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littlemisspascal · 21 hours ago

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Welcome to the Neighbourhood

marcus pike masterlist | A03 link | Mature | 3k words

Pairing: Marcus Pike x OFC Fern

Summary: Marcus's new neighbour has caught his attention.

Themes/warnings: I'm leaning heavily into the romcom here with a few mishaps and misunderstandings along the way. Burnt cookies. British spellings (you'll prize the letter U from my cold dead hands). Parks and Recreation references throughout. Big snogs on the sofa guest starring some spicy wandering hands.

A/N: This was written for @burntheedges Summer Tunes Writing Challenge . Thanks for hosting, Kate! My song prompt for Marcus was Romanticism by Retrofile and I used these lyrics as my inspiration:

I wanna catch you at the right time

Not a weekday or a work night

But you're always busy, and never home.

Underneath the moonlight, I could turn it on

Driving back to your house, to your favourite song

A generation of romantics

Getting caught up in semantics

Foolish love comes off too strong

Think you're afraid of really trying

To show the feelings that you're hiding

Why do I waste my time at all?

Moving day

It had taken Marcus a few days to realise that someone new had moved into the townhouse next door to his. He was working such long hours, and his only interactions with his previous neighbour would be him banging on their shared wall when the sounds of action movies blared through the plasterboard and shook the pictures from their nails.

Day 1

He’d come home that particular evening, with a sweaty plastic bag of take-out Chinese food hanging from his fingers, and couldn’t quite work out what felt different. It was quiet, he eventually realised. He could only hear the low hum of the cars outside and the buzz of his empty refrigerator. He’d eaten his chow mein perched on the edge of his couch. Spooned straight from the carton, not even the dignity of a fork let alone chopsticks, his tie loosened but not removed like he wasn’t planning on staying.

The TV next door had turned on an hour later, and he’d braced himself for the screeching of tyres and firing of guns, but it hadn’t come. What he’d heard instead was the upbeat theme tune of Parks and Recreation, and he’d thought approvingly that perhaps the guy next door had finally got some taste.

Day 2

He’d come home in a bad mood. He was tired of pulling out all the stops on cases that felt increasingly soulless. The job that had once felt vibrant and fulfilling was sliding ever quicker into grey sludge.

There was a yellow post-it note stuck to the weathered wooden panel about his doorbell, the breeze making it blink like the light on a life jacket.

‘Hey neighbour! Just moved in and came by to say Hi. If I’m not here I’ll be at the animal hospital - staff, not a patient (mostly). Catch you again sometime! Fern & Morris.’

Fern and Morris, they certainly sounded a little more wholesome than the last tenant.

Day 3

Their paths crossed on their shared driveway when Marcus got home from the office at an hour so late that he didn’t know whether to have dinner or just skip straight to breakfast. Her: an orange VW Bug, Marcus: a black BMW. He preferred her car, if he was honest. Didn’t think a daisy on top of his car antenna would quite work.

Exhausted as he was, he couldn’t help noticing a kind of brightness coming from her. It lit up a foolish part of his brain like a switchboard. How someone could look that good in paint splattered overalls and flip-flops, he had no idea, but as soon as she looked up and her face cracked into a crooked grin he felt like he was being blinded.

She’d looked embarrassed when he’d introduced himself and shaken her hand. “Are you always this formal?” She’d teased.

“Actually, yes.” He’d laughed, self-consciously rubbing the back of his neck.

“Nice suit.” She looked him up and down approvingly “You work for the FBI?”

“Thanks. Yeah, how did you-?”

“This was a dead giveaway.” She’d smiled, lifting up the end of his work lanyard with her fingertips. “That and the fact that half the neighbourhood do. I’m never planning on locking my doors.”

“You got me.” He’d shrugged. “So have you settled in OK?”

“I think so, Morris might take a little more time. He’s a crotchety sort.”

Ah, yes, Morris. That threw ice water over that prickle of excitement that had stirred in his head.

“Well, if you need anything…”

“Yep, I know where to find you. I’ll knock three times. Oh, and Marcus?” She’d called as he turned to leave. “You might wanna get some oil on your bed frame, I can hear it squeaking from my room. Could get…awkward.”

Marcus’s neck had flushed pink. “I could pretend I’m living the wild bachelor dream, but it’s actually just work induced insomnia. Lotta tossing.”

“Lots indeed.” She’d snorted.

Day 4

Marcus was watching a Netflix documentary on elephants when he heard a hurried knock on his door. He’d opened it to find a plate of misshapen and mostly burnt cookies and another yellow post-it on his door mat.

‘Do NOT judge me on these, the oven in this place is possessed. Nearly burnt Morris’s face off. It’s the thought that counts! Fern.’

He’d pinned the post-it to the refrigerator, on top of the first one, with a hideous coconut shaped magnet his sister had brought him back from Hawaii, then flopped onto the couch and unpaused the TV. Twenty minutes later, 3 knocks rapped against the wall behind him. Amused, he’d stretched his arm up and knocked back.

Day 5

He was disappointed not to see her car on the drive when he left for work. He’d written three different iterations of a thank you note from a stack of index cards he’d found in his desk drawer to return with her plate. The first two were crumpled in the trash — too formal and businesslike — the third he’d relaxed into a bit more, been more Marcus and less Agent Pike.

‘Truly the WORST cookies I’ve ever had, and yet I ate them all. I have a sweet tooth and no shame. M.’

He’d spent his whole drive to work chewing over whether he should have included ‘say Hi to Morris, be good to meet him too.’ He’d have a chance to rectify that soon enough he supposed.

Day 6

That day’s post-it was blue and rectangular.

‘I work a 12 hour shift and come home to find an empty plate on my doorstep? I have been the victim of a drive-by bakery theft, surely? I’ll alert the HOA.’

Another note was scribbled on the back. He’d almost missed it but spotted it as he stuck it under the magnet.

‘Could I hear you crying through the wall the other night? Elephants, right? They get me every time, too. Do NOT let me watch Dumbo.’

He’d plucked up the courage to knock on her front door this time, but the curtains were drawn, and the house had the quiet atmosphere of shift worker sleep that he didn’t want to disturb.

Day 7

He heard Ron Swanson’s voice booming through their shared wall asking for “All the bacon and eggs that you have” as he made himself a suddenly lacklustre looking piece of toast. He checked his watch and saw he was running uncharacteristically late after he’d actually started sleeping better again. He grabbed another card before he headed out.

‘I wasn’t crying. I was having an allergic reaction to your cookies.’ Then, a brainwave just as he bounced to the door to stick his note to her door. ‘You should both come by later - Burt Macklin.’

Day 8 & 9

Her car didn’t move, but there were no notes and no knocks. He felt oddly deflated.

Day 10

Marcus was up a ladder, clearing leaves from his overflowing gutters when Fern’s voice almost startled him into a heap on the ground.

“Hey Macklin, there’s a set of five Spiderman underpants on the communal washing line, I assume they’re yours?”

He hopped back onto solid ground, a smirk on his lips.

“That’s classified information.” He said.

“Mm. Thought so.” She craned her head to peek at his ass in his joggers. “Can’t see any seams there, I’m guessing you’re going commando. Either that or you’re wearing a thong.”

“I’ll leave it to your imagination.” He’d shot back before he could stop himself. He needed to stop himself. This was veering dangerously towards flirting, and quite frankly, once he started that he didn’t tend to put the brakes on until it was too late.

“So, laundry day?” He’s asked, steering them back to safer territory.

She’d nodded towards the basket under her arm. “Yup. I’m wrangling a litter of foster kittens so I’m going through blankets quicker than I can turn them around. Morris is not happy at all. Doesn’t like his routine being out of whack.”

“Is he one of those ‘dinner on the table at 6 PM’ guys?” Marcus had asked, as casually as possible. Hunting for reasons to dislike this man he’d never met.

“Something like that. Though if I can get him not to eat on the couch and make a damn mess, I class that as a win.”

“I’ll let you get on, then.” Marcus said, wiping his leaf-grubby hands on his t-shirt. He could have sworn her saw her shoulders sag a little.

Day 11

Sunday stretched out before him, long and empty. He should call his Mom, maybe catch up on some paperwork, and iron a shirt for tomorrow. This was not the kind of domesticity that he enjoyed. It was all so solitary.

He was draining his third coffee of the day and swirling the gounds at the bottom of the cup that hadn’t been caught by the filter when he heard a crash and a raised exasperated voice through the wall.

“Oh, Morris! Not my grandmother’s vase!”

Marcus had leapt off the couch and was striding out of the door before he really knew what he was doing. He aimed for a knock on her door that was assertive but polite.

Fern answered looking harassed, and looking…wait, why was her top wriggling like that?

“I heard something and I wanted to check if - are you OK?” Marcus couldn’t keep his eyes of what was happening under her t-shirt.

“Oh, it’s nothing, I’m just keeping some orphaned squirrels warm.” She lifted her shirt and flashed him both her bra and a bundle of small furry bodies.

“Right, of course you are.” He laughed, shaking his head.

“I’d invite you in, but Morris is sulking upstairs and not really in a visitors mood, and I’ve got to feed my lingerie litter in another 10 minutes.” She’d grimaced and nodded to her chest.

“Not to worry. I just wanted to check if you were alright.” He had to strain to keep his tone breezy.

There was a level of chaos about Fern that was as compelling as it was confusing. It was safe to say that he had never met anymore like her before, and maybe that was why she’d gotten under his skin in the way she had.

Day 12

Fern had been crouched down on the scrubby patch of lawn in front of her window, wrist deep in some window box planters, so Marcus hadn’t spotted her as he rushed out of the house. He had one hand already on the car door handle when her sing-song voice calling out to him made him look up.

“Nice jeans, agent! Where are you off to?”

“Dinner.” The word curdled in his stomach. He’d been putting of being set up with one of his sister’s work colleagues for weeks now, but had figured he might as well give it a chance seeing as his radar seemed all off of late.

There was that look again. That sort of dimming behind her eyes.

“Have a good night.” She’d smiled as he raised his hand in salute.

His date had been… not a disaster necessarily, but Marcus couldn’t remember the last time an evening with a beautiful woman had left him that cold. She was perfectly nice, ticked all of his boxes in all honestly, but he’d felt like he was going through the motions and was relieved when she’d declined dessert and he could ask for the bill. He knew something was off when he found himself swerving her Merlot scented kiss on the lips in favour of a polite peck on the cheek.

It wasn’t until he pulled onto his street and felt the corners of his mouth lift into a smile at the sight of an extremely badly parked orange car that he realised what had been missing. He decided then that he needed to snuff out this flame that was licking under his skin. He wasn’t a man who shared, and he certainly wasn’t one who'd cheat. He’d go over there tomorrow, meet this Morris, and turn this fictional obstacle into a real man. Who knew, they might even become friends eventually.

Day 13

Marcus had to knock on Fern’s door with the heel of his shoe as his arms were so laden with a six pack of beers, a large container of chocolate brownies that he’d had to leave work early to snag from the bakery, and an edible fruit arrangement perched precariously on top.

“Did you reverse into my car or something?” Fern said, smiling as she took the exotic bouquet from the pile and ushered him inside.

“Belated housewarming gifts.” Marcus said, dropping the other items onto her kitchen counter. “I figured flowers were a no-go, seeing as your vase got broken. You’ve been pretty clear that I owe you baked goods, and I thought perhaps Morris and I could share a beer or something.”

Fern’s eyebrows rose as she called out. “Morris, can you come here buddy?”

A frankly enormous Newfoundland dog came padding into the room and took a tentative sniff at Marcus’s shoes.

“He’s more of a rum drinker, but thank you for the gesture.” Fern smiled.

“This is Morris?” Marcus laughed, running a hand over his jaw. “I thought he was-”

“What?”

“Well, human.” Marcus said. “And your partner.”

“Nope, and nope.” She scratched Morris behind his greying ears. “Although he has set the bar pretty high in terms of companionship.”

Fern’s eyes were flashing wickedly at Marcus now.

“Do you want to stay for a brownie?” She asked. “I was just about to watch some TV, but you can tell me all about how your date went last night. I didn’t hear any creaking through the wall, so I’m guessing not great?”

“Right, yeah, it was a bit of a flop.” Marcus shrugged, kicking off his shoes and lining them up by the door. “Wouldn’t even fill a commercial break with the details, but I’ll join you for a bite.”

The two of them sat on opposite ends of her couch with the food between them, the unopened beers abandoned in favour of two glasses of iced tea. Fern sat cross-legged, and Marcus noticed how bright pink nail polish on her toes matched her shirt.

“Do you have any live animals on your person today?” He asked.

Fern glanced down at her chest. “Nope. Nothing underneath here except the best tits in the neighbourhood.”

Marcus’s drink had almost come out of his nose. “Bold claim.” He’d choked.

“I know what I’ve got.” She chewed the inside of her cheek. “Know what you’ve got, too.”

“What’s that?”

“Best little ass on the street, from what I’ve seen so far. And believe me I’ve been looking.”

“I’ll take that.” Marcus said, moving closer to her on the couch.

She scooted up from her end, too. “Good. Glad we got that all straightened out.”

“So what are we watching?”

Fern grabbed the remote and flicked through the channels, the tip of her tongue poking out in concentration. “Ooo, I can’t scroll past a re-run of Parks and Recs. You in?”

“Yep. Love it.”

It was the episode with the Snake Juice, but Marcus wouldn’t have cared which it was. He only wanted to hear her wheezy laugh over and over again.

“Commercial break! Time for you to spill the details on last night.” Fern reminded him with an elbow jab.

“It was fine. She was nice.” He said, keeping his eyes fixed on the TV, his mouth suddenly a little dry.

“But…?” Fern did a rolling gesture with her hands.

Marcus shifted on the couch and took one of her hands in his, stroking his thumb over the knuckle of hers. “But she wasn’t you.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” Fern beamed. “I thought you’d given me the brush off.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you were available.”

“I’m curious,” she said with a lift of her chin, “if I'd had some 6ft boyfriend hiding in the back, what would you have done?”

“Befriended him.” Marcus scratched his chin in thought. “Then had him killed.”

“Wow.” Fern snorted. “Didn’t know the bureau sanctioned that kind of thing.”

“Well we only get one now. Damn budget cuts.”

“Mm.” She nodded, her gaze slipping towards the TV. “Would you look at that, break’s over.”

She’d slid under his arm by the time the next episode had finished. He could smell her minty shampoo and feel the heat of her cheek burning against his chest as she raked her nails lazily along the indigo denim on his thighs.

“Hey.” He squeezed her hand, and she turned to look up at him, all light and sparkle. “Come here.”

No jokes that time, no quirked eyebrows. Just her spinning around so that he could take her face in his hands and pull her up on top of him until his lips were on hers and her fingers were twined in his hair. He heard her breath hitch, felt his hips lift in response as their tongues found one another.

Hemlines were toyed with by eager fingertips until he snaked his hand under her shirt to unhook her bra. Hers were faster, fumbling, and as she undid his belt with a clink, he thought ‘I really love this neighbourhood.’

Thank you to my cheer squad on this one @schnarfer @whocaresstillthelouvre and @maggiemayhemnj

Tagging some folks who usually enjoy a bit of El's Marcus (hope you don't mind):

@the-blind-assassin-12 @mothandpidgeon @pascalssbabyy @toomanytookas

@harriedandharassed @imdrinkingpedro @inept-the-magnificent

@chujo-hime @ishabull @laughing-in-th3-purple-rain @sin-djarin

@sawymredfox @trulybetty @jennaispunk @katareyoudrilling @bitchesuntitled

@sunnytuliptime @theravenreads @insomniamamma @yopossum @thundermartini

@5oh5 @msjarvis @oliveksmoked @axshadows @casa-boiardi

@tuquoquebrute @kirsteng42 @almostfoxglove @guiltyasdave @purplerain04

@medellintangerine @enchantingchildkitten @iknowisoundcrazy @bergamote-catsandbooks @milla-frenchy

#fic rec

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littlemisspascal · 22 hours ago

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𝙭𝙤𝙭𝙤

Masterlist || Harry Castillo x Reader || Part 1: Girl Gone Wild

Summary: It’s one thing to wake up with your face all over TMZ, but it's another to wake up and have a much more intimate angle making headlines. With your parents ready to cut you off, Harry offers you a solution. || fake dating, tabloids, Gossip Girl AU, socialite!reader, richgirl!reader, kinda bratty!reader, NYC, reader is in her mid 20s, old money lifestyle, trust fund babies, age gap, rich people problems, no spoilers for the movie, reader has a last name for storytelling purposes, no y/n, alcohol consumption, implied drug use, rehab mentioned || note: This is a Gossip Girl AU using canon characters for their personalities and core dynamics, but not bound by the show’s timeline or events. All characters are aged up and in their 20s. Only canon events that are explicitly referenced in the story are considered part of this universe.

