littlemisspascal

[littlemisspascal]

Thank you so much for reading and the kind words! That's one of my fave tropes ever 💓

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.”

[littlemisspascal]

Million thanks to @wheresarizona for the cutest lil Ahsoka ever 💓

[littlemisspascal]

if pierluigi is really leaving ferrari to continue working with carlos then it’s truly like those hallmark movies where the ambitious female lead (an italian man) leaves her dream city job (ferrari) after discovering the true spirit of christmas (carlos) and settles down in a small town (williams)

[littlemisspascal]

"leo is the best"

[littlemisspascal]

Thank you so much 😊

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.”

[littlemisspascal]

happy sunday! here’s what i read and loved this week, so you should read and love it too hehe <3

all my recs ever can be found here. please remember to give the writers some love!

dividers by @/enchanthings 🤍

i’m organizing the fics by character and adding emojis to indicate the contents a little. still, please read the tags/warnings and decide for yourself if something might not be for you.

💘= fluff • ❤️‍🔥= smut • 🤍= angst • 🖤= dark

📖= oneshot • 📚= series

— pedro pascal characters —

dave york

in the sheets by @sizzlingcloudmentality 💘❤️‍🔥🤍📚

back to you by @punkshort 💘❤️‍🔥🤍🖤📖

notes on tutoring by @honestly-shite 💘❤️‍🔥🤍📚

frankie morales

more than letters by @almostfoxglove 💘❤️‍🔥🤍📚

tonight you belong to me by @intheorangebedroom 💘❤️‍🔥🤍🖤📚

joel miller

indebted by @beardedjoel ❤️‍🔥🤍🖤📖

snowed in by @beardedjoel 💘❤️‍🔥📖

cowboy like me by @macfrog 💘❤️‍🔥🤍📚

you’ve got to learn by @split-spectrum ❤️‍🔥📖

fall, with you by @corazondebeskar-reads 💘🤍🖤📚

— hugh jackman characters —

logan howlett

casual by @eupheme 💘❤️‍🔥🤍📖

ghosts, ghouls, goblins, and other things that go bump in the night! by @sceletaflores 💘❤️‍🔥📖

snapshot by @shellshocklove 💘❤️‍🔥🤍📖

[littlemisspascal]

Happy to have you included honey 😊🧡

New Writers added to The Pedro Library 🐼

@maggiemayhemnj @punkseyes

New Works Added ✨

Many fics aren’t appearing in the tags when searching. If I miss yours, please let me know 💗 Or add me to your taglist cuz I love being tagged 😊

As always, if you would like me to remove your work from the rec list, please let know and I’ll remove them asap 😊

@stylesispunk Marcus A “Hands in the hair of somebody named Marcus”

@absurdthirst @storiesofthefandomlovers Marcus A Fruits of Passion

@littlemisspascal Marcus A Creature Comfort

@604to647 Javier Photocopies

@nerdieforpedro Dieter One Giant Leap for Dieter Bravo 

@guiltyasdave Dave The Road Not Taken 

@sizzlingcloudmentality Dave In the Sheets

@criticallyacclaimedstranger Pero Bread

@aurorawritestoescape Joel The Funeral 

[littlemisspascal]

New Writers added to The Pedro Library 🐼

@maggiemayhemnj @punkseyes

New Works Added ✨

Many fics aren’t appearing in the tags when searching. If I miss yours, please let me know 💗 Or add me to your taglist cuz I love being tagged 😊

As always, if you would like me to remove your work from the rec list, please let know and I’ll remove them asap 😊

@stylesispunk Marcus A “Hands in the hair of somebody named Marcus”

@absurdthirst @storiesofthefandomlovers Marcus A Fruits of Passion

@littlemisspascal Marcus A Creature Comfort

@604to647 Javier Photocopies

@nerdieforpedro Dieter One Giant Leap for Dieter Bravo 

@guiltyasdave Dave The Road Not Taken 

@sizzlingcloudmentality Dave In the Sheets

@criticallyacclaimedstranger Pero Bread

@aurorawritestoescape Joel The Funeral 

[littlemisspascal]

I am now the captain of this ship. What should we call them? Paulos?

[littlemisspascal]

Forgot to post yesterday 😳 but it's the anniversary of this story! It ended up meaning so much more to me than I initially thought it would and makes me look forward to season 2 of Andor to hopefully glimpse more of Melshi's story (and maybe write about it too 👀).

Anyways. Thank you anyone who ever gave this fic a chance 💖 the support is always appreciated!

Before. When. After.

There is a story before, when, and after Keef Girgo enters your life

A 3-Part Prison/Narkina 5 AU.

Pairing: Ruescott Melshi x Female Reader

Rating: M. 18+. See specific warnings listed within each chapter. Reader does not have name or physical description, but is implied to be shorter than Melshi.

The Before

The When - Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3

The After

Art Commission

Moodboard

[littlemisspascal]

Oh darling you've been so missed around here! I'm glad to see you again and really appreciate you sparing time to read this 🧡🧡

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.”

[littlemisspascal]

Give in Again

part 8/8 [previous]

summary: Our finale. You and Joel finally make it back to your place. (This is PART TWO of the finale; make sure you’ve read the previous chapter!)

pairing: joel miller x f!reader [no use of y/n, no outbreak au, protective, sleazy joel is also a shameless flirt, and a little murdery, and maybe a little stalkery]

a/n: Hey, so, listen… This whole part is basically just filth with some flirting thrown in. I don't have any defense of it. You two are so goddamn pent-up for each other and so stubborn that I'm not sure this ever could have gone any other way. (I tried to get you here faster but you just would not shut up.) Anyway, if you want a closed-door option, respect; just bail to the third-to-last divider when things get heated because we don't really ever come back to much of a plot after that. Idk how to tag any of this, I've never written anything remotely like it before but that's not because it's super crazy, it's just because I don't usually write explicit scenes, so tldr; everything in here is extremely consensual, no one is degraded or harmed, there is very light bondage/a little roughness, and smut is not sex-ed (and I don't treat it as such). If you want to know about anything in particular, feel free to reply or inbox me, I'm more than happy to answer.

word count: 15k [62k total...sorry/not sorry]

warnings: canon-typical violence; eventual smutty payoff to a slow burn; sexually explicit dialogue; sexually explicit everything tbh; joel just wants to put his hands on you and get you to yell at him a little; and he'll do whatever it takes to get it to happen; possibly including manslaughter; don't worry about it, darlin'

"This way, dummy," you said, pointing Joel up the stairs toward your apartment. 

He kept his post, gesturing at the back door to the cafe. "I was promised coffee."

'Promised' wasn't exactly the word you'd use—Joel had just...declared his intent to return for coffee in his note that morning, it wasn’t like you’d offered—but you let the distinction slide. 

"I'll make you a French press upstairs, c'mon." You beckoned him over with a tilt of your head. "We'll start there, work you up to espresso."

"You think I can't handle espresso, baby?" he challenged. 

Mischief coiled in your chest like a spring and your heartbeat sped up. 

"Just figured a man your age probably ought to steer clear of high-dose caffeine before engaging in cardio."

You watched the remark land, watched him shift from offense at 'a man your age' to a shade of confusion over 'cardio' until his filth-minded baser nature whispered the answer in his ear and every part of him turned wolfish.

Seeing it dawn in his eyes, you turned and fled up the stairs with your mischief urging you onward, realizing all at once that you had never really seen Joel move with urgency, leaving you clueless about how closely he might follow on your heels. 

Not very, it turned out. When you reached the landing, heart pounding in your chest before the exertion had even caught up with you, he wasn’t even halfway up the steps, moving at a leisurely, unhurried pace, eyes never leaving you. 

“Better hurry, sugar,” he said with a warning edge in his voice that made your stomach flip and your hands shake. “No more runnin’ once I get up there.”

You scrambled with your keys, nearly dropping them as you searched for the one that would unlock the door, fingers clumsy with haste as you plucked one up and jammed it at the lock. 

It didn’t fit. 

You were too flustered, too distracted by Joel’s slow, ever-closer footfalls to recall the same thing happening that morning. The keys occupied so much of your attention that when Joel rumbled ‘time’s up, darlin’’ against your ear, you yelped, dropping them onto the doormat. 

He bent to pick them up, hooking a finger into your belt loop for balance. The ring jingled in his hand as he searched for the right key—one of the shiny new ones on the keychain branded with his initials—then he put his arms on either side of you, looking at the lock over your shoulder as he slid it home and opened the door. 

The moment you stepped forward over the threshold, though, his arms closed around you and Joel held you through a handful of staggered-forward steps as you admonished him. He kicked the door closed behind him and spun you around, pinning you into the space between the fridge and door that your memory reminded you had been the spot where you’d wrapped your hand around Joel’s throat as he’d vowed that you would ‘own’ him if you weren’t careful. 

Now, though, he was putting his hands on you like you were the one who was owned, hands brushing over your hips, thumbs skimming under the hem of your shirt to touch you. 

Joel growled a satisfied sound the instant his skin met yours.

"Finally, angel," he groaned, burying his face in your neck as relief sounded through his every word, "Christ almighty, the things I been waitin' to do to you..."

Sprawled-wide hands flared out over your ass, then slid down the backs of your thighs as Joel bent to pick you up, pressing your shoulders into the corner until you wrapped yourself around him, ankles hooked together around his back and hands on his neck.

You meant to object—absolutely would have objected, would've sworn and swatted and scrambled away from him holding you off the ground—except that Joel silenced you with his mouth against yours, your tongue too busy with his to manage an upbraiding. And then he ground his hips into yours, pulling you down to him as he flexed up against you, hard length pressed between your legs. As viciously as you fought against giving him a reaction to the feeling that shot through you, you still stole half a breath from his lips in the form of a gasp, your hold clenching against his shoulders.

And, fuck, he took that as encouragement enough anyhow, licking into your mouth in a way that sent you whining and shifting your hips against him. At that first sound, though, Joel seemed to consider his work done; he bore you the handful of steps to your counter and deposited you atop it, then kissed you one more time and pulled back.

His hands played at your hips as he regarded you expectantly.

You leaned forward to put your lips to his, but he didn't make it easy for you, leaving you flexing your stomach to keep your balance on the counter as you stretched toward him. 

"...What're we doing here, cowboy?"

"Just needed a taste to tide me over 'til you're done with my coffee," he said. "Gotta behave myself so you don't get burned; you get hurt around me one more time and I reckon I'm gonna have to take a first aid class or somethin’."

You snorted and shook your head, but slid down off the counter with Joel's help and set to work.

And at first, he was fairly well-behaved; he stood a step behind you, slipping his coat from your shoulders and onto the hook by the door, then roving a hand gently up and down your back as you prepared things. You weighed and ground the beans—‘you makin’ coffee here, baby, or cookin’ meth?’—filled the kettle from your water filter, and readied a mug, humming softly to yourself. It was a practiced, automatic routine that you lost yourself in—so much so that you only brought down one mug. You realized this after a minute or two and reached up into the cabinet for a second, smaller mug.

Then you grabbed the press from its spot on the counter and placed it before you, removing the strainer and setting it aside on a tea towel.

"The hell is that?" Joel asked from his spot behind you. 

"It's the coffeemaker," you said, narrowly suppressing a 'dummy'. "You've never seen a French press before?"

"That ain't a French press." He had the balls to sound like he was suppressing his own 'dummy'.

You looked at him over your shoulder, staring up into his face with 'I beg your pardon' written all over you. "Oh?"

"This is a French press, sugar," he said, crossing his arms over your chest to palm your breasts, then burrowing his face into your neck and making a cartoonish, bassy 'on-hon-honn' sound as he pulled you against his front, honking handfuls of your chest.

It was the single goofiest thing you'd ever seen from Joel—maybe from anyone ever—and the combination of the ridiculousness and the fierce tickle of his stubble against your skin sent you giggling, even as you tried to squirm out of his grasp on half-buckled knees.

“You’ve been planning to do that since I mentioned the French press downstairs, haven’t you, you fuckin’…goober?” you accused, smacking behind you to hit him in the leg. “I can’t believe you honked my tits.”

He had the decency to look a little sheepish, but only for a moment before his hands were all over your body again; once Joel had started touching you, he seemed loath to stop. 

His palms slid down past your rib cage, over your waist and hips and then under your shirt, work-callused fingers sending an electric prickle over your bare stomach as he worked his way higher, kissing at your neck.

“I been plannin’ to do all kind of things to these soft, perfect tits, angel,” he said in your ear, biting just hard enough to send goosebumps spilling over you. Joel pressed his hips against your ass, pinning you against the counter. The icy tile met the flushed-hot skin he’d exposed by lifting your shirt, and you nearly flinched away from the cold.  

His thumbs grazed the lower curve of your breasts and you almost whimpered in anticipation. You could suppress the sound, but not your body's reaction as your back arched against Joel and your nipples peaked. 

The kettle, rumbling in the background all this time, finally began to whistle, clearing your head enough to let your heart rate settle as you switched off the burner. 

"Do you want your coffee or not, pervert?" you breathed, pushing at his hands and trying not to pant. 

Joel didn't release you immediately, just kept kissing your neck, his thumbs playing at the waistband of your jeans as he squeezed at your hips. 

You pointedly cleared your throat, saying, “Kettle’s getting cold.”

"I'm thinkin' about it," he said, biting at the curve of your shoulder instead of breaking from his work to let you move freely.

“If I get burned, it’s on you,” you warned, reaching for the kettle and filling the press to warm it, then dumping the water into the mugs to warm them, too. You went through the rest of the process of starting the brew, then set a timer for a few minutes. 

