He moved them lower, and lower, making sure he touched every inch of your skin with his burning hands. You were panting now, wriggling under his touch as his hands smoothed over your belly and down onto your thighs. You ached for him, needing him to give you some sort of relief to the pressure that had built up between your legs. “Please, Garreth, touch me.” You whined out. 

“I am touching you,” He said with his most charming grin, “I’ve wanted this for years, I intend to take my time.” He whispered in your ear, before giving your neck a sharp nip. 

“Bastard.” You said, despite the smile that played on your lips.

“Do you have any idea what someone like you does to a teenage boy? Seeing you every day at school and not having you was torture” His tongue traced up your jaw and you whimpered. You captured his lips in another kiss, wondering if you could tempt him into giving you what you wanted. He groaned against your mouth at the feeling of your kiss, you pulled out all of your favourite tricks, proving to him you could do many things with your tongue. Your wicked little plan seemed to be working, until Garreth pulled back and looked at you with soft eyes. He began to press kisses all over your face. Your cheeks, the tip of your nose, oh-so-gently over your eyelids, and onto your forehead. He held your thighs in a bruising grip, contrasting with the sweet kisses that now were trailing down your jaw, onto your neck, then down your collar. You were a whining mess as he massaged circles on your inner thighs and kissed every part of your body until his lips hovered just below your belly button. His hands on your thighs tugged you so your lower half was dangling off the side of the bed. 

“Please Garreth.” You whispered, certain you’d burst into flames if he didn’t do something. He looked up at you with hungry eyes, a smile playing at his lips. 

“Anything for you.” He promised, getting on his knees and guiding your legs to rest on his shoulders. He held them in place and licked a firm stripe against your soaked, aching heat and moaned. Your eyes rolled back and you let out a loud moan of your own. He concentrated on your aching clit, his tongue swirling around it carefully before he gently wrapped his lips around you and sucked. You arched into him, crying out loudly because of this. He let out a hum of appreciation, squeezing your thighs. You propped yourself up onto your elbows to watch him. His eyes were closed, and his head dipped and you felt him tonguing at your soaking hole before he moved back up to latch onto your clit again. This time, his tongue flicked across your sensitive nub while he sucked it and you swore violently, your hands gripping the sheets tightly. Your hips bucked, and he planted one of his hands on your belly to firmly hold you in place. Your core tightened, pressure building inside of you as he kept up the same motion. 

“I’m– Oh Merlin– That’s…” You couldn’t string a sentence together, and the pressure reached its peak and you cried out as a mind-shattering orgasm crashed over you. Your thighs clenched tight around Garreth, and he let out a moan that added to the sensation of his tongue and lips while you rode out your orgasm on his face. He only stopped when your legs twitched, and he was laughing softly as he pulled away from you. You stared at him, your jaw slack. He was a mess, and he was beautiful. The lower half of his face was shining with your slick, his cheeks flushed, and his smile was more than a little arrogant. Your eyes scanned down his body to the bulge in his pants, and then back up to his face. Another flash of lightning lit up the room, almost reminding you to move. You pushed yourself back enough that you could sit up and reach out for him. 

“You, taste amazing.” Garreth murmured to you, stepping in closer so you could reach him. You palmed the bulge in his pants, and he let out a flustered breath. You hadn’t the patience to toy with him, that would have to come another day. You wanted him inside of you now. You pulled his pants down, looking up at him while you did so. His thick cock sprang out, and you let out a little eager whimper at just the thought of him being inside of you. You looked up at him, and he was watching you with love and hunger in his eyes. 

“Come here.” You said, pushing yourself back on the bed and spreading your legs a little bit in invitation. Garreth flashed you an eager smile, pulling his shirt over his head and dumping it on the floor. He stepped out of his pants and crawled onto the bed between your legs. You wrap your arms behind his neck, and lick from his chin up to his cheek tasting yourself on his skin. Garreth let out a strangled moan, and tilted his head to capture you in a scorching kiss. You can almost feel that he’s reached his limit, and now he needs reprieve from his aching arousal. He grinds into you, his head dropping as he does so. You reach down, and guide him to what he seems to be so desperate to have. 

“Oh fuck.” Garreth hisses as he slowly presses into you, his teeth gently clamping down on your shoulder. You couldn’t even make a noise as your eyes squeezed shut at the sensation of Garreth’s thick cock stretching you out. As he fully sheathed himself in you, he stopped moving. 

He lifted his head, looking down into your eyes. His adoration was clear in his eyes, and it caught you a little off-guard. You’d taken men to bed before, but not once had it been someone you loved. This emotional connection you felt to Garreth… It made this feel so much… more. 

“I love you, Garreth.” You reached up and traced your fingers along his jaw. Garreth’s hips began to roll slowly, and he gave you a sweet kiss. He thrust into you with a slow and deep rhythm that had you whining and clawing at his back. The delicious way he stretched you out, paired with the way his pelvis ground against your sensitive nub had you in ecstasy. He clearly felt the same, with the pants and quiet moans that escaped his lips at every movement he made. 

“You feel amazing, Darling,” Garreth whispered to you, “You take me so well. You’re perfect.” He continued with his little praises as he ground into you. He picked up his pace ever so slightly, the steady thrusts had you clenching around his cock already. His forehead dipped and pressed against yours, his hands on your hips as he pulled you against him to get as deep as he could. You planted your feet on the mattress, lifting your hips to help get a new angle. Garreth’s groan was sinful, he sat back on his knees and abruptly began to pound into you. Your eyes rolled back, your pleasure peaking again.

“Right there, shit… right there.” You panted out, and Garreth obliged your wishes. You screamed out his name as your knees buckled and you came hard. The bolts of pleasure had your eyes screwed shut and your mouth making incoherent sounds. He caught you by the waist, holding you up as your walls pulsed over his cock. He fucked you, his groans becoming more and more guttural as he chased his own pleasure. His grip on you tightened almost painfully as his head fell back and he came, thick ropes of cum painting your insides. He allowed you to fall back on the bed now, flopping down beside you. For a long time, the only sounds in the room were the storm still raging outside and the sounds of you and Garreth trying to catch your breath. Eventually, you got enough energy to roll over and nestle into Garreth’s side, with your head on his chest. You stretched up and kissed his jaw, and his arms wrapped around you. 

“I don’t want morning to come.” Garreth said, his voice soft. Morning meant returning to reality. Garreth would have to go to work, and you’d have to return to Feldcroft. 

“Mmm, neither do I.” You agreed. You didn’t want to leave. You knew that you’d made a promise to take care of Anne, but she was spending so much time in London these days that you almost wondered if she would just move in with Ominis and Sebastian. 

“Please don’t ever leave…” He said. 

“I’ll have to get my things.” 

“That’s alright, I’ll help you with that. Mr. Pippin won’t mind if I take a couple days off.” 

“And I’ll have to tell Anne.” 

“I’ll write a letter to send by owl right now.” “And then there’s the matter of you meeting my parents…” 

When Garreth didn’t have a quick solution for that, you let out a little laugh. You would stay, regardless of how much work you’d have to do. You never wanted to leave his side again. 

“Will you stay?” He asked. 

“I’m not going anywhere, Garreth. I’m staying right here.” You promised, kissing his cheek. With a cheeky grin, he rolled over and loomed over you and captured you in a deep kiss, his hand smoothing along your waist. Yes, you’d stay.

[em1i2a3]

Agora Hills

Pairing: Todd Stevens x Plus Sized/Curvy!Fem!Reader!

Summary: Todd goes above and beyond to convince you to wear a dress that he bought for you to a KNA mixer.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Angst, Reader is Self-Conscious, Reader is described as plus sized/curvy, Reader and Todd are in an established relationship, Reader is said to have visible stretch marks (around the breasts, stomach, arms and behind the knees), Todd is pretty soft and obsessed with you and just wants you to be confident.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Fingering, Oral Sex (female receiving), Nipple/Breast Play, Mirror Sex, Pet Names (sweetheart and baby mostly, Good Girl is used), Teasing, Begging, Todd is an absolute munch and a softie for his girlfriend, Kind of Soft Dom! Todd.

Author’s Note: Todd Stevens the man you are. Hope y’all enjoyed! :) Can’t wait to post more Todd content this month in tandem with Kinktober!! (Also…That gif…Sweet lord.)

Word Count: 9,703

“I’m not wearing it.”

Your voice was steady, but your grip on the towel cinched across your chest twitched and betrayed the storm behind your words. Beads of water slipped from the tips of your hair, tracing down your shoulders and collarbones, disappearing into the folds of terrycloth you had clutched against you.

Across the room, Todd stood like he was temptation incarnate, dressed in a light blue button up that hugged his broad shoulders and chest, and black dress pants that wrapped around his hips and thighs in such a way that it made you squirm just looking at him. He had one finger hooked lazily through the hanger that held the dress he had bought for you. It was midnight-black silk that shimmered when it caught the light, cut close to the body in unapologetic lines, contouring every curve it touched. Lace climbed over the neckline and sleeves, delicate but sinful, framing where it revealed more than it concealed. When you had tried it on in the department store changing room, it had been like stepping into someone else’s skin–it was breathtaking, yes, but it was terrifyingly exposing.

You remembered that Todd hadn’t given you a second to overthink when you had seen it initially. He had slipped it into the pile you were taking into the changing room, practically begging you to humor him. And when you finally emerged from behind the curtain–tugging self-consciously at the hem like it would loosen it from your curvy frame– he had gone utterly still. His blue eyes–ocean-deep, threaded with a shimmer of glossiness under the harsh dressing-room light–had raked over you from top to bottom as if he was branding you into his memory. Then, of course, he had ruined the solemnity with that cocky grin and a whisper against your shoulder as he sneakily slipped a hand beneath the hem of the dress: “Accessibility check, just in case I don’t have the patience to take it off.” You had swatted at him, laughing despite yourself, but the way his hand had slipped so easily beneath the fabric to squeeze your thigh made your skin burn with heat, and left you wanting more even though you were under the watchful eyes of the store associates.

You had fallen in love with the way he worshiped you–especially in moments like those when you were feeling uneasy about your appearance. But worship was easy in the mirror with only him looking. Wearing it to the KNA mixer? That was different. That was dozens of eyes and silent comparisons, and you weren’t ready to be the punchline.

But he bought it anyway, along with the baggy dress you had reluctantly decided you were going to wear instead, waving off your protest about wasting money, and pressing a kiss to your temple like he had a plan in mind.

Now, in his room, he held it out to you, letting it dangle on its hanger as if he were hypnotizing you, trying to initiate the plan that had been brewing in his mind since he purchased the thing.

”C’mon, Y/N…” His voice was low, coaxing, threaded with that lazy confidence that made every girl on campus trip over their own heels for him, “You looked so fucking hot in it…Please.” He begged. You shook your head, feeling the water from your hair sliding down your back in cooling trails.

”Todd, I told you it’s too revealing.” His jaw worked for a moment, then he sighed. With a little shake of his head, he crossed to his closet, hung the dress back up with exaggerated care, and collapsed onto his bed. His usual slicked-back hair–still damp from his own shower–fell forward in disarray, scattering across his forehead as he sprawled across his black duvet. He looked devastatingly casual, his light blue button up shirt pulling at the broadness of his shoulders, with his sleeves rolled high enough to show off his strong forearms, along with the veins that stood out against his skin.

”I don’t know why you don’t want to show off that fucking jaw-dropping body you have…” His voice carried both frustration and awe, and it made something low in your belly tighten–just like how all his comments did.

You rolled your eyes and padded over to him, leaving a trail of water on the wooden floor beneath you, then climbed onto the mattress and swung a leg over his waist. You adjusted slightly to sit on him comfortably, being conscious of not putting all your weight on him–even though he would’ve thoroughly enjoyed that–and looked down at him. His attention snapped instantly to you, his lashes fluttering as his eyes scanned over your figure above him, taking in the way your towel bunched up around your curvy thighs, exposing more of your damp skin to him, making the saliva in his mouth pool, so much so that he thought he might choke on it if he swallowed too quickly. You leaned down, hovering over him with your lips inches away from his, as small droplets of water fell onto his shirt. Your damp towel slipped down slightly with your movements, and he caught a whiff of his body wash and shampoo that radiated off your smooth skin–he loved when you used his things.

“You think I’m the prettiest thing in the world, but you’ve seen the way people look at us. They know you can do better. This dress will just make it worse. All they’ll be talking about is how Todd Stevens, KNA’s golden boy, could have anyone…Yet he’s with me…The fat girl.” The annoyance in his chest rose and broke in a sharp exhale. His hands found your hips–wide, soft, and solid in his palms–holding you firmly against him, like he was trying to make sure you weren’t going to move from the position you were in.

”Y/N, I couldn’t care less what anyone else thinks…You’re a fucking goddess in my eyes. I love showing you off. I love when people see us, and know you’re mine instantly because I can’t keep my hands off you. Hell, I fucking live for it. They can all go fuck themselves if they think I’m out of your league…” Then you felt his hand leave your hip, smoothing up the slope of your stomach, slow in its pace, his palm dragging across the soft flesh like he was taking it all in, before reaching the knot of your towel. His gaze quickly flicked up to yours and for a brief moment the two of you just stared at one another, then he tugged. The terrycloth gave way instantly, loosening and falling open against his black dress pants. The damp fabric clung to his thighs, as the droplets on your skin began to trickle down and fall onto him, leaving small wet patches in their wake.

Todd sat up sharply, unable to stay laying down with you on display like this, and his lips went to your chest before you could protest, kissing the tops of your breasts immediately, like a man starved. The loose strands of his hair brushed at your skin as he mouthed at you, the faint stubble around his lips grazing your skin, leaving a faint burn in its wake. His freckles–those faint boyish constellations that scattered across his cheeks–caught the lamplight as he pressed his lips into your soft flesh, licking every so often to leave a mark of his saliva on you.

”Todd…” You whispered, arms circling around his shoulder, holding him close, “You’re going to be late for your pre-meeting with your fraternity pledges if you start me up…” He let out a groan, the sound muffling against your skin as his hand came up to cup the heavy weight of your breast, his thumb brushing over your hardened nipple, before his eyes flicked up at you, a smirk curling his mouth as he pulled back slightly, his hot breath sticking to your skin.

”Who do you think made that meeting?” His tone was teasing, full of unwavering heat, “It’ll start when I decide…But right now?” He paused, kissing across the silvery stretch marks that shimmered at the swell of your breast, licking them like they were sacred, tracing them briefly, before adding, “Right now I’m preoccupied with trying to convince my hot girlfriend to wear a dress that she looks stunning in.” You let out a soft, almost disbelieving giggle, the sound spilling into the heavy heat between you as Todd’s arm slid fully around your body. His large calloused hand sprawled across the plush curve of your back, his long fingers dragging upward, leaving trails of goosebumps in their wake. Every shift of his fingertips made your body twitch closer into his, like he was drawing you in like a black hole.

”You’re so persistent…” You teased, though your words trembled, breaking softly when his mouth returned to your breast, kissing and nipping at the swell of you, leaving faint, stinging teeth marks before soothing them with the warm lap of his tongue. You gasped when he caught the sensitive flesh between his teeth, releasing it with a sharp suck that left a dark bloom of color behind–his proof that you were his, something you wouldn’t be able to hide no matter what dress you decided to wear. He hummed low in his chest, the sound vibrating against your skin, before lifting his head, his lashes twitching as he looked up at you through them, making your stomach clench with heat.

“Because you’re all I’ve ever wanted in a woman,” He murmured, voice husky with raw honesty. His lips trailed up to your neck, pausing to kiss at the damp skin there, “And I want you to feel confident in being yourself…” He kissed the corner of your jaw, wet and lingering. “Because I love–“ Another kiss, firmer now, “Every.” His lips brushed just beneath your ear. “Single.” His teeth grazed your cheek, pulling a whimper from your throat. “Part.” His mouth lingered at the corner of your lips, teasing you, his breath fanning hot over your skin, “Of you…” Your breath caught, a soft ache twisting in your chest as you leaned back slightly, your hands rising to cup his face. His eyes closed instantly at the sensation, like your touch soothed whatever lust burned through him. You traced your thumbs across the faint freckles scattered over his cheeks, that no one else ever got close enough to notice. He leaned into you, meeting you halfway as you pressed yourself closer until your lips just barely brushed his, teasing him, making him chase you with a quiet little groan.

”You’ve got a way with words, Mr. President,” You whispered against his mouth, then you closed what little space was left between the both of you, giving him a kiss.

It wasn’t gentle. It was messy, hot, and desperate. His tongue slipped into your mouth with shameless ease, claiming you, stroking against yours until your head spun. His hand clamped tighter at your back, dragging you flush into his chest. Every drop of water that still clung to your skin soaked into his shirt, the light blue fabric darkening and sticking to the solid heat of his muscles. He didn’t care though–he pulled you closer, like he wanted you inside him.

You moaned into his mouth as he tugged at your waist, grinding you more firmly down onto his lap, so you were putting all of your weight down onto him. Your palms slid from his face to the strong column of his throat, feeling the thick, rapid pound of his pulse beneath your fingertips. You shifted against him, restless and craving more from him. He groaned into the kiss, the sound breaking, before pulling back just enough to look at you.

His lips were swollen, wet, kiss-bruised, his grin curling slow and cocky. His eyes–glassy and shining in the dim light–roamed over your face like he could devour you whole right then and there.

”So…Is that a yes to wearing that dress? Or am I gonna have to do a little more convincing?” His voice was molten honey, thick was mischief. You hummed, deliberately coy, brushing your lips against his.

”I think I’m going to need a little more convincing…” A flicker of something wicked crossed his face, his brows lifting, mouth curling like he had just been handed a challenge he was dying to win.

”Oh really? Okay, then…” His hand left your back, sliding lower. Slowly. Agonizingly. His palm skimmed over the soft curve of your stomach, tracing the stretch marks with the tips of his fingers, his touch both worshipful and possessive at the same time. He squeezed at your hip, fingers pressing into the lush flesh there, then slipped even lower, disappearing beneath the towel. His knuckles brushed your inner thigh before his hand wedged between them.

His gaze never left yours, his pupils blowing wide with heat, as the tips of his fingers found your folds. He dragged them slowly through the slick seam, spreading you open with maddening precision. His fingers glided over your core, coated instantly in your arousal, drawing lazy circles against you, feeling your hips twitch slightly as a chill gripped your spine. You arched into him, a soft, broken moan leaving your lips.

”Jesus Christ, Todd…” He smirked, pressing his mouth to your throat, his lips scattering wet, hot kisses along your neck, his tongue lapping at the droplets that slid down to pool at your collarbone. He groaned against your skin like he was drunk on the taste of your skin–the salty sweetness of it.

“Always weak for my fingers, huh?” He murmured against your shoulder, his voice smug, his mouth parting to nip at the flesh there, “Always wet and waiting for them…” Your sigh came out shaky, your hips twitching helplessly into his hand, as he trailed little kisses to your neck.

“I guess they’re my kryptonite…” You replied, feeling him hum low against your throat, the sound reverberating through your skin, then he dipped his fingers into your entrance just enough to gather more of your slick arousal. The sudden, greedy push made your nails dig into the back of his neck, pulling a grunt out of him as if he loved the sting. Before you could push down to take them deeper, he slipped his fingers out, dragging them slowly up your folds, leaving you aching and pulsing around nothing. His fingertips found your clit against, circling with a devastatingly slow rhythm, each stroke a tease meant to wind you tighter instead of giving you relief.

Your hips twitched against his hand, desperate to chase more, but his other hand clamped firmly on the flesh of your hip, holding you, denying you movement. His grip was unyielding, his thumb rubbing into the soft plumpness like he owned it.

”Todd…” You moaned, the sound breaking as your chest heaved, your breasts moving along with the sharp intake of breath, “You can’t do this…” His eyes flicked up to yours, squinting slightly at you as his lips curled into a wicked grin. He bit down on his lower lip, letting out a laugh that vibrated against your chest.

”Sweetheart…” He drawled, the word soaked in heat and authority, “I can do whatever I want…” His grin widened as he watched your jaw fall open slightly, “But–“ His fingers traced another slow, teasing circle over your swollen clit, making you gasp–“I’ll give you what you want…If you agree to wear that dress.” Your eyes widened, scandalized by the way he was offering the trade off, but the shock quickly melted as his breath ghosted lower. He leaned in, pressing his lips and tongue to the damp valley between your breasts, leaving a wet stripe there, the heat of it making you arch.

”Just imagine the kind of fucking power you’ll have over me all night…” He whispered against your skin, nuzzling into the soft curve of your breast, inhaling you. His fingers continued to circle your clit, each movement leaving your legs trembling, your stomach clenching, and your chest rising and falling in ragged wheezes. Your body begged for more pressure, more friction, and you could practically feel yourself pulsing around nothing.

“Please Todd…” You whimpered, trying to move against him, “Please, I need more…” His hand squeezed your hip, kneading the flesh in a slow, possessive massage. He angled his face up, his lips brushing the underside of your jaw.

”It’s a simple trade off…Say you’ll wear the dress, then I’ll give you exactly what you need.” He coaxed, his mouth grazing beneath your chin as you tilted your head back, offering him the whole column of your throat. He dragged his wet lips there, teasing, while his fingers continued their slow torment. Your pulse pounded, feeling your body straining against him.

”Okay…” You gasped, “Fuck….Okay, I’ll do it.” You relented.

His smirk was audible as he murmured, “You’ll do what? Be specific, baby…” His tongue flicked against your pulse point, making you even dizzier with the overwhelming sensations that plagued your mind, drawing out a desperate whimper from your throat.

”I’ll wear the dress you bought me…Now please, Todd…Please give me more.” You begged, feeling your eyes welling up with tears from the frustration that continued to brew within your chest.

“That’s my good girl…” He whispered, his hot breath searing against your skin, “That’s all you had to do. Now I’ll give you what you need.” Before you could retort, before you could curse him for being the devil incarnate who knew how to unravel you with surgical precision, he pressed harder against your clit. The sudden weight of his touch made your hips jerk, but this time he let go of you, freeing your body so you could follow his touch. He brought his hand up to cup your face, tilting your mouth back to his.

The kiss he gave you was nothing short of ruinous. His tongue slipped into your mouth instantly, craving the taste of your saliva. You sucked on it greedily, before the kiss broke into a sloppy, desperate mess. His teeth caught your lower lip, his breath mingling with yours, and you moaned into him as you finally ground your soaked core down onto his hand, chasing the friction he was denying you moments before.

He groaned into your mouth, as if the feel of you grinding against his palm was undoing him too. His lips moved hungrily over yours, tongues tangling, drool slicking the corners of your mouths as he kissed you like he wanted to drown in you and drink up your saliva like it was water.

Then, without warning, his fingers left your clit, gliding lower with only one intent in mind. He slipped two thick fingers into your dripping core, the stretch immediate and intoxicating. You gasped into his mouth, your nails instantly dragging across the rough fabric of his dress shirt. The heel of his palm pressed firmly against your clit as his fingers curled inside you, giving you both–the deep fullness and the sharp friction–you craved.

”Fuck…” Todd groaned, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes half-lidded and glassy, fluttering with every pulse of your walls around him, “That’s it, baby…You take my fingers so well…God, you feel so good when you’re worked up like this.” His thumb stroked at your cheek, tender despite the filth of his words, while his other hand worked relentlessly between your thighs.

Your lips ghosted over Todd’s, your breath shivering between you as his fingers plunged deeper, curling hard against that spot that made your entire body jolt like he had lit a live wire beneath your skin. The heel of his palm pressed down even more against your clit, dragging across the bundle of nerves in perfect sync with the rhythm of his thrusts, leaving you writhing in his lap. Every muscle in your body trembled as heat gathered low in your belly, climbing higher, sharper, more demanding with every curl of his fingers inside you.

A mangled moan tore from your throat, desperate and raw, and you crushed your lips to his to muffle the noise. The kiss was feverish, your mouth opening for him as he swallowed the sound of your pleasure, his tongue meeting yours in a wet, frantic slide. Drool slicked your lips, the messy sounds of kissing tangled with the slick, obscene rhythm of his fingers driving into you. His hand on your cheek was tender, thumb stroking over the damp heat of your skin, while the other worked you with relentless precision, worshipping every pulse of your body against his.

“God, baby,” he rasped into your mouth, his forehead knocking into yours as he pumped harder, curling, pressing deep. “You’re squeezing my fingers so fucking tight.” Your nails dug into his shoulders, clutching him like you were trying to keep yourself from losing yourself completely to the overwhelming sensations that crowded your brain. You could feel yourself pulsing around him, your body crying out for release, every nerve lighting up like he had taken a flame to them. Your hips bucked helplessly against his hand, grinding into the heel of his palm as your moans rose in pitch, your walls squeezing him tighter and tighter with every stroke.

Just as you felt yourself about to crest–your body seizing, that heat curling into a white-hot rush–

A knock rattled the door.

“Todd, the guys are having problems spiking the keg!” Tom’s voice carried through the wood, completely oblivious to what was happening and to what he interrupted. Todd froze, his rhythm stuttering to a halt. The sudden loss of motion made you gasp, your hips twitching desperately into his hand, your breath breaking on a frustrated whimper.

He let out a groan that was pure agony, dropping his head against your chest as he muttered under his breath, “You would think sixteen fucking guys would be able to solve an issue like that.” The mix of his exasperation and your still-trembling body earned a strangled little laugh from you, your head falling back in disbelief as you stared up at the ceiling.

“Todd, are you in there?” Tom called again, the doorknob rattling like he was about to force his way in. Todd’s head snapped up, his jaw tight.