Morning broke soft and golden over Madison Avenue, spilling honeyed light through the long rose-pink curtains at your window and the linen canopy draped around your bed. It shimmered across the carpet, pooled over the cashmere throw, and kissed your bare shoulder with a warmth so gentle it almost convinced you the pounding in your head was just a dream. You began to surface from sleep like rising through champagne: light headed, sticky, and dizzy. You’re not sure what stirred you awake, only that the scent of last night still clung to you, to the room, to your silk sheets tangled around your legs. You breathed in the smell of jasmine and top shelf vodka as you rolled over and faced the sunshine.

You’re grateful, really, that somehow you ended up back home safe and sound. Last night was such a blur you only barely recalled stripping your clothes off the second you walked in, leaving yourself bare beneath the down comforter and silken white sheets. Curled up in your lavish bed, your eyes too heavy and your mouth vaguely tasted like chocolate and alcohol. It wasn’t any surprise. You were well known for raiding the cabinet for something sweet on any given occasion, really. And a night out for drinks was no different.

The light pouring in from the windows and across the bed hurt. Your feet hurt. And God, your head hurt. On the floor, your clothing lay at odd angles, dress draped haphazardly over your pink velvet vanity chair and strappy heels abandoned at the door. Your hand dragged down your face, coming up messy with mascara and smudged foundation, your hair a tangled rat’s nest stuck to your cheek, sticky with lip gloss.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand; you vaguely remembered it doing the same just moments ago, likely what had woken you.

You groaned, turning over to the side of your bed until your fingers slapped on the wood, blindly reaching for the device. As your fingers wrapped around it, you squinted at the brightness when you pulled it into your face. The screen was already crowded with texts and notifications, all of them pinging like little grenades across your vision.

You didn’t even bother clicking the photo from Gossip girl. You already had an awful, awful feeling sinking in your stomach to accompany the nausea. Memories of camera flashes blinding your vision, the crisp night air against your hot skin and stumbling into the car at the end of the night blurred in your mind. You’re almost certain you cursed out the paparazzi as you left too.

More texts came in, more DMs from strangers and someone you swore you’d blocked last week. You sent a welfare check to Blair, letting her know you were safely in bed. Sighing, you looked through the rest of your notifications, thumb frozen above the screen before you decided to throw the phone across the room. It smacked against the glossy pile of Vogue magazines on your desk, sending them falling to the floor until silence folded back over you. Pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes, you flopped onto your back, staring at the colors bursting behind your eyes.

Eventually, you knew you’d have to face the world. So you headed for the en suite, shuffling your bare feet across the soft carpet until your toes hit the cold marble. Your head pulsed behind your eyes, body moving heavy as stone as you faced the wreckage in the mirror. You winced at the vision of yourself: tangled hair sticking to your face and black mascara circles beneath your eyes. You looked like you’d slept through world war three.

You began assessing the rest of the damage, pulling a comb through the tangled mess of your hair, brushing your teeth three times and still tasting remnants of the vodka sodas you’d consumed. You wiped away the makeup with a damp cloth that smelled like rosewater, taking your time and dragging yourself through the routine, hoping maybe the longer you lingered, the easier it would be to enjoy the quiet before the storm.

With a fresh satin lounge set on and looking as presentable as you could hope to be in your state, you made your way downstairs, fingers gripping the polished mahogany banister for support. The morning light flooded the room through floor-to-ceiling windows even through the sheer silk curtains. It struck the marble floor, creamy white and veined in golds and gray, the kind of blinding light that made the back of your eyes throb against it.

The dining table came into view and was set for breakfast, a gleaming pitcher of orange juice and kettle of coffee calling your name. Even on a Saturday morning it was fit for a front page of Architectural Digest. A long, lacquered table stretched beneath a low hanging crystal chandelier, the place settings already neatly arranged with heavy silver flatware that caught the light like mirrors. A Baccarat pitcher of fresh orange juice beading gently with condensation sat beside a matching carafe of black coffee, both calling your name.

You squinted slightly against the brightness reflecting off the stone floor, adjusting to the light. Your mother was already seated, picture-perfect in her usual place, a china teacup delicately poised between her fingers, her lips painted the exact shade of peony pink that matched the fresh arrangement at the center of the table.

You slid into the chair across from her. She didn’t speak, just turned a page of the Financial Times with quiet practiced precision, her expression unreadable.

“Morning, Mom,” you grumbled, reaching for the juice. But before she could respond, another voice cut through the room—low, baritone, and unmistakably commanding in its presence.

“And how was your night, young lady?” your father asked as he sat to your right at the head of the table.

His face was freshly shaven, the blue suit pressed to perfection, tie knotted snug at his throat. Every inch of it tailored within a millimeter of precision. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back with gel even on a Saturday morning. He looked like he was on his way to a board meeting, not sitting down to breakfast with his hungover daughter.

“Fine.” you mumbled, sipping the juice in the hopes it would quench your suddenly dry throat.

“Indeed,” he said. He reached for the coffee, poured himself a cup, added just a touch of cream, everything meticulous as always. He stirred slowly, the spoon tapping against the porcelain like a clock ticking down.

He took a slow sip, and you realized he hadn’t even looked at you once this entire time.

Setting down his mug with a soft clink, he pulled out something from his jacket, “Sure seems like you had fun.”

The sudden slap of the tabloid section of the morning paper hit the spotless glass table sharp and final, the sound making your already throbbing head pulse harder and a fresh wave of nausea creep up your throat.

Your father leaned forward, fingers steepled as his elbows rested, his fingers pressing into his lips as if to hold back the true wrath behind his lips. His voice was controlled and low when he finally spoke.

“Imagine waking up this morning, reaching for the paper to catch up on the weekend markets, maybe check my emails before my first call, and instead finding this.” He dropped his hand, forefinger pointing hard into the black and white photo at the headline.

You dared a glance at the paper, and there you were. Mid-laugh, eyes glassy, the car window rolled halfway down. Your smile was wide and your hands were caught in motion, lifting the hem of your blouse up to your clavicle. Right beneath it, the photo was censored, two blurred circles stamped across your bare chest. You winced, heat flooding your cheeks, shame blooming fast and sick in your stomach.

“My own daughter—shirt off, flashing the damn paparazzi on a night out.” His voice was low and precise, a man delivering a verdict. “What in the world were you thinking?”

You slumped deeper into your chair, the cool leather sticking to your bare thighs. Your palms, clammy with guilt and hangover sweat, came up to shield your eyes.

Your mother exhaled a high, theatrical sigh as she set down her mug across from you.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you, young lady.” your father commanded.

You dragged your hands down your reddening face, turning towards him with a pout. Everything about him looked freshly pressed, polished, and perfect. He looked so severe as he glared at you—the picture of legacy and discipline, like you were supposed to be.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice wavering.

He was watching you when your eyes met his, his anger sliding into disappointment, something like sadness in his eyes.

“I’m sure you are, pumpkin.” he said, the heart of his palm swiping across his face, “But don’t think you can wipe this clean with some half-assed apology.” he tapped a stern finger on the tabloid again. The photo bended under his sharp pointed digit.

“What do you want me to say?” you said, voice thick, “I had too much to drink, I was stupid. It won’t happen again, daddy. I’m sorry.”

Your mother let out another sharp tut, but your father kept going.

“Something needs to change. You’re not a teenager running around Ibiza anymore. You’re the face of this family’s future, whether you like it or not. You think this is what I worked my whole life for? That I built our name so my daughter could be treated as a punchline? You think those diamonds in your ears, your Hermes bags, your Amex black card all pay for themselves?”

You had half a heart to tell him your brother actually was the one who was the face of the family name, but you didn’t think you could stomach the look that would cross his face. So instead, you shook your head, shameful, “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

“Good. Because starting now, it’s over.”

Your heart dropped to your stomach, and you sat bolt upright in your seat, “Wait–what? No, Daddy, no, Blair and I are flying to Greece this weekend! We have the yacht ready, the hotel in Santorini—everything’s already planned, I can’t just cancel.”

“You can,” your mother finally said, voice sharp and throwing her napkin down after dabbing the corners of her mouth, “And you will. Enough of this. Enough crying your way out of trouble. You're in your twenties, for god sake! This isn’t some harmless mistake, you acted like a downtown slut and got plastered across the front page.” she waved her hand in the air, “You can forget about your cover with Forbes. Vogue sure isn’t going to take you back after this little stunt…you can forget it all. This is a disgrace.”

Her voice was so crisp and cruel, her tea cold and forgotten at her elbow and her fury taking up every inch of space in the room. She sat stiffly at the table in a bright Lululemon set that looked untouched by actual exercise, posture perfect.

You watched her, feeling so unbearably small under her eyes, and turned back to your father, “Daddy, please—”

“Your mother is right,” he cut in. There wasn’t even anger in his voice, just something worse like resolve.

You pressed both hands over your eyes again, “Just…just tell me what I can do. To make it right.”

Your voice cracked around the words, all your plans for beachside Aperol Spritzes disintegrating into nothing. You could practically feel the sea breeze slipping through your fingers with it.

He leaned forward, and you watched him through split fingers, his elbows on the glass like a man making a deal, “Here is what’s going to happen. I’m giving you two months. Eight weeks without your credit cards, without store allowances. I want you to get yourself together. Maybe find a job, your own apartment, I don’t know. Something useful, something that puts your head back on your shoulders. Prove to me you can handle yourself, that you can be something other than this.”

“And maybe a nice man to settle you down,” your mother chimed in, suddenly calmer. “That’s what you need. I can call up the girls from tennis. They all have sons. Trust fund babies around your age and handsome, polished—”

“God, no,” you snapped through your tears. “I don’t want any of those preppy assholes.”

“Enough,” your father said, voice cutting clean across the room. “Finding someone respectable isn’t a punishment. It’s a step in the right direction. A partner keeps you grounded. Gives people less reason to talk. And frankly, right now, anything that helps the press take you seriously again is worth considering.”

“I’m not some PR campaign, Dad,” you muttered. “And I’m not going to date someone just to make you look better.”

He ignored you, “You get eight weeks. That’s the offer. Find some stability, and maybe someone who brings out the version of you I used to be proud of. Do that, and I’ll restore your accounts. If you don’t…”

You swallowed hard, wiping your eyes.

“...if I don’t?”

He shrugged, already standing. “Then you’re cut off. You’ll turn in your cards, your keys. You’ll find a new apartment on your own dime. And you’ll learn the hard way just how far your name alone gets you.”

The polished wood table sat between you like a mirror, reflecting everything you were about to lose.

“Okay,” you whispered, throat thick and tight.

He paused, adjusting the cuff of his suit like the conversation hadn’t hollowed you out. His tone softened slightly, not warm but almost… performative.

“I love you, honey. This is for your own good.”

That night, you nursed your gin martini at the hotel bar like it was medicine. It was the kind that didn’t fix anything but at least made you forget it for a few hours. The ice-cold glass sat heavy in your hand, the drink perfectly dirty, just how you liked it—briny and bitter. You chuckled, thinking that’s exactly how you felt too.

When you’d finally had the nerve to leave the house and walk down the street to the Rosewood Hotel, you’d made yourself at home at the bar as the rest of the city lived their lives behind you.

You’d tipped the bartender a handful of cash to keep the martinis comin’, using the emergency stash that had been stuffed into your closet drawer since Christmas, courtesy of your grandmother.

Buy something nice, or get that nose fixed, whichever comes first, she’d told you, as she'd handed you the envelope. A nose job would do numbers, honey. It’s only a couple weeks of rest, anyway.

You’d laughed her off, taking the money and stashing it for emergencies like this.

And now, sitting at Belmans Bar inside the hotel on the Upper East side in your red bottomed heels and all black attire, you half heartedly stirred your drink, hoping to God the bartender didn’t recognize you.

Your phone sat facedown for a while, but eventually, boredom and self pity rang louder than your pride and you picked it up and started to scroll.

Your own downfall was everywhere. Flashbulb-lit screenshots from the afterparty, that blurred-out photo of your chest from the curbside car door, a thousand IG stories captioned with your name, half of them mocking, the other half pretending to be concerned.

As you scrolled, you finally got a small relief of a post that wasn’t your blurred out tits and a headline. But this photo looked different. It was grainier, taken from behind a car tinted window late at night. A teenage girl, maybe fifteen, ducking into a black car with a hand covering her face. She looked…miserable.

CASTILLO DAUGHTER ESCORTED INTO REHAB FACILITY?

Yeesh, at least you weren’t that bad.

As you looked closer, you recognized her. Of course you did. Everyone knew the Castillo name. Your families had circled each other for years—same charity galas, same tax bracket, same stuffy luncheons celebrating some Ivy League degree or another. There’d never really been anyone your age in their family to talk to, just polite nods and mutual attendance at mutual obligations. Wedding season, debutante balls, the usual revolving door of the one percent’s social calendar.

You only kind of knew Camilla. She was younger, sweeter, and much more tame. She was the daughter of Peter and Charlotte Castillo. Always so prim and proper, she was so put together in her ballet flats and perfect posture anytime you saw her. She was the kind of daughter your parents always wished you were. And now, looking so disheveled, rushing into an unmarked SUV, it made your stomach twist, wincing at the thought. She looked how you felt lately.

The internet was still feasting on her photo as you scrolled, headlines dissecting her sad face, the slump of her shoulders, her broken frame as if it were sport.

Eventually, you couldn’t take it anymore. You switched to Raya, hoping to find something—someone—that might appease your father’s expectations. You swiped through an endless parade of polo-wearing trust fund boys you already knew too well. Every face was another recycled name from childhood birthdays, graduation parties, foundation dinners. Hell really did have its own social calendar.

Then came the celebrities. Too recognizable, too chaotic. All of them too coked out or too committed to their own image to be of any use to your father. Some you’d met, a few you’d kissed, most you knew well enough to stay far, far away from.

As the bartender set down your third martini, you plucked the olive from the glass, chewing slowly. You held the pick between your lips like a cigarette, scrolling with your free hand. And just as you were thinking to gulp down your entire glass and head home, someone slid into the stool beside you.

You heard a low exhale as they fell into the seat, a quiet, polite ordering of tequila on ice. You glanced sideways as the man slid his hand down from his mouth to the nicely trimmed dark mustache and five o clock shadow around his chin and jaw. An emerald green ring gleamed at you, encased in gold on his opposite ring finger.

“Harry,” you muttered in greeting, flitting your gaze between him and back to your phone.

His head turned, molasses brown eyes blinking once before recognition settled in, “Oh,” he said, sitting up a little straighter, “Sorry, I didn’t realize it was you.”

“Oh, it’s me alright,” you said, voice flat as you scrolled. You didn’t stop swiping, just leaned your elbow on the bar, screen casting soft light across your face.

Harry’s drink arrived. He took a sip, slow and steady, and you could feel his eyes watching you over the rim of the glass, then landing on the half empty one in your hand. “And… How many martinis in are you?”

“Don’t judge me,” you quip back. “You came here to drink alone too.”

“I’m not judging,” he said, gesturing lazily with the glass. “Just…making sure you’re…” he couldn’t seem to find the words before finally settling on, “well, especially after the last twenty-four hours…”

You paused mid-swipe and looked at him with a raised brow. “Are you referring to my tits on the cover of TMZ this morning, Mr. Castillo?”

He smirked, eyes flicking back to his drink. “I guess I am.”

“Charming.”

He huffed a little laugh, “But really, are you alright?”

You scoffed back, “Define alright.”

“I mean… not spiraling publicly would be a start.”

“Oh, well, then no. Not alright at all.”

There was a beat of quiet between you, the kind that wasn’t uncomfortable but wasn’t quite easy either. Just... stale, and a little heavy. You let your gaze move over him—pristine even now, dressed in a navy cashmere sweater that looked simple but intentional, sleeves pushed just high enough to show his silver Rolex. His dark wash jeans were the kind you knew cost more than most people’s rent, and the emerald ring on his right hand caught the light again as he turned his glass between his fingers.

