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ak-vintage · 5 days ago

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his gift

a/n: I swear this is just a Marcus Acacius blog now, sorry everyone. I'm dedicating this chapter to my girlie @221bshrlocked, who I can always count on to lose her shit with me💕 I always welcome any and all comments and questions or deep dives, if you've sent me an ask for him and are thinking that I have missed it or ignored it, I'm not! I just have so many, but I promise to get through them all! Hope you enjoy 💕xo

Warnings; 18+ no minors, vague but big-legal age gap, piv sex, dirty talk, Roman era sex toy according to me (taking a big liberty) female masturbation, soft dom Marcus vibes, and soft submissive reader vibes, also some tiny allusions to being devoured? Context is important so read and be the judge, desperate, filthy Marcus, sexy bath, let me know if I missed any! **takes place between chapter X and XI**

This is the fic I referenced in this preview

Pairing: Marcus Acaciusx F!Reader

word count: 3.1k (whoops!)

reblogs are appreciated

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He had not mentioned anything about venturing out, you hadn’t even noticed until his guards and his attendants flank around him, his cloak being fastened to his shoulders while you frown.

“I will be back in a few hours.” He nods to his guards and they make their way towards the door ahead of him.

“May I accompany you?” It takes two of your steps to keep pace with one of his.

“No my love, you may not.” he smiles, mischief on his face and you frown further still. “I have an errand that you cannot know about, not just yet. It is a surprise.”

“A surprise? For me?” The annoyance evaporates, and curiosity fills the whole of you.

“Yes. A surprise for you, now I must go. I will see you before nightfall. I will be here in time to dine with you.” His kiss is full of promise, and you chase his mouth for a moment before he leaves with a wink.

—

He finds you in your chambers, mending a small tear in one of his togas.

“We can have someone else do that–” He frowns, but you stop him.

“I am aware, but I enjoy it. It passes the time and I am skilled with needle and thread.” Your eyes are focused on the task, cutting at the string with a small knife.

“That, I cannot deny.” He huffs out an amused breath, resigned. “Have you eaten? Shall we dine together?” he places a small bundle under the bed and your eyes track it, narrowing at him.

“And that? Is that not my surprise?” knife safely tucked into your basket of sewing supplies, you rise and move towards it but he stops you.

“Yes, but it is not for you to see just now. I will give it to you in due time.” Softly, but firmly, he guides you out of your private chamber, and towards your meal.

He speaks of nothing and everything as you eat, plans he has for the villa, people he ran into during his errand, supplies he must replenish and you listen intently.

Hours pass and you enjoy your evening with him, sitting in the peristyle drinking mulled wine and eating honey cakes while the dogs lay at your feet. You sit out there together, laughing and speaking of all manner of things until night truly settles and it is time for bed. By the time you are cleansed, and curled up in his embrace, the package is all but forgotten.

Weeks go by, and Rome beckons him once more. People he must meet with and delegations he must lead. The lines around his eyes deepen, the grey in his hair spreads, a visual representation of how it tires him but he takes it with good grace. Above all else, he is a soldier, and soldiers do not balk when duty calls.

Despite your wish to, you cannot accompany him. It is not a place for wives, my love, his tone is soft, but firm and you have no choice but to accept. There is no doubt he will return to you, but it does not make his time away any easier to bear.

You oversee his arrangements, hand-picking the robes he will take and making sure that he has everything he needs. You keep yourself busy with the tasks of preparing his journey while keeping your house in order, ignoring the glaring absence of him looming over the horizon. He does his best to reassure you even though he himself is so busy. His hand ever a comforting weight on your hip, his lips on your temple, a soft whisper in your ear.

On the day he leaves, as you walk him to the door in the blue dawn, he reminds you with a smile. “The package under the bed, open it tonight, while you are in our bed.”

His expression is one you carry with you throughout the day and it's that unshakeable foundation of obedience that stops you from running to it as soon as the door is closed. You suspect he might know this, despite never commanding or ordering you to do anything once your relationship had been established. Once the change from slave to wife had been made.

His words ring in your ears as you sit nestled in your shared bed once the house is asleep, altogether too big and too empty without his form filling it alongside you.

Curiously, you pull apart the strings tying the small bundle closed, unable to guess just what it might be.

What greets you when you finally breach it, makes you gasp out loud.

It is a polished, sizable wooden cock. Heat floods your cheeks as you hold it in your hands, the size and shape almost identical to Marcus.

A small vial of oil falls from the seemingly empty wrappings onto your lap and the intended use of this gift is quite obvious. You laugh, inspecting it in your hands, half embarrassed, mostly aroused to know that in his absence, he still wants you to be satisfied.

It feels forbidden in your hands. Smooth as glass, the grain in the wood like the stripes of a tiger. It has been years since you touched a cock not belonging to your now husband, years since you felt pleasure from anyone that was not him, with exception to yourself. Heat blooms from head to toe to imagine him having this made for you, an ache for him grows between your legs.