“Yeah, yeah, I fucking heard you, Sunshine! I’ll be down in a minute!” He snapped. Then he looked back at you, and all that heat and irritation softened into something apologetic, almost guilty. You cupped his cheek with your trembling hand, your lips brushing his in a gentle peck.

“Better get down there before they do something stupid,” You whispered, still breathless, your chest heaving against his.

“I know…” He sighed, annoyed, his thumb brushing across your cheek like he couldn’t let go of the moment just yet. “Just give me a minute.” He added, and slowly, he slipped his fingers out of your dripping core. You clenched around the sudden emptiness, your body still pulsing, trembling with denied release. He looked at his hand, your arousal glistening over his fingers, and his eyes went molten. Then, with a groan, he shoved the two wet fingers into his mouth.

The sight was obscene. His lips closed around them, cheeks hollowing as he sucked greedily, his lashes fluttering like he was savoring every drop of you. He pulled them out with a wet pop, smirking as he shook his head.

“Fuck’s sake…Sometimes I wish I didn’t fucking live in this place. Can’t even have a semblance of alone time to make you cum.” A breathless laugh slipped out of you, and you kissed him again, tasting your sweet slick on his tongue. When you pulled back, you slid off his lap, clutching your towel back around your body. Your thighs trembled as you stood, your pulse still thrumming in your core, your body buzzing with the heat of unfinished need.

Your eyes dropped to his lap. His erection strained against his black dress pants, thick and obvious, pressing hard against the fabric, as a smirk curled your lips.

“Better hide that before you go down there.” Todd groaned low in his chest, his hand already going to his belt. He unbuckled it in one practiced flick and slid his hand beneath the waistband of his pants and boxers. Adjusting himself with a hiss, shifting his cock into a less conspicuous position. He re-buckled his belt and patted the front of his pants.

“Good as new,” He murmured, though the glint in his eyes betrayed the lie. He leaned up, and kissed you again, this time letting it linger, like he wanted to remind you that this wasn’t over, and whispered, “I’ll see you down there, okay?” You nodded, pecking his lips once more.

“Okay.” Then he stood up and made his way for the door, slicking his damp hair back, making sure it was going to dry perfectly in place.

”Wait. Todd.” You said quickly. He froze dead in his tracks and glanced back at you with his brows arched.

”Yeah?” You motioned to his shirt. The light blue fabric clung to his body, scattered with darkened patches–wet droplets that had come from your hair, your skin, your body pressed flush against his.

”You’re all wet.” You pointed out, and he looked down at himself, seeing what you were referencing, before shrugging.

”It’ll dry.” He stated causally, pulling a soft laugh from you as he winked, and slipped out of the room, leaving you to get ready for the mixer.

——————

By the time you were finally finished getting ready, the house had already transformed into a living, breathing storm of sound and movement. The mixer was in full swing, and you knew you were late–not fashionably late, but genuinely late. Todd’s little convincing session had stolen away more time than you realized, and now, instead of descending the stairs at the same time as him, you were left to slip into the crowd alone.

You perched on the edge of his bed and fastened the thin straps of your heels, tugging them snug against your ankles before standing to face the mirror one last time. The sight that met you there was enough to twist your stomach into a fist of nerves.

The dress was everything you remembered it being when you first tried it on, and even more now that the nerves in your gut began to bloom: it was sleek, unapologetic and scandalous in its perfection. The silk material clung to you like a second skin, hugging every curve without mercy or looseness. The lace accents along the neckline and sleeves drew attention where you wanted none, framing the heavy swell of your breasts, the soft plushness of your arms, and the thick lines of your collarbones. The faint marks Todd had left behind–his teeth marks, scattered like dark constellations across the tops of your breasts–peeked out just enough to make you blush furiously. You tried to tug at the neckline, to adjust the way the lace settled, but there was no hiding them. They were his little signatures, branded proof of who you belonged to–another thing for people to look at.

Your gaze slipped lower, catching the glimmer of your stretch marks in the low light. Silvery threads adorned the tops of your breasts, the insides of your arms, the backs of your knees–your body carrying its history in soft script. You traced one with your fingertip absently, your throat tightening slightly. Todd worshipped these marks like they were scripture, but under the sharp, unforgiving reflection of the mirror, they felt like neon signs.

”God, why did I agree to this…” You muttered under your breath, smoothing your palms down the fabric, trying to flatten nerves that wouldn’t settle. With a small sigh, you turned, and tugged the dresser door shut with a heavy thud, cutting off your reflection. Out of sight, out of mind.

You drew in a deep breath, then another as you moved towards the bedroom door, fingers trembling slightly as you pushed your hair out of your face, making sure the damp strands were away from your cheeks. You swallowed your nerves down one last time, before opening the door.

The hallway outside was a different world entirely. Sound slammed into you immediately–bass-heavy music thumping through the walls, rattling your ribs. The air was thick with chatter and laughter, voices raised to compete with the music. The narrow hallway was flooded with people, shoulders brushing, drinks sloshing in red Solo cups as bodies jostled against one another.

Pledges you recognized called out your name as you passed, offering quick waves and crooked grins before darting back into whatever chaos they were caught up in. You returned their greetings with small, distracted waves, your head swiveling constantly as you made your way toward the staircase so you could dodge bodies that moved without thought.

The air was a haze–smoke curling in lazy ribbons above heads, clinging to the ceiling like a storm cloud. It smelled like a strange cocktail: blueberry vape juice laced with lemon, the skunky punch of weed threaded sharp and thick through the room, and beneath it all, the sour heaviness of spilled beer soaking into the non-slip carpet that lined the staircase–an insurance so nobody would drunkenly fall down them. It made your nose wrinkle, and your stomach churn, but it was familiar, too. The perfume of KNA parties, something that you had grown used to over the past couple of months where you would help Todd clean up afterward.

As you descended the stairs, one hand trailing the banister for balance, you felt the way eyes dragged over you–curious, appraising, some surprised by the new look you were displaying. The silk of the dress shimmered under the dim, colored party lights, and it made you hyperaware of every inch of yourself. You kept your chin lifted to avoid looking down at yourself and spiralling, but your pulse skittered in your throat, the air buzzing around you as you moved deeper into the crowd.

The living room opened up below you like the eye of the storm. Music pulsed from the corner where someone had rigged up massive speakers, and people swayed and shouted along with lyrics, drinks spilling across the sticky floor. The coffee table was crowded with bottles, half-empty cups, and a deck of cards abandoned mid-game. Every couch cushion was occupied, a tangle of laughing bodies pressed together, and the kitchen beyond was a revolving door of people filling drinks and yelling over each other.

Your head was on a swivel, scanning the crowd, until your eyes finally caught Todd’s looming figure.

He stood near the far corner of the room, half-leaning against the wall with that practiced, easy posture that made him look like the king of the entire house–and, in truth, he was. His light blue shirt clung a little tighter now, still faintly darkened where your damp skin had soaked into it. His sleeves were still rolled high, showing off the corded veins of his forearms as he gestured animatedly to a few of his fellow brothers and potential pledges. They circled him, hanging on his words, laughing too loudly at whatever he said.

Even across the chaos, you could see the way the light caught in his ocean-blue eyes when he turned his head, his jaw sharp beneath the dim glow of the party lights, his cocky grin curling as he listened intently to the person in front of him. Then his gaze flicked up, searching the room casually, until he spotted you.

His brows jumped the instant his eyes landed on you, the expression almost comically visible across the crowded living room–but what followed was not lighthearted. His jaw snapped tight, flexing once, twice, like he was physically holding himself back. The blue in his eyes darkened with something fierce, primal, and when he cut his conversation short–clapping a pledge on the shoulder with a half-hearted laugh before shouldering his way through the crowd–you knew he was coming for you.

Every step he took toward you was single-minded, sharp with intent, like he was pushing through a sea of irrelevant noise just to get to his anchor. And when he finally reached you, his eyes roved over your body shamelessly, dragging slowly as if memorizing every curve hugged by the silk. The hunger there was palpable, the kind of hunger that left your knees weak, the kind that set every nerve in your body sparking.

“Jesus Christ…” He muttered, the words leaving him on a husky exhale. His hands slid around your waist instantly, fingers flexing over the fabric as though he needed to stake his claim, ground himself in the feel of you. His smile broke wide across his face as he dipped down to press his lips against yours. The kiss was brief but hard, charged with pent-up need, and when he pulled back he whispered against your mouth, “Can’t believe you actually wore it. You look fucking amazing, Y/N.” Your smirk tilted teasingly, though your pulse raced with the heat in his eyes.

“It was part of the trade-off, was it not?” His laugh rumbled in his chest, vibrating through you for a split second.

“Yeah, well…” he leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rasp at your ear, “…I didn’t exactly hold up my end of the bargain, did I? Got rudely interrupted before I could finish what I started.” His thumb stroked up your side, pressing into the curve of your waist. His breath caught for half a beat, and then he groaned, barely restraining himself. “But fuck, baby…You look so good.” The repetition wasn’t for you–it was for him, like he needed to say it out loud again because he was in such disbelief seeing you like this.

Then his mouth was back on yours. This time, it was slower, wetter, deeper. He kissed you like he’d been waiting all night, like the party had been a blur until this moment. You moaned softly against his lips as his hands mapped your body, sliding up your sides to frame your waist in his wide palms, tugging you closer until the silk of the dress was plastered against his shirt. His kiss dragged on until you were dizzy, your head light, your chest pressed tight to his. When he finally pulled back, his grin was smug, a little crooked, his lips kiss-swollen and glistening.

“Want a drink?” He murmured, almost like it was an afterthought, though the way he looked at you said he’d rather keep touching you.

Your nod was wordless, and automatic, as if your brain was too hazy to form words. His grin widened at this, and he bit his bottom lips for a moment, his eyes flicking to yours.

”Water?” He asked.

“Yes,” You breathed, too quickly, and he chuckled, shaking his head, finding your little flustered state unbearably sweet. He laced his fingers through yours, his grip solid and warm, and guided you toward the kitchen. He made a point of staying ahead of you, his broad frame cutting through the swarm of partygoers, his hand tugging you safely behind him, possessive and protective all at once.

At one of the coolers, he popped the lid open, and rummaged briefly, before pulling out a cold bottle slick with condensation. He cracked the cap, and pressed it into your hand with a little flourish, watching as you tilted it to your lips. You took a sip, and before you could lower it, his hand came up, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek. His fingers lingered a beat too long, thumb grazing your temple. Then his gaze fell–right to the love bites he’d marked you with earlier.

The flush in his cheeks betrayed his pride. His fingertips ghosted down, tracing over one of the bite marks on your breast, careful but deliberate. His tongue darted across his bottom lip as he whispered, “I definitely shot myself in the foot making you wear this.”

Your brows arched, amused. “Really?”

His eyes snapped to yours, heated and unashamed. “Really. Can’t take my eyes off you. Even if I wanted to, it’d be impossible.” You laughed lightly at the comment, as you raised the bottle again to your lips in an attempt to drown the warmth that began to coil in your stomach.

”You’re ridiculous, Todd.” He tilted his head, one brow quirking, his grin dangerous.

“No, baby. I only speak the truth. You should be used to it by now.” His eyes dragged down your body again, lingering. You shoved gently at his chest, the hard plane of muscle beneath his shirt shifting under your palm.

“Stop looking at me like that,” You scolded softly, though your shy smile betrayed you. He leaned closer, breath fanning hot over your face.

“Like what?” His voice was a purr.

“Like you’re undressing me with your eyes,” You whispered. His smirk spread slow and deliberate, his gaze locking to yours.

“Well I am…And you can’t stop me.” You let out a nervous laugh, heat crawling up your neck, but before you could retort, his arm slipped firm around your waist, hauling you close until your chest brushed his. He bent, lips nearly grazing your ear, his voice dropping to something that made your knees buckle.

“How about we sneak off to the bathroom for a couple of minutes, and I do it for real?” The suggestion hit you like a strike of lightning–sudden, searing, undeniable. The coil of heat in your belly snapped taut, spreading through you like wildfire. His lips grazed the shell of your ear as he waited, thumb stroking lazily over your hip like he already knew your answer. And the look in his eyes when you turned your face toward him–half-wild, half-pleading–wasn’t just lust. It was possession, adoration, and the unspoken promise that he would ruin you in the most delicious way the second you said yes.

The words slipped out of you in a breathless murmur, heavy with anticipation.

“Let’s do it.” Todd’s grin flashed wide and wicked at your reply, before he plucked the bottle from your hand, recapped it without a second thought, and set it aside on the counter. His palm slid back into yours, hot and steady, threading through your fingers as he tugged you into motion. He didn’t weave through the crowd so much as command space to open, his broad shoulders and tall frame parting the tide of partygoers, dragging you in his wake like you were his shadow.

The KNA house had no shortage of bathrooms, tucked like little secrets in corners of the main level, but he didn’t waste time choosing. He went for the nearest one–just adjacent to the closed-off meeting room where he and his frat brothers conducted their business–and yanked the door open, shoved you inside quickly and slammed it shut behind him with a sharp twist of the lock.

Then his mouth was on yours again.

The kiss was bruising, teeth knocking, tongues clashing, heat and saliva and desperation all tangled together. His hands devoured you in feverish sweeps–down your torso, skating over the soft swell of your hips, slipping lower until he gripped your plush thighs in both hands, kneading them like they were his lifeline. He shifted you with practiced ease, guiding until your back hit the solid edge of the sink counter. The bathroom’s single flickering bulb sputtered dimly overhead, casting a broken golden glow that danced across the mirror behind you, reflecting every frantic, hungry movement back at Todd.

He pulled back just enough to rasp against your lips, breath hot and uneven:

“Get up on the counter and spread those legs for me.” Your pulse jumped, throat dry, but you obeyed instantly. You pushed yourself up, silk whispering and bunching around your thighs as you hiked the dress higher. The fabric gathered at your hips, freeing you, baring skin to the cool surface of the counter. When your legs fell open for him, the lace of your black underwear glinted in the dim light, and Todd’s groan ripped raw from his chest.

“Fuck me…” He muttered, jaw going slack as his eyes drank you in. His voice broke, husky and lust filled all at once. “Love when you match your panties to your outfit. Drives me insane.” He stepped in close, leaning down to kiss you gently this time–sweet, teasing, a promise in contrast to the fire burning in him. Then he pulled back, his eyes locked on yours as he began to sink, lowering to his knees before you until he was at level with the space between your thighs. His lips parted on a heavy exhale, his hands bracing your body open like you were his altar.

He started with your thighs–hot, wet kisses pressed to the inside, his mouth dragging up the soft flesh slowly, reverently, before nipping hard enough to make you gasp. His teeth left stinging blooms, marks he soothed with his tongue before moving higher. Every bite was a brand, every kiss a dedication. He trailed up one thigh, then the other, painting you with his mouth until both were dotted with his signature.

By the time he reached the lace stretched over your soaked core, his voice had gone ragged. He pressed his cheek briefly against you, inhaling shamelessly, his eyes fluttering shut.

“I couldn’t even focus during that fucking meeting we had after I spiked the keg,” He groaned, his lips brushing the damp fabric, “Because all I could think about was tasting you again. You’ve got me under a fucking spell, baby. You own me.” His hand slid down, fingers curling into the lace. He tugged it aside slowly, exposing you to the flickering light, to his hungry gaze. His breath caught in his throat, a sound broken and needy, before his mouth finally closed over you.

“Todd…” Your voice cracked, a whisper soaked in want, your hands flying into his hair. His soft, damp strands curled around your fingers as you tugged, holding him to you like you were drowning and he was your only salvation.

He groaned into you–low, guttural, vibrating through your core–as his tongue licked a slow, devastating stripe up your folds. He spread you with his fingers, his other hand gripping your thigh, pushing it wider, locking you open for him. His mouth worked feverishly, tongue flicking and circling your clit before flattening to drag against you in broad, wet strokes.

“God, you taste so fucking good,” He mumbled against you, words slurred by your slick. He sucked hard, his lips pulling at you, and you cried out, your hips jolting against his mouth. His hand on your thigh tightened, keeping you pinned, while his other spread over your hip, holding you as many ways as he could. You shifted one of your hands out from his hair, desperate for more than just control, and you found the hand clamped at your hip and laced your fingers through his, clutching hard.

The sound he made at the contact–deep, throaty, almost broken–ripped through you. He dug his face in deeper, his tongue pressing harder, moving faster. His nose nudged against you, his lips latching greedily, sucking and nibbling at your swollen clit, alternating sharp flicks of his tongue with long, languid laps. The wet sounds filled the bathroom, obscene and loud, echoing off tile and mirror.

Every nerve in your body lit like a fuse. The slick slide of his tongue, the suction of his mouth, the faint scrape of his teeth–it was overwhelming, intoxicating. Your back arched, chest straining upward, a whimper spilling from your lips.

“Todd…Fuck, Todd!” You gasped, your thighs trembling against his grip. He hummed against you, pleased, the vibration pulsing inside you.

His free hand dragged up, squeezing your thigh tighter, and his voice muffled against you, reverent and filthy all at once:

“Cum for me, baby. Wanna taste all of it, want to feel you drip onto my tongue.” The words broke you. Your body seized, heat coiling and snapping. A sharp cry tore from your throat, high and desperate.

“Oh fuck, Todd…Fuck yes!”

Your back arched hard, head tipping back as white-hot pleasure rippled through you, wracking your body in relentless waves. He held you steady as you shattered, his mouth never letting up, tongue lapping, sucking, drinking you down like he couldn’t get enough.

And when you finally collapsed against the mirror, trembling and spent, he pulled back just enough to look up at you–his lips and chin drenched, eyes wild and adoring. He licked his mouth with a languid swipe of his tongue, groaning like he’d just tasted heaven. He dragged the back of his hand across his lips, not to wipe you away but to smear you over his skin, and then leaned in to kiss the inside of your trembling thigh once more.

“Jesus Christ…” He whispered hoarsely, voice wrecked and hungry, “…I think I saw God.” Before you could respond, he rose, slowly, his broad frame unfolding up from his knees. His hands caught your hips as he stood, steadying you, before he leaned in to kiss you. The moment his lips met yours, your chest ached. It was nothing like the feral, sloppy kisses from when the two of you entered the washroom–this one was intimate, consuming, like he was trying to fuse himself to you. His tongue tangled with yours, tasting you all over again, making you moan into his mouth as he pressed flush between your thighs, holding you like you were his religion.

His palms slid up your sides, mapping every curve, until they found the zipper of your dress. He tugged it slowly, the faint rasp of teeth parting filling the silence between kisses. You whimpered against his lips, the sound spilling into his mouth as the dress loosened around your body. He broke the kiss just long enough to slip the fabric from your shoulders, the silk whispering down your arms and pooling at your waist.

Todd’s gaze fell instantly to your breasts. His breath caught audibly, pupils swallowing blue. Without hesitation, he bent down and took one taut nipple between his lips, sucking gently at first, then drawing deeper until your head tipped back and a sharp cry slipped past your teeth. His tongue flicked across the sensitive peak, teeth grazing lightly, before he moved to the other, giving it the same worship. His large hand cupped the weight of your breast, squeezing as his mouth teased and adored.

“Get off the counter,” He rasped against your skin, the words wet with your taste, “And face the mirror.” Your body obeyed before your mind caught up. He helped you ease down, his hands firm on your hips, guiding you until your bare feet hit the tile. Then he turned you with that same grip, positioning you in front of the wide vanity mirror. Your reflection stared back at you: hair mussed, lips kiss-swollen, breasts bare, cheeks flushed, Todd looming behind you like a shadow of hunger and possession.

He bent, his lips brushing the curve of your shoulder as he whispered hot against your ear, “I’m gonna fuck you right here, baby…Right in front of this mirror. I want you to see how fucking beautiful you look when I’m inside you…When you’re falling apart on my cock.” Your lips parted, breath trembling.

“Fuck, Todd…You’re going to kill me…” You whispered, meeting his eyes in the reflection, your voice breaking on want. His smirk curled dangerously. He kissed the back of your shoulder, lingering there, before pressing you gently forward until your hips met the cool countertop. The mirror reflected everything–his towering frame behind you, your sweat sheened skin, and the feral glint in his eyes as he reached down.

The sharp clink of his belt unbuckling echoed in the small room. You watched his reflection as his long fingers popped the button of his black dress pants, dragging the zipper down. His eyes stayed locked on yours in the glass as he shoved them down his hips, boxers with them, until both bunched low around his knees. His cock sprang free–thick, hard, flushed red at the tip, and completely at the ready.

Then his fingers hooked into your panties, tugging them down your thighs. He left them pooled around your knees, tangled with his pants, binding you together in shared sin.

His hand gripped his cock and he brought himself against you, dragging the heavy length through your soaked folds, coating himself in your arousal. The wet sound filled the silence, obscene and needy. Your thighs trembled as he nudged against your clit, making you jolt and gasp.

“So fucking sensitive from my mouth…” He groaned, his forehead pressing briefly into your shoulder. “God, baby, you’re perfect. Every single fucking inch of you.” His other hand slid up, squeezing your breast, kneading the soft flesh as if he couldn’t get enough.

Then, with one slow, relentless push, he sank inside you.

The stretch was devastating, your body yielding to him inch by inch until you felt impossibly full, stuffed to the brink. Your reflection showed your eyes fluttering shut, lips parted in a broken moan, Todd’s jaw clenched as he watched himself disappear into you.

“Look at you…” He moaned, his hand gripping your hip, pulling you back to take him deeper. “Look at how gorgeous you are when you’re taking me. Look, baby.” Your eyes snapped open, locking onto his in the mirror. The sight–the way he watched his cock split you open, the way his broad chest pressed against your back, the way his face twisted in raw need, and the way your jaw dropped open at the sensation of him filling you–left you trembling.

“Fuck, Todd,” You whimpered, “I look like–”

“Like a goddess,” He cut in, his voice sharp and reverent as he thrust deeper. “Like you’re all fucking mine.” His hips began to move, slow at first, dragging his cock out of you only to slam back in, filling you with every stroke. The mirror caught every angle–your breasts bouncing with each thrust, his veins straining in his forearms as he clutched you, the feverish way he bent to kiss your bare shoulder, your neck, your back. His lips left a trail of worship across your skin, each kiss branding you deeper.

“Look at this body…” He whispered, his teeth grazing your shoulder, his breath shuddering against you. “So fucking perfect. Your curves, your tits, the way you wrap around me…” His voice broke into a groan as your walls squeezed him tight. “Fuck, baby, you drive me fucking crazy.” Your palms braced on the counter, your breath fogging the glass as your eyes rolled between your own reflection and his fevered stare. The filth in his words, the worship in his touch, the feel of him buried so deep inside you–it overwhelmed every nerve.

Then his hand slid down, sneaking between your thighs. His fingers found your swollen clit and rubbed tight, desperate circles. The shock of sensation made you cry out, your hips jerking against him.

“That’s it,” He groaned, his forehead pressed hard to your shoulder as his pace grew rougher, deeper. “Cum for me again, baby. I wanna feel you squeeze me. I need it.” Your body obeyed before your mind could. The climax slammed into you hard, your legs buckling as your walls convulsed around him, pulsing in tight, desperate waves. A whimper tore from your throat, your reflection catching every flicker of your expression as you broke against him.

“Oh fuck, Todd…Please…Please, I need you to cum inside me.” Your begging only pushed him further. His thrusts turned frantic, sloppy, chasing his own release as he clutched you tight to his chest. His breath came ragged against your ear, curses spilling out between groans until with one deep, shuddering thrust he stilled. His cock throbbed inside you, spilling heat deep as his forehead pressed to your shoulder, his entire body trembling.

“Fuck…” he groaned, shoving himself as deep as he could go, holding you flush against the counter as he filled you. “Jesus Christ, baby…” You felt every pulse of him, the thick warmth spreading through you. His arms banded tight around you, clutching you against him as if he was afraid to let you go, his chest heaving into your back.

“God…I fucking love you, Y/N…love you so fucking much.” The words landed like fire in your chest, molten and undeniable. Your throat tightened as you reached down blindly, seeking his hand where it gripped your hip like a vice. When you found it, you threaded your trembling fingers through his, clutching hard.

“I love you too, Todd,” You whispered, your voice raw but steady, sealing the vow with your pulse thundering against his knuckles. For a few long moments, you both stayed there, connected in every possible way–his cock still buried inside you, your breath catching in rhythm with his, your reflections in the mirror a testament to the ruin he had left you in. His arms softened gradually, no longer iron bands but tender loops, holding you because he wanted to, not because he had to.

Finally, he let his lips press one more lingering kiss to the slope of your shoulder before easing back. His withdrawal was slow–each inch dragging against your sensitive walls until you clenched around him in protest. You whimpered faintly at the empty ache as he slipped free, and almost immediately his hand was reaching down, tugging your panties back into place with quick precision to catch the hot trickle of his release that threatened to spill down your thighs.

You stayed leaning against the counter, catching your breath, your chest rising and falling in sharp swells. Your legs wobbled beneath you, still trembling from the aftershocks, and you braced yourself on the edge of the sink, feeling your reflection swim hazy in the mirror.

Behind you, Todd was already tucking himself back into his boxers, pulling his dress pants up over his hips. The metallic clink of his belt buckle sounded sharp in the small room as he fastened himself back together, straightening with a deep inhale. But the moment he was decent again, his attention swung back to you–completely, utterly fixed.

His big hands found you immediately, palms warm and sure as they smoothed over the bare skin of your back, trailing down the curve of your waist, up over your arms. He pressed soft kisses wherever he could reach–your shoulder blades, the nape of your neck, the dip just below your ear. His stubble scratched faintly, his lips lingering longer than necessary, his breath fanning hot against your flushed skin.

