cozylittlepigeon

[cozylittlepigeon]

Born to don't wanna. Forced to gotta

[cozylittlepigeon]

Ahhhhh this was the perfect ending!! It's been a joy reading their story and I've loved your version of Marcus, he's so protective and honorable and sexy! (Your knowledge of the time period and customs was a really cool aspect of the story too!)

Bona Dea - part 5 The End

Plot: Stumbling through a dark town, general Marcus Acacius encounters the festival of Bona Dea. But what at first seems like just a pleasurable way to spend the night leaves a greater impression on him than he counted on.

Series master list

General Marcus Acacius x female reader

Warnings: Explicit smut. No use of y/n, the reader is pretty much a blank slate if you're a Roman noble lady in 2nd century Tuscany?

Word count: 8.4k

A/N: Fifth and final part of Bona Dea (at least until I watch the film next Sunday and start making up new stories....). All happy endings here! Please come tell me your thoughts, yell in my inbox, ask me about all the strange Roman customs I squeezed in here, I'd love to hear from you all!

A few notes on the Latin. I think most of it is pretty self-explanatory but just in case: Caligae - typical Roman sandals Carrisme - dearest or sweetest Sepmer - always Amica mea/Amica meus - "my love" in female and male form Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia - Ubi tu Gaia, ego Gaius - Wherever you are, I will be

The next morning, just after you’d finished breakfast with the family and Alba, one of the servants came in to announce a guest. Your heart caught in your throat when you heard the name. Alba gasped loudly and it made Titus look up at first her and then you, when he saw your shocked faces, he quickly understood something was not right. 

“Who is he?” he asked, rising to his feet as you did the same. 

“My father,” you replied, your hands shaking as you smoothed down your stola, “I didn’t think he’d risk the journey, but it seems I was wrong.” 

“Siro,” Titus called to the servant who had brought the news, “Send word to general Acacius at once, tell him Domina Lunaris’ father is here and he should come at once to meet the father of his bride,” his words were light but the grim tone spoke volumes 

Titus gave you a reassuring look as Siro left the room, “Don’t worry, Marcus will come as quickly as he can and make sure your father does not interfere.” 

“We’ll come with you to meet your father,” Antonia told you, coming to your side with Alba and taking your hand, “You won’t have to face him alone, and Marcus will be here soon.” 

“Thank you both,” you replied, still nervously smoothing down your stola. Alba squeezed your hand and gave you a scared look. 

“He can’t say anything, can he? You’re a widow now, and under the protection of general Acacius.” 

“She’s not just under his protection,” Titus said, “She’s his betrothed, he’s given her a ring and shown Rome that she belongs to him now,” he beckoned you all to follow him, “Come, let’s see what your father has to say and show him that you are not some lost young girl.” 

Your father was seated in the reception room and stood up as Titius walked in through the door, and then you, arm in arm with Antonia. 

“Nerius Vernio,” Titus greeted him, “Welcome to my home.” 

The two men bowed and Titus introduced himself and his wife as your father eyed you. You dropped your eyes to the floor and curtsied low. 

“Father, I didn’t know you were coming to Rome, I hope your journey was uneventful,” you greeted him and he gave you a cursory nod. 

“Daughter, I’ve written and requested for you to return home several times, but my letters have gone unanswered,” he said and then turned to Titus, “Aurelius, I’m grateful you’ve taken in my daughter and her cousin after the bandits attack that took her husband’s life. I’ve arranged for accommodation for us and I’ll take her into my care now.” 

You immediately shook your head but your father ignored you, “Alba, pack up both of your belongings, I have a letica waiting for  us outside.” 

“No, father, I’m not-” you began to protest, but Titus interrupted. 

“Vernio, there is no need for them to leave, we are happy to have them stay and they’ve both become very good friends of my wife. And your daughter has made a very happy connection while in Rome. And-” 

“I’ve heard of this connection, and the upcoming wedding,” your father snapped, his eyes on you and not Titus, “But you are still my daughter and you belong to my family and I will not allow you to marry anyone without my consent.” 

“Father, I’m a widow and can choose my own husband now,” you replied, but he shook his head, interrupting you again. 

“No. You will come back home, we will set Lunaris affairs on order and then I will choose a new husband for you,” Vernio was grabbing at your arm now, ushering Alba at the same time, trying to make you leave, “I will not have you dishonour our family name by running off and remarrying mere days after your husband dies.”

You tried to dig your heels in, and Antonia was reluctant to let go of your arm, “Please, father, I am not going back. I don’t care what tradition says, I’ve found a good man to marry, many times better than Lunaris and I love him.” 

He scoffed in reply, looking at you with contempt, “Love? When did love ever play a part in marriage? You’ll marry who I choose and if the gods will it, you’ll grow to love your new husband as much as you did Lunaris.” 

“I never loved Lunaris,” you cried, pulling to get your arm back now as your father looked close to slapping you in his anger, Titus looked appalled and stepped in to calm the situation. 

“Please, Verio, your daughter is allowed to have a mind of her own, she is no young maid going to her first marriage,” he said, placing a hand on your arm, “Both law and tradition says a widow can choose to marry whom she wants.” 

Suddenly there was a flurry of activity by the door of the reception room and the next thing you knew, Marcus was striding over to you, his face dark with rage. He was dressed in his full armour, the dark leather decorated with the intimidating Medusa, his gladius hanging on his hip. The sight made your father abruptly drop your arm and take several steps back as Marcus reached your side and immediately cupped your cheeks. 

“Amica mea, I came as fast as I could,” he said, looking only at you and not acknowledging your father with as much as a glance. 

“Thank you, amor,” you replied, smiling up at Marcus and taking immense satisfaction in the way your father seemed to be almost cowering from Marcus’ imposing form. It felt like having a fearsome lion as protection, storming in with a roar and making sure everyone knew that you were his to protect. 

“My father has arrived,” you said finally, after Marcus had dropped his hand to your waist and turned to the room with you securely in his arms, “Father, I’m pleased to introduce you to my betrothed, general Marcus Acacius. General, this is my father Fabius Nerius Vernio.” 

“Vernio,” Marcus said, giving your father a short nod. Vernio on his hand seemed to have lost his ability to speak, he only stared at Marcus. 

Marcus continued to look at Vernio with thinly veiled rage, and your father seemed no closer to finding his tongue and the room lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. You were delighted seeing your father squirm under Marcus’ sharp eyes and had no intention of easing his uncomfort. Eventually it was Titus, ever the diplomat, who broke the silence. 

“General Acacius is one of Rome’s most celebrated military commanders, and enjoys great favour from the emperors. I’m sure you can understand that your daughter is making a very wise choice in accepting his proposal,” he said, almost imperceptibly and gently ushering your father towards the door of the room. 

“I’m still her father and I can’t allow her to marry some stranger,” he protested weakly, “Lunaris estate must be taken care of.” 

“Oh, so that’s where your concern is!” you exclaimed, only Marcus’ arm around your waist stopped you from stepping closer to your father, Marcus tightened his grip and held you back. “You only want Lunaris’ assets so that you can marry me off to someone with lands next to the olive groves!” 

Next to you, you felt more than heard Marcus’ growl. Your father tried to bring himself under control and took hold of the edge of his toga, nervously adjusting it on his shoulder. Under Marcus’ glare he seemed pitiful. 

“Your daughter will want for nothing when she is my wife,” Marcus said, his tone betraying that he had no patience for this conversation, “If it’s money you want to let her go, then you can have whatever you want. Unlike you, my only aim is to make her happy and I don’t need money for that.” 

He turned to Titus as he took your hand in his, “I’m taking my future wife to the temple to prepare for the ceremony, I trust you to have evacuated your guest when we return, Titus.” 

Titus gave him a smirk, a look exchanged between the two old friends that spoke volumes, “Of course, general Acacius.” 

And with that Marcus led you from the room, stepping between you and your father as you passed by him, you kept your eyes from him, not wishing to see his reaction.

Later, when you reclined next to Marcus in his private reception room, you went over the events in your mind. After Marcus and you had left Titus’ villa he’d taken you to visit the temple of Juno to honour the goddess of love and marriage. On the day of your wedding you’d have a ceremony at the temple of Jupiter, but it felt right to honour Juno and ask her to protect your love for each other after your father’s anger today. 

Afterwards Marcus had asked if you wanted to see his villa, the place you would effectively be taking control of once you were married. So now you sat next to him in his private rooms, picking at the food the servants had brought from the kitchen.

“I think, in reality, he loves the idea of a great Roman general as husband to his daughter,” you told Marcus, thinking of your father, “both he and Lunaris were obsessed with power and you’re certainly more powerful than Lunaris ever was.” 

“He didn’t seem too keen today though,” Marcus replied as he pulled you closer on the seat you were on, “You’d think his daughter was marrying a homeless sewage collector.” 

“I think he was mostly angry that he had no say in it, he hates not being in control,” you said, “but I won’t let him ruin this. I’m marrying you and I’d marry you even if you were a sewage collector.” 

Marcus chuckled at that and playfully pinched your nose between his thumb and forefinger, “But you’d make me bathe every day before I came home? Or would you let me into your bed smelling like the excrements of Rome?” 

He laughed as you giggled and squirmed under his grip, finally letting go and capturing your smiling mouth in a tender kiss. 

“Would you love me even if I smelled like shit, carissime?” he asked with a mischievous grin. 

“Maybe a smidgen less,” you laughed, accepting his insistent kisses along your neck.��

He kept you occupied in that way for some time until it was time for you to return to Titus’ villa. Your lips were swollen and your hair less than smooth as he escorted you through the gates. 

“How are the preparations for the wedding going?” he asked, walking next to you with his hands clasped behind his back, keeping his roaming paws to himself to stop too many rumours to spread amongst the slaves at the villa. 

“We are almost done, the clothes are prepared, Antonia has made the wreaths for our heads, and the jewellery will be delivered tomorrow,” you replied. The big door was opened by an unseen slave and light spilled out onto the courtyard, “Will you come in?” you asked. 

“Yes, I need to discuss something with Titus,” Marcus said, “But I’ll say good night to you now, my love, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”  

“I wish it was our wedding day tomorrow,” you smiled, “I don’t want to wait any longer to be your wife.” 

Marcus smiled and pressed a chaste kiss to your cheek, “Sleep well, amica mea.” 

Alba woke you up the next morning, insisting on an early visit to the villa’s thermae, dragging your sleepy form along. 

“Antonia and I want to make sure your wedding day is perfect so we’re rehearsing it all today,” she said, “do all the steps so that we have time to make changes.” 

“Sounds sensible,” you yawned, “but why so early and why do we start in the baths?” 

“Because there will be a lot of standing around getting adjusted today so we’re starting with a relaxing bath and massage.” 

You were too tired to question her and both the massage and bath were enough to put you back to sleep, snoring lightly on the marble slab until Alba woke you up again. Antonia then greeted you in the largest reception room, where the servants had just finished setting up a light meal. So while you tried to nibble on sweet dates, you were shrouded in all your wedding finery. A brand new, pure white tunic was pulled over your head and your hair then fiddled with while you yawned again. Alba and Antonia were debating how to best braid your hair while making the customary flammeum, the bridal veil, stay attached. It would be seen as a very bad omen if it fell off. You had to squint to see through the fabric as they finally agreed on how to fasten it. 

You admired the white tunic and the bright yellow veil in the polished brass mirror that was being held up in front of you. You remembered how much you’d hated it on your first wedding day, now you smiled at your reflection as Antonia tied the belt securely around your waist until you realised what she was doing. 

“No, wait, don’t tie that yet. Only Marcus is supposed to untie it and the wedding isn’t for another three days,” you protested, but it was too late, the Hercules knot was securely in place.  

“You’ll just have to stay in your wedding clothes until your wedding night then,” Antonia laughed and you frowned at her, untying the knot was a major part of the ceremony once the newlyweds were alone in their new home. Only when the husband untied the knot and slept with his wife for the first time were they truly married in the eyes of Rome and the gods. 

You were about to protest again as the doors to the room slammed open and Titus rushed in. 

“Protect the bride!” he called in a dramatic voice, throwing his arms up in the air as Marcus stepped in behind him and pushed him aside with a grin. 

“No man will stop me from robbing this woman away from her family and making her mine,” he called, striding over to you with long steps, mischief glinting in his eyes as Alba and Antonia tried to hide the bright smiles. 

“What are you doing?” you laughed, “The wedding isn’t for another three days.” Tradition held that the groom would pretend to steal his bride away from her family, and the bride should act as if she was both sad to be taken from her home, but also excited to begin her new life. But now he was three days early and you were confused when he grabbed your arm and pulled you with him towards the door as Titus pretended to try to stop him from leaving. 

“I’m claiming you as mine, we will go to the temple of Jupiter this very day and let the gods know that you will be my wife from this day on,” Marcus said, keeping the tradition with a stern voice, but you could see the glint in his eyes. He pushed Titus to the side, who made a big show of falling to the floor and Antonia ran over to him, pleading with the gods to stop Marcus. The smile she gave you made you realise she’d been in on it all along and you had to bite your tongue to stop yourself from laughing out loud. Marcus had taken your hand in his and now he was ushering you along the hall, across the courtyard and into his carriage. He helped you step inside and you managed to wave to Titus and  his family who had followed. Now they were throwing walnuts over your heads as the family’s slaves joined in, shouting well wishings. You suddenly realised, you were getting married today, somehow Marcus and Titus had moved things forward, and now you were on your way to the ceremony. 

Marcus climbed into the carriage and you couldn’t help beaming up at him. He was dressed in white armour adorned with gold details and he was grinning widely at you as he pulled you into his side, laughing as more walnuts rained down over the carriage. 

The procession to the temple of Jupiter was filled with blessings called to you both from the people on the streets, many joining in behind you together with Titus and his family. By the time you arrived in the square before the temple of Jupiter, the crowd was pretty large. The flamen Dialis, the head priest of Jupiter, stood at the top of the stairs, awaiting your arrival together with his wife. 

“You changed all the plans,” you said to Marcus as the carriage made a lap around the square. 

“I talked to Titus and he sent out messengers last night,” he replied, his smile disappearing as he looked at you with serious eyes, “We didn’t want to risk your father trying to disrupt the events. Neither Titus nor I trust him to not try to influence someone to get control over both you and Lunaris’ assets,” he cupped your cheek and let his thumb caress your skin, “And honestly, I was tired of waiting for you to be my wife, we have spent enough days apart, now I want you to be mine.” 

“Then let's pay our respects to Jupiter so that you can take me to our home,” you smiled at him and he smiled back. 

The carriage came to a stop at the foot of the stairs and Marcus tenderly kissed your forehead before he took your hand and helped you step down. The large crowd cheered as you began to climb the stairs, Titus’ family and Alba behind you. At the top of the stairs you stopped in front of the Dialis and he called up Jupiter to make your marriage a long and happy one. Two slaves brought forward a sow and the auspex performed the sacrifice to the god Ceres, reading the entrails of the dead animal as its blood dripped down the stairs. After much humming and mumbling, he finally stood up straight and loudly declared the omens to be good, loud enough for the crowd to hear. A big cheer erupted and you saw Marcus smile from the corner of your eye. He took your hand and turned you so that you were facing him, and the Dialis told you it was time for the groom to look upon his bride. 

Up until now you’d enjoyed the spectacle, it felt like your first real wedding day, not the unhappy day you’d married Lunaris. But now suddenly you felt the weight of the moment, emotions racing to the surface as you looked up at Marcus. He could only see the shadows of your features through the veil, but his smile was warm and tender, his eyes soft, as if he could see through the veil and into your nervously beating heart as you lifted your shaking hands and removed the flammeum.  

“Semper amare,” he whispered, so low that only you could hear it, and his words filled you with calm as you slowly lifted the bright yellow veil from your face. Stillness filled your mind as you met his eyes and you smiled back at him and took a deep breath. 

“Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia,” you said, your voice loud and clear, carrying across the square. 

Marcus reached out and took your hands in his and replied as was the tradition; 

“Ubi tu Gaia, ego Gaius.”

His voice also carried across the square and the crowd cheered as the Dialis cleared his throat and looked pointedly at where Marcus was holding your hands. 

“General, you need to let go of her so that I can initiate the dextratum iunctio,” he said and Marcus chuckled, dropping your hands. 

“I got carried away, apologies.” 

The Dialis took your hand and then Marcus’ and joined them together again. 

“Your hands are joined in the concordia, the mutual bond of affection and marriage. Now offer this bread to Jupiter.” 

He held out a small piece of round bread to Marcus, who let go of your hand. With a grin, he broke the bread over your head, showering you with crumbs before offering you a piece to eat. The bread was dry but you smiled back at him as you chewed and swallowed it down as Marcus did the same. 

The Dialis brought forward a tablet and you both signed the papyrus, marking your names to the contract that would now bind you together in Roman law. The last time it had felt like a death sentence, reluctantly scraping your pen over the surface. Now it felt like you were signing your release papers, setting you free from your father’s influence and becoming a part of Marcus’ family, his name now attached to yours. Marcus moved closer as you placed the pen on the table, his arm over your shoulder, as a sign to the crowd behind you that you were now under his protection.

Together you walked back down the stairs towards the carriage, the crowd had swelled and they cheered as they saw the patrician newlyweds. Again Marcus helped you up into the carriage and then waved at the crowd as his driver turned back up to the Palatine, this time returning to his villa. 

The crowd followed you all the way back, continuing to shout blessings. When you performed the rituals of entering the house the first time as mistress of it, blessings of good omens showered over you. Marcus picked you up, lifting you into his arms with a big smile and carried you not just into the courtyard and house, but all the way into the reception hall, followed by Titus’ and his family and a few of Marcus’ closest officers who had been told at the last minute that the wedding was changing days. 

The feast was a small affair, just as Marcus had promised you. Alba sat across from you at the best table together with Titus and Antonia while their children chatted away at another table. And although the food was excellent, and the wild stories about Marcus from his closest friends made you laugh until your sides ached, you wanted nothing more than for it to end so that you could have Marcus to yourself and perform the final part of the wedding ceremony. 

But there was one detail that made you want to stay a little bit longer. A young man, only a few years older than Alba, caught your eye. He was looking at Alba with admiration as she told him about a weaving technique she’d been taught. For a young man to be so immersed in weaving could only mean one thing, and you carefully nudged Marcus to look in the man’s direction. He gave a low chuckle when he saw the way the boy seemed to hang on to Alba’s every word. 

“Octavian Livius Catius,” he whispered close to your ear, “A junior in my army and Titus’ mentee. He comes from a fairly low birth but he has a good career in front of him, Alba could do much worse if she wishes to marry.” 

“Is he a good man?” you asked, keeping your voice low as you tried to glance at the two of them without being seen. 

“He is, Titus says he has good morals and a stable head, he’s fostering him to become a strategist too. And of course, since we’ve been away for two years, he’s well past the age most boys marry, I’m sure he’s looking for a future wife.” 

“Only if Alba wants him,” you replied immediately, “She’s in my care and I won’t let her be married off without her consent.”

“I would expect nothing less, domina,” Marcus mumbled, pressing a kiss to your cheek, “Now, I think we have been polite enough to our guests, let’s leave.” 

Taking your hand, he stood and pulled you to your feet as the small group of guests grew quiet. 

“I’m now fortunate enough to call this incredible woman ‘my wife’, he said, addressing the room, “And it is time for our final ceremony and to honour the gods, to thank them for bringing us together and letting us have this happy day.” 

He smiled down at you as he continued to speak, “Never could I have imagined that a chance meeting on a dark street would lead me to such a happy end. I’m still not convinced you’re not Venus stepped down among us mortals.” 

You squeezed his hand and brought it to your lips for a kiss as you felt heat rise in your cheeks at his praise. 

“Please, enjoy each other’s company, the wine, the food, have a glorious evening,” Marcus told the guests and then turned to you again, “Come, wife,” he smiled at the word, “let me untie the knot.” 

Titus raised his glass and cheered, and the others joined in as Alba got to her feet and gave you a big hug, wrapping her arms tight around you. 

“I’m so happy for you both,” she said and kissed your cheek. 

“Thank you, my darling Alba,” you replied, “and his name is Octavian and Marcus says he’s a good man,” you added with a whisper in her ear, smiling as you pulled away and looked at her. Her cheeks went red as she giggled. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she grinned and gave you a little push, “Now go with your husband and tell me everything tomorrow.” 

Behind you, you heard Marcus chuckle at Alba’s comment, and his hand took a firmer hold of yours. “I agree with your cousin, come now, carissime, I have waited long enough.”  

He wrapped his arms around you as he guided you through the villa, towards one of the few rooms you had yet to see in what was now your new home; his private bedroom. It sat on the second floor and as the short December day was nearing the end, the sun glowed golden outside the windows. One of the servants had lit the oil lamps in the room and they filled it with a warm light, illuminating the warm colours of mosaics that decorated the walls. Thick rugs covered the floor and the bed was draped in soft looking blankets and pillows to warm against the cold night outside. 

Marcus closed the door behind the two of you and let out a deep breath that made you turn towards him. 

“Why such a deep sigh?” you asked and he gave you a small smile as he took your hand again and led you to the bed and sat down. 

“It’s a relief to close the door, to finally have you to myself, as my wife,” he said, “I didn’t realise until yesterday how much I’d feared that something would hinder our wedding. But when your father turned up…” Marcus sighed again and rubbed a hand over his face, “I knew I had to act fast, I hope you didn’t mind the surprise this morning.” 

You smiled at him and cupped his cheeks with both your hands, smoothing out his worried frown, “Not at all, if anything I’m delighted I didn’t have to wait another three days. Now, untie this knot and prove your virility,” you teased, “Antonia made it very tight so I hope you’re up for the task.” 

Marcus laughed and took your hand, making you lie down in the middle of the bed as he sat next to you. 

“I’d say you already know my virility is just fine enough,” he said, his smile turning more mischievous as he let his eyes roam over your body. The look in his eyes made your skin tingle and you sighed when he finally put his hands on you properly and caressed your curves. He toyed with the belt, tugging at it to pull you closer as he leaned forward. 

“Marcus….” you said, your voice a low whine when he pressed his lips to your cheek instead of your lips, his hands still not touching the knot.

“Patience, domina,” he hummed, pulling away and getting to his feet, his eyes darker now. 

With slow, practised movements he unwound the long toga from around his body, laying it on the seat next to the bed, loosening his belt and caligae next. When he pulled the tunic over his head, you held your breath, it had been so long since you last saw him fully naked and standing tall in front of you. He was just as glorious as the first time, his strong body littered with scars, his posture proud and powerful like the statues of Mars in the temple. 

He smirked at the way your hungry eyes drifted across his body, from his wide shoulders, over his chest and down to where his heavy cock was rapidly growing. When he put his knee on the bed and crawled over your body, your insides squirmed and his grin widened. He knew the effect he was having on you and he planned on taking it slow on this first time as a married couple. 

“Domina…” he all but purred, lowering himself onto his forearms and caging you underneath him. You were still fully clothed and writhing with impatience as he dipped his mouth to your neck, his tongue slipping out to taste the sensitive skin under your ear, a wet kiss following. 

“Marcus…” you pleaded again as he moved further down your body, his hands caressing and kneading as his teeth nipped through the thin fabric of your stola. 

“Patience is a virtue, mi amor,” he replied, and you could hear the smile in his voice against your breasts. 

Your breath was coming in short huffs, and you struggled to stay still, as he reached the knot in your belt. He was kissing your body around the knot, through the fabric, his hands stroking your thighs, reaching up under the stola and grabbing at your hips. His body was nestled between your legs but still he wasn’t touching you where you needed him the most, and with an impatient whine, you arched yourself up against him, seeking any friction. 

Marcus growled, and grabbed both your hips, pinning you down with his weight, “Patience…” he smirked.

He began to mouth at the ornate knot in your belt, keeping you where he wanted you with a strong grip. The edge of the stola was pressed into your core by his firm chest and you could feel how you’d soaked through your undergarments already. With a moan you reached down and grabbed at Marcus’ bare shoulders, urging him to move faster even though you knew he was intent on taking it at his own slow pace tonight. 

When you glanced down to see him stretched out between your legs, you were met by the sight of the strong planes of his back working as he held you down, his teeth grabbing the knot and pulling it loose. With a wicked grin he flashed you a look, before he began to work the stola up over your hips, the belt falling loose to the sides.

He pushed up to his knees and pulled the stola with him, finally freeing you of it as it slipped over your head. With an impatient wave you tossed it over the side of the bed and reached up for Marcus again, willing him to kiss you and sink his hard cock into you, you could feel the heated drag of it over your thigh. But he ignored your hands, instead he grabbed your thighs and spread them, sinking down with his eyes fixed on your centre.

“Carissime, I’ve missed this sight,” he hummed, slowly dragging a finger through your slick folds, reaching the aching pearl at the top and circling it as he looked up at you. Your eyebrows were drawn together, your mouth open and panting. It made his cock twitch to see you so laid out for him, and with all the time in the world to pull you apart and make you cry his name in pleasure. 

Your warm thigh rested on his shoulder as he leaned in closer, brushing his nose over your soft curls and tasting the salty liquid. A shuddering breath left your lungs as you seemed to melt into the bed at the sensation, and Marcus licked a wide stripe up your centre, making you gasp again. 

His fingers spread you open, making more room for his tongue, and methodically he began to explore your cunt in earnest, taking the time he hadn’t had on the night of Bona Dea. Every sound you made, your whimpered pleas and moaned cries of his name, it made him try even harder, his own arousal aching and pressed against the bed. Your hands found his hair and he groaned when you pulled him closer, burying his face in your cunt, driving his tongue in as deep as he could while you made his nose rub against the swollen nub at the apex of your sex. 

“Marcus…please….” you panted, your skin flushed and hot as you felt yourself begin to crest the wave he was building up. 

“Carissime, you taste so good,” he mumbled into your flesh, moving his tongue up to lap at your most sensitive part, “so sweet and delicate, my wife’s perfect cunt.” 

With a deep breath he began to suck at the puffy button, his fingers digging into your thighs and pushing them wide, burying his face between your legs with a growl. 

His mouth seemed to be making red hot flames shoot out through your body, your hands tightening their grip on his curls as shockwaves rocked through your limbs. Crying out, you threw your head back, his name the only word you could muster and each lick and suck from Marcus brought fresh moans of pleasure from you until your throat felt raw and dry. He was working you into hysteria where all that existed was his mouth and the way he made your body sing. 

You pulled tight like a bow string and with a strangled cry of his name, you snapped, sobbing as Marcus continued to lick and suck at your cunt, clenching around nothing. Your body was begging for him to fill you up as the orgasm coursed through you, but your mind couldn’t find the words, there were only stars streaming across your field of vision as your body shook and trembled under his tongue. 

Panting hard you finally fell back against the bed, your taught body relaxing in Marcus grip and he gave your folds a few soft kisses before he pulled back. With a low chuckle, he nuzzled your thigh, trailing sticky kisses across the hot skin as he made his way up to lie next to you. 

“My sweet wife…are you still with me? Do you think you’re wet enough to take my cock now?” he smiled as he pressed kisses to your cheek and you wrapped your arms around his shoulders. Your body felt like liquid and Marcus chuckled again as you smiled back up at him with half closed eyes, unable to form a coherent response yet.  

“It seems I did a proper job as husband,” he said, letting you pull him closer, “Are you satisfied, wife?” 

“No, husband,” you replied, seeking his mouth out for a slow kiss, “You did good, but I know how good it feels to have you fill me up, and now nothing else will do.” 

Marcus smiled and caressed your cheek as he moved to cage you under his wide shoulders again, your arms around his neck. 

“I want to take you slowly, feel every part of it,” he said in a low voice as you spread your legs to make room for him, the weight of his cock pressed against your core, “feel your kisses when I fuck you deep into our bed, feel every tremble in your body as I fill you up again and again, keep you here underneath me until we forget everything except this.” 

He rolled his hips, the fat tip of his cock catching against your opening, making you both hiss. 

“Nothing exists except you, Marcus,” you whispered, cupping his face between your palms as he moved again. The head of his cock breached your tight hole and you could feel his jaws clench under your hands, a tight breath escaping him. 

“You feel so good, Marcus, amica meus,” you mumbled, caressing his soft beard, tracing your thumb over his plush lips. The feel of him slowly pushing inside made your core clench, your hips trying to rise up to meet him, but his heavy weight kept you pinned underneath him, your legs locked around his waist. With a groan he squeezed his eyes shut and drove himself in to the hilt, the liquid heat of your tight cunt closing around him. 

“Gods, domina…” he panted, “keep me in your bed and let me fuck you, let me always feel this tight cunt around my cock, it’s all I ask, and I’ll be the happiest man in the world…” he rambled. “So tight and wet and hot, my sweet wife’s cunt has me on my knees until it milks me dry…” 

He slid out and drove himself in again with a loud groan, his arms wrapping around your shoulders as he buried his face against your neck, “Goddess…” he moaned and you felt his mouth suck at your skin as he rocked himself into you, his cock filling you up and making you gasp every time he sheathed himself fully.  

Your hands grabbed at his back, his golden skin warm and damp to the touch as you dug your fingers into his tightly wound muscles. Over you he was unravelling, mumbling into your neck between kisses and bites, his control slipping as he continued to fuck you, lost in his own haze of lust. He came up for a deep breath of air and leaned his forehead against yours, his dark brown eyes locked on yours as his hips continued to thrust his hard cock into you, your breaths mingling as you both gasped at each impact. 

“Amica mea, I love you, my wife, I can’t believe you're finally my wife,” he mumbled, his hands gripping your shoulders and pulling you down on to him again and again. 

“I love you too. My husband,” you whispered between gasps, “amica meus, semper.” 

Marcus pressed his mouth to yours, his tongue slipping between your lips as he picked up his pace, and you squeezed your legs tight around his waist. The coarse hairs around his cock were rubbing against your swollen pearl, each slide making sparks ignite and shoot out all the way to your fingertips, even your toes were curling at the impact of his cock deep inside your weeping cunt. 

The pace grew frantic, Marcus groaned loudly, pressing his mouth against yours as his body began to tremble, he was gasping, slamming his cock into you, chasing his release as you cried out underneath him. He was hitting a new spot deep inside, new stars appeared in your field of vision but you tried to keep your eyes open and watch your husband as he began to come undone. His eyebrows pulled tight, his hips stuttering into yours, he dug his fingers almost painfully hard into your shoulders as he grimaced and cried out. With a loud shout he slammed into your cunt a final time, grinding deep inside as your own climax hit again. He rolled his hips over yours, milking himself and pushing you through each wave of pleasure as it washed over your bodies. 

He was heavy on top as he finally relaxed, his body hot and sticky with your arms and legs wrapped around him. He could feel your hands begin caress him, slowly bringing him back from the haze that had taken over his mind as he finally let go and fucked you as hard as he needed too. The heavy thumping of his heart echoed in his ears and he knew he should move, but you didn’t seem to mind his body pushing you into the mattress. So instead he turned his head and leaned his cheek against your chest, his softening cock slipping out, making him hiss. He felt you press a kiss to the top of his head, his hair damp, and your fingers raked carefully across his scalp. 

“You make me happy, Marcus,” you mumbled against his soft curls, “so happy.” 

He sighed against your warm skin, a long, content exhale, “Then I’m happy too, carissime.” 

With another sigh he pushed himself up on his forearms, smiling down at you underneath him. His hair was a halo of dark curls, his eyes soft and warm, and you cupped his cheeks and pulled him down for another kiss. Your lips felt swollen and tender but you still moaned with satisfaction when he licked into your mouth and deepened the kiss. It took several long moments before you both were satiated again and he carefully rolled off you and got out of the bed.  

“Let me clean us both off, I’m too tired to go to the thermae now,” he said, going over to the wash basin and picking up one of the washcloths. 

Your body felt loose and almost as if in a liquid state as he began to gently wipe the cool cloth over your skin. You hummed and smiled at him as he paid extra attention to the white liquid slowly dripping from between your legs. 

“Proud of your work, husband?” you teased him and he chuckled, running the cloth between your legs again and making sure to apply just a little bit too much pressure to your most sensitive area. You hissed and arched against his hand. 

“If I was a younger man, the sight would make me hard enough to do it again,” he replied, grabbing at your hips to make you spread your legs for him, “such a perfect cunt…”

He smiled at you and began to wipe himself down, running the cloth over his soft cock as you admired the sight. 

“Next time, I want to do that,” you said, watching as he pulled back the skin to clean himself. 

“Next time, I want your mouth around it,” he replied, and the look that he gave you, made heat shot through you again. 

Marcus grinned and tossed the washcloth to the side and crawled into bed, pulling the covers over you both this time. His body was warm and firm as he made space for you, his arms pulling you into his chest. 

“We have all the time in the world now, carissime,” he said, his lips close to yours as you looked up at him, “And I intended to make good on my promise to keep you in my bed night and day.” 

“I only have one more thing that’s going to make me leave this bed,” you said, smiling at his confused look and pressing your lips to his when he opened them to ask. 

“Later,” you mumbled, “now I want more kisses from my husband.” 

Marcus chuckled and you could feel the rumble in his chest, “Anything for you, wife.” 

The people going about their daily business outside the great structure of Circus Maximus may have stopped and looked an extra time as the patrician carriage drew to a halt outside the wall of the nearby temple. The general who stepped out was dressed in his formal armour, the white and gold shimmering under the bright sky. The woman he helped down with a gentle hold on her hand, was dressed in a similarly rich stola, the veil loosely wrapped around her head but leaving her face bare. 

“Here we are, carissime,” Marcus said, putting his arm around your waist and leading you to the entrance of the temple, “I’ll be waiting outside, let Bona Dea know I’m forever her servant too and that I apologise for delaying our visit to her temple for a full two weeks.” 

“I will, my love,” you smiled at him, “And I’m sure she understands that newlyweds have trouble leaving the house. I only wish you could be allowed inside the temple too.” 