It was an old souvenir thing in the shape of the Texas flag, the star serving as the dial for you to set the time—Hazel had sent it to you when she’d been trying to convince you to move down here. 

The timer made a faint mechanical hum as the seconds began to tick past, hardly audible over the thumping rock music coming from the shop below, and you barely got it sat down on the counter before Joel was turning you around to face him. His hand skated back underneath your shirt, this time rushing past all preamble and making straight for your breast, thumb brushing back and forth over a nipple, sending a shuddering tremble through you. 

“Reckon we can beat the clock, hellcat?” 

“It’s a three-minute timer,” you replied, fist tightening around Joel’s sleeve, “so that better be a resounding ‘no.’”

He pinched down, making you gasp. “You oughta know I don’t back down from a challenge.”

Joel’s lips met yours and his hand slipped down past your waist, fingers curving between your legs. 

He groaned approval into your mouth. "Are these jeans wet, sugar?" His fingertips flexed hard against you and you took a sharp breath, your hips bucking at the intense feeling. “Poor girl just needs to be fucked so bad.”

As he began to rock his hand back and forth against you, a low hum of pleasure fought its way out of your throat. It turned to something desperate as his rhythm built and Joel made a sympathetic sound. 

"Shh, it’s okay, darlin’,” he soothed. “Let me take care of you, give you what you need.”

His other hand roamed your body as he touched you, grazing over your breast one minute and making you gasp, then grounding you with his fist tightening in your hair the next. 

The timer buzzed and Joel froze as you fought not to whine. 

He eased back from you, giving you a second to find your feet before removing his support completely. The sudden switching-off of stimulation when it had been building so quickly was fucking agony, leaving you panting and restless. 

"Better luck next time, angel," he said. 

"You're a fucking monster," you replied, matter-of-fact.

"I know, baby." Joel kissed you right between your brows and pointed you back to your task, gathering himself up behind you again to watch you—or just fluster you by putting his hands all over your body while you worked. His fingers slid under your shirt again, idly tracing the edge of your waistband and dipping beneath for just a heartbeat or two, making your breath catch in anticipation every time.

Your hands shook a little and your mind ran riot as you stirred the coffee and then carefully skimmed away the grounds that hadn't sunk to the bottom.  By the time you were covering the press and setting another alarm--far longer than the last--you'd gathered your wits and a plan. 

History almost looked to repeat itself, with Joel turning you toward him again the moment the timer clattered against the counter. This time, though, you backed him up into the corner of the kitchen, your hands on his chest drifting lower once his shoulders met the wall. 

Your touch roved down his sides, fingers clawing lightly at his shirt as he watched your face from beneath heavy lids, then your hand slid over the hard bulge of his cock and you gave him a low, drawn-out, pleased sound as he drew a deep breath. 

"My turn," you warned, stroking him through his jeans. "Think you can last eight minutes, cowboy?" 

"I'll last as long as you tell me to, hellcat."

"Good answer," you praised, dragging your fingernails over the denim, earning a sharp gasp from Joel. "Let's find out if it’s all talk."

You kissed the crook of his neck, biting lightly at his skin—just a graze of teeth that had him sucking in a breath and shifting his hips against your hand as you touched him. 

“Said I’d make it worth your while if you made me coffee, angel. This ain’t—“ His breath stuttered in his chest as you grazed your palm over him and squeezed lightly. “This ain’t exactly what I had in mind.”

Slowly, you lowered yourself before Joel as he watched you with predatory intent clear on his face. 

“C'mon now, handsome," you admonished, knees meeting the hardwood as you trailed your hands over his thighs, "you're telling me you haven’t had this in mind?” 

You skimmed your lips over the fly of Joel’s jeans, a little disappointed to find your lipstick had all worn off and wouldn't mark him. 

“Christ,” he breathed, hands clenching for support against the edge of the counter. 

“No need for fancy titles; you can just call me by my name.” 

"Sugar, I ain't even sure about my name anymore."

A gratified little smile pulled at your face. 

“You love running that filthy mouth," you said, popping open his obnoxious belt buckle. "I’ll keep going as long as you’re talking--how’s that sound?”  

His gaze followed your every move as you dragged down his zipper, slow and deliberate. You knew you were under a time crunch, but found yourself wanting to take your time anyway. 

You wrapped your hand around him and Joel groaned, low and long and rumbling. God, you'd known he was big--had felt how big he was when he’d held you against him--but the reality still managed to surprise you. It would likely hurt to take all of him. Tingling expectation washed over you, but a moan from Joel brought you back to the moment. 

"Fuck, baby. Look at me; let me watch you," he urged, combing his fingers through your hair as he looked down at you. "Wanted you to touch me like this for so long."

That fond, heated look burned through you, and your only thought was how badly you wanted to taste him. You gave him your eyes as the velvet-soft warmth of him slipped between your lips and over your tongue, hard and salty-sweet and so undeniably fucking alive within you. 

“Wanted you—” Joel's eyes fell shut and he groaned, head thrown back and half-breathless, just for a second, clenching his fist in your hair, making you moan right along with him. 

Battling for his composure, he wrenched his focus back down to your face, watching intently as your mouth and your hands moved over him.  

“Wanted every bit of you to touch me; wanted every bit of you to be mine. You’re—oh fuck, goddamn—you’re mine. My sweet girl with her filthy, perfect fuckin’ mouth on my cock. God, baby, I knew you’d feel this good. Knew you had to."

“Mm-hmm,” you hummed around him, warning him to continue. When he didn't, you stopped, letting his pretty cock slip from your mouth so you could prompt him, “Been thinking about it a while?”

"A while," he agreed, panting. 

You took him between your lips and raised a brow, urging him to speak. 

“Remember the first time some—Christ almighty, darlin’, fuck—some clumsy fuckin’ loser went slobberin’ all over you at Frank's. Didn’t even deserve the time of day from that mouth.” Joel tightened his grip in your hair, hips beginning to move of their own accord as he spoke, and the subtle slip of control sent a tight little thrill through you. “God, that incredible fuckin’ mouth. You told him off, so sharp an’ smart an’ goddamn sexy. Wanted to fill that angry mouth so bad. Wanted to fuck the angry right out of you, make you look at me all soft and peaceful. Show me them pretty, soft eyes again, baby.”

You made a pleased sound for him and obeyed, eyes sliding back up the long line of his body until they met his. He pulled on the fistful of hair he held in his hand, muttering the sweetest, most unbelievably depraved curses, and then he thrust himself deeper down into you. 

A gag broke loose from your throat, the tip of his perfect cock surging down deeper, deeper. Your cheeks warmed at the sound, but Joel just brushed your hair back off your sweat-damp hairline, whispering a mouthful of filth and awe, exhilarated by the sight. You steadied yourself and held eye contact even as your vision swam with tears, swallowing around him and coaxing a groan of pleasure from Joel as you blessed him with one of your own.

“Takin’ my cock so well.” His eyes were almost reverential as he beheld you. “So beautiful with your lips around me and tears in your eyes, baby. So pretty down on your knees, taking me deep. Fuck, like that. So fucking good to me. Never want you to stop. Might never let you.”

You drew back and let him slip from your mouth, catching your breath as you laved over the curves and contours of him, gentle and thorough. He came utterly undone under your touch, losing his fight for control and tipping his head back, baring that gorgeous throat as you offered tribute from your lips and your tongue and took him back into your mouth.

Joel’s fingertips pressed hard against your scalp and he rolled his hips forward, driving himself deep into you again, eliciting another gag that blurred your vision and flooded your mouth with saliva. He drew a sharp, hissing breath and released a growl, his brows pulling together with effort. 

“That wet fuckin’ mouth, goddamn.” He was panting now, carding his fingers through your hair and praising you as you worshiped him from your knees. “That pussy is wet for me, too, ain't it, sugar?”

You moaned for him, because fuck, it was true. There was no denying it; you were soaked, your body pleading for Joel to use it however he wanted. 

“Want me to fuck you, baby, I know you do.” His thumb brushed a tear from your cheek, then he swiped it onto his tongue, groaning with pleasure. “God, I was fucking made to fill that mouth. My sweet, awful girl just needs me to fuck her so bad. That’s what you want, ain’t it, angel? All you gotta do is ask. Just ask me nice, and I’ll take care of you--be so goddamn good to you.” 

Challenge rose in your chest at the directive. 

I’ll show you who wants to fuck who.

You hummed a moan around that gorgeous, smug cock and took him deep, sliding your hands up his thighs as you picked up your pace.

The filth and adulation that had been flowing from Joel’s lips slowed to a trickle as he grew too busy panting to praise you. 

He was close, but you could get him just a little closer, and then--

You pulled back, letting the full, heavy weight of him slide from your mouth with a faint pop, swollen and hard and wet and wanting, wanting. 

You never had been one to just do as you were told.

A short, nearly pleading sound slipped from his parted lips, buoying you to standing, your eyes pinned to Joel’s. He seethed a raw, chest-deep noise as he fought to regain his composure and his edge.

“Bet you’ll ask first.” You raised a brow, antagonizing him as you undid a button on your shirt, then another, then two more, until it lay gaped open, a smooth, uninterrupted expanse of skin visible from your collarbone to the waistband of your jeans. “Bet I can make the big, tough man beg.”

“Do you, now?” His face split into a feral, filthy grin. “Gonna use them perfect, cock-swollen lips to tell me I’m the one who’ll beg?” He brushed a thumb over your mouth, so light and gentle that the tickle of it was almost painful. “I’ll take that bet, devil baby.”

You parted your lips to Joel's touch, stroking his thumb with the tip of your tongue. He slipped the digit into your mouth and you closed your lips around it, painting it with long, languid swipes of your tongue, the same as you'd been doing a moment ago when it had been Joel's cock in your mouth. 

The sound he made was almost pained, and he stared at your mouth for a long moment before withdrawing his hand. 

You conceded a step backward, putting a little more space between your body and Joel’s to make room for the air you couldn’t seem to get down fast enough. 

His eyes darkened and he tucked himself back into his jeans as he closed the gap again, a rough breath rolling off him like a purr. Joel dragged a callused fingertip from the notch in your throat down between your breasts and over your navel before hooking into your waistband and unfastening your pants. 

“And when I win that bet…” His voice was a warning as he slipped that broad, strong hand slowly down the front of your jeans. His fingers slid against you, so wet and willing and needy, and Joel groaned. “Fuck, I knew you’d be wet for me, but Christ almighty, angel. You just need me so bad."

The pads of his fingertips found your clit and began to draw lazy, slow circles around it. He rested his forehead against yours, cradling the back of your head to him, and he closed his eyes, sighing at the feeling of finally touching you. 

Breath froze in your chest as you fought down a gasp, wrestling for control of yourself. You tightened your fist in his shirt, but you wouldn’t give the smug prick so much as a heavy-lidded look or a single hum of pleasure, even as your body turned white-hot and molten under his touch. 

He leaned close, towering over you as he played every part of you like an instrument. With his free hand, he trailed his fingers gently through your hair, then gathered a handful at your nape and tugged it back, exposing the column of your throat. He licked a long line against your neck, the stubble on his chin leaving a spill of tingling skin in its wake that spread across your chest, then he breathed a promise in your ear as he continued to rub your clit.

“When I win—after you beg me so nice to fuck you that I just can’t say no—this sweet, wet, perfect pussy is gonna come for me, over an’ over an’ over. Thirteen times, for how goddamn lucky I am.”

His teeth grazed the hollow below your ear and you arched against him, gasping down a moan as your skin began to feel tighter and tighter. 

You swallowed hard as he continued to tease you, making it increasingly difficult to hold back from admitting just how fucking incredible it felt to have Joel touch you.

He backed you against the wall and braced himself with a forearm next to your head as his words coiled up against your skin. 

“No stalling, no bargaining, no sweet-talk or doe eyes, no rain checks.” His voice was low and close, a soft, sultry promise that turned to stone as he continued. “Thirteen times. All in one go, as long as it takes. However I want to give them to you, whenever I decide it's time.”

Jesus. Maybe it was more a threat than a promise. 

Two thick fingers slid inside you and you gasped at the stretch, the delicious fucking stretch of just his fingers as he let your body adjust around him.

Joel groaned and kissed you, tongue sliding into your mouth as he touched you and bade you to unravel beneath him.  

“So wet for me but still so fuckin’ tight, just like I knew you’d be. So perfect. So goddamn good for me, baby.”

Slow and deliberate in the way he touched you, Joel never let you build enough momentum to do anything but spin out under his hands. 

An encouraging groan, nearly a growl, rumbled from his beautiful, sweat-slick throat. “Fuck--Listen to how wet you are, angel,” he said, moving so well within you, filling the room with lewd sounds that only proved how badly your body wanted him. “Listen to how ready that pretty little pussy is for me. Listen to you telling me exactly what you need. Just say the words, baby. Let me hear that perfect fucking mouth tell me what you want, and I’ll fuck you just like you need. You've been fighting it for so long."

His hand slid from your hair to your throat and then down your chest, tracing the curve of your breast with the faintest scratch of his calloused hands, thumb dragging over your nipple as he worked his fingers inside you. 

The feeling was too good, too bright, and your legs began to shake with the effort of staying upright under so much tension. Your head grew too heavy to hold up on your own and you curled into Joel, face pressed against the base of his throat as your every shred of focus narrowed to the points where he touched you, moving his fingers so achingly slow but so fucking good. 