“You’re incredible…” He murmured into you, his voice raw velvet. “So beautiful. My perfect girl. There’s nobody else that can compare to you. It’s just you. It’s always you.” Each phrase was punctuated with another kiss, another caress of his thumb over your damp skin. He wasn’t just soothing you–he was grounding himself, reminding both of you what you meant to each other in every touch.

When your breathing finally slowed, he nuzzled once more into your neck before whispering, almost hesitant:

“Let me help you get dressed.”

You straightened slowly, your muscles protesting, your dress still pooled low around your waist. Todd’s hands were steady as they slid the straps back up over your arms, the cool silk gliding against your heated skin. He tugged the fabric gently into place, his fingers grazing over every curve with deliberate care. When he reached behind you, his knuckles brushed down your spine as he caught the zipper and pulled it up slowly, the soft rasp filling the air. He pressed a kiss to the back of your neck as he sealed you back into the midnight silk.

The moment was intimate, sensual in its slowness–his hands not just dressing you, but worshipping you in the process, like every inch of your body deserved reverence. When he turned you to face him, his blue eyes softened, molten with affection. He cupped your face in both hands, thumbs brushing gently over your kiss-swollen lips, over the damp heat of your flushed cheeks.

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t frantic or messy this time–it was consuming, deep, sweet in its desperation. His tongue slid slowly against yours, savoring you, coaxing you to open wider until you melted fully into him. When he finally broke it, his forehead stayed pressed to yours, his breath mingling with yours as he whispered words that carved themselves into your bones:

“You’re everything to me. My best decision, my favorite view, my reason for breathing. You walk into a room, and it doesn’t matter who’s there–I only ever see you. Always you, Y/N.”

The promise in his voice, the sincerity tangled with raw want, made your chest ache in the best way. In that moment, with his lips still brushing yours and his hands cradling your face like you were the most precious thing in the world, you knew he meant every single word.

[verstappenverse]

[overtake]

Max gets so much delight from getting to champagne spray a rookie 🫶

[themoonbrokenbylife]

As soon as I saw the final results I KNEW Max would make sure Issac got a proper podium celebration ❤️❤️❤️❤️

[overtake]

Max gets so much delight from getting to champagne spray a rookie 🫶

[themoonbrokenbylife]

As soon as I saw the final results I KNEW Max would make sure Issac got a proper podium celebration ❤️❤️❤️❤️

[yesloulou]

Max during 2025 British Grand Prix

[souvenir116]

Italian crowd chanting dudududu Max verstappen was NOT on my bingo card

[themoonbrokenbylife]

Stop this is so cute. 😭 After all the hate and booing at the stupid FIA hunger Games opening ceremony 😒. Tifosi were class acts ❤️

[em1i2a3]

Spanish Sahara

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolt!Fem!Reader

Summary: After a rough week at the Thunderbolts Compound, the team goes out for some drinks to wind down and enjoy themselves.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts because Bob and other characters from the movie are in here. Fluff, and Smut are the main warnings here, Bob and Reader have an established friendship.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up y’all), Praise/Worship Kink, Breast Play, …Something involving a mirror, Very light choking, Oral Sex (f! And m! receiving), Fingering, Swallowing, Bob is a frickin softie as usual because that’s hot but he definitely has his moments in this, Overstimulation, Teasing, Aftercare to the max because being taken care of after hot sex is…Wheew lol. I don’t think I missed anything

Author’s Note: I saw a lot of people requesting more smut and I thought as a nice little break from the super long fics that I’m working on (that request box has a lot of them and I’m chipping away at it as much as possible!) I’d write a nice little one-shot for y’all to celebrate a random Friday in May 😂 enjoy!! (Side note, I also had a funny little ask about how I name my posts lol, I literally just picture the songs in what I’m writing, the title changes like three times by the time I post it lol)

Word Count: 13,796

The bar was loud, crowded, and hazy with cheap smoke and too many conversations happening at once–but Bob was only paying attention to you, and attempting to look normal in his surroundings, which was always a complicated feat for him.

You sat across from him in the booth, your body framed in golden lamplight and neon beer signs like some half-lit portrait in an art museum. You looked too good to be real–flushed with warmth from your second tequila pineapple of the night, bare-legs crossed just enough to make his brain short-circuit, lips glossed a cherry red like you’d done it just to ruin him.

And maybe, somewhere deep down, he thought you had.

The others were scattered across the bar like background noise–Ava and Yelena flanking the bar with their usual chaotic grace, Walker and Alexei pounding back shots and shouting about God-knows-what, and Bucky leaning over the pool table, unknowingly feeding lines to a group of women who didn’t care if he could shoot or not.

But Bob hadn’t looked away from you in nearly half an hour.

Not when you uncrossed and re-crossed your legs beneath the table, the movements slow and fluid, like you wanted to give him something to look at. Bob’s eyes had followed the motion instinctively–drawn to the soft slide of skin, to the way your thighs shifted beneath the hem of your black tailored shorts. They were high-waisted and fitted, hugging the dip of your waist and the curve of your hips, cinched with a single gold button that glinted every time you moved.

You’d paired them with that wicked bodysuit–the one that clung to your body like second skin, high-cut at the hips and daringly low in the front, just enough to frame the soft curve of your cleavage without giving away too much. It was backless, sleeveless, and made of some silky, matte fabric that shimmered faintly in the bar light. You wore it like armor, like a challenge.

Your legs were bare, golden under the dim glow, crossed at the knee with one foot tucked behind the other–long, lean, and deliberate in how they were presented. Every detail about your look tonight felt curated–not in a fake way, but in the kind of way that said I know exactly what I’m doing to you. And Bob? Poor Bob looked like he was under your spell.

He couldn’t stop looking.

Every time your drink got dangerously low and you leaned forward–elbows resting on the table, cleavage pressing softly together–you dragged the last sip from your straw with a slow, teasing pull that made something in him twist. He watched the way your lips curled around it, how a single droplet of condensation slid down the side of the glass and clung to your fingers. He was transfixed.

You laughed at something the waitress said–he didn’t even register what–and it echoed in his chest like a bell. That sound always got to him.

And tonight, he wasn’t hiding it. Not well, anyway.

His eyes kept drifting–over your mouth, the curve of your collarbone, the smooth stretch of your exposed shoulders, down to the shadowed dip between your breasts. Then he’d catch himself and flick his gaze up like he could undo what he just saw. Like he was trying to remind himself that he respected you too much to stare, even though he’d been staring for months.

He was trying so hard to be polite. His hands were clenched in his lap, fingers tangled and twitching like they were holding back something much stronger than impulse. His posture was rigid, like his own body was betraying him one muscle at a time.

He was always like that around you–reserved, yes. But it wasn’t just shyness. It was respect. Fear. Like every thought he had about you was too big to name out loud. Like if he touched you, he’d never forgive himself for crossing that line.

But he’d already crossed it, hadn’t he? Not physically–but emotionally, because Bob Reynolds had been in love with you for a long, long time.

And you knew it.

You saw it in the way he always noticed when you were tired after a mission, the way he made you tea without asking, or stayed behind in training sessions he wasn’t even involved in just so you’d have someone to spot you. You saw it in the way he flinched when someone else made you laugh, or how his voice went into a cracked whisper only when he said your name.

He was putty in your hands. And you loved it. Not because it gave you power–but because he let you have it. Because he trusted you with it.

And as much as the friendship meant to you–deeply, intimately–you’d stopped lying to yourself months ago. Your brain was always a few steps ahead, mapping the timeline of how you’d get from here–from this bar booth and his helpless eyes–to there. To a place where Bob Reynolds was no longer just your best friend, but something closer. Something that meant yours.

So you didn’t say anything. You just watched him.

Watched how his breath caught every time you shifted. How he wet his lips nervously when you leaned forward. How the pulse in his neck jumped like he could feel your eyes on him.

His fingers twitched again, folded too tight in his lap. You followed the motion, noted the way his knuckles went white.

There was a sheen of sweat on his temple now–barely noticeable unless you were looking for it, which you were.

And poor Bob didn’t even realize how obvious he was.

So you decided to make it worse for him.

You slipped off your shoe under the table and slowly–very slowly–ran your foot up the length of his shin. A gentle drag, barely a touch, but intentional. Controlled. The kind of touch that said I see you. And I want you flustered.

Bob jolted like you’d zapped him with a live wire.

His leg knocked the underside of the table with a hollow thunk, and his hand shot out, sloshing his Coke Zero just short of the edge. His knuckles were white around the glass. His jaw dropped slightly like he meant to say something but forgot what language was.

His cheeks–already pink from the warmth of the room and the low buzz that he was getting from just being around you–flushed deeply, the color spreading up his neck and painting his ears red. You swore even his throat blushed. He pushed his light brown hair out of his face nervously, like he was afraid it would cloud his vision of you.

You tilted your head, smirking. “Cold in here?”

He blinked like he’d just come out of a trance. His lashes fluttered rapidly over wide blue eyes–those eyes, impossibly pale and clear, glassy with surprise and something raw beneath it. Want, maybe. Or fear.

“Y-Yeah,” He stammered, voice cracking slightly. “A–A little drafty.”

“Mmm.” You stretched in your seat, arms rising lazily above your head, making sure the movement pulled the neckline of your bodysuit lower. The fabric shifted with you, stretching softly across your chest, exposing a bit more of the delicate skin he’d been trying so hard not to look at.

His gaze dropped like he didn’t even mean to let it.

And then he swallowed–hard–his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly in his throat.

But Bob didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His breathing had gone shallow, his tongue caught against the roof of his mouth like he’d forgotten how to form words. He looked like he was choking on air.

You didn’t let up.

Your foot moved again–slow, deliberate, and this time it brushed higher, just right on the inside of his thigh, where the heat of his body was more noticeable. Where he was trembling.

His breath hitched instantly, and a soft, involuntary sound escaped him–a sharp exhale, half-panic, half-arousal. His fingers dug into the wooden edge of the booth like he was bracing for impact.

You leaned forward again, closing some of the distance between you, letting your arms rest on the table and your chest push together ever so slightly in the low light. He couldn’t look away.

“You’ve been looking at me like that all night, Bob,” You said, your voice velvet-soft, the tone curling up his spine.

His head snapped up like you’d struck him–eyes wide and wild with guilt, pupils dilated in the low light. His brows pinched upward with alarm, his mouth parting in a panicked breath.

“I… I didn’t mean to–” He rushed out, but it came out broken.

You reached across the space between you, wrapping your hand around his wrist before gently cutting him off

“I want you to look.”

He froze.

His whole body went still, like he was afraid to breathe. His eyes–so ocean-bright and boyishly soft–flicked over your face with disbelief, feeling your thumb run over the exposed skin of his wrist.

You smiled at him again, slower this time. Not to tease. But to reassure.

“I like that it’s you,” You said, your voice dipping into something quiet and unshakably sincere.

He blinked, slow and stunned. His lashes cast little shadows under the low-hung light, and you saw the exact moment something cracked in his chest.

“You’re the only one,” You continued, “Who’s never looked at me like I’m a game to win. Or a body to take. You look at me like I’m something you’re afraid to break. Like I’m something you cherish.”

His lips parted again–slightly dry, slightly trembling.

And you saw it. The shimmer in his eyes. That wide, overwhelmed expression he wore when you said something that hit too close to the truth. He looked like he might cry. Or faint. Or bolt. But instead…He stayed.

Frozen, but present.

You reached for your drink again with your free hand and took the last sip, dragging the straw into your mouth with deliberate slowness, never breaking eye contact.

Bob’s eyes tracked every inch of the motion. You could see the subtle twitch in his jaw, the little hitch in his shoulders, like he was physically holding himself back.

Then you licked a drop from your bottom lip.

And that did him in.

His breath faltered again, and his eyes–so blue, so open, so obviously in love with you–looked at you like he’d forgotten where he was. Like the world had narrowed down to just your lips, your voice, your body framed in shadow and gold light.

You tilted your head, gaze gentle now. That look you always gave him when he was spiraling. When he needed to know he was safe. That he was wanted.

He looked like he didn’t deserve it.

But you knew better.

And finally, after a long, shaky breath–his lashes fluttering like he was about to pass out—he leaned forward.

His voice barely rose above the din of the bar, cracked and breathless and close enough to touch.

“I…I think about y–you.”

The words came out like a confession. Like a sin.

He didn’t stop.

“More than I should,” He said, gaze darting to the table, then back up again like it physically hurt him to hold your eyes. “More than…What’s okay.”

You didn’t move. You didn’t interrupt. You let him say it.

“I just…” His throat worked again. “If I ever got to touch you–I don’t think I’d want to stop.”

Your chest ached at how sincerely he meant it. Like it wasn’t just about sex. Like it was everything, like it meant everything.

Your hand on his wrist slid down so your palm was over his, feeling the warmth of him–the quiet trembling, the softness of his skin.

“Bob,” You said softly. “What would you do if I didn’t want you to stop?”

His lashes fluttered at you–confused, hopeful, scared–but he didn’t pull away, not like he would normally. If anything, he leaned in like you had said something that brought him closer.

Your hand stayed where it was, palm against palm, but your fingers began to move–softly tracing the lines in his hand like you were reading him. Like you were studying a map only you had permission to follow. You let your fingertip trail along the length of his lifeline, then up the curve of his thumb, dipping gently between the web of his fingers. He flinched–barely–but you felt it. Saw the way his breath shuddered quietly through his nose, the way his fingers twitched like they wanted so badly to close around yours but didn’t quite dare.

He was holding himself back.

Even now, even here.

Your gaze lifted, meeting his–they were wide and glossy, pupils blown wide now, eating away at the blue, and there was something deeply aching in the way he looked at you. Like he was trying to memorize every second of this moment in case it vanished.

“Don’t look at me like that,” You murmured, your thumb ghosting over the calloused edge of his ring finger. “Like you’re not allowed to want this.” Bob swallowed hard–again. It was the only thing he could do that didn’t give him away. His breath stuttered. His fingers twitched. His mouth opened like he might say something, but no words came.

He looked at you like you were everything he’d ever prayed for and was terrified to touch.

You watched the war inside him–want versus restraint. It played out in the flicker of his lashes, the shake in his hand, the tension braced through his shoulders like he was trying to keep himself from combusting.

So you let go of his hand, and moved your foot away from his inner thigh.

For a heartbeat, his face dropped–just a flicker of devastation in his expression.

Until you stood up, and moved around the table.

Bob’s head turned like he couldn’t believe you were really coming to him, like some part of him had convinced himself this was all a hallucination brought on by too many Coke Zeros–cause he couldn’t drink–and too many nights thinking about your hands, your mouth, and your voice in his ear. But then you slid into the booth beside him, your thigh pressing flush to his. He was still frozen, spine straight, hands in his lap like they might betray him if he moved them. Your perfume radiated off of you, the one that you always modestly sprayed on yourself, the one that he loved sneaking in your room to smell when you weren’t at the compound or out on a mission–the one that smelled like sugar, berries, and ripe oranges, like a succulent dessert…Made just for him.

You leaned in slowly, brushing your arm against him. You didn’t have to look at him, you didn’t have to…You knew he was already looking at you, or trying to look at you.

When he was finally able to feel your hot breath curl over his cheek he could immediately smell the pineapple juice on your tongue. It made him want to lean in right then and there just to get a taste, just to suck the essence off of it, to drink from you, but he needed to hold himself back, to stay in control of himself before he did something prematurely.

Then–with the grace of an angel–you reached up and touched him.

Your fingers found the side of his jaw, the pads of them smoothing against his freshly shaven cheek, tilting his face gently toward you. He followed the motion like a man possessed–like you had pulled him by a leash tied to his soul. He closed his eyes at the sensation, parting his lips slightly to take in a small breath–a quiet plea.

Slowly, you leaned in, your mouth resting just close enough to graze his ear, and you whispered–low, and sultry:

”Every time I touch myself, I imagine it’s you…” Bob shattered. A noise escaped him–broken and breathless. A half-gasp, half-whimper that he couldn’t contain if he tried. His body went tense beside you, his thigh flexing under yours, his fingers twitching like they were about to snap.

But you didn’t stop there.

“I imagine your fingers,” You murmured, your lips brushing his ear, “Big and clumsy and desperate, the way they always look when you’re nervous. I imagine them moving inside me while I ride your hand, while I beg you to kiss me like you mean it.” Bob exhaled–hard. His jaw clenched under your touch, his breath fogging hot against your forearm. You could feel how close he was to breaking–how close he was to falling apart in front of a whole bar full of people he couldn’t even look at in the eyes. Your fingertips moved slowly across his cheek, your nails didn’t scratch–they ghosted, mapped, and worshipped. You traced the slope of his cheekbone, then slid down to the soft dip beside his mouth, like you were learning his face the way others learn scripture.

Bob was unraveling. Every word from your mouth was gasoline on the fire he’d been trying to smother for months. His breath caught in his chest like a prayer that didn’t know how to end, and he stared at you—lips parted, lashes trembling–like he couldn’t tell if this was heaven or the moment before he burned.

And then your other hand came to rest on his shoulder, grounding him–and pushing him closer to the edge all at once.

He was breathing too hard now. Too fast. His chest rising in shallow, shaking swells. And all he could do was sit there, hands fisted in his lap, as you leaned in and whispered into his ear again–closer this time, like you were whispering to his soul.

“I think about tasting you,” You said softly. “So achingly slow, until you lose your mind.”

Bob’s knees went weak beneath the table. He didn’t even know how he was still upright. The only thing keeping him tethered to the earth was the press of your thigh against his, the weight of your palm on his shoulder and face, and the sound of your voice curling into his bloodstream like silk-wrapped sin.

He tried to speak–tried to gather some string of thought that could resemble language–but all he managed was a broken, desperate breath. “I–” He rasped, his voice shredded at the edges.

But you didn’t let him finish.

You shushed him. Gently. Sweetly. Your thumb swept across his cheek.

“Don’t,” You murmured, so close your lips touched his ear, “Don’t talk. Just feel it.”

And God, he felt it.

Every molecule of you.

The heat of your breath melting against his skin. The sweetness of your perfume, dizzying and intimate. The way your hands touched him like he was more than a body. Like he was a secret. A sacred thing you’d been aching to unwrap.

His fingers twitched at his sides, aching to move, to reach for you, but he didn’t dare–not unless you asked for it. He’d give you anything, everything, but he didn’t want to take a single thing you didn’t offer first.

Still, he couldn’t help it–his head tilted toward your touch, his eyes fluttering shut, mouth parted in something so tender it almost hurt to witness. His throat flexed as he swallowed another breath that wouldn’t steady.

You moved even closer–until your mouth nearly brushed his. Until the distance between you was a lie.

“I want to make you lose control,” You whispered. “I want to feel how much you’ve been holding back.”

That did it.

Bob’s whole body trembled under your hands–his restraint hanging by a thread, his jaw clenched like he was trying not to whimper. He turned his head slowly, just enough to look at you, and his eyes–those soft, wrecked, worshipful eyes–were completely undone.

“Y-You don’t know what you’re d-doing to me,” He breathed, but you smiled, soft and knowing.

“Then maybe we should go back to the compound so you could show me.” You whispered back, your thumb stroking the corner of his mouth like you’d been dying to touch him there. Bob’s breath hitched.

The corner of his mouth twitched beneath your thumb like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to shape it into a sentence. His brow knit–tight, anxious–as if he were on the edge of a precipice and could already feel the wind pulling at his shirt.

“I…” His voice cracked. He turned his head slightly, his cheek brushing your palm, but his eyes–those trembling, desperate eyes–held yours like you were the only thing anchoring him to the floor. “I don’t… know w-what happens if I lose control…I h-haven’t had s-sex since before the S-Sentry serum…”

Your chest softened at the vulnerability in his tone–raw, boyish, torn straight from the deepest part of him.

“I’ve felt it before. The…Shift. T-That moment before it gets too much.” His throat worked hard around the next words. “The Sentry, he–he comes through w-when I feel too much. When I want too much. A-And I want you so badly it terrifies me.”

Your thumb stroked over his jaw again, slow and reverent, like you were trying to soothe the trembling just beneath his skin. He didn’t pull away.

“Bob,” You whispered, voice like velvet heat, “I’m not scared of him.”

His breath caught, but you didn’t stop.

“I don’t care if the Sentry shows up. I don’t care if he tries to carry me off into the sky or crack the moon in half because I kissed you too hard.” You smiled gently, your nose brushing his. “Because it’s still you. All of it. The fear, the ache, the power–none of it changes the fact that it’s your heart underneath. And I want all of it. I want all of you.”

His eyes fluttered shut, lashes wet. His chest heaved like he’d just exhaled something he’d been holding in for years. Like you’d opened a dam inside him and now he couldn’t stop it–he didn’t want to anyways.

“Y-You don’t know w–what that means to me,” He whispered, voice trembling like glass on the verge of breaking. “To not be t-the golden boy in your eyes…To just b-be me.”

You leaned in then–so close he could taste your breath, taste the sweetness of pineapple and something far more sacred.

“You were never a monster,” You said, lips brushing his. “You’re the kindest thing I’ve ever touched.”

And that broke something open in him.

His shoulders sagged forward, like a weight had slid off them, and he pressed his forehead to yours, his hands finally–finally–lifting from his lap to ghost up your sides, hesitant and aching. You felt the way they trembled as they settled on your waist, as if touching you too firmly might shatter the moment.

But you didn’t shatter. You melted. Right into him.

“Take me home,” You whispered, your hand curling around the back of his neck. “And let me be yours.”

Bob let out a shaky breath–half-sob, half-surrender–and nodded.

“O–Okay…”

—————————————

The moment the two of you stepped out of the elevator and the doors slid shut behind you, the weight of what was about to happen descended over you like dusk spilling into a quiet room–slow and golden and thick with gravity. It wrapped around your shoulders, soaked into your skin. Each step down the quiet hallway felt amplified, padded in the hush of possibility. The compound, usually so full of voices and footfalls, now felt sacred. Empty in a way that invited something tender to unfold.

You glanced over at Bob beside you–his hands in his pockets, shoulders stiff beneath his shirt like he didn’t know how to hold his own body anymore. His eyes flicked toward you, then away again. You could see it in the twitch of his fingers, in the slow rise and fall of his breath: he was fighting the urge to run and the urge to fall into you all at once.

“Whose room?” You asked softly, your voice barely more than a breath as you stopped just shy of your doors, which were across from one another.

Bob turned to face you, and for a moment he just looked at you. Really looked. As if the question was too big to answer all at once. But then he shook his head and murmured, without hesitation, “Yours.”

Your brows lifted a fraction, surprised by the immediacy of it.

His voice came again, quieter now, barely able to hold its own weight: “I want to be surrounded by everything that’s you.”

And God, he meant it. You could see it all over his face–that quiet, overwhelmed awe. That whisper of longing woven into his breath. Like being near you wasn’t just about want–it was about safety.

You opened your door with a hush of hinges and warmth poured out–soft and golden like it had been waiting for you both. Bob hesitated on the threshold just for a moment, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to step into something so intimate. But you reached back and curled your fingers around his, pulling him through gently, and he followed without a sound.

Your room welcomed him like a heartbeat.

The lights were low, softened to a muted amber by the shade of your bedside lamp, and the shadows cast across the walls were familiar, worn-in. The kind of quiet you could only earn by living in a space long enough to leave parts of yourself tucked into the corners.

There were little signs of you everywhere.

A cardigan draped over the back of your chair, still shaped by your shoulders. A couple mismatched mugs on the windowsill, half-full of dried flowers and pens that had long since run out of ink. A battered paperback with your thumb pressed into the spine, abandoned on the edge of the bed. The faintest scent of that sugary sweet skin-warm perfume. He could taste it in the silence.

And then there was the window.

It stretched across nearly half the far wall, a wide mouth of glass looking out over the city, where the skyline pulsed like a living organism–silver and gold lights blinking in lazy succession, cars reflecting off the windows threading down the streets like blood through veins. Bob walked toward it like he was drawn by gravity itself, like it called to the aching part of him that had spent too long looking at the world from above and never this close.

His reflection caught in the tall mirror near the bed–a fractured echo of himself, backlit by the skyline, a man made of longing and light. If he laid down, he realized, he’d be able to see you both in that mirror. Your bodies. Your faces. The way you might look reaching for each other.

He swallowed hard.

Behind him, you closed the door.

The soft click of it sealing shut sent a shiver down his spine–final and quiet and full of promise. He turned toward you, and that’s when he saw you undoing your leather jacket, slow and unhurried. The matte black of it peeled away from your shoulders like a second skin, and the way you moved–fluid, unfazed, and sure–made the air around him feel charged, like static clinging to cotton.

You stood in front of him now, illuminated by citylight and the low lamplight behind you. The bodysuit clung to your frame, catching the warm glow across your collarbones, your throat, the tender curve of your chest. You shrugged the jacket the rest of the way off, and it hit the floor with the softest thud.

Bob was frozen in place. Watching you like a man watching lightning hit the ocean.

He looked around your room again, slower this time. You saw it in his eyes–how he drank in the soft mess of your sheets, the collection of little rings in a porcelain dish, the stack of notes taped to your wall with scribbled to-dos and song lyrics and scraps of thought. It was chaotic and real and you, and he loved every single thing about it.

You were standing so close now that he could feel the warmth radiating off of your skin. The glow of your room wrapped around the two of you like a whispered secret.

You tilted your head slightly and whispered, “You okay?”

And Bob–whose hands were clenched at his sides, whose chest was rising like a tide he couldn’t hold back–nodded, barely. His voice was a whisper scraped raw:

“I-I don’t think I’ve ever been t-this okay.”