“The rules of Bona Dea must be obeyed,” he laughed, “I learnt that in the best way possible.” 

You laughed with him and gave him a quick peck on his smiling lips, before leaving him behind and entering the temple grounds. 

Alba followed close behind as the vestal virgin returned your bows, and then led you up the stairs and into the sacred rooms. In the package you carried were cakes and breads you’d made yourself that very morning, using the best ingredients that could be found in the market. Alba carried an amphora of olive oil, and one of wine, the finest Marcus had in his storage, and as you reached the great altar, you both placed your offerings on the ground. 

The priestesses began the rituals and you gazed up at the marble statue standing tall behind the altar. The cornucopia in her left arm was overflowing, a symbol of her generosity, and in her right was a bowl, a snake feeding from it, a sign of her healing powers. The goddess had certainly been both generous and healing when dealing with you and Marcus, and it was time to repay her and honour her influence. 

“I thought I was trapped in a loveless marriage for the rest of my life,” you said, looking up at Bona Dea, “No children to distract me, just a vile man who blamed me for my barren womb, and made me question why I should even wake up each morning. But you brought Marcus into my life and steered his actions, making it possible for us to be together as husband and wife. And for this, both him and I will forever be your most humble servants.” 

The priestess tossed the bread and the cakes into the sacrificial flames, making it hiss and spit as Bona Dea accepted your gifts. 

“And I have one final prayer for you, Bona Dea,” you said, kneeling down as Alba looked on in surprise. 

The cool marble of the floor was smooth under your forehead as you prostrated yourself fully at the feet of the goddess. You closed your eyes and sent up a silent prayer, the smoke of the sacrifice in your nose, the silence of the temple heavy in your ears. The gods had never spoken to you, but as you sent up your plea to the one who seemed to have seen you at your most miserable, and sent a saviour, a calm came over you, a sense of completion. 

You took a few deep breaths, holding back the tears that were threatening to spill, and then sat up onto your heels. 

“Thank you.” 

The sunlight was still sharp as you left the temple, and you pulled up your veil to shield your eyes. Marcus was standing next to the carriage with his hands clasped behind his back, his posture straight. You had come to recognise this as his ‘public persona’, the powerful general who expected everyone to obey him. In private, he softened whenever you were near, and became the Marcus you loved more with every minute that passed.

“Carissime,” he smiled as you and Alba came out from the temple gates, “all done?” 

“Yes, husband, the goddess accepted our sacrifice and the priestesses seemed most pleased with the generous contribution.” 

You took his hand and held him back as Alba stepped into the carriage. 

“Bona Dea has given us another gift,” you whispered, and he raised his eyebrows in question as he leaned closer to you. 

“Another gift?” he asked and you brought his hand to the front of your stola, his eyes widening. 

“I always thought I was barren, but now someone grows inside me thanks to her healing powers.”

Marcus stepped closer, his arms going around your waist as he pressed his palm across your belly as if he could already feel the heartbeat of the child within. 

“Truly?” he whispered, his wide eyes filled with hope. 

“I’ve missed my courses twice since our first night, it’s still early days, but yes, truly,” you smiled up at him. 

“Carissime…” he whispered again, bringing his hands up to cup your face, pressing his lips to yours, “I thought I couldn’t be happier but now I feel like my heart will explode.” 

He pulled back a little, you could feel tears spilling over and rolling onto your cheeks, and he wiped at them with his thumbs. 

“Are you happy, amica mea?” 

“Yes, Marcus, you make me very happy,” you smiled through your tears, “And it makes me even happier to have a new family with you.”

“A new family,” he hummed, pressing kisses to your face and lips, “a new family with my beautiful wife and our beautiful child.” 

He smiled and kissed you again before taking your hand, “Now let me take you home and spoil you rotten while you care for our child, she already holds my heart in her tiny hands.” 

“‘She’?” you asked curiously, and Marcus laughed, a bright smile lighting his eyes. 

“I’m certain Bona Dea will give me a daughter as beautiful and strong as her mother, so that I can live the rest of my life worshipping two incredible women,” he replied, still smiling, “That will be my lot in life, my heart held captive by the two of you.” 

“You are the most wonderful husband and you will make the most wonderful father, Marcus,” you said, tears welling up in your eyes again as Marcus smiled and wiped your cheeks. 

“My sweet wife, carissime,” he said, placing his palm on your belly again, his touch gentle and warm as if he was already cradling his daughter, “I would give up every title the emperors have bestowed on me only to keep two.” 

He kissed your left cheek and then the right, his soft lips brushing gently over your tears. 

“Your husband, and her father.” 

Tagging some lovely people who showered the first four parts with love: @gothcsz @missladym1981 @txlady37 @timelordfreya @bluesweaters15

@indiegirlunited @jessthebaker @likeficinthewnd @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @inept-the-magnificent

@angiewatson @wintersquirrel @sheepdogchick3 @asobeeee @harriedandharassed @cozylittlepigeon

@i-own-loki @pedrit0-pascalit0 @lady-bess

[cozylittlepigeon]

Oooh...there's such a warmth to how you write reader and Joel together! I was terrified for reader there at the end too! So good!

of rage and ruin - chapter seven

chapter seven

series masterlist | prev chapter | next chapter

werewolf!alpha!Joel Miller x f!omega!reader

word count: 3.1k

summary: the fog clears, the morning comes, and you and joel must reckon with what you've done.

chapter warnings: dark, dead dove do not eat, a/b/o, alpha/omega dynamics, omegaverse, captivity, canon-typical violence, genre-typical violence, horror themes, graphic violence, abuse by captors (not by either joel or reader), body horror, viewer discretion is advised, attempted sexual assault (NOT by joel, very unsuccessful)

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

When you woke some hazy amount of time later, after the last of the heat had burned through your veins, you were curled up against his side. One decidedly human finger, blunt nail and all, was tracing over the curve of your cheek and temple. The rest of the hand followed, brushing over your head and leaving your scalp tingling in its wake. 

You feign sleep just to feel the brush of his knuckles over your cheek, thumb tracing your lips. 

A warm wash of something fond rushes through him. It ain’t love, he knows that. Isn’t sure it ever will be, isn’t sure he’s even capable anymore. But whatever it is fizzes like goosebumps under his skin. 

“Y’ain’t foolin’ me,” he murmurs, soft and low.

You crack the tiniest, crooked smile and press a kiss to his thumb. He pushes it between your lips, which part easily for him. He groans as you stroke it with your tongue, suckling on him and tasting the lingering tart salt of where he’d touched you both. 

“Thought you were all tuckered out.” The words are more of a rumble from his chest than anything, but you’re close enough to make sense of it. 

“Mmm,” you agree sleepily. But you’d be lying if you said the last tendrils of arousal weren’t far more interesting than your fatigue. His thumb is good, but it’s not what you want. 

He chuckles, drawing the digit from your lips, which turn down into a pout. He pinches your bottom lip gently. “None o’ that, darlin’,” he says. “F’you want it, I ain’t gonna stop ya.”

You don’t need to be told twice. 

You help yourself to a seat across his legs and take a moment to just splay yourself across his body, head on his shoulder. The hard, insistent length of his cock is trapped between your soft stomachs and you can feel a thin, sticky trail of his arousal. 

Your lips find his neck in tender, open-mouthed kisses, more intent than finesse. They’re sloppy, a lazy pursuit of his flesh in your mouth as you suck and bite and let the marshmallow fluff that is what’s left of your insides bubble up with the rising warmth of affection, as if you might become full of it otherwise and pop like the Stay Puft Man. 

Nobody wants that, so you cover Joel in the sticky sweetness of your growing fondness. 

There’s none of the urgency, none of the clawing for purchase, the pursuit of teeth and flesh. It’s languid in a way your life hasn’t allowed for in a long, long time. 

The hazy afterglow is intoxicating, and just as neither of you are ignorant to what will come later, neither of you are in a rush to get to it. Let the guilt and hurt and confusion wait. There’s enough time for that. 

No, now is for the last vestiges of easy intimacy. No shame as you lap at his skin, tasting the musk of him, kissing his chest and the thick muss of hair that leads to your prize. 

You take time to kiss his thighs, no more teeth or sharpness to you. His hand finds your head but doesn’t pry or push or guide. It just rests, another point of connection between you, an almost sorrowful attempt to keep the threads that bind you intact. 

The fact that they can never be broken, now, is a conversation for later. Not that you understand, really. There’s a thrum to the wound on your shoulder, a steady throb of alpha, but he knows you don’t really know. That the gravity of what he’s done to you is beyond your reach right now. 

He’s selfish, though, and tucks it away for later. It’ll be hard enough. He steals this moment, greedy for this interval where you don’t fear him anymore and you don’t hate him, yet. 

Because he can’t imagine you’ll ever forgive what he did. What he’s taken from you. What he’s going to keep taking. 

But for now, you’re content to be his, if only for this moment, and he’s painfully aware of how rare content moments are in this world. The wolf wouldn’t dare let him sour your scent with rejection or neglect. And there’s a part of the man, too, that needs this, even if he can’t cope with that yet. 

And he does. Need this, that is. Need you, here, safe and soft and satiated. There’s no pretending you aren’t in hell, with his back pressed against the cold tile walls as he holds you on the world’s tiniest mattress with the flimsy fleece blanket falling from your nude body. It doesn’t cover him but he doesn’t care, doesn’t need it. Hasn’t had the luxury of something like a blanket in years, now, and you, you’re delicate even if you aren’t. Delicate to him while still so strong, with all you have and are and will endure. 

His body could snap yours in an instant. His body could, but he could never. Not you. Not his perfect, precious girl. Never mind that he doesn’t really know you. He knows this you, the one that’s his. And he’ll learn the rest. 

Because there’s nowhere on this wretched earth you could hide from him now. The gentle throb of your own mark on him makes sure of that. He will always find you. His girl. His omega. 

His. 

Any other thoughts are lost as you nuzzle your cheek against his balls, peppering tbem with gentle kisses and little kitten licks. He groans, pulling one leg back to make room for you to settle in, to make a little nest for yourself to do as you please. And he’s more than happy to let you do as you please with his body. As far as he’s concerned, it’s all for you. Oh, God, especially if you keep doing that. He moans as you cradle his balls, feeding them gently into the warm cavern of your mouth. 

“Fuuuck,” he groans, head tipping back, hand cupping your cheek.

His balls are musky with three days of dried cum and sweat, but it’s ambrosia. You can’t get enough, nose buried between his cock and sac, licking at them like a velvet delicacy. It’s still not enough. Maybe nothing will be enough, but you take one in your mouth, rolling it on your tongue and groaning. They’re already swollen, heavy, and heady. 

It’s still not enough, so you use your hand to help accommodate both.   

He can’t help but buck his hips a little when he feels the way your cheeks bulge, stuffed so full of his balls as you lick and suck so gently, almost reverently. “Ah, darlin’, please,” he gasps when your hand curls around his shaft, tightly at the base and squeezes. 

You take pity on him and press a kiss to each ball before pulling away to suck little tiny kisses along the underside of his cock. His thighs tense around you, holding so, so still so he doesn’t jerk and hurt you. The wolf is quiet, the worries are quiet, it’s just you. You and him. 

His heels dig into the mattress, every line of his body taut. He’s not even sure what form he’s in anymore, because it doesn’t fucking matter. The only thing that matters is your hot mouth as you ease the fat tip of his aching cock between your lips, a tight seal locking him in like it’s his knot in your cunt. You suck without mercy, tongue lapping at him, the rest of his cock neglected as you orchestrate this sweet torture. 

His fist falls from you to smack against the mattress, nails digging into his palm as he swears low and slow. 

“Baby. Darlin’, please,” he begs, unabashed. You’re the only one he’d plead for. Only one in the world he’d give himself to like this. After all, you’ve given him everything. Everything that you are, everything that you’ll ever be, it’s all his now. It’s only fair if you have all of him in return.

And, oh, you take all of him. One inch at a time, you take all of him into heaven, your throat pried open by his girth. It’s not an easy task, but you’ve devoted yourself to it. He wouldn’t have minded if you couldn’t; knows he’s not an easy man to accommodate. Would have still lost his goddamn mind in the embrace of your mouth and caress of your tongue.

But you’re determined, and he’s soon to learn you ain’t a quitter. Not when you want somethin’. And he learns that when his cock hits the back of your throat, and you gag, fingers digging into his thighs as you hold on for leverage, but you don’t fuckin’ back down.

“Tha’s it,” he breathes, a shuddery gasp as he feels you constrict around him, choking his cock like it’s choking you. “So good, honey. So fuckin’ good to me.” 

It takes an effort on your part that he feels deeply guilty about to bring him to orgasm. To be fair, he’s not getting any younger, and he’d spilled load after load into your greedy pussy during your heat. But he sees that steadfast determination again as he offers to finish with his hand, and you shoot him a nasty, reproachful look, smacking his hand away like he’s tried to take a bowl away from a starving mutt. 

For all that you complain about omegas being just extra-wet humans, he can see the feral wolf behind your eyes. Sure, you’ll never turn. It’s not in your nature, the physical change. But you’re on the same leash as him, really. 

He cups your cheek as you swallow him down, a strained whine seeping from gritted teeth as he spills down your throat. His mind goes to white and static and you. 

He guides you off his softening cock, and you scoot up to rest your head on his belly. One hand idly plays with the hair scattered there, while one of his traces lazy spirals on your shoulder. 

You blink lazily up at him, and that’s the only way he realizes he’s gone half wolf. The possessive beast can’t stay away, and to his very human chagrin, he leans down and licks your face from chin to cheek before lapping at the mark on your shoulder. It’s already healing, but just for good measure. 

Since you arrived, Joel had spent more time human than he had in the last three years combined. It was a constant effort, when he did. To remember. To be gentle. To be… exposed. 

He had stayed carefully delineated, either man or wolf. 

He can’t really maintain it anymore. But you don’t seem to mind. Don’t seem to mind when his muzzle stretches, when the hair gets thicker all over his body. When his teeth sharpen, or his claws. 

No, you don’t seem to mind at all. 

You sigh softly, and it’s achingly affectionate. You’re still hazy, floating in the afterglow of your heat, all sweet submission and peace. He wants to burrow you away somewhere, keep you cozy and hidden away from the cruelty of your life. 

“It fuckin’ stinks in here,” groans one of the men you call the Idiot Twins. 

Joel snarls, brought to humiliation for the second time in ten minutes as he realizes he was too caught up in you to hear someone come down. 

Two someones. It’s both of them this time, laden with trays of food to make up for the days you went without. His, as usual, is piled high with thick cuts of raw meat and starchy vegetables.

Yours, though, makes him scowl. Just broth, it’s always just fuckin’ broth, the stock leftover from the meat they cook for themselves. That or oatmeal. 

The raiders keep up a banter about the smell of sex and sweat that permeates the cellar now. One starts up lewd comments about your bare body, and Joel growls, hackles raising. 

He tries to ignore them and hands you a bowl of roasted potatoes when one of them suddenly slams his baton against the door. “No,” he says. “That ain’t for her. Drop it, bitch.”

“I’ll give her my food if I fuckin’ want,” Joel sneers.

“You’ll keep to your own trays, or she’s goin’ back across the hall. We ain’t wastin’ that on your little whore.” 

You put a hand on Joel’s arm. “It’s not worth it,” you mutter. “I’m fine.” As if he can’t hear your stomach rumble most of the time. As if he hasn’t noticed the general malaise about you, as you scrape by on literal scraps.

You can feel the rumble of his discontent but he snaps his mouth shut, jaw working overtime. 

“Speaking of,” one of the men says, a sharp smirk growing. “C’mere, bitch.”

Joel bristles again and you try to ignore him. 

“I said come here,” Tall, Dumb, and Ugly repeats. “Now. Or you’re gonna get it good.” He taps his baton against the bars. 

When he calls you over, something prickles, rankling the hair on the back of his neck. It’s probably nothing. It’s probably wash day. It’s probably something normal.

But it doesn’t feel like it.

He watches you go, resisting the urge to pull you back to him, to tuck you close to his body, to keep you where no one can see you behind his bulk.

But he watches you go.

He regrets it immediately. 

“Down on your knees, hands behind your head,” the thug barks, but he doesn’t wait. He pushes you down, and one hand grabs the back of your neck. 

The other goes to his belt. 

Joel’s off his ass and at the gate in an instant, but he can’t reach. He can only watch as you try to rear back.

“Hey, man, I dunno if that’s a good idea,” says the other raider, to the surprise of everyone.

“Jim keeps a girl. Chris keeps a girl. We ain’t allowed, but the fuckin’ pet gets a pet? Nah, man. I’m gettin’ my share.” 

You meet Joel’s eyes from the corner of yours, and somehow, somehow, he knows what you’re not asking. He bares his teeth, snarling, and you lunge.

Your teeth sink into the raider’s arm before he can get his dick out, and you show no fucking mercy. 

Joel howls, loud and nasty, a threat, as you bite down hard. You’ve never bitten a person before, let alone hard enough to break skin.

Oh, and you do. You’re merciless. Your first act of real violence and it’s brutal. Hot, coppery blood floods around your teeth and you pull away, spitting repeatedly.

The man is screaming, clutching his arm, demanding that his compatriot do something, but the other raider is backing away slowly. 

There’s a clattering of heavy boots down the stairs, and Jim comes around the corner with his pistol raised. 

“No!” Joel yells, reaching for you as you scramble back to where he can reach you. 

“Get in there,” Jim snaps at the man you bit.

“Fuckin’ shoot her; she bit me,” he argues.

“Get in there, or I’ll shoot you,” Jim barks. 

The accomplice and another man who’d come with Jim grab the injured motherfucker by the arms and throw him in what used to be your prison across the hall. Jim hauls you up by the elbow and points the gun at Joel, who backs away immediately. 

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t blow her fuckin’ brains out,” he hisses.

“I made her do it,” Joel says quickly. “I made her bite him. He was trying to touch what’s mine.”

“Tch,” Jim sneers. “Bullshit.”

“You fuckin’ listen to me, Jim,” Joel snarls around his fangs. “I told her to do it, and she’s my omega. Don’t you know she gotta listen to me? She can’t tell me no.” 

Jim hesitates, glowering. The pistol knocks a little whimper from you, pressing against the side of your head.

“I’m serious,” Joel pushes. “Everyone fuckin’ knows omegas can’t disobey a direct order.”

That’ll do it. He knows Jim hates to be made to look stupid. 

“Fine,” Jim says gruffly. Joel backs away so Jim can open the door, tossing you inside.

“Watch him,” he says to one of his henchmen, jerking a head to the door across the hall. 

“What? Why?”

“Because we don’t know if her bite can turn him. Watch him. If he starts actin’ funny, call me.”

You’re not really sure how he got you over to the mattress without your notice, but he’s there, crowding over you, hands patting your face, turning your head to inspect your neck, running down your arms. He’s meticulous, and you sit still for it, in a bit of a daze.

“E-everything happened so fast,” you whisper eventually, and his hands come up to cup your cheeks. 

“Wasn’t your fault. You did good. You did so good,” he says, pulling you close. 

“He was gonna…”

“I know. I know, darlin’.”

His heart beats steady under your ear, one large palm cradling your head there and the other keeping you tucked in close. He rocks you a little, though you don’t think he knows he’s doing it. The gravel and rumble of his voice, his assurances that should be patronizing, his sharp claws so close to your delicate flesh, it should all have you pushing away.

But you don’t. Instead, you wrap your arms around his chest and burrow in, eyes squeezed shut tight against the burn and sting of residual fear. 

“Were you telling the truth?” you ask quietly after a while.

“Hmm?” 

“About the whole obeying orders thing. Can you… force me to do things?”

He snorts. “Course not. But he bought it, didn’t he? Doesn’t know a damn thing.”

The answer sits unsteady between your ribs. You want to believe him. You do. But you can’t forget the way his words make you feel sometimes, like you’re moving through sludge, like you’re drawn to him by some cosmic leash. 

You want to believe him.

But you don’t.

[cozylittlepigeon]

[cozylittlepigeon]

literally all i want is for joel to call me his special princess and rail me till i pass out

[cozylittlepigeon]

Friends, my tbr is all sorts of all over the place (as am I but that’s another matter). Bear with me as I try catch up 🤍

[cozylittlepigeon]

Miller boys in love...so soft and sweet!

Hear It In The Silence (Joel's Tommy's Version)

A moodboard, 450 word drabble, and playlist celebrating Chapter 6 of Elks.

A/N: Sorry about the delay, the last few months of the year are always my busiest for my job and my family had some health issues this week that took away my time/brain.

“Hey, uhh…” Joel clears his throat, catching Tommy’s attention as they ride back toward Jackson. “Think we could stop for a second?”

“Now?” Tommy asks, a bit annoyed. “We’re only thirty minutes from home.” It’s been a long few days, and now only a small trail near the lake and a small valley separates him from his bed, his wife, and indoor plumbing. Stopping now feels like a tall ask. 

“Yeah, it’s just—” Joel sighs, looking off to the side, towards the field of wildflowers growing near the edge of the trail. “Wanted to pick some… flowers, y’know… for, um…”

“I got it,” Tommy smirks knowingly. “Understood. Maria’s going to love them. Thanks for the idea big bro.”

A blush appears across his face, it’s the first time Tommy’s seen that in years. 

Joel lets out a quiet chuckle, slowing Callus to a halt. 

His brother laughs now, he smiles, he jokes… Tommy now sees signs of who his brother used to be. 

—

Joel crouches near the lake picking a handful of flowers, Tommy watches him quietly, it’s easy to see his brother getting older. HIs movements have slowed, gray streaks his beard and hair in uneven lines, the lines of his face are set deeper, and the ache of his joints seems harder to hide, no matter how much he tries to hide the grunts and sighs. 

Just a year ago, Tommy never thought he’d see his big brother again. Before that, he thought he had lost the brother he used to know forever. And now… here he is, happy and fulfilled, standing under the bright, open sky picking flowers for you. 

Tommy can see the careful way Joel selects each bloom for you, checking the stems, leaves, and petals as if each one has to be perfect. He’s seen him take down men twice his size without a second thought, but here, holding flowers in his hand… glimpses of Joel before the violence and heartbreak overtook his soul have begun to appear. 

He watched it slowly happen, the almost hidden smile Joel would let slip whenever you’re around, the softened tone of his voice whenever he’d make small mentions of you, the secret glances your way when he thought no one was looking, Tommy didn’t think it was possible, but he can see it plain as day now–his brother is in love. 

Tommy bends over and picks a few yellow wildflowers for Maria. Love… he has it, and now he knows Joel has it too. He never knew if he’d get the old Joel back, but now, this burgeoning love he sees feels like a rebellion against the bleakness of the man his brother once was.

Finally. 

Playlist under the cut!

Taglist. Let me know if you’d like to be removed or added.

@ohheypedrito, @magpiepills, @secretelephanttattoo, @goodwithcheese, @copperhalfcent

@yopossum, @burntheedges, @noisynightmarepoetry, @moel-jiller, @tinytinymenace

@sawymredfox, @bardot49, @maggiemayhemnj, @jolapeno, @chrysochromulina

@vickie5446, @dancinglotusbud, @cozylittlepigeon, @chippedowlmug

Thank you @saradika-graphics for the headers!

[cozylittlepigeon]

Gosh he's perfect

The Hitman's Guide to Getting the Girl: Chapter 5 [dave york x f!reader]

It's just another job, until Dave York decides to kidnap an enemy’s wiseass daughter. It’s just another job, until he falls in love.

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 4 | chapter 5 | chapter 6 | chapter 7 | chapter 8

series masterlist

status: complete

chapter 5 summary: Leaning his weight to you.

pairing: dave york x f!reader

rating: 18+ (mdni)

tags and warnings for entire fic: kidnapping, murder, violence, the world being horrible to women, reader having a very terrible sense of self-preservation, unprotected piv, oral sex (m and f receiving), dave york finding his second calling as a pussy-eating god, pining, possessive sex, jealousy, daddy issues, (stockholm syndrome?), dirty talk, actually filthy talk, hitmen and politicians, revenge, scary man with a soft spot for his woman, philosophical foreplay, tramp stamp worship (you'll see), a little sprinkle of breeding kink if you look hard enough, obsessive behaviour, anal fingering, anal sex, implied age gap, light dom/sub vibes, light bondage

tags and warnings for this chapter: bloody violence, murder daddy doing murder, more annoying literary references, dave york is still a m u n c h, he's also a tease, edging, very angry dave, masturbation, fingering in a moving vehicle, orgasm denial, protective dave, dirty talk, soft dave, possessive behaviour, the L word??

word count: ~ 4.5k

chapter 5: hold me like a knife

JULY

Dave rolls up his sleeves to keep the blood away from the fabric. He’s got a date tonight, and little time to wash up before it starts. 

He sits on the stool across from Gabriel Zemeckis and pats the man’s cheek. He startles awake with a pathetic cry. “How are you feeling, Gabriel? Talk to me.”

He whimpers, head lolling, his hair plastered to his face with blood. It trickles down from his left temple and presents a serious threat to Dave’s shirt. “Please…”

Dave sighs, grasping a fistful of Zemeckis’s hair and yanking his head back. The man chokes, his bloodied lip and his swollen eye already an ugly purple. It's like peering into a broken mosaic. “I asked you a question. I don't like repeating myself.”

“It… hurts,” he splutters. “Please just… just let me go, man.”

“Let you go?” Dave tuts, giving Zemeckis another smack on the cheek. “Do you know who I am?”

“D—” Zemeckis spits a glob of bloody saliva onto the floor. “Dave York. You're Dave York.”

“Then you should know why I’m not going to let you go.”

“It was… a mistake,” whines Zemeckis. “I swear to God, Mr. York, it was a mistake. I didn't know… how could I know…?”

“Oh, Gabe, I know you couldn't know,” says Dave, letting go of his hair. His head flips back down until he gathers the strength to hold it up again. “But you've done it before. Haven't you?”

“I had to make a living. Please, you have to know how it goes. I had payments to make.”

“To your bosses,” Dave says, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, I know. I know lots about you, Gabriel. And you should be lucky that I got to you before the Antonovs did.”

“Please let me go, Mr. York. I’ll pay you. I’ll give you whatever you want.” Zemeckis spits more blood from his mouth, and a tooth goes with it. 

“What I want,” says Dave, holding out his hand to Kovac, who places a knife in his palm, “is for this entire city to understand something. Do you know what that is?”

Zemeckis begins to tremble, his one good eye fixed on the shiny blade. He begins to panic, scooting backward on his chair, but Kovac steps up behind him and holds him in place, a bruising grip on his shoulder. 

Dave lifts his brows. “I’m not a patient man.”

“I don't know!” Zemeckis wails, wriggling futilely in his chair. “Please! Please just let me fucking go!”

Dave is getting a little sick and tired of the screaming. Either way, he doesn't need to hear any more, so he nods to Kovac, who secured a couple layers of duct tape over Zemeckis’s bloody mouth. With that, Dave plunges the knife into his kneecap and watches his good eye bulge, his face go grey. 

“Last month, you threatened a woman’s life. You threw her to the ground and took her wallet. Took her favourite watch.” Dave twists the knife and grits his teeth at the sound of the man’s muffled howls. “That woman is my wife.”

Zemeckis must see the dangerous pitch in Dave’s eyes, because he drops his head, averting his gaze from the gushing wound in his knee. “Look at me,” growls Dave. “Look at me or I take the other.”

The man is close to fainting, but Dave isn't quite finished. “You pushed her to the ground. I cleaned her skinned knees and her bloody hands. Do you want to know how it felt to see that asphalt and dirt and blood? To know it was some fucking pushover looking to even out his debt who decided to go after the wrong woman that day?”

Zemeckis shakes his head, but Dave is seeing red. He rips the knife from the left knee, tearing away sinew and muscle, and watches crimson seep through the pant leg. 

Dave lowers his voice to a near-whisper and wipes the blade clean on top of the gory gash. 

“I want the entire goddamn city to understand that my wife is off-limits. She's better than all of you. She’s better than everyone.” 

Dave hands the knife back to Kovac and looks down at his handiwork. Zemeckis is bleeding out. “Look what you did. Got blood on my shirt.”

~

“I think you're becoming a voyeur.”

He really didn’t think you noticed him. He's leaning against the doorway of the ensuite with his arms folded over his chest, watching you secure your diamond earrings from the edge of the bed. Facing away from him, you’re giving him a perfect view of your back and its delicious curves. Your tight dress reaches mid-thigh and glitters midnight blue, with long sleeves and a back that plunges so low it barely covers your tattoo. He’s performing impossible equations in his head as he tries to decide how a man like him should be allowed to look upon your beauty. 

Dave pushes off the wall and circles the bed to kneel at your feet. He runs his hands up your thighs and settles them on your hips. “You're beautiful,” he says. “Why shouldn't I look?”

The neckline of your dress keeps high to balance its low back, and the diamond pendant he bought you last week matches your earrings. You’ll glimmer brighter than every chandelier you walk underneath. 

“There's no such thing as Schrödinger’s York. I know how the air feels when you're around.”

That makes him proud and a little horny. “I’ve lost all my mystery,” he says. 

“I like when you look,” you tell him, adjusting his tie so it lies flat. “Makes me feel like a regular Miss Lonelyhearts.”

“Mmm. I’d never leave you lonely,” he says, kissing all the way up your inner thigh. You giggle, ticklish. 

“We don’t have time,” you say breathlessly, scratching your nails at the nape of his neck. He sighs, contented by the feeling of being surrounded by you, the tension in his marrow melting. “But I’ll let you put on my shoes.”

He grins crookedly, nipping at you before he pulls away and grabs your strappy heels. You raise your leg for him, trailing your foot up his side before he takes your ankle, rubbing the bone while he slides the shoe on your foot. “How was your meeting?” you ask him. 

Dave secures the shoe and moves to your other foot. “Successful.”

“Your idea of success differs from mine.”

“Good.”

“So you killed him.”

“Yes,” he says. There's no point in skirting or justifying; he knows you’re too brilliant to be lied to, and he knows he could have easily let the man live. 

“I don't see any blood.”

“I changed.” He rises to his feet and pulls you up, threading his fingers through yours. A huge diamond embedded in a thin gold band kisses his skin, cold and extravagant. Dave puts his lips to your engagement ring. “You don't need to see any blood on me. Not ever.”

You’re on more even ground with him now that you're in heels, so you brush your noses together before you kiss him. “I will want you bloody, and I will want you clean. You're mine either way, Mr. York.”

“Yeah, baby,” he says, cupping your face in his hands to keep you close. “I am.”

“We should go down to the car,” you whisper, “so we don't miss our reservation.”

“Mmm.” He's distracted, seeking your lips. You indulge him, letting him lick into your mouth as his hand dips to your lower back and presses you to him. 

He covered his hands in blood today. He beat a man and put a knife through him and now he's touching you with those very same fingers, knuckles bruised and scarred. But he will not splinter you. He will not let anybody smudge their filthy fingerprints on your skin made of glass. 

“Dave.”

“Mhm.”

You laugh, wind your arms around his neck, and gently tug him back by the hair. “Honey, we have to go. The paparazzi await.”

It's part of the plan, and it's not. Paparazzi follow you everywhere you go nowadays; a consequence of being prone to kidnappings, you’ve informed him. While it's insurance that you'll be photographed out with Dave tonight, it makes him itch knowing that so many people will find out the places you frequent. It's why he's taking you to a place you've never been. 

He opens the passenger side door for you and watches you slip inside before he gets in and pulls away from the driveway. 

“Ready to smile and wave?” you tease. 

“Depends.” He grins, his thumb stroking soothing circles over the back of your hand—more for himself than you. “How long until someone finds out I was C.I.A.?”

Your eyes narrow as you think. “At least twelve hours.”

“I’ll take that action.” Dave looks your way when he stops at a red light. The glow of the traffic lights makes a prism of colours on your skin. “I can always lie my way out of it.”

“Touché.” 

The light turns green, and you watch him turn the wheel to the left with an open hand. You're surprised by the way you have to squeeze your thighs together to abate the sudden pressure in your core. Sure, driving is sexy. But there's something about the way Dave York does it. Easily and fluidly. As he comes out of the turn, the wheel slides through his palm, and you get a good glimpse of his bruised knuckles. 

“You better not have broken your hand,” you warn him. “I plan on putting it to use tonight.”

“I’d touch you with two broken hands, baby. It’s only a hairline at most.” 

You bring your joined to your lips and kiss his knuckles. “Okay, Romeo, you have to promise me something: do not go killer on those paparazzi.”

Dave licks his teeth. “I won’t.”

“Not even a deadly glare.”

“I won’t.”

“They will shout at us and ask me invasive questions, and you cannot get mad.”

His jaw feathers and you know he doesn't want to make any promises. “Sweetheart…”

“Dave.” Your tone projects a warning. “They know you're responsible for my safety, but they need to like you.”

He frowns. “Are you saying I’m unlikeable?”

“You're very likeable,” you tell him, “and that's what will make this work.”

“This shit is exhausting,” says Dave. His brain feels taut from performing so many acrobatics. 

“That's the spotlight for you.”

Dave chuckles, shifting his hand to rest on your upper thigh. “You deserve that spotlight. And you make a beautiful cover model.”

Your ears perk up. “You have a copy of my Vogue?”

“And your Elle. Your Vanity Fair, your Cosmo…”

“Oh my God,” you say, smacking him lightly on the shoulder. “Do not tell me you had those before you met me.”

“I bought them a couple weeks ago. You were buying a coffee and I saw them on the stand nearby.” Dave shrugs. “Wasn't a question. I wanted them.”

“So…” Your voice takes a teasing tone, and you take his hand, dragging it slowly up your thigh. “You thought I looked pretty?”