“Didn’t think this was your scene,” you said finally.

“Well, the hotel belongs to my family,” he replied. “I’m here more often than I��d like to admit.”

You bit your lip, setting down your glass, “Right…sorry.”

He sighed again, deep and long as he took another sip of tequila, “Besides…they’re all here. Upstairs in the Penthouse for the night.”

“Why?”

“We had a, uh... ‘family meeting.’”

There was something surprisingly genuine in the way he said it, though it was obvious he was exhausted by it. Harry always had that about him even when he was guarded, when he dressed everything in civility and charm. There was a softness there, something unpolished beneath all the carefully crafted exterior.

“A family meeting?” you asked, finally setting your phone down and turning toward him.

He gave a short nod. “You’re not the only one in the news lately, if you hadn’t noticed.”

Oh.

“Camilla,” you breathed, stomach sinking, “Is she okay?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. His fingers turned his glass slowly, his gaze fixed on the clear liquid inside like he might find something helpful there. When he did look up, his eyes were as big and brown and heartbreakingly kind—eyes that seemed too soft, too honest to belong in your world of trust funds and galas.

“I don’t really know,” he said quietly. “She’s just… going through something.”

“Okay...”

“She’s struggling,” he sighed, a faint roughness at the edge of his voice. “I don’t fully understand it, but I know it’s real. My brother, her own father, refuses to see it that way. Thinks it’s for attention, which I find frankly infuriating. So we had a meeting after everything that happened last night. Everyone is just scared, so they sent her off to that rehabilitation center.”

You blinked, then shook your head. Harry didn’t seem interested in giving you all the details—and honestly, you knew he didn’t owe you any. The two of you barely knew each other outside of events and obligatory paths being crossed. Whatever happened, it was family business, and it wasn’t your place to pry. But still, before you could think better of it, your hand reached out and came to rest gently on his arm, the fabric of his sweater soft and warm beneath your fingers.

“I’m so sorry, Harry. I had no idea.”

He looked at your hand for a long moment, and you wondered if his mind had gone somewhere far from the room, the bar, the entire city, as he stared at the way your manicured fingers curved lightly against his sleeve.

“Yeah, well,” he finally said, tipping back his drink to his lips, “No one was supposed to. And now she’s all over the tabloids.”

You smiled ironically, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes as you pulled away from him. “Right next to little ol’ me, the spoiled party girl who can’t go one day without ending up in Gossip Girl’s daily roundup.”

That pulled a small laugh from him. You took your martini and clinked the glass gently against his, both of you drinking in quiet solidarity.

After a moment, he glanced sideways at you. “So… what’s your plan?”

You exhaled, setting your drink down on the bar top with a soft clink. “According to my parents? Settle down, find a man who can ‘reel me in,’ and fix my image. Make me palatable again. Maybe get a job.” You gave a humorless laugh. “They’re cutting me off for two months to prove I can be respectable.”

His brow lifted slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I’m just... tired,” you said, quieter now. “Tired of performing, of being their favorite liability. I feel like livestock at a charity auction—dressed up, shown off, never actually listened to. God forbid I enjoy myself or go to one little party. Then I’m reckless, I’m a shame. They never…I don’t know. They expect me to be so perfect and that the only way I’ll be respected is if I’m with a man.”

You sighed long and deep. You swirled the last sip of your martini around and shot it back in one last gulp. Staring deep into your glass, you swished the last dregs of alcohol in your mouth before swallowing it. You knew he was still watching you, could feel that piercing stare burning the side of your face.

“I might have an idea,” he said, quiet but sure.

You turned to him slowly, a little suspicious. “Oh no.”

He didn’t smile or look like he was mocking at all, he just leaned back in his seat, calm and composed.

“Date me.”

You blinked, coughed, and full on choked on your drink, your own spit, you weren’t even sure. You grabbed a napkin, pressing it to your mouth as your eyes watered, looking at him incredulously.

Harry raised a brow, unbothered. He sipped his tequila like nothing had happened. “Not the worst response I’ve ever received.”

“Are you serious?”

“Entirely.”

You kept staring in disbelief before one final cough and a short and disbelieving laugh. “Harry, come on. Why in the world would I do that? You’re... what, like, a thousand?”

He winced with exaggerated offense. “Not quite.”

You shook your head, “Don’t get me wrong, you’re… attractive. In that polished, middle-aged politician kind of way.”

“Wow, really digging the knife in now. And for the record, I’m forty five.”

“I just don’t see how this helps me.”

He set his glass down, folded his hands, and turned toward you. The amusement left his face, replaced by something quieter like intention.

“Because I can give them exactly what they want. A man who speaks their language. Brunches, art auctions, opening nights. I understand the performance. I know how to present well. You let them believe you’ve finally come to your senses, and perhaps the pressure eases. Perhaps your father gives you back those accounts of yours.”

You frowned, suddenly wary. “And in return?”

He paused for a beat. ““In return, you help me shift the spotlight. Keep Camilla out of the tabloids for a while. If people are busy watching me with a girl like you, they’re not digging into her while she gets the help she needs.”

There it was. A girl like you.

You stared at him, something sharp and sour curdling behind your ribs.

“Oh, I see. Because I’m already such a disaster, so what’s one more headline? One more joke?” you stood, grabbing your phone and snatching your black clutch bag, “What’s one more public humiliation for the girl everyone already thinks is a braindead waste of space. Perfect to hide your family dirt behind, right?”

“Wait—”

“No, fuck you, Harry.”

You shoved your chair back hard enough to scrape against the floor, tossing your napkin onto the bar without looking at him. Your heels struck the glossy wooden floor with every step, each one echoing louder than the last, the heat in your chest pulsing toward your throat as you walked out.

Throwing open the door to your bedroom, you flung yourself onto the bed without bothering to take off your shoes. Your body landed hard before sinking into the plush silk duvet, letting it swallow you whole. The room was so quiet, so clean and polished and perfect, everything you felt like you weren’t. Everything you were supposed to be. Your breath hitched once, then again, and then you were really crying. Hot, furious tears spilling into your pillow like a little girl.

Because of course that’s all anyone ever saw now. A spoiled, stupid, dramatic, disposable little girl. The perfect distraction, the party girl. Always staying out late, showing up on Gossip Girl’s headlines day in and day out, always saying the wrong thing at events and making it all look so effortlessly trashy. You were nothing but a walking headline in designer heels to them, and it hurt. It really fucking hurt.

Your phone buzzed in your hand, and you threw it clear across the room before even bothering a single glance. It bounced off your pile of half-unpacked Chanel shopping bags from two weeks ago and landed face-up on the floor. A second later, it lit up again. This time, Blair.

You peeked over the side of your bed to look as the notifications came in.

You sniffled, wiped your eyes with the sleeve of your cardigan, and hit call before you could stop yourself.

“Finally,” Blair answered exasperatedly, “I’ve had to watch you get publicly dragged across the entire internet without your commentary, and you completely ditched me today! Where have you been?”

You didn’t say anything at first, trying to soften the tightness in your throat.

“...Hello?”

“B…” you choked.

There was a pause, then her voice softened. “Aw, babe.”

You laid back, pressing your hand to your forehead while you let everything spill out of you. “Everyone thinks I’m a joke. My parents are going to cut me off, I just stormed out on Harry Castillo, Chuck is texting me for fucking drugs again.” you breathed in shakily, “And I’m so sorry about Greece, B.”

“What the hell were you doing with Harry?” Blair said, and you could picture her perfectly scrunched nose and ruby red lips pulling into a grimace, “Well, you have always had a flair for theatrics,” she said with a sigh, then quickly added, “but no one pulls off self-destruction in vintage Galliano quite like you.”

You let out a soft, wet, miserable laugh.

Blair sighed again through the phone, “Okay, listen, you are not a joke. Maybe a little dramatic, maybe a little insane and allergic to consequences, but you’re not a mess. I don’t care about Greece, I just care that you’re okay. We’ve all been through one thing or another. Do you remember when Gossip Girl told everyone I’d slept with both Nate and Chuck in one week? I threatened to move to France over it!”

You leaned back against the headboard, breathing slow. “God, yeah, that was so long ago I totally forgot.”

“Exactly. So go dry your tears, put on a hair mask, and for God’s sake, block Chuck’s number again please.”

“Do you wanna talk about why you were mad at him at your party?”

“Not today. We’re talking about you right now.”

You nodded even though she couldn’t see it. “Okay. Thanks, B.”

“Don’t let these jerks decide who you are, okay?” she said with a softness that she rarely let anyone see, “You’re not just what people post about. You’re my best friend and actually a good person, which none of these assholes can say about themselves.”

You smiled, watery and grateful. “Love you,”

“Love you more, babe.”

You hung up with a breath of something close to relief. For a moment, the silence was still, but less crushing.

You stared at your phone, swiping through your contacts and hesitating before you pressed Harry Castillo.

It rang once, and then again as you held your breath.

“Hey, kid,” he answered, “Listen, I’m so sorry—”

“Are you busy tomorrow morning?”

There was a pause.

“I can… move some things around,” he said slowly, “Why?”

You glanced out the window at the Manhattan skyline still lit up in its usual cold, glittering arrogance. “Meet me at Sant Ambroeus. Upper East Side. Nine.”

There was another pause before you heard a low exhale through the phone.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll be there.”

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littlemisspascal · 22 hours ago

Text

It's Always Darkest Before Dawn feat. Frankie & f!reader, Ezra & f!reader

Summary: You're sitting in the mess you made and an unlikely meeting sets the stage. Part 7 of There are Other Fish in the Sea

Pairing: Frankie, Ezra & Mouse | Rating: Explicit 18+ (MDNI) | Word Count: 3,189

Content Warnings: well if it isn't the consequences of our actions, therapy, sadness, self esteem talk, healing, admitting faults, making amends, admitting there's a problem is the first step friends, Ezra being Ezra, Frankie is trying, messes need to be cleaned up... no smut this time around.

Author's Notes: long time coming (that's what she said - AYOOOO!) and I want to thank you all for your patience. We're on the home stretch.

Thank you to @strang3lov3, @bitchesuntitled & @whocaresstillthelouvre for their eyes and love. and a giant, thick thanks to @xdaddysprincessxx for keeping the torch burning. Thank you to @saradika-graphics for the dividers.

No more tag lists - follow @beefnotes + turn on notifications for fic updates!

The seven stages of grief are: Shock and denial, pain and guilt, anger and bargaining, depression, the upward turn, reconstruction, and acceptance and hope.

Grief. It was a big word. Not in length or letters but in meaning and feeling and impact and experience. The end of things with Frankie was a loss and you were finally in a place where you could accept that you were allowed to grieve this loss. Guilt was a part of it and so was anger and sadness, but until you had accepted all of that, you were never going to heal or let go; meaning you were never going to get out of your own way and let Ezra in.

Easier said than done.

Since your tryst with Frankie on the living room floor you used to call your own, things had shifted in you. You contacted your therapist, Maggie, that night over email, asking for an appointment as soon as she was able to slot you in next, and by the morning, she’d responded with a calendar invite for the following week.

You arrived on time to Maggie’s office and sat across from her. She gave you the familiar neutral smile that hid any judgement or concern, but you knew you it wasn’t letting you off the hook; you wouldn’t allow yourself the escape from accountability, and you took a breath before speaking.

“I slept with Frankie.”

A small crack in Maggie’s careful facade broke through as her brow flicked slightly. “You slept with Fran-”

“Yes, but it wasn’t like that.” Shit. Shit shit shit. Maybe leading with this wasn’t a great -

“Okay. Then explain what it was like.”

You fought to find any terseness or curt tone in the way Maggie gently spoke. Maybe this is what she meant in a previous session when she said you always looked for the negative instead of just hearing the words people said.

“I… okay… look, I know it wasn’t a good idea. I knew it then, and I admit it now.”, you spoke quickly, holding your hands up. “I know leading up to that point I was - I wasn’t doing well. And I wasn’t making great choices.”

You held your eyes on Maggie’s and she nodded for you to continue.

You swallowed hard and looked up, trying to collect your thoughts. This seemed like a good idea at the time and now your brain was flooding with excuses and reasons, none of which would hold water if you took a moment to review them.

“I know I blocked myself off from-from everyone, mainly Benny and Ezra…” Your voice was quiet yet wandering as you moved your way through the barrage of noise in your head. You motioned to Maggie.”...and I guess, you, too.”

You kicked off your sliders and crossed your legs on the arm chair. Your elbows rested on your knees and your face fell into your hands. You already knew what you’d done but saying it outloud made it real on another level. You let out a huff then sat up again, determined to say what you had to get out, what you were afraid to give air to in case it was all really true.

“I was so worried I - that I was too much…of a burden. I was too much of a drain. Like a parasite - a leech -”

“A leech?”

“Yeah, like with Benny. He opens his house to me and asks for nothing in return and I have been horrible and short with him. He avoids me and I don’t blame him. I take and take and take and I never give him anything b-but meanness -”

Maggie held up her hand in a calming gesture and said slowly, “Take a breath and don’t rush everything out. You’re doing good.”

You nodded and took a deep breath. You could feel the anxiety bubbling up and your hands twitched and fidgeted with one another in your lap.

“I haven’t been a good cousin -good person… to Benny. He’s- fuck. He’s the only family I have now and I’m just -”, you let out a groan and rubbed your face. “I am ruining it. I’m drowning and I’m trying to pull him in with me when all he’s doing is holding his hand out!”

Maggie leaned over, resting her elbow on the chair’s arm, keeping her eyes on you. They looked tired. Did she always look that tired? Was this you making her tired? She motioned for you to continue and you were unsure of what to say next. Did you say too much?

“Keep going.”, Maggie said gently.

“I.. um…” You looked down at your hands. “I wish I wasn’t like this. I wish I could return the kindness and generosity he’s given me… and I also don’t think I’ll ever be able to. He said all I have to do is ‘better’ for him to feel repaid, but… but that can’t be enough - it’s not enough! And-and how can he say that now? How can that ever be enough t-”

Maggie interjected to stop you from spiraling. “And what about Ezra?”

You let out a heartbroken and wounded sigh, feeling the sting in your eyes. Sucking in a shaky breath, you managed to choke out, “I pushed him away… I found his limits and managed to drive off one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met.”

“Why?”

It was such a small yet potent question. Your first instinct was to snap back something about if you knew why you wouldn’t be here, but instead a joyless short laugh huffed out of you, and you rubbed your face again.

“Ezra was so patient and wonderful a-and sweet and all he wanted in return was for me to let him in and I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

You held your breath. You really didn’t want to give life to this fear or admit that this was holding you back, but the way Maggie silently and patiently waited for you to vocalize it, you knew you had to.

“I couldn’t get over the idea that he wouldn’t want me if I did. What if he saw me for who I was and decided I was too much work or too broken or a write off?”

There was silence for a moment, and you finally raised your head to look at Maggie, looking back at you. Her face was, as always, neutral.

“You’ve been struggling a lot with identity. We’ve talked about this in the past, but so much of what you did and how you moved through life was tethered to Frankie. The past year, you’ve been trying to sort through everything you are and put together the pieces to rebuild.” She paused, like she was trying to figure out how to word the next part carefully. “Tell me why you slept with Frankie.”

“Because I wanted to feel something other than this.” You didn’t mean to whimper, but that’s how it came out.

“And did you?”

Your shoulders dropped with a wet sigh and you sniffled back the tears. As you thought further about it, you smiled slightly. “I was mean to him.”

“Mean? How-”

“I pushed him for details about the bit- the woman he cheated on me with and I made him call me the nickname Ezra gave me. And I called out Ezra’s name when- when I… you know…”

Maggie nodded and looked down at her notebook as she scribbled in it.

Your voice grew a bit stronger in your conviction; your need to admit your wrong doings was fueling you. “I’m not proud of what I did and I know it was wrong. It shouldn’t have happened and it didn’t do what I thought it would.”

“It made things worse-”

“No. No it didn’t do that… or maybe it did, I don’t know yet, but it made me- it gave me, uh… it gave me closure.” As you said the last few words, you looked up at Maggie.