It is with a rebellious glee that you slip back into your nest of pillows, surrounded by the scent of him in your linens and test the efficacy of his gift.

It helps, and you do enjoy it, but in the end it isn’t him.

When he returns, you greet him without any sort of decorum. He laughs, weary and just as eager to be home with you, the strong grip of his arms around you, the desperate edge to his lips at your neck all proclaim it.

“How I have missed you, my love.” His words seep into your skin like a balm, like a breeze on a warm day and you sigh your response.

“As have I, come, let me feed you.” You pull him towards your table, calling forth a spread and your attendants are quick to obey. He smiles, obliging you despite the droop in his eyes, the weariness of travel, the toll it all takes on him.

“Eat, and then I will have water warmed for a bath, we can retreat, spend the next few days in our bed, yes?” He pulls you forward to sit on his lap, presses his face into your chest. The grit in his hair collects under your fingernails, he smells of smoke and dry heat, his own sweat, the oil he favours and no other scent has ever pleased you more.

“My wife is wise, she knows the remedy for all.” His hands are restless at your back, spanning wide on your shoulder, taking up so much space your heart races. “I would have you bathe with me.” His lips crawl across your collarbone, his voice lower, calling forth gooseflesh.

Platters of food and good wine are set down before you, but his lips only move further up your neck, before capturing your mouth in a searing kiss. A dry, calloused palm slips under your robes, across the side of your thigh before grabbing at your backside. It pulls a laugh from somewhere and you break the kiss.

“Patience my love, eat first.” Your fingers comb through his waves and he makes a noise from deep in his chest. “Eat, and then I will bathe with you.” You kiss one cheek, then the other, he lets out a breath, nodding before reaching for bread with one hand, while holding you close with the other.

He breathes out a groan when he lowers himself into the tub, steam rising, the scented oils and salts filling your nose. The tub had been filled in the peristyle, the perfect place for it amongst the greenery and warm air of dusk.

The silver of his hair darkens to iron when he tilts his head back, fingers running through the strands to slick it away from his face. Silvery scars mar his face but they do nothing to diminish his beauty, the strength in his arms, the strong grip of his hands, he’s the picture of virility and your thighs press together to finally have him back home.

“Come my love, you promised to bathe with me.” His smile is sharp, but his eyes are soft and you press forward, following, obeying, submitting to him freely and happily.

His touch is reverent, almost shy despite the edge of pure want in his expression.

“Gods above, I could devour you whole.” He pulls you closer, slippery skin gliding as you slide right into his lap. Your breasts pressed against his chest with how tightly he hugs you and you laugh, breathless. The water sloshes over the edge with every one of his movements, darkening the mosaic below but he doesn’t even notice, he doesn’t even care. Your hands sweep over his back, his shoulders and up his neck in gentle attempt to soothe, to slow him down.

“Peace Marcus, we have all night, let me reacquaint myself.” You smile, pull back when he presses forward, relishing the way he bites his bottom lip in all his bottled up desperation. “Slow, soft.” You press kisses to his cheeks, ignoring the ache in your core at just how hard his sex is under you.

His hands flex at your sides, his sincerest attempt at control and you keep your expression neutral, keep the taunt hidden, the game fair.

“I missed you Marcus, missed you so much it was like a wound.” You rake your nails across his scalp, clean the dirt and sand from his skin while his hands slip across your belly, your thighs, while his fingers graze and pinch at your nipples. The hitch in your breath bolsters him.

“My poor—“ his lips caress at the soft skin just below your ear, dragging softly along your neck as he speaks, “neglected, lonely little wife.” The press of his fingers into the cheeks of your backside is hard enough to bruise, hard enough to make you gasp softly before he claims your mouth in a kiss that blanks your thoughts, stills your hands for a moment.

“Tell me how you missed me, tell me you imagined me in our bed.” You pant into the empty air at his words, his tone, cunt clenching in painful arousal when he maneuvers you onto his cock, hot and hard and slotted perfectly between the lips of your sex. “Did you enjoy my gift in my absence?”

The head of his cock slides deliciously against your clit, slowly, maddeningly, unraveling the strings of your arousal as well as your sanity.

“Yes-“ your arms wrap around his neck, letting him rock you onto his cock in the warmth of the water, in the open air smelling of jasmine and laurel leaves, the sun baked bricks of your home.

“I want to watch you, I want to see it, the thought of you fucking yourself and thinking of me kept me awake at night, fisting my cock and coming in my hands.” His words, his intensity, the thought of it lights you up from the inside, a sunburst of arousal bright enough to blind you.

“I want you to come just like this, want you all wet and open for me when I get you in that bed my love.” His mouth lowers, lips pressing against your nipple, the warmth of his mouth and the flicking of his tongue, then the cold air against wet skin before he moves to the other breast and repeats. His hands are a brand on your hips, rocking you back and forth, that perfect slip of the head of his cock against your clit building the pleasure in your hips, in the base of your spine.

Soft, breathy moans spill from your lips and your fingers curl into his hair, holding him tightly to your breast as you climb that steady ladder higher and higher.