Some deep-buried, animal part of you sunk its teeth into Joel’s chest, seeking an outlet for the intense feeling. He sucked a breath between clenched teeth and pinched your nipple, hard, sending a thrill of mingled pain and pleasure over your skin that almost made you cry out, but he did not pull you away from him. 

“You leave one mark, sweetheart, just one, and you’ll never get rid of me,” he warned. “Careful what you brand as yours.”

Joel curled his fingers against a spot inside you he’d only barely grazed up until then. The vision behind your closed eyes flashed white as the feeling flared through you. Finally, you couldn't hold back anymore and a pleading sound slipped from your throat as you clung to him, nails clawing for purchase against the sheer breadth of his back, fighting to stay upright while your knees threatened to buckle. 

“There's my girl.” His voice was all praise and warmth, a bass line thrumming through you. “Singin’ so pretty for me while I touch her.”

The dam of restraint that had been holding back your voice crumbled, and a panting, desperate noise keened from you. 

“Singin’ so goddamn pretty,” he said again, and you could’ve floated right off the floor with the tender savagery of him fucking you, still so punishingly slow you felt the distant urge to scream. Joel sweetly kissed you, then continued, “Sounds so good, but you'll sound even prettier beggin' me to fuck you, hellcat--beg me to fuckin' ruin you."

You might’ve been in over your head. 

By the grace of God, the timer buzzed. 

He withdrew his hand, and the loss of the sensation, the sudden, aching emptiness was almost enough to make you fold right then and there. Almost enough to get you to beg. Eyes pinned to yours, Joel brought his fingers to his mouth and slowly, thoroughly sucked them clean, his brown eyes gone almost black with rapture and claiming. He groaned, a starving man given a taste at feast, then held back from partaking any further. 

“Fuck, I've waited so long to taste you, sugar. Even better than I thought you’d be. Think I’ll take three of my thirteen with you sitting on my face.” Joel kissed you, messy and hard, and when you opened your mouth to him, he licked the taste of you against your tongue. He nearly brought you to your knees all over again when he pulled back to say, “No. Four of my thirteen. So fuckin’ sweet, darlin'.”

You could just beg right now. Let him win and take your ‘punishment.’ What a consolation prize that would be, coming for Joel again and again. The words came to mind all too easily, a magic spell you could cast with almost no effort at all. It would be so good, you knew it w—

No. Focus. Head in the game. 

You squeezed your thighs together to coax the restless, needy tension to fade, then pushed him away with a hand flat in the center of his chest, hoping your legs would hold you as you crossed the kitchen again.

Though you poured the coffee more steadily than you expected, you still pushed Joel's cup over to him rather than risk picking it up. 

You gestured at cream and sugar on the counter to offer them to him, but you doubted he took his coffee with any adornment. 

"My sugar-tooth has a very specific dessert in mind right now, angel," he said, shaking his head. Joel breathed deeply over the rim of the cup and raised his brows, then took a slow sip, giving you a short, appreciative sound of pleasure. "Damn, baby, too bad you can't put that pairing on the menu--you think you're busy now..."

You scoffed a laugh and shook your head at him, warm-cheeked, then decided you did, in fact, want cream and sugar in your coffee today, if for no other reason than to busy your hands a little longer. 

"Ain't nothin' better than a hot cup of coffee after somethin' sweet, is there, angel?" Joel asked as he buried his face in your neck and dragged a hand over your chest to pull you back against him, presumably because he could scent your burst of nervous self-consciousness like blood in the water. "Might need to negotiate to add a pot of coffee to our friendly little wager, baby, what do you say?"

He kissed his way up your throat and jaw, dragging his stubbled skin against yours until he captured your lips with his own. You nipped his bottom lip and pulled back from the kiss, turning to gather a fistful of his shirt to pull him down to you. 

“And when I win?” you challenged. "We haven't set my terms yet."

He gave you an indulgent, patient smile and swept your hair back off of your face, his other arm around you, the warmth of his coffee cup pressing against your lower back. 

“You tell me, angel. If you get me to beg, what do you want as the feather in your pretty little cap?" Joel was taunting you, and he was being less than subtle about it. "Moon on a string? Beach house in Arizona? Go nuts, sweet baby; may as well dream big, ‘cause it ain’t never gonna happen.”

You scowled up at him. His presumptuousness was far and away his least attractive quality, and you wanted very much to knock him down a peg or several. 

“So I can bet you anything I want, and you’ll agree because you’re so confident that I’ll break first?”

He considered it—considered you—as he took a drink of his coffee, then he nodded. 

There was a limited number of things you could ask for that Joel was equipped to grant, and you mulled them over for a second.  

“If I said I’d be yours, but only if you begged me, begged to fuck me," you challenged, sliding your hands down over his sides to pace over his back, "would you do it then?”

His answer came far too quickly. 

“No sense beggin’ for what I already got, sugar.”

Your movements halted and you squeezed your hands against his sides, holding him away from you. “I am not ‘already’ yours.” 

“Okay, darlin’,” he said, placating, as he hooked a finger around a lock of hair, tugging it from behind your ear. 

You rolled your eyes. It was getting easier to resist begging Joel to fuck you. 

His hand seized the angle of your jaw and brought your gaze to his, the heat of his palm radiating against your throat as he gave you a deep, hummed uh-uh sound. 

“We talked about the eye-rolling, sugar.” 

You clenched your jaw against his tone, and the pressure of his other fingers on your neck increased just slightly, a battle of wills neither of you was willing to lose. 

“One more time," he warned, "and I will fuck you ‘til those eyes roll back in your head again.”

Your pulse flared to life, pounding all throughout you. 

“Would that count as begging?”

A smirk pulled up a corner of his mouth. “Want it so bad you’re already looking for loopholes, huh, angel?” 

You almost rolled your eyes again, just by muscle memory, but caught yourself in time and scoffed instead. “Hardly.”

He made a low, pitying sound that was almost sincere. “Poor girl.”

"Your dick's not magic, buddy,” you said, taking a long sip of your drink. “I can do the job just fine myself if you're not interested."

"I'd like to see you try."

That smarmy fucking confidence riled you. You put both mugs on the counter, then grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him the short distance into the living room.

"Then kneel." You pointed down at the ground in front of the couch. 

Joel raised his brows at you. "We gettin' bossy, baby?" 

He complied, though, slowly getting to his knees as you looked on. His gaze never left you, but turned expectant as he settled to sit on his heels, not sure what would come next. 

You put the toe of your shoe in the center of his chest but offered no direction. 

After a moment of him looking at you, you said, "If you wouldn't mind..."

Joel just looked up at you, amused. 

"If you're gonna be bossy, be bossy, sugar."

You frowned at him, but played along. "Take it off."

He slipped off your shoe, then cradled your foot in both hands and pressed a kiss to your arch, beard tickling your skin so fiercely you flexed your toes away from the sensation. Joel repeated the process with your other foot, then looked back up at you.

"And without any backtalk," you praised, running your fingers through his hair. "Jeans now."

Joel's hands slid up your legs, building an edgy, expectant feeling in your stomach that only intensified as he unbuttoned your pants and undid the zipper. He hooked his fingers into your waistband, tugging it down over your hips and then your thighs. A hum of appreciation rolled through his chest as he exposed your body, beating back any shred of self-consciousness left in you. 

Using his shoulder to steady yourself, you lifted one foot, then the other to step out of your jeans. 

Joel visibly struggled to bring his eyes back to your face as you stood before him in just an open shirt and your underwear.

"So well-behaved." You rolled your shoulders back and let the shirt slide down your arms and onto the floor. "It's okay to look, cowboy."

Let off the leash, his gaze swept over every bit of you. 

"Goddamn, angel," he groaned in something verging on disbelief. "I knew it'd be good, but Christ almighty."

The heat in his eyes turned all those heavenly words to filth, and he slid his hands over your hips.

You grabbed a fistful of his hair and tugged, making him suck in a deep, tense breath. "I said look, not touch."

The expression on his face got even filthier, but he took his hands off of you, giving your hips a hard squeeze before he did. 

"Enjoy this little power trip of yours while it lasts, hellcat," he warned. 

"You look like you're enjoying yourself just fine, cowboy," you retorted, lifting a foot and grazing it lightly over Joel’s lap. Fuck, he must’ve been hard enough to hurt, straining against the denim and hissing in a breath as you touched him. "Now where were we?"

"Think you was about to beg me to take off them pretty little panties for you," he offered. 

You bristled at the word 'beg.'

"Ask me nice and I'll let you do it…with your teeth," you countered. 

Joel agreed so quickly that you were forced to consider whether he'd chosen the word 'beg' on purpose, whether you'd played right into his hand.

"Fuckin' please, baby." He crept closer on his knees. "Pretty, beautiful please."

"No other touching," you cautioned him. 

As though Joel couldn't do plenty of touching with that wretched fucking mouth.

His lips brushed over your thigh and to your hip, goosebumps sprawling across your leg as his teeth grazed your flesh. Joel took his time finding the fabric of your panties with his mouth and then lowering his head to pull them down a few inches, his nose skimming over your skin while you tried to slow your breathing. 

And then he did the same thing at the other hip, this time tracing the edge of the fabric—and, by extension, the crease of your thigh—with his tongue. Joel nipped gently at your skin and you gasped, sinking a hand into his hair in warning and tugging back to bring his eyes to yours. The look on his face was absolutely obscene, an almost animal quality to him as he gathered the fabric between his teeth and pulled it down--again, just a few inches, just past the crest of your hip. 

And then the bold, lecherous fucker pressed a kiss to the tiny satin bow in the center of the waistband before taking hold of it and tilting his head back, grazing his rough, stubbled chin extremely deliberately over your pussy. Your jaw nearly dropped with a gasping breath, but you clenched it instead and shifted the extra the tension to your hands, yanking on his curls and drawing a low growling sound from his chest. Joel lost his hold on the elastic band and it slapped against your sensitive skin with a light snap that sent a flare of pleasure through you, drawing a soft little hum from your throat. 

"See, now, you made me lose my grip, sugar," he said, nuzzling against you. "Guess I'll have to try again."

This time, he licked a long line against the middle of the fabric that made you tremble with the effort of holding back a moan, his mouth trailing back up over you to capture the bow between his teeth another time. He made damn sure that fucking nose dragged over your skin as he finally pulled your panties free.

You shouldn't have been surprised that when given an inch, Joel would gleefully take a mile, but you still shook your head in disbelief when his eyes returned to yours. 

"You're pretty proud of yourself, huh?" you said. 

"Like the cat that got into the cream, angel." He took in the full glory of you, clenching his fists at his sides as restless energy spilled off of him. "You know you need me, baby, just let me take care of you. Make you feel so good."

"Beg for it, cowboy."

He made a low, seething noise and shook his head at you. 

"No dice, hellcat; jackpot's too good."

"Suit yourself," you warned, sitting down on the couch directly in Joel's line of sight and crossing one leg over the other. “Would you at least like to do the honors?” 

With all the reverence and restraint of someone opening an elaborately-wrapped gift, Joel slipped his hand between your knees, lifting gently to put them side by side, then parting them slowly. 

He took his time, and once you were laid bare before him, Joel let his eyes feast on you, irises collapsing into his pupils as he devoured the sight. 

"Fuck, sweetheart, every inch of you is just so goddamn pretty."

A silly little thrill of pleasure hummed in you at that, but not enough to show him any mercy. 

"And so soft," you crooned, sliding your hands over your breasts, your belly, your thighs. 

With the crook of a finger, you beckoned Joel closer into arm’s reach, then put your empty, waiting palm before his lips and raised an expectant brow. 

“Little help, handsome?”

He narrowed his eyes at you and let his gaze fall down your body. “I know you’re already plenty wet, darlin.’”

He was right, of course. Hell, even your thighs were slick with proof of the effect the smug motherfucker had on you. Still, you held out your hand and waited. 

“I want it to be you,” you said. 

Joel closed his eyes and clenched his hand into a fist as a soft, seething noise rumbled through his chest and he vowed, "You're gonna be the fuckin' death of me, hellcat."

A ripple of power crackled over your skin. 

He reached for you, using both hands to steady your palm. With a tongue-cluck of disapproval, you withdrew your wrist from his grasp. 

“Now, now. No touching.”

A muscle flexed in his jaw and he released a tight breath. He was a coiled spring, all tension and promise, that filthy mind going a million miles an hour as he considered how to respond to your challenge. 

You offered your hand again and those dark, amused eyes held yours as he honored your request and spat. 

“So obedient,” you praised him. 

He shook his head in affectionate disbelief, openly plotting his revenge until you erased his mind entirely. 

Joel groaned as his saliva met your skin, mingling with the slick wetness he’d already made of you.

You drew in an open-mouthed gasp, surprised by just how good it felt to touch yourself as he watched. Every feeling was heightened by the intensity of his audience, the ravenous look on his face as he took in your every movement, every little sound you made. 

Slow, gentle touches were all you allowed yourself at first, the lead-up as much for you as it was for Joel. Your body burned with aching need and desire, and you knew you’d have to take things slow to make this last. In the face of the restless, pent-up energy you'd been building since yesterday, though, even those hesitant, exploratory touches had you closing your eyes and throwing your head back. 

“Look at me,” came Joel's voice, heated and commanding. “You keep those eyes on me.”

“Tsk. Manners, handsome.” Your fingers grazed a sensitive spot and feeling flared through you, eliciting a tiny moan. “Ask me nice.”

His eyes flitted all over you, not able to keep his focus in any one place for long. 