“I know Frankie isn’t it for me.”, you spoke with a quiet finality. “I know he and I were not great together in the end. I’ve known that this whole time, but now… now I feel it. I feel it. It’s done. We’re done. An-and so are the nightmares.”

Maggie nodded. You weren’t sure if she was nodding because you’d made a breakthrough or she was trying to navigate your insane ramblings.

“The nightmares… are done?”, she finally asked.

You nodded, feeling hopeful for the first time in - you didn’t know when.

“And what about Ezra? If you want to repair that, you need to be honest with him about this. About all of this.”

You nodded automatically, feeling that hopefulness bleed out and give way to a lead weight in your stomach.

After your appointment, you returned home and waited for Benny. He’d been home for a few hours before you got the courage to go out into the living room and walk right in front of Benny, blocking his view of the TV; irritation on his face gave way to confusion and concern, and as he stood up, you wrapped your arms around his middle and apologized into his chest. Before the final syllable of ‘sorry’ came from your mouth, his arms were holding you tightly.

“Thank you.” You felt the words rumble in his chest as much as you heard them.

You told Benny what you’d done with Frankie and he said he was glad it was out of your system, even if his tone was disappointed.

The first time you walked back into the bistro, it was a Wednesday. You thought it was a safe bet to do so, but as soon as you did, you regretted it. Ezra was chatting with a pretty woman who was sitting in the seat you had unofficially reserved for yourself. He was leaning over the counter, holding her hand in his, admiring a ring or her nails, you couldn’t be sure. But you were certain that you knew how it felt to receive that kind of attention from him.

The door closed loudly behind you and Ezra looked up and over at you, his cheshire smile dropping. He let go of the woman’s hand and stood up straight. There was no joy or happiness in his eyes to see you - at least from what you could tell. He looked more shocked and irritated and maybe confused at your presence in his space.

This was a mistake.

Before he could say anything, you forced a small smile on your face and backed up. “Sorry… I… wrong- wrong place.”

You turned and left so quickly, you didn’t see Ezra frantically try to get out from behind the bar to grab you, and you ran so fast around the corner, you didn’t see him come outside looking for you. You didn’t see the way his shoulders rose and fell in panic at you disappearing right in front of him. You were gone before he could tell you how glad he was to see you darken his doorway or how proud he was that you took that first step back to him.

He turned just in time to see the back of your vehicle driving off and he murmured aloud, “Fly back to me, timid Birdie…”

Frankie had laid on the floor after you left for almost an hour. He laid stunned, replaying how you came in with brutal ferocity then left him in the wake of your carnage.

His back cracked as he got up and he fixed his boxers and jeans, then wandered into the kitchen. He ached for a beer at that moment, but the sound of his sponsor in his head edged him off that cliff and he grabbed a can of coke from the fridge.

As he removed his clothing to have a shower, your scent hit him in the face. His shirt - you were all over it. And it didn’t do anything but give him pause. The ache. The ache that normally followed a reminder of you as the herald of another horrible night to come was not there and he just carried on undressing then hopped into the shower, to wash you off him for the final time.

He saw his own therapist, Martin, a few days later, and after unloading everything that had happened, Frankie felt lighter. Not just lighter, but ready. Ready for what? He wasn’t sure at first, but with Martin’s suggestions and the dialogue between the two of them, he was sure he was ready to not only fully let you go, but also ready to make right what he had done so terribly wrong.

It took him a week to drum up the courage to reach out to Benny to see if you were okay, and he got a response the next day.

She’s good. I think. Told me what she and you did. Glad it’s done.

Was it done though?

Frankie cautiously kept up with communication with Benny. He asked about his work, his cats, his lovelife… in all of this, he’d completely neglected his friend. Benny was a rock and stable person in his life, one that coaxed him out of his shell to ask you out in the beginning and one that championed him in so much. And he missed Benny.

Over a few days, Benny became a little more receptive to him and they started going back and forth. Frankie worked to not mention you, but it was Benny who brought you up next.

She’s mopey. Pining after that guy she was seeing. Sorry if you don’t want to hear this but I don’t know what to do.

Frankie thought about it and all he could come up with was something really stupid and probably one of the dumber things he had come up with, but he sent the message to Benny anyways:

His name is Ezra right? Where’s he work again?

This is stupid. This is dumb. This is a bad idea.

Frankie pushed open the doors to this weird old-timey bar place. It was the address Benny gave him and it happened to be just up the road from that little supermarket he’d tracked you to a few months back.

He lumbered into the ‘bistro’ - or whatever it was - and looked around at the decor, then his eyes zeroed in on the guy behind the bar. Thinner and wirey than him, but maybe a bit taller than he was. He was bright and vibrant and effervescent; the way he moved around behind the bar and talked while he served the patrons was interesting to say the least and he could see why you liked this guy.

“Hello and welcome, friend. Take a seat and I’ll come to your service momentarily.”

The melodic drawl of his voice caught Frankie off guard. He sounded kind and gentle and boisterous, and he could imagine the way your sharp edges would be buffered by someone like this.

He took a seat at the bar and Ezra appeared in front of him. “And what can I start for you, my sturdy friend?”

Frankie hesitated, looking into the eyes of the guy who had you so captivated. Brown like his, but they had flecks of gold that matched the gold tooth flashing in his mouth with a smile.

“Uh… coke… no… coffee?”

“I can procure both for you if you’re not decided yet. There is no rush as we don’t close for another few hours and I cannot imagine you won’t have made your mind up by then.”

Good god. “Uh, both. Yeah, both.”

Ezra nodded and flashed a grin at him before taking off. He returned with the coke and then the coffee. Frankie nursed them both over the next few hours and accepted refills as Ezra offered them. At the final refill, Ezra approached him.

“You look as though your mind has been enraptured by something. Speak.”

Frankie looked up, a bit confused. How the hell did he know that? “What makes you say that?”

“Ah, I have been serving folk for a while now and those who have words that need air often share the same look in their eyes. I am a barman and though I normally ply my patrons with libations, I also have a keen ear for troubles. So again I say, speak, friend. Tell me your vexes.”

Frankie’s brows were up under the brim of his cap. This guy is good. “I… there’s… okay.” He put his gently clenched fists on the table like he was stabilizing himself. “Um.. well… I screwed up something good and I’m… I’m trying to fix it for her.”

Ezra leaned on the counter with a small smile and crossed his arms. “A ‘her’ is it?”

“Yeah…”, Frankie mulled his tongue along the backside of his teeth as he debated on how to keep going. “She was my everything… and I screwed it up.”

Ezra sighed in sympathy and nodded. “As we men are want to do at times.”

Frankie huffed a small chuckle. “I mean it. She is something special. She’s kind and funny and -”, he let out a deep breath. “- stubborn and scrappy… but she was mine and I loved - “

Frankie had to stop; he could feel the emotions starting to surface and he wasn’t ready to ball his eyes out and give this guy the wrong impression. He cleared his throat. “I loved her and I hurt her. I blamed her.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, friend. She obviously saw virtues in you that had her stay around until then.”

Frankie let a small smile pull on one side of his mouth as his fingers drew shapes in the condensation on his glass. His mind thought back to all the times he was able to make you smile and laugh, and all the times you looked at him with your beautiful eyes and he knew you were just as in love with him as he was with you. “I know there were things she saw in me…. She brought out a lot of good in me that I wasn’t sure I had any more.”

“And you want her to come back to you?”

“I want what’s best for her.”

Ezra nodded, turning to lean over the bar at Frankie. “And what is best for her, friend?”

“Uh… it’s why I’m here actually…”, he responded in a low voice.

Ezra quirked his head. “Now that leaves me with more questions than answers, friend. Care to elaborate?”

Frankie huffed out a nervous chuckle, looking away as he adjusted his cap on his head. “I - uh… well, you apparently know Mouse, and - uh… so do I and…” His words tapered off as he finally looked up at Ezra.

Ezra furrowed his brows and stood up with his arms crossed, his eyes dancing all over Frankie in a confused search for reason. For a brief moment, Frankie was sure he was about to get thrown out. Then a sparkle of recognition crossed Ezra's face and he smiled shrewdly.

“Ahh… why hello, Frank. Nice to finally put a face to the name.”

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#fic rec

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littlemisspascal · 22 hours ago

Text

Honey

Jackson Joel Miller x Female Reader

Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Summary: "Golden honey glistens on his sun-kissed skin, tempting you to take a taste, and when you bend forward, licking up the syrup. Joel tastes sweet and salty. Sweat and honey." Warnings: smut, honey, unprotected p in v sex, honey dripping, clavicle and neck worship, sweaty joel miller, writer is ovulating and has a pulled back muscle so she can't fix it physically so she has to fix it mentally Words: 2,000

A/N: @forspringcleaning and I have talked about it A LOT and her petition worked. I know Joel just bought pretzels, but now he's getting covered in honey because when you're in your 30's you write porn for your fellow 🪿. Also, honey is said 30 times... deal with it.

Masterlist

🍯🍯🍯

You read Pollinators Of The Rocky Mountains from cover to cover, practically memorizing every single flower that would grow in Jackson. All that time, patience, and TLC have paid off. You’ve turned Joel’s backyard into a wildflower garden. The bee boxes he built you now house a colony of bees who have just given you your first jar of honey.

Real, sweet, golden honey. Thick and sugary. The perfect flavor, tasting of sunshine and growth.

You’re at the kitchen table, savoring the first bite of honey on bread, when you hear Joel’s boot steps against the worn, wooden floor of his home.

“Hey, honey,” he greets you with a tired grin on his face.

“Speaking of,” you say, holding up your delicacy. “Hot out?” you ask, noticing the sheen of sweat covering his body, the slight dampness to his wavy tendrils, the way his navy blue shirt clings to his body.

“Damn near ninety degrees 'n I was working outside all day helpin’ with the gate,” he grumbles, kicking his boots off.

“You know I don’t like your boots clomping in all that mud and dirt,” you say, taking a bite of your sweet bread.

“Forgive me,” he responds, lifting his shirt off and tossing it onto the back of a chair. “It’s too damn hot.”

He plops in his chair with a loud sigh and slumps back, his broad chest and soft belly on full display for you. You ogle him, his bronze skin freckled with sun spots across his shoulders. The plush of his stomach, softer in age and from a comfortable life in Jackson, rises and falls with each deep breath he takes. The light smattering of hair across his chest that runs down to sit just above his jeans. Between the taste of the sweet nectar of honey on your freshly baked bread and the sight of Joel Miller sitting next to you with his golden skin shining, you’re pretty sure you’re in heaven.

He watches you, his thick brows furrowed, his focus flicking from your eyes to your mouth.

“Gonna give me a bite?” he asks lowly.

“Here,” you say, mindlessly reaching the bread out to him.

“Nuh uh,” he says. “C’mere.”

You arch an eyebrow as he pats his thigh with his calloused hand.

“You’re all sweaty,” you protest, but you’re already standing.

“You never seem to mind.”

You settle on his lap, the heat radiating off his body instantly overheats you when he wraps his arms around you, his hands splaying against your back.

You hold the bread up to his lips. He takes a bite, his dark brown eyes never leaving yours as he chews, his jaw working slowly as he hums a low sound of appreciation. He swallows, and you follow the movement of his throat, the divots of his collarbones that you love so much still slick with sweat.

“Good?” you ask.

“Real good,” he answers, his eyes darkening as he watches you take a bite.

A drop of honey trickles from the corner of your mouth. Joel’s hungry eyes lock on it. He leans in, his tongue catching the golden syrup.

“Mm,” he groans. His tongue trails along the seam of your lips, coaxing them open. His tongue licks into your mouth, his tongue sliding against yours slowly, deliberately, tasting every inch of your honeyed mouth.

He pulls back. “You taste like honey,” he whispers. “Sweeter than anything I’ve ever tasted.”

You chuckle temptingly. “Do I?”

You reach over to the jar on the table, dipping your index finger into the honey, bringing it to your mouth. You drag your honey-coated finger across your lips, covering them in the sticky sweet.

Joel’s hand comes up to grip your chin, tilting your face so he can examine your lips.

“Look at you,” he whispers.

He seals his mouth over yours, his kiss messy, his wide tongue cleaning your lips, gathering every drop of honey. Your hands rest against his chest, feeling the solid strength of him still under a hot and slick luster of sweat. Your hands slide farther up his damp chest until you reach the hollows of his collarbone.

An idea lights in your mind. You pull away from Joel and reach for the honey jar again. You dip your finger in, gathering even more honey than before, and carefully move your honeyed finger over his collarbone. The amber syrup drips down, pooling into the divots of his collarbone.

Golden honey glistens on his sun-kissed skin, tempting you to take a taste, and when you bend forward, licking up the syrup. Joel tastes sweet and salty. Sweat and honey.

Your tongue laps against the saccharine puddle collected at the dip of his collarbone, pulling a deep groan from Joel that vibrates against your lips.

“You’re killing me,” he grunts, his fingers digging into the flesh of your ass when he grabs it, and pulls you closer. His hips shift underneath you, you can feel the poke of his hardening cock against you.

Your smile at the feel of him responding to you. You trail your tongue up his neck, nipping against his pulse point before following the strong angle of his jaw up to his mouth. Your mouth seals over his, his hands bunching your dress up before you separate from him to take it off, earning a deep growl from Joel when your bare chest is revealed to him.

He reaches for the honey jar, picking it up and turning it in his hand. “My turn,” he says.

Carefully, he tilts the jar above your chest. Honey cascades down in a thick ribbon onto your breast. You gasp at the sensation of the thick syrup pouring down across your nipple.

“Perfect,” Joel whispers before he leans forward and swirls his tongue around your hard, honeyed nipple. He collects every drip of sweetness with his tongue while his teeth gently graze against your nipple.

Your pussy craves friction with each swipe of his broad tongue against your sensitive skin. Your hips begin to move on their own, grinding down against Joel’s bulge. The soft, soaked cotton of your panties meets the rough denim of his jeans.

“Joel,” you keen, threading your fingers through the wavy locks of his hair, still slightly damp from his long day of work.

He begins bucking his hips up against you, and you can’t resist it any longer. Your fingers fumble with his belt buckle as you desperately pull at it. Your clumsy fingers—made even clumsier from Joel’s mouth savoring your breasts—unbutton his button and zip his zipper down.

Joel’s hips rise off the chair, lifting you with him as he grunts, one arm around your waist, the other tugging his jeans down just enough for his cock to spring free.

You’re so needy for his cock to spear you, you don’t take your panties off, you just slide them to the side and brush your slick folds across Joel’s thick cock, rocking against him, coating his shaft in your wet arousal. A whine of Joel’s name escapes your throat when the head of of his cock presses against your needy clit.

“Fuck darlin’,” he gravels. “You’re so goddamn wet f’me.”

He captures your lips, your tongue licks against his honey, plush lips when he reaches down and grips your hips, lifting you to hover over his hard cock already leaking and ready to feel your cunt wrap around him.

You reach down, grasping his cock and giving him a couple strokes before you line him up against your channel. Slowly, you sit on him, taking him inch by inch. Your pussy accepts him greedily, his cock stretching you as he bottoms out, your ass meeting his lap as his cock pumps and moves against your walls.

“That’s it, honey,” he breathes against your lips. “Take all of me.”

You hold still, your quick breaths panting out against Joel’s lips as you settle with his big cock inside you, twitching with need for you before you begin to slowly rise and lower yourself.

Joel watches you bloom under his touch. Your love for him blossoms as you slowly move along his length.

The kitchen chair creaks beneath your bodies as Joel thrusts up into you, his hands tightening against your hips to guide you. His cock sits hot and heavy inside you, your knees bracketing both sides of his hips begin to shake under the feel of all of Joel thrusting in and out of you.

You crave more of the delicious feel of him, your cunt throbbing as you pick up your pace.

“Easy,” he rasps. “Greedy girl. Let me feel you.”

You don’t have words to respond, you nod frantically, slowing your movements.

His head falls back against the chair, his neck strained as he fights to control himself. The grip against your hips is so tight, you welcome the bruising sear of his touch.

You dip your finger into the jar again, painting honey into the divots of his neck again. Your tongue tastes Joel again, licking and sucking at his skin. Nothing feels better than the taste of honey on your tongue and the feel of Joel Miller’s big, wide cock fucking you senseless.

He slides his palms down your back to your ass, grabbing your ass to guide you up his cock before easing you back down.