Your smile broke like a sunrise, and you reached up for him, touching his face. Just your fingertips at first, featherlight against the edge of his jaw, your thumb brushing along the corner of his mouth like it was something precious to you. Bob’s breath stilled at the contact, lips parting slightly, his chest fluttering with anticipation. He leaned into your palm like a man starved for warmth, even though he was burning up as he stood in front of you.

You pulled him gently toward you.

It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t desperate. It was something softer—something built from all the times you’d brushed hands in passing, or caught him watching you when he thought you weren’t looking. It was built from every whispered laugh, every longing silence, every moment the world made you ache for one another without saying a thing.

And now it was here. Finally.

Bob bent to meet you, slow and hesitant, his breath brushing yours like a question. Your noses bumped slightly, awkward and tender, and he let out the smallest nervous laugh—one you swallowed as you tilted your chin and brought your lips to his.

The first kiss was a hum. A hush. A held breath.

His lips were soft, unsure at first, warm and slightly parted like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to kiss you back–until he did. Until he melted into it. You felt the exact moment the tension in his shoulders unraveled, when he stopped hovering on the edge and let himself fall. His arms came around your waist–slowly, carefully–as if he was still afraid to hold too tightly.

But he did hold you.

God, did he hold you.

One hand splayed wide against the small of your back, the other settling higher, thumb grazing the edge of your exposed skin where your bodysuit dipped low. His palm was hot. Too hot. Like he was burning just from touching you, and yet couldn’t bring himself to pull away. The feel of your skin against his fingertips made his knees go weak.

You kissed him deeper.

Not rushed, not rough–just more. More pressure. More presence. You tilted your head and sighed softly into him, and Bob exhaled like you’d opened a door in his chest he didn’t know had been locked. His mouth was gentle but eager, tasting you in little swells, lips moving with hesitant gentleness as if trying to memorize the shape of you. He breathed you in like you were air after drowning.

You pulled back slightly–not apart, just enough to rest your forehead to his. The two of you stood there in that golden hush, breathing each other’s breath. Bob’s chest rose and fell against yours, and you felt it–every tremble. Every ounce of his restraint.

He looked at you with eyes half-lidded and dazed, lips flushed and glistening from your kiss–and from the remnants of your lip glass–the faintest tremor in his breath like he couldn’t quite believe it had happened.

Your voice was soft, just above a whisper. “Still okay?”

He let out a broken laugh–full of wonder, full of you–and nodded.

You leaned in again–gentler this time, slower–not because you were unsure, but because you wanted to savor the way his breath hitched when your lips brushed his. You wanted to draw it out. To feel every shiver he tried and failed to suppress.

Bob met you halfway with a soft, aching sound–something between a sigh and a whisper of your name. His hands flexed slightly at your waist, his fingers pressing just a little deeper into the curve of you. You felt how he trembled. Not because he didn’t want this. But because he wanted it so much he was afraid he might burst.

You kissed him again–deeper, slower this time, mouth parting just enough to taste him. His lips were warm and sweet with nerves, and he kissed like someone who had thought about this a thousand times but never believed it would happen. There was a reverence to it, a hush in the way he moved his mouth against yours, like he was still halfway convinced he might wake up at any moment.

Your hands left his face, drifting down–slow, steady, and full of quiet intention. You traced the slope of his neck, feeling the rapid flutter of his pulse, then down the broad plane of his chest. You felt every breath he took, shallow and aching, beneath the soft cotton of his sweater.

Bob, always layered like he needed something between himself and the world, was wrapped in a slightly oversized charcoal crewneck, its fabric thinned from wear and faintly scented like detergent and something uniquely him. Beneath it, you could feel the ridges of another layer–a t-shirt, soft and well-worn, probably one he slept in or hid in on quiet mornings when the world was too loud.

You slid your hands beneath the hem of the sweater and pushed upward, your palms skimming the warm skin of his stomach as the fabric lifted. Bob made a quiet, broken sound into your kiss–like the feeling of your hands on his skin short-circuited something vital inside him. He froze for a moment, his breath catching like he wasn’t sure he could survive the sensation.

You pulled back just far enough to speak, your lips brushing his. “Can I?”

His nod was immediate. Frantic. “Y-Yeah. God, yeah.”

So you tugged the sweater up slowly, watching the way his arms lifted, watching the exposed inch of his abdomen rise with it–the pale skin dusted with soft little beauty marks, the gentle definition carved by years of holding tension. As the fabric cleared his chest, he flinched slightly, sucking in a breath like cold air had touched him, though your hands were warm.

He helped you the rest of the way, dragging the sweater and t-shirt off over his head with trembling fingers, slipping away like the last layer of armor. And then he was bare from the waist up, bathed in citylight and lamplight, all golden and blushing and unsure.

He stood there, chest bare and breathless, as if you’d peeled back the sky and found the sun trembling underneath.

Bob’s body wasn’t sculpted in the way of soldiers or statues. It was something softer, something more human. But there was strength in it, undeniable–earned. It was the kind of build that came from holding onto things that were out of his control. Broad shoulders that carried guilt and gentleness in equal measure. A solid chest dusted with faint hair and the occasional mark of time–tiny clusters of faded scars, blemishes, and bruises the world had forgotten but his skin remembered.

His collarbones were sharp under the golden lamplight, framed by muscle that swelled and dipped like lines in a poem you wanted to memorize. His arms, strong and thick, looked like they were made to hold someone through the storm–and right now, they twitched faintly at his sides like he didn’t know how to be held himself. There were scattered freckles on his biceps, a pale crescent scar on one rib that curved like the moon, and small, raised knots near the shoulder from training or trauma–you weren’t sure which. Maybe both.

He looked like a map of ache and effort and quiet resilience.

And you adored every inch of him.

You stepped forward slowly and pressed a kiss to the center of his chest–just over his sternum. His breath stuttered at the contact, sharp and startled, like he’d never been kissed there before. Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe no one had thought to.

You trailed your fingers down the plane of his stomach, the muscle there tense and trembling, then lower–toward the waistband of his pants. They were a pair of charcoal slacks, slightly loose around his waist, cinched just right at the hips, but soft and comfortable like he’d chosen them to blend in. Like he’d never expected to be undressed in them.

Your fingers hovered over the button, and you looked up at him. Bob nodded once–barely, but enough–and you slipped the button free. His breath hitched, and his hands flexed at his sides again like he didn’t know what to do with them.

You dragged the zipper down slowly, deliberately, your eyes never leaving his. He looked dazed–like he was being unwrapped for the very first time, and the air itself might sear him.

The fabric fell down his thighs with a soft whisper, pooling at his feet, before he moved out of them, kicking his shoes off in the process.

Bob stood in front of you in nothing but his black boxer-briefs, backlit by the shimmer of the skyline and the amber hum of your bedroom lamp. His chest rose and fell like the sea—steady, but stirred by undercurrent. His eyes hadn’t left you since you touched him. Not once.

And now, it was his turn.

He lifted his hands slowly, reverently, like he was reaching out to something holy. His palms hovered over your hips, not quite touching, until you gave him the smallest nod. That was all he needed.

His fingertips brushed the waistband of your shorts, undoing the golden button in the front of them.

You kicked off your shoes, one at a time, and let the silence stretch between you as he hooked his fingers through the belt loops–slow, hesitant, like he was afraid of doing too much too quickly. He eased them down your legs inch by inch, watching the fabric surrender to gravity. You stepped out of them delicately, and for a beat, he just stood there, looking at you like he didn’t know how to survive the sight of you standing in nothing but that black bodysuit and a pair of simple underwear.

He swallowed hard.

His hands returned to your sides, smoothing over the dip of your waist where the fabric clung tight. You watched his throat flex as his eyes flicked over you—your curves, your bare legs, the way your body caught the light like it had been painted for his gaze alone.

When he moved to the clasp of your bodysuit, his fingers trembled. You could feel it. The concentration in him. The hesitation. Like he was unhooking something precious, something secret.

You reached up and touched his jaw gently. “It’s okay,” You whispered.

And Bob, poor, wrecked Bob, nodded like he needed your permission to breathe.

The clasp gave with a soft snap. The bodysuit loosened instantly, slackening at your shoulders. His eyes met yours again, searching, silent, and then he helped ease the fabric down your arms, over your chest–slowly, like he was undressing a memory he wanted to savor for the rest of his life.

You stood there, bare from the waist up.

Bathed in citylight and lamplight. Breasts soft and exposed, skin flushed and dappled in gold. Your breath was steady, open, trusting.

And Bob… Bob stared like he’d never seen anything so sacred. His lips parted. His chest rose, shallow and quiet, as his eyes drifted over every inch of you—your collarbones, the curve of your sternum, the soft line of your stomach. His hands didn’t touch right away. He just looked. Like the act of looking was too intimate already.

But when he did touch you–finally, gently–his hands moved with such aching care. They rose to cradle your waist, thumbs brushing just below your ribs. You watched his pupils expand, the breath he tried to hold leaking out of him in slow, reverent exhales.

“You’re…” His voice cracked. He didn’t finish the sentence.

Because he didn’t have to.

You stepped into him again, bringing your bodies closer, the warmth of his skin against yours. Your breasts brushed his chest and he nearly gasped, his head dipping low, lips brushing your shoulder like he needed a place to put all this overwhelming wonder.

Bob’s lips were trembling against your skin before you even realized he’d moved. Gentle, searching–he kissed the place where your shoulder curved into your neck, just beneath your collarbone. His mouth was warm and wet, like each kiss was a vow he didn’t know how to speak aloud. He moved slowly, dragging his lips along your skin like he was painting devotion in brushstrokes–across the dip of your clavicle, up the slope of your throat, back to your jaw.

You let out the softest sigh. A sound full of breath and want. It made him shudder.

Your hand slid into his hair, curling at the nape of his neck, guiding him until his lips found yours again. This time the kiss felt hungrier–not in haste, but in depth. In need. Like the space between you could never be close enough. He kissed you with a kind of desperation laced in awe, like he still couldn’t believe this was real. And maybe you felt the same way, because your heart was stammering against your ribs, and the heat blooming between your thighs was dizzying.

You pulled back slowly, just enough to look into his eyes–flushed and wide and soft around the edges, pupils blown so far they nearly swallowed the blue whole.

“Come here,” You whispered, voice like silk unraveling in candlelight.

You took his hand and led him gently around the side of your bed, the sheets still rumpled from a day that no longer mattered. The mirror caught both of your reflections in passing–your bare back, his bare chest, the golden curve of lamplight gilding the two of you like you were something from a dream neither of you dared name.

“Lay down,” You said, and Bob obeyed without a word. He eased himself back across the mattress, exhaling like the air had been caught in his lungs for hours. The sheets crinkled beneath him, warm with your scent, his chest rising in uneven waves as he stared up at the ceiling like it held some sort of answer for how to survive this moment without coming apart entirely.

You climbed onto the mattress after him—slow, certain, fluid like breath moving into lungs. Bob turned his head just in time to see you crawl toward him, and God, the look on his face—pure wonder, trembling with reverence—made your heartbeat skip off rhythm.

You straddled him gently, knees bracketing his hips, your hands finding their way to his chest again, palms splayed flat over the warmth of him. You felt the stutter of his breath beneath your touch, the tight coil of tension building under your thighs.

He looked up at you like you were everything.

You bent down and kissed him again—deeper this time. Your lips claimed him slow and full, your mouth parting just enough to taste his sigh as it melted into yours. One of his hands slid up your thigh, barely daring to grip, while the other cupped your hip like he was anchoring himself.

And that’s when you felt it.

Hard and hot, nestled beneath you. The growing swell of him pressed against the soaked fabric of your underwear, separated from your heat only by the thin stretch of your panties and his boxers. He groaned softly into your mouth, the sound involuntary, and it made your whole body pulse with want.

You rolled your hips forward–just once, a slow grind–and Bob gasped. His head tipped back, throat arched, lips parted as his eyes fluttered shut. His fingers tightened on your waist as if bracing against the force of it.

You did it again–deliberately, letting your clothed center slide against the length of him. The friction was hot, barely enough, almost unbearable in its precision. You could feel the tremor in his thighs, the desperate way his breath stammered in his chest.

“O-Oh m-my,” He whispered, almost like a prayer. “You’re…Oh God–”

You smiled softly against his cheek, lips brushing the corner of his mouth. “You feel that?”

He nodded, barely, eyes dazed.

“I’m soaked,” You whispered, dragging your hips once more, pressing down just enough to make him bite his lip and squeeze his eyes shut, “And it’s all for you…” You kissed the line of his jaw And then you started to move down.

His hands twitched when you kissed his throat—soft, slow, trailing heat with your mouth as you shifted backward, kissing lower, following the pulse at his neck to the center of his chest. You paused there, pressed your lips to the spot where his heart beat fastest.

He stared down at you, dazed and helpless and holy.

You kept going.

Kissed his sternum. The soft dip beneath it. The slight rise of his stomach where the muscles tightened beneath your breath. Your mouth was tender, open, slow as silk. You licked a soft line down his abdomen and felt him shiver violently. His hands moved into your hair without thinking, not pulling–just holding.

Just needing something to hold.

You reached the waistband of his boxer-briefs, and looked up.

His lips were parted, his cheeks pink with heat, his pupils huge and swallowing. He nodded without needing to be asked, lifting his hips slightly as you hooked your fingers into the band and drew it down—inch by inch, like you were unwrapping a gift meant only for you.

Bob was flushed, hard, and trembling. His cock stood against the plane of his stomach, thick and aching and already leaking from the tip. You watched the way it twitched when the cool air touched it, watched how he tried to stifle a gasp and failed.

“O-Oh god,” He breathed, like it physically hurt. “I don’t–I don’t even k-know what to do with myself–”

“You don’t have to do anything,” You murmured, pressing a kiss to the sharp line of his hip. “Just let me take care of you.” His breath hitched–shallow and wild–and his hands gripped the sheets.

And then you bent your head.

And licked a slow, deliberate stripe up the length of him–base to tip.

Bob choked on a gasp, hips jolting before he stilled himself with sheer force of will. His hands flew to his forehead like he was trying to cover his eyes, but he couldn’t stop watching.

You flattened your tongue along the underside of him again slowly feeling the way he twitched under your touch, the way his breath hitched like it was caught in the delicate space between need and disbelief.

His hand found yours blindly–grasping, desperate for something to hold on to. You laced your fingers with his without hesitation, anchoring him as you opened your mouth and took him in.

The weight of him on your tongue was dizzying, intoxicating. He was warm and already leaking, the taste of him faintly salty as your lips sealed around him and began to move–slow, deliberate strokes of your mouth, your hand curled around the base of him in rhythm.

“Y-you’re…” His voice broke, breath catching, almost like a sob. “You’re really… Oh…”

The sound he made when you took him deeper went straight to your core. It was soft, wrecked–an overwhelmed whimper that made your thighs clench and heat spill low in your belly. You moaned around him, low and throaty, and he gasped your name like it physically stunned him.

You glanced up through your lashes and saw him–his head tipped back, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted in disbelief. His free hand was fisted in the sheets now, his chest rising and falling in frantic waves.

You hollowed your cheeks and twisted your wrist just slightly, dragging your mouth back and then sliding down again, slower this time. You could feel every tremor in his thighs, the way his hips flexed involuntarily and then stilled, fighting the instinct to thrust. He was trying so hard to be good for you. To be still. To savor.

You let your hand drift lower, stroking him in time with your mouth, the slick sounds of your lips meeting his flushed skin only driving you further into the heat building between your own legs. You could feel how wet you were through your panties—soaked from the way he whispered your name, from the way he whimpered when you gave him just a little more.

“Oh,” Bob whispered again, breathless. “You feel so good. I don’t… I didn’t... I…” You moaned softly again, taking him deeper, loving the way his voice cracked, the way his fingers squeezed yours like he was hanging on by a thread.

And you didn’t stop.

You licked and sucked and worshipped him, letting the tension build, letting him teeter right there on the edge. His legs were shaking now. His hips stuttered once, and then again.

“I—I think I’m gonna…” He gasped. “I don’t know if I can…P-Please don’t stop—please—please—”

You didn’t.

You kept going. Swirling your tongue around the tip, easing him deeper again, moaning softly just to feel the way it made his whole body jolt.

He came with a sound like he was breaking—high and soft and breathless. A shattered gasp of your name, followed by a long, trembling whine as he spilled into your mouth.

You swallowed it all. Every last drop.

And even then–you didn’t stop.

You licked him gently, slowly, carefully–savoring him through the aftershocks. His body twitched beneath you, overstimulated and undone, his voice going quiet and airy.

“I-it’s too much,” He breathed, eyes wide and wet with disbelief. “Oh God—it’s so much…”

You finally pulled back, lips glistening, your breath ragged. You kissed the inside of his thigh tenderly, then wiped the corner of your mouth with your fingers and gave him the softest smile.

Bob looked at you like you’d just handed him a piece of the universe he never thought he deserved.

You crawled back up the bed and laid beside him, resting your head lightly on his shoulder, letting your hand fall to the center of his chest. His heart was pounding beneath your palm, like it had forgotten how to slow down.

He turned to face you.

And then he kissed you–without thinking, without pause.

His mouth was hungry, lips moving against yours like he wanted to pour his gratitude and longing into every stroke of your tongue. You let out a soft hum into the kiss, and his hand found your waist, curling around you like he needed you against him. All of you. Bob kissed you like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

His hand tightened at your waist as he deepened the kiss, his mouth warm and earnest, his tongue slow against yours—like he was trying to memorize the taste of your breath and the taste of himself on your tongue. Then he shifted his weight just slightly, moving over you, and your body followed without hesitation.

He rolled smoothly, gently, so that your back met the mattress and his body hovered above yours. His thigh slid between yours, his chest flush to your own, and his face hovered just inches from yours–eyes wide and wild with something more than lust. Something closer to awe.

You let out a surprised giggle, breathless beneath him, one hand slipping up to brush back the messy strands of his light brown hair. It stuck up in every direction from your earlier touch, and now it framed his flushed face like a halo that couldn’t decide if it belonged to a saint or a sinner.

He gave a small, dazed laugh too, his lips curving in wonder as he looked down at you.

And then he murmured, soft as velvet:

“It’s your turn.”

His voice sent a shiver straight through you–because it wasn’t just desire in his tone. It was reverence. Like this was sacred. Like you were sacred.

He dipped his head and kissed your throat, slow and sweet, and you tilted your head to give him more. His hand slid up your side, warm and sure, until it cupped your breast. He paused there, looking at you–asking, even now. Even after everything.

You nodded, breath caught somewhere between your ribs.

And Bob leaned down to worship.

His mouth wrapped around the swell of your breast, lips so soft, tongue teasing the peak until it pulled a soft sound from the back of your throat. He groaned at the noise, like it physically did something to him. He kissed across your chest–open, adoring–then sucked gently at the other nipple, swirling his tongue in slow circles until your fingers curled in his hair. You felt his teeth graze the sensitive skin just around your nipple–just enough to make your breath hitch and your hips twitch slightly beneath him.

You gasped, soft and surprised, and his mouth pulled back with a small, wicked smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His breath was warm against your damp skin, and then he exhaled slowly–cool air brushing across the nipple he’d just teased, and your whole body shivered in response.

Bob chuckled under his breath–low and breathless. Not cocky. Amazed. Like your reactions lit up something inside him he never even knew he needed.

Then he kept going.

His lips traced a winding path down your body–each kiss like a benediction pressed into skin. The slope of your ribs. The softness of your belly. The place just beneath your navel where you felt everything coil tight with anticipation.

You shifted slightly, drawing your knees up, thighs falling open to make space for him as he reached the waistband of your underwear. The fabric was soaked with you–already clinging, already begging to be removed. Bob looked up once, eyes wide and full of silent question, fingers brushing your hips.

You nodded. Your breath was caught somewhere behind your teeth, but your legs were already parting further, your spine already arching to help him slide them down.

He pulled the underwear off slowly, taking his time with you, watching the way the fabric peeled away from your slick heat. Your body practically glistened in the amber light, folds swollen and flushed with need. He swallowed thickly, the sound audible even in the hush of your room, and let the underwear fall to the floor like a silk offering.

Bob settled between your thighs like he’d found the center of the universe.

His hands slid up the insides of your thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin as he leaned forward, mouth trailing open kisses along the tender flesh–first one thigh, then the other. You twitched at the contact, gasping as his lips dragged up the curve of your leg, warm and wet and wanting. He paused just at the crease where thigh met hip, and then–without warning–bit gently, sucking until the skin flushed pink and bloomed with a bruise.

Bob smiled into your skin. “S–Sorry,” He murmured, clearly not sorry at all, his voice thick with breath and worship. “N–Needed to leave s-something to remember me b-by.”

And then–finally–he kissed your core.

His tongue swiped through your folds in one long, slow motion, and your whole body jolted like he’d reached inside your chest and rung out your soul. You felt the flat press of his tongue against your clit, the deliberate drag upward, the way his lips wrapped around you and sucked–soft, rhythmic, maddening.

Your back arched off the bed.

Your hand flew down and found his wrist–one of the hands bracing you open–and you held onto it like a lifeline, anchoring yourself to the feeling. His other hand splayed across your stomach, warm and grounding, fingers spread wide over trembling muscles.

He licked you again–deeper now. More intentional. His tongue moved like he was mapping you, learning every reaction, every twitch, every soft cry like it was sacred text. He flicked the tip of his tongue in slow, focused circles, then flattened it again, pressure building just right, just there–

“Fuck—Bob,” ¥ou breathed, voice high and frayed. “Jesus Christ…”

He moaned against you, the sound vibrating through your body and sending another jolt through your spine.

And then you tilted your head back.

The mirror caught everything.

Your body sprawled across the bed–glowing, undone, your knees spread wide and your hair wild pointing every which way. Bob’s shoulders bracketed your thighs, his face buried between them, dark hair mussed and damp with sweat and your slick. You saw the way your stomach rose and fell beneath his hand, how your hips bucked slightly with each flick of his tongue.

And then–God–

You looked down at him.

And he was looking up at you.

Eyes glassy and wide, pupils blown with hunger. His mouth was still moving, still lapping at you with slow swirls–but his gaze stayed locked on yours like it anchored him. His brow was pinched in concentration, his cheeks flushed, his lips glistening.

It was intimate in a way that felt deeper than skin. Like he was beholding you, not just touching you. Like the act of pleasuring you was its own kind of worship–and he couldn’t look away from the way your body bloomed beneath him.

You whimpered, your hand tightening around his wrist.

He groaned softly, and the sound reverberated through you.

And then–without breaking eye contact–he slid two thick fingers inside you.

Your mouth dropped open in a silent gasp, spine arching. The stretch was slow, sweet, perfect. He curled them just right, finding that place inside you that made your breath stutter and your thighs twitch.

“Y-Yeah,” he rasped against your core, voice hoarse, lips brushing your clit between licks. “There. T-That’s it, I–I feel you…”

You clenched around them while his tongue kept moving—never stopping. His fingers pumped slow and deep, curling with every pass, and your legs started to shake.

The sight in the mirror was unholy–your head thrown back, his mouth buried between your legs, fingers working you open while your body writhed beneath him.

“Bob—Bob I’m gonna—”

“I–I know,” He whispered. “I’ve got you..Y-Y/N.”

With a sharp cry and a desperate buck of your hips, you came–shattering like glass under floodlight. Your walls clamped down around his fingers, your thighs trembling against his shoulders, your hand crushing his wrist as you pulsed around him.

Bob didn’t stop until you whined, breathless and broken, hips twitching from oversensitivity. Even then, he pulled back slowly, mouth flushed, chin slick with you. He pressed one last kiss to your thigh, and looked up at you again.

Completely wrecked.

Completely in awe.

You let out a laugh of disbelief–shaky, breathless, still caught in the afterglow of everything Bob had just pulled from you. Your body was humming, twitching with sensitivity, your thighs trembling around nothing now as he lifted his head from between them.

Bob looked like he had just witnessed a modern day miracle, a sheepish grin plastered on his face.

Then he started to move slowly, crawling back up your body on his elbows, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses into your skin as he went. The curve of your hip. Your stomach, still fluttering beneath the aftershocks of your orgasm. Each kiss was a brushstroke of heat and devotion, like he wanted to taste every inch of what he’d done to you.

When he reached your chest, he paused, nuzzled into the soft swell of your breast and pressed the gentlest kiss there too. Then higher–your collarbone, your throat, the corner of your jaw. You turned your head slightly and met him as his mouth finally reached yours again.

The kiss was warm, a little messy, but full of affection. Your taste was still on his lips, and he didn’t hide it–he kissed you like he wanted you to know he’d savor every drop.

“Y-You’re unreal,” He mumbled against your cheek. And then he gave a shy, breathless laugh. “I think I–I forgot how to breathe.”

You smiled, brushing your fingers through the soft mess of his hair, and he leaned into the touch like it grounded him.

“I’m already ready again,” He admitted sheepishly, pressing his forehead to yours. You felt it him hard and warm again between your thighs, flush against your soaked center. Your breath hitched.

But then Bob hesitated. You felt it in the shift of his weight, the tremor in his next breath.

“We could leave it at that for tonight,” He said softly. His voice was a whisper of restraint, even though his hips twitched against yours like his body was begging him not to stop. “If you don’t want to have sex—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You kissed him–deep and sure and full of heat.

When you pulled back, your voice was firm and breathless. “I want you.”

Bob’s eyes widened slightly, lips still parted in surprise. “S-Should I run and grab a condom?” You tilted your left arm back slightly, resting it behind your head on the mattress, and with your free hand, pointed to the small, barely visible scar just beneath the skin of your inner arm.