“Please, baby," he granted, a little more breathless. 

“Please what?” you prompted, pushing him just a little further. “Gotta use your words, remember?”

Joel swallowed audibly. “Please look at me. Please keep those pretty eyes on me so I can watch how fucking good you're making yourself feel.”

You obliged as you circled your clit with the pads of your fingers while he looked on.

“Oh, it’s so good,” you agreed, vowing it into Joel’s eyes. 

“Let me taste you, angel, please." He groaned as he watched you. "Want you on my tongue so bad."

Fuck, that pleading, starved edge to his voice almost made you give in. Almost. 

“You know what you have to do.” You hummed a moan, twisting the knife. “Just end this and you can do whatever you want.”

He shifted on his knees, then shook his head. 

Joel stared at you, rapt, as your hand roamed your body, squeezing your breast, rolling a nipple between your fingers, sliding your palm over your thighs while your other hand stroked back and forth over your clit. 

“Put a finger inside," he rasped, then reconsidered his commanding tone and added, “please.”

“Such a quick study,” you crooned. “Such a good boy. Since you were so polite, I'll even let you help me."

Joel raised a brow, obeying as you bade him closer again. He certainly was not melting at your taunting praise, nor was he bristling at it--he just seemed to view it as amusing, something to be catalogued and responded to later. 

You brought your finger to Joel's mouth, tracing the border of his lip to coax him to open up for you. 

"You did say you wanted to taste me again..."

A soft seething noise came from him, and he obeyed, taking your finger into his mouth and lapping at it with his tongue. His eyes slid closed and he closed his lips around it, a low, pleased sound in his chest. 

You took your hand back, praising him with a, "Thank you, handsome," and then slipping the finger inside you. You released a short hum of pleasure, but Joel was too tuned-in to miss the difference in your sounds. 

“It was better when it was me, wasn’t it, baby?” he asked. “Tell the truth.”

You didn't bother to lie.

“It was better when it was you. Don’t you want to do it again?” You took his hand and put it on your knee, sliding it up your leg until his fingertips grazed the crease of your thigh. You continued to touch yourself with your other hand, just inches from Joel's. It would be so easy for him to take over for you, if he’d just fuckin’ break. “Don’t you want to make me squirm, make me scream for you?”

Joel's hand flexed and he palmed a handful of the soft flesh of your inner thigh, as if grounding himself through the desire to put his hands on the rest of you. 

"Oh, I'm gonna, angel," he swore. "You're gonna scream for me, alright, but you're gonna beg me to make you do it, first."

Your foot slid back over his lap and Joel's hips lifted up into the touch. 

"So confident," you teased. "Fine. If that's how it's gonna be, I guess I really will do it myself."

Letting your pace quicken, you touched yourself the way you usually did when you were alone, when you just wanted to come. It didn't take long before it began to build, before your every muscle grew more and more tense with your approaching release.

“Uh-uh, sugar,” Joel warned, rising up to stand on his knees. “You come for me or not at all.”

"If you want it, ask for it." You gave a little gasp that was all for show. "Otherwise..."

"Sweetheart, I swear to you, if you take what's mine, them thirteen are gonna be the least of your worries."

Your toes curled at the promise, the resolve in his words. Part of you ached to rise to his challenge, but a wiser part of you whispered a warning about writing checks your ass might not be able to cash, and you decided it was probably best to see what Joel was capable of before you pushed him any further.

“You talk too much,” you said instead, and then reached for him. You grabbed the waistband of his jeans, cold metal belt buckle biting into your skin, and hauled him against the couch, pressing your lips against his.

Joel groaned into your mouth, muscles gone loose with the relief of your touch.

Strong, thick arms wrapped around your hips, yanking you off the couch and into Joel's lap, pinning you to him as he sat back down on his heels. The hardness and need and pure fucking heat of him pressed against you, lighting every inch of your nerves on fire.

“So confident," Joel said, pushing your shoulders back onto the couch, "‘til there’s no-place left to run.”

He pressed a hand to the center of your chest and held you down, reclining you onto the seat of the couch while he held you straddled over his lap, weight off-balance and fully exposed to his touch.

Oh, you fucked up.

Joel slid his hands down the curve of your hips and palmed the back of your thighs, coaxing your legs around his waist. He held you by the hips as he flexed his own, hard length grinding against the aching warmth of you that threatened to burst into flame.

God, denim between you be damned, it was perfect, pulling a moan from you that couldn’t be held back, even through bitten lips.

“I know, baby. Tell me how good it feels.”

It was too good to lie, but you weren’t undone enough to tell the truth. He’d have to work harder, or else settle for the way you stared up at him, clinging to his arms and tilting your hips against his.

“Just think how good it’ll be when I’m fucking you.” His hand left your hip and skimmed between your legs, pulling a gasp from you as he began to stroke you, circling your clit with a lazy, light touch. “When you finally beg so pretty for me.” 

You gave him a needy little sound as he touched you, as much in earnest as it was for show, and pulled him harder against you with your thighs. The sensation intensified and you tightened your grip on his biceps hard enough to bruise.  

“Make me,” you dared him.

The words left you before you'd gotten to think them over. Joel's touch stilled and he clenched his jaw.

“Make you, huh?” Joel brought his hand to your chest, rolling your nipple between his finger and thumb as you swallowed a moan. “You want me to make you beg, angel?”

A devious look transformed his features. Inspiration had clearly struck. Anticipation washed over you like a wave, your skin feeling tight as his eyes roamed your body.

There was a small part of you that wanted to walk it back, wanted to say something to distract him, to get out from under that look that made you feel like you'd served yourself up on a platter.

She was the smarter part of you, probably. But she was not the louder part, and she was not the victor of the battle.

“You can give it your best shot, handsome.” 

He pinched, hard, and hauled you upright with his other hand around your nape. Joel kissed you like he was going to eat you alive, tongue plunging into your mouth as he groaned his pleasure at the taste of you.

But as quickly as he'd fallen on you, he was done, pulling back from the kiss and putting one more quick one on your lips before pressing his forehead to yours and giving a low, commanding, "On your feet, hellcat."

You obeyed, and Joel followed suit, drawing himself up to stand before you.

“Take my shirt off,” he ordered.

God, how had he made such a mess of you fully clothed?

You undid the buttons and rolled down the cuffs, then slid your hands over his chest and up to his shoulders to push the shirt off of him. Joel reached behind his neck and pulled his t-shirt off over his head in one swift motion.

He looked down at his chest and thumbed at an area of faintly swollen, discolored skin just below his collarbone.

The spot you'd bitten was starting to bruise.

“Left a mark, sugar.” He tsk-ed at you. "What'd I say?"

You pressed a kiss to the marred flesh.

“Poor baby,” you said, then kissed the unblemished skin on other side of his chest before biting down as Joel hissed in a breath. “There--now you've got a matching set.”

You smoothed your hands over his chest, your attention catching on the still-healing black line over his pec.

“What was this gonna be?” you asked.

He just looked at you and brushed your hair back off of your face, not offering an answer.

"'Cause it looks kinda like the curve of a coupe glass." You traced it with a fingertip, then a nail as you added, "Which would be kinda fuckin' creepy."

Joel neither confirmed nor denied that the tattoo would've been the good-day drink that Frank always served you in a coupe glass; he just shrugged and offered, “What can I say, darlin', I’m a heart-on-my-sleeve kinda guy.”

You laughed, but it came out as more of a scoff. “In what world?”

“Hmm.” He cradled your face in his hands and brought his mouth to yours. “Desires on my sleeve, then.”

And that, at least, was true.

He kissed you, slow and hungry, like you were a meal to be savored, but you wanted more from him than kisses by then. Your hands trailed over fever-hot skin, falling low to the waist of his jeans and then slipping teasing fingers beneath as he groaned against your lips.

“Goddamn, baby, look at what you do to me.” He kissed your hairline, panting against your temple. “Feel what you do to me.”

He put his hands over yours and dragged them over his torso. Of all the places you expected him to guide your touch—admittedly a very short list—not one of them was overtop the thudding in his chest.

Fondness squeezed a fist around your throat as you kissed the hands covering yours then coaxed them apart to press your lips to the center of his chest.

His arms wound around your waist and he stepped into your space, backing you a few steps closer to the kitchen counter that divided the space from the living room. The warmth in your chest turned to a different kind of heat.

"Belt, now, angel," he said, eyes moving between yours, then falling to your mouth.

Apprehension flared in your gut. "I'm more than game for a nice, firm, appreciative ass-smack, but a belt isn't the kind of 'make me' I was going for."

"Not what I had in mind, darlin'," he soothed you, trailing a hand down over your back and stopping at your ass. "But now you mention it, how 'firm' is 'nice'?"

"Try me."

Expectant tension fluttered through you, but his first offering was more of a pat than anything. You just raised a brow at him.

"Words," he prodded.

"Harder."

Joel obliged, this time it was more of a swat--it made a faint sound, but there was no sharpness to it.

"I'm not made of glass, cowboy," you vowed, hauling his hips against yours with use of his belt loops. "Harder."

He narrowed his eyes slightly as he looked down at you, then issued a sharp slap to your ass that made you gasp and tighten your hold on him. The pain faded immediately, but the sting lingered, your skin growing pleasantly warm and buzzy.

"Right there," you said, letting out a little hum as you kissed him and unfastened his belt, slowly pulling it free. "But you gotta be nice, and I don't just mean after."

You gathered the leather into looping whorls in your hands and moved to cast it aside, but Joel slipped it from your grasp.

"I promise," he vowed. “Now turn around, sugar.”

You stared him down just long enough to make him think you wouldn’t obey, then you turned your back to him. While you were confident he wouldn't break his word, you were still on edge about his intentions, nerves flapping wildly in your stomach.

Joel's hand slid from the small of your back to the flat between your shoulders and he pressed lightly. "Elbows on the counter, angel."

You honored the words if not the spirit, propping your elbows on the counter and cradling your chin in your hands, doing your best to look bored while your heart thudded in your chest.

"Attagirl," he said anyway. He bent forward and pressed short, soft kisses to the hot, tingling handprint on your ass-cheek. Your body relaxed at the tenderness in his attention.

"I ain't ever gonna be mean to you, hellcat, 'less you ask me to." Joel tapped your ass with the end of his belt, then the backs of your thighs, just hard enough to make a sound. It didn’t hurt, not even close; it was just to let you know it could.

If you wanted it to. If you asked.

Joel knelt behind you, winding the leather around your thighs and tightening it just above your knees, the pressure of it against your skin making your heart race. The buckle jingled as he fastened the belt, then tugged on it once to test the tension, pulling you backward onto your heels. You choked back a helpless little moan and fidgeted to assess your range of motion.

It didn’t take long to assess; you had almost none to speak of. You could press your knees, your thighs a little tighter together, but you couldn’t really part them at all.

"My pretty, awful girl," Joel said reverently, hands sliding up the backs of your legs, thumbs slipping between your belted-together thighs to stroke the slick, sensitive flesh on either side of your clit.

Your muscles strained with effort as your body tried to open your legs to grant him better access, but there was nowhere to go.

Frustration melded with pleasure as he touched you in slow, even strokes and you whined for him before you could fight it down.

“I know, baby.” Joel sounded genuinely sympathetic, but continued to torment you with that same agonizing, not-enough touch.

He kissed the tops of your thighs, right where the swell of your ass began to rise, leaving you fighting against your body's instinct to arch your back. And then Joel took that tender flesh between his teeth and bit down, just for a second, just hard enough to blush, shooting pleasure through you strong enough to buckle your knees.

“God, Joel, fuck,” you cried, any hope of playing it cool gone up in the flames smoldering inside you.

Joel groaned against your skin and soothed the bite with a kiss, nuzzling against your thigh with the stubble of his cheek. “Say it again,” he bade, voice heavy with demand.

You did not.

He bit the other thigh, trying to coax a lightning bolt into striking twice. All you gave him was a small, hummed moan, clenching your thighs together, chasing friction, pressure--fuck, anything.

“So goddamn stubborn," he muttered.

Joel hauled you back by the hips, deepening the bend at your waist and exposing more of you to his touch, to his sight.

"Fuck, but you're so damn pretty, standing there waiting for me, that sweet pussy just dripping down those soft, beautiful thighs." He traced a finger against you, skin just barely skimming over yours, light enough to be almost unbearably intense and making you gasp. "So goddamn pretty when you're a fucking mess for me."

He licked a long, slow line against the slick wetness of your inner thigh, first the left, then the right, that perfect fucking nose of his grazing against the curve of your ass, so close to where you burned to be touched that it actually made you shiver.

"Your aim is shit, cowboy," you said, goading to avoid whining for him again.

“Mouthy,” he growled. “Do I need to fuck some manners into that pretty little mouth of yours, darlin’?”

Excitement coiled in you at the thought.

“If you think you’re man enough, guess you're welcome to try. Though at this point I’d rather you fucked some manners into me elsewhere.”

And finally--fucking finally--Joel put that filthy goddamn mouth to use for something other than riling you up.

Before that very moment, you really could not have entirely conceptualized the idea that someone could go down on you spitefully.

But then Joel seethed a growling noise and pressed his face against your pussy, yanking you against him and wrapping his arms around your legs to hold you close as he skipped past the warm-up and went straight to fucking devouring you. You cried out, very nearly a shriek, and then you could hardly get a breath of air, your mouth fallen open in what you'd never admit was absolute fucking ecstasy.

Okay, maybe the smug bastard had a reason to be cocky.