Dave dimples your thigh when his fingers squeeze your soft flesh. “That goddamn dress,” he says, scolding himself as he feels his blood surge downward. Unsafe conditions for driving. “The one you wore for Viva.”

“What about it?” You're still guiding his hand past the hem of your dress, and Dave is trying—really trying—not to crash. 

He approaches the question tactically, aiming for objectivity. “It was, uh, red. Dark red, like blood. Or wine. There was a slit up the leg.”

It was elegance, grace, austerity. It was darkness and shadows and red lipstick that would leave stains on his skin. 

“Yeah…” His pinky finger is brushing against your lacy little thong now, and Dave veers onto the shoulder of the road, flicking on his hazards. 

Most times, he’ll let you win. But not tonight. 

“Open your legs,” he says plainly. 

“Dave,” you whisper, somewhat scandalised. “The reservation…”

“I said, open your legs. Go on.”

He watches your throat hollow as your breathing goes shallow. You spread your thighs as wide as you can with your seatbelt in the way. Dave inches his hand toward the apex of your thighs and hooks his finger in your panties, pulling them aside. He dips between your folds and gathers your arousal, spreading them to watch your wetness web between his fingers. 

It feels so filthy that your cheeks burn, but Dave puts his fingers at your lips and says, “You want to tease me so badly. Open up and let me stuff that smart mouth.”

Your lips part and his fingers slip inside. You hold his gaze as you swirl your tongue and gather your own tang, your adenoids prickling. 

Dave hums in appreciation. “You taste so sweet, baby. Don't you?” You nod around his fingers and he withdraws them. “Sit back and close your eyes. Keep them closed until I tell you.”

A thrum of excitement skitters down your spine as you obey, shutting out the world and squirming in anticipation of Dave’s touch. 

For a long while, he doesn't do a thing. You feel the car pull back onto the road and speed down the highway, but your wet, aching pussy is neglected. You whine, trailing your hand down your body until you reach your clit. Before you can even put your fingers on your pussy, a hand grasps your wrist. 

“Did I say you could touch yourself?”

“Dave,” you plead, acutely aware of your own petulance. “Please let me come.”

“We have to make our reservation, sweet girl,” he says, throwing your earlier words back in your face. “All part of the plan, right?”

You want his fingers—you’ll even take your own fingers at this point—but there's something about being so exposed in his car, your eyes closed and your needs tabled, that has your arousal peaking. “Dave, I need… please, let me…”

There are not many things Dave York could be persuaded to do if he does not want to. He does not want to neglect you. You look so needy, your brows pulling together and your thighs spread wide as you subtly grind on the air. Your nipples are stiff through your dress. And you're following his instructions, keeping your eyes closed even though he hasn't touched you. 

He is obsessed with you. Your name carves its sigil into his bones. He will never be rid of you. He will never want to cover the mark. 

“Touch yourself,” he says, “but don't come.”

You gasp your relief, your hand disappearing underneath your dress as you put your fingers to your clit. “Oh, God,” you mewl, your head lolling against the headrest as your back arches. “Oh, God, Dave. Feels so good.”

“Jesus Christ,” he says under his breath, clutching the wheel until his knuckles are white and aching. Two more left turns to make. He can swing two more left turns. 

“Fuck,” you moan, the slick noises of your fingers on your clit ringing in Dave’s ears, making him gnash his teeth. 

“Feels good, baby?” One more left. Your response is a broken little whimper. “You know how fucking crazy you drove me, touching yourself in your bedroom at night while you thought nobody could hear you?”

“How do you know… I thought… nobody could hear me?” you pant, your thighs trembling as you near your climax. “What if… I wanted… you to hear me?”

Dave stalls at the advanced green because he takes the chance and looks your way while he's stopped. You're flushed and breathing hard, your eyes still squeezed tightly shut, your body exhibiting the tells of an imminent orgasm. But you’re good. You won't let yourself come. 

The car behind him honks, and he makes the final left. The restaurant, Locales Chicago, is in his sights. “We’re here,” he tells you, clearing his throat when his voice doesn't sound quite right. He veers into the back of the parking lot and stops his car in a shadowy corner. It's dark, so no one has noticed the pair of you yet. 

“Open your eyes.”

You blink them open as if emerging from a trance, your eyes glazed and unfocused. You lock your gaze on Dave as your fingers continue to work yourself. “I’m… I’m gonna—”

Dave clicks his tongue. “No.”

You remove your fingers from your clit and lift them to your mouth, but Dave gently wraps his hand around your wrist and brings them to his own lips. You taste smooth and strong and he licks you clean right in front of your eyes. You watch, heavy-lidded, your orgasm slipping away. 

“Did you?” he asks, kissing your knuckles. You stare at him quizzically, your brain still foggy. “Did you want me to hear you, those nights you touched yourself?”

You bite your bottom lip and Dave runs his thumb across it. “If a girl comes alone in her bedroom and no one is around to hear it,” you say with a growing grin, “does she even make a sound?”

Dinner goes smoothly. Word will certainly spread about the bruised knuckles on Dave York’s hands and the way he glared daggers at the paparazzi. You tease him minimally over your appetisers because you know he’s been on edge all night: from dealing with a hard-on he can't resolve to grinning and bearing all the invasive questions about your father and your past “incidents” (you have to give it to the paps for their attempt at discretion). 

He's kept your engagement ring in his jacket all night. He could have left it at home, but you slipped it into the breast pocket before you left and told him you didn't want to part with it. The public can't see it yet, but he knows it's there. Still, it looks better on your finger. 

“I’m just saying, I refuse to believe everyone was too stupid to realise they were being fooled. Especially Anne, after all her big talk.”

“I think that's the point,” you offer. “The play is from Richard’s point of view, and if his ego is large enough to convince him that he’s winning, then that's what we all see. As for Anne?” You shrug your shoulders. “Chalk it up to Elizabethan sexism.”

“I don't think he has a big ego at all. I think he's so insecure that he overcompensates.”

“I think you're right. ‘Deform’d, unfinish’d, sent before my time…’”

“Seems like petty motivation to screw over everyone he knows.”

“Dave.” You lean in close, even though there isn't a soul who can hear you besides him. You're in a VIP booth, sitting on luxurious crimson velvet. “You killed a man because he skinned my knees.”

“That's not petty.” He isn't joking anymore. His gaze meets yours with stony sobriety. “That was justified.”

“Well, in any case, I have to admit that I’m upset you didn't like it.” You idly stir your mango ginger soup, faintly shaking your head. “Am I just vastly pretentious?”

“A pretentious person fakes their genius. You don't need to.”

“You get me so hot when you say things like that.”

“Funny girl.” Dave pokes at his salad and puts another beet on your plate. 

You accept his offering and give him an olive from your own salad in thanks. “Who says I’m joking?”

Dave’s leg brushes yours under the table and it raises goosebumps on his skin. “I like that you have a favourite Shakespeare play. I especially like how defensive you get when someone else doesn't.”

You kick him playfully. “I thought you were reading plays because you enjoyed them.”

“I read those plays because I wanted to impress you,” says Dave, “but I liked some of them, after all.”

You beam at him. “So you do have a favourite.”

“Save that talk for the bedroom, baby.”

“You’re such an asshole.” Fondly, your eyes roll, and you return to your soup. Dave continues to watch you for a while longer before he attends to the rest of his appetiser. 

He will never tell Barry, but Locales Chicago rivals his capacity for making a damn good meal. Or, maybe it's just the company. The servers treat you and Dave like the goddamn President and First Gentleman, punctual and attentive but never smothering. The dinner comes in three courses: the second, for Dave, is a vibrant shrimp ceviche, and for you, a buttery sole meunière that melts in your mouth; for dessert, the head chef herself brings you each a slice of their famous tiramisu. 

By the end of the night, you're delightfully full and pleasantly tipsy from two glasses of red wine. You and Dave manage to leave the restaurant through the back and avoid the paparazzi, who have not tired in their mission to photograph the pair of you despite a four-hour dinner date. By morning, entertainment news will be aflutter. The plan will be afoot. 

Dave holds your thigh all the way home and crowds you on the way to the door. Once you're both in the foyer, he wastes no time. He just grabs your face and kisses you. 

It starts sweet and slow, backing you against the wall as he licks your bottom lip and begs entry. You grant it, kissing him with equal fervour, sliding your hands under his suit jacket and warming them on his muscled back. He’s being gentle, his palms migrating down your arms and raising goosebumps as they go, but you know he wants more. He wants what has been denied all night. 

“Dave.”

He peers down at you, his eyes lidded and depthless, pitchers of inky water. You caress his jaw with your thumb and lower your voice to a near-whisper. “Get on your knees.”

It may be the moonlight or it may be a passing car that illuminates the black in his eyes. But it’s a passing glimmer, and it projects bone-deep thrill. Dave York sinks to his knees in front of you, kissing you all the way down. 

“Beautiful,” he murmurs into your belly, kneading your hips. You hum, your fingers threading through his messy locks. “You’re mine. My beautiful girl.” 

Your lips part when he nips your thigh, easing it apart from the other. “You killed a man today,” you whisper. 

“I’ve killed a lot of men. He wasn't the first and he won't be the last.” Dave lifts the hem of your dress so it bunches at your hips. He has a good view of your soaked panties from here on his knees. “It's the only way they learn, sweet girl.”

You shiver when he pulls your panties down your legs. “Learn what?”

“To treat you the way you deserve.”

Dave caresses your thigh, lifting it up onto his shoulder and spreading you wider for him. His thumb strokes your hip bone and his tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip, salivating at the sight of your wet pussy. 

“Dave…” You squirm slightly, raking your fingers through his hair. “If you don't let me come this time, I’m painting your entire office pink.”

He sinks his teeth into your thigh and you yelp. “I like hearing you too much not to let you come. So fucking beautiful. So… infuriating. Should lick that attitude right out of you.”

Your head drops back against the wall. “You don't want that.”

“No, I want you just like this,” he says, pressing a soft kiss to your clit. It wrecks your whole body with shivers. “Tell me what to do.”

“Lick my pussy,” you plead. “Make me come.”

He'd be fucking delighted. He grips your thighs to help you balance and dips his tongue between your folds, lapping up your tangy wetness. He’s familiar with your taste by now, but he’ll never tire of giving you pleasure. He craves it. He dreams about it. Now, though, he can simply roll over in bed and make it tangible. 

You whimper, his name tumbling from your lips. He only squeezes your flesh harder and closes his eyes as he pulls your clit between his lips and sucks. A faint buzzing sensation envelops him: his chest warms from the inside out, tingles pricking at his skin, his mind pleasantly numb to everything except for this. Making you feel good. 

He loves it. Loves being with you, laughing with you, trading superfluous thoughts, making real conversation. Loves never having to fake a thing or pretend he is something he isn't. He loves the way the world and all its details feel so extraneous when he’s alone in a room with you. 

He loves you. 

Dave loses himself chasing your pleasure, relishing the tremble of your thighs in his grasp and the panting moans that fall freely from you. He cannot help the groans that start in his chest and vibrate through your clit. His dick is straining against his pants and he just knows it would feel so fucking tight and slick and warm to bury himself inside your cunt. He’d stay there for hours and fill you with him until it fucking took. 

This isn't about him and his whims. It's about the noises you're making, begging for more, more, more, and it’s the movement of your hips. It’s about making you putty in his hands. It's about you trusting him to give you what you need. 

There is no explanation but love. It wraps its tendrils around him. It sings. 

“Oh my God,” you rasp, your voice pitching up into a needy little whine. You're fisting Dave’s hair and grinding your hips against his face, which means you're close. He grunts, flicking his tongue greedily against your clit like a cat after milk. “Oh, fuck! Dave! Gonna… ah, I’m coming—!”

Dave presses the flat of his tongue against your clit and wiggles it as your body seizes. Your pussy convulses, pumping clear juices out of your tight little hole that Dave drinks down—maybe overzealously. He licks you through your orgasm, long paths through your slit, until he's taken everything from you. 

You gasp, one final ragged inhale, before you slump into the wall, teetering, your eyes teary and your flesh shining with dewy sweat. Dave hums, pleased with the way you melt into his touch as he leaves slow, soft kisses along your thigh. 

“Don’t let me fall,” you croak. 

“Never.” He rises to his feet and cups the back of your neck. “Look at me, sweetheart. Need to know you can.”

You blink sleepily, grinning up at him and bumping your nose into his cheek. “Mmm. I’m right here.”

Dave traces his thumb along your bottom lip and brings his mouth to yours. He slides his palms across your back and keeps the kiss short, letting you catch your breath. Instead, he shifts to your neck, nipping the skin beneath your ear that still smells of your perfume. You're a toxin: the kind that keeps him coming back though he knows it will consume him from the inside. Because he knows it will destroy him. 

Your sigh is happy and satiated, your nails scratching at the nape of his neck. 

“By the way,” you whisper, “I love you, too.”

[cozylittlepigeon]

Oh this is heart wrenchingly beautiful...thank you for sharing! ❤️

no more runnin'

demon!joel miller x f!reader

words: 468

summary: joel comes to collect what you owe him.

warnings: dead dove do not read, major character death (reader), implied suicide, christian concepts of life and death, description of a self-inflicted wound, I wrote this because I needed a good cry and I was processing some feelings that I needed to feel even though they were painful.

PLEASE MAKE SURE YOU READ THE WARNINGS.

viewer discretion is advised. you are responsible for the media you consume.

If you or someone you know is in crisis Call or text the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline at 988 (para ayuda en español, llame al 988). The Lifeline provides 24-hour, confidential support to anyone in suicidal crisis or emotional distress.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

He found you there. He had a habit of being places he shouldn’t, seeing things he wasn’t supposed to see. Of finding people who didn’t want to be found. 

That was why he was there, after all. He had come calling for what he was owed. And you were finally ready to pay up. 

“No more runnin’, huh?” Joel asked, crouching down. He reached out, brushing your cheek with the back of his knuckles. 

“No more runnin’,” you rasp. 

“Coulda just told me,” he said, picking up your limp hand and inspecting the weeping wound below it. “I never said it hadta be painful. Coulda gone in your sleep.”

You manage a half shrug. “Maybe I wanted to say goodbye.”

He sighs, looking down at the damp concrete. “I would have given ya that, too,” he says. 

You close your eyes, not wanting him to see the tears, but they slip free anyway. He brushes them away with a swipe of his thumb. 

“Ah, shit,” he mutters. “It’s alright. I got ya. You’re not alone.”

He sits down beside you against the brick wall and pulls you into his arms. “This is why I don’t give extra time,” he murmurs into your hair. “It’s always harder, sweetheart.”

“My own damn fault,” you say, a shaky laugh through tears. “Goin’ and fallin’ for the fuckin’ demon I sold my soul to.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly discourage ya, did I? But you know I can’t… I don’t…”

“I know,” you whisper. “No heart. Part of the whole arrangement. I don’t believe it for a second.”

“You’re a foolish girl,” he says, but there’s no heat behind it. “I was gonna give you a pass. Gonna risk my fuckin’ neck to send you off to someplace better. But you’ve gone and condemned yourself, darlin.’ Why would you do this?”

“You’ll be there,” you admit. 

“Ah, darlin’,” he said, voice strained. “You ain’t gonna remember me. I’m sorry.”

“Will you remember me?” You ask, voice cracking. Your breathing is shallow, unsteady. 

He knows it’s almost time. He tilts your chin up, pressing his lips to yours. It’s slow and tender, nothing like the rushed and frantic clash of flesh and teeth that you’re used to.

“I could never forget you,” he assures. It’s true, but you can’t be sure. Like he’d say anything else right now, give you anything other than what you need to hear in this moment. 

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, cradling your head to his chest. “You can close your eyes. I’ll stay with ya.”

“Okay,” you whisper. Your lids are heavy, burdened by tear-laden lashes and too many years, too many losses. You relax against him, feeling the press of his lips on the top of your head once, twice, thrice, until you feel no more. 

[cozylittlepigeon]

Well, my goodness...I am a puddle, I'm weak and I'm yearning...this is beautiful!

touch me. move me.

javier peña x f!reader wordcount: 910 warnings: smut. just ridin', after thigh ridin'.

Javier’s mouth lingers against your breastbone, his warm breath unfurling in soft trails along your skin.

Thick beads of sweat slip down your spine, skimming and sliding as his fingers dig further into your hip. It’s almost bruising, biting, likely leaving a pattern as you bear down. Hoping later you’ll be able to run your hands over each mark, even if his grip is nothing but guiding, aiding.

He’s perfect inside of you.

Real; something that's not formed of dreams or fantasies, chest heaving as you sink down, slow, inch by inch, a roll of your hips—dragging your needy, swollen pussy up and down, up and down.

There are still lines of silvery pre-come scratched across his lower stomach, drying in the hair around his naval. It’s there from when you’d stained his jeans, dragged your slickened folds against the rough fabric—him wanting his pleasure drawn out, wanna watch you come first. A glint in his eyes, lips moulding over yours until he’d whispered, no demanded—úsame, hermosa, you can use me.

You did, had done. Riding his thigh, chin lifted, eyes taking in his ceiling and the fan which struggled to disperse the thickening heat. His sofa had groaned when his leg raised, forcing his covered thigh up against you, scratchy, your chest heaving—pleasure desperate, it trying to rip its way through you, clawing. One hand on your waist, ribs expanding as you choke on mews, the other hand on his freed cock, it twitching, not able to take his fucking eyes from you—need to fuck you, Peña.

Now you are. A reward for being good, he’d smirked. His eyes now taking you in atop him, brown depths, holes. Enough to dive into, drown. Ravenous, incensed, it’s all utterly maddening as his thrusts meet yours, his fingers sliding up your neck. They catch, his nails, as your pussy makes vulgar noises around him, it grounding you as his lewd mouth slants over yours. Overcome by it all, every scent, every sound and the pleasure that shouldn’t be there for him, but it is, it is, it is.

You disliked him, or you did half a year ago. It had changed thirteen weeks ago, having found yourself introduced to his bedsheets, to how his bedframe clangs against the wall—plaster crumbling as he hissed in your ear.

The way the two of you have been, you’re surprised it’s not a crater, a cavity signed with your initials and his.

Been thinking about you all day. A shiver sparks down your throat as his voice pulls you back, his teeth grazing against your jaw—eyes finding yours, dark, voracious. You're lightheaded from it, your pussy spasms as a whine forcing its way out.

Too good, you think. Too good at this.

At knowing the spots, the ways he can undo you, turning you into a tangled mess, a puddle, a mess. The room is thick with sin, sweat, all heady—his thumb pressing to your swollen nerves, circling, nodding as you emit a needy cry as if knowing. Taunting. Always cocky, always having a right to be.

But beneath that hardened exterior, you know a truth few others see: he’s sweet—or can be. Less gruff, less heavy, a man who, in another life, might laugh deeply instead of hiding it behind a snort. He licks into your mouth, carrying a faint trace of smoke, a dark, lingering burnt taste. A dusky stain—one you cling to, let the hint of fire and ash burn your lungs.

Your movement flows in reaction, molten, magnetic, sticky fingers pressing to your neck as he leaves your clit. His eyes lock on you, a silent devotion, mouth agape as you take him to the root, fluttering, pressure building.

It builds, feverish—humming in your ears, a rush in your veins.

He’s so deep it’s unforgiving, hitting deep, skin prickling. Close, I’m close. His voice an anchor, eyes meeting his, body rolling with him, fingers tangled in the longer strands close to his neck. I know, let me have it. Hips snapping to his, almost trembling—face buried in his neck as you moan. The pace faster, praise there nestled between hisses, occasionally breaking through, forming words, good girl, like that.

You keen. Aware, distantly, of nails digging into his skin, piercing, leaving half-moons as your skin burns, it all thick around your neck as your lower stomach becomes nothing but molten heat, lungs utterly breathless. His hand, large, all deft fingers, palms at your breast, nipple pinched between thumb and finger, tongue laving at your neck, teeth grazing. It building, and building. It overtaking, mind rendering—

You tighten, clench—hearing nothing but white noise.

Then, it’s blistering heat. Every other sense fading, dissolving—pleasure flooding you. It spurns, rips up from somewhere. All static, a choked wail in your throat as you uncoil and his grip tightens, likely deepening the shade of your skin under the pressure as his cock pushes you through it, chanting his name, Javier, Javier, Javier.

Over-blissed, you feel his release. A pulse, him spilling into you with a grunt that’s bitten back—hissing it through his teeth, tip of his tongue there as his hips shudder, jolt.

You don’t dare move, simply melt into him, muscles yielding as you dissolve together into a seamless tangle of limbs. Skin sweat-slicked, seeing the wrecked look on his face—admiring it.

His gaze drops to where the two of you meet, yours following. Seeing the sight of his and your pleasure on the inside of your thighs, leaking out—staring down as he pulls himself from you with a whimper—seeing how it glistens, shimmers. His fingers are the second reason you gasp, two of them, swiping across your flesh as he lifts it, playing with it, coating his touch in your two’s pleasure, bringing it to his lips as you watch, in awe, captivated.

Then you crash your mouth to his, lips bruising—devouring, feasting.

“Stay,” he asks.

You smile against his mouth.

AN: drabbles may be posted here. but series/one shots will still live over on AO3.

[cozylittlepigeon]

Yes.

okay but jackson!joel with just a towel round his waist, fresh out the shower. his longer hair slicked back over his head and curling at the nape of his neck, water dripping down his broad, freckled shoulders. he’s trimming the greying scruff along his jaw in the mirror, dragging the razor across his skin, brow furrowed with concentration, thick forearms flexing. you watch from the bed: he’d just fucked you into the mattress, left you too sleepy and sated to even try to join him. don’t get rid of it all, you warn him. he chuckles, turning to face you: i won’t, baby. i know how you like it.

blame @ovaryacted as per fucking usual

[cozylittlepigeon]

Holy moly this was hot and so so lovely

The Hitman's Guide to Getting the Girl: Chapter 4 [dave york x f!reader]

It's just another job, until Dave York decides to kidnap an enemy’s wiseass daughter. It’s just another job, until he falls in love.

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 4 | chapter 5 | chapter 6 | chapter 7 | chapter 8

series masterlist

status: complete

chapter 4 summary: Spiralling toward the ground with you.

pairing: dave york x f!reader

rating: 18+ (mdni)

tags and warnings for entire fic: kidnapping, murder, violence, the world being horrible to women, reader having a very terrible sense of self-preservation, unprotected piv, oral sex (m and f receiving), dave york finding his second calling as a pussy-eating god, pining, possessive sex, jealousy, daddy issues, (stockholm syndrome?), dirty talk, actually filthy talk, hitmen and politicians, revenge, scary man with a soft spot for his woman, philosophical foreplay, tramp stamp worship (you'll see), a little sprinkle of breeding kink if you look hard enough, obsessive behaviour, anal fingering, anal sex, implied age gap, light dom/sub vibes, light bondage

tags and warnings for this chapter: violence, mugging, more pretentious allusions, angst, oral sex (m and f receiving), dave york is a m u n c h, angry dave, protective dave, unprotected piv (learn by example, just not mine), creampie, multiple sex positions, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, tramp stamp worship, talk of marriage, pining, soft dave, biting, extremely possessive behaviour

word count: ~ 8.6k (oops)

for everyone reading who has been screaming at me for these two to fuck, don't say i never gave you anything.

chapter 4: and though i burn, how could i fall?

JUNE

There's pepper spray inside your purse. 

Not many women go without some sort of weapon in this city. Many women never get the opportunity to use it. 

Here's the thing about being a woman: if you're in the wrong place at the wrong time, you're shit out of luck; and if you’re in the right place, but you still happen to be a woman, you aren't necessarily in the clear, either. 

There's a shortcut between a cannabis shop and a variety store on State Street that you used to take when you snuck out of your father’s penthouse. It is, evidently, the wrong place. This means that there is no wrong time, because they're all bad. 

This is why you carry pepper spray. 

It’s just approaching noon, and the alleyway is empty. You hurry through it and do not stop when the rough male voice calls to you. (Maybe he is not calling to you, but when you're a woman, you have to assume he is.) 

Sometimes, a man has a gun, and is not necessarily looking for a woman. Just… a person. This is one of those times. 

The cool barrel of the .45 will leave a temporary dent in your temple. 

“I want your wallet and all your jewellery or I will shoot you in the head.”

He speaks with a tremulous cadence. He's nervous, or he's on something. “I’m lifting my hands to show I’m unarmed,” you tell him. “There's pepper spray in my bag. Is your gun loaded?”

“What?” he spits. From here, you can't see his face, only smell his breath. He hasn't been drinking. 

A desperate man taking advantage of a woman who’s all alone. Get a new shtick. 

“I’m asking if your gun is loaded, or if you're only trying to scare me. I’m going to give you my things either way, so you don't have to worry about me running.”

The barrel presses harder against your head. “Give me your goddamn money, bitch. No fucking games.”

“No games,” you say evenly. “I don't want to die. But you haven't fired, even though I haven't given you anything.”

The man spits on your Louboutin shoes and rips the bag off your shoulder. “Take out your earrings. And your watch.”

A little forlorn to see your gold Cartier watch go (no matter how superficial), you unbuckle it slowly and place it in his palm. “Please be nice to it.”

The man shoves you hard between your shoulder blades, removing your balance and sending you toppling to the dusty asphalt. You barely catch yourself with your hands. “Stay on the fucking ground. Earrings, now.”

As you remove your earrings with shaky, raw hands, the man drops the gun from your head and rifles through your purse. Pulling out your wallet, he flips through a number of bills like he's shuffling cards, and stops short at a small white card. You frown up at his ashen face and try to remember putting a card like that in your wallet. 

“Oh, shit,” he murmurs, his fingers trembling around the card. He shoves it back into your wallet and drops the entire thing like it's stung him. “Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. I’m… Uh, I’m sorry, ma'am.” 

He drops to one knee and fastens your watch back around your wrist himself. 

You're too stunned to move, so he helps you stand back on your feet. Then, he picks up your wallet and puts your bag back on your shoulder. “Here. I’m—shit, I’m really sorry. Please don't tell him. Please just…”

Trailing off, he backs out of the alley and runs with his tail on fire. You look down at your hands, flecked with blood and asphalt, and wonder if you put out some sort of magical repellent hormones. It's only when you pull the card out of your wallet that you realise why he gave up. 

It's Dave’s business card. 

You call Ari to come pick you up because you know he won't make a fuss the way his boss will. “You get into a fight with the ground?” he says good-naturedly, eyeing your scraped knees. “Or blow a rock monster?”

You roll your eyes. “Almost got mugged.”

Ari whistles. “That’ll be fun to tell him.”

You laugh, still a bit winded from the fall. “I don't think I’ll tease him much. He's the one who got me out of it.” You flash Ari the business card and he bursts out laughing. 

“Jesus Christ. You're one lucky girl.”

“Tell me about it.”

Dave York’s anger is chilling. He starts on a simmer, exhibiting telltale signs of faltering restraint. As you sit on his desk, your scraped knees on display and your palms facing the ceiling, he kneels in front of you and cleans the cuts himself. If the injuries were any greater, he would have his on-call medic tend to you, but you know he doesn't trust himself around anyone but you right now. 

His hand is wrapped around your ankle as he cleans the dirt from your wounds. Your fingers idly comb through his hair, which has him resting his head against your thigh. He's in the simmering stage: his eyes are hard, his jaw taut, his movements calculated no matter how gentle. He's on autopilot, trying to steer himself back to reality, where he's got you in his care and you're safe and he’s the one who can make you feel better. 

But he wasn't there when you needed him. 

“Honey,” you say softly, your hand slipping to the back of his neck to urge his eyes upward. “You know I’m okay, right? He could have done a lot worse.”

Dave dabs a warm cloth over the dried blood and blinks away the red mist. “Do you remember what he looks like?”

The dangerous tone to his voice trembles down your spine. He’s a killer. “Yeah. I do.”

“Good.” He squeezes your ankle and shifts to your other knee. “I’m not going to let him live.”

You dip your head in understanding. “I know.”

He cleans your other knee and rises, looking down at you and searching for any traces of fear in your eyes. He only sees sleepy fondness and wonders what he's done to warrant a look like that. “You saved me, Dave,” you tell him. 

“I wasn't there,” he says gruffly, averting his eyes to your palms. They're speckled with gravel and blood, like your knees, but they took the biggest beating. Dave’s anger notches up; now, it’s a rolling boil. “I wasn't there.”

“He took one look at your card and bolted.” You give him a wry smile. “I don't give out free advertising. So it must have been you who put that card in my wallet.”

It's the only consolation Dave finds in the situation: just his name is enough to sway some people away from taking a blade to his most vulnerable organ. He cups his hand at the nap of your neck and drops his forehead to yours. “It shouldn't have been you,” he says.

The conviction in his voice startles you into stillness. He truly believes that you're something special, something altogether different from the humanity he knows. In Dave York’s eyes, you're above the rest of the world, and thinking like that could get dangerous. 

It means he will do anything. And stop at nothing. 

But if there's one thing you've learned from your time with him, it's that you enable. And enable. And enable. So you do nothing to deter him. 

You nudge your nose against his, letting him feel with complete certainty that you're here, and let your eyes shutter as you lean forward and kiss him. 

Dave inhales sharply, his senses saturated by your perfume. It's all he smells as he finally, finally, kisses you. Your lips taste like the cherry balm you always slide on with your ring finger. The kiss is soft when it begins. He drops the cloth and snakes his arm around your waist, his palm pressed against the tattoo on your lower back. Your shirt lifts as you wind your arms around his neck, and he sighs, pushing you closer until your body bows to the shape of him. 

He can't stop. Christ, you're so soft. Kissing you is an opiate. He's drowning in the taste, losing his mind, dragging himself along the floor toward you for another hit. 

You're smiling into his mouth, your fingernails scratching at the nape of his neck. Dave grunts, damn near purring at the feeling, the neurons in his brain merging into a picture of you. You're all he wants to know. 

You pull away first, and Dave chases you briefly, his hand tightening at your hip. He kneads it in his palm as he blinks, approaching clarity. You’ve made a tousled mess of his dark hair. “Footsteps,” you whisper to Dave, your lips ghosting the spot just beneath his ear. 

His hearing sharpens just in time to guide you off the desk and help you adjust your shirt. “Later,” he says, cupping your face and pressing a kiss to your nose. “We’ll continue this later.”

You beam up at him and brush your hand softly against his steel-hard erection. “Can you wait until later, Mr. York?”

His breathing turns jagged and his eyes darken to black. “Careful, pretty girl.”

The footsteps grow louder, so you separate your bodies, letting your fingers dance upon his palm before you occupy the seat across from his desk. “You gonna go killer on me?” you tease.

“Never you, baby.” Dave sits at his desk and adjusts his pants. “Maybe a couple people who did you wrong.”

“My hero.”

That’ll be the fucking day. 

“Hey, boss.” Kovac leans against the doorframe. “Sorry to interrupt. Hey, sweetie.”

“Hi, Johnny.” You give him a cute little wave, and Dave hides his smile behind his hand as he rubs it over his jaw. “Exciting news?”

“Just a call for the asshole,” says Kovac. “From another asshole. It’s Robert Shipman.”

Dave licks his teeth and nods, jerking his chin to signal to Kovac that he wants the door closed. The latter leaves you and Dave alone with his blinking line. “Dave,” you say cautiously, “why is Robert Shipman calling you?”

“Because of you, baby. Come here.” He takes your hand and guides you around the desk. You sit sideways in his lap as he picks up the phone, pressing a kiss to your jaw before he sobers, greeting Shipman with cool professionalism. 

“I have a question for you, Mr. Shipman,” says Dave, his fingers slipping underneath your shirt and tracing the wings on your tattoo. “What were you doing on, say, the eighth of September two years ago?”

Dave notices your head dip slightly and nudges his nose gently into your throat, his thumb stroking over your lower vertebrae. “You don't remember?” Dave hums sadly, as if he's lamenting the discontinuation of a really good dish. “That’s too bad, Mr. Shipman. I’ll jog your memory if you'd like.

“You spent the first part of the evening dining at the Oriole. You had steak frites and shared a bottle of Prosecco with your wife. When you left the restaurant, it was eleven o’clock, and you took a trip to a very nice home that wasn't yours. There, you had your men disable the home’s security system. The woman inside was home alone, sleeping in her bed. You took her from her bed, sedated her, and threw her in the trunk of your car. Is this beginning to sound familiar?”

You wrap and unravel Dave’s tie around your hand repeatedly as you recall that night. The first terror of many. The jolt of waking to a needle at your throat, the cold, sticky hands, the ascent of cloying fear in your throat as your scream died and you succumbed to the poison they pumped inside you. 

Dave holds you close to him, his gaze on you all the while. Tears prick the corners of your eyes and turn your irises into varnished paintings. Softly, he swipes his thumb across your cheek. “Did you get what you wanted that night, Mr. Shipman?” he says darkly. “Did you get your dirty money? How much did you ask for?”

Shipman must say something very stupid, because Dave laughs, and all you hear is a hollow knock against the walls of a pitch-black tunnel. 

“I want you to unlock your phone and take a look at the news.”

There's silence for a while. Your fidgeting doesn't bother Dave; he lets you adjust his clothes as much as you want, his hand caressing your back—up and down, down and up. It makes you melt against him, your eyes open and studying his face. Shutting out the memory of the first time you were taken from your home. 

“Don't count on buying your way out of this,” says Dave. “You’ll find your accounts have been compromised. You should have answered differently. 

“No. You’re right. It wouldn't make a difference. I’ll see you soon, Mr. Shipman.”

When Dave hangs up, neither of you speak for a moment. It’s you, fiddling with the end of his tie, who elects to break the silence. Your voice shivers on the way out. “How long have you been reading up on them?”

“Since the night you told me,” says Dave, his hand overlapping with yours. You feel his strong, steady heartbeat pick up speed under your touch. “The Post is plastered with evidence of him cheating on his wife. A newly soiled reputation should do nicely to ruin any chances of taking his father’s spot in their company.”