“Implant,” You said softly. “We’re good.” His breath caught audibly and his hand hovered near your arm for a second, then settled gently over it–thumb brushing once over your skin.

“Y-You’re sure?” He asked, voice low and rough, like he couldn’t bear to assume. Like he was terrified of doing the wrong thing when he finally had the chance to do this right. You nodded, soft but certain, caressing his cheek gently.

”I’m sure.” Bob exhaled like it physically knocked the air from his lungs. Then he kissed you again–and this time, it was different.

There was no hesitation. No soft buildup. Just need and wonder colliding all at once.

His mouth crushed against yours, urgent and hungry, and you met him just as fiercely. Tongues brushed and tangled in wet, open kisses, teeth grazing lips, breath caught between mouths like smoke. You could feel the way he breathed you in between every kiss–little shaky exhales pressed into your cheeks, your jaw, your mouth–as if you were the air keeping him alive.

“God, y-you taste like heaven,” He murmured hoarsely into your mouth, and then kissed you again, harder.

You moaned against his lips, your body arching into his, and he groaned right back–his hand sliding from your hip to the side of your neck, fingers splayed out over your pulse point like he needed to feel the rhythm of you.

The head of his cock brushed against your slick entrance–hot and heavy and trembling with anticipation–and he froze just a moment, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were blown wide, lips flushed, chest rising and falling like a wave cresting.

He lined himself up with a breathless stammer of your name, “J-Just tell me i-if I do anything wrong okay?” You nodded–soft, breathless, legs flinching around him slightly as he started to push in–inch by inch. Your mouth dropped open around a gasp.

”Oh–“ You breathed, hips twitching up towards him, “Bob…” He bit his bottom lip hard, trying to hold it together, closing his eyes at the sensation of you slowly taking him in.

“You’re s-so warm,” He choked out, “I can feel all of you, I–”

And then he bottomed out, hips flush to yours, both of you trembling.

You were wrapped around him, stretched and full and gasping through the intensity of it, and Bob just hovered there, buried deep, his forehead resting against yours like he needed the anchor. You cupped his cheek, kissed him once–soft, shaky–and whispered,

“I need you to move…” He nodded at your request, dragging his hips back only to press in again with a quiet groan that vibrated against your chest. His thrusts weren’t rough—but they had weight. Depth. Like he couldn’t help but want to be as far inside you as he could get.

Each time he rocked forward, your bodies met with a soft, slick sound, heat rising like steam between your tangled limbs. He kissed you through it, messy and desperate, lips parting and pressing and dragging over yours like he never wanted to come up for air. You kissed him just as hard–your tongue sliding against his, teeth nipping his bottom lip, your hands gripping his shoulders like you didn’t want him to go anywhere.

Your fingers tangled into the back of his hair, tugging gently–not to pull him closer, but to hold. To ground. The strands were damp with sweat and heat, and he gasped into your mouth when you did it, his hips stuttering in response.

Bob groaned low and soft, the sound caught between reverence and ache. Then his hand slid up, warm and sure, and cupped the side of your throat—not tight, just enough to feel the flutter of your pulse beneath his palm. His thumb tilted your chin up, guiding your gaze back to him.

“L-Look at me,” He breathed, voice ragged with want. “I…I need to see you.”

You did. Eyes wide, lips parted, cheeks flushed and heated. You were so open for him, so undone and radiant in the lamplight–and it broke something in him, seeing you like this, needing him like this.

Then he hooked his arms under your knees and lifted.

The change in angle dragged a gasp from your throat so sharp it bordered on a cry. He slid deeper—so deep it felt like he was in your chest, like he was part of the ache and the breath and the heartbeat of you. Your mouth dropped open around a broken moan, and your eyes went glassy.

“F-Fuck,” You choked, your head falling back. “Bob–oh my God–”

Bob whimpered softly, overwhelmed by the sound of his name on your lips, by the clench of your body around him. His breath was hot and frantic, his face flushed and slack with awe.

“You feel…” He started, then trailed off, swallowing hard. “You feel s-so good–so warm–you’re perfect, I–” He kissed your cheek once. Then again. Then again, softer each time, like he couldn’t stop. Like he didn’t know how else to worship you.

And then, he saw it.

The mirror.

The two of you–tangled together, sweat-slicked and flushed with heat, your body curled around him like it was built to fit. His eyes snapped to it–and for a moment, he just stared. Breathless. Dazed. He could see the way your hands gripped his shoulders, the way your breasts bounced softly with each deep thrust. The sight of it–the raw, real closeness–wrecked him.

Your gaze flicked over his and followed where he was looking and you caught the reflection too.

“I want to watch us,” You whispered, breath ragged and full of heat. “Please.”

Bob’s breath caught hard. His hips stilled, his eyes wide, his mouth parting with something like awe and disbelief.

“Y-Yeah?” he stammered.

You nodded.

That was all it took.

He pulled out slowly–deliberately, as if the act of leaving your body was a loss he needed to mourn–and helped guide you onto your stomach, careful even through the haze of want. You propped yourself up on your elbows, eyes fixed on your reflection, hair messy, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-bitten.

He moved behind you, one knee between yours, and dragged his hand down the length of your spine in one long, aching stroke, watching goosebumps rise on your flesh before peppering a few kisses along the bare skin of your back. Then he gripped your hips and lined himself up again.

The first thrust back in was brutal in its beauty.

You let out a ragged groan–half gasp, half cry–as he sank back into you. The angle was different now. Deeper. Fuller. It felt like he was rooted inside you, like he could reach the very center of you.

Bob’s groan was wrecked.

“Oh my god,” he gasped. “You’re so…This is…Y-You’re tight–so deep, I—”

He leaned forward, his chest pressing against your back, and you felt the press of his mouth against the side of your neck–just beneath your ear. Then his arm slid around your neck from behind, not choking, not tight—just holding. Anchoring. His breath spilled hot across your skin, and he kissed your jaw again, reverently, trembling against you.

Your eyes locked in the mirror.

You. Spread out. Eyes heavy, mouth open, skin flushed and glowing. Bob–bare and trembling behind you, lips parted, face slack with wonder, arm curled protectively around you like he was trying to keep you from slipping away.

The reflection made your breath catch.

He looked just as wrecked as you felt.

“I’ve n-never…” He choked out, hips still rolling slow and deep, “Never seen anything so beautiful—so fuckin’ real–“ Your breath stuttered, your chest dragging in air like your lungs were trying to keep up with the sheer intimacy of his voice in your ear, his body inside you, the way his eyes stayed locked to yours in the mirror.

And then you turned your head.

Just a little.

Enough to find his lips.

Your mouths met in a kiss that shattered the edges of everything soft and safe. It wasn’t delicate this time. It was molten. You sucked gently on his tongue when he pushed into your mouth, and the noise Bob made was nearly inhuman–a muffled, desperate moan swallowed by your kiss.

The arm around your neck tightened just slightly, his palm flattening against your shoulder to hold you a little closer. He kissed you like he needed your breath to survive, and with every stroke of his tongue against yours, he thrust a little deeper, a little harder, losing the last shred of distance between you.

The sounds filled the room now.

Slippery, wet, rhythmic. The soft slap of skin meeting skin. Your gasps–broken, high, open. His moans–low, breathy, whispered things like “fuck” and “please” and your name like it was a prayer he’d never been brave enough to say out loud until now. The creak of the mattress. The rustle of the sheets. The hum of the city just outside the window, as if the whole world had gone quiet to listen.

His hips were moving faster now, not pounding but full of momentum. Urgency laced with awe. You felt every inch of him with every push, your body keening beneath him, his cock dragging against that tender spot inside you again and again.

And still–his mouth kept finding yours.

Messy kisses. Tongue and teeth and hot breath shared like something sacred. You whimpered into him, and he swallowed it, moaning in return, his pace growing more erratic with each roll of his hips.

“G-God,” he gasped into your mouth. “You feel so–so perfect–I c-can’t–” He pressed his forehead against yours, sweat-slick and shivering, his voice unraveling into something raw. “I’m gonna–Y/N–I c-can’t hold back–please come with me–please–”

You nodded, frantic, the pleasure building low in your spine like a storm. Your thighs trembled, your mouth fell open, and you barely managed a whispered, “Yes–yes, I’m close, Bob, I’m right there–”

His arm tightened around you again, holding you together as he watched your reflection–watched your mouth fall open, your eyes flutter shut, your body writhing beneath him.

“I see you,” He whispered. “I see you, I’ve got you, just–just let go, I’m right here–”

You did.

Your orgasm hit you so fast it felt like your entire body was going to give out. It was brilliant, consuming, and it had every nerve ending singing with heat. Your body pulsed around him, clenching and fluttering in frantic waves, and the cry that tore from your throat was almost too much to bear.

Soon after Bob twitched deep inside you, thick and hot, and you felt him spill–pulse after pulse of heat filling you, his hips jerking in short, erratic thrusts as he buried himself as far as he could go. His moan was wrecked–raw and full–and it tumbled from him as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. It wasn’t loud. It was low. Shaky. The sound a man makes when he’s completely undone. A whimper edged with disbelief, like he was giving you the very last piece of himself.

And just then–like the world exhaled around you–you heard it.

A faint, hairline crack.

Barely a sound.

Your gaze flicked up, dazed and hazy through the aftermath, and there it was: a thin fracture running across the mirror. A small, pale lightning bolt etched in glass, splitting right where your bodies met in reflection.

You blinked.

And then you tightened your hold on him.

Your hand clutched at the arm that held you–his forearm still locked gently around your chest–and your other reached blindly to touch his shoulder. You turned your head just enough to feel the hot tremble of his breath against your skin, the way it stuttered and hitched through parted lips still struggling to return to earth.

His entire body was shaking against yours. Not violently–just overwhelmed. The way a dam trembles after it’s burst.

“Shh,” you whispered, kissing the edge of his cheek. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

He moaned again–quiet this time, muffled against your skin, and full of something so deep it almost hurt. His arm loosened slightly from around your neck and slid lower, wrapping fully around your torso as he exhaled one long, shivering breath. His body collapsed slowly over yours, his chest pressed against your back, both of you trembling, covered in sweat and each other.

He didn’t pull out.

He couldn’t–not yet.

You could still feel him twitching softly inside you, still half-hard, still pulsing faintly from the intensity of it all. His cum was already starting to leak back down between your thighs, warmth slicking your folds, but neither of you moved to clean it up. Not yet.

He kissed your shoulder.

Then your neck.

Then the curve of your spine.

Each one slow and breathless. A vow, a thank you, a grounding touch.

You tilted your head back toward him, catching his lips with your own. The kiss was soft now. Lingering. Your mouths moved lazily together, wet and tender and full of exhaustion.

“Jesus,” He whispered against your mouth. “I–I didn’t mean to… I think I…”

“I know,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over the damp nape of his neck. “I saw it.”

His breath caught. “I–I cracked the mirror, didn’t I?”

You nodded once, a small smile pulling at your lips. “Just a little.”

A silence stretched between you, warm and golden and full of breath.

Then he laughed–quiet and stunned–and buried his face into your shoulder again.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered. “I–I didn’t mean to lose control.” You let out a soft sigh.

”It’s okay Bob…You were overwhelmed and feeling good…Let’s just hope Sentry is the one that gets seven years bad luck.” You both laughed–low and loose and breathless, the sound catching in the honey-thick air between your bodies. Bob’s chest vibrated softly against your back as he let out another stifled chuckle, nuzzling his nose into the space just beneath your ear.

“Only you,” He murmured, his voice warm and worn down, “C–Can make light of me literally c-cracking your mirror mid-orgasm.” You tilted your head slightly, grinning despite the ache still thrumming between your thighs.

“I mean… If you’re gonna break something,” You said, glancing back at him with a playful glint in your eyes, “At least it wasn’t my pelvis.”

That made him snort and he buried his face deeper into your shoulder, completely wrecked by laughter now. You felt the full ripple of it through his chest, the way his arms tightened around you just a little as if he could keep this moment stitched to the skin.

You turned your head, kissed him again–slow and sweet. No rush. Just the warm slide of lips and breath. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb stroking your skin as he kissed you back with the kind of quiet that said I never want to stop doing this.

After a moment, he pulled back slightly, his voice rough with affection. “I should, uh… I should pull out.”

You nodded softly. “Okay.”

He moved slowly, gently easing out of you with a quiet gasp at the sensitivity. You both hissed a little–his from overstimulation, yours from the sticky stretch of release leaving your body. He lingered there for a beat, fingers brushing your hip, as if he hated the idea of not being connected to you anymore.

He stayed close even after he pulled out, one hand resting lightly on your lower back, the other brushing your hip like he needed to reassure himself you were still there. The room was warm, quiet, the mirror fractured but the world around you whole.

“W–We should get cleaned up,” He murmured, his voice still dazed but laced with care. “D–Do you wanna…Maybe shower? With me?” His fingers twitched gently where they touched your side. “Only if you want to. I just—I don’t really wanna let you go yet…”

Your heart melted.

You turned slowly beneath him, shifting onto your back so you could face him fully. His hair was damp with sweat, curling slightly at the ends, cheeks still flushed, lips swollen. But it was his eyes that undid you. Wide and soft and full of affection. Still a little glassy. Still glowing slightly from the shock of Sentry.

“Of course,” You whispered, brushing your fingers through his hair, a soft blush rose to his cheeks, as you leaned up to kiss the tip of his nose, “I kinda wanna be held under hot water for like…An hour. Minimum.”

Bob gave you the softest grin. “I-I can do that. I’m good at holding.” His tone was still tentative, but there was pride there too. A glimmer of purpose. “You’ll be the cleanest, most held person in the entire compound.”

You sat up slowly, wincing slightly at the soreness blooming in your thighs and core. Bob immediately reached to steady you, his hands finding your waist, his brows pinched in concern.

“I’m okay,” You promised him with a soft smile, “Just a bit sore.”His ears turned red.

“S-Sorry.” He whispered.

“Don’t be,” You said gently, leaning in to press your forehead to his. “I liked being yours.”

His breath caught at that, his hands tightening gently on your sides. Then he kissed you–slow and soft and grateful. And when you pulled back, his hand brushed along your arm as he helped you out of bed.

You led the way to your en suite bathroom, flicking on the light that glowed soft and golden. The room was warm, fogged slightly from earlier use, and your spare towels were already folded neatly on the rack. You reached for two, tossed one onto the nearby counter for later, and handed Bob the other to keep nearby.

He looked at it like it was some sacred token.

You turned the water on and waited for it to warm while he stepped behind you, wrapping his arms gently around your waist and nuzzling the back of your neck.

“I could get used to this,” He whispered.

“What, showering?” You teased, smiling as you leaned back into his chest.

“No,” He said, shaking his head slightly. “Just…Being with you. Like this.”

You turned in his arms, heart thudding, and kissed him slow and sure. “Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

The water turned to steam.

You stepped in first, guiding him in with you. It was small, a bit cramped–but it didn’t matter. You made room for each other. Bob pressed close, arms winding gently around your back as the water poured down over you both. His mouth found your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your lips, peppering you with soft, adoring kisses as the heat melted the soreness from your limbs.

He helped you wash your entire body. His fingers in your hair, gentle and careful as they massaged your scalp with your favorite shampoo. His palms smoothing body wash over your skin like you were something precious and breakable, his lips brushing your shoulder every few seconds just to stay close.

You did the same for him, trailing your hands down his chest, watching the way he shivered beneath your touch even now. You cleaned him carefully, quietly, the lather sliding down both your bodies in pearled rivulets. Every time you looked up at him, he was already looking at you. Eyes soft. Lips parted. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

At one point, you turned under the spray and leaned your back into his chest. Bob immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you flush to him beneath the stream of water. His chin came to rest atop your head, his breath steadying.

“I—I feel like I’m gonna cry,” He admitted quietly, after a long silence.

You tilted your head back just enough to look up at him. “Why?”

“Because…” He swallowed. “B-Because I’ve never felt this safe. And that’s… Not something I ever thought I’d get.”

You reached up, touched his jaw, and pressed a kiss to the side of his neck. “Then I’ll just have to keep giving it to you.”

His arms tightened around you, and he let out a long, trembling breath.

“Promise?” He whispered.

“Always,” You said. And meant it.

In the shower’s warmth, with your bodies tangled and your hearts steadying into one rhythm, nothing else in the world existed.

Just you and Bob. Soft skin. Steam. And the quiet knowledge that everything had changed.

[themoonbrokenbylife]

Pure poetry. ❤️🔥

[sallowskeeper]

SallowsKeeper Fan-fiction Master List

Sebastian x FMC Hiraeth: Completed Words: 164,327

Goblin Rebellion AU. What if the goblins weren't stopped? What if Ranrock was able to harness the power of the Final Repository? What if the Ancient Magic wielder died in the Caverns? Set 5 years after the break in under Hogwarts, the Wizarding World is in shambles. Ranrock is the ruler of the Magical world and wizards haven't been allowed to carry wands for years. Being caught with a wand warrants immediate execution. But not all hope is lost. There's still a group of wizards and witches that refuse to give up. Follow Sebastian and Gracie on their adventure to restore order to the Wizarding World, battle foes, and fight against the undeniable attraction they feel for each other.

Order of Shadows: Completed Words: 128,940

Everything changed that night. Anne was cursed. Sebastian lost the warmth in his eyes when he looked at her. Ominis lost his soft smile. And Séraphine was struggling not to drown in guilt. How do you live with yourself when you're the reason Sebastian was going to lose his twin sister? Everyone was starting to lose hope until a mysterious new Witch with strange magic entered Hogwarts. Hope returned, but Séraphine was still drowning. Something was off about the new Witch. Then an accident happens and suddenly the Shadow Trio is sent over 100 years into the future. Follow Sebastian, Ominis, and Séraphine as they navigate the future while still trying to find a cure for Anne and understand their new roles in a Wizarding World on the brink of War.

The Final Keeper: Completed Words: 145,676

Game-play reenactment with added love interest

You're Losing Me: Completed Words: 70,593

Spicy Enemies to Lovers story featuring Eveline Seabrooke as the youngest Auror of her generation. Top marks in all of her training and what did she get as a result? Patrol duty. Simple cases that a brainless troll could figure out. It wasn't the exciting crime stopping lifestyle she hoped it would be. That is, until she's given a partner by the Ministry of Magic who isn't even a licensed Auror. His past and everything about him screams two things: Mysterious and Dangerous. Follow Eveline on her journey as she uncovers a sinister plot while also trying to figure out just who her partner really is. And why he was chosen to be hers.

The TriAzkaban Tournament: Completed Words: 115,031

Good things happened to bad people. Bad things also happened to bad people. Ekaterina made sure of it. At 27 years old, her hands were stained with blood. The blood of murderers and people who committed heinous crimes. At 27, she'd been marked Undesirable No. 1 by the British government for killing the Prime Minister who was known in the Dark Market for considering consent optional. Thrown into Azkaban with a life sentence, the new Prime Minister offers up a golden ticket to the five most dangerous prisoners in Azkaban. The game is easy. Survive the tournament and you win your freedom. Easy, right? But what happens when love and war mix? What happens when Ekaterina will be forced to choose between her life, her heart, and her freedom

Ominis x FMC

At the Beginning: Completed Words: 150,536

One moment she was trying to contain the Final Repository. The next moment, she was standing in the Great Hall. A room full of unfamiliar faces. Unfamiliar Professors. The only one she recognized was Ominis standing beside her. What happened? Where were they? Follow Blair and Ominis as they navigate the same place in a new time with a new enemy. One that is very keen on adding the Heir of Slytherin into his army of Death Eaters. *Characters are aged up because SPICY SCENES and the story will follow the GOF timeline*

The Cruelty of Fate: Completed Words: 63,591

Theresa Cauldwell loved and hated a lot of things, but there was nothing more she hated than the Pureblood enthusiasts who constantly reminded her that she had no place at Hogwarts. On the run from the Muggle world, Theresa only has the School as a safe haven...But when Muggle-born students start dying, Theresa makes an unlikely ally in the Heir of Slytherin: Ominis Gaunt. Follow their adventures together as the two students realize how inauspicious the stars truly are.

Tell Me About Tomorrow: Completed Words: 86,287

Dark Ominis AU. Rosemary was supposed to be excited about her first date with the proclaimed Heir of Slytherin. He was handsome, intelligent, and an incredible wizard. Only... How did her first date turn into a war zone? How did her first date turn into watching sweet, sarcastic Ominis turn into a blood thirsty murderer? Thrown over 100 years into the future, embark on the journey with Rosemary as she learns who her friends are, how to survive a war won by snakes, and most importantly; who her enemies are. Mature Content Warning.

Cause & Effect: Completed Words: 171,673

Stella lived in the shadow of her parent's legacy, but she was okay with that. There was no way she could live a more impressive life than Draco and Hermione Malfoy. She accepted it. They both saved the Wizarding World as teenagers. What she couldn't accept was her mother dying. Minister Hermione Malfoy had been cursed with Dark Magic that was slowly sucking the life out of her. Time was running out and the funeral preparations were already being made to Dad's discontent... But Mum didn't have any fight left in her after three years. At least that's what she thought. Stella stumbles upon some hidden archives her mother dug up that talked about an ancient relic that was known for curing Dark Magic. All she had to do was travel to 1898 and locate the last wizard who wrote about it in his journal. Easy? Sounds like it. What she didn't expect was to get involved with a neurodivergent sociopath who plans to use Stella for bait in order to capture the infamous Muggle killer: Jack the Ripper.... But it's either bend to his will or never have the artifact that could cure her mother. Follow Stella as she learns how to catch a killer, navigates the past, and tries not to notice how attractive her new boss is. Love and crime don't mix... Right?

Love Across the Pond: Completed Words: 121,524

What was it like to have choices? Free will? Amelia was excited to be the next D.A.D.A. Professor of Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Who wouldn't want to teach at the elusive school based in Western Massachusetts? Until her past comes back to haunt her and suddenly she's forced into decisions that result in life or death. Luckily, Amelia's mother went to school with Matilda Weasley and is able to arrange a temporary transfer to Hogwarts. Fleeing for her life, Amelia will study as an apprentice to Hogwart's D.A.D.A Professor, Ominis Gaunt. However, she'll soon learn that it's not only her life at stake when her past reaches her. The Heir of Slytherin is on the list too.

The Magic that Binds Us: Work In Progress 4/6/25

Dark Ominis Gaunt Romance Cecelia Lockhart sealed away the Final Repository as a Seventh Year with Ancient Magic. However, sealing the repository came with a high price. One that left her relationship with Ominis in ruins. Five years later, she spends all of her time throwing herself into cases with the resident rake known as Sebastian Sallow. She's able to avoid her feelings for Ominis and what happened that night until two mysterious time travelers show up in London. Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger are desperate to destroy the Final Repository which a goblin from the future finds. Largok was able to harvest the power like Ranrock once did and has enslaved Wizardkind. Draco and Hermione are desperate to enter the Repository and save their future, but they need Cecelia's help. And Ominis Gaunt, resident psychopath who has it out for Cecelia, refuses to help. He hold both the Keeper's wand and clues from Isidora's journal about how to harness the power that he would rather die than give to Cecelia.

Sebastian x Ominis x FMC

Paradise Found: Completed

Beatrice Clarke: Brilliant magi-zoologist and researcher. Her name would be credited in every wizarding textbook for centuries to come and she'd be able to use the money from the American Wizarding Congress to finally liberate herself from a toxic home situation. At least, that's what was supposed to happen. Instead, she finds her research stolen, a wolf in sheep's clothing receiving the generous sum of money which was supposed to be hers, and she finds a letter from her childhood friend, Ominis Gaunt. Magical beasts that are supposed to be extinct are wreaking havoc in Hogwarts and none of the other British magizoologists are able to make sense of it. With no where else to go and not a shilling in her pocket, Beatrice escapes to the highlands of Scotland. Follow Beatrice on her journey as she makes more groundbreaking discoveries. For example, did you know you could fall in love with two people? In different centuries? At the same time?

Dramione

The Fractured Flame: Completed Words: 106,455

After the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione Granger was the Golden Girl who helped Harry Potter defeat Lord Voldemort. She was celebrated for her achievements and on her way to becoming the Minister for Magic. Draco Malfoy, on the other hand, was a Pureblood Heir who was living each day trying to keep himself and his mother out of Azkaban. Though pardoned with Harry Potter's testimony, the general public was still wary of the Malfoy Heir. After an incident with a cursed object goes awry, Draco and Hermione find themselves stuck in 1943. Follow Draco and Hermione as they try to work together in order to get back to the 21st century.

Academic Affairs: Completed Words: 209,962

Facts are things considered to be known or proven true. Take for example; Draco Malfoy. Prat? Known. Brilliant Potions Professor? Proven true. Annoyingly handsome and capable of using every opportunity he had to get on her nerves? Known and proven true. When the Headmaster is forced to early retirement due to a family emergency, the position is open to the rest of the faculty. The Minister, Chief Warlock, and the Director for Wizarding Education will be ranking the staff, and the number one professor will be named Headmaster. She could see it now. Hermione Granger: Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The problem? Draco Malfoy was also vying for the position, if nothing, but to irritate her. Follow both Professors on their academic journey as they try to sabotage each other while also finding out that they might not be so different after all. Fact: There is a thin line between love and hate.