“So tight f’me,” he marvels.

Your head lolls back as Joel’s cock drags against the velvet of your walls, the wet sounds of your arousal filling the kitchen. Joel’s breathing grows even more ragged, his jaw clenching as sweat beads across his forehead.

You nuzzle against the sharp rasp of his stubble, savoring the slight bite against your sensitive skin. Before you can even realize what you’re doing, you’re reaching into the honey jar again. A dollop of honey is collected on your fingertip, and you bring it to your mouth, smearing it against Joel’s lips.

Joel watches you, his pupils blown wide, making his brown eyes look black with desire. You surge forward, your tongue tracing the outline of his mouth before you lick across his soft lips. You devour every drop of honey from his skin, moaning and groaning desperate noises for him as he fucks you harder.

“Mine,” you growl against his mouth. He groans, a long, low sound that you love to hear.

Joel’s hips snap up into you faster and harder, your walls clench and unclench around his hard cock. He can sense you’re close, and when he moves a hand to between your legs, his thick finger softly brushing against your clit, you gasp into his mouth, your orgasm buzzing through your body, pleasure and release swarming through you, making you feel like the queen you are. Your nectar gushes around his cock, coating him in your wetness, the sticky sound of his cock pumping in and out of your soaked pussy echoes through the kitchen.

“That’s my girl,” Joel grunts as your pussy flutters and squeezes around him. “Cummin’ all over my cock, give me all your honey.”

You tremble on top of Joel, your body pulsing with aftershocks as he desperately fucks into you, chasing his own release.

“Fuck honey,” he groans, his hips stuttering against yours. “I’m cummin’ baby.”

His cock throbs inside you, filling you with his thick, hot cum his face nuzzling against your neck, his nose pressing into your skin, before he bites down on your sensitive skin there, stinging you with the feel of his teeth. He shudders beneath you, his big arms wrapping around you tighter, locking you against him as he holds you still, plugging his cum into your accepting cunt.

Both of you catch your breath, wrapped in each other’s arms, parts of your bodies still sticky with honey and sweat.

Joel raises his head, his brown eyes meeting yours. He leans in, his lips just a breath away from yours. “I love you,” he whispers, before giving you a kiss sweeter than honey.

#fic rec

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littlemisspascal · 22 hours ago

Text

old black water — oneshot

pairing: pero tovar x m!oc (kinda... sorta... not really...) rating: E (18+ mdni) word count: 4.2k content: erin's rudimentary knowledge of professional bull riding, western aesthetics ie southern accents abound, lil bit of age gap (between 5-10 years), unprotected p in a, anal fingering, riding (of all kinds), a little bit of race discrimination towards pero (referenced from his past, it's not a huge part of the story, but it does influence some things), maybe a tiny bit of dubcon if you squint? if i missed anything else lmk! dividers by @/saradika-graphics beta: @for-a-longlongtime (thank you ily)

summary: Pero is a professional bull rider. He's got issues with the experienced, older rider, Hal. Hal has no idea why that is and intends to find out.

a/n: written as a part of @kedsandtubesocks western challenge, Wild Ride! we're not going to talk about how late it is *cough* and just celebrate that i wrote SOMETHING lmao my prompt was "bull rider!pero + rivals/competition" so i hope i delivered!

also "Hal", the oc, is basically a country version of halsin from bg3...... cough :)

masterlist | for fic notifs, follow @oakslibrary ♥

This was Pero's favorite part: the rush of adrenaline right before that gate opened.

He was sitting atop his favorite of the bulls; an eighteen hundred pound beast named Slackjaw. They'd been in the sport about the same amount of time and had gotten to know each other pretty well. Slackjaw always kept Pero on his toes, so he knew that no matter how he was feeling before he stepped into the arena, that bull would make him feel differently by the time he was thrown off. Usually, he felt on edge, like he was going to pass out any minute, but by the end, he felt like he could do anything.

There was something magical that happened once the gate opened and the timer started counting to the eight seconds he had to stay seated in order for him to qualify for the next round. It felt like time slowed. Every achy bone and injury he'd ever had seemed to disappear. With every buck and kick of Slackjaw's back legs, Pero's hips moved in the opposite direction. It was like a dance and Slackjaw was a fussy partner, but a partner all the same.

The long, leather fringe of Pero's chaps slapped against his legs and the sweat from his brow flew into the sand beneath. His right hand held onto Slackjaw like his life depended on it and his left was high in the air for balance. He caught a glimpse of the flashing of the cameras and arena lights before he felt lighter than air and tucked his legs underneath himself. He landed hard against the sand, too close to Slackjaw's thundering hooves, but he managed to roll out of the way just in time.

"Ya alright, Sunshine?!"

Pero jumped up onto the fence, catching his breath. The sound of cheers finally hit his ears, bringing him back down to Earth from his adrenaline rush. He looked over at one of his fellow bull riders, a young guy named Buford Pittman.

"Just fine, Biff Pitts," Pero sighed, rolling his eyes. Buford hated when he called him that, so he continued to do it. Buford was young and arrogant, always trying to one-up Pero, despite Pero having no interest whatsoever.

Pero pushed his sweaty hair back out of his eyes and looked over to where Slackjaw was calming down. His hat laid discarded in the sand. Pero looked up at the crowd, serious brows drawn close, then ran to grab his black cowboy hat. Once it was back on his head, the crowd erupted into cheers.

This was the part he never got used to. The attention from "fans" was always a little overwhelming. He just wanted to compete in the sport he loved so much, nothing else.

He waved to the crowd before hopping over the fence and heading to the medical bay. He'd landed on his shoulder pretty hard and wanted them to have a look at it. His boots clicked heavily on the arena floors, chaps and leather vest creaking loudly in the halls.

"There he is!" Pero looked up at the feminine voice and his face softened. Arlene was his favorite of the nurses. She never made him talk anymore than he wanted and had a kind, round face. She reminded him of his late mother.

"Hola, Arlene," he said softly.

"What happened out there, honey?"

"My shoulder, I—" he grunted, rolling the shoulder in question. "I landed hard."

"Oh, well we better have a look then, huh?" She smiled. "Go on, take yer shirt off."

Pero obliged, slowly taking off his leather vest and flannel, then sat on the metal folding chair next to her. He let her fuss over him for a while before she bit her lip in thought. He raised a brow in her direction, silently asking what the verdict was.

"Well, it don't seem like ya dislocated it, which is good," she said. "But ya may have to take a break from anythin' too strenuous for 'bout a week."

Pero blinked in thought. There was another rodeo next weekend in the next town over. He couldn't miss that and hoped he would be healed up by then.

"Hey, Arlene! How're the kids?"

Pero's back straightened at the voice behind him. It was smooth, deep, and warm. A little gravelly.

"Hey, Hal. They're doin' alright," Arlene smiled. "How's that ankle o' yours?"

"Gettin' better everyday," he chuckled.

Pero exhaled a heavy breath, shutting his eyes briefly. Hal Silvers was one of the best in the business. He'd been bull riding for several years now and had damn near broken every bone in his body. He was built like a brick shithouse and stood at an impressive height of 6'5". He'd won so many championships, Pero was sure he had a room full of them.

Pero fucking hated him.

He was so nice to people. He was older than a lot of them, about forty-two, and acted like he knew everything. At least that's how it seemed to Pero. Hal had shoulder-length hair, and seemed as if the dirt from the Earth was caked into him. He was the definition of "down to earth" cowboy. He'd been raised on farms his whole life.

"Hey, you did great out there," Hal smiled as he came into Pero's line of sight.

Pero rolled his eyes, gave Arlene a look that conveyed his thanks, grabbed his shirt and vest, and left the medical bay.

Hal frowned and looked at Arlene, confusion written all over his face. She sighed, a knowing smile on her face.

"You know how he is afterwards. 'Sides, he's a lot more bark than bite anyhow."

Hal looked at the empty doorway and sighed.

Hal would be lying if he said Pero didn't catch his eye.

Ever since he joined up with their group of riders, he had an air of mystery about him. He was always a little too serious and the others ribbed him about it all the time. At first, Hal just thought Pero was an excellent rider, his technique on point but with his own distinct style. It was obvious he'd been practicing a lot before joining up.

And, well, if Pero also happened to bandage himself up shirtless in the communal change rooms pretty frequently, then Hal was hardly going to complain.

The only thing he could never quite understand was Pero's distaste for him. Hal was nothing but nice to him, and even gave him his space often, but he always got a little more grumpy whenever Hal was around.

He didn't want his last year in the business tainted by bad blood with someone he respected, so he was going to make it his mission to get Pero to lighten up.

Even just a little bit.

After a rodeo, a few of the nurses held a communal potluck to celebrate. Pero didn't attend very often, but Arlene asked him to come, so he did.

"Sunshine! Didn't think ya'd make it!"

Pero rolled his eyes and set down the paper plates he brought. "I won't be staying long, Biff Pitts."

"You'll grow to like me one o' these days, Sunshine, guarantee it," Buford winked.

Pero mumbled that Buford shouldn't hold his breath and walked over to the large table of food. He grabbed a plate and started dishing up.

"You made it," Hal said next to him in line, grabbing a plate as well.

Pero grunted in response, shielding his eyes with the brim of his cowboy hat.

Hal chewed on his bottom lip in thought as he scooped up some potato salad and dropped it onto his plate. "D'you mind if I sit with ya?"

Pero turned away and walked toward an empty table.

Hal was determined and followed close behind, sitting across from Pero at his table.

"Did I do somethin' to ya?" Hal asked brazenly, brows furrowed.

Pero paused his chewing and looked up at Hal's face briefly, before looking back down at his plate. He grunted noncommittally and stabbed his fork into some meat.

"Seriously, is there a reason ya won't talk to me? Or even look at me?" Hal sighed, voice sounding more frustrated by the minute.

Pero sighed angrily and slammed his fork down on the plate. He lifted the brim of his hat and looked Hal in the eye, brown eyes boring into hazel. "You are competition. You have… You seem full of yourself, so I avoid you."

Hal blinked. He didn't expect Pero to be so blunt. But the shock wore off into confusion. "I'm sorry? Wha' d'you mean?"

"This phony… friendly act you've got going on. I do not trust it," Pero made a face, crossing his arms over his chest, elbows leaning on the table.

Hal's features softened slightly. "Is kindness so foreign to you?"

A little color appeared on Pero's cheeks, but he quickly turned away.

"Maybe we should talk somewhere more private," Hal offered. "The locker rooms are empty."

"What, so you can haze me in there? Show me where I 'belong'? No," Pero frowned.

Confusion painted Hal's features, handsome face turning worried. "What? No, I— Has that happened to ya before?"

Pero sighed and closed his eyes. He picked up his plate and stood abruptly. "Just… Stay away from me," he grunted. Pero turned and threw away his plate of food as he left the potluck. He stopped to give Arlene a kiss on the cheek, then peeled out of the parking lot in his truck.

Hal spent the entire week thinking over his interaction with Pero at the potluck. It was clear something had gone wrong in his past, but what?

When the weekend came around again, he decided to respect Pero's wishes and keep his distance, but he kept an eye out for him anyway.

He would be competing before Pero would, so it gave him a chance to watch and see Pero perform. He knew the younger man had a shoulder injury and hoped he was okay.

Watching Hal compete was always amazing. This was the problem Pero was currently facing. He really looked up to Hal, but he couldn't stand being in the same room alone with him.

In Pero's previous group of riders, there was someone similar to Hal. He was really well known in the local circles rather than on a national level like Hal, but the guy didn't act like it. He'd had a problem with Pero's presence in the sport, saying that it wasn't meant for anyone that wasn't white. Pero had gotten jumped one night by the guy and a few of his closest friends.

It made getting close or trusting anyone damn near impossible for Pero from that day on.

Pero's love for the sport was the only thing keeping him there and what caused him to seek out a different group, working his ass off to get somewhere further away.

The crowd always lit up whenever Hal was competing, the flashing of pictures being taken blinding everyone in the arena. But Pero's eyes were on Hal.

He was magnificent, his large body moving with the bull's gracefully. His years of practice were on full display, making Pero feel a little hot under the collar. He cleared his throat and decided to get his shoulder double checked so he could compete.

After Arlene gave him the go-ahead and he'd competed, Pero made his way to the communal locker room. He was exhausted, covered in sand and sweat, and couldn't wait to get home. They'd be taking a break next weekend to travel to the next state over for another competition. Pero never really took breaks, using his free time to practice or work out.

He opened up his locker and peeled off his leather vest, tossing it into the backpack that was stored there. Removing the black cowboy hat and tossing it onto the bench behind him, he had a look in the small mirror on the door of his locker. His eyes looked tired and his hair was a mess. He'd have to take a shower when he got home, too, and hoped his body would stay upright long enough.

Some of the other riders in the locker room said their goodbyes as they left. Some gave him a friendly pat on the back or shoulder, but most kept their distance. He could feel the presence of one other person in there so he decided to wait him out until he decided to leave. That was until the other man cleared his throat, getting Pero's attention.

"Evenin'," Hal said lowly, standing a couple feet away from him. They'd both dressed down to their jeans and undershirts, dirty tank tops stretched over broad shoulders. Pero looked up at Hal briefly, the width of his chest catching him off guard this close up. His cheeks warmed.

Pero sighed, turning away from Hal's line of sight to go back to packing up his things.

"Did great out there tonight," Hal continued. The sound of the larger man scratching his cheek filled the otherwise silent room.

"Thank you," Pero gritted out reluctantly. "Did you want something?" He frowned, tossing the backpack into his locker and turning to Hal, a lot more attitude in his demeanor than before.

Hal's hazel eyes softened once they made eye contact, worry and concern painting his handsome features. "Just to talk to you for a moment," he sighed, shoulder deflating a little.

"Why?" Pero's eyebrows furrowed. "What do you want?"

Hal exhaled heavily in frustration and leaned on one of the nearby lockers. "Honestly?" He paused, looking Pero right in the eyes. "I'd like t'know why ya got such an issue with me when I ain't done nothin' to ya," he frowned.

"I told you! Your 'friendly' act does not fool me, and—"

"It ain't an act! I don't got a problem with you, Pero!"

Pero pursed his lips and crossed his arms. He looked away, chest heaving slightly. When he looked back at Hal, it was like he had daggers for eyes. He felt like an idiot having to look up at the other man. On a normal day, Pero tended to tower over those around him, but with Hal's brawn, well. He looked downright small.

"How am I supposed to believe—?"

Hal pushed Pero up against the lockers, large hands on either side of his face. "Yer as stubborn as the bulls ain't'ya?" He sighed, frustration oozing out of him. He looked at Pero's deep brown eyes and couldn't stop himself before his lips were attached to the younger man's.

Pero grunted into it, eyebrows furrowed and his hands on Hal's chest. He pushed the other man off of him and breathed heavily. "What are you doing?! Get off of me—!"

Hal cupped Pero's face in his hands and kissed him again, this time deeper, more sure of himself. Pero hit his chest, trying to get Hal off of him, but soon lost the energy to fight. He groaned into Hal's mouth and slowly, oh so slowly, melting into it to kiss back.

Hal hummed low in his chest and tipped Pero's head back a little as he stood more confidently on his feet. They stayed that way for a bit, kissing quietly in the locker room. Pero's arms were heavy at his sides, unable to move from his spot as Hal's big hands held his face tenderly. He'd never felt so safe in his life.

Eventually, Hal pulled away for some much needed air. Pero, so wrapped up in the kiss, chased after Hal's lips as he pulled away slightly. Hal chuckled, chest rumbling. Pero's cheeks warmed as his eyes opened slowly. "Um," he cleared his throat, looking away.

"Believe me now?" Hal smiled, rubbing Pero's cheek with his thumb. Pero snorted, almost like he didn't have any control over it. Hal laughed and kissed the hook of Pero's nose softly.

"I don't understand," Pero said softly. "I have… I've been unkind to you."

"Would ya believe me if I said I liked it? Ya stand up for yourself, tough as nails and don’t take any shit."

Pero blinked, staring at the other man's serious face. There wasn't anything that betrayed his words and that shocked Pero more than the kiss had, if he were honest. "You…?"

"You're also quite a looker, Mr. Tovar," Hal said quietly, eyes traveling over Pero's features appreciatively. "Talented out on the bulls," he continued, eyes roving down over the younger man's arms. "How's that shoulder o'yours? Arlene let ya off the hook?"