“And where are you putting his money?”

“How does a children’s hospital sound?”

“Like music to my ears.” You smile through your tears, tracing his jawline with your fingers. “Why are you doing this, Dave? You don't need my forgiveness. You never treated me the way they have.”

Dave shakes his head. “I’m not asking for forgiveness. I’m doing something good, for once in my life, with the skills I have. I never want you to know fear like you have before.”

You let out a small sob. “Fear is healthy for the mind,” you point out. “Stimulates the system and all that.”

Dave tuts, his palm warm and rough on your back. “You've had enough of it for three lifetimes. I want to help you rest.” His brown eyes plead with you to see what you already know. “This is how I can be good to you, baby. Will you let me?” 

You scan his eyes, memorising shapes in his irises as they contort with the smallest changes in the light.  “What are you looking at?” he asks. 

“I’m looking at you.”

His brow twitches, telegraphing his disbelief, and you smooth it over with your thumb. “Find anything?” he asks in a hushed voice. 

“People have tried to please me and screw me over and manipulate me.” You bite your lower lip, and Dave’s gaze drops. “They never try to be honest with me.”

“People are shitty,” he murmurs, eyes still fixed to your mouth. 

“So cynical,” you whisper, leaning in close, prolonging the torment. 

Dave is a patient man, but with you, he's borderline petulant. He meets you in the middle, surging upward and kissing you deeply. 

He's a cynic, sure, but humanity cannot be all bad when you're a part of it. 

Tracing his tongue along your lower lip, Dave licks his way into your mouth and tugs you on top of him so you're straddling his thighs. You gasp, giving him more space to deepen the kiss, your arms around his neck to keep you secure. 

He keeps you pinned to him, his hand firm at the nape of your neck and the other bowing your lower back so your chest is pressed against his. “Won't someone come in?” you whisper when he gives you room to breathe. 

“Not if they want to keep breathing,” he grumbles. 

You roll your eyes fondly and brush his hair back from his face. “Just take me to bed, Dave.”

He can do that. 

He kicks everyone out of his house with a single gesture to Kovac, breezing past them with your hand in his. They will all know perfectly well what you both intend to do. Good. They’ll also know to keep their mouths shut about it. 

He can't keep his hands off for very long. He tugs you toward him, fitting you to his chest and kissing you again before you reach his bedroom. You stumble through the doorway, grasping blindly at the buttons of his dress shirt, as Dave kicks the door shut with his heel. 

He bunches the fabric of your shirt in his fist like he’s fed up with its presence. You laugh into his mouth and he swallows it down greedily, tugging at your hem as he keeps his lips on you. They migrate from your mouth as he shucks your shirt up over your head, turning you around and putting his mouth to your neck. 

“Dave,” you gasp, your hand flying back to dig your fingers into his hair as your bra falls to the floor. He sucks on the erogenous zone just beneath your ear, his palm pressed flat to your belly while the other gently slides up your side and squeezes your breast. 

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he mumbles, drowning in the feel of your soft skin in his palms. This is where he belongs. This is his path. 

He's flapping his wax wings toward the sun and burning up in the warmth of your body. 

You moan softly when Dave sucks a bruise into your throat, his fingers flexing against your belly at the sound. Fuck, he's going crazy. Any more sweet little noises from your lips and he's going to come in his goddamn pants. 

“Didn’t think hickeys were your style,” you say breathlessly, tilting your head to give him better access. 

He huffs against your skin, nipping your earlobe. “You thought about me?”

“Too often for my own good,” you tell him. “I know you thought about me, too.”

Dave hums, pressing a kiss between your shoulder blades. He begins to descend, his lips at every knob of your spine, until he's on his knees behind you. “I’m always thinking about you. Your little wisdoms and your tight fucking dresses. Drive me up the wall.”

You grin, shivers coursing through your body as you feel Dave’s mouth on your lower back, between the black wings.  “But I’m a lot of fun.”

“That you are,” says Dave, bunching the fabric of your skirt in his fingers. He nudges his nose playfully into your lower back, making you laugh. “Relax, pretty girl. Let me take this off.”

You do. He takes his time undressing you, slipping your skirt down your thighs and then hooking his fingers in the waistband of your lacy white panties. He utters a curse, his cock straining against his zipper. His arousal is beginning to cloud his judgement, but making you gasp and squirm under his touch is the reward for his patience. 

White lace. Of course. Achingly slowly, he brings your panties down your legs. “What are you thinking about?”

There's a wet spot in your underwear where you've been dripping for him, and you're rubbing your thighs together to alleviate the pressure in your core. Dave clicks his tongue. “No, baby, keep ‘em open. Want to see what I do to you. Answer my question.”

“Would you believe me if I told you I’m thinking about hedonism?” 

He presses his mouth to your tattoo in a long, open-mouthed kiss. “Funny. So am I.”

“It was the first thing I did when I turned eighteen,” you tell him, closing your eyes and savouring the feel of his warm tongue on your body, licking your inked skin like you're made of honey. “Used up all my allowance. Never told Dad.”

“Bad girl,” he tuts, playfully biting into the flesh of your ass. You giggle, pleased with yourself, and Dave rises to his feet with a soft kiss to the nape of your neck. “So sweet and so bad for me.”

The look in his eyes should frighten you. His pupils are saucers, black as the chilling vacuum of space, and his eyes are hungry. There’s something ravenous in those depths, something that ignites an old instinct in you to run. 

But you don't flee. His rough, worn hands are gentle around your waist and his lips meet your injured palms. He isn't like the men who have harmed you before. He’s Dave. 

His hunger is your Hedon. 

“Lie on the bed,” he says plainly. 

You do. Shuffling backward on his king mattress takes a moment of your time, but Dave watches as he stalks toward you, kneeling on the bed and lifting your ankle to press a kiss to the bone. 

“You won’t stay in the other room anymore,” he says. “You’ll be in my bed, next to me, every night.”

“Well, you should be on top of me right now, and you aren't. We can't always get what we—”

You're cut short when Dave lowers his hand between your legs and trails two fingers through your soaking wet slit. “Oh,” you shudder out. 

“Are you going to be a good girl and tell me what you want? Or will you make me wring it out of you?”

You circle your hips slightly in his direction, your brows curving upward in the middle. He likes this, the bastard. He likes you speechless as much as he likes your wicked tongue. “I want you to make me feel good.”

He nods, settling between your open legs. “I can do that, sweet girl.”

You nod in turn, a little more vigorously. “You should know,” you say, “I’m loud in bed.”

Dave laughs. “I know, baby. I can hear you when you touch yourself.”

You don't look mortified or outraged. You’re too far gone, too wet and warm, to care about his eavesdropping activities. Maybe you've known all along. “I think about your tongue and your fingers,” you tell him, your eyes droopy and dark with lust. “I think about you taking me, fucking me deep, and if I’m lucky, I dream about it, too.”

“When did that start?” he muses, his eyes indulging in you, exploring all the parts of you he only imagined until tonight. Your knees are still skinned and your palms still raw, but there is no place for anger in this room. Not with you. 

“You brought me an omelette,” you say softly, your eyes so soft and vulnerable in the dim light that his chest aches. “And you spoke to me, even though I knew you didn't want to.”

“I wanted to,” he says, stroking your hip bone with his thumb. “I didn't let myself want it. But Jesus, you were good, baby. Drew me right in.”

“I liked that you’re kind to me,” you tell him, “even when you’re a dick to everyone else. I liked your sharp mind. I liked the way you drink your coffee.”

He doesn't think he drinks coffee any differently from other people. But he remembers that he’s obsessed with the way you hold a pencil and the way your brow furrows when you concentrate and the way your eyes flutter when you taste something you like. He’s always been weak for you.

In a world that forces him to show his strength at all times, locking himself inside his bedroom with you and shedding the bravado at the door is yet another reprieve you've brought him. 

Your leg closes around his hip. “I guess I like a dangerous man.”

He lifts an amused brow. “Should we be worried about that?”

“Maybe,” you concede. “But not tonight.”

He agrees. “Spread your legs like a good girl.”

You make a show of it. You drag your hands down your thighs and ease them open so Dave can fit comfortably between, revealing your wet pussy to him. You glisten under the soft glow of the lamp on his nightstand. Outside, crickets croon, and the faint smattering of rain heralds whistling wind. The world carries on outside, but for all he knows, the Earth has stopped spinning. 

When he dips his fingers between your legs and your head falls to the pillow, he kickstarts it back into motion. 

“Shit,” you whisper, watching his fingers collect the wetness between your folds. “Dave…”

“Been a long time?” he asks, as if he could ever be upset that you haven’t been having sex with other men. 

You're already soaking from his teasing, and when he pushes a finger inside you, curling it upward with tactical precision, colours burst on your eyelids. 

“The kidnapping sort of… took the wind… out of my sails,” you pant, clutching the sheets beside you as Dave’s palm rubs relentlessly against your clit. 

“That's a shame.” Dave adds another finger, his free hand digging bruises into your thigh. You cry out, grasping for his wrist, a futile attempt to feel grounded when you're already floating. “You might’ve wanted to go and marry some senator.”

“Senators are boring.” You’re writhing, grinding into his palm, and realising very quickly that Dave York knows your body as well as he knows your heart. “Do you know how many politicians want to fuck me?”

Dave curls his fingers again, feeling your hot, wet muscles contract around him. “Maybe I should let them know,” he says quietly, shifting so he can lean over your body, “that you're spoken for.”

The rapid rise and fall of your chest is telling. You're spiralling fast. “Am I?”

Dave lowers his head and takes one of your nipples into his mouth, circling it with his tongue. You thread your fingers through his hair, keeping his mouth fixed to you, as his fingers continue to apply pressure to your g-spot and his palm on your clit creates the friction you need. 

The stimulation crackles up your spine with all the warning of a lightning strike. You can't warn him that you’re coming because you already are, your body seizing, your stomach tightening, and your mouth falling open in a long, loud moan as you clamp down on Dave’s fingers. Tugging him up toward you, your mouth finds the first thing it can find, biting down on the juncture of his neck and shoulder as you ride out your orgasm. 

Dave grunts, uttering your name like a prayer, gently fucking you with his fingers to help you come down while he litters your neck with kisses. “That’s it, baby. That’s my pretty girl. So pretty when you come.”

The dirty praise ignites you all over again. Touching yourself to a feeble orgasm does not compare to this. This is electrical ecstasy. This is Dave York taking your pleasure into his hands, moulding your body how he likes, giving you what you need, because he knows. 

“I’m yours,” you tell him, bumping your nose against his jaw. He pulls back slightly to look down at you, his brown eyes sparkling with pride and withheld desire. 

“Open your mouth,” he says. The command crackles at your fingertips. 

Your lips part at the same time you feel his fingers slide from you. Dave places the pads of his fingers on your tongue. You taste yourself, closing your lips around them, the tang and warmth filling you as you suck his digits clean.

When his fingers leave your mouth, Dave holds your jaw in place. “Are you spoken for?” he asks. 

You nod as best you can. “I am.”

He hums, dipping his head to lick a stripe up the hollow of your throat, his hands ghosting up and down your sides. “Do you want a dirty fucking senator to lick your pussy?”

“No,” you gasp, baring your throat to him. 

He nips at you like a vampire, migrating down your body. His mouth trails down your sternum, tattooing himself on you. “No,” he echoes, his tone a little harder. “You're too good for any of them. Too young for half of them. Too… fucking… perfect.”

You whimper and squirm, impatient by the time he finds your navel, kissing just beneath your bellybutton. “I’m not perfect,” you manage, though it sounds like one long exhale. “And I’m probably too young for you, too.”

“Mmm.” He sounds unconvinced, but it may just be the distracting pull of arousal and the thrill of being so close to your wet pussy. He gives your clit an experimental lick and grins when you moan his name. “You don't want another man, sweet girl. You want me.”

“I want you.” Head thrown back, lips barely moving. 

“Look at me when you say it.”

You raise your head from the pillows and meet his eyes. You can feel yourself falling into their depths, and the world stops once more. 

You have the power to make it turn again. 

Your lips part, and they form the words. 

“I’m yours.”

Outside, the proverbial gears begin to grind. Several trillion stars slot into place. You're where you belong. 

Dave’s tongue travels slowly between your folds, slathering your cunt in his saliva. Your head falls and your back bows, a wanton groan fleeing your mouth. No more shackles. No restraints. 

It doesn't take much for Dave to lose himself. The first taste has him craving more, so he dives back in, sucking your clit into his mouth. Instinctively, his fingers flex, desperate for something to hold onto. Your legs close around his ears as you cry out and he has his solution. He wraps his arms around your thighs, his fingers dimpling your soft flesh, as he licks and kisses your pussy until he's making out with it. 

“Oh! Yes!” You thread your fingers through his hair, feeling him groan into your cunt, his fingers squeezing hard when you tug on his hair. He's building you back up fast, licking at your sensitive clit until it bursts as sparks in your blood and soothing it by wiggling the flat of his tongue over the bundle of nerves. It's skilled and slow and fuck, he likes it. He gets off on eating you out. The cold killer and the polite princess. 

He owns your body. He can do whatever he wants to it if he makes you feel like this. 

Dave suckles on your clit, your wetness mingling with his saliva and dribbling down to your puckered asshole. His name drips from your mouth, from faint whimpers to long moans, and you're making devil horns out of the tufts of his dark hair that you grip tightly in your hands. “Fuck, fuck, yes, that feels so good. Dave, please, it feels—ah!”

Oh, you are loud. Dave groans against your pussy, giving your thigh a firm squeeze. He wants it telegraphed in the sky. He wants it written on the goddamn forehead of every fucking idiot who wants you in his bed. 

You're his. 

There is plenty of work to be done. Your knees and palms are still scraped. There are bad men who have treated you wrongly. But you taste so fucking good, like dipping his tongue into a pot of nectar, and he does not think there is a soul on this Earth who could drag him away from you. 

“Dave, I’m…” Your words are slurring, your vision blurred with tears, as the pressure builds in your core and your stomach tightens. He hums in acknowledgement, sucking on your clit, refusing to abandon his post. You have to hand it to him: he treats every job with the utmost devotion. 

He ushers you toward a second orgasm with his tongue fixed to your clit, his hand snaking around your thigh to your lower belly in anticipation. You cry his name, your hips bucking into his hands, the pleasure skating all the way up to the back of your neck. Your spine seizes, and it's Dave’s hands on you that keep you from panicking as you lose yourself to the warm spread of numbness that starts at your fingertips. 

“Dave,” you croak, squeezing your eyes shut. He gives your name back to you like it's an answer, crawling back up your body and pressing kisses to your naked, sweat-slick skin. 

“Such a good girl. Jesus, you’re fucking beautiful, coming for me.” He whispers his pride into your body, speaking it into your nerves, and your blood sings with the joy of doing something good for him. He threads his fingers through yours and presses kisses to each of your knuckles. “Come back to me, sweetheart. Let me see you open your eyes.”

You blink them open, bleary and dazed, watching him gently tease your nipple with his teeth before he hovers above you. “Hi,” you say weakly, pushing his messy hair back from his face. 

“Hey,” he returns. “You're with me?”

“I’m with you.”

“Good.” He dips his hand beneath you, and you know he's searching for the tattoo on your lower back. He warms it with his palm. “Sure you can take more? Looks like you're down for the count.”

Something inside you, something womanly and primal, maybe partly memory, ignites at the implied challenge. “I can take it,” you tell him, your brow set in determination. “Can you?”

“Oh, baby,” coos Dave, sliding his fingers through your slit again to make you quiver, collecting your juices on his skin like he wants to absorb you, “I’m going to take it.”

The hotheaded look in your eye almost has him lowering over your pussy and licking you into another orgasm. But his cock is throbbing in his pants and he's sweating like the Devil under his shirt. His body seeks your heat, the salvation he knows lies in this closeness. 

“Let me,” you plead, licking your lips at the sight of his bare chest just beneath the third button. 

He can't say no to you. Dave shifts to the edge of the bed and brings you with him, enjoying the deep desire in your darkening eyes. Kicking off his shoes and socks, he keeps his hands dutifully at his sides while you pop open the buttons of his shirt, his jaw ticking with restraint. Your flushed, naked body is right in front of him, trembling at the knees from two orgasms. He wants to take care of you. But it occurs to him, as you slide his shirt off his shoulders and begin scattering kisses all over his chest, that this is taking care of you. This is giving you space to indulge as you like. It feels so fucking good to make you happy. 

“So strong,” you mutter, disposing of his shirt and putting your mouth to the hollow of his throat. Dave’s breath shudders out of him, his fingers flexing. Your warm, soft lips mark a map of his body, from his neck to his hard shoulders to his softening belly. His experience, his age, his ability are all bared for you, as vulnerable as Dave York can possibly be. It's thrilling. 

It's when you get on your knees, kissing down his belly and its soft trail of hair, that Dave grunts, his hand flying to the crown of your head. You look up through your lashes at him, smiling coyly, like the very thought of you breathing on his dick isn't enough to make him come in his pants. 

Slowly, you unzip his pants and bring them down his legs. Your mouth waters at the sight of his big cock, hard and leaking against his stomach. 

“Knew it,” you say triumphantly. 

Dave huffs. “Placed a bet, huh?”

You bite your lip and it makes his cock pulse. “Get up here,” he rasps. “Now.”

“But you need help,” you say with a pitiful pout, lifting your hand to wrap your fingers around the base of his cock. Dave bucks his hips involuntarily, his eyes squeezing shut at the first touch from you. 

“Jesus.” He tightens his grip on your hair and covers your hand on his dick with his own, guiding it toward your mouth. “Fine. Show me how a princess sucks cock. Open.”

You do, sticking out your tongue for good measure. Dave enjoys the power trip, slapping the head of his cock on your tongue twice before sliding it farther into your mouth. You groan, your voice muffled, as you close your lips around him and hold onto his thighs for balance. 

“That's pretty,” he muses, shallowly thrusting to test your resolve. You drool, your saliva slathering up his shaft, getting his dick good and wet to slide into your mouth. Your eyes begin to water as he prods the warm gummy wall at the back of your throat, but you hold his gaze, relishing in the flare of his nostrils and the cavity of his throat. You're making him feel good. 

You swirl your tongue around the head as he pulls back, and Dave bares his teeth. “Fuck,” he spits. “Crying for me. You like this, don't you? You like being on your knees for a fuckin’ killer?”

You squeeze his thighs in response, taking him deeper and swallowing hard around his cock. “Fuck, baby. Thaaaat’s it. Fuckin’ take me. You’ll take all of it, like a good girl.” He’s close, and when he’s close, he can't shut up. He begins to thrust harder into your mouth, some sort of masochistic instinct, knowing he won't let himself come down your throat. Not tonight. 

You choke around him, your mascara dribbling in black tears down your cheeks. He looks down your body at your dripping cunt and sees you rubbing your thighs together to relieve the tension in your core. “You want to come, baby?” he grunts, feeling his balls pull up. You whine around his dick. “I bet you could come like this. Choking on me.”

A slight grind of your hips tells him that he's right. That won't do. You aren't coming by yourself tonight. Dave pulls out of your mouth, his cock twitching at the sight of the long thread of saliva connecting the head to your bottom lip. You pout, a spoiled princess, and Dave hauls you upright, bringing you on top of him as he sits on the bed. 

Straddling his thighs, you feel his heavy cock between your bellies, waiting for you to sit on. Dave wipes the black tears from your face and kisses you softly. You melt into him, your tits squished against his chest, winding your arms around his neck. His hand finds its favourite place on your lower back, tracing the wings he has already memorised. Your wetness sticks to your inner thighs, your hips instinctively seeking his cock, grinding down onto his lap. Dave groans into your mouth, slipping his tongue past your lips at the same time he lifts your hips and helps you sit on his cock. 

It takes a moment to push past your entrance, the head of his dick leaking into your pussy as it attempts to open you up. 

You're soaking wet, but he's still big, and you gasp into the kiss when you feel him slip inside, your nails scratching at his back. He soothes your tense muscles with his hand at your back as you sink lower, your thighs burning. “Knew it,” you say again, laughing at yourself. 

Dave nudges his nose against yours. “It’ll fit, sweetheart. Take your time.”

You nod, surging forward to kiss him again, distracting yourself with his mouth while you take him to the hilt, the head of his cock kissing your cervix and your bodies meeting. Your brow pinches, and Dave smooths it out with the pad of his thumb. You're tight enough to squeeze him hard on the descent. Your body is so hot, so soft, wrapped around him like he's a lifeline. “Do you need me to move?” he asks, struggling to stay still as your warmth sucks him in. 

You nod your head, shivering as your clit rubs against the hairs at the base of his cock. “Make me yours,” you plead. “Make me your girl.”

Dave slips a hand beneath your ass and lifts you an inch or so, the slide deliciously wet along his length. “You've been my girl since the first time I saw you,” he says, the slope of his nose indenting a path in your temple as you sink back down on his dick. “Just didn't know it.”

“Maybe you did,” you sigh, lifting yourself up and twisting your hips on the way down. Dave groans, nipping your earlobe in mild retribution. “Maybe that's why you kept me around.”

You establish a rhythm that makes your thighs ache, bouncing and grinding on his cock, assisted by his hand on your ass, kneading handfuls and smacking it playfully while you ride him. He’s deep at this angle, snug inside your cunt, prodding your cervix with every thrust. You cry out, burying your face in his neck, your sweat slicking up your body as it rubs against his, jolts of white-hot pleasure pummeling your resolve. Weak as tissue, you let Dave take over. 

“I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.” He continues to promise it, breathing it into your blood, burying his face in your throat to inhale your scent: perfume and sweat and hormones. He pushes himself inside you, so deep he begins to disappear, seeking a oneness he can never have. 

“Dave,” you mumble, grasping at his back, sure to leave marks that he’ll be proud to wear, “‘m gonna fall over.”

He slows his pace, lowering you onto your back so he can give you a rest. But he doesn't let you wholly off the hook. Dave hooks his hand under your knee and lifts it up to his hip. The angle deepens, and your back arches, your brows curving upward in the middle as pleasure oozes down your spine. “Oh my God.”

“So fucking spoiled,” he says through his teeth, punctuating every word by grinding against you. “Such a fucking princess. You like it dirty. You like taking me on your back, filled up with me, scratching me up, while your daddy thinks you’re giving yourself to another man.”

“Yesyesyes,” you mewl, grasping his biceps. “I’m spoiled. You’re so good to me. So good… so good inside me.”

“That’s right.” He gives you all he has, punching deep into you, his balls slapping against your ass and your wetness squelching around the tight seal of your cunt. Your tits bounce with every thrust and your warm, soft body only invites him in: a siren’s song whose melody momentarily tricks him into believing that salvation is possible. That there is no chance for damnation when he has earned the privilege of being with you. 

Dave smooths his hand over your belly as his other hikes your leg higher up his hip, fucking you rough and relentlessly. “The whole world thinks I’m your bodyguard. They don’t fucking see the real you.” His teeth begin to grind as his orgasm approaches again, already staved off once. He doesn’t know how much longer he can hold back. “Tell me how it feels. Tell me what it feels like when I fuck you.”

“H—Hedon,” you rasp.

Dave chuckles, pulling out of you and depriving himself of his climax for the second time. You blink away your haze and frown at him. “Dave?”

He uses his leverage on your leg to turn you onto your stomach, pulling you backward by your hips. His palm meets your ass in an audible smack. You yelp, jerking forward, barred by his arm across your hips. Dave hums, soothing the welt with his hand. 

“Don’t try to run.”

You should have known he would want to take you on your hands and knees. This way, he has a perfect view of your tattoo, wedged between the dimples on your back. Your pussy drips for him, and he can see it weep onto your thighs as he kneads your asscheeks. That’s a pretty sight, he thinks: your used pussy and your tight asshole on display for him as you hide your blushing face in the mattress. The bend of your back is delicious, and he leans over you to press a kiss to your spine. 

“Tell me again,” he says, dragging his nose up your vertebrae. 

You shudder underneath him. “I’m yours, Dave,” you tell him, your voice breaking into a whisper. 

He mounts you like a fucking animal, slotting himself at your entrance and pushing deep inside on the first thrust. You gasp, the noise gooey and complacent in his ears, quiet choruses of yes, yes, yes echoing off the walls. His palm slides up your sweaty back, the other winding around your waist and rubbing circles over your clit. 

“Good girls are loud,” bites Dave, his fingers slick on your pearl while your hips buck wildly and your throat scrubs raw with your cries. “Good girls scream when they're getting fucked. You gonna scream for me?”

“Ah! Dave!” You fist the bedsheets, your cheek buried in the mattress. The pleasure is so overwhelming, notched so high, that your brain lags behind, the edges of your vision blurring. Your mind attempts to decide between the overstimulation of your body and the grounding effect of Dave’s hand on your back, but it cannot make the decision. Your body trembles and your breath escapes in shallow puffs. You may have a heart attack if he doesn’t let you come soon—

Oh. 

Oh, yes. There it is. 

His name leaves your lips garbled, your entire body freezing underneath Dave’s. You come so hard you can’t even scream, flexing your fingers, squeezing your eyes shut, and letting the devastating shiver crash over you, a rush of warm air in wintertime. 

You soak Dave’s cock, your cunt constricting around him, locking him inside you. He groans, his hand on your back curling in your hair, hauling you upright so your back is pressed to his chest. 

He supports your limp body, his arm banding across your breasts, his mouth fixing itself to the juncture of your neck and shoulder. You tilt your head back against him to give him all the access he wants, and he makes a gruff noise of acknowledgement, smattering your skin with love bites as he reaches his climax. 

He pumps shallowly, cock pulsing with every spurt of hot cum he dumps inside you. You grind down on him, cock-drunk, and Dave growls like a dog, gripping you tighter as if to hold you in place. His teeth find your jaw, then the spot beneath your ear, and his fingers squeeze your ribs so tight that you're locked in his arms. Just the way he likes it. 

He finishes emptying his balls inside you and exhales, mending any superficial damage he did with his teeth by pressing his lips to the spots in question. “Knew you were a biter,” you giggle.

Dave smiles against your cheek. “Yeah? How's that?” 

“Dreamed about it.”

He gently pulls out of you, a little forlorn at the sight of his cum dripping out of your abused pussy in thick globs. He’ll just have to rectify that later. “Need to clean you up, pretty girl. Can you walk?”

You wiggle your ass at him, sagging back down onto the mattress. “What if I want to keep you inside?” 

Dave answers by placing two fingers on your clit and spreading his cum around your pussy, stuffing some back inside. Your cheeks redden, his name feeble on your tongue. “Let’s clean you up so I can fill you again.”

You shuffle off the bed and grab his arm for support. “Well, that should do fine. Lead the way.”

~

Neither of you feels like sleeping. Or getting dressed. 

His bed fits two people perfectly. It was lonely before. Now, it's yours, too. Your warm, sated body is tucked up against him, your cheek resting on his chest as you listen to his heartbeat. It's strong and assured. There isn't a part of him that wavers. 

It's just past two in the morning. Outside, it's still. The idle noises of nighttime carry on, the occasional rumble of a car driving by or crickets chirping nothing new. But it feels different now. Things are quieter. 

“Dave,” you whisper, drawing a small sun over his heart. He hums, tracing shapes of his own up and down your back. “I think we should get married.”

His chin knocks into the side of your head as he looks down at you. “What?”

Your soft laugh echoes in his ears. “I’m not saying this because you were just inside me. Think about it—if we marry before my father can throw me into a senator’s arms, he won't have any choice but to back off. His reputation matters more to him than anything.” You shift slightly so you're lying on top of him, hovering close to his face. “And you matter more to me than Brock ever could.”

His entire body is buzzing. He can feel the tremors from his scalp to his feet. You want to marry him. Holy fucking Christ. 

It’s a good idea. If a legal document binds the two of you, your father will have no grounds to force you into a marriage with Brock. You've lived in Dave’s home for the past six months. You know him inside and out. You aren't afraid of what he is. 

He's already devoted himself to you. He has no problem writing it in a vow. 

Dave tucks your hair behind your ear and cups your face. The simple touch makes your eyes droop sleepily. “Sweetheart,” he says, thumb stroking your jaw. “Is this really what you want?”

“Dave, I don't want anybody else.” You dip your head and litter kisses along his jawline. “I want you. You make me happy.”

He must have taken a right turn among the many wrongs to get here. 

“I want you to understand something,” he says, “before you make this choice.”

Your eyes are clear as glass, but you humour him with a smile. “Mhm.”

Dave searches your face, its dips and curves and soft planes, sprawling out along the valley in his mind. It's dotted with vibrant flowers and speckled with dewdrops. Maybe it’s Heaven. But if he takes you forever, binding himself to you, there will be no Heaven. There is no choice but for you to tumble down toward the earth alongside him, locked together in orbit. He cannot ascend. But you can fall together. 

“This is real,” he says.

“It’s real,” you echo, your hand trailing up and down his bicep. 

“This won't be some public political move. This is a marriage. I’m going to treat it like a marriage.” He twirls a lock of your hair around his index finger. You're real. You’re not a dream. He’s been inside you, kissed you, promised you things. He intends to keep those promises. “I’m not letting you go once I have you.”

“You already have me,” you tell him, “so you can hold on as tight as you want.”

Dave’s grip on your waist tightens. “Mrs. York,” he murmurs, eyes fixed to your lips. 

“Mmm. Has a nice ring to it.” You beam at him, threading your fingers through his. “Speaking of rings…”

“You’re getting a real proposal, baby. Don't think for a second I’m telling you a thing about it.” Dave lifts his brows expectantly. “Now kiss me.”

Wrapped around one another, two people with waxen wings on their backs give into the lure of sleep and let their worst days slip idly away behind them. 

[cozylittlepigeon]

The Hitman's Guide to Getting the Girl: Chapter 3 [dave york x f!reader]

It's just another job, until Dave York decides to kidnap an enemy’s wiseass daughter. It’s just another job, until he falls in love.

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 4 | chapter 5 | chapter 6 | chapter 7 | chapter 8

series masterlist

status: complete

chapter 3 summary: Losing himself in the temptation of you.

pairing: dave york x f!reader

rating: 18+ (mdni)

tags and warnings for entire fic: kidnapping, murder, violence, the world being horrible to women, reader having a very terrible sense of self-preservation, unprotected piv, oral sex (m and f receiving), dave york finding his second calling as a pussy-eating god, pining, possessive sex, jealousy, daddy issues, (stockholm syndrome?), dirty talk, actually filthy talk, hitmen and politicians, revenge, scary man with a soft spot for his woman, philosophical foreplay, tramp stamp worship (you'll see), a little sprinkle of breeding kink if you look hard enough, obsessive behaviour, anal fingering, anal sex, implied age gap, light dom/sub vibes, light bondage

tags and warnings for this chapter: references to masturbation, sexual fantasies, arranged marriage (that is not between reader & dave), angst, more daddy issues, slightly more touching (!!!), sexual tension, mutual enabling of bad habits, protective dave york, the emergence of obsessive dave york, pining/yearning, bonding, reader's tramp stamp makes its first appearance

word count: ~ 4.7k

chapter 3: a buried and a burning flame

MAY

You're in a Neiman Marcus with Dave when you break the news. 

You’ve been trying on dresses for hours now under the guise that you’re in need of some retail therapy. But if Dave doesn't know your tells by now, the way your hands tremble as you smooth them over fabrics, you have no idea how you're going to breach the subject. 

“How's this?” you ask, pulling back the curtain and striking a pose. 

Dave’s problem is very different from yours. The skintight dress barely brushes the floor, one of your arms exposed while the other is wrapped in black spandex. Your neck glitters with a diamond necklace. Watching you try on dresses all day is fun, certainly, but he's going to have to excuse himself soon to fuck his hand in the bathroom. 

He did it last night. And the one before that. And the last seven or so before that, once he finally let himself give in. In the shower, he turned the water to scalding and braced his hand on the wall as he closed his eyes, picturing your knees folded neatly under you. Your mouth around his cock, tongue swirling over the head. Hands on his thighs. Squeezing. Desperate. Sticky, warm, wet. Fuck—you’d be so wet. You’d blink water and tears from your eyes under the stream and he’d burn up hot, telling you how fucking good you are, taking his big dick. He fisted himself, perhaps a bit too hard near the end, coaxing the cum out of his tip so he could grunt his way through an orgasm and finally fucking focus.

Dave stands slowly from the cushy sofa, his hands clasped in front of the slight tent in his pants, and almost keels over from the whiff of perfume he smells. It's a toxin. It makes him dizzy. “It's nice,” he says, gently pinching the hem of your sleeve. 

“What about the colour?” you press.

“It’s… black.” He’s not fond of this game you’re playing.

“And the fit?” You turn around and give him a fleeting view of your ass. Dave’s vision briefly blurs.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, voice strained. “You know you are. Everyone knows you are.”

You beam up at him. “I just wanted to goad you into saying it.”

“You don't have to.” You're the prettiest fucking woman I’ve ever seen in my life. 

“You know…” Your smile goes sly, your hands lifting to straighten his tie even though it's rarely askew. “In this light, you're not so bad yourself.”

Dave inhales hard, his nostrils flaring. You smell so fucking good. “We’re getting the dress.”

You run your hands down the lapels of his jacket. “Yeah, we are. But I'll need your help to unzip.”

Christ. 

Because he's powerless to resist anything you say, Dave follows you into the fitting room and shucks the curtain closed. Guarding your body with his from anyone who may walk inside, he eyes you in the mirror. Your skin is smooth and soft under the rough pads of his fingers, your warmth so stark against the cool fabric of his suit. The grace of you rubs up against his jagged edges. A needle pricking skin. 

His hands feel heavy as he lifts them to the small zipper at the back of the dress. His breath shifts the hair at the nape of your neck. Goosebumps erupt across your shoulders. 