Heart of Ash and Wings of Gold: Work In Progress 4/6/25

  The Second Wizarding War is at a standstill. Both sides haven’t made any substantial progress and the frontlines remain unchanging. Voldemort’s legion is destroying the infrastructure. There is no order, but there is fear. But fear can’t last forever, right? Resources are almost gone. Dumbledore’s Army is suffering from the psychological trauma and displacement. Hope can be found in the darkest places, but what happens when the dark is so powerful it absorbs any and all light?      After the very public execution of his parents, Draco Malfoy disappeared during a battle he was supposed to command with all the dragons. Dragons would be the perfect solution for either side to finally gain the upper hand.  The Dark Lord and the Order both receive a letter to send one representative to convince Draco who he should side with.      For someone who can’t be tortured, can’t be threatened, the only way to gain his loyalty is to convince him. Hermione Granger and Theo Nott are the representatives sent to convince him.      Now Draco has to choose. The Order to save the woman he finds himself falling for or the Dark Lord to save what little family he has left. Everyone's lives are in his hands and it seems that Draco is holding onto a secret that could unravel everything. 

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(づ｡◕‿‿◕｡)づ I cross post between Wattpad/AO3

[worlds-we-write]

Sweet on You - Masterlist

pairing: Jackson!joel miller x baker!reader

summary: In the quiet routine of Jackson, you bake bread and try to keep your distance—from your past, from attention, from him. But Joel Miller keeps showing up, and when a snowstorm leaves you alone together one night, the line between safety and temptation begins to blur.

Tags: Joel Miller x Reader, Age Gap, curvy/plus-size reader, Jackson Era, Bakery AU, Slow Burn, Emotional Tension, Abusive Ex, Protective Joel, Snowed-In, First Time, Heavy Smut, Praise Kink, Dirty Talk, Aftercare, Angst & Comfort, Possessive Joel (will be updated as chapter progress)

Chapter 1: Bread and Butter

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Updated 04/14/25

[soineffablygay]

can i say something. i'm worried about the state of f1. i'm worried for many reasons, obviously, but just from an entertainment perspective i am worried that these big ass, fast ass cars and those old classic tracks have drifted apart so widely that they can't be reconciled. i'm worried we'll say "you can't really overtake here anyway" every other weekend at the very least and that most of the races will be decided in quali and it will just be an endless repeat of the disaster of last weekend. what then?

[themoonbrokenbylife]

Hot take but not wrong. Monaco in particular 🫤

[oikarma]

look me in the eye | pt.1

pairing: max verstappen x rbr!engineer!reader

summary: the rb21 seems unfixable but that might not be the only reason max verstappen wants you around.

a/n: kind of angsty? think this will be two parts. 2k-ish words!

part one / part two / part three

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The paddock is full of wind and empty promises. Bahrain's desert nights hold no warmth for those who find themselves at war with machines. Under the harsh lights of the Red Bull garage, your hands are stained with grease, burnt rubber and fuel having become your signature scent. The RB21 sits before you so still, like a child being yelled at. It's internals are exposed, betraying the effort you have poured into it. Another night. Another battle against the unworkable.

You wipe your forehead and the action leaves a dark trail.

"It's not you," Max's voice is acute in comparison to the exhausted engineers around you. "It's the car."

You sigh and rub your hand across your face again, leaving a another streak of oil on your cheek. "I've been through every possible variation of the floor. I've checked the suspension settings, even the cooling package. Nothing sticks. It’s like-"

"-like trying to control a wild animal?" he offers, a small smirk at the corner of his lips.

You huff. It could be a laugh, on some other day, but right now there is no humor in the situation. "More like taming a hurricane with duct tape."

Max leans against the workbench. His arms are crossed over his chest. Even under the brutal garage lights, even with this stupid car that no one but him can drive with some semblance of control, he's certain. "Well, you're still making it work."

That earns a scoff from you. "You make it work, Max. I just throw everything at the wall and hope something sticks."

His gaze sharpens, and it seems to pierce right through you. You, not just an engineer, but as a person who's given up everything to this job, to this team, to him.

"That's not true," he says quietly. "You don't just try. You build. You fix. You see what no one else does. And I-" He catches himself here, unsure how appropriate it'll sound. "I trust you."

The words, from him of all people, settle in your chest like an anchor. Trust is not given freely in Formula One; it is earned, lap by agonizing lap, through victories and through failures. You are not his race engineer. You're just another member of his team. There, hardly noticeable.

You doubt anyone outside RBR, outside the engineering teams, knows your name. Max Verstappen does, though, and that counts for something.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Australia is supposed to be a fresh start.

A new track, a chance to see if anything has changed. But as you watch Lando Norris cross the line in first place, with Max trailing behind in P2, your stomach sinks. The celebrations begin almost immediately. Confetti, cheers, McLaren mechanics embracing as if they had won the championship itself. You want to slap someone. In it feels like they have. They have proof that their car is faster, that their work is paying off in a way yours isn't.

Still, you push it down. Max fought for this podium, and you owe it to him to be happy.

When he walks into the garage, you're already there, waiting with the rest of the team. He’s drenched in sweat, his fireproofs clinging to his skin. He should be tired, but the familiar sharp focus is in his eyes, even now. He's always noticing things.

You force a smile and clasp his shoulder.

"P2, Max. You dragged that car through hell for it."

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. "It wasn't easy." Max gives you a small smile. The way it doesn't fully turn up at the ends of his mouth betrays how tired he really is, despite playing it off. "You gave me something to fight with."

You nod. Your smile doesn't reach your eyes either. The noise of celebration around you turning to static. He sees it. Of course he does.

Max opens his mouth to say something else, but he's getting pulled away again for some interviews.

Later, when the festivities have died down, he finds you outside the garage. Away from the crowd. You sit on a stack of worn-out Pirelli tire blankets, staring at the ground. The sound of approaching footsteps doesn't startle you.

"What are you doing out here? No alcohol?" he asks. He always speaks sharply, concisely, reassured. Not anymore-Max is asking you now as he would a frightened animal. Don't run, it's as if he's saying, please stay.

You let out a breath. The weight of the race, the season, all of it pressing against your ribs. And then, before you can stop yourself-

"You're right," you murmur. "The McLaren is faster. We lack the pace."

The answer doesn't come right away. He's standing there, watching you with what might be regret. Because those are his words from mere hours ago, right after the race. A loose admission in the media pen, thrown out without a second thought. Max was happy with his race, not elated but he did things and the car was in the way and he forgot momentarily about all the work. He likes to be truthful with his words but he's slipped up.

And now, you're here, breaking yourself apart over them.

Max crouches down in front of you. His elbows rest on his knees. "That doesn't mean you failed."

You shake your head. "Feels like it."

He doesn't know what to tell you. Sorry? I'm sorry I said that. I was mad at the car. It wasn't about you.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then, hesitantly, he reaches out and rests a hand against your forearm.

"You don't give up," he says. "I don't. We adapt. We adapt."

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Shanghai is a lesson in patience.

The RB21 struggles on the mediums and the first stint is agony. You were worried about the lack of pace, the way the tires degrade faster than they should be. "We set out to do our pace, which was a fair bit slower than the cars around us," he later tells the reports, frustration just beneath the surface. "I'm trying not to destroy the tires."

Your stomach knots as you watch the sector times, the data painting a bleak picture. But when the switch to hards comes, something shifts.

There, the grip. There, a chance.

Lap by lap, the car becomes drivable. Not perfect, not dominant, but workable. And Max, as always, wrings everything out of it.

It's not a podium but after the disqualifications, it becomes P4. A bittersweet relief.

You find him outside your hotel room. The soft, golden glow of the hallway lights casts shadows across his features, sharp angles of exhaustion softened by something else.

"You know," you say as you close the door behind you. "For a man who just got handed an almost-podium, you're not looking very victorious."

His mouth twitches. "Doesn't feel like one, does it? I didn't earn it."

You tilt your head, considering. "Maybe not. Still, you can't count yourself out. Drinks?" You drum your fingers against the already-open minibar.

Max turns his head to look at you. "You always say things like that."

"I actually don't encourage you to drink that much," you defend.

"No. I mean, like you actually believe in all this." He gestures vaguely around as if the world of Formula One is something that can be captured in a single movement. "In the fight. Things turning around."

You shrug and take out a bottle. "Sure I do."

He studies you for longer than necessary, then shakes his head with a soft chuckle. "Crazy talk."

You feign offense and hold the drink close to your chest. "I am an engineer, Max. I deal in hard data and numbers. You're the intuitive one."

"Right." He eyes you, ever the skeptic. "Yet here you are, like a motivational quote board."

You grin. "Maybe I'm just trying to keep you from spiraling."

Max exhales through his nose, amused. "And here I thought I was keeping you from losing hope."

"Guess we're just stuck with each other then."

“Could be worse." His voice is lower now, the teasing edge giving way to something quieter.

The banter fades and here's a chance for you to do something. To let it sink in, to grasp the awful rawness of the moment. You don't know how.

"'least it's not Russell," you tell him. He flinches. It's small but doesn't slip your sight and you feel bad for making fun when he's trying to have a serious discussion. "Sorry. Feelings, hard. You know," you continue, "I think you actually had fun today."

His lips press together as if he's about to deny it. Instead, he relents. "Maybe a little."

"A miracle," you murmur.

"Don’t tell anyone."

You smirk. "Your secret's safe with me. Maybe we should hold off on the alcohol. Tipsy me isn't as trustworthy."

"I don't know about that." Max pretends to think. "Why don't we find out?"

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

When the sun wakes you up, Max has already managed to stumble back to his own room. Not entirely true. You just know he's no longer piss-drunk in yours.

Truth be told, you aren't as reluctant to spend time with him as you once were. His arrogant nature has softened with time. He's funny sometimes. But that isn't the only reason.

Red Bull was a hot mess the end of 2024. It is still one. You aren't out of options. You are friends with a friend who is friends with a head at McLaren and the offer sounds pretty good right now.

It's just a question of Max or Lando or Oscar. Or maybe there isn't a question at all.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Suzuka's next on your bucket list.

Red Bull's struggles have been the focal point of every media outlet, every discussion framed around whether the once-dominant team can claw its way back to the top.

You're in the motorhome, scrolling through your laptop, catching up on the latest coverage. A celsius-sorry, RB, but they just taste better- is by your side, half-finished. Then you see it. An interview, Max's face filling the screen, his expression as sharp and serious as ever. The reporter has just finished asking a question, pushing for insight into the difficulties he's been facing.

"It’s not easy," Max admits with his arms crossed. His Red Bull cap is pulled low over his eyes. "The car is… not where we want it to be. It's difficult to drive, unpredictable in certain corners, and sometimes it feels like I'm fighting it more than driving it."

You frown slightly, fingers tightening around the device. You've heard this before. You know all about his frustration, his honesty. It's a good trait that helps you know what to work on, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.

Then his tone shifts.

"But," he continues, "we're making progress. My engineer...she's putting everything into this car, finding solutions where it seems like there are none. Every race, every session, we're understanding it better. I have hope for the next races. Still very tough, but I trust her-sorry, them. We'll get there."

Oh, what a slip-up. Your breath catches. Max's face is slightly flushed. He definitely knows what he said.

You do too. Trust. He said it so simply.

You replay the clip, once, twice, and with every repeat, something warm coils in your stomach. The world hears his frustration, but you hear something else: recognition, appreciation. He sees what you do, what you give.

The corners of your lips curl into a smirk as you set the laptop down.

"Well," you say to yourself. "That was certainly something."

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You don't know why you bring it up now, in the middle of the hospitality lounge, of all places. Maybe it's the exhaustion, maybe it's the way Max looked at you after the interview aired-like you were the only thing holding this team together. Like you were holding him together.

So you say it.

"I think I'm leaving next year."

Max, halfway through sipping his water, freezes. His fingers tighten around the bottle, knuckles turning white.

"No."

It’s not a question. Not even a reaction. Just a flat-out refusal.

You exhale, bracing yourself. "Max-"

"No," he repeats, louder this time. He sets the bottle down with a sharp thud, standing up so fast his chair scrapes against the floor. "You’re not leaving."

You stare at him, startled by the sheer force behind his words. "It's not up to you."

His jaw clenches, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. He looks like he's physically holding himself back, like if he doesn't control it, he might actually go berserk. At any other time you would be aware of the other engineers in the room, pretending not to notice whatever's going on, but he's taking up all of your attention right now. Subtlety is pushed to the back of your mind. "You can't leave," he says, voice rough. "Not after everything."

You swallow and your voice is still not steady. "Max, you know how bad this year has been. The car is-"

"I know how bad it is," he snaps. He steps closer. "I know better than anyone, because I'm the one driving it. But you-" Max exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair. "You're the only one who makes it better."

Your heart stutters.

He’s staring at you now, eyes burning. You can't read what's behind them. "Every time I think this car is undriveable, you fix it. Every time I feel like I'm fighting a losing battle, you find a way to make it work." Max shakes his head, almost laughing. But it's humorless, frustrated. "And now you're telling me you want to leave? What am I supposed to do with that?"

You take a shaky breath. "Max, I-"

"You can't," he says again, and this time, his voice cracks. "Not you."

Max Verstappen has never been what people call a sentimental man. Right now, he looks as if tears are no longer foreign to him.

You should tell him it's just a thought, that nothing is decided yet. But the way he's looking at you-desperate, almost pleading-makes it impossible to lie.

So you say nothing. You give him that.

And Max? Max steps even closer, until there's barely any space between you. His gaze flickers down-to your lips, to the unsteady rise and fall of your chest-before meeting your eyes again.

"Stay," he murmurs. "Please."

And God help you, you don't know if you can say no.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

a/n: going back to my true roots as a narrative writer don't let this flop please xx

[just12daria]

🥹🫦

Cr: @ povsnpodium on Tiktok

[themoonbrokenbylife]

Hi this is my bf and my bf's bf ♥️

[alchemysoulx]

GLADIATOR MASTERLIST

© credits for the owners of the pictures used. they don't belong to me. credit is not mine for the pictures.

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PREVIEW

ONE

[ladamedusoif]

Laurels

(Acacius x F!Sex Worker Reader)

Pairing(s): Acacius x F!Reader; Acacius x Lucilla

Rating: Explicit; 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 13.5k

Summary: You met him as a young soldier, brought to the brothel you worked at to celebrate a victory. Now, almost two decades later, his return to Rome in triumph sparks memories of your time together - and the secrets you still hold.

Content Notes/Warnings: Explicit, 18+ MDNI - Sex worker F!Reader; no physical description of Reader except that she is curvy and has hair (but this can be taken as a wig, as was common in imperial Rome); spans events of Gladiator and parts of the sequel; canon-compliant but no spoilers for Gladiator II; we love and respect Lucilla in this house; Acacius is a lover boy; period-typical derogatory terms for sex workers; oral sex (M and F receiving); PiV sex; mutual masturbation; discussion of pregnancy; forbidden love; secret marriage; discussion of death and grief; implied character death; implied that Reader is more sexually experienced than Acacius when they meet; references to alcohol consumption; some uses of strong language

Author Note: I've been thinking about and sketching out this story since I first laid eyes on Acacius in those promotional pictures released during the summer, but wanted to wait until I'd had a chance to see Gladiator II three times before writing it up properly, to avoid any issues with characterisation. I hope you all enjoy it.

I've referred to him as Acacius throughout, as that's what Lucilla and everyone else calls him and because we have no goddamned idea what he's actually called. (I've used certain tags, though, to make sure people see this. Hopefully. Maybe.)

There are some Latin/Roman terms used throughout: lena is the madam or brothel keeper; cella is the part of a temple dedicated to a specific deity; meretrix is a Roman term for a prostitute; mercatus is a market or shopping area.

The cover image is entirely based on authentic Roman mosaics and interiors: top left is a 1st century CE mosaic; bottom right is a 4th century CE mosaic from Sicily of a sex worker with her client; and background is the interior decor of a bedroom in Pompeii.

Dividers by @saradika-graphics.

Enormous thanks to @mescalpascal for beta reading this story.

Follow my writing blog @ladameecrit and turn on notifications to stay up to date with my work.

The city has resonated to the sound of his name these past weeks. A hero of empire, of conquest; the perfect role model for Rome’s young boys, already being prepared from birth for war and glory. 

Or, more truthfully, for death. 

Today he returns to the city in glory, to be honoured with a triumph in recognition of his role in conquering the far-off lands of Northern Africa. The crowds are already thronging the streets, trying to secure their perfect vantage point to catch a glimpse of the victor en route to be crowned with laurels. 

No one notices an ordinary woman in middle age, simply but elegantly dressed in her best clothes for the occasion, discreetly slipping up the steps and onto the balcony of a tavern overlooking the triumphal route. No one pays a woman like that any mind, especially not on a day like today. 

You quietly secure your spot and slip down your veil, patting your hair to ensure the style is still in place. Why, exactly, did you go to such effort, knowing you’d be at such a distance from him? Knowing how many years it has been?

You take the cheap little metal effigy you’d purchased from a street hawker from your purse, gently rubbing your thumb over the crude rendering of his handsome face. 

You told him he would go far. You told him he would be feted like this, one day, all those years ago. You smiled as you imagined meeting him again, showing him the tiny metal version of himself. 

“See? I told you you’d be cast in bronze, didn’t I?”

A ripple of excitement courses through the crowd and it becomes apparent that the procession is near. They cheer and chant his name in unison. A mixture of excitement and fear grips you. Why had you done your hair just so, put on your best jewellery from your meagre selection?

Just in case. In case his dark eyes found yours, again, and bridged the years with a glance. 

The rumble of chariot wheels and horses’ hooves becomes more intense, the cheering of the crowd more frenzied. You grip the ledge of the balcony in nervous anticipation, the golden metal of your favourite ring glinting in the light. 

For a moment, it feels like being frozen in time. He is a god among men, the bright sun reflecting beautifully off the white and gold of his special, ceremonial armour as he receives the acclamations of the crowd. He’s uncomfortable, you can tell: that nervous wave and unsettled expression giving him away. This is not his natural environment, though you suspect he has had to get used to it since he assumed his command and since his marriage. 

You are unable to make a sound as his chariot approaches, overwhelmed by the sight of him, the sound of the crowd, the way he is received and acclaimed with more enthusiasm than any emperor you can remember. He is still beautiful . From here, you can see the streaks of grey that frame his handsome face now, making him even more distinguished than you remembered. His tanned skin only serves to make the white and gold armour gleam all the more. His beard, neatly trimmed, is more grey than dark these days, lending him an air of absolute authority. 

But you know that behind the guise of the conquering general, battle-scarred and triumphant, lies another man: strong but gentle, intelligent and kind, a man who likes to laugh and to joke and to love . 

She is a lucky woman, you muse. 

He’s almost directly in front of you now, and you can see in those soft, dark eyes the brave young man you knew so well, once upon a time. 

His gaze shifts. He finds you. 

His expression changes to one of surprise and… joy ?

The moment lasts barely a second before he has passed by in the relentless journey to his apotheosis. But you are left with his name on your lips, whispered like a prayer as your mind travels back through the years to the time you first met. 

“Acacius.”

***

War is shit. But it’s good for business when your business is your body. 

When you left your rural home for Rome as a teenager, accompanied by the man you were promised to, selling yourself was not part of the plan. But there’s little a girl can do, when her betrothed reveals himself to be a liar and a crook. He left you alone, without resource or recourse, when he was stabbed to death over an unpaid gambling debt. 

You had certainly landed on your feet, all things considered, and with the benefit of a few years’ hindsight. The lena who ran the place was kind and understanding, the other girls bright and friendly, for the most part, and the brothel itself marketed as a cut above the usual fare for the average legionary, brought to the imperial city after a stint killing Gauls or Goths or whoever the enemy was that week.

Besides, it was even fun , sometimes. You, with your curves and ample bosom, earned a reputation for kindness and understanding. Sometimes you wondered just how many nervous young men had learned how to please a woman from a night or two in your arms.

The night you met, the lena had gathered the free girls together in an excitable cluster, hissing about the arrival at the brothel of a group of young legionaries from various parts of the Empire.

“Some of them are absolutely gorgeous , girls! And they’ve had a recent victory - you know what that means.”

Catalina, who never lacked confidence, grinned. “It means big bonuses.”

The lena beamed. “Exactly. Big bonuses, big tippers… and who knows, maybe big in other ways?” The girls roared with laughter as she clapped her hands. “Alright, neaten up! Best behaviour, now. And as usual with the legions, you’re theirs for the night.”

You picked up a goblet of wine, and you and your fellow whores struck your usual enticing poses. 

“Heroes of Rome…my finest girls, for your delectation.” 

***

His eyes find yours through the slew of pairings, dark as pitch but warm as fire in the low light of the brothel’s main antechamber. He is, as your lena had suggested, gorgeous : young, beautifully handsome features, clean-shaven; the strong nose and fine jaw universally considered the epitome of male beauty, wavy dark hair curling around his brow in his neat, regulation haircut. 

And then he smiles at you. And you are lost, entirely, in the way his eyes sparkle and his open, kind face beams.

The beautiful boy would surely choose one of the more beautiful girls, as was always the way. But instead he strides through the melee, broad shoulders cutting a path with ease, and stands in front of you, a soft, nervous smile on his face. 

“Hello, soldier. Where are you from?”

His eyes are warm . He seems kind. You feel a wave of lust coursing through you: if he wants you, you thought, you might really enjoy this one.

“Hispania,” he answers. “But we were fighting tribes in Germania.”

His voice, like warm honey, sends a throb through your core. 

“And you have been rewarded with a trip to the imperial city! You must have been really brave.”

He chuckles, a half-smile on his handsome, tanned face. “I tried to be.”

His nerves are apparent in the way he carries himself, in the little glances he gives you, seeking approval. You take his hand, thumb stroking his palm gently.

“Do you want to let me reward you tonight, soldier?”

He nods enthusiastically. “Please.” He gives your hand a little squeeze. “But tell me your name, won’t you? I would like to know your name.”

You tell him with a smile. “And yours?”

His grin is warm and genuine. “Acacius.”

***

The yellow glow of the oil lamps illuminate the murals that decorate the walls of your chamber, and throw shadows from the fabrics draped over the low couch and bed. Acacius looks around, unsure where to sit, and you gesture to the couch.

“Wine, soldier?”

“Yes, wine. Please. Thank you.”

Goblets in hand, you join him and lean slightly towards him. It is impossible to miss the way Acacius’s eyes focus on your breasts, barely covered in the diaphanous folds of your pale, loose robe. 

“Do you like what you see?”

His gaze trails upwards to your eyes, and he nods: seriously, with absolute conviction. 

“Do you want to see more?” 

Another serious nod. You slip out of the dress for him, letting the thin, pleated fabric loosen around you until you are revealed, naked and soft, for his hungry eyes. 

One strong arm wraps around your waist while the other fondles handfuls of your tits. He holds you there, mouth finding your nipples, sucking and licking them until they are pert and pebbled and glossy with his saliva. 

In that instant, you close your eyes, daring to imagine that this was not a transaction but real : that the gorgeous young man worshipping at your bosom is your lover, all yours , helping himself to every inch of you before he takes you. 

 “What do you like , soldier? What do you want me to do to you?” You move to your knees before him, putting your hands on his strong, tanned thighs and lightly slipping your fingers under the hem of his short tunica .

He hesitates, breath hitching, eyes wide as he takes in the sight of you between his legs. This isn’t his first time, you suspect, but something tells you Acacius may not be as practiced as some of his comrades in the art of love. The thought of showing him, guiding him, sends a thrill through you. 

Your hands undo his undergarment and find his cock. He stammers, trying to find his words to respond. 

“Would you like my mouth, hmmm?”

He nods, eyes trained on you, mouth open as you lick your lips and wrap them around the head of his cock. You move slowly, expertly; one hand holding him in place while the other caresses his balls, the way you know men like. 

It’s not that you were forced into the profession, not like some of the girls sold into it - though Juno knows, you’d have preferred another line of work. But there, in the lamp-lit room with this big, handsome, polite young soldier falling apart at your skilled touch? It’s a fucking joy . 

He whines and gasps as you vary the speed and movement, tongue flicking over his tip before you swallow him back down again. Acacius’s broad hand holds the back of your head as you move faster, taking him deeper. You feel his balls tighten as he falls back on the low couch, moaning and grunting with pleasure. 

“I’m…oh fuck , I’m close, I’m….”

He comes in your mouth with a cry, head thrown back on the couch and beads of sweat glistening along his neck, broad chest rising and falling rapidly as he catches his breath.

A discreet spit and wipe and you tuck your naked curves against his spent body, fingertips slipping under the collar of his tunic to trace the line of his shoulders, the hollow of his throat.

He blinks his ebony-dark eyes open, apologetic. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” His exposed cock still glistens with your saliva and his come. “I didn’t mean to finish so quickly. I’m…I’m still dressed .” He grins, you giggle, and both of you burst out laughing. 

“No need to apologise, soldier. We have plenty of time, time enough to go again, surely. I’ll help.” You rise from the couch and gesture for him to follow you to the bed. 

“First things first - tunic off .”

You survey him now, naked, from your position on the bed. His body is taut and lean; too lean, perhaps, for his broad shoulders and long limbs. A few scars and bruises on his torso testify to his experiences in combat.

“Join me, won’t you?”

He settles close to your own naked form and his eyes move to your tits, pressed against the warm skin of his arm. You reach for his hand and bring the broad, calloused palm and fingertips to cup your breast.

You never forgot the fascination he seemed to have with your body. That first night, he traces the curve of your tits carefully with his fingers, playing a little with your nipples, pinching just enough to make you gasp, cupping and squeezing the soft flesh before caressing every bit of you in turn. The softness of your belly, the meat of your thick thighs and ass, the line of your hips, the flesh of your arms and neck. 

Perhaps, you think, it has been a long time since he’s been with someone. Properly, that is. Perhaps his previous encounters were a more rushed affair, skirts hitched up to fuck hastily against a wall or a tree. 