Pero swallowed a lump in his throat. He'd never been so brazenly checked out and it was doing things to him. "Y-yes, she, um," he cleared his throat. "It doesn't hurt anymore."

"Hm, tha's good," Hal grinned. "Always wondered how it'd be on the receivin' end of yer ridin'."

Pero's blood boiled hot under his skin as the comment washed over him. He nodded, wrapping his arms around Hal's neck and jumped up to link his legs around the other man's wide torso. His cock twitched against Hal's belly as they kissed more frantically.

All of Pero's frustration with the older man was poured out into the kiss, making him moan weakly. Now that he was being led over to one of the benches and sat down on Hal's lap, he felt stupid for being so angry with him for no reason. He could've been doing this a lot sooner and he was mad for denying himself.

Once Hal was sitting down, leaning against some lockers and his tree trunk thighs were spread out with Pero sitting on top of them, the younger man started grinding down on him. Twin moans pierced the air, their denim-covered cocks creating enough friction to frustrate them but not much else. Large hands gripped Pero's ass, guiding his hips to keep grinding, more slowly this time.

"I don't—" Pero grunted, licking his dry lips. "You don't have any lube, do you?"

Hal chuckled and removed one hand from Pero's ass to dig into his pocket. He pulled out a small travel-size bottle and showed it to him.

"How—! Were you planning this?" Pero asked exasperatedly.

"Well, it don't hurt to have some around," he shrugged, feigning innocence.

Pero rolled his eyes, snorting quietly. He stood up briefly, undoing his jeans to push them down his legs. He was still covered in sand and sweat but he couldn't care less, eyes focused on the bulge in Hal's jeans. Once he was down to his underwear, his tank top still on but haphazardly pushed up his torso, he crawled back onto the older man's thighs.

He cupped Hal's cock through the denim, rubbing and teasing him. Hal moaned, hips bucking up in response. He bit his lip and gripped onto Pero's narrow waist, nails digging into his skin. With deft fingers, Pero unzipped the other man's jeans and pulled his cock free. He groaned at the sight, the head angry and leaking.

Pero started stroking him slowly, getting Hal even more worked up.

"Christ, Pero," Hal grunted, shakily opening the lube to drizzle some onto his fingers. He tossed the bottle to the side and pulled Pero closer so he could messily move the younger man's underwear down and out of the way. The first touch of lube-covered fingers on his hole made Pero gasp, the sound echoed by the plastic bottle landing on the concrete floor.

He nodded for Hal to continue, letting go of his cock to wrap his arms around the other man's shoulders. Pero was standing on his knees on either side of Hal's waist, ass poked out for Hal to fuck him open with his fingers. He moaned wantonly as one finger became two, his head hanging low between his shoulders. He buried his face into Hal's neck, the smell of the earth itself washing over him. Sand, sweat, musk, and something else he couldn't quite place. Hal's long hair tickled his nose as he bit into the thick skin there.

"C'mon, darlin'," Hal chuckled, the obscene sounds of his fingers fucking Pero echoing in the room. With a wet suck, his fingers were removed, making Pero moan weakly.

Pero nodded, moving back to sit with Hal's length pressed against his hole. He grinded against him teasingly, biting his lip.

Hal helped Pero lift his hips, then curled his fingers around his cock, slowly guiding Pero down until he was seated on him again. Pero grunted, brows furrowed in concentration as he sank lower onto Hal's cock. "Shit," he breathed.

"Ya alright?" Hal asked quietly, sweat dotting his hairline.

"Yes," Pero groaned. "It's— It has been a minute for me."

"Darlin', why didn't ya say somethin'? We could'a went slower."

"No! No," Pero shook his head. "I am fine."

It was Hal's turn to snort softly, cupping one of Pero's cheeks. "Take yer time, okay?"

Pero grunted in response, then slowly sank down further until Hal was fully sheathed inside him. Pero's mind was blissfully empty save for the handsome, brawny man beneath him.

Once he opened his eyes, Hal's hazel ones were already watching his face closely. Pero could see how out of breath he was, how much he was holding back, and it made a possessive little part of his brain happy. He lifted himself slowly, then sank back down, making them both groan in pleasure.

Before either of them knew it, Pero was riding Hal at a steady pace. His thighs shook with effort, his body exhausted from competing earlier, but he refused to stop. Hal's cock stretched him so good and he felt so protected in those big arms that he knew it would be worth it in the end. That was, until Hal noticed Pero shaking more and more, and decided to grip onto his narrow waist tightly.

"Let me, yeah?" Hal panted, an easy smile on his face. Pero breathed heavily and nodded dumbly. He didn't know what he was agreeing to until Hal adjusted how he was sitting on the bench and started fucking up into Pero at a punishing pace.

Pero moaned loudly, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the locker room. Hal was still wearing his jeans and sweaty tank top, the fabric brushing against Pero's tender flesh with every thrust. When Hal got tired, he started using Pero's body as a fleshlight, moving him up and down his cock.

Pero’s eyes glossed over as he watched Hal's focused face, getting more and more cock drunk as the minutes went by. He reached out for Hal's long hair and dug his fist into the locks, tugging hard. Hal grunted in response, bearing his teeth, but not letting up on his pace.

With Pero's free hand, he gripped onto Hal's wide belly and lifted the tank top. He dug into the skin, trying to ground himself as he got fucked, nails piercing the other man's flesh.

"I'm— I'm going to come," Pero breathed, his cock twitching between them as heat built and built at the base of his spine. He felt like he was going to pass out any minute, his body weak but unwilling to stop.

"Go 'head, darlin," Hal panted. “Wanna see.”

With a whine and a couple more thrusts, Pero buried his face into Hal's neck and curled his fingers around his own cock. He stroked himself quickly, bringing himself closer to his release. And with a brush of his thumb across the head of his cock, he came hard against the other man's belly. His body shook like a leaf as waves of pleasure wracked through his body, his hips bucking with each spurt of come. As he squeezed down onto Hal's cock, Hal grunted, big hands gripped onto Pero's ass.

"Inside," Pero breathed against his neck, licking and nipping at the skin there.

Hal groaned in response and fucked into Pero faster, chasing his own release. Suddenly, he came hard inside him, squeezing Pero's body close to his own as he rode it out. There was a pause in the air as they reached their peak, the locker room void of any sound. Just as quickly as it arrived, the deafening pause disappeared and the sounds of the old building's creaky walls and air conditioning came back.

Hal stayed inside him as Pero laid against his torso. Large fingers danced over Pero's back as they caught their breath.

"Ya alright?" Hal rumbled, pressing a soft kiss to Pero's sweaty forehead.

Pero hummed in response, his head resting on Hal's shoulder. "I don't think I can move," he said.

A light laugh bubbled out of Hal's chest. "I don't think I could either," he smiled.

"Good."

Hal snorted. "Don't supposed we're in any sorta rush anyway."

Pero sat up and looked into Hal's eyes. "I am sorry," he paused, biting his lip. "I was… un bastardo to you."

The older man smiled, the knuckle of his forefinger brushing against Pero's jawline. "True. But I ain't offended, darlin'. 'Sides," he grunted, patting Pero's ass lightly. "Ya made it up to me in the end," he winked.

#fic rec

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littlemisspascal · 22 hours ago

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The ambassador can wait

477 words | Javier Peña x Steve Murphy | ao3 | masterlist Summary: the tension between the two DEA agents reaches its peak Warnings: 18+ mdni. oral, cum eating, allusion to anal

a/n: thank you for the inspo fic, @sp00kymulderr , smooches to my baby @aurorawritestoescape for beta-ing me 😘💕 dividers @/saradika-graphics 🙏 Happy pride 🌈

All the tension between them, which had been already simmering for weeks, exploded when Steve slammed Javi against the embassy hallway wall, his fists clenching on the other man's suit jacket. Peña’s fiery gaze slid to Steve's lips, his usually brown eyes turning dark. The mutual aggression morphed into something else, carnal and urgent, and Javi ran his tongue over his lower lip before pointing at the men's restrooms.

“Didn’t know you were into men, Murphy.” Javi’s tone was playful and full of confidence, as he pushed Steve against the wall after locking the door behind them.

“I’m not,” he growled. Peña unzipped Murphy’s pants and freed his cock, his stiffness contradicting his words.

“You’re not? Guess you’re just into me, then,” Javi smirked, and it could have pissed Steve off, on another day, in another place, but not here, not now, when Javi was already stroking his shaft, his cocky face inches from his.

“Thought so.” The dark-haired agent got down on his knees, his stare as smug as usual, pulled down the other man’s pants lower to free a pair of balls that hung heavy against Steve’s thighs. “Fuck me,” Javi breathed, for once at a loss for words.

“Think you can take it?” Murphy asked, making Javi roll his eyes with an exaggerated sigh.

Steve's hand tightened on the back of Javi's neck as he spat on his reddened, dripping tip before taking it into his mouth, sucking on it. He rounded his lips to welcome the thick cock, let his throat get used to it inch by inch, until he was able to take it fully into his mouth.

“Shit, Javi, wait… oh fuck, easy, man…”

Javi's muffled chuckle vibrated around Steve's cock, buried deep in his throat.

“Damn, you're such an asshole.”

Javi pulled away and licked his length, teasing the blond man, their eyes locked.

“We don't have much time anyway, stop whining,” Javi smirked, a strand of his hair falling across his forehead, just above his cheeky stare. He stroked Steve’s length twice before taking it back into his mouth. His head was bobbing up and down and Steve felt his balls tighten.

“Shit,” he murmured, holding Javi tighter and pushing his hips forward, now fucking Javi’s throat, leading the pace. His orgasm was building fast, and he spat “finally shutting you up,” before shooting his cum into Javi’s mouth. He held him in place, his pubic hair tangling with his partner’s mustache, draining his balls in long spurts of cum.

After Steve released him, Javi stood up and palmed his cock over the pants. He unzipped them and spat into his hand, the sparkle in his eyes shining brighter when Steve's gaze fell on his thickness.

“Fuck it, the Ambassador can wait. Hold on to the sink, eyes in the mirror. Wanna see your face while I’m fucking you.”

Javi P masterlist

Thank you for reading 🙏 Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated ❤️ Follow @millafics and turn notifications on for fics updates

more Stavier: some Javi x Steve action - The hounds of hell series, written with @aurorawritestoescape The interruption (Javi x Steve x you) and Conversation pit (Connie x f!reader facing Steve x Javi) @toxicanonymity

mmf threesome: Taste in men (Javi and Joel are bi)

@littlemisspascal @pascalsanctuary

npt (some moots who might like it ❤️) @sawymredfox @baronessvonglitter @604to647 @tateypots @schnarfer @bergamote-catsandbooks @magpiepills @for-a-longlongtime @gutter-noise @perotovar

#fic rec

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littlemisspascal · 1 day ago

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🤣

#pedro pascal #lol

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littlemisspascal · 1 day ago

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Creature Comfort

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Female Reader/OFC

Word Count: 7.6k

Summary:

Waiting out there is General Marcus Acacius. A real man of flesh and blood, strength and power. The legendary Atlas Lion himself.

Your husband-to-be.

Rating: M / 18+ only

Warnings: Language, at least a million historical inaccuracies, referenced smut, references of blood + war + death, weapons, too many lion/animal references and metaphors to count, reader has self-esteem issues, arranged marriage, domestic life, cameo of reader's parents, switching povs,

- Reader has no name and no physical traits described in detail. Reader wears clothes such as a toga + wedding outfit

Author Note: This started as me simply wanting to write a fic where Acacius is compared to a lion and Reader's his wife and then it quickly led to me having a complete emotional breakdown that caused me to quit writing entirely for several months. Not one of my finest moments, but 🤷‍♀️ that's life I guess. It's nice to finally toss this fic out here, hopefully someone somewhere enjoys it 🧡

Special thanks to @wheresarizona for putting up with my emotional highs and lows and answering some questions about Rome for me and for just being an overall too-nice-for-this-world person I'm lucky to have met on here 💗

The morning of your wedding you can barely stomach your breakfast. Nerves are natural, your mother assures you, watching with a critical eye as the female servants of the house help dress you.

Your impending ceremony has severed your protection of your family’s household gods, leaving you spiritually defenseless until you’re officially wed to your husband. Maybe that is the true source of your worries, dark spirits playing wicked games with your heartstrings. Or maybe it’s your mother’s looming presence coupled with her stubborn determination to see you safely married off, analyzing every inch of your bridal outfit to root out the tiniest of imperfections, that has your stomach tied up in knots.

The wreath atop your head is thick with summer blooms, their scent potent and almost sickly sweet, tickling the inside of your nose. You’d sneeze if not for the veil covering your face, attached to a headband beneath the tangled greenery, its deep yellow color identical to the slippers donning your feet.

You’d personally woven your tunic on your family’s loom, a task expected of every new bride, intertwining every fiber into tangible proof to show your husband you were ready for the responsibilities of managing his household. Linen had been your initial choice, but your mother insisted wool was the better material to repel the forces of evil. The garment is heavy beneath your matching white stola, but rather than irritating there’s something oddly comforting about the weight. Almost like a warm embrace.

It’s tradition for weddings to take place in the home of the bride’s father. You can hear the arrival of guests now outside your room. Friends and relatives and other miscellaneous people here to witness and celebrate the union. Every minute brings you closer to a new stage of your life, and if not for the servants’ steadying hands, your weak knees might send you crashing to the floor. Fainting would surely be interpreted as a bad omen, derailing the whole ceremony before it even truly began.

You suck in a quiet breath, shoving down the worst of your anxieties. This day–your wedding–has been on your mind practically your whole life. You’d learned from a young age the importance of marriages arranged between families for political and financial purposes. You’d also learned you wouldn’t be the one choosing your future husband, that decision would be made by your father alone.

Of course, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t imagine marrying someone who was your own choice. Someone kind and handsome and as loyal as your household’s guard dogs. Someone who loved you above all others.

But waiting for you out there isn’t the imaginary stranger who's starred in your most intimate dreams. Waiting out there is General Marcus Acacius. A real man of flesh and blood, strength and power. The legendary Atlas Lion himself.

Your husband-to-be.

When the pronuba arrives to accompany you to the ceremony, the servants disperse but your mother lingers a beat longer, running her fingers over your shoulders to smoothen out non-existent creases. Neither of you mention the shiny gleam of her eyes or the trembling of your hands.

Then, with a firm nod of her head, your mother declares, “She’s ready,” and leaves without another look to join your father’s side.

Your mother is not prone to lying. If she says you’re ready, then ready you must be.

You take another deep breath before linking your arm through the elder matron’s, but it’s the gentle patting of her hand on yours which calms you most. A reassurance of good things to come.

Stepping out into the atrium, you’re met with a packed crowd, locals and soldiers mixed as one, craning their necks for a glimpse of you. Their clothes resemble yours and the groom’s, another tactic to confuse evil spirits, but human eyes only need to spot your yellow veil to recognize you as the bride. And as for Acacius…

Well. To mistake the Atlas Lion for another would be as foolish as mistaking fire for water. He is unique in all the world.

You see him standing at the altar with the high priest, clad in a purple toga embroidered with a lion’s head in golden thread. A reward in honor of the general’s triumphs in warfare. The placement of the lion above his heart is deliberate, you suspect. A warning of what lies beneath the surface. A guarantee all the tales of his savagery and blood lust passed from mouth to mouth from the battlefields to the city streets are true.

Is it terrible that a part of you–an inane, minuscule scrap of a thing you’ll never verbally acknowledge, not even under oath–is fervently captivated by the notion? You should be listening to the high priest’s prayers to Juno, paying attention to the omens he reads in the entrails of the sacrificed ram upon the altar. But Acacius’ brown eyes, burning with the radiant June sunshine and something else distinctly dangerous, put a flame to your focus and narrow your vision to one central, all-encompassing point.

Is it terrible that you can meet a lion’s stare without a modicum of fear? You wonder how many have been able to say the same, if anyone else at all.

The priest deems the relationship blessed by the gods, carrying on with the proceedings, oblivious to your state of mind. He asks Acacius to make certain his intentions, if you are an acceptable wife.

Acacius draws himself up to full height, an immovable mountain firm in his convictions. “She is mine to me,” the timbre of his gravelly voice drags over you, eliciting a shudder down your spine you pray the elder matron does not notice. “I will want no other.”