“Your hands are cold,” you whisper. He can see only your profile when you turn your head slightly, and he doesn't think he could take any more than that. 

Dave begins to drag the zipper downward, listening hard to every catch in the metal grooves as if they're claps of thunder. Gauging the time between the next strike of lightning. His skin is prickling with the knowledge of being so close to you. “You can look if you want,” you tell him. He’s inches away from the tattoo on your lower back. 

His eyes close for a moment, rolling over the sound of your velvet voice in his head. When he opens them, the zipper is down, and he's watching the way your skin and muscles ripple behind the soft black fabric. He doesn't need to be this close anymore, and he's beginning to wander toward the shoulder of your dress, beginning to think he should just yank it down and—

Cloying. Thick. Heavy and wet and relentless. Ruination.

“I know,” he says. His voice makes you shiver. It's a cold, quiet rasp that wraps its fingers around the back of your neck. You feel a gentle pressure behind your ear and close your eyes as Dave’s nose nudges one of your diamond earrings, inhaling your perfume like he wants to inject it into his blood.

With that, he steps away and leaves you to undress alone. You don't think about the way his hands lingered too long by your zipper, nor the way his eyes found you in the mirror, ravenous. You pull on your own dress and take your new one to the counter. Dave pays without looking at the price. 

In the backseat of his car, you close the privacy screen. “Dave. I need to tell you something. And you're not allowed to get scary.”

Dave lifts his brows. “I’m never scary.”

“But you're so funny.” You tug affectionately on his tie. “My father called me this morning. He said he wants to put things to bed. For good. And he wants to meet.”

You’re already there to loosen his angry, involuntarily grip around his cell phone. “Dave.”

He’s looking at his lap, his jaw feathering. He knew all along that he couldn’t protect you from your father forever—truthfully, in the beginning, he had been hoping the opposite. But you have a way of sticking to his ribs. A decadent dessert that you can never forget once you eat. The taste you crave so badly you’ll go out of your way to return.

“Why now?” he grits. “It’s been months. Why now?”

“I don't know, honey, but if he wants to bury the hatchet, then maybe we should give him a chance.” 

Dave’s head shoots up. “We?”

“What, you think I'm going to go alone? You're coming with me whether you like it or not, Mr. York.” Your elbow bumps him gently. “You’re my security detail.”

Something inside his chest feels ready to split its seams and burst. Something roars to be let out. 

~

Victoire is a two-star family restaurant managed by Victoria Brock, current matriarch to a long line of Brocks. Among these is a man named Victor Brock, Senator of Chicago, who is currently sitting next to your father in a pressed three-piece suit. 

They're seated in the VIP section, closed off by a curtain. The restaurant smells like old money with a touch of modern extravagance. Crystals chandeliers dangle from the ceiling and toss golden light onto your skin. From behind you, Dave is allowed to stare as much as he wants; so he milks it. The planes of your back shift in the dim light, the brightness of your smile blinds, and your eyes glitter like a sky of stars. So charming. So in your element. 

Dave stays behind you, the way it should be, observing his surroundings for threats. Of course, it's a restaurant, so he mostly ends up observing furniture. The booths are a deep bottle green, the oak wood tables polished so smoothly they look like hardened honey. This is the sort of place that welcomes a person like you: comforting and soft, illuminated by diamonds. 

You walk into the VIP room before Dave, who’s dressed in a handsome suit with a handkerchief that matches the red bottoms of your shoes. No one can see this unless they look hard. And you know your father will not. 

But your father does notice Dave. The glare is purposeful and fleeting, but it does the job. Dave knows he isn't wanted here. It doesn't do a good enough job to deter him. Not many things can when it comes to you. 

“Look at you,” says your father, standing up to shake your hand. Dave holds his tongue at the sight. From the looks of it, you're also trying not to laugh. “You look gorgeous. Come, sit.”

He elects not to acknowledge Dave, who eyes your father with a half-muster glare. “Senator Brock,” you say brightly, the princess taking her spotlight, “what a pleasure. I didn't know you were coming.”

Brock stands up and takes your hand, an action Dave watches carefully. Brock is a handsome, single senator, and Dave York has a schmoozer radar like no other. “The pleasure’s mine. You look stunning.”

You give him a polite smile and brush your hand up against Dave’s sleeve. “This is Dave York. He's my security.”

“I thought you were coming alone,” says your father. 

You slide gracefully onto the bench seat. Dave sits beside you, adjusting his jacket. “I’m sure you know my disappearance made an impression on the media. Security became a necessity.”

Dave tries not to puff up at that. You think he's a necessity. “Want to explain why there's a senator at your table, Mark?” 

Your father licks his teeth before speaking, slow and measured. “Senator Brock is here, Mr. York, because he has a proposition.”

Dave doesn't like this. The room feels a touch too warm now, your arm rubbing up against his and the chandelier twinkling its warm lights above. Your fingers softly brush the fabric of his pants underneath the table. It's a purely comforting gesture—for the both of you, it seems, for your face is schooled into politely-disguised panic. 

“A proposition?” Your eyes slip toward the senator, who says your name like it's a consolation. Dave’s hand finds your back, his thumb tracing one of your vertebrae. It feels like animal instinct: the hairs on the back of your neck rise, the scent of your perfume deepens in his nose as if spiked with terror, and all he knows is Calm her. Make her feel safe. 

“We’ve both spent a lot of time in the public eye,” says Brock, diplomatic as ever. “And neither of us have once been seen with a… significant other.”

No. 

Nononono. 

Your hand curls into a fist under the table and your body sways slightly. “Oh. So that's what this is about.”

“Honey…” begins your father. 

“Don't call me that.”

“Honey, just listen to—”

“To a marriage proposal?” The tips of your ears are burning. “I didn't come here to get engaged.”

“Then what did you come here for?” your father demands, leaning back with his brows high, sipping his Chardonnay like he knows he's won. 

“I came because I thought you wanted to end this ridiculous feud between you and Dave.”

“I can afford to lose a little money from your toy,” your father says dismissively. “What I can’t afford to lose is my reputation.”

Dave’s palm is a heavy weight on your lower back. “Your reputation is yours to protect, Mark. Not hers.”

“This doesn't concern you,” he spits. 

“It absolutely fucking does if you think you're going to marry her off.”

“I don't want to marry someone I don't love,” you say. As if it needs explanation at all. “No offence, Senator.”

Senator Brock just shakes his head. “I don't intend to get in the way of any family matters. This is strictly about public appearances.”

“Think about it,” implores your father. “You haven't shown your face in public for months, much less with a man on your arm.”

Dave has never seen you so incensed. 

“Sorry I haven't been around for people to photograph, what with a kidnapping and all.” At that, Dave looks down into his lap, but you squeeze his thigh and he knows that you don't hold it against him. He’ll just never understand it. “Do you realise how demeaning this is? I’m not a prized cow.”

“I understand,” says Brock in a voice that can only fit a senator; gentle and somewhat condescending. Dave wants to vault himself over the table and give him a nice, ripe black eye. “But I expect nothing from you intimately.” 

I should fucking hope not, Dave thinks, his jaw feathering as he sucks on his teeth to refrain from speaking. Or getting violent. 

“People need reason to like you more,” says your father, and Dave does not take kindly to that. 

“People like her just fine,” he growls. 

Brock intervenes again, ever the politician. “I only expect a relatively public wedding and attending events when necessary. Other than that, we can occupy separate wings of my home, and our families will benefit from the union.”

“Oh, my God.” You plant your face in your hands, the veneer of shiny politeness gone. “This is humiliating. This is so fucking humiliating…”

“This is over,” says Dave, standing up abruptly. “We’re done here. You can take your proposal and stick it up your ass, Senator.”

“Don't think you can get out of this just because your guard dog says so.” Your father stands, too, straightening his own tie. “You're getting married, and you should be grateful that's all I’m having you do.”

Grateful? Oh, Dave is going to get violent. He’s very fucking excited to get violent. No one will ever know where the bodies—

“That's rich.” You pour two fingers’ worth of red for yourself and down it in one continuous gulp. “Have a nice evening, Senator. Dad, you can marry yourself off if you want to keep your business that badly.”

You thread your fingers through Dave’s and lead him out of the restaurant. His driver—tonight, it’s Ari—brings you both back to the York household. The wine couldn't get you anywhere near tipsy; you're too riled-up with an unsettled energy that has Dave’s hand glued to your back. He traces imaginary shapes over the spot where your tattoo lies and tries to picture it in his head.

“I can’t believe him,” you murmur, hugging yourself as Dave walks you to the front door. “Okay. That's a lie. I can't believe I let myself believe he wanted to make things better.”

Dave’s lips brush your temple, the only indulgence he allows himself. “This is not on you,” he says softly. “I should kill both of them for pulling that shit.”

“You can't kill a senator, Dave.” You give him a fond smile though your eyes betray any show of joy. You're riddled with unease and a faint tremor of fear visibly burdens the straightness of your spine. 

Dave holds open the door for you and triple-checks it behind him as always. “And what about your father?”

You chew on your bottom lip as you ponder it. “I’ll get back to you.”

He’ll take it. “Come on. Let’s get you warmed up.”

“How did you know I was cold?”

He pins you with an affectionate glare. “You’re shivering, baby.”

“I’m angry,” you say weakly, your bare arm covered in goosebumps nonetheless. 

He offers his hand to you, and you slip your palm into his. Something between you begins to pull taut. It isn't a distinguishable moment from any other, but it glows and pulsates, twin stars circling two bodies. It's not kind, but it's not cruel. It’s a connection that merely is, or has always been. 

Neither of you care to figure it out. You just hold his hand and let him take you upstairs. 

The ensuite in Dave’s bathroom is kept spotless. It's just as drab and modern as the rest of his home. You’ve been scattering little pops of colour around downstairs—if he cares, he doesn't mention it. But of course he notices. He’s the most observant man you've ever met. 

You haven't stepped foot inside his bedroom since you arrived here. You linger in the doorway for a moment, scanning your surroundings. His bed sheets are crisp white, his comforter grey, the walls sparse with decoration. Not a houseplant in sight. It's functional but not lived in.

Dave leans against the wall next to you and watches your eyes flicker about. “Tell me what you're thinking.”

“You have so much money,” you say, “and you can't afford an interior decorator?”

Dave chuckles. “What's your going rate?”

“If you start paying me for anything, Mr. York, this relationship will begin to feel disingenuous.”

Still amused, he squeezes your hand. “We wouldn't want that. Come with me.”

His bathroom is spacious and clean, the giant claw-footed bathtub emitting a siren song to your cold, tense body. Dave, knowing you better than most, turns on the faucet. 

“I can leave,” he offers, his body so close behind you that his breath shifts your hair. 

You answer him by taking his hand and placing it against the zipper of your dress. “It’s been long enough,” you whisper. “I know you're curious to see it.”

Dave’s breath hitches. Blood goes soaring to his dick as he tugs the zipper down, his free hand trailing down your bare arm at the same time. He delights in the shivers that erupt across your skin and feels you lean into him slightly. You trust him. He's done everything wrong and you trust him not to hurt you. You trust your body in his hands and Jesus, he's not going to fuck this up. 

He's touching sacred space. He will wrap the sensation of your softness and warmth tight around his brain and let the feel of it saturate everything. He wants his soul stained with you. 

He continues to bring the zipper down, and you sigh. “I don't know what to do, Dave.”

“I know,” he says. Not a comfort or a solution. Just acknowledgement. 

“I always know what to do. I always know what to say. I couldn't even get out of a marriage tonight.”

“He blindsided you.” Dave is doing very well at remaining calm. Having you so close to him is helping. “He blindsided us both. But we're getting you out of this.”

“Yeah.” You let your head fall back against his shoulder, closing your eyes for a moment. “We can talk about it later.”

He leans into you a fraction and gives your ear a nudge with his nose. “Are you asking me to take off your dress?”

Your eyes flutter when you inhale his cologne. The last time you were wandering the nearby drugstore, you spent a moment too long in the scent aisle, holding a bottle of the Tom Ford he wears. In your trancelike state, you put it in your cart before you realised you did not, in fact, need to buy a bottle of cologne. You weren't his secretary. Sheepishly, you returned the bottle, but not before taking a sample stick. 

You've been more pathetic. 

Dave York smells like pine, cologne, and when he gets into trouble, the faint tang of iron. There isn't a trace of blood on him tonight. You turn your head to meet his eyes. Your pupils enlarge, nearly eclipsing the irises. “Do you want to undress me?”

His lips part slightly, and a puff of air leaves him. “You know the answer to that.”

You're both speaking so quietly that the running bath nearly drowns both of your voices. “I want to hear you say it.”

His eyes shutter. “I want to undress you,” he says, his nose sliding across your temple, “and a whole lot more.”

Your hand guides his fingers to the hem of your dress. “I want you to see me, Dave. You're the only one who does.”

Dave swallows hard, his palm warming your arm as it idly trails up and down. This is the permission that frightens him the most. The first tremendous leap. There is no turning back from this. He doesn't want to. 

He wants to learn to pace himself, to revel in the briefest brilliance that is knowing you. 

“Am I?” he muses, sliding the shoulder of your dress down. He's transfixed by the slow shudder he receives from you, the way he can see your lashes flutter on your cheeks, as he exposes your breasts to the cool air. 

“Yes,” you breathe. “Don't be coy. It’s not your style.”

“No, it isn't.” The dress, tailor-made to the delicious curves of your shape, slips down your back to the floor as his fingers urge the rest of it away. It pools in a pitch-black heap at your feet, and Dave York takes in the sight of you. 

All of you. 

“Jesus,” he rasps, eyes dipping to your tits, nipples hard as the air conditioning cools your skin, around your waist, down your back. Every knob of your spine speaks for your life, your learnings. He traces his fingers lightly over each one, taking his time as he teaches himself. 

“What's the verdict?” you tease, your voice going soft, close to vulnerable. 

You do, indeed, have a tramp stamp. Dave follows the shape of the small bleeding wings, the paper-thin lines of the sun in between. 

“It's Icarus,” he says, “isn't it?”

“A reminder,” you confirm, “to never sacrifice any part of my life to some selfish ambition.”

Dave’s thumb gently circles over the black ink. “What do you want, instead?”

You hum in thought, and he can feel the trepidation in his own throat. “To live, I guess. Just live.”

He hums in kind. There's no oxygen left for him in this room. Steam from the bath curls like silvery breath into the air, the feeling of your skin is grounding him, and there's nothing but you. Your body and your sharp mind and the heart that thrills him. 

“What is my style?” he asks. 

You exhale, and it sounds a little like laughter. “I don't know. You're unpredictable. Usually, that would scare me.”

“But?”

“But I like you.” A hand covers his own, bringing it around your waist, resting it between your breasts. Like this, he can feel your heartbeat against your sternum. “I like what you do to me. I like your kindness and your cruelty. I like the way you work and talk and think.”

Dave closes his eyes, stepping closer to you, dipping his head to bring his lips along your jaw in a ghost of a kiss. “How do I think, baby?” he mutters against your skin. “Tell me.”

“Like a killer,” you sigh. 

“Mmm. You’d let a killer touch you like this?” His hand falls, deliberate and slow down the path of your stomach, your hipbone to your thigh. “You must not want to live that badly.”

You don't need to tell him that he's the one bringing you to life. He can feel it in the throbbing of your heart, the shallow touch to your breathing, the way your body subtly pushes into his hands. 

“Dave.”

He says your name in kind. 

“I don't want to marry him.” 

The small break in your voice puts a hole in his heart. Dave guides you to face him and cups your face in his hands. Your eyes glisten with unshed tears. “Sweetheart,” he says softly. “You're not going to marry him. No asshole senator is going to put a ring on your finger.”

“Are we going to stop it?” 

He nods once. Unyielding. “We're gonna stop it.”

You rest your forehead against his and let yourself smile at last. “Okay. Now let me get in the bathtub.”

The water eases the knots in your muscles as he helps you lower yourself inside. You close your eyes, resting your head on the lip, while Dave makes some calls. 

You asked him once if he ever wanted to use his skills for good. 

This is how he does it.

~

“Tell me about your family.”

The silence fizzles, the crack of an ember flying haphazardly away from the fire. Sitting on a stool by your side, Dave holds your hand—well, more like your wrist—and, with his thumb, strokes the veins that beat with life. He found he wasn't fond of the idea of parting with you quite yet. So he didn't. 

This is his job now. And it's the only one he's ever had that brings him any sense of clarity. 

“You've had more than enough mouthfuls of mine,” you elaborate. “So tell me about yours.”

“Mom and Dad passed a few years back,” says Dave. “They were good people. Grew up in a small town with my sister, who hightailed it to New York the first chance she could. My parents worked real estate together. They made friends with their clients, and they were good to us. We were never poor, never rich.” Dave’s lips find your knuckles. “Joined up when I was out of college. Mom cried for days. I almost succumbed to the guilt, but moms are good at that, I guess.”

Water sloshes around you as you turn onto your side, resting your chin on the edge of the tub and looking up at Dave. “Ari says you were a good soldier.”

Dave huffs. “Yeah, I’ll bet he does. Wants a goddamn raise.”

“My mom was good, too,” you tell him. “I don't remember much of her, but I remember her smiling and laughing. It’s like I knew so much about her and nothing at all. But I miss her all the same.”

Dave opens up your palm to him, his mouth tracing the lines on your skin. “Anyone who's good to you is good to me. My mom used to say that whenever my sister would bring a new girlfriend or boyfriend home.”

“And you?” Your voice takes a teasing edge. “How many women did Dave York bring home before he decided he liked his latest hostage best?”

He still winces at your wording all these months later but laughs nonetheless. “Fewer than I think you’re imagining. Life got busy quick.”

“Those pesky C.I.A. jobs.”

“The same. They tossed me all around the world until I decided to start my own company. The VA never did shit for me, and with my injury, I couldn't keep flying.”

You grin. “Entrepreneurship looks very good on you.” It takes a strong pull on his willpower not to stare at your tits, barely submerged in the warm water. “Do you still feel it sometimes?” you ask, your gooey eyes making him want to form dust into gold for you. 

“Comes and goes,” he says. The last thing he wants to do in this world is be the cause of your worry. “But I’m old. Our backs act up all the time anyway.”

“Dave.” You pin him with a stern stare. “You shouldn't be sitting like that with a back injury. Why have I been letting you stay there for the past hour?”

“I’m fine,” he says softly, squeezing your hand. “I don’t feel any pain.”

You chew on your lip. “Help me out of the bath?”

Dave’s back pinches as he stands up and you, of course, don't miss his wince. He averts his gaze when he sees you giving him precisely the same look as before. You have an uncanny ability to make him feel scolded. 

You wrap yourself in a soft towel when you climb out of the tub. You smell fresh as crisp linen and your skin is dewy, smooth, so soft he wants to lick you all over. “Looks like we both need to relax,” you say, your hand brushing his lower back. He feels the light touch as if it's a lightning strike. “We never ate dinner.”

“Barry’s gone home,” he says, a little dazed by how close you are. Your body emanates warmth, and it makes him feel sleepy. 

“There’s leftover Chinese in the fridge,” you say. “Your guys were hungry last night.”

You take his hand and lead him downstairs. The droplets of water on your skin glisten in the shifting light. His nerves have become a map of you. He doesn't know what he would do if he lost this sacred knowledge. He doesn't think there's a part of him that could stay quiet. 

[cozylittlepigeon]

The Hitman's Guide to Getting the Girl: Chapter 2 [dave york x f!reader]

It's just another job, until Dave York decides to kidnap an enemy’s wiseass daughter. It’s just another job, until he falls in love.

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 4 | chapter 5 | chapter 6 | chapter 7 | chapter 8

series masterlist

status: complete

chapter 2 summary: Anthologies of getting to know you.

pairing: dave york x f!reader

rating: 18+ (mdni)

tags and warnings for entire fic: kidnapping, murder, violence, the world being horrible to women, reader having a very terrible sense of self-preservation, unprotected piv, oral sex (m and f receiving), dave york finding his second calling as a pussy-eating god, pining, possessive sex, jealousy, daddy issues, (stockholm syndrome?), dirty talk, actually filthy talk, hitmen and politicians, revenge, scary man with a soft spot for his woman, philosophical foreplay, tramp stamp worship (you'll see), a little sprinkle of breeding kink if you look hard enough, obsessive behaviour, anal fingering, anal sex, implied age gap, light dom/sub vibes, light bondage

tags and warnings for this chapter: violence against reader, pretentious literary references and the sexual tension that ensues from them, more self-reflection, self-hatred, angst, daddy issues, light touching (!!!), mutual enabling of bad habits, protective dave york

word count: ~ 4k

i'm a little obsessed with the fact that everyone writing abt dave york agrees unanimously that his bedroom is devoid of colour and décor; community is a beautiful thing. anyway, i hope you enjoy this chapter, and thank you for all of your support thus far! <3

chapter 2: allow the ground to find its brutal way to me

FEBRUARY

“You son of a bitch.”

“Yeah, that's me, Mark.” Dave twirls the pen between his fingers, the Moon orbits the Earth for the umpeenth time, and it's dawn. He hasn't slept a wink all night. “I may be an asshole, but you should remember that you’re liable for my behaviour.”

“Do not turn this around on me, York. I didn't kidnap my daughter. You did.”

“And it took a week and a half for you to notice. Is that a new record or do you usually go longer?”

“I’m a busy man, Dave. I know you know how that feels.” Mark’s voice muffles slightly, like he's shuffling around, and then clears. “She's a smart girl.”

Dave’s hand curls instinctively around the pen. “She is a smart woman. I thought you'd want someone like that on your side, not under your shoe.”

He heaves a sigh. “I’m sorry. Are we discussing business, or my daughter?”

“They go hand-in-hand. At least, they did, until I met your daughter.” Dave’s gaze settles on the worn book on the corner of his desk: your latest recommendation. “You need to pay the money you owe me, Mark.”

“Or what, York?” Mark scoffs. “You gonna kill her? You haven't yet. For all I know, you've set her up in a lavish apartment with all the amenities and haven't laid a finger on her.”

Dave’s jaw tightens. “You need to pay the money you owe me, or I take it with interest from the account your daughter gave me access to last night.”

A delectable silence lingers on the line. Dave wants to swim in it.

“She wouldn't do that.”

“Maybe you don't know your daughter very well, Mark.”

Dave York’s home is modern, clean, and practical—except for one small detail. In his office, the bookshelf acts as a door to the discrete room behind it: a home library, filled to the brim with all the texts he's coveted since getting discharged. You’re curled up in the plush chair in the corner, dozing with Dracula on your chest, when a thud jerks you awake. 

“You drool when you sleep,” says Ari, lifting the novel with a frown. “This looks boring as shit.”

“Way to wake a girl up.” You rub your eyes and quickly readjust your clothes. You must have fallen asleep halfway through the book. “What's going on?”

“Boss is done on the phone.”

“With my father?”

Ari snorts. “You think he tells me that shit? He told me to come get you.”

You huff, leading the way back into Dave’s office with Ari trailing loosely behind. You hear muffled talking from the next room, but he’s known to have conversations with himself when he needs to think things through. You put your ear to the door and frown when you hear his voice, clearly speaking to another person in a low growl. 

“You don't get to make threats. Not against me.”

Your head whips around and your gaze finds Ari, standing a respectful distance away (another of Dave’s many rules). “You told me he was done.”

Ari shrugs. “Thought you might wanna hear it. It’s all about you, anyway.”

You give him a grateful nod and return to your eavesdropping. “You fucked me over, Mark,” says Dave, “so I think I’ll take whatever I want from you.”

You roll your eyes. “So dramatic.”

Another prolonged silence, presumably occupied by your father's angry words. “No, I suppose I don’t,” replies Dave, “but I think I like having her here.”

Your mouth splits into a smile. “Hey, Ari. He says he likes me.”

“Can’t imagine why.”

“If you want her back, Mark,” says Dave, “you'll just have to start giving a fuck.”

The distinctive thud of Dave’s phone on his desk indicates that you're free to enter the office. Ari follows, electing to speak first. “Boss—”

Unluckily for him, Dave’s in a sour mood, pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes squeezed shut. “Out,” he snaps. 

You and Ari share a look, and he departs without another word. Meanwhile, you take a seat across from Dave at his desk and rest your chin in your palm. 

“The world should be grateful that you don't have wax wings, Mr. York.”

You don't miss the way his eyes flicker to the hem of your skirt as you cross one leg over the other. Dave sits, too, his fingers tracing the spine of the book you lent him. “You can rest easy knowing I don't get a lot of sun,” he says. 

“You know that's not the point, and you know I didn't give you access to his account purely out of spite.”

“No, but it's more fun if he thinks you did.” Dave smirks, and you match it. “You sleep well?”

“I may have dreamt about vampires, but sure.” You gesture to the hidden door. “Fell asleep in there.”

“I see that,” says Dave. He runs two fingers over his bottom lip: a habit. “I can set up a bed in there if you want.”

“Is that a serious offer?”

“I’m always serious.”

“Are you also serious when you tell me you want to go out for breakfast?” You bat your lashes at him, not that you need to. 

He hides his smile behind his fingers. “Yeah, we’ll go out.”

“You aren't going to handcuff me to you, right?”

“What—you wouldn’t like that?” 

You lift your hand and display your wrist to him, palm facing skyward. “You haven't hurt me yet.”

Dave’s mouth feels dry. His heart is clawing for a way out of his ribcage. His hand curls around the pen in his grasp. You're wearing a skirt made of silk and an elegant top and you look like such a princess that not a single person would question it if there was a tiara atop your head. You belong in the spotlight. He’s the shadow in the corners, hooded and donning black, illuminated only by the occasional flicker of candlelight. Watching. Waiting for something he can never have. 

Dave doesn't like it when something he wants is out of his grasp. But you’re living in his home and trusting him not to harm you. You're safe with him, and he refuses to break the small woven wires of trust that tie your heart to his. 

His dreams will avail him for now. 

Dave takes your hand and lifts it to his mouth, pressing a single soft kiss to the heel of your palm. “If you decide to escape,” he says quietly, his thumb brushing over the spot where he kissed your soft skin, “just promise me something.”

Your eyes are petal-soft, your hand lowering to the desk as he lets go. Your fingers gently prod the edge of the paperweight. “What, Dave?”

“Don't be a shadow,” he says. “You aren't a shadow.”

Your eyes search for something inside him that Dave does not know how to give you. “Have you ever thought about putting your skills to good use?”

He blinks. “I am putting them to good use. The chair you're sitting on cost seven hundred bucks.”

You pin him with a look of the variety that would get you beaten if you were anyone but yourself. “You tell me not to live the rest of my life like a shadow, but your job necessitates sticking to the darkness and following someone else’s rules.”

“This isn’t about me,” he says grumpily, sitting back in his chair. 

“Is that why you founded your company? For a degree of control in a volatile business?” 

Dave stares at you for a long while before he elects to speak. He does it a lot. There are things about you that he's always discovering anew. Planes and lines and shapes that may have always been there and may be new, but are always changing to him nonetheless. With every piece he takes, he constructs a sort of shape, and he's fond of the way you take the form of artwork in his eye. 

To everyone, you're someone different. You read people and adjust your own behaviour accordingly. You are whip-smart and too quick for anyone’s good. You are a chameleon. And you have infested his body. His mind. A space inside his chest that he's never known anything to inhabit. It's cold and arid and yet there you are, curled up with a book in your hands, comfortable. Smiling. 

“You’re doing that thing again,” he says. 

“Forcible pondering?” you guess. 

“Yeah.”

You shrug your shoulders and Dave watches your collarbones flex, licking his lower lip. “You're still avoiding my question.”

“That's because if I answer one more of your questions, you’ll be able to write my biography. I have to keep some things secret.”

You grin like you already know how to slot the gears in place. “Do you want to keep things secret, Dave?”

He twirls the pen some more between his fingers. “Would it matter?”

You pluck the pen out of his hand, uncap it, and write something down on a Post-it note. “Here’s your answer,” you say, placing it upside-down in his palm. “Do me a favour and don't look at it until I’m out of the room.

“Oh—” You stop yourself as you prepare to leave. “I promise,” you tell him, “to never be a shadow. But I’m not going to escape. Not yet.”

As you tuck your book under your arm and turn to leave, Dave averts his eyes. 

Maybe he is Icarus. Maybe he’ll take your hand and bring you with him, just so you can know what it's like to have wings. 

MARCH

“Dave?” comes your voice from the hallway, fast approaching.

He fights a smile and continues to read through Kovac’s latest mission report: racked with errors, as usual. “Yes?”

You appear in the doorway, your chest heaving a bit and your hair somewhat askew. It’s a vulnerable sight you rarely let show, and he looks down because his eyes are beginning to burn. “I ran out of closet space.”

Living with you has its unforeseen perks. The constant company of someone so sharp has its downfalls, but it’s never boring. It also comes with unforeseen challenges: namely, the fact that a rich princess like you tends to own more clothes than the average woman.

“You can use the second guest bedroom,” he offers. “It’s not like I ever have company.”

“Or a date,” you tease.

“Shouldn’t I keep a date in the bedroom with me?” He raises his brows.

“You make it sound like a hostage situation,” you point out. “Maybe you should work on that habit.”

He doesn’t remember when you began to eat your meals with him, in the kitchen, at his too-big dining table, but it feels like always. And it never gets easier.

“There’s no point in locking you upstairs. You’d charm the door into opening or some shit.”

You smiled at his grumbling and sat yourself in front of your meal. It was artistically plated, a streak of speckled sauce next to the ceramic bowl filled with cauliflower gratin. On Dave’s plate sat a medium-rare steak next to a pile of Swiss chard that Barry somehow managed to make look appetising. 

“At least people don’t burn witches anymore,” you said, waiting for Dave to pick up his fork before you took your own.

“You aren’t a witch,” said Dave.

“What am I, then?” You took a bite, savoured the crackling warmth of cheese and the soft textures on your tongue, and swallowed. “Enchantress? Vampire? Lock-charmer?”

“None,” Dave muttered. “Just… something different.”

For once, you didn’t prod. You stared at Dave for so many seconds that he could count them even without the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall. He did count, but he did not breathe. There was something about the way you looked at people that arrested all movement. His hand, clenched around his fork, his jaw, closed around a bite of steak. His heart, ceasing to beat, stilled by the reflection of the lights in your eyes. 

“Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be able to know you,” was the first thing you said after the silence.

All he could think was, I hope so. God, I hope so. Know me, so you can tell me how.

Now, you lean against the doorframe, one hand curled around it. Come closer, he wants to say. Go, and go far. Never leave. There are obnoxious, pink, fuzzy slippers on your feet and a silk nightgown draped around your body, and he realises it’s later than he thought. “Shit.” He shoots upright, his gaze meeting yours. “You must be starving.”

You shrug, and he doesn’t like that. Be angry with me. Let a misplaced speck of dust enrage you. Let your most minute grievances sparkle into blue flame. Let it hurt for me to touch you. Let it hurt to earn your forgiveness.

Something glows in your eyes. It looks to him like knowing. “You want me to be angry with you for missing dinner?” 

He scrapes his hand through his hair. “Yes.”

“All right.” You step into the room in those stupid slippers and poke him square in the chest. 

“Fuck you, Dave York, for not feeding me,” you say icily. “Fuck you for missing this dinner and for all the dinners you’re going to miss. Fuck you for taking me away, for being kind, for holding a grudge against my father when I could never muster the courage to. Fuck you for your extra closet space, and fuck you for never exploding on me when I drive you crazy. Fuck. You.”

You turn away and storm off, but not without his hand in yours. “I’m feeling takeout.”

He decides that he likes the feeling of being dragged a thousand different ways by you.

~

He also cannot remember the first time you both stopped eating at opposite ends of the table. It seats eight, and with so many chairs in between you, it felt like occupying different sides of one solar system. Now, you claim the end of the table while Dave sits at the adjacent seat, breathing in the scent of your perfume and watching you when you aren’t looking.

Not true, of course. Somehow, he knows you’re always looking. Maybe not looking, but seeing. You can see things before they are things. 

“I think people confuse hedonism with amorality too often,” you say, prodding your next bite of sushi with the chopsticks. “They don’t have to go hand-in-hand. I know plenty of libertines who give to charity in their spare time.”

“I think the book isn’t just about Gray’s portrait. I think it shows humanity.” Dave takes a swig of his beer. You’re drinking one of the many reds from his cellar. “We’re all selfish. We all want to stay pretty.”

“How very cynical of the hitman,” you say with a soft laugh. “Maybe we do all want to ignore our sins.”

“How very un-Catholic of you,” he teases.

“I haven’t been inside a church since I was twelve, Dave York,” you say, kicking him under the table, your fuzzy slippers softening the blow to nothing. 

Your father, whom he knows for a fact goes every Sunday, wouldn’t be thrilled about that—if he paid a little attention, that is. “You don’t believe?”

You avert your gaze, which makes Dave frown. “There are things that happen to people in this world that a good God shouldn’t allow. Things even the devout can’t justify as lessons.”

The taste on his tongue is acrid. Salinity and gasoline. The angry smell of diesel pumping into a clear blue sky. The outrage of seeing something black pollute something clean and beautiful. 

You give him a small, sad smile. “The world isn’t kind to girls, Dave. We learn that early on.”

“Is that supposed to make it right?” His voice has gone hoarse, and food is ash in his mouth.

“No. But I’m beginning to come around to your viewpoint.” You steal a piece of sushi from his plate, and it’s a conciliatory action, something small and so big he can’t hold it long enough to study it. “Maybe we’re all evil.”

“So you do want to stay pretty,” he says, not quite right enough to laugh yet. His heart still sits wrong in his chest.

You bat your lashes. “You think I’m pretty?”

“I think a lot of things about you,” rasps Dave. “You don’t want to know half of them.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’d run.” He takes another bite and relishes the eye-watering spike of wasabi on his tongue. “And I don’t want you to go.”