His tongue stroked over you, his angle of attack too direct, too intense, leaving you trying to arch away, trying to lessen the pressure, but he held you fast as you tried to gather the brainpower and composure necessary to speak. It took a few tries.

"I can't, it's--" You loosed a pleading sound, totally overwhelmed and dangerously close to actual agony. "Fuck, Joel, I can't, it's too much."

He made an encouraging noise and pulled you harder into him, shifting his head from side to side and burrowing his face against your pussy. You cried out again, all but a sob, but Joel just kept at you, and your cries turned into something needy and urgent.

Nothing Joel did was by halves, so maybe you should have expected that intensity, expected that between so much anticipation and so many false starts, there would be no holding him back.

"Fuck, I'm gonna come," you panted, high and desperate. And, honestly, you half-thought he'd stop, thought he'd hold any kind of release hostage in exchange for what he wanted you to say, thought he'd make you beg for it before he let you come. But he either didn't think of it or wanted to keep going so badly he didn't care, because all Joel did was groan hungrily against you, still laving at your clit with an intensity that verged on savage.

You were on the edge for what felt like forever, every muscle in your body held taut so long you were trembling. Not being able to move, adjust, control anything was a fucking torment; you simply had to endure, waiting for your body to catch up to the utter goddamn devastation that Joel was subjecting you to until suddenly, the ground fell out from beneath your feet and a ragged wail came from your chest. Your orgasm buckled your knees, but Joel was holding onto you so tightly you barely even shifted.

It was purely on the grounds of Joel saying he wanted you to scream for him that you kept yourself under control, clenching your teeth to bite back your voice. You pressed your thighs tight together to keep him from getting any goddamn ideas about pressing onward.

He relented, stroking your flanks and ass and thighs with wide, sweeping touches and dotting kisses over your skin as you held yourself up, boneless and panting against the countertop.

"Christ almighty, sugar, you are goddamn incredible." He was all awe and heavy promise as he got to his feet behind you and bent to whisper in your ear, "Ready to beg for me, now, baby?"

"Still gonna have to make me, handsome," you said, pushing off the counter to stand upright.

"Tell me that again?" he dared you, pressing down hard between your shoulders and keeping you in place.

"You heard me."

"Can't never do nothin' the easy way, can you, sugar?" Joel said, not sounding disappointed in the slightest. He shed the rest of his clothes and resumed sweeping his hands over you, callused palms sending your skin tingling everywhere they went, across your shoulders and down your spine, then all the way to your hips. A firm grasp shifted your position slightly, arranging you how he wanted you and crowding close behind, the hard length of him pressing against your ass as he touched you. "That's alright, baby. We'll get you beggin'."

Those teasing, too-light touches roved over you, stoking a fluttering, high-wire sensation in your stomach that made your breath uneven.

Joel pushed his cock into the tight, wet space at the meeting of your thighs, not sliding into you, but rather against you in a long, slow stroke, dragging over your too-sensitive clit and sending you gasping as he sighed a drawn-out groan with a full breath of air.

"Fuck, angel, how do you feel this good and I ain't even inside you yet?" The feeling of him moving against you sparked a delicious, horrible sense of inevitability to burn in your gut. "Gonna be so good when I fill you up, sugar--so good when you beg me to fuck you, when that sweet little pussy is wrapped around me so tight."

Bowing over you, pressing his chest to your back as if to touch as much of you as he could, Joel let his hands roam your body as he fucked against you.

The throbbing, demanding ache inside you grew louder, more insistent as his pace sped up, no longer just trying to tempt you, but rather unwilling to be denied.

His touch was greedy, claiming handfuls of your tits and loosing a rumbling sound at the feel of you against him.

At the start of a stroke, the head of Joel's cock nudged against your entrance and you moaned from low in your chest, but both of you froze in place.

You could just take him, the devil on your shoulder whispered, all it would take would be a shift of your hips. No one would have to beg. No one would have to lose.

But Joel seemed to read your mind before you could summon the nerve.

"Don't you fuckin' dare," he warned against your ear, his hand sliding over your throat as his fingers caught the curve of your jaw, baring your neck to him. Joel bit his warning against your neck, holding you still on that agonizing cliff's edge, right at the precipice of what you wanted so goddamn badly.

"Tell me what you want me to do, hellcat," he bade you, shifting his hips a little closer, almost pushing into you, making you gasp. "Say it so pretty for me."

And fuck it, you lost, fair and square.

But you were always going to lose, and you'd known it all along; you'd never even bothered to set the terms for what would happen if you won. Joel had been holding himself back from you a long time, and all you'd done since meeting him was slowly give in, little by little--and now, all at once.

"Fuck me, Joel. Please fuck me."

He didn't move except to let his hand slide down over your front, coming down between your legs. The anticipation was going to fucking kill you.

"Say it again, sweetheart." His voice was heavy with approval and demand, but you were done bristling against it, done resisting, at least for now.

"Please."

Joel gave a sudden, almost-gentle slap to your needy, aching cunt and you cried out, a mixture of surprise and pleasure.

"'Please', what, sweet girl?"

"Please fuck me."

He gave you another smack. The sound you made would've been something like a growl, but your mouth fell open instead. You almost tilted back your hips, almost just slid yourself onto Joel's cock and gladly suffered the consequences. He would've fucking destroyed you, and the thought alone was enough to send a shudder of excitement over you. There was always next time.

"So close, baby." His voice was softness and demand as he urged, "Try again."

"Fuck me. Please."

Another slap, and this time his touch lingered, his fingers stroking over you. You didn't even make him tell you to repeat yourself, but you finally found the magic combination of words, nearly whining them for him as you begged:

"Please, Joel. I need you to fuck me."

You should've known it was his name he wanted you to say again.

He slammed into you, wrenching you back by the hips and burying himself to the hilt, and well, he was right about making you scream for him. You all but collapsed against the countertop, arching your back and not sure whether to push closer or writhe away.

"Fuck, sugar, goddamn, you feel so good." Joel smoothed a hand between your shoulders and slowly down your back as you tried to relax around him. Just as you finally managed a full breath, he pulled all the way back and thrust into you again, offering praise as you made wordless sounds of pleasure and anguish. "Fit me so perfect, baby--not a bit to spare. Knew I was fuckin' made for you. Knew we'd be this good."

'Not a bit to spare' was right; some distant, half-thinking part of you knew you'd be sore as hell come sunrise, but the rest of you shoved down her warning and courted disaster.

"Don't stop," you pleaded, your body already halfway up the climb. "Please, Joel."

He answered you by setting a pace that damn near stole the breath from your lungs, pressing up against something impossible and unendurable inside you.

"If it ain't 'stop,' it's 'go,'" Joel reminded, hips slamming against you. "Say it, angel."

He'd have to ease off if he wanted you to speak, but Joel just kept his pace and after a moment, he landed a firm smack against your ass to prod you along, making you yelp out a moan.

"It's 'go,'" you panted, gulping down a breath and losing half of it to a sob before you could try again. "If it's not 'stop,' it's 'go.'"

"There's my fuckin' girl." It was so heartbreakingly affectionate while being utter filth that it made you a little dizzy. "Fuck, such a wicked, perfect thing. You feel that, darlin'? Feel how goddamn good you are for me?"

Mostly, what you felt was another scream building in your chest, but you whined an agreement anyway.

In reward, Joel put his hands on you again, fingers brushing sweetly over your pussy, adding stimulation you absolutely did not need and making you cry out.

"I know, baby," he murmured, low and close. "I want you to come for me, now. Want to feel that pretty pussy coming all over me."

Fuck, you were most of the way there already, and with Joel's insistent touch circling your clit, it didn't take long for you to find yourself staring over the cliff's edge. Meeting his thrusts by pushing back against him, you hummed a high, needy sound as you chased your release. 

"Oh, you're so fuckin' close, darlin'," Joel said, voice all worship and awe. "God, you feel so good when you're close. So fuckin' wet, wrapped around me so tight--might fuck you on the edge forever."

But your orgasm found you more quickly this time and sent you wailing, hands flat on the counter and back arching as your body went rigid.

Joel fucked you through it, slowing the pace of neither his hips nor his fingers. A strained, appreciative groan rumbled from his chest as your walls fluttered and spasmed around him. "There you go, baby. Fuck, squeezing me so hard--fuckin' soaking me, Christ almighty. So goddamn good for me."

You couldn't move, couldn't fucking breathe. It just went on and on, like you'd touched a live wire and couldn't break the circuit.

Finally, the tether snapped and you took an absolutely shattered breath, using your hard-won air to let out an overwhelmed sob just this side of a scream. "Joel, fuck, please."

"Shh, you can take it, angel, I know you fuckin' can." His voice was warm-honey praise and adulation, and while his pace didn't falter, Joel at least had the decency to return both hands to your hips. "Takin' me so goddamn well."

Joel tugged you back a half-step, making you bend further at the waist and letting him hit a spot inside you that had you making a desperate, pleading sound.

"Mmm, you're getting close again, ain't you, sweet girl?" He groaned in approval.

God, he was right--that horrible sense of an impending fall was beginning to build again. The sound you made in answer was equal parts desire and desolation.

"Fuck, feels even better than the last time, baby. Makes me want to come when you do, see how good it would be. You made it look so goddamn pretty."

You made an encouraging sound and Joel smoothed his hand over your back.

"You want me to come with you, darlin'?" he asked, bending forward to press a kiss between your shoulder blades, his hand coming around your front to palm your breast. "Fill up that sweet little pussy and make you mine?"

Words wouldn't form on your tongue so you just hummed your assent, which Joel found insufficient.

"Say it for me, sweetheart," he rolled your nipple between his fingers and squeezed to motivate you to speak, hurtling you closer to the edge and making you moan. "Tell me what you need."

"Please. Yes, fuck, please, Joel," you begged. He squeezed again, harder this time, apparently wanting you to be more specific, wanting his words served back to him and not giving a damn that he was the reason you couldn't speak, couldn't fucking think. "Fill me up and make me yours. Please. Want you to come with me."

"Okay, baby," Joel said, sounding indulgent as his hand slid down between your legs. You were already so goddamn close, and his touch sent you lurching forward. "But not yet, sugar. Not yet."

A frustrated whine escaped your throat as he set back to touching you.

"I know, angel. Just stay with me." He picked up his pace, circling your clit as he fucked deeper, harder into you and hissed a breath through his teeth. "Ten, nine, eight..."

Your whole body went tense with effort and you fought not to hold your breath to keep from falling off the edge as you cried out.

His other hand flattened out over the center of your chest, cradling you tight against him, his hand spasming against your skin as he fought for his own control.

"Seven, six... Just hold it, darlin'; I know you can."

Clenching every muscle you had control over, you battled back against your body and tried to relax into his touch.

"Fuck, you're so close, baby." He pressed himself against your back as he fucked you, breathing adoration against your neck and giving you a whimper of his own. "Christ, you feel so good. So fuckin' tight for me."

Every part of you was shaking uncontrollably, and Joel forgot to fucking count down, but it wasn't like you could call him on it.

"One more, hellcat. Gonna come so good for me." He pressed his face into the crook of your neck and bit softly, making you yelp. "Five, four..."

A helpless, pleading sound keened from your throat, and not only could you not thrust back against Joel, but he pinned his hips hard against yours, burying himself in you and grinding against a deep, sensitive part of you that might've made you scream if you'd had a single fucking wisp of breath to your name.

"Three, two, one. Alright, now, sweetheart, you ready for me?" He panted a breath between his last few words. "Fuck, you feel so goddamn ready, baby. Tell me you're ready."

You nodded furiously, humming a high, needy noise and arching your back.

Joel smacked your ass and made you moan.

"Fuck, I'm gonna come, Joel. Please." You started babbling, begging as he fucked into you. "Come with me, please. Fill me up, Joel, god. Need you so fucking bad."

He slammed into you, rumbling his approval against your skin and flexing his hips against yours even harder.

"Say it again, sugar."

"Fuck me, Joel, please," you whined. "Come for me. With me."

"Okay, hellcat." He was gasping for breath, trying to coax you off the edge before he fell himself. "Go on and let go, sweetheart. Let that sweet pussy come for me so pretty."

You tried, really, you did, but you'd held it back so hard that it took a second for the wave of your orgasm to finally wash over you, even once you'd tried to surrender.

When it did claim you, though, it nearly dragged you under.

It crackled over your skin like a lightning-storm, and once your body started to let go, Joel groaned loud and long, his hips crashing hard against yours. Fuck, he felt amazing losing that composure, surrendering to the feel you. You fell that much further off the edge, the breath freezing in your chest as you both came, as he filled you up just like you'd begged him to. With a final, hard thrust, he stilled in you, but his touch persisted as you spasmed around him, your voice and your knees both giving out mid-wail.

"Fuck, baby, attagirl," he praised, holding you up with his arms around your middle, resting his forehead against your spine and panting into your skin as you shook and tried to catch your breath.

Warm hands roamed over your skin, tracing the trembling muscles in your arms, your core, your legs. You weren't sure how much more of Joel's attentions you'd be able to stand for. Literally. Your body was jelly and your vision was spotted, a dizzy, lightheaded feeling swimming through you as you gulped down breath after ragged breath.

"Come here to me, sweetheart," he bade, but he sounded far-away or underwater, the ringing in your cotton-fuzzed ears muffling his voice.

And you weren't going anywhere anyway, the newborn-deer feeling in your thighs and knees and calves keeping you clinging to the counter even as he bolstered you to standing upright.