Then it is your turn, and your voice is only a little hoarse when you confirm, “He will be my husband. My only choice.”

The slightest quirk of a smile curls the corner of Acacius’ lips. Instinctively, you return it with a small grin of your own. And even though he can’t physically see your face behind the veil, you think, somehow, he does see you.

It’s only after signing the marriage contract with crimson seals that the pronuba places your right hand in Acacius’, officially uniting you as one. The general’s palm is callused, fingers thick and gnarled from past wounds, but you can’t find it in yourself to hate them, or recoil, or do anything else than keep holding on.

“Raise the veil,” the priest says.

You swallow, the fingers of your left hand spasming against your side, then slowly reach for a fistful of the yellow fabric. Pulling it up over your head, you carefully watch the lines of Acacius’ expression, heartbeat fluttering at the way those brown eyes widen, taking you in for the first time. Absorbing everything like it might be his only chance. Like you’re something wondrous worth memorizing.

Acacius starts leaning forward, sending every last thought in your head scattering with his nearness. He’s massive, radiating such intense warmth, thumb stroking a line of heat along your wrist. There’s a fire igniting in your chest, lungs choking on the smoke, yet you’re trembling when he cups your face, the quietest of whines escaping your parted lips.

Please, you start to beg, the whooshing of blood thundering in your eardrums, plea–

Acacius swallows the silent plea with his own mouth, kissing you like a starving man. This isn’t love–no, it’s too soon for such sentiment–this is carnal passion, roaming tongues and clashing teeth like you’re no better than animals committed to the hunt of this new territory, this new taste.

The eruption of applause yanks you back to reality. You tear yourself away with a choked gasp, and it’s satisfying seeing the heave of Acacius’ broad chest with each ragged inhale as you both struggle to catch your breaths. You did that. You’re the reason for the flare of lust in his eyes and smear of spit across his bottom lip.

You’ve heard people say no man’s looks can compete with Adonis’ striking beauty. A fallacy, you realize in that moment upon seeing General Marcus Acacius in purple and gold, dark curls caressed by the gentle breeze, a constellation of freckles along the tendons of his neck, hardened by violence yet holding your hand so heartachingly sweet.

The rest of the world can have Adonis.

And as for you–boldly and selfishly, you’ll keep this man. The legendary Atlas Lion himself.

Your husband.

The wedding feast afterwards is a blur of lavish food and wine, the jovial notes of flutes accompanying fescennine songs with interjections of salutations shouted from inebriated lips. Every touch of Acacius’ hand against your arm, your waist, everywhere sends sparks skittering along your nerves. It’s as bewildering as it is thrilling, like you’re balancing on the edge of a precipice, and you wonder if this is what Icarus felt moments before he flew too close to the sun. Falling, falling, falling…

You can only hope you meet a different, kinder fate.

When the sky begins to change and darken with the promise of encroaching evening time, you find yourself standing in the middle of your childhood home, trying to etch into memory everything from the slope of the roof to the tiny cracks in the stone floor. All the noises and voices seem to fade away, granting you this moment to yourself.

Once you step outside, there will be no familiarity to cling to. You’ll be escorted by the crowd of guests to Acacius’ secondary home—smaller, but no less grand than his main domus in Cosa. A port city to the south you’ll have to learn to navigate from square one—and then, once alone with the general, taken to his bed. His body will be another, far more intricate labyrinth you’ll need to learn and recognize the details of.

A new city, a new spouse, a new chapter of life with new expectations…

It’s overwhelming to say the least.

Your eyes cut to Acacius across the room, widening when you catch him already watching you. Something in your chest aches upon realizing you don’t know him well enough to read his face. If he’s angry, pleased, or just totally indifferent. But you can’t look away. Caught and cornered.

Like prey, you think, loathing the thought as soon as it forms. A lion cannot have a mouse for a wife. Imagine the shame of being an unworthy partner of one of Rome’s highest-ranking generals. Your name dragged through the mud, an embarrassment to your family and a blight on Acacius’ esteemed reputation—to say nothing of how the gods would react to your ruining of a blessed union. You’d be as insignificant as the fleas on a dog’s pelt in their eyes.

You must be stronger. Braver. Better.

Where Icarus fell, you must fly.

Maybe Acacius senses this change stirring within you, or maybe he grows impatient with this lengthy staring contest, either way he suddenly draws closer, weaving between bodies until he comes to a stop in front of you. Purposefully within grabbing reach. The ache in your chest lessens at that, replaced by a spike of adrenaline as awareness dawns.

“Is it time to leave?” you ask.

“It is,” he answers. Then, quick as lightning and just as unexpected, he pinches your waist.

You jerk away at the teasing touch, gaping like a fish. “Do you touch all women in that manner?”

“No.” A smug smirk spreads across his handsome face. Relishing his next words. “Only the woman who belongs to me.”

Possessive brute. Your eyes narrow even as heat envelops your body, toes curling in your shoes.

“You haven’t taken me yet. My body has no claim.”

Acacius’ jaw clenches at that. Like he’s holding onto his restraint by a mere thread. It’s practically tangible, a siren song tempting you to flex your claws.

“Answer me this, general, because it remains unclear to me.” Tilting your head, exposing the column of your neck for his hungry gaze to feast upon, your tone is deliberately provoking. “Are you a passionate man of action? Or merely a man of empty words?”

“Bite your tongue,” his tone is low, closer to a snarl than actual speech. You almost believe he’s angry, if not for the glint in his brown eyes, aroused and impressed by your antics in equal measure.

“I’d rather you bite it.”

The fragile thread snaps.

Acacius is on you at once, his large hands seizing hold of your arms. You wrestle against his grip, delivering a solid kick to his shin that draws an irritated hiss. He puts up with your struggling for a bit longer, unaffected by your inexpert blows to his torso, then ends it with a harsh tug, pulling you flush against his brick wall of a body. He sticks his face in your neck, breath hot and ticklish, mouthing at your thrumming pulse with blunt teeth. Oh gods. You slump against him, letting his thick muscles take the brunt of your weight, mind sinking like a stone in the overflowing well of new and overwhelming sensations. Desperate for more, more, more.

The deep rumbling of his chuckling vibrates through your bones, and you have the deliriously greedy thought of cutting out a piece of yourself to store the sound there.

“You’ve caused quite a scene,” he murmurs into the underside of your jaw, sounding just as wrecked as you feel. But beneath the raspiness, you detect the unmistakable lilt of amusement.

“It’s tradition,” you breathe, conscious of the numerous stares watching your every move, including your mother’s. Your pretending of resistance must have been satisfactory enough for her to not intervene.

Acacius leans back just enough to look at you, cradling you in the cage of his arms and chest. You place your hands upon his waist, absently clutching the purple-dyed wool between your fingers.

“Tell me how to call you.” It’s not a request.

“What?” Yet another tradition to appease household gods is meant to happen later after you had arrived at the threshold of Acacius’ home and smeared the doorway in oil and fat. He would ask you your name, to which you answer, taking your husband’s and modifying it: where you are Marcus, I am Marcia. And at last, excluding the event of a bad omen occurring, he would carry you inside. Your brow furrows, not understanding why he’s changing the order of things. “Shouldn’t we—”

“Not the name tradition wants, nor the one your parents and the gods assigned you,” he interrupts. “Tell me how I will call you when we’re alone.”

Oh.

You bow your head to hide your smile, pleased to have a choice. Your eyes fall upon the golden lion head.

Oh.

“Where and when you are Leo,” you tell him, trailing a finger along the perfectly stitched mane before tapping the spot where his heart resides. “There and then I am Leaena.”

{His bride is too innocent, too unaware of the ruthless nature of the Empire’s politics to endure what is expected of her as a general’s wife. This marriage should never have been blessed by the gods.

Still, Acacius can’t stop his gaze from following her every movement, intrigued to know the thoughts running through her head. Can’t stop himself from touching her either, drawn to her warmth, the rightness of her body in his hold. The ceremony was mere hours ago, yet seeing her in his bed, flesh bare and soft and trembling beneath him, the woman has already become the most important treasure of his life. His to worship and protect for the rest of his days.

“Gods, you really are massive all over,” she blurts out, seemingly without thinking, feeling the press of his hard cock against her. Then immediately averts her eyes with a nervous giggle, insecure of her own inexperience. “Could–could we take it slow?”

“That’s fine, my leaena,” he assures her, kissing the corner of her mouth, addicted to her taste dangerously fast. She won’t last, he thinks, scraping his teeth along her neck. They’ll swallow her whole. “I’ll make you feel good. I’ll take care of you.” And he sees it, the exact moment the apprehension slips aside and trust rises to take its place in those big, expressive eyes. She wants this—wants him.

It’s an impulsive, raw need that has him leaning down to kiss her, licking deep into her mouth, craving something he doesn’t know the name of. Repentance, maybe, for the hell coming her way in the coming months. Or maybe he’s just a selfish man who wants this, wants her, more than he deserves.

She rips him out of his thoughts by grabbing fistfulls of his curls, tugging until they’re even closer pressed together, opening up for him impossibly wider.

Maybe he’s wrong in his initial assumptions of his bride.

Maybe she’ll be the one to take care of him.}

Cosa matters a great deal to the Empire. A strategically defendable port with close connections to sources of timber and other supplies necessary for maintaining a vast army of fleets. The city itself was built upon a hill, high enough that on a clear day one could see miles of the Tyrrhenian Sea’s coastline. The crashes of the blue-green waves against the limestone cliffs.

Accompanying Acacius into the forum provides you with opportunities to observe the city’s layout. Enclosed within an imposing circuit of walls, the community has put careful thought into every corner of limited space, separating private houses from the sacred temples and civic buildings. Necessary architecture only, no spare room for the entertainment of a theatre.

Cosa is significantly smaller than the size of your birthplace, drenched in the scents of sea salt and fish, yet there are elements of opulence if one looks close enough. Pearl necklaces adorning necks and solid gold bracelets fastened around wrists. Chairs carved from precious woods, embellished with touches of silver or bronze. Acacius’ curule seat in his tablinum is made out of pure ivory, its legs resembling a lion’s paws. A gift from the Senate after a successful military campaign.

The majority of Acacius’ hours in the public square is split between the basilica, the curia, and the comitium speaking with the aediles and magistrates. Offices of elected officials which exclude women from entry–not that you have much interest in politics anyways.

The marketplace quickly becomes your favorite place outside of your domus. A variety of stalls clustered together bustling with activity. Haggling becomes second nature to you, and when you can’t get the price you want you make trades with your weavings.

Still. Cosa is a small enough city where you’re easily recognized as someone new by the locals. More than once you’ve experienced lingering glances, examining everything from your clothes to your hair. More than once those eyes have made your shoulder blades curl with the instinct to somehow fold into yourself like the little crabs that occasionally wash up on the sandy coastline.

A week after settling in, a man in the bathhouse grabs at your palla before you can enter the women’s section, pulling harsh enough to send your mother’s brooch clattering to the ground. You press a hand over your pounding heart, scrambling backwards a few steps, all too aware of the heavy veil of silence that has fallen over the room.

Acacius calmly appears at your side, soundless in his approach, filling the whole place with his commanding presence.

A blink. That’s all it takes.

One blink and suddenly the man’s blood spatters the stucco wall as Acacius slams his skull against it repeatedly until he no longer resembles anything human. Just a gruesome muddle of scarlet and bone, life thread severed by the jaws of death.

Acacius releases his hold, then points a bloodstained finger at you. “She is mine. Anyone who touches her will face my retribution. And I won’t hesitate to add another soul to Dis Pater’s realm.”

Living under the roof of your parents, you’d thought of home as a physical structure. A place to stay in a world full of constantly moving parts.

Marriage has taught you home is so much more. It’s the soft notes you hum as you spin and weave wool. A kiss pressed to your temple as Acacius moves past. The scent of fresh citrus each morning for breakfast and the sweet taste of fine wines. Plans to visit the coast. A bowl of seashells. Gazing up at constellations when the moon is high. Feelings bubbling up, spilling out, casting shadows on the walls and slipping beneath the bed sheets. It’s the warmth of another body, touching, feeling, familiarizing, until two halves become an inseverable one whole.

Home is learning to be loved and to be in love.

Acacius doesn’t receive many guests in his tablinum, preferring to settle his business affairs in the public offices, yet he still keeps a cushioned stool in front of his desk. You sit there, elbow propped on his desk and chin resting upon your fist, watching your husband search through his shelf of scrolls. The mosaic floors have been recently cleaned, colors popping vividly in the patches of sunlight sneaking in, and the painted scenes of nature adorning the walls are masterfully done, but you can’t bring yourself to look anywhere else except him.

“Where did your name come from?” you ask, breaking up the quiet.

Acacius pauses, glancing back with a raised eyebrow. “It was my father’s name. And his father’s name. And his father’s father’s name and–”

“You know that’s not what I mean.” Your scolding is softened by the smile pulling at the corner of your mouth. Acacius keeps looking at you, smirking like he finds the whole thing amusing. “The Atlas Lion. A moniker as frightful as that, it must have an origin.”

He chuckles that deep, rumbling laugh of his. “Wondered when you’d finally ask.”

His tone is light, still smirking, but you see through the cracks of the facade. See the hesitation in the lowering of his eyes to the floor, see the slight furrow in his brow that only appears when he’s worried he’s upset you. He’s nervous—it’s so obvious and so dearly human that it aches. It looks absolutely wrong on the face of a man known throughout the Empire for his larger-than-life confidence.

You watch him warily, unsure what to do, what to say beyond his name. “Acacius.”

Your husband faces the scrolls again, and for a moment you’re afraid the fragile moment’s broken, but then he tells you the story behind his name. ‘Story’ is too soft a word though. Stories are for parties and entertainment, full of humor and unfolding drama and moral lessons. Acacius doesn’t tell you a story. No, he tells you his truth.

Acacius doesn’t mince words, describing the hellish months of military training in grueling detail. He tells you, in an almost detached manner, how he’d been a different man back then. Scrawnier, unused to bloodshed, restless, but above all else, near feral with the need to prove his own worth.

“It was General Meridius’ idea for soldiers to train as bestiarii.” There’s something about the way he says the name—full of respect. Admiration for a superior. But you think you detect a note of something else laced within the syllables too. Something almost…sad sounding. Grieving, perhaps. It’s gone in the next breath. “Face to face with wild beasts, you either become an expert with your weapon fast or you die an unglorified death in the arena.”

For all the nights you’ve traced meaningless patterns along the large scars gouged into Acacius’ shoulders, you didn’t ask about them. Assumed they were the result of a too-close enemy with a too-sharp weapon. A blade or spear, something man-made. Never occurred to you to think of fangs and claws as weapons too.

Blinking sharply, you sit up straighter, stuttering, “W-wait, are you…is that where…” There’s a swarm of questions buzzing in your head, stinging the back of your throat when you try to voice them. Finally, you manage to choke out, “So, that’s how you got your name? You actually fought lions?”

Acacius finally turns around at that, only to surprise you by shaking his head. “I did fight lions—and bears, boars, even a pair of hyenas once. But that’s not why they call me the Atlas Lion.”

He trails off, tension in the wrinkled lines of his expression your hands itch to smoothen out. You hesitate to rise from your seat, unable to tell if drawing closer would lighten your husband’s mood or worsen it. Moments like this–where he’s loosened the reins of his tightly controlled emotions, offering a glimpse of an ordinary, flesh and blood mortal man who’s been chewed up and spit out a dozen times over– are few and far between. Delicate like fine glass, requiring just the right handling.

“To prove I was ready for the army, I had to pass a test,” he explains. “I fought everything that attacked me. I stopped thinking, stopped feeling. Nothing mattered except the next stab of my gladius. And when they started throwing men into the arena, I didn’t even notice.” Acacius exhales a ragged breath. “I stopped seeing people as people.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, voice barely above a murmur.

There’s another pause, time seeming to slow down, seconds stretching lazily like a plump housecat, and then Acacius crosses the distance, close enough your knees graze each other, head tilted back to peer up at him. He says nothing, even as his thumb brushes over your chapped lips.

“Acacius.” Your body trembles, edges of your vision starting to blur. You lean into his touch. The center of your universe.