~

“Boss.”

Dave hums, eyes glued to the page. Your suggestions are always… interesting. He'd expected a woman like you to enjoy frilly fiction. But he's reading a play. A goddamn play. And he's liking it. 

The Duchess despairs over the waxen figures of her family and resolves to die. Dave rubs his hand over his jaw, surprised by his own fury for Ferdinand. He's always envisioned himself impervious to being fooled; but he remembers the way you spoke to him that first night and realises he's always been fooled. 

How could he think he ever stood a chance against you?

“Uh, boss.”

Dave tears his eyes away from the play and pins Ari with a glare. “What?” 

Ari looks like he would rather be dragging his naked ass over hot coals than having this conversation. “Just thought you'd wanna know, the asset took a tumble. Got a bruise.”

He says it so fast that Dave blinks, trying to replay the last few seconds. He doesn't like it when the words sink in. “Excuse me?” He closes the book and leans back in his seat. Ari is avoiding his eye. “Care to tell me where she fell, Ari?”

Ari licks his teeth. “Uh, just… off the bed. Hit the nightstand. In her sleep.”

That's total bullshit. Dave’s hand curls into a fist on his lap. He doesn't want to know, but he's going to anyway. “And where will I see this bruise?”

“Her… her neck, boss.”

Dave exhales hard through his nose. A bull at the charge. “I don't hire you for your charisma, Ari. I hired you for your trigger finger. Don't fucking insult me by lying to me.”

Ari sighs. “It was Resnik, boss. She pissed him off and he put his hand around her neck. It was over before I could stop it. He realised he’d be in shit right away and bolted.”

Dave doesn't hear this last part. He's already out the door, headed for the guest room, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. You're sitting on the edge of the bed, slipping on a pair of heels that match your silky dress. 

You face away from the entrance, past which he does not yet trust himself to move. “You want to murder Ferdinand, don’t you?”

He clears his throat before he speaks. “Yeah. I really do.”

“Told you.”

He pushes himself into the room and sits on the adjacent side of the bed. You’ve since acquired more flowers for your nightstand; the bed is made, and the closet is brimming with your clothes. It feels like you live here. Like you’ve always lived here. 

“Hey,” he says, gently taking your jaw between his thumb and forefinger. “Let me see.”

You comply, turning your body toward him and tilting your head to give him a good view of the faint purplish colouring just beneath your jaw. It’s barely a bruise, will disappear in a matter of days, but he had been so clear. Nobody touches her. He’d set the rules and one of his own men had broken them. He’s far past unimpressed. He’s furious.

“Your guards have no impulse control,” you supply. Dave’s chest is tight, his throat burning blue-hot. “To be fair, I pissed him off.”

“I’m not going to be fair,” says Dave, “and you shouldn’t be, either.”

“You feel betrayed,” you wager. He moves your hair aside and winces when he accidentally brushes his thumb over your bruise, even though you make no indication that it hurts. 

“Yeah,” he says, vocal chords scraping over rock. It's an understatement. 

“He's listened to every other order you've ever given him.”

He shakes his head, avoiding your eye. He knows he will see only the glint of gentle resignation, and he doesn't want to feel anything but anger. “This is different.”

“Why is it different, Dave?”

Because it's you. Because seeing a mere bruise on your skin is like witnessing a jagged tear in the wide blue sky. Because it’s wrong. 

“Because he works for me. And this was defiance.”

You smile like you know something he doesn't. “If everyone in the world listened to you, Mr. York, the world would happen to be a much more violent place.”

He laughs, too. “Maybe I should be glad you don't listen to me, then.”

“I listen to you fine. I just don't do everything you say.” 

“All right. You win.” As usual. “I won't kill him. But he's never going near you again.”

“See what good can happen when you compromise?” Your smile turns sickly-sweet, and it forces one on his face. A very small one. “Can we go out for dinner?”

He huffs, dropping his hand from your cheek, but not before playfully tugging on a small lock of your hair. “Yeah. We can go out.”

~

Resnik,

Attached is the file for your next target. LKL: Malta. Feel free to take as long as you need, since I don't want you back.

You should have listened. 

—York

~

He hasn’t locked your bedroom door for a month. 

For the past two weeks, he’s stood outside your door each night and listened. He doesn’t expect to hear anything in particular; he doesn’t expect you to run or to be conspiring with someone to hatch an escape plan. He just wants to be closer than the wall separating him from you. It’s a strange feeling: the itch for a warm, soft body enveloped in his arms. He’s so used to the cold ones.

One night, he swore he could hear your faint, heaving breaths and low whimpers, and his hand hovered by the doorknob as he squeezed his eyes shut and pictured the way you would touch yourself beneath the bedsheets.

His bedroom feels empty. It’s minimal, greys and whites and no pictures on the wall, but it’s the king-sized bed that feels disproportionate. Something is missing. 

Dave stares up at the ceiling long past midnight. Crickets make music outside, rain patters the window briefly, and he thinks of the woman two doors down from where he lies alone.

The Post-it note stuck to the lampshade by his bed is illuminated by the warm yellow light. 

My biggest secret?

I have a tramp stamp.

Your turn.

[cozylittlepigeon]

I'm hooked...excited to read the rest of the series!

The Hitman's Guide to Getting the Girl: Chapter 1 [dave york x f!reader]

It's just another job, until Dave York decides to kidnap an enemy’s wiseass daughter. It’s just another job, until he falls in love.

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 4 | chapter 5 | chapter 6 | chapter 7 | chapter 8

series masterlist

status: complete

chapter 1 summary: Underestimating the power of a good omelette.

pairing: dave york x f!reader

rating: 18+ (mdni)

tags and warnings for entire fic: kidnapping, murder, violence, the world being horrible to women, reader having a very terrible sense of self-preservation, unprotected piv, oral sex (m and f receiving), dave york finding his second calling as a pussy-eating god, pining, possessive sex, jealousy, daddy issues, (stockholm syndrome?), dirty talk, actually filthy talk, hitmen and politicians, revenge, scary man with a soft spot for his woman, philosophical foreplay, tramp stamp worship (you'll see), a little sprinkle of breeding kink if you look hard enough, obsessive behaviour, anal fingering, anal sex, implied age gap, light dom/sub vibes, light bondage

tags and warnings for this chapter: kidnapping, violence, pretentious allusions, breaking and entering, self-reflection

word count: ~ 5k

this will be the first fic i've ever cross-posted to tumblr (yay me!); this means, however, that i am still learning and will likely make some silly mistakes. nonetheless, i have to apologise for my long hibernation and hope that bringing y'all a new miniseries will initiate my journey to forgiveness. please let me know what you think so far! chapter 2 will be posted soon.

PREFACE

“‘If thy revengeful heart cannot forgive,  lo, here I lend thee this sharp-pointed sword;  which if thou please to hide in this true breast,  and let the soul forth that adoreth thee,  I lay it naked to the deadly stroke,  and humbly beg the death upon my knee.’” — Richard III, I.II

chapter 1: when i first saw you, the end was soon

JANUARY

Dave York likes a clean job. 

The interior of the home presents a good start. He enters through the garage door, briefly sweeping the Range Rover’s interior for any surprises. Finding none, he gives the signal to Resnik, who moves around to the front door. He will maintain a holding position until Dave radios his all-clear. There’s only one objective tonight. 

It’s hardly your average suburb. The house is a goddamn mansion, with a winding driveway and no neighbours for four miles. It’s nighttime, dead silent, and nobody ever drives up here unless they’ve taken a wrong turn, but Dave is careful. He wore all black from his boots to his head, which was shrouded by a black hat. He brought one vehicle, three men, one weapon each. He does not intend to start a fight.

Well, not yet.

The foyer is clear, too. Two coats are hung up on the iron hooks: a sky-blue peacoat and a leather jacket. They look like they both belong to a woman. So do the shoes, which vary from a pair of cosy slippers to multiple sets of high heels (the physics of which he couldn’t hope to comprehend if he tried). It’s dark here, but a lone light illuminates the hallway ahead, shining from a room to the left. The kitchen, if his blueprints were correct. 

His finger feathers near the trigger of his .45 Auto, his back up against the adjacent wall as he creeps toward the source of the light. Kovac’s voice crackles in his earpiece (“Clear upstairs”) as Dave takes a slow, deep breath and crosses the threshold into the kitchen, his firearm sweeping every corner before his eyes can. 

The small hanging lights are on above the generous island, and a woman tends to a steaming cup of coffee behind it.

You look up and smile politely at Dave. “Hi.”

He had dealt with plenty of curveballs in his life. Avoiding IEDs, taking out a target from half a mile out, all the bullshit that came with building a business. Dave York knows how to take the shit and roll with it. 

But you're… smiling. 

Dave’s lips part but no sound comes out. You continue, stirring sugar into your coffee. “You don’t need to use that gun, do you?”

He licks his bottom lip and continues to stare. 

Your smile turns sheepish. “I’d prefer if you didn’t.” 

Stunned, Dave actually lowers the weapon a fraction. 

You don’t hold yourself like you’re paralysed by fear. There is no tension in your shoulders; you look wholly at ease in your own home, your hands warmed by the cup of coffee on its little pink coaster. Dave expected terror, pleading, scratching and kicking and screaming. 

“Boss? You clear?” comes Resnik’s voice in his ear. 

“Do you mind if I finish my coffee?” you ask, indicating that your mug is still half-full. 

Dave cannot physically produce the noises necessary for speech. He finds himself inclining his head in a vague nod, allowing you to lift the coffee cup to your mouth and purse your lips as you blow the steam away. It curls toward Dave and evaporates like a silvery ghost. 

What kind of captive goes willingly to their own prison?

One who knows their bed is made. 

“Hold,” he finally says to his team. “Apprehending target.”

“Ask them if they’d like a coffee before they go,” you offer. “I’ve got plenty to go around.”

He cannot bring himself to repeat those words to his men. He’s having enough trouble wrapping his head around you as it is.

You introduce yourself, and Dave assesses you as he shifts around the island. Sweeping his gaze from your slippered feet up to your slip of a nightgown, he finds nothing of note save for a pretty woman who knows she’s about to be taken forcibly from her home. A woman who’s seemingly prepared so well for this exact situation that she made a coffee at midnight and prepared some for her uninvited guests, too. 

For the first time in his entire illicit career, Dave does not know what to think, do, or say.

“I’m sorry if I’ve made this difficult,” you tell him. “Do they usually struggle?”

Dave swallows thickly and finds his mouth completely dry. “Uh. Yeah.”

You smile indulgently, and it knocks his insides askew. “I can scream if you want.”

Dave winces. “No, that’s—that’s not necessary.”

“Well. You should probably frisk me. They usually frisk first.” You shrug one shoulder. “I don’t have a weapon on me, but if it makes you feel more comfortable…”

He’s holding a weapon in his hands and he’s never felt more disarmed. 

They usually frisk first. 

Who are they? 

Dave frowns. “This has happened before?”

You wave a dismissive hand. “My father has made a lot of people angry.”

He feels the tension in his jaw when his teeth begin to ache from grinding them together. “Your father—”

“Let me guess. Screwed you over on a business deal.” You pin Dave with a powerful look, one whose meaning he cannot place. “Last I heard, he was in Zurich. You may be waiting a while if you intend to keep me until he returns. He’s nowhere as efficient as you seem to be.”

A deliberate choice of words, equal parts compliment and warning. Code for, If you want to travel anywhere in the next little while, you’ll have to take your little hostage with you. 

Code for, I’m going to be more trouble than I’m worth. 

He could have told you that the second he walked into the kitchen.

Dave moves behind you and watches you lift your arms before he can ask. The slight movement sends a waft of sweet, dark vanilla perfume toward him. He inhales, fascinated by the bombardment of sensations as he puts his hands on your body. The frisking is clinical—left arm, right arm, waist, hips, thighs, Jesus Christ— and ultimately fruitless. But your hair is soft and smells freshly of shampoo, your ears glisten with expensive diamonds, and your eyes glimmer with new colours he could not see from afar. You’re a picture of wealth and beauty and he’s entranced by the straightness of your spine, the incisive look in your eye.

You turn your head slightly to look at him, and Dave surprises himself when he maintains eye contact. “What’s your name?” you ask, your voice soft. He feels a cool puff of air brush his cheek when you speak. 

His hands are still on your waist. As if struck by lightning, Dave jolts away. You don’t evade his eye, sipping the rest of your coffee. It’s so far beyond being in his best interests to give you his name, especially since he plans to keep you alive. 

“Dave,” he says, fucking his best interests right in the ass.

You hum in appraisal. He feels more like the prospective captive with the way you look at him. “Pleasure to meet you, Dave. I’m finished with my coffee if you want to go now.”

“Okay,” he says, his voice gravelly. 

“Where are you taking me?” 

“My house,” he says shortly. “I’m not giving you the address, so don't ask.”

“I wouldn’t ask for your address. I would dig it out.” 

He has no fucking doubt. 

“Won't your family be suspicious of a bound woman locked up in your home?”

“I don’t have a family. No one will see you.”

He realises his mistake the instant he says it. “No more digging. No more questions.”

“Will you blindfold me?” 

“Yes.”

“Am I allowed to pack a bag?”

“We’ll come back for your things another time. I’ve stayed here too long already.”

“I don't know if you’ve noticed, Dave, but there isn't another soul for miles.”

“People could always be following.”

Your face sets in a ponderous frown. “You're a paranoid man. Paranoid and proactive. Those are dangerous together, you know.”

“You aren't my therapist,” says Dave. “And I told you not to ask questions.”

He's never considered it. Taking preventative measures has always availed him, but what happens when he decides to take those measures against someone who never planned to take action? He's never taken an innocent life, but who gets to decide who’s innocent, anyway?

Your vanilla perfume and your expensive pyjamas and your blinding smile telegraph wealthy naïveté, but as far as Dave is concerned, you're proving to be lethal. 

“I’m not asking questions,” you say nonchalantly. He’s irritated by how little your talking annoys him. He should be itching to shut you up himself. Maybe it's the tired, soft drawl of your voice. Different from the gruff male sounds he's used to hearing every day at work. “I’m making observations. While I have time.”

“Time for what?” Now who's the one asking questions?

Your mouth twists. “Making observations.”

He vaguely shakes his head. “Why won’t you fight me?”

“Why won’t you?” 

Dave blinks. 

Your perfect posture makes him feel like he’s being surveyed. “You didn’t walk in here with the intention to shoot me. Your finger wasn’t on the trigger. And because you have no reason to kill me, I have no reason to fight. I certainly can’t overpower you when I’m weaponless and you have backup. This is only a home. I’ll come back to it someday.”

It feels like fire licking against water. Relentless optimism meets unwavering cynicism. A pretty face and sharp tongue meet a man willing to do anything for a heap of cash. “Why won’t you fight me, Dave?” you ask him again. “It looks to me like you’d rather do anything than force me into the backseat of your car.”

“It’s a job,” he says plainly.

“Kidnapping me, or pissing off my father?”

“You’re insurance.”

“Have you ever heard of the myth of Sisyphus, Dave?” 

He grunts, finally tearing his gaze away from you. He already regrets giving you his name.

You take his silence as assent. “And how is your relationship with your parents?”

“Okay. No more talking,” Dave snaps. He tucks his gun into his waistband and demands, with less bite than he intends, “Hands.”

You comply easily, hold your wrists together in front of you. You remain there as Dave directs his attention to his team. “Kovac, meet me in the kitchen. Target apprehended.”

“Roger.”

“Will you kill me if I keep talking?” you ask.

He pins you with a glare. “Maybe I will.”

You give him a knowing, clever smile, and Dave feels some of the tension in his shoulders loosen when Kovac enters the room, gun pointed in your direction. You lift your hands in the air and give Kovac a little wave. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Kovac. Dave and I have already made arrangements in here, so no need to shoot.”

He flashes Dave a questioning glance that gets no satisfaction, but lowers his weapon. “Yeah. Nice to meet you, too.”

Dave takes you by the arm, Kovac the other, and they lead you outside together. Resnik follows to the car, plucking his zip ties out of his pocket while Dave winds around to the driver’s side. “Don’t make any stops on the way back,” he tells Ari, “and don’t let her talk to you.”

“She a witch or something?” laughs the driver. 

“Yeah. Something.” 

A faint noise of protest perks Dave’s ears. “You don’t need to tie them so tight,” you tell Resnik, wincing at the pinching pain of the ties around your wrists. 

“Shut up,” is all he says in reply. 

“You know, the best way for a hostage to escape zip ties is getting their hands cut off.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Resnik tugs on your bound hands. 

“I’m not going to run. But I will complain about chafing the entire trip if you don’t—”

“And I will sew your pretty little goddamn mouth shut if you don’t shut it.” Resnik shoves you hard into the backseat with Kovac and shuts the door. “Jesus, York. Did you have to pick such a complainer?”

Dave flicks out a switchblade and presses it into Resnik’s palm. “Cut them off and do it again. Not as tight.”

Resnik scoffs. “That's funny, man.”

Dave just stares. “Not as tight this time, sergeant.”

Resnik blinks, affronted. “Did you just pull rank on me?”

“You got a problem with that?”

The man sniffs haughtily. “No, sir.”

“Good.” Dave opens the passenger door and slips inside. He puts his gun, safety on, in the glove box. “Nobody touches her or threatens her. You answer to me if she gets hurt, and you won't be happy with my answer. Clear?”

Echoes of “clear” and “roger” echo through the car. Then, your sweet voice, piping up with a “Thanks, Dave.”

He ignores you, but catching a glimpse of you wedged between Kovac and Resnik, Dave’s chest settles a little at the sight of the zip ties around your wrists, much looser than before. 

~

They make a stop on the way back, after all. But only because Dave has to piss. 

And you're exhausted. 

“Come on out,” he says. “Stretch your legs.”

You take his hand gratefully, shimmying out of the car. Dave crowds you so nobody sees your bound hands or the blindfold around your eyes. The sky is still pitch-black, but the 24/7 service centre still has vehicles parked outside. 

“The stars are beautiful this far out,” you say wistfully, looking upward even though you cannot see the sky. “Sometimes I like to take a drive out and sit on the roof of my car in a parking lot. I like to watch the stars. They remind me I’m small.”

Dave tilts his head to the side. “You like feeling small?”

He can't relate to that. He wants to be the biggest person in the room, even if not a single other person knows it. He likes knowing he’s the one wielding the power. He doesn't understand how you can be so content with your hands bound and your eyes blinded. 

“I like knowing there are bigger things out there,” you tell him. “Makes me feel protected.”

He has free reign to look at you when you can't pierce him with that keen stare. Your body shifts in a given space with the grace of water. You were raised like a princess, no doubt. A lifetime of behaving primly and properly under the care of a nanny while your father flitted off to fuck-knows and screwed over his business associates for more power. You know how to wave and smile. Dave didn't expect you to know how to wiggle your way into a person’s brain. 

“Something tells me you don't stargaze.” 

“Don’t have time for shit like that,” he says with a mirthless laugh. “Busy being a murderous sociopath.”

“I never used those words, Dave,” you say gently, “and I don't think you believe that.”

“Says my captive.”

“Willing captive,” you clarify. 

“That doesn't make a difference.”

“It may not for me,” you say, “but it does for you. If I thought you were going to kill me, I would have made a valiant effort to kick your ass.”

Dave snorts. “You a fighter?”

“I’m a talker. Same thing.”

“Yeah, I’ll give you that.”

“And I’m deeply sorry to offend you, Dave”—you feel around for his arm until you find his bicep over his leather jacket—“but you don't frighten me.”

He still feels the touch of your hand when it's gone. Dave makes for the service centre to take a piss, leaving you under Ari’s supervision. Kovac and Resnik are in the empty men’s room, too, talking idly about the choice of fast food joints in the service centre. “Hey, man,” says Kovac, leaning against the wall with his arms folded over his chest. “The girl's hungry. You gonna feed her?”

Dave rolls his eyes. “Of course I’m going to feed her.”

“I can feed her something,” Resnik utters under his breath. Kovac slaps him square in the chest as a warning. 

Dave’s jaw ticks. “Guess I wasn't clear earlier. Nobody—”

“Touches her. Yeah, I heard. Why, man, you want dibs? I didn't think we were in middle school.”

Dave has known his guys since their Army days. He knows they're capable of some crass talk, but he’s an expert at ignoring them. This time, he can't seem to shake the crude words. 

“She came with us willingly, Resnik. She put out her hands and offered you all coffee. If you want to get your dick wet that badly, fuck your hand.”

When he gets back to the car, he helps you into the passenger’s seat. “Is everything okay?” you ask him. 

“I just kidnapped you,” he grumbles, fumbling with your seatbelt, “and you're asking me if everything’s okay.”

“Well, you do seem tense.”

“Yeah. A little.” He's leaning over your body to buckle the belt, and he can smell your perfume, your hair, your freshly-laundered pyjamas. 

You offer him a conciliatory smile. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Nice try,” chuckles Dave, even though the urge itches him under the skin. “You comfortable?”

“I’m okay. Are you?”

“Stop doing that.”

“Stop doing what?” You lift a challenging brow. 

Dave only says, “Making me want to talk.”

Beside you, Ari laughs. “I’ll talk to you if you want.”

You give Dave your best pointed look through the blindfold. “Thank you, Ari.”

It's dawn by the time the car pulls into Dave’s driveway. He helps you out, letting you stretch your legs before he guides you into the house. He gently urges the blindfold over your head and you blink in the harsh light. “You okay?” he asks. 

You briefly cover your eyes with your bound hands. “A little blind. It’s all right. I’m sure you have a lovely home.”

Dave chuckles. “Thanks.”

You grasp for his arm and wrap your hands around it, your eyes still closed. “Okay. Guide me to the basement. I’ll try not to slip.” 

He frowns down at you. “Why the basement?”

“What, you don’t have a concrete prison for me?” You crack your eyes open and squint at Dave. “A cell with iron bars?”

“Uh. No. I was going to give you the guest bedroom.”

You release his arm. “Oh.”

Dave doesn't pause to ruminate on your past experience with kidnappings. Your eyes finally adjust and you follow him upstairs to the bedroom across the hall, already made-up with fresh linens. 

Your mouth falls open. “This is the nicest jail cell I’ve ever seen.”

“No bars, I’m afraid,” Dave says mirthlessly. “Just a lock on the outside. Sorry.”

“Just protocol,” you say breezily. 

The walls are a soothing off-white, the queen-sized bedding white and plush with a flower-patterned comforter atop it. You lift your brows at the sight of the flowers on the nightstand: freshly watered and thriving, not just a leftover decoration. There's a dresser and a plush ottoman at the foot of the bed. 

“Did you do all this?” you ask with a sly smile. 

Dave checks his watch. You assess the movement: quick and calculated, no time wasted, a quick flick of his wrist so his sleeve no longer obscures the hands. “If you're asking whether I picked the comforter, no.” 

“Long shot.” You shrug. “In any case, it looks great.”

“You aren't supposed to sound grateful.” Dave folds his arms over his chest, watching you as you make your way around the room. You have a delicate way of touching things. Your perfectly manicured nails trace gently around the shapes of objects, like you're not so much feeling as reading their auras. 

“You could have locked me in a concrete basement,” you point out, opening the top drawer. “Lots of space for a girl with no clothes.”

“I told you,” says Dave, walking up to your side and closing the drawer, “we’ll go back for your things. Tomorrow, okay? For now, you need to eat. You must be hungry.”

“I’ve been hungry since I saw your car outside my window.”

“Right. Well.” Dave wipes his hands on his slacks, hoping you don't notice and accuse him of having an unfulfilled relationship with his father or some shit. “I’ll bring up some food for you. You vegetarian?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Why would I lie about that?”

“Because I…” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don't know.”

You point toward the door on your right. “Ensuite?”

It's such a tactically-posed question that his old instincts almost have him saying, Affirmative. Instead, Dave manages a tight “Yes” and backs out of the room before the rest of the air can escape in the whirlpool you create. “Wash up, if you'd like. No one’s going to bother you.”

“You made that clear.” You give him a wry look and leave for the bathroom. 

He has his head cook make you an omelette. Kovac and Resnik munch happily on their takeout food at Dave's dinner table and only clean up after themselves because their boss will wrong their necks if they don’t. Dave sits in his office and checks some boxes on the Post-it note he'd left for himself:

Kidnap rich daughter. 

Send ransom. 

Piss Daddy off. 

Check one. Two more to go. 

Dave rubs the slope of his nose and stretches out his back. He wonders if you feel as cramped as he does after being stuck inside an armoured car all night. He wonders why he's wondering about you at all. He hears the shower running upstairs and clutches his pen a little harder. 

He has a fucking hostage in his own home, using his facilities. He's heard the word stupid uttered idly tonight, his men thinking he's foolish for keeping you so close. The pretty, young, silver-tongued princess who makes coffee for her captors. He hasn't locked the windows. He hasn't removed every sharp item from the room. You can escape if you want. You can try to attack them. But you know better. 

Dave feels a bizarre surge of dread. He doesn't know how to deal with a person who shows no fear when Dave York enters their home. He knows how to cooperate through violence and intimidation. The fact that you respond to neither is not just a lack of leverage. It's a lack of power. 

Dave stands abruptly from his desk and finds his head cook, Barry, in the kitchen, sprinkling chives onto what is possibly the most beautiful omelette Dave has ever seen. “Jesus,” he mutters. “She get to you, too?”

Barry chuckles. “No, sir. Just doing my job.”

“Yeah, that's what I keep telling myself, too.” Dave folds his arms over his chest. “This looks great. She’ll appreciate it.”

Barry eyes him subtly before returning to his presentation, but Dave notices the glance. Nothing is subtle when you're a soldier. “What's on your mind, chef?”

“Just…” Barry shrugs his broad shoulders. “The girl. Guy’s gotta wonder why she's here, and not…”

“In a concrete basement?” supplies Dave. Barry shrugs again. “I wasn't aware everyone in my house was so concerned with the health and safety of my prisoner.”

“Not concerned, sir,” says Barry, keeping his eyes down. “Just curious.”

“Clip that curiosity before it gets you into trouble, chef. I’ll take this to her room.” 

“Yes, sir,” Dave hears behind his back as he makes his way back to you. He knocks twice on your door, the rap of his knuckles soft, and hears some generic shuffling of feet before you're opening it cautiously, peering through the small gap. 

It's only when he catches a whiff of your shampooed hair and looks down into your keen eyes that Dave realises—

Why the fuck is he delivering a goddamn omelette to his own goddamn hostage?

Jesus Christ. He's not stupid. He's never been stupid. He crawled his way up out of the seven hells that was his career in the Army. He wrangled together his old buddies and created a profiting security company. He kills for money and he's never found out. He knows what he's doing. 

Except for right fucking now. 

You're dressed in a large sweatshirt and a pair of shorts from the dresser. They're both a bit threadbare and mismatched, but you make them look fashionable. Your hair is damp, and you peer at the omelette in his hands. 

“That's the most beautiful omelette I’ve ever seen,” you say. “Don't think you can fool me into believing you made that.”

Dave blinks. “Should I be offended?”

You narrow your eyes. “Do you take offence to many things when you kill people for a living? I would think everything sort of slides off.”

Dave’s jaw goes taut. “Are you going to take the plate or just play mind games all night?”

“I’ll take the plate,” you say, opening the door wide, “but I don't see why it has to be one or the other.”

Dave hands you the omelette and feels a bit prideful seeing the clear hunger in your posture. You take a seat at the small, circular table in the bedroom and pull out the other chair for him. “You might as well sit,” you tell him. “You look like you're itching over there.”

Dave should go. He should lock you inside and leave you to your own devices while he gets his guys to bring you food and does his fucking job. He should be mean to you. He should threaten you to behave. 

He sits across from you. 

You eat exactly how he expects: reserved, taught, precise. Napkin on your lap, back straight. You only speak once you've swallowed and wipe your mouth after every few bites, even when there's nothing there. Dave can see your ravenous hunger, but your behaviour is learned. It’s habit. You've grown up in restraints. 

You angle your fork and knife to indicate that you're pausing your meal. “My compliments to the chef.”

Dave, amused by the details of the way you eat, leans back in his chair. “He’ll be happy to have them. My guys are like stray dogs; they don't appreciate a good meal.”

You smirk. “Men tend to eat at their food, rather than eat with it.” 

“Am I supposed to ask my food on a date?” 

“That's up to you.” Digging back into your omelette, you wait until you swallow before speaking again. Dave hinges on each syllable. “But it might feel more flattered that way.”

“Thanks for the note.”

“Are you happy, Dave?”

He rears back slightly. “What?”

“I asked if you're happy. Do you like what you do?” You finish your omelette and drop your chin into your palm. “Do you like who you are?”

The only light in the room comes from the floor lamp. You seem energy-conscious, consuming as little space and light as possible. Your eyes are soft and curious, your lashes spidery on your cheeks. The width of your pupils sucks him in like the centre of a whirlpool. He wishes more than ever that he stocked this room with alcohol. 

“I…” Dave shakes his head. “I don’t know. Should I be?”

“You have a very nice home,” you tell him. “Your cook makes great food. You have authority over some very strong men who like to make crude jokes about blindfolded women. I can understand if you’re happy with your life.”

“Yeah, well.” Dave pinches the bridge of his nose. “Maybe it’s more complicated than having nice things.”

Your smile is wicked. “One must imagine Sisyphus happy,” you say. “Except for Dave York.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “His life is only a death sentence that never kills. Nobody can imagine Sisyphus happy.”

“Maybe you can't imagine it because you don't know what it means to be happy.” The way you hold eye contact makes him jittery. It feels like a challenge—like trying to keep a foothold on the edge of a cliff. If he slips, you win. 

“Maybe I don’t.” Dave tilts his head. “Do you?”

You readjust in your seat, drawing a knee up to your chest and resting your chin on it. “Do you know how many times I’ve been taken from my home, Dave?”

His hand curls into a fist atop the table. “I don't want to know—”

“Seventeen since you,” you supply. “Usually never for more than a few hours or a night. Most times, it's because my father pissed someone off, and the men who take me can't conceive of another way to pay him back than to kidnap a woman from her safe place.” 

You give him a pointed look and guilt engulfs the discomforting curiosity weighing on his chest. Dave clears his throat. 

“That's why I have to imagine Sisyphus happy,” you say softly. “Because if he can’t be happy, doomed to live the same existence over and over, then I can’t ever be free.”

“I think,” Dave says slowly, his voice a swipe of sharp nails in the silence, “that if Sisyphus is truly happy, it only means I’m a bad person.”

Your eyes blink sleepily. “What makes you say that?”

“I did this to myself,” he tells you. “Getting into this life.”

“I don't think that's necessarily true. You're a soldier. This country isn't kind to people like you.”

“No. It isn't. But I still made this choice.” Dave sweeps a hand around the room. “You're here because I killed. Hurt people. Made enemies. I’ve let myself accept the things I do, but if I let myself be happy about all of this, then…”

“You’ll begin to wonder if you're an evil man.”

“No,” he says, looking down at the scattered chives on your empty plate. “I’m already an evil man. I just don't want to be happy about it.”

“Evil people don't go around lamenting their own evilness.” You smile at him and all he thinks is, I don't deserve that. “Maybe Sisyphus isn't happy. Maybe he’s resigned. But maybe there's something in the comfort of his everyday. If he can get even a little bit faster, a bit stronger at pushing the rock, he's making it easier. Maybe everything doesn't always have to be the same.”

He's never thought about it like that. Dave sighs, rubbing his jaw. “Your dad ever tell you you're a pain in the ass?”

You chew on your lower lip and it's the first indication he’s seen that you're remotely troubled. “If he noticed, he certainly wouldn't mention it.”

Dave doesn’t like the way light flees from your smart, incisive eyes. There’s a sharpness to their edges now, and it makes him feel cold, down to the bone. “There isn't a person in the world who wouldn't notice you.”

You lift your brows. “Maybe I should inform him. He’ll be surprised to hear that.”

Dave feels his mouth twitch at the corner. “Not the best dad, then.”

“He isn't winning any awards, though it might make him work harder at it if he knew that. He likes that I behave. He likes me quiet and prim and smiling and decidedly not ruining his reputation.”

“Sounds like he wants a houseplant, not a daughter,” mutters Dave. 

You hum ponderously. “Do you think he’ll be happy if I wear more green?”

Dave laughs and covers it by clearing his throat. “Yeah. Maybe. We can try when I give you back to him.”

Your eyes glitter with a thrilling air of mischief. “You can give me back to my quiet, empty home, Dave. I’ll get under my covers, pour a glass of wine, light a candle, and regret that I didn’t annoy you more.” You lift your fork in mock-toast. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” echoes Dave softly, lifting your used knife. The utensils clatter together in the air, and the room goes silent for a long while. 

[cozylittlepigeon]

This is so warm and sweet and sexy!! Love it!

smother - one shot: ambrosia

dark!joel x f!reader

series masterlist | main masterlist | ao3 | kofi

summary: halloween only comes around once a year, but for you it's the first time ever celebrating. joel is kind enough shows you a few traditions with his own twist added on. 7.3k words. warnings: 18+ MDNI! big juicy age gap (reader is 19, joel is 55), ddlg relationship, daddy dom!joel, sub!reader, i'm so serious they're really leaning into the ddlg in this one so if you don't like that be warned, smut (cockwarming, piv), fluff, smother joel being soft and sweet needs its own warning, v minor depiction of blood, reader is picked up/lap sitting, reader wears a collar and leash. a/n: this can be read outside of the smother canon if you haven't caught up in the story yet or at all really, or if maybe you just want a smutty autumnal read! it's some silly fun on how i imagine halloween might go for these two. a little late on the holiday is better than never! 😋

All it took was one comment from Joel, talking about a kid running around Jackson dressed up as a ghost, a sheet thrown over his head with eye holes cut out of it.