Joel coaxed your arm around his neck, then scooped you up while you made an indignant squeak and tightened your hold around him.

"Hush now, angel," he said, quieting you with a kiss and slowly making his way down the short hall to your bedroom.

He laid you out gently on your bed and climbed in beside you, holding you close when you curled around his body.

"So fuckin' good for me, baby," Joel whispered, hot, fond hands stroking your hair, your neck, your shoulders. "Can't believe I went so long without you. Ain't ever gonna have to be without you again."

---------------------

You were flat on your back in the middle of the bed, sprawled-out and boneless, content as you could ever remember being.

Joel had slid out from underneath you just a moment ago, heavy footfalls thudding toward the kitchen. Ice clattered into a glass and the sink turned on as you tried to coax yourself into breathing semi-normally.

"Christ alive, sugar, your coffee's even good cold," he called as he came back down the hall. Joel peeked his head into the room and set a glass of icy water on your nightstand alongside your phone, then stepped in slowly, bending to kiss you and pressing a hand flat to your chest. "Drink that down 'fore I come back, baby."

A warm, fond feeling filled your chest and you reached for your phone, going into your contacts and finally changing Joel's name. Once you'd edited his contact, you went back to your home screen, only to notice that there was a notification on your messages.

You opened the app and found the unread message; it was from Joel earlier in the evening when you'd been sitting in the back of his truck:

--That pretty goddamn laugh of yours makes me wish I was funnier

You were beaming at your phone when he came back into the room a few seconds later.

"What's got you all giggly, sweetheart?" he asked, sinking back down into the bed next to you and wrapping you in his arms.

You burrowed into his neck, pressing your face to his throat.

"Just remembered what a fuckin' liar you are," you teased.

"Oh?" His voice was amused but half a threat.

"'Be spreadin' somethin' for you later, sugar-tits, but it ain't gonna be rose petals,'" you said in a cartoonishly thick version of Joel's drawl.

He rumbled a drawn-out hmm and squeezed you tight, then rolled you onto your back and loomed over you, straddling your tired legs as you laughed.

"Can't have you thinkin' I ain't a man of my word," he said, hooking his hands under your knees and parting them as he drew them up toward you, arranging your legs in a butterfly shape that sent your heart racing.

"I was only kidding, cowboy," you said, reaching to pull him down to kiss you.

"Too late, baby," Joel said, dotting your face with kisses before licking into your mouth and making you whine.

His touch roved over you and you hummed a contented sound, tipping your head back and closing your eyes.

"Oh, no, hellcat, you stay right here with me," he said, voice deep and solid as he took your chin in his hand and guided your gaze to his. “Want you to look at me while I’m fucking you this time.”

The part of you that had cautioned about writing checks your ass couldn't cash would be positively smug come morning.

----------------------

"Hey, don't put your filthy fuckin' hands on people, you prick," you called, storming across the bar and shoving hard at the guy's shoulder--some pawing, half-drunk shitheel who'd just grabbed a passing girl so indecently that she'd shrieked and dropped her drink. It had been an ass-grab the way a thirty-aught-six was a handgun, and the girl had fled the bar, red-faced and shaking. "You do that shit again, I'll break your goddamn arm for you."

You pushed a bar towel into the center of his chest and pointed at the puddle of liquor and glass on the floor.

"Clean that up." Like hell were you gonna see Frank down on the floor mopping up this fuckhead's mess. 

"Fuck you, bitch; clean it yourself," came his reply. "Bet you do just fine on your knees."

A low, masculine laugh sounded behind your shoulder, but it was not mirthful. It was pitying. 

"Something funny, asshole?" Ass-Grabber said to the person behind you. "What, you gonna defend the bitch's honor?" 

"Don't worry about me, slick," came Joel's voice, rinsing over you like bathwater. "Worry about her."

"I don't need to defend my honor from you," you said with a scowl. "Just clean up your goddamn mess."

"Or what? You gonna sic your daddy on me?" He nodded to Joel and you almost surged forward at him, hands clenched into fists, but a hand on the back of your neck steadied you. 

"Looks to me like she's got you handled, son," Joel said, releasing you. "But you lay one finger on my girl and you better hope to God she fuckin' kills you."

He patted your ass and walked off, all loose-shouldered ease, then took up a seat at the bar. 

"What're we doing, here, slugger?" you asked, checking your watch and then putting your hand on your hip. "What's it gonna be?"

His wind-up was beyond telegraphed, and you knew exactly how he was going to swing at you well before he did it. You side-stepped the blow and grabbed him by the wrist, using his momentum to haul him past you. Now behind him, you looped your arm around his neck and braced it with your other hand, yanking him backward and off-balance against your hip as you held him. 

10...9...8...

He flailed stupidly for a few seconds and then tried pulling at your elbow. When that failed, he swatted at you behind his head, but it was more annoying than harmful and you just held steady, biding your time.

4...3...2...

The weight against your hip began to slump, and you eased the dumb motherfucker down to the ground, letting his body slide to the floor along your leg as he lost consciousness. 

"Which one of y'all is gonna get him out of here and which one's gonna clean that shit up?" you asked his drinking buddies, exactly zero of whom had been inclined to come to his aid when he'd been running his mouth and didn't seem particularly interested now. So you had to prod, "Quickly, now--I hold on much longer and I risk a manslaughter charge."

Once the trash had been taken out, you returned to the bar and came up beside Joel, standing in the space between two stools and resting your weight against his hip. He put his face in your neck and breathed deeply.

"I am just..." Joel groaned softly, whispering worship in your ear, "Goddamn, baby, I am gonna fuck you so good later--I mean fuckin' senseless."

Heat spread over you and you curled your toes. "That's what does it for you, huh--me making a man clean up a mess? 'Cause I can make a mess for you to clean, handsome."

"Almost just did," he said, nodding toward where you'd just been fighting--if you could even call it that. "Fuck, I love it when you're mean."

"Here you go, Swayze," came Frank's voice, sounding like an absolute angel. You turned to hold out a hand and Joel grabbed it and put it behind your back.

"No. None of that goddamn tequila," he said to Frankie. "She ain't got nothin' but coffee in her, and I don't got bail money on me. One barfight’s enough for today."

You wrenched yourself free and shoved at Joel's shoulder.

Frankie held it up as if to say, 'well, what the fuck am I supposed to do with it now?'

"Dump it out, give it to one of these youngins, go make Danny's day in the back," Joel said, offering options as he took a bill from his pocket and put it on the bar. "I don't care what you do with it, long as it don't go in this one.” He pointed a finger at you, voice trailing off into a mutter as he added, "Black enough fuckin' mood already."

You crossed your arms and scowled at Joel, annoyed at his helicopter bullshit and annoyed again that he was right, both that you'd ordered tequila and also that you hadn't eaten.

You swatted him lightly with the back of your hand. "He started it."

"I know, baby. And you sorted him out. But now you need supper, and if you're still feelin' feisty after, we'll get you your tequila." He crowded into your space, forcing you to sitting on the bar stool as he slid his hand up into your hair, then whispered, "And if you're still feelin' feisty after that, I'll let you take it out on me."

Joel kissed you and you smacked him away as Frank cleared his throat. You gave an apologetic look to the old fella and asked, "What did you mean, 'Swayze'?"  

"He was in 'Roadhouse,'" he said by way of answer, polishing a glass and looking like a complete cliche. "Used to call you 'Paw Patrol,' 'cause of how cute and innocent you looked, but I had to change it."

"Frank ain't seen one goddamn movie made since 1990," Joel explained, "but he has seen a bunch of dogshit cartoons, apparently."

You smiled and nudged Joel with an elbow, then turned your attention back to the barkeep. "I don't look cute and innocent anymore?"

"Not since I seen you bust that one fella's nose and knee with the same stomp, youngin." 

"Just a lucky strike," you said dismissively, cheeks heating from the fondness in Frankie's voice. 

"First time, maybe." He looked at Joel and tipped his head toward you. "She'd've been a hell of an enforcer."

"Over my dead body," Joel said without a drop of humor. 

——————————

You would've been fine grabbing dinner at Frank's, but Joel had insisted, and now you were cozied up in a booth at some joint with crisp white cloths on the tables. Gun to your head, you'd swear that it was Sade coming out of the speakers. 

Everywhere in this part of Austin was stuck in the last century, apparently. 

You were eyeing the salads, fancying something fresh and crunchy and cold after a day of the Texas heat. 

Joel slipped the menu from your hands and turned it over, tapping the section with chicken and steak. 

“Get you something with some substance, sugar. You need more’n rabbit food.”

You rolled your eyes and turned the menu back over as the waitress approached the table. 

Joel’s hand rested patiently, chastely on your leg as you took your turn, squeezing your knee when you ordered a salad. 

“Suit yourself,” he warned, then ordered himself a steak, medium-rare.

No sooner than the server turned her back to retreat, Joel pulled your knee over his, parting your legs, then slid his hand up your thigh.

Your pulse began to pound in your chest, then lower as understanding dawned and you realized what he was doing. 

“Told you you’d need more’n rabbit food, sugar, but you didn’t listen. You never fuckin' listen.” Joel leaned closer and rumbled in your ear, “Number one.”

[littlemisspascal]

Crossroads: the second meeting | Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: The second of your and Joel’s promised three meetings. And third, and fourth, and…?

Tags: we’ve got INTRIGUE, we’ve got ~demonic temptation~ (consensually), we’ve got getting caught in the rain 👀; it’s all happening. demon!Joel; not an age gap fic. Reader has their period in one scene, but honestly aside from that we’re still a GN!Reader.

Words: 6,717

Note: We are IN IT now babes okay I promise, if you thought the first meeting was boring just forget about it and read this one 😌🙏🏼

Crossroads | Moodboard | Masterlist

No matter how you angled, jiggled, or cajoled it, your front door key remained firmly stuck in its lock. With a deep sigh, you rested your forehead against the painted wood, and you thought of Joel. Right now your greatest desire was to be inside your house; you wondered what price he would demand to grant your wish.

“You rang?”

Gasping, you spun around. Your heart slammed in your chest. “Jesus! Joel! What the fuck!”

In the hallway behind you, Joel came to a stop. He put his hands up, a chuckle rolling out of him. “Sorry, sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. Could sense you wishin’ for my company, that’s all.”

“I wasn’t wishing for your company.” Lingering adrenaline sharpened your tongue, and the words sliced from it before you could consider who you were talking to. “I was wishing for your powers, so they could give me a damn working door.”

In the dim hall, It was hard to read the glimmer in his golden eyes. “Whatever you say, kitten.” Joel nodded toward the door, and it swung inward.

You scrambled after it, but the key remained firmly stuck in the lock.

You sent him a disbelieving look.

Joel shrugged innocently. “What? You didn’t say permanently working. You gotta be specific with these things.”

You took a deep breath, very deliberately focusing all of your attention on easing the key free. Once it was, though, there was nothing to distract you from the reality: Joel was at your house. Finding you in town was one thing, but appearing outside your home…

You smothered your nervousness. “Do I need to invite you in like a vampire, or..?”

Joel shot you a dark look. “Funny.”

And then he was stepping over the threshold, and you were shutting the door behind him.

Your building had originally been a two-story house, but it had been modified so that the first and second floors were now two separate apartments. Some might call it small, but you preferred to think of it as cozy. It was the perfect size for your one person.

Joel’s wide shoulders seemed to fill the room.

He turned in a slow circle, observing everything. The extensive spice rack hanging over the pantry door. The lantern string lights stretching around the living room. The plant with long green arms splaying crazily out of its pot on the windowsill.

All the things that made you you. He ran those otherworldly eyes over all of it, taking it in- taking you in. His glance flickered toward the half-open door at the back- your bedroom- before returning. 

The silence gnawed at you. “So what are you doing here?”

“What do you mean, what am I doin’? We have a deal, remember? Three meetings?”

He didn’t use the word date this time.

“I mean…why are you at my house?”

“Didn’t know you were home.” Joel smirked. “I pop up wherever you are. Wouldn’ta known where you lived otherwise.”

You sighed.

“Nice little place you got here…Kitten.”

The way he purred Ruby’s nickname sent goosebumps racing down your neck. You whipped your head toward him, glaring uncertainly.

Joel chuckled. “Been meanin’ to ask about that. Plain forgot by the end of our last meeting.”

You set your jaw. “By the end of our last date, you mean?” you said sweetly.

His mouth flattened. He held your gaze until you looked away.

“It’s not that exciting of a story.” You moved around as you spoke, setting your things in their usual places. “Um, do you want a drink or anything? I don’t have any whiskey, but I have other stuff, water, uh..”

“I’m-”

Joel cut off mid-sentence. You turned, and your brow furrowed. He’d gone rigid, his eyes wide and focused intensely on nothing, as if listening to a distant sound.

“...Joel?”

He blinked rapidly. “I gotta go. But I’ll be back.” His yellow eyes flashed to you with renewed clarity, and he pointed a warning finger. “This meeting ain’t over until I hear that story.”

Your vision warped strangely, like the affect of a heat shimmer, but magnified a hundred times. When you could see clearly again, Joel was gone. The bitter scent of scorched earth hung in the air.

“What the fuck?”

--

Three days had passed since Joel’s disappearance. Your bed was as welcoming on the third day as it had been on the previous two, but its comfort did little to alleviate your confusion. The house’s every little creak and sigh made you jump, thinking that it might be Joel appearing. You wondered, yet again, what on earth had pulled him away so abruptly before, and if he’d meant what he said- that when he came back, it would still be your second meeting, not your third.