“I mean,” Acacius says, eyes on your mouth. Your lips part unthinkingly, letting his thumb slip inside, pressing lightly against your bottom teeth. “We’re all just animals, my leaena. Red tongues and hands.”

The air is cool this time of night, seems to press against your skin like a damp washcloth. Cleansing you from the inside out with each deep inhale.

Acacius stands in the courtyard, bronze skin painted in streaks of moonbeams and starlight, hair tousled by fitful hands. His absence from bed had stirred you awake, and a part of you wonders if these midnight musings are a regular occurrence you’ve only just now become aware of. Not all dreams are sweet after all, especially for soldiers.

“A nightmare?” you ask, a hushed inquiry disrupting the still of night.

“A memory,” is all he offers.

“Oh.”

He hasn’t looked at you yet, brown eyes boring holes into the distant moon. Maybe you should return to bed, give him space and privacy to sort himself out. But your bare feet stick to the floor and you can’t pull your eyes away. Noting the rhythmic clenching and unclenching of his hands, the rising and falling of his chest with each breath.

You try to ignore the disappointment gnawing at your heart, hurt that Acacius won’t share his internal burden with you, even in the cover of darkness where it’s just you and him.

He’s revealed the truth of his name with you. Encouraged you to lick and bite and mark every inch of his flesh as your own. But tonight he’s put up a wall you can’t climb over.

Maybe that’s why you stay. You’re a glutton for punishment.

Somewhere else in the city, a dog begins to bark. It’s a harsh sound, all teeth, defending its territory from a threat, and you flinch despite the distance. Unsurprisingly, Acacius doesn’t so much as even twitch.

What is surprising though, is that he chooses then to finally speak.

“There are victories yet still to come,” he mutters, a tremor to his voice you’ve never heard before, like he’s standing on unsteady ground. And there’s this look in his eyes that unsettles you, haunted by something only he can see. “That’s what they always say.”

They?

Stepping closer, you gently bump your hand against his. A knot unravels in your chest when he blinks back to himself, pinky hooking onto yours. A tether securing him home with you.

“Who says that?”

“The Emperors.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Don’t know what words will build his wall higher or what ones will knock it down–if that’s even possible.

“What are they like?” Your mouth makes the choice for you. “Geta and Caracalla?”

You’ve never been to Rome, never seen the ruling brothers in person. All you really know about them are the stories and rumors from the mouths of travelers gossiping in the marketplace. Sometimes nice things are said, sometimes…not so nice things.

“They’re…” Dark brows draw together, mouth pulling downward in a frown. Acacius finally looks at you, the brown of his eyes lost in the dark, but not the sharp glint of fear. Tumultuous and excruciating, you feel it cut deep. “They’re fire and water. Two opposing forces unfit to inhabit the same space. It’s only a matter of time before one prevails over the other.”

You swallow, nervousness swelling in the pit of your stomach at the flat, doomed sound of certainty he speaks with. “And then what happens?”

“The Empire will either burn or drown."

“And us?” you ask tentatively. “What will happen to us?”

Acacius doesn’t have an answer.

A Roman naval ship is spotted just as dawn breaks, drawing a sizable crowd by the time it docks in the harbor. There’s a sense of wrongness associated with the lack of an official fleet, and that unsettling feeling is multiplied tenfold when it’s announced there are numerous injured soldiers aboard.

Acacius attends to them, ensuring each gets medical attention while also gathering information from the head officer in charge. You stand at the back of the crowd, heart in your throat, seeing but not truly processing. Blood, so much red. Expressions of young men scrunched in pain. The grim, motionless bodies of those who didn’t last the final hours of the journey.

“Steel yourself.” A feminine voice warns, and you turn with a blink of surprise upon seeing the high priestess at your side, unused to encountering her outside her temple walls. The sea breeze ruffles the red and white ribbons in her braided hair as she holds your gaze, calm in an almost preternatural way compared to the surrounding commotion. “You are a general’s wife. To express your fear in public is to express doubt of the Empire’s dominance and your husband’s own prowess.”

Her words sink like a stone in your stomach. “I’ll be better,” you promise, the acidic taste of shame burning the back of your throat.

“Stronger,” she corrects, fierce blue eyes rivaling an ocean storm. “You must be stronger than your greatest fear.”

You can only nod, imagining one of the corpses wearing your husband’s face.

{With every inch of territory the Empire gains, its list of bitter enemies grows exponentially longer. Not every threat rising up in defiance stems from foreign soil though, Acacius was forced to learn that the hard way. He’s seen the effects Rome’s constant warfare and rotting politics have had on its subjects, witnessed people turn against their masters’ hands like rabid dogs hell-bent on stripping flesh from bone.

Rebels are dealt with just like rabid dogs, too. Caught and decapitated in a public spectacle. Crimson rivulets flow from their remains, discoloring the city’s streets reminiscent of a spilled wine stain, seeping into the very foundation itself.

Then come the speeches in the comitium from Cosa’s magistrates. Addressing the huddled masses with sickly sweet, empty promises of better times to come. Lying through their teeth, scared the next outburst of internal strife will end with their own severed heads tossed into the sea.

Acacius’ attendance is mandatory, yet he only pretends to listen while standing on the stone steps behind the speakers. His wife’s shoulder presses against his, their hands firmly locked together, unbothered by the harsh ridges of his battle-hardened palm grazing against her smooth skin. A simple comfort he’d long believed himself unworthy of ever indulging in.

“It tears you up inside, doesn’t it?” His wife’s voice is just a faint murmur, so quiet there isn’t a chance anyone else hears her, but the knowing note in it has his chest tightening with a stiff exhale. “Like a thorn in your soul. Even from Rome, Geta and Caracalla control your tongue.”

“There is a time for a general to speak his mind and there is a time for him to keep his head,” he reminds her frankly, careful to maintain his facade of blank detachment. “It’d do you good to remember your place.”

Her sharp inhale is torturous to his ears. She reacts to his blunt discipline like a physical blow, shoulders sagging, lips pressed together in a thin line, practically rolling over and exposing her vulnerable underbelly. Acacius hates that look. Hates even more he’s the cause of it. He thinks impaling himself with his own blade would hurt less.

Nudging her shoulder drags her gaze reluctantly back to him. And this is not the appropriate setting for levity, Acacius should bite back the smile curling at the corners of his mouth—but for his wife, his divine leaena, he’s a sinner on his knees desperate to be in the warmth of her good graces again. “You are fond of this general’s face, yes?”

It’s not the offering this goddess deserves, but it’s enough to begin mending what he’d torn, soothing the worst of the sting. She smiles, an amused, uneven little twist of her mouth she once confessed being insecure about before he kissed away all worries from her mind. There’s something undeniably perfect about it, like the first rays of sunlight after a bleak winter.

“Of course I am. But…” She bites her lip, caught on something. He squeezes her hand, and it seems to be the needed boost to force the words out from the cage in her throat. “Even the Atlas Lion must want to roar sometimes.”

Acacius should be annoyed with her ability to read him–it’s a weakness, and any weakness in his personal experience is a promise of death’s swift arrival. It isn’t safe, for either of them. But she’s done the unthinkable, worming her way into his ugly, greedy heart, treating it like something tender, something lovable. And it was too damn easy how quickly she filled up every vacant space in his head. From the moment she lifted her veil he’s been enraptured by her essence. Starving for every scrap of attention she’s willing to give. His wife has become a critical piece of his life, as vitally essential as the breath in his lungs and the sword hanging at his hip.

It’s dangerous, what she’s done to him.

But it’s far, far more dangerous, what he’d do for her.

Her eyes widen with surprise when he leans in, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead, but he feels the way she relaxes against him with easy acceptance. Believing she’s safe with him, ignorant of the threats closing in on all sides. Every day drawing nearer and nearer still.

That will have to change, he swears to himself. Her survival depends upon it.

“Yes,” he says at last, and it’s the most honest he’s been with himself in years. “Sometimes he does.”}

Acacius places one hand on your shoulder, the other settles on your hip. There is nothing delicate about his touch, no hesitation about maneuvering your body into a proper defensive stance. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees bent, pugio held in a strong grasp.

“Lower your arm, always aim the blade at your opponent,” Acacius instructs, slipping into his alternate persona as a leader on the battlefield like a second skin, his critical eyes zeroing in on all the mistakes that will get you killed in a moment of danger. “When you hold that dagger, you must hold it with the intent to spill blood, my leaena. Words alone aren’t enough to protect you.”

You swallow, fingers flexing around the hilt. It’s a daunting experience, learning to sever someone’s life thread from an expert on the subject. You’re grateful for the privacy of your domus’ courtyard, concealing your clumsy movements from outsiders who’d undoubtedly laugh at each ungraceful slash and lunge. You resemble a fool, sweaty and fledgling, undeserving of your husband’s calling. The only women you’d seen fight with weapons were gladiatrices at festivals, an exotic and unusual form of entertainment which never failed to attract large crowds. Your mother claimed they brought shame upon womankind, yet when Acacius had asked you to learn, you’d accepted without delay.

She’d disown you immediately if she could see you now. The thought has your stomach churning, a sour taste on the back of your tongue.

“We’re wasting time,” you say, voice hoarse. “I’ll never be strong enough to pose a threat to anyone.”

Acacius clicks his tongue at you. “Never say never, my leaena. You’ll tempt the Fates.”

The courtyard is quiet besides your breathing, and the streets beyond the domus’ walls are empty this time of day. You’re keenly aware of Acacius’ nearness, the slight frown pulling at his lips, like he’s trying to understand your thoughts, and you want to fight him. Howl and claw and lash out like the beast he seeks to bring to light from your depths. But there is nothing there.

“I’m not like you. I can’t be.” His head tilts, still uncomprehending. You gesture at him with your empty hand, the rippling muscles straining the fabric of his sleeveless tunic. “The Atlas Lion. Devourer of the Emperors’ enemies. Ferocity unmatched amongst Rome’s army of warriors.” You then gesture at yourself, forcing the ugly words past your teeth if only so he’ll give up this futile endeavor. “I’m just me.”

The air shifts between you and him, a thick, cloying tension weighing heavily upon your shoulders. It’s only the knowledge that there’s nowhere in all of Cosa you could hide from your husband that keeps you anchored in place even as your heartbeat gallops away. Acacius’ brown eyes darken, thunder clouds blocking out the sun.

And then his callused hands are on your face, palms rough along the underside of your jaw, fingers pressing into the skin, squeezing. Claiming. An inescapable hold.

“Do not,” he starts, voice low and gravelly, a snarling darkness you’ve never heard before and never want to again, “ever speak so poorly of yourself again. How can you think of yourself as anything less than magnificent? How can you not know of the power you wield over me? You’ve made me live again. My heart, long cold and numbed by the trials of war, beats again only for you. There is nothing more valuable to me than your wellbeing–not wealth nor fame, nothing. Is it clear to you yet? You have tamed the Atlas Lion body and soul. This general heeds your every call.”

You shudder, dazed and captivated by his close proximity, his devotion. Intoxicated, that’s what you feel. So caught up in a fog of mindless pleasure you fail to notice him guiding your hand up, up, up until the pugio’s blade is put to his throat.

“All that I am is yours,” Acacius says, hushed now, a secret between lovers. The dagger pierces skin, a thin trickle of blood oozing. You flinch, eyes widening, but his hold remains firm. “Which makes you the most dangerous creature of all. And for that reason, my leaena, you will and you must learn to fight.”

He shoves you backwards a step. It’s not his full strength, more surprising than hurtful, but something inside you uncoils, teeth gnashing. A feeling sparks in your bloodstream, erupting into a wildfire at the look of pride in Acacius’ eye when you reflexively point your pugio at his heart.

You swipe at him, again and again, driven by this new source of power. And through it all he holds your gaze, the brown of his eyes as sharp as the blade in your hand. Neither one says I love you, I’d take a bite out of the world for you but neither one needs to.

Actions have always been louder than words.

“Do you ever think about what’s out there?” you ask one night in bed together. Acacius reclines against the headboard, staring at you through half-lidded eyes as you drag your fingertips over his bare, scarred skin in meaningless patterns.

Would anyone believe this man was the Atlas Lion? A wild, virulent beast compliant and disarmed beneath the gentle stroke of your touch?

No. You think not.

“Out where?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, thumb catching on a particularly rough patch of damaged skin left of his hip bone. Every battle he fought, every combatant he faced—Mars laid fresh claims to his body with each fresh cicatrix.

Claims you challenge the only way you know how. Scrapes of your nails breaking skin and tender presses of your mouth licking up the crimson pearls of blood.

“Beyond the Empire’s borders. Somewhere without war.”

Acacius’ brow creases, gaze alert now, looking at you as if you’ve spoken a different language. “Without war…” he repeats slowly. “My leaena, there is no place such as that. Discordia’s reach is far, farther than the Emperors could ever conquer in their combined lifetimes, stirring up strife deep in the hearts of even the mildest of men, and it will always find an outlet one way or another.”

“Oh.” You clear your throat. It’s not the response you had hoped for, but it’s the one you should have expected. Acacius isn’t the type of man to indulge in far-fetched fantasies of softer living. Can’t be, not with all the horrors he’s witnessed and played a part in crafting.

“But,” Acacius pauses, and his hand covers yours. Not holding or moving it, just staying there. Feeling. “If somewhere without war did exist…” he smiles, a soft and little thing reserved just for these quiet moments. “I’d do whatever it took to get us there.”

The wool for your new palla has been carded and spun into yarn. It stretches and winds around the teeth of your wooden loom, weighed down by terracotta scales.

You’re alone in the domus. Acacius had been summoned by the magistrates for an urgent meeting, and you try not to let fear interfere with your work, an aggressive wasp buzzing at the back of your mind. Your touch remains light when pulling at uneven sections, its intended shape coming together bit by bit. The whooshing of a racing heartbeat echoes in your ears.

So long as there is land outside the Empire’s borders, the Emperors will expect Acacius to conquer it in their names. His time in Cosa is trapped in an hourglass, never quite knowing when the last grain of sand will slip away, summoned back to the front lines for another campaign. Another brush with death. Another chapter added to his legacy.

You feel the sand’s effects sometimes, a sinking sensation threatening to drag you down when you walk with him through the market. Coarse and gritty, scratching your skin as you fall asleep in his arms. Piling so high it chokes you, the cursed inevitability of it all.

Another loop of wool around teeth. Tension taut and held firm. The muscles of your arms burn with effort, left foot tingling uncomfortably from sitting too long with little movement. Cosa’s awake and thriving in the warm weather, echoes of voices drifting in with the breeze, but you’ve never felt more alone. A feeling you dread becoming intimately familiar with sooner or later.

Later, you pray selfishly, desperately, achingly to the Fates. Make it later.

So long as Acacius breathes he will always walk two paths—the path of a general and the path of a husband. And it’s a priority of yours–a requirement as his wife–to find a way to be okay when those paths split and you’re truly left all alone. You must then nurture the tiniest flame of hope one step, one trial, one lonely night at a time. Burning fiercely until every last shadow of doubt is purged from your mind, and the only thing that remains is the steadfast belief he’ll return to your side.

Then you must prepare yourself to do it all over again and again and again…too incapable of challenging the Emperors’ insatiable greed, too mortal to stop the sands of time.

You roll your shoulders once finished, scrutinizing the piece for errors. Later you’ll detach the palla from the loom to cut and tie off the loose end-threads of dangling wool, and later still you’ll take it to the fuller to be washed then to the dyer to be colored. You wonder if Acacius will like the shade of golden yellow you have in mind. If he’ll even be in Cosa to see the finished product or a thousand miles away in the heat of battle. A tremor racks your spine at the thought.

But then the front door opens with a quiet groan, and the cheerfully hummed notes of Acacius’ favorite song float through the house. You smile, heartbeat settling into its natural rhythm with the knowledge he’s here with you. The war has not stolen him away just yet.

“Come, my leaena,” he calls out, and you can hear the grin in his voice without having to see it. “It’s a beautiful day. Should we spend it by the coast?”

There’s an urge to close your eyes, to sink into this moment for all its worth, but sand is rising around your ankles. A reminder of all temporary things.

Your legs can’t move fast enough, drawn to your husband’s side.

Just a little bit longer. Another hour, another day.

You reach for Acacius’ hand, tangling them together, pulling him closer. Always closer.

Another call of my name.

“Let’s not waste a single second.”

#reblog just cuz

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