Huh, haven’t thought about Halloween in a long time. 

Said with that nostalgic, sad air that Joel tends to carry as he mumbles the words out, scratching at his beard. It’s not even necessarily a comment to you, but more to himself, falling into the past. 

“What’s Halloween?” you ask him anyway, no stranger to having Joel have to explain things to you. It turns out, there was a lot you’d missed out on growing up in such a sheltered place. Even down to simple phrases that were common use, and as you were learning now, holidays. 

When he looks to you, you can see that cloud of the past around him lift slightly, and he lights up. “You don’t know Halloween?” he asks, and you shake your head, innocent doe-like eyes begging him for more. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Y’all didn’t celebrate a whole hell of a lot where you’re from.”

He goes on to explain it - the traditions of children all over the country every autumn. Pumpkin and apple picking, making or buying costumes of anything under the sun to wear as they gathered candy from their neighbors. You’d only had chocolate twice in your life, and yet from what Joel’s told you, candy was abundant back in his time. It all sounded a little strange, especially the part where he told you that people even carved scenes and figures into their pumpkins to display outside their homes. It was a time for all things spooky - even the undead, which made you shudder at the irony - but always looked at with an eye of scrutiny, as if it was never realistic. Scary things like the world you were living in had been fun back then. Entertainment. 

It was October, and Joel tells you that this was the time of year for it. The chill in the air is perfectly pleasant as you bask in the coziness of the overcast day while you amble along listening to Joel speak, one arm threaded through his. The trip here had greeted you both with the most stunning array of hues on the leaves, crunching underneath your boots and Willow’s hooves most of the way. Autumn always felt special to you, but experiencing it with Joel had you wondering if every season could be your new favorite as long as he was by your side.

You wrinkle your brow, trying to imagine a world where all of what he said was possible. You start to feel that familiar pull inside of you, one that comes whenever you hear about the traditions of the old world that became less important as soon as people were focused on only one thing: survival. It’s an aching that you know can never be satisfied, a strange melancholy that makes your chest feel heavier and your stomach drop, wishing for these things you can’t have.

“Y’know,” Joel drawls, seeing your now contemplative, downtrodden expression. “They might have pumpkins growing here in Jackson. Seems like something they’d have thought of.”

You breathe in sharply in surprise, whipping your head to look at him. “Y-you think so?”

“Sure, baby. You can eat all different parts of ‘em too, not just for decor, so it seems practical for a place like this. They grow real nice this time of year.”

For once, that was something that you knew already. In your community growing up, all kinds of squash had been part of your diet, pumpkins included. It was just that nobody had ever thought to allow any kind of whimsy surrounding them this time of year.

You grin. “Yeah, they do. Daddy, can we get some, then? Please?” Your voice, rapidly climbing with hopefulness, eyes widening, and lips pouting, makes Joel chuckle lightheartedly.

“Let’s see what we can do, sweetheart.” 

You’re perched on top of the kitchen counter, watching Joel setting up at the table a few feet away. The room is aglow with flickering hues of orange, warm and cozy from the old wood burning fireplace blazing in the living room. You’d needed it to fight off the chill that seemed to follow the two of you home from Jackson. 

You survey the scrounged up old newspapers, discolored with age, laid out underneath your two decently sized pumpkins. Joel comes back across the room after putting on some country record you can’t ever remember the name to. It’s nice with a folksy sound, and you suppose it is much better than the music you grew up listening to. In fact, you’re finding yourself starting to like his old country music, the lyrics slipping out of your mouth unintentionally when he plays them. Joel grabs one of the knives he’d laid out, and you gasp and then giggle when he drives it into the top of one of the pumpkins, cutting a hole around the stem.

“Should I help, daddy?” you say softly above the music drifting over your way.

Joel’s head shakes, his longer hair, curling around his ears, flops forward as he stares down at his project. “No, baby, you just sit there and look pretty while I take care of the dirty work.”

You smile, always happy to do his bidding, be the motivating little charm that hangs by his side. You hop off the counter and instead seat yourself at the kitchen table, wanting a closer view. The earthy smell of the insides of the pumpkins being pulled out hits your nose and you look closer at the mess of stringy, seed filled guts that Joel is plopping out onto the newspaper. You make a grossed out face, sticking your tongue out at him. 

Joel laughs when you pinch some of it between your fingers, scowling at the sliminess. “Told ya you wouldn’t want to do the dirty work,” he playfully chastises you. “We’ll save the seeds an’ all that, try to make ourselves a snack. You roast ‘em before?”

You nod. “Yes, daddy.”

“Maybe by next year, we can grow some pumpkins of our own, too. An’ I’ve got plans with the rest of it, if I can make it work,” he says, giving you a secretive smile that makes your heart leap. You love it when Joel is in a mood like this. When he’s taking care of you and being so sweet, anything feels possible.

Joel sets aside the mess to sort through later after scraping out as much as he can, plopping your now hollowed out pumpkin in front of you and setting his own at his seat across the table.

“So you’ll create a little outline for yourself ‘fore we cut them, you got it? We don’t have much that’ll do for that, but I figured maybe these pencils would work,” he says, coming up behind you and handing you one, planting a gentle kiss on top of your head before moving to his own chair.

You look up from your pumpkin, your pencil held in a careful hover next to the skin of it. You watch Joel, looking down underneath his dark, bushy brows at his own pumpkin, already concentrating on sketching it out. 

“What’s yours gonna be?” you ask him, watching with rapt fascination at how quickly he’s already seeming to find his stride. 

“Classic Jack-O-Lantern look -“

“Who?”

Joel laughs heartily, looking up at you now, eyes sparkling as much as his are capable of. “It’s - uh - it’s what we’d call ‘em back in the day. Jack-O-Lanterns. Hell, I don’t even know why actually, was just somethin’ we said. It’s like… a goofy face carved into the pumpkin. Wanted you to see what a lot of ‘em looked like on people’s porches back then,” he says, and you listen with your ears perked up, hanging onto each bit of his explanation of life from a different time. 

You give him a soft, appreciative smile for the gesture, realizing that he’d given it some thought. Without ever having to express it, he’s seen your fascination with all things about the ways of the world twenty plus years ago. To give you even a sliver of that experience makes you feel so grateful your heart could burst.

“And - and we’ll light these up after? Isn’t that what you said before?” Joel nods in response, going back to his sketching, prompting you to start on yours.

“An’ what’s yours gonna be, sugar? You got your idea?” he asks.

You smile, nodding coyly as you swipe the pencil across the waxy surface again, trying to make an imprint. “A cat,” you tell him.

His stern glare only serves to amuse you more. The more comfortable your life with Joel got, the more fun it was to poke at his boundaries a little bit. “This ain’t gonna convince me, you know.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, daddy,” you say sweetly - too sweetly - not bothering to hide your real motivation here. You fold your legs underneath you, sitting cross legged on the chair and give him a saccharine smile as you play with the ribbon in your hair. “I just like kitties.”

Joel huffs, rolling his eyes. Just like the many times before today, when the topic had come up, he’s less than impressed. “Yeah, been hearin’ how much you like ‘em for weeks now.”

He was of course referring to the stray that had somehow miraculously found your little cabin in the middle of the woods. One morning you had both gone outside for a walk and spotted her sunning herself on the front porch. A scrappy looking but gentle little gray thing, clearly too skinny and too alone, but with a big heart that seemed oddly unafraid of the two of you. She had reminded you of, well, you, when you’d first come to the cabin. Hungry, in need of a home, in need of love. 

You’d instantly dubbed her Mabel after one of the characters in your favorite romance book, while Joel just referred to her as “the cat” or “the stray”, staunchly refusing to get too involved. When you pressed him on why you couldn’t bring her inside, he complained that Mabel was just another mouth to feed, yet he hadn’t stopped you from putting out little snacks for her to sate her appetite. She’d started even eating right out of your hand, making you squeal in delight as Joel rolled his eyes, trying to hide his own smile at your joy.

As much as Joel pretended not to care about Mabel, you’d seen him once through the window in the upstairs bathroom after your bath, when he’d been on his way back from taking care of Willow in the stable. Mabel seemed to be trotting alongside Joel and he crouched down - bad knees and all - to pet her. You watched with gratification as Mabel pushed her head into Joel’s touch and he scratched behind her ears before he kept moving. You could have sworn you’d even seen Joel’s lips moving from afar, like he was saying something sweet to her. You decided not to mention the tender moment, keeping it as all the ammunition you needed to get him to move things in your favor.

“Daddy, I just don’t understand why we can’t have Mabel inside,” you whine as you draw out the crest of a moon onto your pumpkin. 

“We’ve been over this -”

“It’s gonna be cold soon, and she’s out there all alone. She found us! And she likes us. A-and I know you like her, too…”

Joel quirks a brow at the same time as his head cocks, studying you, wondering what you know. “She’s… she’s a good cat,” he says, placating you. “But not useful to us, like I’ve said. Just a mouth to feed.”

“What about just for the winter? So she doesn’t freeze out there?” you try to bargain, knowing it’s relatively useless. There isn’t a chance that Mabel would only stay for the winter, dutifully packing her bags and leaving the second that spring arrived.

Joel shoots you a cold, irritated glance, picking up the small paring knife from the table and ignoring your already used argument. “Careful with your knife, honey, when you start to carve it. Just let me know if you need help.”

You chew at the inside of your lip, picking up your knife with slight disdain and poking it into the pumpkin, trying to trace the lines you’d sketched out. But you’re distracted, irritated, that Joel is choosing not to listen to what you think are perfectly rational arguments to his unwavering disapproval towards Mabel.

Joel slices through the flesh of his pumpkin, tossing pieces of it onto the table as tension fills the air. You pull your lip between your teeth, trying to focus on your carving, but your mind races, sees a chance for you to persuade Joel here.

“Daddy… don’t you think -”

“Enough, blossom-” he barks.

“She needs a home?”

He sighs, his shoulders sagging as he rests his carving knife on the table, locking his eyes with your desperate ones. “I know this is hard to hear baby, but it’s not up for debate anymore. I don’t think we need to be usin’ our winter rations on a cat, right?” 

“I saw you pet her -”

“Sure, it ain’t that I don’t like her, or cats in general. Had one growin’ up. But it’s just not… practical.” There he goes again, ever the practical one in this house. That’s the price you pay for this ability to keep your naivete, your simple lifestyle of being doted on and letting Joel take care of everything for you. You love it, love that it feels like it chips away at all the wasted years you’d spent being treated as anything other than a vessel to spit out prayers and righteousness, to be trained up and married off to a godly man. All you’d wanted was for someone to cut you a break and simply care for you like the child you were. Here, you’d found exactly that. Yet at times like this it frustrates you that you know the house rules dictate Joel will always get the final say, no matter how much you appreciate his efforts.

“Y-you’re sure, sir?” you squeak out, praying the more formal denomination aimed his way might soften his heart just enough.

“M’sure. Not up for debate anymore, princess, I’m sorry,” he replies sternly, eyeing you for a lingering moment before he seems satisfied enough to start carving again.

You feel yourself deflate, but try to square your shoulders, nodding as you swallow down the lump in your throat. You understand, you know it’s fair to make sure that the two of you can last the winter up here with more limited trips out to stock up when the snow gets bad and there’s no garden to fuel those in between times. But that still immature and frivolous part of you has half a mind to stomp your feet and cry out at how unfair all of this is. That it’s just a cat, what harm could she really do? You feel your lip tremble but bite it back, putting your knife to the pumpkin again. You carve along the body of the cat you’d sketched out with slightly shaky hands, another tense silence falling between you and Joel.

You’re too preoccupied with your own thoughts, fighting the urge not to pout, when your hand slips, misreading the amount of pressure needed to go around a curve in your tracing. You feel it overshoot, the blade coming out of the pumpkin and into your finger before it clatters to the table. You’re yelping before you can help it and instinctively tearing your hand towards your body, gripping onto the now throbbing finger. Joel is on you in a second, worried brows turned down along with his eyes. 

“What happened?” he asks in a rushed voice as he grabs your wrist, a silent ask to inspect the hand. The authoritarian from moments ago has melted away, your protector coming out of the woodwork now.

“I-I dunno.” You clutch the finger tight, scared to see the damage.

“Come on, honey, let daddy see it,” he coos softly, helping you unfurl your fingers one by one until you reach the wounded one tucked inside. He breathes out a sound seeming like a relieved laugh when he reaches the injured one only to find a relatively minute scratch oozing out a bit of blood. “See? Barely anythin’ there. C’mon, let’s wash it up.”

You sniffle, peering down at it with him and feel a sense of ease wash over you. He leads you to the kitchen sink, helping you rinse your finger, his body pressed tightly to yours. His lips are perpetually on your hair, kissing your head in soothing little beats. 

“Stay right here,” he whispers against your head, disappearing to rummage around in the powder room across the way, returning with a strip of gauze. “Best we got,” he tells you, patching up the small cut with unusually gentle hands. Every movement is soft and doting, sending a flutter through your stomach before he brings the wrapped finger up to his mouth, kissing it. 

“Better?” he asks, his eyes swimming with something compassionate.

“Yes, daddy. Thank you,” you squeak out shyly, cheeks warm. 

Joel’s arms come around you, swaying with you from behind as his chest presses against your back. He hums along with the music, moving to the beat of the song that’s still lazing through the air in the background. It’s almost as if he’s… dancing with you. For all the times he’s put on a record since he found any worth a damn (in his words), you’d been the one swaying, swinging your hips, spinning around the living room while you couldn’t get Joel to do much more than tap his foot to the beat. Your heart fills with warmth, slowly melting away the icy irritation you feel towards him right now.

“You’ve got to be careful, okay? Were you too busy poutin’ to be careful?” he asks softly against your hair, slowing his movements down.

“Kind of,” you admit, twisting your lips to the side. “Just ‘cause I want it so, so bad, daddy. It wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

He contemplates you for a moment, locking his hands with yours across your chest. His lips graze near your ear before he says quietly, “More than you want to follow daddy’s rules?”

You squirm, trying to turn your head to face him. “No, of course not!” you blurt out obediently, the idea of that being a reality so far out of the realm of possibility for you. 

Joel clicks his tongue. “That so? ‘Cause it felt like you were deliberately tryin’ to get me riled up there, not follow my rules. Hm?”

“N-no, I just - daddy I just wanted to -”

“I think what you wanted…” Joel says, languidly drawing his words out, “Was to push my buttons when I’d already said no. Get daddy a little riled up so I’d give in to what little blossom wants.” He follows with a nuzzle of your neck that both tickles and sends a shiver down your spine as his hot breath touches your sensitive skin. You inhale shakily, fighting a needy little noise as he nips at the skin. “Does that sound right?”

“Daddy…” you whimper at him, feeling your bottom lip tremble the tiniest bit. You don’t like what he’s insinuating, even if parts of it are true. You had wanted to press him, to really understand why he was being so stubborn about Mabel, but it hadn’t been out of disrespect. “I didn’t mean to -”

“I know, sweetheart,” Joel says. “Maybe you just needed a little attention from me.”

Your body flashes hot with the overload of sensations. His strong arms against your pulsing chest, fingers holding tightly to yours. The absolute wall of him pressing into your back, keenly aware of how badly you want him to be pressed even closer, more close than is humanly possible, you think.

“You stayin’ mad at your old man for this, hm? Or… can we have a little fun while we finish carving our pumpkins?” Joel asks, sultry and low.

“N-no, we can…”

“Good,” he whispers. “I’ll help you this time so y’don’t hurt yourself again.”

He backs up with you still in his arms, the awkwardness of your steps together making you laugh, easing even more of the tension. You can hardly ever stay irritated with Joel for long, knowing his care for you runs so deep that while sometimes you can’t understand his decisions, he’s only looking out for you. 

Joel’s arms release you just as he goes to sit back in your chair, pulling it to the table and patting his leg. The loss of him immediately sends a devastating cold through you, and you frown. “Right here, baby.” His thick thighs are spread wide, leaving room for you to nestle your ass right between them, pressed in a very precarious spot. One arm slips around your middle, anchoring you down.

Your entire body buzzes as you feel the muscles of Joel’s arm flex around you, pulling you tighter before it slides down towards your waist, bearing you down harder into his lap. The now hefty, thick bulge of him presses into you, making a needy sound slip past your lips.

“Now ain’t that cute,” he says, admiring the shape you’d traced out on your pumpkin - a crescent moon with a cat perched inside of it, tail hanging off the side. It’s rudimentary at best, not exactly as you’d envisioned in your head, but Joel’s compliment rumbled right in your ear sends your cheeks blazing.

“T-thanks,” you mutter as Joel’s hands are quickly working up the hem of your already short dress while your mind tries to catch up, thighs and panties in full view in a split second before he’s shimmying them down your legs. 

“You’re bein’ daddy’s good girl now, aren’t you? Got you in my lap and suddenly you’re quiet as a mouse, huh?” he asks, his knuckles grazing all the way up the plush skin of your thighs until they reach between them, barely touching but sending a little jolt of pleasure as he parts your lips, finding you already starting to get wet. 

“Oh, you’re always so ready, baby,” Joel says, dripping with sweet condescension. “How do you do it for daddy, huh? How’d I get so lucky?”

“D-dunno, daddy…” you whimper, the name falling so sultry off your lips still music to his ears all these months later. Joel’s watches you writhe with eyes glossing over before catching your neck in a kiss, your head lolling back when stubble scrapes against skin, shooting goosebumps across your body in record speed. Whimpering your special name for him once again sends Joel into a heat, rutting his hips into yours.

The next moment is a blur, the quick jangle of Joel’s belt, the unzipping sound that triggers a response in you like a damn Pavlovian dog, sending you dripping, much to your embarrassment. It’s too easy, it’s always too easy. His thick, warm cock presses against the bare skin at your back and you lose control of your body completely, Joel’s hands now your guide as he places them on either side of your hips, lifting them up.

“Niiice ‘n easy now,” he drawls on the way down, pushing into you with his grip still tight, leaving you completely at his mercy. “That’s it…”

You grit your teeth as a moan slips through, welcoming the all consuming intrusion on your body. Every single thick inch of him, until you’re seated down against his lap again, spread wide and dumbstruck even after all this time that he fits. 

“Fuck,” Joel pushes through his teeth, his breathing heavy against your neck, one hand holding your head on the other side, possessively pressing it to his lips. “That’s my girl. Perfect.”

All you can do is whimper out “daddy” once again and wriggle, the fullness of him taking over every other thought. Your hips want to rock, desperate for the friction, but his arm drapes across your body again, holding you in place. You whine, the pressure nearly too much inside of you, each thick inch pressing on your sensitive walls. Needy, desperate panting comes out as you struggle slightly against his hold, not understanding why he hasn’t begun to thrust in and out of you in earnest like he usually does. By now, you’d typically be bent over the table, seeing stars from the way he punched deep inside of you, hitting all of those perfect, pleasurable spots.

“Shh, shh… Still now. Still, baby,” Joel coos soothingly, squeezing his arm tighter around you. 

“Wh - what’re you doing?” you whine, your voice sounding far away, your mind quickly devolving into a swimming mess. He’s not moving at all, and it’s driving you absolutely mad, making you more needy than you’ve ever felt. Every inch of you pulses around every inch of where he fills you up, hot and wet and in need of that sweet, delicious friction. You didn’t know the difference in feeling could be this staggering or that Joel could ever have this much self control to keep himself seated inside of you, perfectly still. 

“Focus, focus,” he hisses in your ear before his lips press against the shell of it, giving it a gentle kiss. “We’re gonna finish your pretty little carving together. Jus’ needed to keep a real close eye on my blossom this time. Can y’do that?”

You nod, breathing shakily and picking up the knife from the table, trying to ignore the distraction of his pulsing inside of you, this new sense of fullness beyond anything you’d ever have imagined. His free hand slips down your arm in a languid movement before it meets your own, resting on top as a guide for you to carve with.

“There we go…” His voice tickles your ear as he helps you work, your hands moving in concert together to slice through the flesh of the pumpkin. With a trembling hand enveloped by Joel’s, you just try to keep going, despite the utter distraction that is his cock nestled inside of you - large, throbbing, warm, making you feel insane. He knows he’s making it difficult to follow his instructions, that this is all but another game of his that he loves to play with you, testing your limits, finding your vulnerabilities. He’s found plenty of them over the months, and all of them always seem to have something to do with him and his cock.

“Very talented… My smart girl…” When he shifts slightly with his praises, sending his head nudging a spot deep inside of you, you whimper. “I know, I know. You’re doin’ so good.” Joel’s voice strains slightly, and you know he’s feeling it too - the desperation for more, the need to move. He’s always been stronger than you, though, and he will prove his stubborn point by lasting every second of this that he wants to.

“Daddy, please, I need it…” you mumble, your hips rocking slightly, trying to bounce. But the position he has you in, spread wide, one arm around your waist, leaves you helpless to all of it. You’ve nearly given up on the carving, a little layer of sweat breaking out on your forehead and neck as you fight the fire that Joel has ignited inside of you. “J-just a little… please please…”

Joel lets out an amused little hum, kissing the side of your face. “What about a pretty please for your daddy?”

“Oh, pretty please daddy,” you say more excitedly, trying to rock forward again to no avail. His arm tightens in warning, a tiny tsk coming from behind you.

“What about…” he pauses, as if he’s thinking. “A ‘daddy, you’re always right’, or ‘daddy, I shouldn’t have argued with you’?” He pushes his hips, slow and steady, lifting them off the chair just enough before bringing them back down in the most shallow, slow thrust. The sound is filthy - raw and raunchy, a drawn out squelch as you leak out around him. Joel can’t help but groan quietly, and you nearly let out a yell that turns into a strangled, pornographic whine, panting. 

“Hnnng, yes, daddy. Please, you’re always right, you are. I shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have argued with you. Pretty pretty please… just help me.” 

“Oh, very good. Yes, blossom, you’re gonna be a good girl now, right? Remember who’s in charge around here, who makes the calls?”

You nod furiously when he makes that same slow, gentle movement of his hips. You flutter around him, your body screaming out as a strange sense of pleasure builds at the slow drag of him in and out. Every nerve is lit up, every other sense of yours seeming to flit away other than everything Joel. His scent, his taste - phantom on your tongue, his hot skin, the fullness of him that you could never tire of. If only… if only you could stay like this forever, a part of him. 

“O-of course, sir,” you mutter obediently, eyes rolling back, head lolled towards his. You feel his hand push on yours, slicing the knife through another bit of the pumpkin, but you can’t concentrate, you can’t care. Your eyes, unfocused, bleary, try to see what he’s doing, watching him wriggle another cut piece of the pumpkin onto the table. Then, with a widening, suddenly clear stare, you see it: your vision, come to life. It’s the cat inside the moon, and it’s beautiful. You break out into a smile, still panting, and Joel looks at it over your shoulder with you.

“Daddy’s proud of you, sweetheart. It looks real good.” He speaks softly, gripping the opposite side of your face, turning you to kiss him and you delve in, deep and passionate, taking his lips for all their worth, sucking on the bottom one before going back for more. You grind your hips down onto his lap, hoping to push him deeper, but there’s nowhere to go. Full up, aching and throbbing, your arousal coating every inch and dripping out to your intermingled bodies, Joel finally breaks.

He starts to move, shallow thrusts, just sending an inch in and out of you, and you gasp at the sudden burst of pleasure when his head nuzzles your insides perfectly on each inward roll of his hips. But it’s still not enough, not after the teasing you’d both endured, and Joel’s hand plants on your back, shoving you forward. The kitchen chair clatters behind him as he moves the both of you to your feet, swiping everything on the table forward, all while starting to wildly thrust in and out of you. You’re pressed down, ass popped out against his hips rutting into yours, laid flat onto the table. 

You scream out in sudden bliss, the change in angle sending you to new heights, pleasure unbeknownst to you before this moment. There’d never been so much anticipation for him, so much wildness building up inside of you before.

The second Joel reaches around, a steady finger strumming on your clit, you lose control, your climax crashing into you with the most world shattering vengeance. “Daddy! Daddy!” you cry out in ecstasy, little tears lingering in the corners of your eyes as your legs tremble and give out on you. Joel hoists you up by the waist and chest, his arms wrapped around your middle as he pulls you upright, flush with his own body, your legs flailing slightly as he gets you off the ground. He plunges himself as deep as he can go, your bodies melded together.

“Fuck - that’s - fuck - gonna fill you up,” he grunts out, giving your entire body a few jerks before he’s balls deep, groaning loudly. You’re full, so full, a blissful smile on your face as Joel holds you there for a moment before you both go limp. He catches you before you can crash to the floor, holding you up by the arms before spinning you to land in his arms, clutching you safely to his chest.

“God…” he breathes. “You’re too much for this old man sometimes, you know that?”

“Daddy, you’re not old,” you chastise him in a sweet lilt. You furrow your brow, meeting his eyes.

“Feels like it. About to break my damn back for your sweet little pussy, baby,” he teases, leaning down for a tender kiss, thumbing your chin. “Let’s clean you up, then we can finish our fun.”

You’re curled up in Joel’s lap again, nestled against him in the rocker on the front porch. You glance proudly at your creations, the orange glow bright against the dark backdrop of the surrounding woods. Joel’s goofy face next to the gracefulness of your cat makes you smile wide, chuckling.

Joel had let you help him finish carving his Jack-O-Lantern, considering you’d been a bit too distracted during your own to really appreciate ‘the art of it’, as Joel had said. He’d warmed up spiced tea for you two as a sprinkle of rain started a pitter patter against the windows, Joel draping a knit blanket around your shoulders the moment it began. It had been an utterly perfect evening with an utterly perfect end to Joel’s lap, right where you loved to be. 

“You said people always wore costumes, right? What would mine have been?” you ask him.

Joel ponders it for a few moments, rocking you two in the chair. It’s so calming, your ear to his chest, listening to it beat as the silence of the night sits around you both, you nearly feel you could pass out from the exhaustion of the day. “Well, maybe a little witch, ‘cause you get under my skin so much,” he says gruffy, his fingers finding your middle, tickling you enough to make you flinch and squirm. You bat at his hand, swiping it away with a squeal.

“But probably some kind of princess, ‘cause that’s what you really are,” he adds, giving you a wink.

You smile as your skin flushes at his flirtatious, low voice, biting your lip in between your teeth, snuggling up to Joel and saying, “That makes you… the king, right? King of the castle.” You waggle your eyebrows teasingly at him.

Joel chuckles, his chest rumbling the both of you. “Well, I s’pose it does, then,” he concedes quickly. “So what d’ya think, you like Halloween?”

You reflect on the events of the night, eyes fixed on the two glowing pumpkins sitting a few feet away, front and center on the porch. A place only the two of you will ever see, but it still invokes a sense of pride, seeing what you and Joel have built here together. All of the holidays to come, the traditions he can teach you, the care that runs infinitely between the two of you in a beautiful, never ending loop. A deep, warm feeling of home swells in your chest as you blink your heavy eyes, nodding.

“I love it.”

The morning, casting warm and golden hues from the yellow maple and larch trees in view from the bedroom window greets you as you stretch across the bed lazily. You take it in, relishing in the colors of fall dancing across the ceiling, the coziness of the flannel duvet that Joel had brought out last week, insisting you needed it at night even though he slept hotter than a furnace. 

The missing space next to you in bed has you frowning, but it’s nothing new. Joel almost always wakes before you. In fact, it’s a rare morning that you get to find him in that unassuming position, able to snuggle up and wake him with a soft kiss to that scar on his nose. You sigh, knowing that if you don’t get up soon, Joel likely will come to wake you, morning tea and breakfast at the ready.

You hear the unmistakable sounds of him in the kitchen - the tinker of cookware, him grumbling to himself, his heavy footsteps. Every noise carries in this house, but you don’t mind at all. You like knowing what to expect the second you walk down the stairs, know where to find Joel so you can fall right into his arms. And today, that’s knowing you’ll find him at the stove, judging by the smell wafting through the slightly ajar bedroom door.

Throwing a sweater over your naked frame and nothing else, you’re still pulling your arm through as you clumsily bound down the stairs. Joel sees just a flash of everything before the sweater falls over your hips, gone just as quickly as it had appeared. He smiles wryly at you as you approach.

“Well good mornin’ to you too,” he purrs, spatula in hand at the stove, always opening up one arm to welcome you in. Your arms wrap around his middle, pressing yourself close.

“Morning daddy,” you say with a tiny yawn. Your arm reaches out, gripping onto Joel’s mug, looking at the glossy brown liquid sloshing around inside. You take a sip with a sour face, plopping the mug right back where you found it, smacking your lips. “Still gross,” you tell him. 

Joel nearly howls, chuckling as his head shakes, the wrinkle between his brows deepening as he stares at you incredulously. “How many times are you gonna do that an’ expect a different taste? Coffee’s coffee, babygirl.”

You grumble a little, ready to tease him back, when your eye catches on the griddle on the stove. “Pancakes?!” You perk up, peering at the pan. It’s not often that Joel will use up the limited stores of flour and sugar, only reserved for special occasions to be savored. “Why do they… look like that?” you ask, the color seeming a bit off upon closer inspection.

“Pumpkin,” Joel says simply. “Added some spices, too. Been wantin’ to try somethin’ like this. Now go sit your pretty little ass at the table, it’s almost ready.” His hand presses on your behind with a soft pat, making you giggle as you dutifully take your seat.

Joel serves you a plate, stacked high with pancakes, bringing over a mason jar full of syrup. “Syrup, too?” you ask, wide eyed. It’s truly turning into a feast to remember.

“Mhm,” Joel hums. “Y’know that guy - uh, Darren - who we were talkin’ to in Jackson? The one who was askin’ a lot of questions about your special collar and leash? Too many if y’ask me…” Joel grumbles. You recall with cheeks flushing warm, how he’d seemed captivated by the leather dangling from your o-ring, his eyes roaming the leash to where it met Joel’s hand, gripped tightly. “He makes this stuff, I guess.”

You make an intrigued face, holding the jar and watching the contents slowly, mesmerizingly drip from side to side as you tilt it in your hands. 

“Now that I’m thinkin’ of it, I don’t think I want him talkin’ to you ever again,” he tells you flippantly, taking the syrup out of your hands and dousing your pancakes with it, setting a fork and knife in front of you. You smirk with butterflies in your stomach at his protectiveness, his untamed jealousy poking out, and nod in agreement.

“‘Course, daddy,” you say, digging into your meal. It’s delicious, your mouth immediately watering for more as the hot, fluffy pancakes hit your tongue. Joel has outdone himself with the pure amount of flavor packed in here, most of the time having your meals on the more bland side for lack of ingredients. You smile wide, shoveling in another bite, and telling him as much. He kisses the top of your head, thanking you as he brings over his own plate, stacked with far less food than yours. A detail that never goes unnoticed or unappreciated by you, and you usually try to pawn as much of your food off on him as possible the second you get full.

A sound interrupts your otherwise peaceful breakfast with Joel - tiny, almost imperceptible at first, but louder after you pause, straining your ears. 

Meow! 

You bolt upright in your seat, silverware crashing to the table with a loud ring. “It’s Mabel!” you cry out, scrambling to your feet before bashfully looking at Joel, remembering yourself. “May I be excused? I promise I’ll finish it in a minute, daddy. It’s just that we haven’t seen her in a while,” you beg, looking at him, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet.

Joel sighs, his lips moving to a lopsided smile. “Go on, sweetheart.” He waves you away, sending you rushing to the front door, whipping it open. A gust of chilly air hits your bare legs, but you don’t mind at all, hardly even notice it as you watch as the tiny gray cat weaves her way around one of the slats on the porch’s railing. 

“Mabel!” you squeal, crouching down to hold your hand out to her. She sniffs it carefully, but quickly rubs her head into your palm, letting you scratch her behind the ears. Her contented expression, eyes squinting, melts your heart. “She’s so cute, isn’t she?” you call back to Joel, who’s leaning against the doorframe, watching the two of you.

You see him sigh, deflate slightly in a way that makes your heart start to hammer hard in your chest with hope. Joel can’t help the way his chest tightens at seeing you so happy, so content at such a little thing. Your youthful excitement about things is what keeps him going so many days, and he feels guilty for being stubborn enough to keep that from you and himself.

“Go on then, both of you,” Joel finally replies, tilting his head back towards the inside of the cabin. You pause, staring at him, your hand frozen out into the space in front of you as Mabel scrapes her cheeks along your fingers.

“Daddy? Do you really mean it?” you cry out.

He gives you a single nod, his eyes soft and glinting in the sunshine. You spring to your feet, barely able to contain your excitement as you rush to the doorway with Joel, pushing the front door open wide.

“Come on, Mabel! This way!” you call to her, watching her ears perk up, her tail swishing inquisitively. She trots over to you, peering past to the inside, her steps ginger but intent as she puts one paw inside, purposefully brushing herself against Joel’s leg on the way.

You beam, throwing yourself into Joel’s arms, squeezing him tightly. “Thank you thank you thank you! I’ll never ask for anything ever again, daddy.”

Joel huffs out a skeptical chuckle, brows raised. “We’ll see about that.” He watches Mabel tentatively exploring near the entryway, her nose down to sniff every single thing along the way, getting her bearings. When he turns to you, you’re still looking at him, studying his face with gratitude.

Joel leans in to kiss you but pulls away at the last second, teasing you. His fingers slide up to your collar, gripping onto it lightly but possessively. When his eyes darken the tiniest bit, it quickens your pulse, steals the breath from your lungs. His voice rumbles with hidden promises for the day as he puts his lips to your ear, making you shudder.

“A little pet for my pet.”

dividers by @/saradika-graphics !

[cozylittlepigeon]

I'm over here swooning...I love these two and I love this story. I'm so looking forward to the next chapter!

Bona Dea - part 4

Plot: Stumbling through a dark town, general Marcus Acacius encounters the festival of Bona Dea. But what at first seems like just a pleasurable way to spend the night leaves a greater impression on him than he counted on.