“Come on, my pretty girl, come on my cock, I know you can do it.” He breathes against your chest, teeth gliding against your peaked nipple and it’s like a slow wave when it crests.

His mouth sucks harshly, making you gasp, thighs trembling as he keeps rocking you, every bump tightening the muscles in your belly as you ride out the pleasure.

“That’s my good girl, my perfect little wife with her pretty little cunt.” His eyes are black pools, lust blown and wild.

You catch your breath, heart slowing as you finish cleansing him, limbs syrupy and pliant in the afterglow of your flutters.

Once finished he rises and pulls you to stand with him, he barely lets you wipe yourself down with your clean linens before he is all but pulling you towards your chambers. Naked and stumbling through the halls of your house in the red haze of passion.

When you land in your bed, he does not follow, he doesn’t line himself up and sink into you like you thought he might.

“Where is my gift?” You rise up to lean on your elbows, momentarily lost in the arousal of him before your mind catches up.

“It is where you left it, under the bed.” Once you’d finished with it, you’d cleaned it and put it back—you frown when he pulls it out and brings it with him. Once settled between your thighs he unties the covering while his cock slips over your mound, a hot, teasing weight over your sex.

“I want you to show me.” He tosses the wrappings aside before holding the wooden cock out for you. Your eyebrows rise into your hairline.

“But, but you are home, I want you—“ your fingertips reach down to tease the head of him but he slips the wooden cock into your hands instead.

“I want to see it, I want to see how you take it.” He urges, soft tone but hard gaze and your heart races. The need to obey him, to make him happy, to oblige him makes your cunt clench. You take the toy from him and he settles on his haunches, hands lifting your legs, pressing against the backs of your thighs to hold you spread open wide for his gaze.

The wood is cold against the slicked up mess of your cunt and you’re wet enough that you don’t even need the oils, it slides right in, stretching the dark pink of your insides open for his eyes.

“That’s it, fuck yourself, how does it feel?” Slowly, you spear it into yourself, in, out, wetting it in you as his hands press harder, spreading you wider.

“Feels good—“ you pant, tongue peeking out of your mouth to wet your lips.

“It does doesn’t it, look how fucking wet you are.” One of his hands slides down, his thumb sliding through your slick at the edge of where you’re spread around the thick of the wood, he smears it against the lip of your sex, petting, sliding up to work at your clit.

“I think you can go a little faster, I think you want to fuck yourself a little harder, don’t you my love?” His thumb swirls, sliding and circling around your clit as you speed up.

Your heart races, sweat beads at your temples, heat crawls across your body under the strain of it, under his heavy, burning gaze.

The sounds are obscene, the ache of working it inside you growing in your shoulder, in the tensing of your belly but you can’t stop, not with how good it feels, now with how enraptured he is at the sight—

“Is that all you can do?” He tsks, thumb working just a little bit harder until you flutter around the toy, the pleasure taking you by surprise, thighs tensing but he doesn’t let you close them, doesn’t stop swirling, and suddenly the pleasure comes again, too quick, too strong and you whine at the intensity of it.

He pulls his hand away and removes the wooden cock from your hand and from your cunt and throws it somewhere in the linens, only to replace it with his own. A mutual groan fills the air between you, high and breathless from you, low and punched out from him. He gives you no respite from your release, no softness, he ruts—fucks you like you haven’t seen him in years.

That aspect of him that you see sometimes, the caged animal within rears its head, sharp snaps of his hips into the slicked-up, swollen, dark pink of you, heavy hands and a firm grip that reminds you, schools you on the fact that you are his.

You flutter around him again, the blunt head of him stroking, petting at that bundle of nerves only he ever seems to find until you seize, scream and gush around him, soaking him in your passion.

“That’s it, that’s it my love, take it-“ he pushes forward, turning his heavy stroke into a tight grind while you balance on that edge of pain and pleasure, ecstasy and excess. Your hands press against his shoulders, the middle ground of pulling him closer and pushing him away.

His mouth sucks at the delicate skin of your neck, teeth scraping and for a heartbeat you wish, or hope, or just imagine that he might actually devour you, moan at how much the thought excites you. His groan is loud, his cock swells before the warmth of his gift fills you, his forehead moving to press to your chest so he can watch it, watch himself spearing inside.

It’s quiet in the immediate after except for the heavy thump of your pulse in your ears, and his sharp pants against your chest.

With limbs weighed down by pleasure, you lift your hands slowly and thread them through his damp waves, admiring the warm golden skin pressed to yours. The wet spot beneath you cools, making you wince in discomfort, despite how lovely it is to be surrounded by him. He senses it though, and pulls out with a hiss and hauls you into his embrace.

“Give me a few moments, and I will have someone change the linens.” You nod into the sweet smelling skin of his chest, pressing your lips to a scar on his shoulder. “I missed you.” He whispers into your temple, soft and devastating, the animal satisfied, the man in the forefront.

“I missed you too.”

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