A new book managed to quell your restless thoughts. You read until slightly too late- it couldn’t be helped- and yawned as you turned off your lamp. Sleep tugged you down…

Something thumped to the floor of the room. A heavy something. Your eyes flew open. Fear spiked through you at the shadow in the doorway- the large, human-shaped shadow.

But was the shape…familiar? A smoky scent tickled your nose. It couldn’t be. With a trembling hand, you reached for the lamp.

It was. Like a great, shadowy tree had suddenly sprouted in your room, Joel stood blinking in the light.

You sucked in air, ready to berate him for scaring the shit out of you- appearing in your bedroom in the middle of the night!- but something stopped you.

His eyes were bleary, their amber glint dull. Heavy, bruise-colored bags hung beneath them. His clothes looked unkempt, and his normally neat swoops of hair were disheveled and drooping. 

You swung your feet to the floor. “Joel?”

It took visible effort for him to focus. “Kitten,” he murmured. His gaze slid around the room like mercury in a glass, seeing but not really registering anything. The only thing that finally seemed to snag his attention was the beanbag chair beside your desk. It was adult-sized and teardrop-shaped, sitting upright in a mellow shade of teal. Joel swayed a step forward. 

“What are you…are you okay?” You stood, though you were unsure how you’d be able to help if he did something like collapse. 

“Sure I am. Just need to rest a second.” His words were heavy and blurred together. He made his way toward the beanbag with an exaggeratedly slow, squinty-eyed focus. He folded himself to the floor, the cushion ballooning beneath his weight. His head lolled against the upright back.

Your mouth hung open. “You can’t…sleep here..?” 

Joel scrubbed a hand over his face. “But if I’m here, I’m working.” The end of his sentence was split by an enormous yawn. “Won’t be bothered if I’m workin’,” he muttered. His whole body seemed to deflate.

A heartbeat later, a muffled snore rose from the beanbag. 

You stared in utter bewilderment at the unconscious demon on your floor. His body looked comically large spilling out of the beanbag chair; his legs stretched nearly halfway across the room. What the fuck were you supposed to do now? Sleep, while a representative of the devil sat not six feet from you?

You hesitated. Joel hadn’t given any indication that he wanted to harm you. It would be against his best interests, even, since then he definitely wouldn’t get a bargain at the end of your meetings. 

Even asleep, the furrows on his forehead haven’t relaxed. You laid back down, resolving to just…keep your eyes open…

--

You woke with a gasp. 

Your lamp was still on, your body was intact, and Joel…

Joel was asleep in your beanbag chair.

In the daylight he looked even worse. His clothes dusty and wrinkled, the lines on his face carved deeper than normal. He looked tired even while sleeping. 

And he was in your room.

The soft click of the lamp’s switch made you cringe. You didn’t dare make any greater noise or movement- there was no telling how he’d react to being woken suddenly in a strange place. 

Damn, you kind of had to pee, though. Surely you could tiptoe in and out of the room for that without waking him..?

Twin golden slits appeared- Joel’s eyes opened.

He sat straight up, his gaze darting all around. It found you, which seemed to dredge up the relevant memories, because after a tense moment of staring, he slumped back into beanbag. The alarm faded from his features. 

“Good morning,” you said cautiously.

Joel grunted. “Kitten.” His voice was a gravelly rasp. 

“Do you…remember coming here last night?”

His gaze flickered as he sifted through his memory. “Sorta.”

Words failed you. You wanted to ask him what the fuck happened, and also if he was okay or injured or anything, but you also didn’t want to provoke him. You didn’t know what his deal was- one-night stand etiquette hardly applied to this.

Joel pushed himself to his feet with a stiff slowness, like a toy without enough moving joints. “Well, I’ll get outta your hair. Thanks for lettin’ me crash here.”

“Wait!” You stood hastily. “Um- like, are you okay? Do you..need anything, like- breakfast, or…” 

He listened to your stuttering half-turned for the door. When you trailed off, Joel faced you again. His eyes were low candle flames, wavering as they dipped to your pajama shorts, but his face didn’t lose its suspicion. “What kind of breakfast?”

--

As soon as you said ‘coffee’, Joel had lit up.

Turned out he liked coffee almost as much as whiskey. But it was “harder to come by”, apparently. He hadn’t elaborated on that. Joel still looked kind of foggy, like all that was propelling him was the promise of breakfast food (or maybe the coffee), but you were betting on him perking up once he had some fuel in him. 

Joel seemed pleased by your choice of diner and its familiar, timeless fare. Waffles and pancakes, eggs and bacon…and most importantly, unlimited coffee. Holding a mug beneath his nose, he inhaled deeply; then sighed it out, looking more serene than you had ever seen him. 

Amused, you sipped your own coffee. It wasn’t anything to write home about- for that, you’d have taken him to Blackhammer, your favorite cafe- but you’d figured the food and atmosphere here would be more pertinent today. 

You waited until he’d inhaled half of his ‘Hungry Man Special’ to bring it up. “So…can I ask what happened?”

Joel froze mid-chew. He swallowed, then cleared his throat. “When I was last here, I got…called into the office, so to speak. There was some big ruckus, needed all hands on deck. That’s why I couldn’t come back for a few days. I got away by saying I had a deal in the works, couldn’t let it disappear. Probably shouldn’t have,” he muttered, his face darkening. “Could come back to bite me in the ass.” He shoveled more sunny-side-up eggs and sausage into his mouth.

“But why did you look so…you fell asleep on my floor, Joel.”

He shrugged.  “Life of a demon.” His smile was as bitter as the diner’s black coffee. He’d pulled some magic trick in your bathroom before leaving, so he looked physically refreshed- unwrinkled clothes, gray hair tidied- but exhaustion lurked in the lines around his eyes.

“Did you mean it when you said that our meeting wasn’t over? This is still our second meeting?”

“I’m a demon of my word- this meeting ain’t over ‘til I get that story, Kitten.” Joel’s spark seemed to have returned; he waggled his brows at you suggestively, his eyes flashing gold.

Your mouth twitched. You opened it to speak-

Joel cut you off. “But not now. I’m too tired to be able appreciate it.”

He kept his head bent to his plate. It took a moment for his meaning to land- but when Joel looked back up, you nodded.

--

Joel appeared fully back to his old self the next time you saw him, which was at the grocery store. It was utterly surreal to be grocery shopping with some kind of supernatural being by your side, but Joel strolled alongside your cart without any compunction, peering at the shelves and watching what you selected with avid interest. 

It was an insightful experience. You watched Joel ‘accidentally’ bump into one of the elementary school teachers in front of the strawberries and flirt until you thought the woman’s striped dress would melt right off her; he then followed you down the cereal aisle and made faces at a baby behind the father’s back. He shook his head at your selected brand of chili seasoning, examined every side of your container of matcha, and wrinkled his face in fascinated disgust at the range of Oreo flavors. 

All of it made you wonder. Joel never answered your question about how long he’d been a demon. He enjoyed Oreos, but didn’t know there were golden ones. He’d never seen an iPod Shuffle, but didn’t seem overly baffled by the capabilities of your smartphone. His speech sounded more or less modern. 

How old was Joel really? What would he think of your theory- that he’d become a demon like this because he’d sold his own soul?

--

The library’s busy hush was blissful. Peaceful yet thrumming with life and purpose, you always got your best work done here. Steam curled from the opening in your coffee cup, drifting past your laptop screen, barely registering in front of the lines of text rapidly appearing.

Somebody plunked a book down at the table space beside you. Your attention flickered. You’d be annoyed by the person in a minute, given the number of empty tables they could have chosen to sit at, but for now you typed on, determined to finish your train of thought.

You were about to glance over when someone’s mouth grazed your ear. “Working hard, kitten?”

You clapped a hand over your mouth to keep from yelping.

“Would you stop sneaking up on me every time you appear!” You snapped your head around to hiss the words, but that just put you inches away from a pair of familiar golden eyes, and your head reared back on instinct. 

Joel straightened up, shrugging archly. “Not my fault you’re unobservant.”

You scoffed. “I’m not unobservant, I’m working. I can’t play with you today, I have a deadline.”

His eyes gleamed as he spotted your coffee cup. “What’s this? ‘Blackhammer’.” Joel picked it up to read the label. Before you could stop him, he stole a sip.

His face contorted in disgust. “Jesus, what the hell’d you do to this? Can’t even taste the coffee.”

Stifling laughter, you carefully took the cup back from him. “That’s because it’s a hazelnut latte, not regular coffee.”

Joel smacked his mouth exaggeratedly, giving the cup a suspicious look. “I’m not sure I trust this place after tasting that.”

“They do have nice coffee roasts, they just also have basic bitch drinks.”

“Basic- what?” Joel looked mildly appalled, your choice of vocabulary finally pulling his attention from the coffee.

Your amusement warred with your annoyance. The ubiquity of memes and the breadth and variety of new, ever-evolving slang was one of things Joel had approximately zero knowledge of, as you discovered at the grocery store, after he asked if an advertisement was using ‘slay’ as a reference to ‘that vampire slayer chick’. Normally you were happy to explain things, but today you were busy.

“It’s just a descriptor, it’s not really an insult…anymore.”

Joel didn’t look like he believed you. “You’re in a library; go look it up.” You gestured to the bank of computers. His mouth crinkled dubiously. 

You sighed. “Look, give me like, 30 minutes. You can brush up on Urban Dictionary, and then I’ll take you to Blackhammer.”

Joel straightened, adopting a unaffected expression. “Naw, don’t worry about it. You can take me tomorrow, when you’re not workin’. Later, kitten.”

--

It was a twenty minute walk from your house to Blackhammer, but despite Joel’s declaration that the rain would hold off, you definitely just felt a drop hit your nose.

The clouds were dark and the breeze mischievous- not unlike the conditions of your first meeting. A sideways glance caught Joel’s yellow eyes glimmering back at you, confirming that he was remembering it, too.

He stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans as he strolled. “Did you make your deadline yesterday?” 

Keeping one eye on the sky, you told him a little about your work. Ten minutes later, undeniable dark spots started to speckle the sidewalk. Joel scoffed- but when the speckles started to become patches, he was right behind you as you scurried under the nearest awning.

The skies opened. Rain poured down like someone had opened a tap over a colander. Thunder rumbled, though half-heartedly, as if to say that it could be a storm, if it wanted to, but it didn’t feel like it today.

Joel lifted his hands to ward off your pointed look. “Now, listen-”

“You insisted-!”

But you were laughing, and his grumbling was good-natured, and you waited companionably under the awning. Several people more prepared than you walked past holding umbrellas. 

After another ten minutes or so, the rain lightened- but not so much that it couldn’t still be called a downpour. The wind had fallen still, and the clouds gave the impression of settling in for a good long soak.

You glanced at Joel. “I don’t suppose you could magic us up an umbrella.”

Joel smirked. “I can do better than that.”

To your astonishment, he walked right out into the downpour. Your mouth opened to protest, but when he turned around, it closed- he was as dry as the sidewalk had been twenty minutes ago. There were no speckles on his shirt, no droplets beading on his hair. He spread his hands, looking smug.

“How did you do that?”

“I wanted to stay dry. Granted my own wish.” 

He hadn’t mentioned he could do that during your conversation at lunch. “Huh.”

Joel beckoned. “Come on. Your turn.”

After a moment’s hesitation, you stepped out into the rain.

And promptly got soaked. Cold and wet splashed you as suddenly as if you'd been hit by a couple of water balloons. You leaped back under the awning, swiping water from your face. “What the fuck, Joel!”

The bastard was laughing. Joel was bent at the waist, clutching his middle, crowing at his own little prank.

He straightened, wiping his eyes. “You shoulda seen your face,” he hooted. 

It was difficult to stay mad when he was suddenly, startlingly pretty, this man- this demon- with the lines on his face creased in laughter and humor sparkling in his sulfur-yellow eyes.

You gave it a try nonetheless. “You said you wanted us to stay dry!”

Joel’s grin didn’t fully fade. “I said I wanted to stay dry. Never said anything about you.” His eyes, still shimmering, glance down your body, dripping like rain over the clinging patches on your shoulders and chest.

You couldn't look away from him. The rain hissed down around you, a silvery curtain preserving the moment, blurring out the rest of the world. 

Joel’s eyes were as warm as sunlight in the distance. He held out his hand. “Alright, come on. I owe you now. My payment’ll be keeping you dry this time.”

You stepped up to the border of wet and dry on the sidewalk. Your arm stretched over the line…and stayed dry. 

You placed your hand in Joel’s. He tugged you out into the rain, and though he released your hand, not a drop touched you.

--

Coffee culture, you suspected, had not been as advanced the last time Joel had been in a cafe. Luckily, the other reason Blackhammer was your favorite palace was the baristas- they were patient, not pretentious, and cheerfully explained the various brewing options to Joel until he was satisfied with his choice. Now he sat and watched his single-origin pour-over brew with forced patience, glancing over disdainfully as you added several brown sugar cubes to your own mug.

As soon as the last drop fell from the filter, Joel was on it. One sip, and his face transformed- he lit from within, chuckling in pure disbelief. He admitted without any arm-twisting that it was worth the wait.

“Can I ask you something?” You didn’t want to to ruin the comfortable atmosphere, but your theory couldn’t wait any longer. 

Joel lowered his mug. “Meeting number two’s big question, huh? Fire away.” He looked resigned, but not annoyed, which you took as encouragement.