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

General Marcus Acacius x female reader

Warnings: Explicit smut. No use of y/n, the reader is pretty much a blank slate if you're a Roman noble lady in 2nd century Tuscany?

Word count: 7.4k

A/N: I'm back with part four of Bona Dea! Part 1, 2 and 3 are linked above. After the events of the last part, Acacius is now on his way to Rome with his domina to start planning for their new life together. I was originally thinking this would be the final part but the chapter got very long so there will be a 5th part too.

A few notes on the Latin. I think most of it is pretty self-explanatory but just in case: Carrisme - dearest or sweetest Letica - a vehicle, a litter used for carrying people Vita mea - my life Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia - Ubi tu Gaia, ego Gaius - Wherever you are, I will be

Marcus remained true to his word, he was there when you woke an hour later. The wagon had come to a stand still and he was gently caressing your cheek as he roused you from sleep with a soft whisper. 

“Carrisime, wake up. We’ve arrived at the inn, let’s get inside,” his arm was warm on your shoulder as he sat up, his cloak still wrapped around you. “Alba,” he said, his voice a bit louder, “wake up, girl, rouse yourself.” 

He held your hand as you stepped from the carriage into the courtyard of a country inn, and reached out to steady Alba as she stepped down too. 

“Cauponi,” he called, seeing the door open, “send someone to take care of the horses and the ladies’ luggage. I want to get them inside and settled as fast as possible, they’ve had a very harrowing day.” 

The guest master nodded and called over his shoulder to someone on the inside. Marcus kept his arm around you, keeping you steady on your feet, as he gestured to one of his men to help Alba. Grateful for his solid body next to yours, you ventured into the inn. A slave girl bowed low and waved you along, leading you all up the stairs to the guests’ quarters. The room she showed you too was small but comfortable, and you gratefully sank down onto the bed. Even though you’d slept in the carriage, the events of the day were catching up with you and you felt tired to the bone. Alba must’ve felt much the same, because she sat down on the bed next to you, aided by Marcus’ soldier. She gave him a grateful smile as he bowed and retreated. Marcus remained in the room, giving orders to the slave girl while you put your arm around Alba and pulled her close. She leaned her head on your shoulder and let out a deep breath. 

“You’re safe now, puella,” you soothed her quietly, “we’ll get a good night’s rest and then the general will escort us to Rome.” 

“We won’t go back home?” she asked and you shook her head. 

“Lunaris gave orders to pack up and move the household to Rome, remember? I will have to figure out what to do with it all when they arrive. But it will take them some weeks to get to Rome.” 

“Where will we stay when we get there?” she looked up at you with worried eyes and you realised you hadn’t thought of that yet. Marcus had asked you to begin a new life with him in Rome, but what did that mean? You couldn’t move in with an unmarried man, you needed a place to stay until everything had been sorted. You bit your lip as you tried to think of a solution, but Marcus came to your aid, as was becoming his habit. 

“I have a good friend, Titus Cassian Aurelius, I’ve known him almost my whole life and I trust him with everything. He’s married and lives with his wife and two children near my villa on the Palantine, you’ll both stay with him for as long as is needed while you get your affairs sorted.” 

“He won’t mind? I can rent something nearby, I don’t want to impose on him and his family,” you said as Marcus sank down next to you on the bed. 

“It was his idea, the whole thing actually, he’s a very strategic man, my most trusted advisor,” Marcus said and then chuckled quietly. 

“She’s already falling asleep again,” he nodded with a smile at Alba whose eyes had already slipped close again, “Get her to bed and come find me, I’m in the room next door. I’ve ordered them to serve dinner there,” he leaned in and placed a soft kiss on your temple. 

Marcus left and you tucked in Alba, lifting her legs onto the bed and covering her with the bedding. She looked peaceful sleeping, and you suddenly felt very tired yourself. The events of the bandit’s attack had been spinning at the back of your mind since you woke up in the carriage, now they filled your head, the choked gasp that escaped Lunaris as the man slit his throat repeating in your ears. You suddenly needed Marcus to hold you, to feel his warm body wrapped around yours, just to make you feel safe. 

You tapped lightly on Marcus’ door and he quickly opened. One look at your eyes misted with tears, and he pulled you over the threshold as he closed the door, pulling you into his chest. 

“Carrisime,” he mumbled into your hair as you buried your face in his soft tunic, his warm hand coming up to cup the back of your head, his arms holding you tight, “hush, vita mea, it’s over, you’re safe now. I’ll always keep you safe, amor.” 

He stroked your back gently, slow soothing movements as your shoulders shook with each sob. All that could be heard was your whimpering, and Marcus’ softly mumbled words of comfort, reassuring you that you were safe, over and over again, until finally your breathing calmed down and your tears subsided. Marcus pulled back a little and gave you a small smile, cupping your jaw to wipe at your tear stained cheeks before he pressed his lips to yours in a soft kiss. 

“I think you need some food, it’s been a very troublesome day. Come,” he took your hand and led you over to the table where a small dinner had been laid out. The inn was fairly simple, but Marcus’ room was clearly meant for guests of a higher status because it had the reclining seats next to the low table. With a grateful sigh you sank down on one of them and Marcus poured a cup of wine and handed it to you. 

“Here, drink slowly, and have some food, it will make you feel much better.” 

He reclined on the other seat as you gratefully sipped the wine, it wasn’t very good, but the sharp flavour of the grapes warmed you. Marcus filled a bowl with a simple stew and added some of the meat before he passed it to you. 

“Here, eat, carissime,” he said, his eyes softening as they met yours and you took the bowl, He moved his hand to carefully push a strand of hair behind your ear, “I wish we could’ve been together in some easier way, I hate to see you so upset.” 

“I’ve never felt so helpless before,” you sighed, “even when my father married me to Lunaris. I could always do something about my life, change something to make it more bearable. I had protection as his wife. But to see Lunaris pulled out of the carriage, and then the other man pulled me out, we were at their mercy and there was nothing I could do to protect myself or Alba. It felt like my world shattered when there was no one to help us. I was so helpless.”

Marcus shook his head wistfully, “I regret my plan, I should’ve taken out Lunaris myself, I never wanted to make you feel helpless. You’ve always seemed so strong, so capable, it’s what attracted me to you when we first met. Ordering me, a general, around like you’d done nothing else your whole life.” The last thing he said with a small chuckle and you smiled back at him as you swallowed down some more of the stew. 

His face grew serious again and he sighed, “I forget when I’m with the army, surrounded by soldiers, how vulnerable women’s situation can be. I forbid my soldiers from hurting any women in the cities we conquer, but I wasn’t always a general who could command his own soldiers. I’ve seen first hand how men treat women after the battle is over.”

“Do you ever think of the people who are killed in all the wars?” you asked quietly and Marcus nodded. 

“Yes, often. But when I was young, I never thought about them. To be a soldier and fight excited me, I was stronger than almost anyone, no one could beat me. And when Roman soldiers fell, I grieved the ones I called friends, but they’d had proud deaths, for the glory of Rome. They would be honoured by the gods for their sacrifice.” 

He paused and put some more stew and bread in your bowl, “Eat and drink, carissime, and then you’ll sleep well tonight.” 

You did as he said as Marcus rubbed his large palm over his face and sighed again. 

“But I’m not young any more, and now they stay with me. Both the ones I’ve killed and the ones who die on my orders. I’ve lost count of all the men I’ve sent to their deaths. Even when we win great victories, men always die on both sides. War is brutal and I find I have less stomach for it these days.” 

“And the men you killed today? Will they stay with you?” 

“Maybe, but probably not. I feel no guilt about killing them, they were bandits. Even if I hired them to attack Lunaris, they were criminals. Titus got them from the local jail, they were headed for the arena.” 

Marcus put his bowl down and took your hand, gently pulling you to your feet, “Stay with me tonight, carissime, no one will disturb us.” 

You nodded as he led you to the bed and helped you out of your sandals, removing your jewellery as you undid your hair. His hands were soft as they brushed over your skin, unwrapping you until you stood in front of him in just your stola. With a soft smile he touched his fingertips to your cheek, tracing the line of your jaw and cupping it. 

“I need to pay tribute to Bona Dea for guiding me to you, and giving me the chance of being with you for more than just one night,” his voice was low, the room very quiet except the crackling of the fire. You looked up into his eyes, warm and golden

“I want to spend all my nights with you, Marcus,” you whispered, reaching up to kiss his smiling lips as he wrapped his arms around you and returned the kiss. 

“I hope you want to spend all your days with me too, carissime,” he mumbled against your mouth, resting his forehead against yours. 

“I do,” you replied, tugging him gently onto the bed and pushing back the bedding. 

Climbing into bed, getting under the covers with Marcus instead of falling into it in a frenzy of kisses and arousal, felt pivotal, even if the moment was very domestic, under strange circumstances. When Marcus wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you into his chest, you breathed a deep sigh of relief. Never had your husband made you feel this safe and content, so treasured. And despite the tumultuous events of the day, you soon fell into a deep sleep, tucked against Marcus' chest and with his arms around you. 

The next morning you woke, still wrapped in Marcus’s arms. It took you a moment to remember where you were, but at the sight of the strange room, the memories came flooding back. You turned your head to look at Marcus and found him just blinking awake, rubbing a drowsy hand over his eyes. 

“Good morning, dominus,” you smiled at him, pushing back one of the dark curls from his forehead. 

“Good morning, my domina,” he muttered, his voice heavy with sleep as he yawned wide. 

He pulled you close again, guiding your head to his chest, “It’s too early, I haven’t slept this well in many months, let’s steal some time, carissime.” 

You pressed a kiss against his chest and he grumbled low in appreciation as he closed his eyes. 

He didn’t get many minutes of extra sleep though, barely no time seemed to pass and there was a heavy knock on the door. 

“General, it’s septima hora,” a voice called. 

“Thank you, Orbius. Tell the men to prepare to march.” 

With a grumble he pushed himself up and glanced down at you, still curled up against him. 

“One more day, tonight we’ll be in Rome and we can start preparing for our lives together properly.” 

“I can’t wait, Marcus,” you replied, sitting up too. He took your chin between his thumb and finger and pulled you close, his mouth finding yours for a slow kiss. 

“One for the road,” he smiled, “Come, let’s sneak you back to your room.” 

The day in the carriage was long, but you and Alba passed the time by watching the landscape roll by and chat with Marcus who often rode next to the carriage and entertained you both with stories of his travels. With his men nearby, he couldn’t appear to be more than a casual acquaintance of your husband’s who’d just happened to rescue you from the bandits. But his smiles as he looked down at you filled you with warmth, and the mild December day seemed to hold a promise of spring as the arcadian countryside near Rome passed by.  

You’d been to Rome once before as a young woman with your father, while emperor Marcus Aurelius still ruled. But not even the vague images in your memory could prepare you for seeing the grand capital of the empire up close again. With Alba pressed to your side, you both all but hung out of the carriage window, trying to catch a glimpse of the sprawling metropolis as the Aurelian Gate drew near. The structure loomed high over you, letting a steady stream of carriages, horses and pedestrians into Rome through the imposing city wall. Alba’s eyes were wide, the walls from your own small hometown were nothing in comparison to the thick bulwark that served to protect Rome. 

The small force that had escorted you and Alba diverted to barracks at Campus Martius, and Marcus and two officers led the two carriages towards the Palantine and Titus’ villa. The Aurelian Way was wide and let the traffic pass easily as the tall buildings on either side grew more and more grand, the road beginning to snake its way up towards the crest of the hill. Soon the small party turned on to a narrower road and came to a halt in front of a gate. The sentry challenged the driver but snapped a sharp salute when he saw Marcus on horseback. 

“General Acacius, welcome back, I’ll let Cassian Aurelius know that you have arrived and send men to take care of your party.” 

“Thank you, Quintus,” Marcus replied, waving the two carriages through the gate. 

Titus Cassian Aurelius’ villa was grand on a scale you’d never seen before, your own back home was nothing by comparison. You stepped down from the carriage as Marcus swung himself from his horse. 

“My lady, it has been my pleasure to keep you safe on this journey, despite the grievous circumstances I found you in. My condolences again for the loss of your husband. I hope to see you soon again.” 

With that, he bowed low, before turning on his heel and marching with sharp steps away into the house. It stung you a little, the way he had to seem almost indifferent to you while in front of others. It would be many weeks before your husband’s affairs were put in order, to declare you a widow and make it possible for Marcus to properly wed you. Until then he would have to appear to treat you as a fleeting acquaintance in public. Perhaps he could visit Aurelius’ villa regularly, they were old friends after all, and you could see him then. Even if Marcus couldn’t treat you like his wife yet, just seeing him would be enough, at least you’d both be in the same room. 

A slave escorted Alba and you through beautifully decorated rooms and hallways until you reached two interconnected rooms in the guest quarters of the house. 

Every wall was covered by mosaics and paintings, and in alcoves and quads were fresh flowers and works of art, beautiful effigies of the gods. The two rooms assigned to you both, opened up to a walled garden, and somewhere behind the evergreens you could hear tinkling water. 

“Domina Aurelius would like to know that the villa’s bath is yours to use should you wish to refresh yourself after your journey,” the servant slave woman said as she stood by the door, waiting while you and Alba made yourself comfortable in your new lodgings. “There’s an alcove for your maid here, and the latrina is through that door.” 

“Thank you,” you replied, “a bath sounds like a wonderful idea. Could you please show us where they are and arrange for fresh clothes to be brought there?” 

The woman nodded and stepped aside to let you leave the room again. She led you to the villa’s thermae and left you to be cared for by the slave woman there. It was bliss to sink into the warm water and rinse off the dust and grime of the road. You lounged in the sunken pool while the woman worked on Alba, massaging sweet smelling olive oil into her skin and scraping it off. When your turn came, you all but fell asleep under her ministrations. The scraping of the strigil made your skin feel soft and warm and you both yawned wide as you made your way back to your rooms. But you weren’t left alone for long, there was a knock on the door and a dark haired man entered. 

He bowed low and introduced himself as the master of the house. 

“And call me Titus, please,” he said, a warm smile on his open face, “any friend of Marcu’s is a friend of mine.” 

“Thank you for letting us stay here, Titus,” you replied gratefully, “I don’t know what we’d do if it wasn’t for your generosity.” 

“It’s no trouble, the villa is big enough as you can see, and my dear wife was delighted by the idea of having some female company stay with us for a while,” he chuckled lightly, “She has no female relatives and and I have been away for a long time, she’s been running the house and taking care of our rag tag bunch of children. To have you two in the house will lift her spirits immensely.” 

The fast thrumming of bare feet could be heard from the hallway outside the door and Titus’s bright blue eyes sparkled as he turned towards the sound.

“I think you’re about to meet one of my offspring, by the sound of it, Gaius, my oldest son.” 

A boy about the age of eight tumbled through the door, a big grin on his face as his father caught him and swung him up in the air. 

“You’ll wake up the dead with all that noise, Gaius,” Titus laughed, “What’s the rush?”

“Mater said to tell you that dinner will be served any moment and you should bring our guests into the dining hall.” 

“Then we best do as she commands, and not upset the cook by letting his food grow cold,” Titus set Gaius down on the floor and extended his arm to you, “Please, domina, let me escort you, Gaius, show some good manners and escort Alba.” 

Titus' friendly manner and easy laugh made you feel comfortable in his company almost straight away. And the fact that he was Marcus’ most trusted advisor further warmed you to him. You knew he knew about you and Marcus, he was the one who’d fashioned the plan for the ambush after all, and he seemed to have accepted Marcus’ words about you without any hesitation or doubt. You accepted his arm with a smile to match his and let him lead you out into the hallway. As you walked, Titus bent his head to yours and whispered. 

“My wife and children don’t know about you and Marcus, I’ve kept it from them to make the secret easier to contain. But my wife is a very perceptive and clever woman, she might guess your attachment anyway.”

“Marcus said he trusts you with his life, does that extend to your wife?” you asked, wondering silently how you’d keep your eyes from wandering to Marcus as soon as he was near. 

“It does, he’s known her for as long as I have and she is a good friend of his too. In fact, I’ve often wished for him to find a woman to marry to equal her. She is my eternal pillar, I truly do not know how I’d go through life without her by my side,” Titus replied with a soft smile. He glanced over his shoulder, Gaius was chattering away to Alba who was laughing at his excitement about the new horse that had just arrived. 

“I’m looking forward to meeting her, she sounds like a remarkable woman,” you said, “And Marcus is lucky to have such good friends, I really can’t thank you enough for your help.” 

“Marcus and I have known each other since we were boys, he’s saved my life countless times and we’ve been through many campaigns together. He is a great man and I’m proud to call him my friend.” Titus' emotions were clear on his face as he turned a corner and led you through a set of wide double doors into the dining hall, “I have never seen him so affected by a woman before, as he was when he returned to the camp after meeting you. If I can help him find the same happiness I have with my Antonia, I’ll do whatever he needs.” 

Titus gave your arm a gentle squeeze before he held out his hand towards the woman who was walking across the room. 

“Domina Lunaris, please meet my darling wife, Antonia Cassius Aurelius.” 

The tall woman’s dark skin gleamed under the light of the oil lamps as she smiled at you. Her jet black hair matched that of her husband and her son, but while theirs was cut short and neat, her tight curls were piled high on her head and fastened with gold combs. 

“Domina Lunaris, we’re honoured to have you and your cousin as our guests,” she embraced you warmly, taking you off guard with her fondness, “I heard of the attack and how General Acacius came to your rescue, what an ordeal! I’m so glad he was there, and please know that you’re welcome to stay here for as long as you need.” 

“Domina Aurelius, we are very grateful for your hospitality, and for General Acacius' aid, we can’t thank you enough.” 

“Domina.” 

The low voice was very familiar by now, and a frill of excitement shot through you as you turned to Marcus who had appeared behind Antonia. He bowed low as Antonia stepped back to give him space to greet you. He was out of his armour and wearing a dark green tunic, foregoing the cumbersome toga. His dark curls looked damp and you guessed he’d been to a thermae too, maybe the one in his own villa before returning here. He looked wonderfully informal, you thought, relaxed, as if he’d left the general at home, or with the soldiers, and come only as Marcus. 

“General,” you replied, curtsied low to him, catching his smile just as you dropped your gaze to the floor, the perfect image of a deferential lady greeting a celebrated Roman officer. “Thank you again for all your aid and for arranging for us to stay here, we’re very grateful.” 

“It has been my pleasure, Domina Lunaris,” he replied, taking your hand and leading you to the table. It was an informal setting, all of you reclining around the same table, even the children were allowed, and you smiled as you watched Gaius bow deeply to Alba as he showed her to her accubitum. 

Titus reclined next to you with Antonia to your other side, Marcus was opposite with Alba next to him. You could feel Marcus’ eyes on you from the moment you reclined on the accubitum, warm and smiling, as the servants brought out the food and wine. It took all you had to not look back at him and smile like a fool, instead you raised your glass in toast as Titus formally greeted Alba and you to their family home. 

“To new friends and new beginnings,” he smiled at you both. You met Marcus’ eyes over the brim of your glass as you sipped the wine, and he winked back at you with a grin. You had to bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing out loud, he was clearly giving no care to letting Antonia see his intentions. Already you could sense her curiosity as she took a platter from a servant and offered you the first bites. 

She said nothing about Marcus’ behaviour throughout the dinner, instead the conversation flowed easily around the things Marcus and her husband had seen during their latest campaign. The two men shared stories that made you all laugh, the children giggling as Titus gave a very accurate impersonation of a grumpy Marcus at the end of a very wet and muddy march. You glanced over at the usually so stern general, and found him laughing along with the children as his old friend poked fun at him. Seeing him surrounded by the people who must mean most to him, warmed your heart, and as he turned his gaze on you and smiled, you returned his affectionate look. 

As dinner wound down, Antonia sent the children to bed, and led you all to a smaller, informal room with comfortable accubita filled with pillows, the floor lined with thick rugs to ward off the cold December night. You sat down on one of the recliners, putting a pillow behind your back, but before you could lay down on your side, Marcus sat down next to you, his hand on the small of your back. 

“I’m tired of pretending,” he mumbled, “When the servants have left, I would like to tell Antonia too.” 

“I don’t think she’ll be very surprised,” you smiled at him, “we are terrible at hiding our secret.” 

Marcus gave a soft laugh and glanced over at Antonia who was speaking to a servant. They left an amphora of wine and cups on a small table, and left, leaving the five of you alone in the room. As she turned to the room and came to sit next to her husband, she raised an eyebrow with a smile as she saw how closely Marcus was sitting to you. 

“Something you wish to tell me, Marcus?” she asked, and he chuckled as Titus laughed. 

“It could not have been more obvious if Cupid had stood behind you shooting arrows,” he grinned at you both. 

You felt Marcus shift next to you, his arm sliding more firmly around your waist, and you looked back at him, not bothering to hide the infatuated smile you knew was spreading across your features. 

“Nothing gets past you, Antonia,” he replied, pulling his gaze from you and smiling at her, “It seems Cupid has indeed done me a great favour, and thanks to the protection of the gods and the wit of your husband, I’ve managed to lure her to Rome to be my wife.” 

Antonia’s smile widened and she slapped her husband’s shoulder, “You cur! I knew something was brewing and you told me nothing!” 

“Don’t blame your husband,” Marcus said, “We do need to be careful and keep our commitment to ourselves until the affairs of Lunaris are settled. But as soon as possible, we’ll make an official announcement and be married.” 

“Oh, Marcus, I’m so happy for you!” Antonia rose to her feet and crossed the room, bending down and placing kisses on both his cheeks before she did the same to you, “I’ve wanted love and happiness for you for so many years, I’m so glad you’ve finally found your match.” 

“Thank you, Antonia,” you said, “Now you understand even more why I’m so very grateful to you and your husband for letting me stay with you until all is settled.” 

“For as long as you wish, dear friend,” Antonia assured you, “We’ll be like sisters, after all, Marcus is my brother in all but name.” 

Titus brought forward the cups after that, raising his glass, “Another toast then, to love this time, and to new families.” 

You all drank to that, and Marcus placed a warm kiss on your cheek as he put his cup down. 

“Amor,” he whispered, “Soon I’ll bring you home, and I vow to be the most loving husband Rome has ever seen, nothing will keep me from your side again.” 

When the party finally broke up late at night, you walked with Marcus to his letica while Alba retreated to your rooms, giving you a few moments alone with him. Out of sight from his household guards, he pulled you close by the entrance to Titus’ villa and kissed you deeply.

“I have business to attend to tomorrow, but I will come for dinner tomorrow night again,” he whispered after a long, lingering kiss. 

“I’m counting the days until we can sleep in the same bed again, until I can be properly yours,” you said, leaning your cheek against his chest as he wrapped his arms around you, holding you tight. 

“Same, carissime,” he replied, “but know that I’m already yours, you need no law to tell you that. I’ve been yours since the night of Bona Dea,” he tilted your head up with his calloused fingers and kissed you again until you both broke apart, breathless. 

“You make me feel like a young man struck dumb by Cupid’s arrows,” he chuckled, “I really should go, my household will wonder why their master returns from a long campaign only to stay out all night again.” 

“Until tomorrow, Marcus,” you smiled, pressing a final kiss to his cheek. 

The next few weeks fell into a routine, during the days Alba and you would help Antonia with the household, visit her friends and be introduced to her circles of Roman life. In the evenings, almost all of them, Marcus would come for dinner and you would be able to steal a few moments with him alone. You would find a secluded corner of the garden if it was not too cold, he’d wrap his cloak around you as you sat on his lap, cocooned in his warmth. Then you’d let him know if there had been any updates on your husband’s affairs, the slow process to declare you a widow and let you inherit his small fortune. Unsurprisingly your father had tried insisting on you returning to your home town, but you had refused to respond to his letters on that topic. 

These quiet moments with Marcus were the best of your whole day. As much as you enjoyed spending time with Alba and Antonia, seeing Marcus’ face as he arrived at the villa and smiled at you, taking his hand in yours and sneaking off, those were the moments that lived in your heart for the hours when he wasn’t around. 

When your time together was up and you had to return to the others, your lips were always swollen from his kisses, and the imprints of his hands had left warm marks all over your body. Like guilty, giggling school children, you’d sneak back into the dining room or the reception room, cheeks heating up as Titus’ teased you both. 

But then finally came the day you’d been waiting for; the messenger arrived with the documents, stamped with the official mark of your hometown, your husband’s estate was now yours, the assets en route to Rome and you, legally a widow. 

You told Marcus as you sat wrapped together under his cloak on one of the garden benches, and he cupped your face between his big hands and kissed you deeply as the cloak slipped off him. When his lips left yours, he leaned his head against your forehead and closed his eyes for a few moments before he pulled back and looked at you. 

“Carrisime, I never formally asked you to be my wife, even though you know that I wish for nothing else. But now I can finally honour traditions and give you my ring.” 

From the pouch on his belt he took a small package and carefully unwrapped it. The polished gold glimmered in the light as he held it out to you. 

“My hand is joined with yours,” he said, as you took the ring and saw the two hands that embellished the ring, “If you’ll have me.” The last thing he said with a mischievous tone and you looked up at him with a smile, he knew there was no doubt in you, you were his as much as he was yours. Without a word you held out the ring to him to put on your finger, the fourth of your left hand, where the vein that ran to your heart began. 

“Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia,” you whispered as he slipped it on and he brought your hand up to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your fingers. 

“Ubi tu Gaia, ego Gaius”. 

The wedding vows spoken between you in the quiet garden would need to be repeated in front of a priest, with all the ceremony required to legally make you his wife. But as far as Marcus was concerned, he was now your husband. And in the eyes of Rome, the ring on your finger now marked you as his, and he would fight anyone who tried to say otherwise. His lips left your hand and moved to your lips as he pulled the cloak around you both again, wrapping it and his arms around you as he deepened the kiss. The ring felt light on your finger, the cool metal a constant reminder that you had left behind your old life, and could now walk through Rome as Marcus Acacius betrothed. 

You were very late for dinner that evening, but the news of your formal status as widow and the new ring on your finger, stole all the attention away from any concerns of cold food and irritated cooks. 

The very next day Marcus began to plan for the ceremony and feast that would make you his wife. Tradition held that a widow should wait ten months before marrying again, but since no one here knew you or Lunaris, it was decided that tradition could be ignored Your father was also left out of the planning, he’d controlled the choice of your first husband, you were determined he would have nothing to do with your second marriage. 

“It will be just you and me and Titus’ family,” Marcus promised, “We’ll keep the ceremonies so that we don’t anger the gods, but to hell with anyone else.” He’d brought you the knot of Hercules for your wedding day clothes and smiled as you traced your fingers over the decorations in the belt. 

“I think I may have untied the knot a bit too early,” he chuckled, coming up behind you and resting his chin on your shoulder. 

“I remember my first wedding night,” you said, and Marcus tightened his arms around your waist at the grim tone of your voice, “I was scared, I’d been told it would hurt, and I was trembling when I lay in bed with him. He untied the knot and told me to take off my tunic and then he just tried to push himself in. I cried and he told me that it proved that I was a virgin.” 

“He was a fool,” Marcus said, his tone soothing as he pulled you closer to his chest, his warm body and presence calming you and reminding you that your next wedding night would be very different, “A groom should have experience of the other sex so that he can show his wife how to enjoy married life, it should be a pleasure for both husband and wife.” 

“Oh Lunaris wanted it to be a pleasure alright, he would lecture me when he couldn’t get hard, tell me it was my fault. But not once did he think to make me feel pleasure too. I doubt he’d be able to though, that man could barely find the right hole to stick his cock in.” 

Marcus chuckled softly behind you, his hand closing around yours, still holding the Hercules’ knot belt. 

“Don’t think about him, and don’t think about your first wedding day anymore. This one will only be about us, I want us to have happy memories, and I want you to think about how many times I will make you cry my name in pleasure when I finally get to untie this belt and make you my wife.” 

His words filled you with heat, and you leaned your head back against his shoulder as you reached up and cupped his cheek. 

“Can we find a secluded spot in this villa for just a few minutes?” you mumbled, pressing your lips to the warm skin of his neck. 

“Carissime,” he growled, his voice suddenly low and hungry as his hands tightened on your hips, “you have no idea what a hold you have on me.” 

You smiled against his throat and let your tongue taste the pebbled skin, tasting the salt and musk of him as he took a deep breath, his fingers digging into your flesh. 

“Show me,” you muttered quietly, grazing your teeth over his neck, moving up as far as you could, nipping at the thin skin under his ear. Marcus was gritting his teeth, you could feel it under your lips as you continued to press wet kisses over his throat, his jaw, and you inhaled his warm scent. 

He suddenly pulled away from you, taking a few long strides to the door of the room, closing it firmly, and turning the lock. 

“Here,” he said, his voice low and desirous, coming back to you and pulling you close again, “Here will do if we’re quiet and quick.” 

You nodded and shoved aside the white tunic and belt on the table just as Marcus took hold of your waist and pressed himself against your back. 

“How do you want me?” he murmured, his mouth now at your throat, “from behind like the first night, or up on this table like when I showed that fool Lunaris how I make you scream my name?” Marcus’ control was slipping, he could feel his member rapidly growing hard as he grinded against your soft body, his hands pulling you closer as he marked your throat with his teeth. His mind was buzzing, blood flowing in only one direction and it was almost painful how quickly his cock filled. He groaned into your neck again, rutting against your ass like a dog in heat. It had been over a month since he last had you to himself and now he wanted nothing more than to sink himself into your cunt and feel that addictive heat again. 

You couldn’t respond, just moan as his hands began to slide under your stola, his mouth hot against your skin. His fingers wasted no time in pushing aside your undergarments, sliding into your wet folds, growling against your neck at finding you so ready for him. 

“Marcus…” you pleaded, arching your back and urging him to push deeper in as he curled his fingers and began stroking your insides. He could feel you dripping over him and his cock twitched, pressed up against your soft curves. 

“I think you’re ready for me,” he panted, driving his fingers deeper in as you moaned a little bit louder. He swiftly covered your mouth with his other hand, “Quiet, carissime, quiet, my greedy domina,” he chuckled into your ear, his warm breath tickling your skin. His fingers slipped out of your wet cunt and you gasped under his palm in anticipation as you felt him reach for his cock. 

“Lean forward for me,” he mumbled, gently pushing you over the table. The cool air of the room chilled your skin as he lifted your stola over your hips, but the warmth of his hands as he kneaded the flesh of your behind shot new heat through you. Soon you felt the weight of him over your back as he leaned forward and pressed kisses to your shoulders, his hand guiding his cock through your folds, your arousal spreading over him as he groaned above you. 

When he breached your tight opening, you bit your lip to stop yourself from crying out his name, and Marcus hissed, cursing low under his breath. His fingers dug into your hips as he pushed in, rocking his hips back and forth to slide himself deeper into your tight cunt. He was growling, a low rumble in his chest, and you felt him pull you back onto his cock, filling you all the way up as he bottomed out. His fingers moved between your legs and found the swollen pearl at the apex, circling his thumb around it. Your response made him press himself firmer against your backside, feeling you contract around him as you moaned under his hand. Choking back a groan he increased the pace, driving deep with each thrust, your grip on his cock was hurrying him towards his own finish and he suddenly moved his hand from your mouth to your waist. 

“Domina…” he panted against you as he pulled you up, making you arch your back against his chest, “I can’t hold on much longer, let me feel you come with me.” 

His fingers were matching the fast rhythm of his hips and the new angle hit a new spot inside you, making you squeeze your eyes shut as your body felt like it was about to combust. 

You could only groan in response, reaching back and tugging at the curls at his neck, pulling his mouth yours to stifle your cries. Your legs seemed to lose all control as you came, Marcus' arm holding you up as he continued to caress your clit and drive his cock up into your spasming cunt. He was groaning into your mouth, his hips erratic as he felt his cock release deep into you, thrusting hard, pushing in as he lost all other thoughts, only your mouth against his and the wet, tight heat of your cunt filled his mind. 

You seemed to come back to your senses faster than Marcus, your legs finding their strength again even though they felt unsteady. Marcus still had a firm grip on your body, his hand slipped from your wet folds to hold onto your hip. He rested his head against your shoulder, taking deep breaths as he drove his softening cock in and out of your cunt a few more times to milk it all out. With a long, shuddering exhale he finally stilled his movements and released his tight grip. 

“Are you still with me, old man?” you teased him lightly and pressed a kiss to his cheek. 

“Hush, domina,” he chuckled, “don’t mock your ageing soon-to-be husband, you will need to take care of me when I can’t fuck you like this anymore.” 

You giggled as he swatted your behind and kissed him again. He gave a satisfied grumble as he pulled you tight against him. 

“We should probably clean up and be seen in public soon,” you said, “before we raise even more suspicions.” You could feel him dripping out of you as his soft cock slipped out, and he nodded against your back. 

“I can’t wait to have you in my own villa, no one else around, send away the servants, lock the doors, and then we can do this all day,” he said, “I’m making good on my promise from when we first met, when I’m your husband I’m keeping you in my bed, day and night,” he pulled down your stola and smoothed it out, squeezing your behind at the same time, “I do believe you called me your magnus concubinus, I have every intention of living up to that title. 

There was a sudden knock on the door, just as you pulled him in to kiss the wicked smile he’d given you, and you had to end it far too soon. 

“Only a few more days,” you said, giving him a quick kiss on his cheek instead, before you went to answer the door.

Tagging some lovely people who showered the first three parts with love: @gothcsz @missladym1981 @txlady37 @timelordfreya @bluesweaters15

@indiegirlunited @jessthebaker @likeficinthewnd @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @inept-the-magnificent

@angiewatson @wintersquirrel @sheepdogchick3 @asobeeee @harriedandharassed @cozylittlepigeon

@i-own-loki @pedrit0-pascalit0