Now he can take his time with you. Wetness pools between your legs, anticipating him. You bring his hand to your pussy, guiding him to the little nub of pleasure hidden in your folds as you ride his fingers.

“You feel that?” He nods, transfixed by the way your hips roll against him, the way you pant and moan as you get closer and closer to your peak. “Find this sweet spot on a woman, and she’s all yours.”

He’s getting hard again, you notice, and starts to work you more quickly with his thick fingers. He looks to you for approval, warm eyes round and earnest, and you praise him with breathless words before coming undone on his hand.

“ Gods , that was very good, soldier.” A few strokes of your hand to his cock, and you know he’s ready. “Your turn, now.”

Acacius shifts his broad body on top of yours, using one knee to push you open a little further for him. As he breaches your pussy for the first time, he leans forward and kisses you: slow, soft, tongue slipping between your lips as you hitch your knees up and wrap your arms around his neck. 

The young Spaniard fucks you deep and slow, his plush lips brushing against yours as his kisses mingle with both of your grunts and moans of pleasure. Such a display of tenderness is unusual here, where most men have one thing and one thing only on their minds as soon as they enter your chamber. 

There have been plenty of young soldiers, plenty of officers, plenty of Rome’s heroes in your arms, in your mouth, in your cunt. Some handsome. Most not. Some respectful. Most rough.

Acacius is…different. You couldn’t explain it, not back then. Not yet. But you know in that instant, as he moves inside you and you look into his dark eyes, that there is something special about this man.

***

He comes to you every second or third night for the remainder of his furlough in the city, to the point that the lena begins to refer to Acacius as “your soldier”. You, privately, miss him on those nights that he does not visit. 

He brings you gifts: wine, flowers, little cakes and sweets wrapped in pretty cloth. “You’ll have spent all your coin,” you chide him as you sit together on the couch, drinking wine and feeding each other the treats. “What will you say, if someone asks about the money you earned on campaign?”

Acacius leans in and plots a course of kisses down your neck, culminating at the fastening of your robe on your shoulder. He unpins the brooch and watches the fabric fall with a smile.

“I will say that it was money very well spent.”

***

The lena ’s knock on your chamber door is unusually early that day - not yet noon, you estimate, as you hastily finish pinning your hair and stand to receive her.

She smiles wryly as she leans against the doorframe. “You have a visitor .”

“This early?”

“Might I remind you that I determine the opening times of this house? Yes, this early, but…he wants to take you out .” She throws up her hands in response to your confused expression. “I know, I know, but you’re paid for! Put on something respectable, I doubt he wants you to look like a whore in public.”

You dress suitably, and fix your cloak around you before emerging into the large antechamber normally reserved for meeting clients. This morning, it is silent and empty, save for a lone figure standing with his back to you in the centre of the airy room.

He was a little broader, now, than he’d been the last time you saw him, eight or nine months ago. His arms and legs had grown more muscular, his garments evidently more expensive than the simple woollen tunic and cloak he wore the first time you met.

“Acacius?” 

He wheels around and that familiar smile greets you like a beam of warm spring sunlight after the long winter. After a close embrace and a kiss, he stands back to take you in.

“How have you become more beautiful since the last time I saw you?”

You shake your head and laugh, cupping his face in your hands and rubbing your thumbs against the bristling scruff he now wears. “And you seem even more handsome and dashing, soldier. You look like the emperor now, too, with this beard.”

Acacius blushes bashfully. “Perhaps…in truth, it was my commander that inspired it, as he favours a beard too.” He smiles and winks conspiratorially. “But then maybe he wishes to resemble Aurelius, no?”

With a smile you lead him back into the main hall of the brothel and towards the door that opens onto the street. “The lena tells me you wish to take me with you into the city today.”

He offers a little bow in confirmation. “I do. I would like to walk with you, away from these four walls.” A glance over his shoulder in the direction of the lena sitting at her desk, whose all-seeing, eagle-eyed gaze bores into the two of you. He speaks a little louder, for her benefit. “And I have promised to bring you back.”

He gives you his hand, you open the door, and together you step into the bustle of the imperial city.

***

“Am I correct in thinking that isn’t a native Roman accent?”

You nod, looking at Acacius from under your lashes. “It is not. I am a country girl by birth, from a farm in the north.”

He smiles with satisfaction. “I have an ear for accents. Hard not to, when you fight for an empire as vast as ours. How did you end up here, then?”

It is as if he is speaking to a… normal woman, not a whore. You swallow hard, looking at the ground as you compose yourself to answer, not wanting to sully your relationship with this man with the painful memories of the past. 

“I…was promised to a man, and he brought me to Rome. But he lied, and he cheated, and he died over an unpaid debt, and I…”

Acacius holds you in his kind, concerned gaze as your words trail off. Enough , you muse to yourself, I have said enough . 

“And you…had to stand on your own two feet.” He gives your hand a reassuring squeeze that feels as comforting, somehow, as if it were his warm embrace.

In the mercatus adjoining the new forum, he buys little cups of wine and a jar of olives for you to share as you walk together through the packed marketplace and public squares. The tall column honouring the victories of the emperor Trajan casts its long shadow on the gleaming marble pavements below.

“Perhaps some day they will build a monument to you,” you suggest, a wry smile on your lips. “A great bronze, to the great warrior Acacius.”

He raises his eyebrows in astonishment and laughs. “A monument to an ordinary centurion? I don’t think so, somehow. Now, a statue of my commander , on the other hand, would be entirely more likely and more fitting.”

“You admire him, don’t you?”

Acacius sips his wine and nods. “He is the greatest of commanders and the bravest of men. Kind, too, away from the battlefield. I… I would die for that man.” He turns to you and grins, excited. “Have I told you that he is from Hispania, too? He tells me sometimes that we’re the finest fighters in the empire.”

You give an impressed little coo. “Have I seen this great man? Perhaps he was with the rest of you, that first night…the night we met.”

“He was not.” He takes an olive from the little clay jar, a wistful look on his face. “General Maximus has a family - a wife, a little boy - and such love he has for them as I’ve never seen. He is the emperor’s most loyal general, but in truth he would give anything to return home to them, for good.”

The two of you fall silent for a few moments, each lost in your own thoughts. You study his handsome features as you walk together: his strong, proud nose, now marked with a fresh, livid scar; his fine brow, knitted in thought; the line of his pink mouth, framed by his dark beard.

“Is that something you would like, too - a wife, a family?”

He nods and smiles as he meets your gaze. “It is something I would like very much indeed.”

***

You think of him, worry for him, miss him in the long months of campaigning in far-flung corners of the empire. Without realising, you have become part of an invisible sisterhood: yet another daughter of Rome who goes about her business and makes her living, but whose heart and mind march, always, with “her” soldier. For the first time, you really see the careworn women carrying offerings and lighting candles at the little street shrines or in the temples, muttering prayers to Juno for the safe return of a husband, a lover, a brother, a son. 

You try to listen daily for updates from the newsreaders in the public fora, steeling yourself for news of a defeat. Even your work provides opportunities to stay abreast of the progress of the northern legions, as you hone your small talk with clients to focus on questions of war. Though other men might have your body for a short time, your soul is always and only with him , longing for the day he’ll be in your arms again.

He’s gone longer, this time. In your lonelier moments you wonder if perhaps he has met someone else, someone with whom he can have the family life he dreams of. 

He is not yours , you remind yourself as you make up your face for another night’s work. He can never be yours .

A commotion coming from the direction of the entrance hall startles you: strong, confident footsteps on the marble floor; the lena ’s voice calling angrily after someone; and suddenly, a knock on your chamber door. 

“My sweet, beautiful lady.”

Acacius sweeps you into his strong arms before you have finished opening the door properly, pulling you tight to him and covering your face with kisses as you wrap your arms around his neck and giggle with joy and relief at the sight of him.

“Your soldier hasn’t paid, girl!”

The lena ’s irritation is obvious even from the other end of the hall, her arms folded and jaw set. You break Acacius’s embrace and reach for his hand to guide him into the room.

“He’ll pay, don’t worry,” you call out to her down the hallway. “He’s been away fighting for a long time and he deserves his reward, one can hardly blame the man for being impatient!” 

He’s waiting for you as soon as you close the door, cloak discarded and body poised to pin you against the wall as he holds your face in his hands and leans in for a long, slow kiss. He drops one hand and you feel your garment being lifted as his thick fingers make their way between your thighs.

“Gods, I missed you. I’m so sorry I was away for so long.” He sucks on the delicate skin of your neck as you whine with pleasure, his fingertips finding the little nub of your pussy, just like you taught him. “Did you miss me, my love?”

“Mmm, I… oh, Acacius !” First one, then two fingers slip inside you, and you struggle to form a coherent thought. “I missed you, so very much, so much.”

He fucks you with his fingers there against the wall, the sound of your wetness both lewd and erotic as it mingles with your pants and little moans. He’s still in uniform , you realise, wrapping your arm around his leather-clad torso as you pull him tighter to you. Gods, he really couldn’t wait to see you. 

“I need to have you here, now,” he hisses in your ear as you edge closer to your peak. “Need to be inside you, feel you again.”

He withdraws his hand and turns you to face the wall, bending your body forward a little and caressing your ass appreciatively. The head of his cock presses against your entrance, opening and stretching you as he slides smoothly into your cunt with a low groan.

“As good as you remember?” You turn to give him a sly look as he starts to fuck you, deep and hard.

“ Better ,” he hisses. A broad hand reaches for your breast while the other grips the meat of your hip, holding you in place. “Been thinking about this, about you …every day, every night …”

His beard bristles against your skin as he angles his lips against your neck and shoulder, sucking and kissing and nipping at you. He’ll leave marks, you know that, and you know you shouldn’t let him, not in your line of work. But instead you just twine your fingers through his dark curls and keep him there, revelling in the sensation as you start to fall apart for him. 

Acacius mutters praise and filth into your ear in equal measure: how beautiful you are, how good you feel, how tight your cunt is, how well you take him. The fastenings and metal ornaments of his uniform press into your flesh as he fucks you harder and faster against the wall.

You shouldn’t have let him leave marks on you. And you definitely shouldn’t let him finish inside you. But, more than anything else, you want him to make you his, really and truly, inside and out. As his rhythm starts to falter, a slight arch of your back and an extra tilt of your hips sends him even deeper and makes him come. His groans of ecstatic pleasure as he fills you with his seed are music to your ears.

***

You bathe together in the brothel’s small, steamy bathhouse, your fingers tracing the scars and bruises his strong, solid body had acquired since the last time you were together. Acacius hums with pleasure as you wash his hair and rub perfumed oil into his skin, pressing your lips gently to every mark and freckle.

“I love you, you know.” 

Strange, how this impressive warrior could become so vulnerable as he says the words: eyes wide, expression open and hopeful, as he reaches for your hand and kisses your palm with tender reverence.

“I love you, too.”

***

Dawn breaks over the city and the early morning light reaches through your small, high window. The night was sleepless and perfect: lovemaking punctuated by conversation, by fruits and wine, and culminating in your two bodies wrapped naked around each other in your bed.

Acacius kisses you awake, smiling as your eyes blink sleepily open.

“My love is tired, I think.”

You arch an eyebrow and smirk suggestively. “Gods, I wonder why ?”

As you cuddle against his broad chest, you spy a leather coin purse resting on the table beside the bed. The sight pierces your soft, loving cocoon like an arrow to the heart.

He pays for you. 

Before you can second-guess yourself, you speak. “You don’t have to pay any more. Unless you would rather continue to buy me…”

His expression shifts from confusion to concern. “What do you mean?”

“You pay for me, but you love me and I love you and…It was different before, but now I think our love shouldn’t be bought .”

Acacius smiles and pulls you to him, kissing your forehead. “I know, my love. And I agree, but… Don’t you think your lena would be suspicious, if I stopped paying?”

“She only gets a cut, either way.” A thought occurs to you. “Perhaps we just give her the cut she’d get anyway, for appearances’ sake? And I’ll tell her you gave the rest to me directly.”

He nods, reaching for you again and holding you close against him. 

“Perhaps you won’t need to worry about the lena at all, any more.”

It’s your turn to be confused as you pull back a little and look in his eyes. 

“I was going to ask you anyway, I’ve been thinking about this all the time I was away… I wonder, would you be - would you consider being - my wife?”

“I could pay off any debt you owe to the lena, to this place.” He hastens to reassure you, seeing the look of shock on your face. “And I have money enough to buy us a beautiful home, some land… I have been promoted again, since I saw you last, and now we have some time together until the next campaign, we…we could marry, be together. Husband and wife. What do you say?”

Your heart says yes. Yes. Forever and always, yes , thank Juno and all the gods that brought this beautiful man to you. 

But hearts don’t make the rules in Rome.

You kiss him gently, twine your fingers through his, caress the dark curls that frame his handsome face. “I would give anything to be your wife.”

He smiles sadly. “But?”

“We can’t . Even if I left this world behind for good, I still wouldn’t be allowed to marry, and -”

“I have known men whose wives were once meretrices , it’s not always so strict,” Acacius interjects.

“Were these men imperial officers with a bright future ahead of them?” you ask, as kindly as you can. “At best, I could be a mistress.”

He frowns and shakes his head. “I don’t have to be an officer forever. I don’t want to do this forever, to wage war forever. So I’ll give it up, find another occupation, use my savings…I just want you , my love.”

His thumb wipes away the tears glistening on your face as you fight the sob rising in your throat. “I want you too, I love you too, but…you are under oath, under contract, are you not? They would come after you if you broke it, I would rather die than see you hurt on my account.”

Those beautiful dark eyes are resigned now, full of pain and all too aware that there is no way for this dream to become a reality. Acacius puts his arms around you and holds you tight to his chest, silently kissing the top of your head.

When he leaves you a couple of hours later, to attend to business elsewhere in the city, you turn over and weep, sure that you will never see him again.

***

Catalina knocks on your chamber door a couple of days later, anxiously looking around her, as if afraid she might be seen.

“I don’t think there’s a rule against visiting each other in our rooms, you know.”

“Can’t be too careful, now, can we?” She lowers her voice and beckons for you to come closer. “I’ve been given a message for you. From your soldier boy.”

You move quickly to sit on the couch, afraid that your legs might give way. “He…he came to you ?”

Catalina laughs a little too loudly, and claps her hand to her mouth. “No, he did not - sent one of the other legionaries to me, just so he could get word to you. Well, not just that, we did have a good time, me and young Sextus…” A knowing smile spreads across her face.

“The message . What was the message?”

She snaps out of her reverie and sits beside you. “Tomorrow, noon. The big temple on the Capitoline, at Juno’s cella .”

You nod, taking in the information and already plotting your excuse for the lena . “Catalina, why didn’t he come directly to me?”

“Apparently he was afraid you wouldn’t see him. He’s got it bad for you, according to his pal.” She turns and pulls you into a warm hug, leaning in to whisper in your ear. “Good luck. I’ll make an offering for you.”

***

He’s already there when you arrive, standing at the entrance to the main cella and dressed simply but beautifully in a tunic, belt, and dark green cloak that only serves to emphasise his strong, broad build. You cross the marble floor to join him and he immediately reaches for your hand.

“I am so glad to see you, my love.”

You smile and squeeze his hand. “But why here?”

“I wanted to talk to you, and I needed courage - so I have made some offerings to the goddess.” Acacius nods towards the doors that lead to the cella of Juno, where priests busied themselves with candles, incense, and laying worshippers’ offerings on the goddess’s altar. “I hope she looks favourably upon me.”

“And me,” you add, and he grins. “Come, tell me. What is it that is so important?”

He leads you away from the cella and guides you through the throngs of people making their way to the great temple until you reach a quieter spot under a small portico.

“I meant what I asked you. I want to marry you, more than anything. I know, too, that the rules of this empire won’t allow it.” He takes both of your hands in his. “But I wondered if we could make our own rules.”

“Our own rules?”

He reaches into the leather purse hanging from his belt, and produces a small gold ring set with a polished garnet stone. 

“If we cannot marry by law, then perhaps we might marry in spirit.” He places the ring in your palm, wrapping his hand around yours.

The bustle of the city fades far into the distance. In that moment, it is just you and him.

“You wish this, even though I cannot tend your home, be a real wife to you? In spite of my… work ?”

Acacius nods, hand still cupped around yours. “You will be a real wife, in all the ways that matter to me. And in time I will find a way for us to make a home together.” He looks into your eyes and smiles that hopeful smile you love so much. “And, perhaps, to raise our children there.”

“My work, Acacius. I would still be doing…what I do, at least until then. This does not concern you?”

He shakes his head. “It is a profession, it is not you, no matter what the law says. You do not mind that I fight and kill for a living, this is no different.”

You laugh and shake your head. “I don’t mind, but you are fighting for Rome , for an empire, not…selling yourself.”

“It is a profession .” Acacius reassures you, kissing you on the cheek. “And it is not forever.” He holds up the ring to you again. 

Your smile and nod is his cue to slip the gold band onto your finger, leaning in for a deep kiss as he pulls you tight to him and whispers in your ear.

“I am yours .”

A passing temple worshipper tuts loudly at the public display of affection, and you giggle. 

“And by Juno, I am all yours.”

***

The wedding feast, such as it is, is wine and sweetmeats purchased from a street vendor and consumed, picnic-style, in a quiet, secluded grove of trees near the river. He spreads his cloak on the ground, helps you down, and lays out the food before toasting you with the cup of wine he pours from a wineskin.

“You deserve a far greater feast than this, beloved.”

“This is already far more than I could ever have hoped for, my love.” You lean in and kiss him gently. “I only wish I could be a wife to you in the eyes of the law, too.”

Acacius shakes his head and strokes your cheek. “You are all I need, just as you are. Hang the law; I will find a way for us to live as man and wife. I promise.”

The dappled sunlight catches the garnet of your ring and you hold your hand up, delighted.

“It pleases you?”

“Very, very much.” You rest your head on his shoulder, both content in the quiet. Such pleasure, you think, to be here, with him - your husband , in spirit if not in law - away from the brothel, from the noise and the lena ’s eagle eye.

His hand drifts gently down your bare arm and along the line of your thigh as his lips find yours again. At your ankle, his thick fingers slip under the hem of your dress, hitching it up as his palm caresses your calf, your knee, and starts to plot a course towards your pussy.

“In public , husband?”

Acacius sighs happily at the word, encouraging you to lie back on the cloak as he moves himself between your open thighs. “There’s no one around, wife .” The bristle of his beard scratches at your neck as he nips and sucks at you, fingers already parting the lips of your cunt. “Aren’t couples supposed to consummate their marriage?”

You chuckle and writhe under his broad body as he pushes one, then two fingers into you. “Arguably we consummated this some time ago, my love,” you hiss, reaching under his tunic to undo the undergarment and stroke his cock. He whines with pleasure and fucks you a little faster as his thumb traces tight circles over that most sensitive, intimate place, smiling as you buck against him. 

“What did you tell me, that first night? Find this sweet spot and she’ll be all mine?”

“All yours.” Gods , you’re close. “And I am…I am all yours.”

You come almost as soon as his thick cock pushes inside you, unable to contain the cries of pleasure. You give no thought or care to the possibility of being discovered here, of a passerby witnessing your lovemaking. 

Let them see , you muse, as he fucks you hard and deep, fondling your tits through the fabric of your garment. Let them see how he takes me, fills me; how a man makes love to his new wife.

***

He comes to you every night, then, maintaining the fiction of a transactional relationship by having you give the lena her dues directly. She raised an eyebrow sceptically when you first explained the situation, but money is money, and if she suspects anything she does not let on.

In your chamber, you can almost pretend you are a normal couple. You dine together, bathe together, talk together. As he recounts his experiences with his legion, you realise the extent of his unassuming heroism and his nobility. Unlike many of the other soldiers you have encountered in this work, Acacius has a real sense of the human cost of war, of the humanity involved, whether Roman or barbarian. 

“It is no wonder General Maximus has sought to promote you, my love,” you tell him one evening as you pour him another goblet of wine. “You are clearly a great leader, as well as a great fighter.”

“He has trained me well.” He sips his wine and looks bashfully at the floor. “He does not seek to waste good men like some of the other commanders; he knows the value of their lives. And we look up to him, admire him, for that.”

Your private connubial bliss must, of course, play second fiddle to the demands of the empire. One night, he arrives with a dejected air, explaining sorrowfully and apologetically that his legion is returning to the northern campaign immediately - far sooner than he had anticipated. 

“I thought we had more time, my love. I am so sorry.” 

You smile, shake your head, and kiss him. “We will have plenty of time to come.”

That night, the last night together before fate would make her intervention and change the course of your lives, Acacius is content simply to wrap his arms around you and hold you close to him as he sleeps.

***

The emperor is dead, and the city mourns. In the public squares and fora the newsreaders proclaim that Marcus Aurelius, philosopher-emperor, has died on campaign with the armies of the north, and succession passed to his heir, Commodus.

The armies of the north . Your thoughts turn, as they so often do, to Acacius. His commander was close to the old emperor, you remember, and the heir had a rather more difficult reputation. You walk back to the brothel and imagine your love, clad in the fur-trimmed woollen cloak worn on campaign in the north, willing your love and strength to him across the many miles.

Emperors come and emperors go, but life goes on. A months-long series of gladiatorial games is announced, to mark the death of Aurelius and the accession of his son. The lena cheers when she hears the news, knowing that the attendant surge in visitors to the city means a boost for her business. 

You keep abreast of political and military developments, as usual, via the more informed and talkative of your clients. Severus, a senior aide to one of Rome’s senators, is always happy to oblige.

“Quite the news from the north,” he says one evening, as you help him unwrap his heavy outer toga. 

“Is that so?” Your heart is pounding in your chest, and you steady yourself on the table before pouring him a goblet of wine. “Sit, tell me.”

“A traitor general , if you’ll credit it!” He sips the wine and shakes his head in astonishment. “Cursed the new emperor, took off and left his men. They think he went south, to his homeland. A Spaniard, you know.”

Your breath catches.

“Do you - do you know the name?”

Severus chews the inside of his cheek momentarily. “Marcus? No, that’s not it, it’s…Maximus. Maximus Decimus Meridius. One of Aurelius’s best men, they say, but off he went, revealed as a traitor.” 

He puts a hand on your thigh and leans in to kiss your neck, ignorant of the stunned, horrified look on your face as you try to process this information. He does not seem to notice or care that you barely react. You move into position on the bed unthinkingly, letting him strip you and bend you over so that he can fuck you the way he likes. 

You barely hear his grunts and moans, barely feel it when he pulls out and spills his come on your back. He says something to you before he leaves, but his words are a discordant buzz. Curled up on your bed, your mind races into the small hours until you drift into a fitful sleep.

***

The weeks pass, the games begin, and the blood of men and beasts stains the sandy ground of the Colosseum day after day. The new emperor, out for blood and driven mad with power, seems to want to undo the work of his father with each passing day, starting by crippling the senate.

Information about the fate of Maximus’s legions is scant and often contradictory. Some say that a new commander has been appointed and that the campaign continues, as usual. Others tell of a mutiny in the ranks, of infighting and chaos. Still more swear that the legions will come south and unite in Rome.

“He’ll come and find you, I know he will,” Catalina whispers to you as she passes in the hallway one morning. “Don’t give up. He’ll come.”

The not knowing is unbearable. You make daily offerings at the little shrines and altars in the streets, praying that you might, at least, discover Acacius’s fate for good or ill. 

As you pass a butcher’s shop, you overhear a familiar name, and stop in your tracks to listen as the butcher and his assistant regale their customers with the story of the great general who has become a gladiator.

***

“Where are you off to?”

The lena eyes you up and down in the entrance hall, arms folded across her chest.

“I’m going out for some air and to buy some little cakes, for tonight. We’ve got a while before today’s games are over, I want to take advantage of it.”

“Fair enough. Be back in plenty of time, mind, we want you all fresh and perfumed and powdered!”

You navigate the packed streets, stopping at the baker’s shop to buy a selection of the tiny fruit and honey cakes you like to have in your chamber, before turning back in the direction of the brothel. Your route is a little quieter and you know it by heart, making use of side streets and alleys to avoid the crowds.

You do not notice the hooded man standing in one of the doorways until he steps out in front of you. The parcel of cakes falls to the ground as you cry out with fright, and the man immediately kneels to retrieve it. His fingers caress the back of your hand, and in an instant, you know him.

“You came back to me, my love.”

Acacius lowers his hood slightly, eyes sparkling but alert to his surroundings, and takes your free hand in his, kissing it repeatedly. “Of course, my beloved. I have been trying to come home to you for a while, but given…” He pauses as he searches for the right word. “Given everything , it has taken a little longer than I’d hoped.”

He keeps his hood up as you open the door into the brothel, pulling you back to whisper in your ear. “I’d rather it not be known that I’m here, my love. Not tonight. Here, take this purse, tell the lena I’m a foreign visitor.”

You don’t ask for an explanation. He follows you inside, hanging back in the entrance hallway as you tell the lena that this gentleman approached you in the street and wanted to spend the night.

“He’s a quiet one.” She surveys Acacius suspiciously, and you pray she does not recognise his broad frame.

“He’s nervous, is all,” you suggest, as lightly as you can manage. “First time in the big city, he’s come from a long way off. Best make it a special night, eh?” 

She sighs, nods, and counts the coins as you lead the way to your chamber.

***

“I can explain everything, my love, or at least as much as I’m permitted to say.” Acacius takes off his cloak and settles on your couch, pulling you to him. You press your fingers to his lips.

“After. Explain after.”

The lamps and candles cast a soft glow on the contours of your body as you slip out of your dress and gently sit on his lap, tracing the lines of his features with your fingertips as you kiss his face, featherlight. 

“I hope I’m not too heavy for you, love.” 

He smiles and shakes his head, mouth a little ajar as he takes in the sight of you. “You are perfect.” He tilts his head and sucks on each of your nipples, holding you in place around the waist, as your hand slips under his tunic. A shift of your hips and you are straddling one leg, rocking your hips back and forth against his strong thigh, gasping at the sensation as your cunt grazes against the warm skin, soft hair, and firm muscle.

He watches you, enthralled, one hand resting on your ass and the other squeezing your tits. You hold his gaze, then, caught in the dark fire of his beautiful eyes as you reach your peak and come hard on him, head thrown back and body quivering with pleasure.

“Gods, you are extraordinary.” He helps you stand up and guides you to the bed, tucking a pillow under your head before he strips off and joins you. “My extraordinary woman, I have missed you so.”

His beard scratches against your skin as he kisses your body, moving from your tits down to your soft belly and generous thighs. His lips press against your mound, your pussy, tongue diving into the slick that’s pooled between your legs. 

“You taste spectacular,” he murmurs, shifting forward. He kisses you, deep and slow, so that you can taste yourself as he pushes his cock inside you.

“See?”

You giggle as he begins to fuck you, pulling in and out slowly and deliberately, making sure you feel every inch of him and he every inch of you. 

The worries and uncertainty fade as you make love, bodies moving in perfect harmony, mingled voices gasping and moaning with pleasure, and sweat glistening on your skin. 

After . Explain after.

***

“There are legions at Ostia.”

You pop one of the little cakes into his mouth and settle against his shoulder. Ostia . You like the way he pronounces it, the inflection of his accent.

“Legions?”

He looks at you cautiously. “Legions.” His face tells you he cannot say more, and you fill in the blanks for yourself.

His legion. Maximus’s legions?

“And you rode into the city on…business?”

He nods and reaches for the cup of lemon water on the bedside table. “Business, yes. In preparation for the games to come.”

“Can you stay tonight, or must you return to…?” You daren’t name the place.

“I can stay tonight, but must leave at first light.” He puts his arm around you and lowers his voice. “My love, there may be some trouble in the days to come. I will come for you as soon as I can, but…be warned. Be ready.”

He speaks with such grave sincerity that you immediately understand the stakes involved. “I will be ready, love.”

***

The commotion outside in the streets brings you and the rest of the girls into the main antechamber, wondering what on earth is going on to cause such tumult. There is no sign of the lena , though her ledger and pen have been left in their usual places on her little table. 

Althea runs a finger along the edge of the scroll and emits a low whistle. “You don’t think she’s done a runner, do you?”

Catalina shakes her head. “She wouldn’t leave the ledger behind. Or, for that matter” - she gestures to a little box discreetly tucked between a pillar and the wall - “her petty cash.”

The sound of the main door opening hushes the gathering, and the lena strides purposefully into the room.

“Suppose you’re all wondering what’s going on, hmmm? Well, ladies, looks like we’ve got another dead emperor. No-one seems to be mourning that lunatic, though, unlike his father…Anyway!” She throws up her hands and rolls her eyes in exasperation as she seats herself at the table. “Just another ordinary, quiet day in Rome.”

You and the other girls cluster around the lena , asking question upon question as you vie for information. With a roar, she silences you again.

“All’s I know is this - he died in the arena, and it was that Merciful Maximus or Maximus the Merciful or whatever in Hades’ name they call that gladiator who did it. Commodus challenged him to a duel, didn’t he?” She sucks her teeth. “Not the brightest, that one.”

“Maximus?” Your voice cuts through the gasps and mutterings of the other girls. “Maximus defeated the emperor?”

The legions. This is why they were at Ostia, to overthrow the emperor and restore the senate. You wonder if Acacius has already entered the city - indeed, if he was there to witness the fight.

“He did,” the lena sighs. “Fat lot of good it did him, he’s dead now, too. Right! Back to your chambers, we might get a few boys in festive mood now that Commodus is gone.”

Your stomach churns as you walk silently down the hallway and back to your room. If Maximus’s legions had massed at Ostia to march on the city, and were already on the move, who knew what fate awaited them now that the general was dead, leaving a power vacuum at the very top of Rome? Or perhaps, you reason with yourself, the senate will work quickly to restore order, and will not punish the legionaries who were ready to stage a coup. After all, it was the senate they were fighting for.

One way or another, tomorrow you will begin the search for Acacius.

***

Trade was as dead as the emperor that night, much to your relief. In the early hours, you lie awake and stare at the painted ceiling, thinking over and over about the places he might be and where you should start. Sleep, eventually, finds you.

You dream that he has come to you, that he is calling you by name, over and over, shaking you by the arm until you respond.

“Please, my love, wake up.”

No dream at all. He is there, real and whole, sitting on the side of your bed. His handsome face is marked with dirt and grime, hands and knees grubby, as if he has come fresh from a long journey on horseback. 

You sit up and reach for his hand. “Acacius…husband. You’re alive, you’re safe.”

He nods in response, until he buries his face in his hands and leans forward, head between his legs, and gives a devastated, feral roar the likes of which you’ve never heard before. You tentatively move beside him, fingers working to undo his cuirass so that you can rub his back through the thin fabric of his tunic. His big, strong body shakes with fury and hurt under your gentle caress. 

Neither of you speak for some time. You try to ground and console him with your touch, your closeness; and in time his rapid breathing slows and he raises his head to speak.

“I would have come sooner.” His voice is low and croaky, worn out by a day of shouting. “I would have come…I had to help them, had to get the boy away, get him safe.” He looks at his grimy hands, as if noticing them for the first time. “The road was dusty, I’m covered in the stuff. I’m sorry, I…”

You shake your head and nod at him to continue. Acacius sighs despondently. 

“I was in the arena today. Me, a few other officers, other centurions, all loyal to Maximus, the senate, the people. We wanted to be ready, to prepare for the others.”

He reaches for your hand, cupping it in both of his and kissing it with reverent care. 

“I…we…” His voice breaks a little. “He died , there on the arena floor. Murdered by his own emperor.” He steadies himself, a note of rage entering his tone. “He was a hero of Rome. A hero of Rome . And that was how his life ended. That was his reward.”

He looks at you, features set hard, eyes burning with anger. And then his face softens, expression crumples, and he cannot hold back the tears as he buries his face against your shoulder.

***

You wash him clean of that terrible day in the baths, anointing his cuts and bruises with balms, ointments, and kisses. 

He watches as you apply the mixtures carefully to his skin. “I did not know you were a doctor, sweet lady.”

“No doctor,” you smile. “Just some knowledge passed from my mother and aunts, about healing plants and balms. I like to keep a few with me, just in case.”

“Just in case?”

“In case I marry a soldier.”

When he is clean, you dress him in a plain tunic from the linen cupboard and take him to bed.

Acacius rests his head on your bosom as you stroke his hair, his strong arm draped across your body. After a time, he breaks the silence.

“How can I keep fighting, if this is the fate of a Roman hero?” He shakes his head a little. “And yet, I am bound by my oath to serve.”

You kiss his forehead and stroke his cheek, tracing the line of a scar. “What would he say to you now?”

He looks up at you with those pitch-dark eyes, permitting himself a little smile. “Apart from ‘how did you ever manage to get a woman as lovely as her to marry you ’?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Apart from that.”

“He would probably say that the dream of Rome is worth fighting for.”

“I think you have your answer, then.”

He does not seem entirely convinced as he sits up beside you and leans in for a kiss. “Perhaps.” Another kiss. “Or perhaps only love is worth fighting for.”

You lie down and pull him to you, happy to feel his solid weight on top of you again. “Aren’t you fighting for love, though, when you fight for Rome?”

“If only she weren’t such a cruel mistress.” He kisses your neck, tugging down the neck of your robe to expose your breast. “Gods, I need you, my love.”

With your help, he discards his own tunic and takes off your dress. He sits back on his heels for a moment, running his big hands up your bare legs as he looks into your eyes.

“I am all yours, Acacius.” You extend your hand to him, guiding him into position. “Let me help you forget it all, even if just for tonight.”

He moves forward on top of you, holding your gaze for a few moments as he caresses your face and strokes your hair. His kiss is tender but urgent, his hand reaching for your breast as he starts to grind against you. 

“All yours, my love,” you repeat, watching as he moves back down your body. “Take me as you wish, as you need.”

He tries to take in every part of you with his mouth, lips moving with desperate need and grazing over your tits, your soft belly, your hips. One, two thick fingers slip between your thighs, keen to remind you what you taught him that first night together. You writhe against him as his beard scrapes against the delicate skin and curls that cover your mound, unable to stop yourself guiding him between your legs.

”Mine. Mine .” Acacius mutters the word as he hooks his arms under your thighs and buries his face against your cunt, nose rubbing against you while his tongue parts your folds. It’s as if he wants to devour you, such is the urgency with which he sucks and laps and licks. He runs his fingers over your dripping core and drops his hand to his cock, using your wetness to stroke himself as he continues to eat you out. He laps greedily at you as you come, your slick still glistening all over his face as he shifts forward and enters you.

He holds you down as he fucks you hard, fingers twined through yours, sweat dripping from his beautiful body onto your tits. There’s a desperation to his lovemaking tonight, a desire to escape his grief by losing himself in you - in your cunt, your flesh. He comes with a roar, filling you with life as he tries to rid himself of the bloody memory of death.

***

He leaves in the early morning, following military orders to assemble at the Field of Mars in spite of his misgivings and wavering loyalty. You make love before he goes: slow, soft, congress in the dawn light. 

You watch him dress, sitting up naked in bed. “Be careful, my love.”

Acacius fastens his cloak and leans in for a final kiss. “You too, love. I will come for you as soon as I can.” Before he leaves the room, he nods towards a leather pouch resting on the table.

“That isn’t payment , in case you are wondering. It is my duty as your husband - some money, should you need it urgently while I am away.” He looks as though he would rather sacrifice himself in the arena than leave. “I love you.”

That was the last time you saw him, until he appeared, a decade and a half later, as a vision in white: the triumphant hero of empire.

***

The crowds have dispersed now, the city humming with excitement at the prospect of a series of games to celebrate the feats of Acacius and his army in Numidia. 

The terracotta oil lamps cast a warm, comforting glow around your small home, nestled in a side street in a decidedly unfashionable part of the city. The brothel is firmly in the past for you now, as you earn a living making medicinal balms and ointments, using recipes learned from your mother and aunts. You prepare your simple evening meal and eat it quietly, preoccupied all the while by Acacius. 

He had seen you today, you were sure of it. What did he remember of you, of your love, of the secret “marriage” of spirit the two of you had entered into? Had he recognised you at all? He had grown even more handsome with the passing of time. You were not sure the same could be said of your beauty.

The little metal figurine lies on the table before you, your fingertips tracing over the outline of the man you had loved so much. With a gentle sigh, you move to the corner of the room and retrieve a plain, well-worn wooden box from the chest that holds your most precious possessions. He fits in well here, this Acacius, nestled among carefully-folded fabric you have preserved like a relic all these years. 

What might have been, in another world. But you have your memories, and your relics, and the comfort of having seen him one more time, after all these years.

***

A day or so later, you are about to turn in for the night when you hear the distinctive sound of a horse coming to a halt just outside your home, swiftly followed by a firm knock. A knock on your door at this hour is not usual , but neither is it unexpected or unprecedented. People have, on occasion, come in urgent circumstances, desperately seeking this balm or that ointment. 

You reach for your mantle and open the door a little. “Tell me what the problem is and I’ll get you what you need, if I have it.”

The cloaked figure at your door chuckles, turns, and takes down their hood.

"So you really do live. I am not sure one of your fine balms could fix the problems I’m facing, dear lady.”

You steady yourself on the doorframe, unsure whether to laugh, cry, or touch him to make sure he’s really there. 

“Oh, gods… Acacius .” You shake your head and correct yourself quickly. “I mean, General Acacius, I… how ?”

“Acacius, please. I’ll always just be Acacius with you.” He crosses an arm over his chest in a gesture of honourable sincerity, those dark eyes warm and oh so familiar, even after a distance of nearly twenty years. “May I come in?”

You gesture towards the table at the centre of the room and close the door, still not quite believing that he is really here , in your little home. He is no longer wearing the dress uniform, you notice, spying a simpler tunic and belt under the cloak. 

“I have some wine, if you would like? Nothing like the fine stuff you’re used to now, of course, but…”

“Anything you have is perfect.” Acacius moves closer to you and reaches for your hand, pressing his lips to it and smiling with delighted recognition when he realises you still wear the ring he gave you. He seems reluctant to let go, caressing your hand in both of his as his eyes take you in from head to toe. “I am so happy to see you…I thought I would never see you again. I…”

Before he can finish his sentence, you throw your arms around him and pull his beautiful, broad frame to you in a tight embrace.

***

The conversation is light, at first - small talk, mostly about the triumph, about the campaign in Africa, the sheer weight of the special armour and cloak he had worn for the procession, his relief in seeing his wife, Lucilla.

You smile when he mentions her. “You are both very lucky indeed, I think. She’s much loved, very beautiful, kind… maybe now you are home we will see more of her in the city? She is missed by the people.”

Acacius purses his lips. “Her movements are…not always in her own hands, these days.”

You nod in understanding as silence settles over the two of you.

He sips his wine and takes a deep breath. “I came back for you, did you know that? All those years ago. I kept my word, my vow to you. But you were gone .”

He tells his side of the story simply, though at times he struggles to keep his emotions in check. After Maximus’s death, it was well over a year before Acacius saw Rome again. In the political turmoil that followed the demise of Commodus, young officers like him were deployed to various parts of the empire to secure the Roman presence - and, he suspected, to prove their loyalty to the litany of new emperors who followed in quick succession. 

“As soon as I got back to the city, first chance I got, I went to find you. And everything was different - a new lena in the place.” He shakes his head at the memory. “When I asked about you, she…well, she said you were gone.”

You press your fingertips against the surface of the table. “I had returned to the family farm, I meant to come back, but…”

Acacius nods. “She knew you had gone to your family, but she told me you were dead . Said the news was that you’d died, a few months after you left Rome.”

He tells how he refused to accept your death. He searched for you as best he could, trying to piece together the little he knew about your life before Rome, before the brothel, before him . Dead end after dead end eventually convinced him, against his instincts, that you were really gone.

”I mourned you as a…a husband . Grew my hair for the period of mourning, didn’t trim my beard…” He smiles sadly. “I even covered my head and burned that linen tunic you’d dressed me in, that last night we spent together, in lieu of a funeral pyre. It was all I had of you.”

You reach for his hand, noticing the scars and callouses that were not there the last time you held it so tenderly. “I am so sorry, my lo-” The words came as easily as they did that last morning together. You checked yourself. “I mean, Acacius .”

He squeezes your hand and continues. “I kept telling myself I had let you down. Had I been here I could have helped you, made sure you were safe, protected you.” A sombre look darkens his features. “When I saw you up there in the crowd, for an instant I wondered if I was seeing things, if you were an apparition…reminding me that I had failed you.”

“You could never fail me, Acacius. Never. Not then, not now.” 

You sip your wine as you prepare to tell him your side of the story.

“I left Rome a couple of months after you did, and went back north to my family. I had to go but I intended to return, because I knew you would keep your word.”

Silence, again, and you know exactly what he’s going to ask you.

“Why did you leave the city…why did you have to go?”

Another sip of wine.

“I was with child.”

***

When you were absolutely certain, about two months after he left, you packed your things and made the necessary arrangements. His money helped pay your way northwards and home - and paid off your outstanding debts to the lena .

“Don’t you have siblings who can look after your ailing mother?”, she’d said, already starting to count your coin. “Can’t be doing with losing good girls like you, these days.”

“Only my brother remains on the farm, and he cannot manage it and care for my mother at the same time.” It wasn’t a lie , not really. Your sisters were scattered, and since your father’s death the farm was your brother’s responsibility. And strictly speaking, he did have to care for your mother - even if she wasn’t ailing in the way you’d described to the lena to justify your sudden departure.

You looked carefully at every soldier you saw on the road north, hoping against hope that one of them might be yours . In a roadside tavern you even asked after Acacius, after you overheard a group of legionaries talking about Maximus, but to no avail. 

At home, you were circumspect about your situation in Rome - and about the circumstances of your pregnancy. Pressed repeatedly by your mother, you told her the father was a young officer who loved you very much.

“And where is this lover boy, now that he’s got a child on you?” She surveyed your swelling belly with a mixture of irritation and resignation.

“He returned to his legion and we have had no word since.” Another not-really-a-lie. 

Your mother rolled her eyes, but could not disguise the sympathy in her tone. “Tale as old as time.”

You did whatever work you could, within the limits imposed by your condition. And one day, as you rested for a few moments in the meadow, the sun glinting off your garnet ring as your hand lay protectively across your swollen stomach, you felt the child quicken in your womb.

In your lowest moments, you worried that your certainty about paternity was misplaced, given the nature of your work. With every fibre of your being, though, you knew that this child was his. It could be no one else’s.

You planned, originally, to give birth and raise the child to the point where they could be taken care of by another while you worked. At that stage, you assumed, you and your child would return to Rome - and to Acacius.

But fate dealt a very different hand

***

There’s shock and sadness and a kind of excitement, even, in Acacius’s eyes as he listens to you tell the story. Realisation dawns: he was a father .

His voice is hushed. “A boy or a girl?”

You squeeze his hand, as much for your own comfort as for his. “A boy. And your double, from the moment he came into this world - all dark eyes and curly hair and even strange little habits and gestures that I knew were yours . I…named him for you.”

“A son .” He seems awestruck. “I have a son . Gods, I wish I had known.”

“I am so sorry, Acacius, I wish I could have found a way to tell you, for you to know…but I had no idea where you were, how I could find you or reach you.” You swallow back the tears. “Truly, please forgive me.”

He shakes his head and leans a little closer to you. “You don’t need to apologise, there’s nothing to forgive.” He kisses the back of your hand again before wiping an errant tear from your cheek. 

You look at him - really look at him, really take him in properly after all this time apart. He wears his age beautifully, from the lines on his face to the silvery strands of hair that frame his brow. Acacius has acquired more scars in his years of soldiering - across the bridge of his fine nose, a more livid, longer mark to his right cheek. But his eyes, in spite of all the terrible things he has seen and all the blood he has spilled, are as warm and kind when they look at you as they were the first night you met. 

“I always meant to come back to the city,” you continue. “I thought we’d return once he was old enough, find you again, and somehow make a life together. And then my mother died, and I couldn’t leave my brother to tend the farm alone, and my… our boy was so happy there. You were rising through the ranks, too, and a woman and child would have been the last thing you needed.”

Acacius shakes his head, regretfully, and sips his wine. 

“Did you tell him? About me?”

“As soon as he was old enough, yes. I told him all about you.” You smile at the memory of that time and tell him about your little boy’s bright eyes and dark curls, the wide smile on his face as he dashed here and there on the farm, chasing chickens and helping his uncle plant seeds. Your brother whittled him a rudimentary wooden sword, so that he could fight imaginary battles in the fields and cry out, with all the force his little voice could muster: “I am Acacius, hero of Rome.”

“He’s near a man now, I suppose?” Acacius looks around the room, as if making sure he hasn’t missed the boy somehow. 

You close your eyes as another memory casts a long, dark cloud of grief and pain: a memory of fever sweeping the countryside, of the horror as your bright, clever boy fell ill overnight, of your desperate attempts to heal him. And that indelible image, the one that still wakes you at night, sometimes: your brother, tears rolling down his weathered farmer’s face, carrying the small body in its small shroud.

***

Acacius says nothing for a long time, just holds your hand on the table and stares at his cup of wine as he tries to comprehend what you have told him. He breaks his silence with just two words.

“How old?”

“He was seven.”

You rise from the table, gently squeezing his shoulder as you cross towards your wooden chest and take out the plain wooden box where you had placed the miniature Acacius a couple of nights before. Settling back beside him at the table, you remove the lid and show him the contents.

“Is this…” He smiles wryly at the little figurine, picking it up to examine it more closely.

“I told you, didn’t I? They would cast you in bronze some day, Or, if not bronze, whatever that is.”

Carefully, you take out the rest of the items you’d stored with such love since the day you lost your beloved boy. A small tunic. A pair of his sandals, still marked with dust from the farm. A wax tablet, inscribed with his rudimentary letters and numbers. 

Acacius handles his son’s belongings as though they are the most precious objects in the world. He turns a little figurine of a soldier, carved from bone, over and over in his palm.

“He loved that one best.” 

It is strangely comforting and intimate to sit with Acacius in this shared grief, watching him somehow try to know the little boy he never met through the few belongings he left behind in the world.

“Acacius…” He looks at you, eyes glistening with tears, and you fight the urge to embrace him again. “I think you should keep that. If you wish, of course, but -”

He nods, cupping the toy in his big hand before placing it with great care and tenderness in the leather pouch on his belt.

“I can carry him with me.”

***

Before he leaves you, you give him a jar of your very best healing ointment as a parting gift. 

“For your next campaign, to help with cuts and bruises.”

He kisses you on the cheek, smiling as he opens the jar and inhales the warm, fragrant aroma of the balm. “I hope to get some respite from the battlefield for a while.”

You grin. “I’m glad to hear it. And I am so glad that you have a wonderful wife to go home to.”

His travelling cloak once more around his broad shoulders, Acacius bids you farewell and holds you in a long, tight embrace and murmurs into your ear.

“I loved you so very much. Always remember that.”

***

More games. More bloodshed. You stay at home, away from the festivities and the crowds. 

Another late-evening knock to your door, and this time you decide not to answer. The games have brought a rowdy crowd to the city, and it’s impossible to know what awaits on the other side. 

They knock again, firmly, clearly. Not the knock of a drunk, you muse.

You open the door to a young man, dressed in the typical garb of a servant, and a woman of regal bearing, dressed in a simple hooded cloak. 

“May I come in?”

She leaves the servant outside and checks that the door is firmly shut before she takes down her hood, revealing her fine features and blonde curls as you gasp in recognition - and panic.

“Gods! I mean…my lady, I…”

Lucilla smiles that sweet smile so beloved of the ordinary citizens and reaches for your hand, attempting to steady your evident nerves. “Please, don’t be alarmed. I cannot stay long, but…may we sit?”

Dumbfounded, you gesture towards your simple wooden chairs, watching in astonishment as the daughter of Marcus Aurelius seats herself at your table. She nods towards the other chair, encouraging you to join her.

“I am very sorry for arriving like this so late in the evening, unannounced. I do hope I’m not putting you out.”

You shake your head quickly, panic and terror still written all over your face, and she chuckles gently. “Please, I meant it - you have nothing to fear from me. And yes, I know my husband came to see you.” 

“He…I mean, I…I mean, we …”

Lucilla places her elegant, pale hand on the back of yours by way of reassurance. “I know. He has often spoken of you to me - and of his sorrow at not being able to protect you. When he realised you still lived, well…I simply wanted to meet the woman who meant so much to Acacius. We have a lot in common, you and I.”

For a moment, you wonder if you are dreaming. Most women would rather ignore their husband’s past loves, let alone want to visit them. 

“You didn’t mind that he came to see me?”

She shakes her head, blue eyes meeting yours. “Not at all. In fact, I encouraged him to seek you out, after he saw you during the triumph.”

“I…I’m not sure I understand, my lady.”

“We’ve lived , you and I, haven’t we? When Acacius and I met, I had already lost so many people. My husband, my father, my brother…and the man who was my first great love.”

Lucilla looks away for a moment, emotion threatening her poise. She speaks haltingly, more quietly now. “And I lost my son, too. I was very sorry to hear about your boy.” 

In that instant you forget all etiquette and protocol and extend your hand to hers, to comfort and to share the burden of your common grief. No more a former prostitute and the daughter of a great emperor - here, at your rustic table, you are simply two women united by the experience of loss.

“So we do have much in common, it seems, my lady.”

“We do. And that’s without even mentioning Acacius.” She smiles at you conspiratorially, and laughter fills the small room. 

“It haunted him, not having been able to find you again. Not getting to say goodbye, to tell you how much you meant.” She pulls her cloak more tightly around herself and rises from the table. “I was able to bid farewell to my first great love. When we realised you were alive, well…I wanted my beloved Acacius to have that chance, too.”

Before she takes her leave, Lucilla embraces you, kissing each cheek. “Thank you for loving him so well, all those years ago.”

You nod, still not quite believing that this conversation is really happening. “And thank you , for loving him now. And for encouraging him to visit me. He…he married a very good woman.”

She pulls up her hood and moves to the door, pausing for a moment. “He has always had impeccable taste, it seems.”

A final smile and nod, and she is gone, helped onto her horse by her servant before they ride away into the night, and home to the waiting arms of a hero of Rome.

[themoonbrokenbylife]

Phenomenal. STUNNING 😭♥️

[italianraviolos]

Would someone be interested in very long (and I mean VERY LONG) ff about gladiator II Marcus Acacius x OG character where she's from a reign that has been conquered by him and to not be sold as sex slave she dresses up as a man and ends up as a disguised gladiator and in a way or another she meets and gets to know him and eventually fall in love with him and she doesn't know how to feel anymore cause she's supposed to hate him for what he has done to her country and city but still she can't deny her feelings for him.

Pros:

Lots of plot twist

Lots of angst

Complex characters

Slow burn

Enemies to lovers

Sweaty Pedro Pascal in roman armor

Cons:

We try to be as historical accurate as possible but a few things are not precisely identical to reality (we pretend)

If your interested comment below so I'll know to tag you when I'll publish the first chapter I'm writing