“Three dates, three questions,” you reminded him cheekily.

Rolling his eyes, Joel gestured impatiently.

“When I asked you before, about how long you’ve been a demon…you didn’t answer.” You snuck a look at him, but he sat stone-faced. “Will you answer it now?”

Joel took a deep, slow breath. “I’ve been a demon…for somewhere around twenty years.”

He didn’t volunteer many details, and you didn’t ask for them. He made a deal to save his family, and, he said, he’d do it again. His brimstone eyes flashed. 

“I was too scared to try and pull anything clever,” he admitted. “But I’ve learned a trick or two since then.”

“So, who…owns your soul?”

The furrow in Joel’s brow deepened. “The demon who made the deal with me, I suppose. I’d have to check the contract,” he said sardonically.

You phrased your next question very carefully. “If he didn’t own your soul anymore, what would happen to you?”

The full weight of Joel’s attention fell on you, his face a mix of serious and suspicious. “Depends on what he did with it. He could toss it with the rest, and I’d die like everyone else. He could give it to another demon, and I’d stay the same. I guess, theoretically…” You hardly dared to breathe.

“He could give it back to me. Then…well, I dunno really. It’s not exactly common practice.” Another eye roll. “But theoretically, that could mean I’d be a normal human again.”

“Can a normal human own another human’s soul?” You spoke casually, easily, hoping Joel would think you were just musing aloud as the thoughts occurred to you.

“I think that’s generally a no-no, unless they have access to some powerful magic.”

His golden gaze was scorching, his unspoken questions louder than your unconvincing casualness.

But you said nothing more on the subject.

“If you’ve only been a demon for twenty years, then is this your actual age?” You nodded toward his appearance, letting your mouth curve and your eyes sparkle with implication.

Blinking, Joel glanced down at himself. “Thereabouts. I haven’t changed the way I look since I was, uh. Recruited.” His gaze strayed into the distance, clearly still distracted.

“Could you?” you ask curiously.

“Some do.” Joel pushed his mug away abruptly. “I gotta go. Thanks for the coffee.” Shoulders hunched pensively, Joel walked all the way out of the cafe before vanishing.

--

You still hadn’t explained the ‘kitten’ thing, and it was driving you a little bit crazy. 

It’s not that you wanted to end your meetings. It’s just that it felt like unfinished business; like it was keeping you on uncertain ground. Every time Joel used the nickname, it jolted you- was this the moment when he wanted you to explain it? Was he hinting that he wanted the meetings to end?

And the way he used it. He’s made it his own, really. Or at least, you hoped he saw it that way. Joel certainly didn’t use the same inflection as Ruby when he said it.

“Kitten.” You heard it in his teasing voice, low and rough as a lion’s purr, and you shivered. Only when he said it did it sound like you were in a novel of a certain genre…

Oh, no.

Oh, no, this was not a romance novel. You couldn’t be having a crush on a demon.

…But he wasn’t just a demon. He was Joel.

You didn’t even know if it was possible for the two of you to have a future. Particularly given that, as Joel said, another demon owned his soul. Come to think of it, who would own your soul if you sold it? It should be Joel, you reasoned, because he would be the one making the deal. Now there was something to consider…

--

Joel coalesced, and the moment he saw the plant on the windowsill, he smiled.

The smile vanished, however, at what he saw next: your body prone on the sofa, your face pale and taut.

You groaned, curling in on yourself. “You know how I enjoy your company, Joel, but I’m not really up for making deals today. Come back tomorrow, or later tonight if it’s really urgent.”

It should bother him that you’re so unmoved by his presence. That you’re so comfortable blithely shooing away a demon with power like his, so sure that your artless dismissal will result in his disappearance. 

Joel felt not a whisper of annoyance. Instead, as your face contorted in a clear grimace of pain, he felt…anxiety.

“What…what’s wrong?”

“What?” You opened your eyes, seeming confused that he was still there. “Nothing, just period pains. It’s normal.” Your legs shifted restlessly. “You could pass me that bottle of painkillers before you go, though, if you’re feeling generous.” You nodded past him, toward the kitchen table.

Joel didn’t move. “Or, I could…make it go away.” He didn’t shift, didn’t fidget. Didn’t make any expression at all as the offer left his mouth.

“Uh-huh. At what price?” You laughed weakly. “It’s fine, Joel. Happens every month.”

“No price. A gift, freely given.” Joel was kneeling beside you before he was even aware of moving.

You drew a startled breath. The motion pulled at the aching muscles in your abdomen, and your face tightened again.

A ferocious need snarled to life inside Joel. He hadn’t felt anything with this strength in years. It burned through him, demanding his attention, forging pathways he’d thought long-atrophied. It brought everything into sizzling clarity, like- like-

Like having a soul again.

Joel’s hand hovered over your belly, so close to touching you could feel the warmth of him. “Say yes,” he said.

There was something fierce in his tawny eyes, in the set of his mouth- something you didn’t dare interpret. You nodded.

Joel rested his hand on your abdomen- and the pain faded away. 

“Ohhhh.” Your whole body relaxed, and you released a great sigh. You gripped Joel’s wrist without thinking, keeping that sensation there. It was like a warmth, but also something else- not just the absence of pain, but the presence of pleasure, a sweet, honeyed glow emanating through your lower belly and into the rest of your body. 

Joel’s pinkie finger rested on a sliver of skin exposed by your top. The pleasure seemed sweetest there, the richest feeling originating from that tiny length of skin-to-skin contact. As the pain receded and your presence of mind returned, the concept of Joel’s skin on yours became all the more remarkable.

“Joel.” You looked up, intending to say more, but the look on his face stopped you. It was hard but satisfied, the ferocity of earlier gentled. His eyes were the same color, though- tawny-amber, like a mountain cat’s.

You swallowed. “Thank you.”

Joel nodded. He gently extracted his hand from your grip, and the loss of that feeling left a cold hollow. You made a tiny, involuntary sound.

Joel stood, wincing as his knees cracked. Maybe he hadn’t altered his outer or inner workings, like he’d said at Blackhammer. Knowing that his beauty was all-natural was strangely dizzying, overwhelming, and not something you needed to be fixating on right now…

“Get some rest, honey. This meeting ain’t over.”

Your mouth quirked even as your eyelids drooped. As you fell asleep in his presence for the second time, Joel allowed himself a small smile, and then vanished. 

--

“I told you this farmer’s market was good.” Your door unlocked without the slightest struggle; pleased, you made your way inside.

Joel closed the door behind him, satisfaction flickering across his face. He followed you to the kitchen table, watching you unload your purchases. “It was good, I just thought the Sunday one was better, is all.”

“Well, yeah, the weekend ones are always bigger. The Wednesday one is calmer, though…”

Joel had to concede that. The town’s Sunday market had been bustling, with crowds so thick they funneled like molasses, in a slow-moving stream. Once he got used to the noise and the sensation of being gently buffeted about, though, he’d started to enjoy himself. All the smells in the air and the range of goods on offer. Today’s market, though slightly smaller, had a more local feel- the vendors could actually hear each other across their stands, and called greetings and inquiries about lives and jobs.

Several enormous peaches now sat in a basket in the center of the table. With an expression of relish, you plucked one out and went to the sink to wash it. 

A question you asked several dates ago was turning slowly around and around in Joel’s mind. It had lodged in his thoughts the day you’d asked it, growing into a ponderous yet inescapable vortex that was now on the verge of sucking him in. He was usually reluctant to use his gift, but something had its teeth in him- something he didn’t care to examine too closely. You had asked for it…

Returning with your peach, you sent him a quizzical look. “You look like you’re thinking about something.”

“Do you remember at our first meetin’, at lunch, when you asked me if I could show you the…’tempting’ that I can do?”

The hand holding the peach paused halfway to your mouth. “...Yes.”

“I could show you now, if you want.”

Your arm lowered. “Okay,” you agreed.

Joel held out his hand. You stared at him, bemused, until he nodded toward your uneaten snack. Nerves fizzed in his fingertips as your hand neared, as the downy skin of the peach met his palm. 

He held it up. The fruit was nearly as big as his fist, which was saying something. “You want this peach?”

“I did,” you replied, amused and intrigued.

Joel turned and made his way to the couch, sinking into one end. He waved the peach at you again. “How bad?”

Only slightly wary, you followed, sitting opposite him on the couch. “Not bad enough to fight you for it, if that’s what you mean.”

Joel shifted to face you. His attention burned, as unavoidable as a desert sun. Looking at you intently, he tilted his head. “What about now?”

All at once, the peach looked like the most delicious thing you’d ever seen. It seemed to glow in the afternoon light, a fragment of summer itself in Joel’s hand. The rosy flesh was near to bursting with syrupy juice; all you could think about was how dry your throat felt.

Joel brought the peach to his lips. You were transfixed by the sight of his teeth piercing the skin; the wet sound of the flesh as it parted; his mouth and throat working as he slurped at the juice. 

Joel’s mouth glistened. “Do you want this peach?” He held it toward you, offering it like the precious gift it was.

You leaned forward, your knee touching Joel’s. The low rumble of his voice reverberated in your chest; your eyes darted back and forth between his face and the fruit. The peach’s fragrance, thick and floral, floated in the air. “Yes.”

“What would you trade for it?” Joel lifted the peach to his mouth again.

“Wait!” you cried. “Um-” You looked around wildly. In your frantic, clumsy haste to find something, you toppled forward.

You planted your hand on Joel’s chest to stop yourself. He sat unmovable, solid and warm. The woodsmoke scent of him threaded through the sweetness in the air. You lifted your eyes to his- his gorgeous eyes, golden like honey, like sunlight. His mouth was lush and wet as the fruit you’d all but forgotten about. Your interest in the peach was fleeting, a drop in the bucket compared to your desire for-

“Stop.”

The vitality of the moment faded. After a few fraught seconds, everything seemed slightly less…vibrant, somehow. Joel’s mouth was a flat line, his jaw tense. He didn’t move. 

Slow and cautious, you sat back, your brow furrowed. You remembered everything that had just happened, but the thought process behind your actions was less clear. 

You eyed the peach, wondering where its appeal had gone. “What did you…”

“I didn’t do anything. I asked if you wanted the peach. My powers did the rest.”

Joel’s powers. His aura of temptation, convincing you that what you wanted most in the world was perfectly within reach. Until…

Your face felt like it might burst into flames. “And then…”

“And then you got distracted,” Joel said shortly.

He set the peach on the coffee table and stood. “I’m late for something. I gotta go.” For once he left through the door, rather than vanishing in his uncanny way.

Your apartment felt strangely empty without him taking up so much space in it.  

Your cheeks blazed with heat beneath your palms. What just happened?

Joel said you’d gotten distracted. But his powers didn’t create desires, only amplified existing ones. Which meant…

You stood suddenly, overcome with the strength of your realization.

And Joel knew.

--

The ground Joel trod was uneven rock, but his mind was nowhere near his feet. It was back in your apartment, frozen in the exact moment he felt your desire shift, its focus change. 

To him.

It couldn’t be. But it was. He knew exactly what his powers could and couldn’t do, and they couldn’t put that fire in your eyes without a spark. 

Joel’s hands shook and his blood raced, propelling him toward the meeting place fast enough that he would no longer be late. He’d give himself away, but it didn’t matter. Tess was waiting.

--

A small crowd was already waiting at the crossing. You fell in at the back, using the wait to dig in your bag for chapstick. When the crowd started forward, you looked up.

Joel was standing on the other side.

You froze. People flowed around either side of you. In your indecision, the crossing light changed from green to red again.

It’s been 48 hours since you’ve seen Joel. Since his powers lifted the veil on your desire for him, bringing it into the light for you both to feel. 

Your eyes locked onto him. He stood as inscrutable as ever, hands in his pockets, his hair glinting silver in the light. He jerked his head in a summoning motion.

That was more like the irritating demon you knew. That familiar combination of annoyance and trepidation gave you the courage to cross the street.

Silently, he fell into step beside you. You walked slowly, both of you gathering your thoughts.

“That ice cream place you mentioned, when we went to lunch. Is it open now?”

It was so beyond anything you might have expected that you stopped, right in the middle of the sidewalk. 

“What?”

Joel paused a few steps later, turning his head, and then the rest of his body, back toward you. “The ice cream place. Is it open right now?” he repeated.

The gears of your mind turned stickily, slow to catch up. “Um…I think so.”

“Can we go?” Joel looked at you expectantly.

“Right now?”

Joel huffed in exasperation. “Yes, kitten. Right now. You feelin’ okay?”

“Sure, yeah, um…” Your thoughts juddered into motion again. “Just, it’s this way.” You pointed back the way you’d come. 

The line at the nearby ice cream place was long. You weren’t surprised. Neither was anyone else, it seemed. Families and couples waited without complaint, enjoying the balmy weather. You and Joel joined the end, still mostly silent. It wasn’t awkward, exactly. More…unsure.

“If I pay for this,” Joel finally said, “will you tell me the story behind your nickname?”

Oh. You didn’t answer for a long moment, your mind ticking. “Yes,” you said.

Joel nodded once, his face mostly stoic, and yet…not. You couldn’t put your finger on any specific emotion. Only that he didn't seem...satisfied, as if he wasn't quite convinced by his own course of action.

“Why do you even still have money?” you asked. 

Joel rolled his eyes. “To buy my victims ice cream, of course.” He gave you a sidelong glance, before stepping forward to peer at the menu.

You shook your head, looking away to hide a smile.

You expected to feel sad. Disappointed, about the idea that Joel wanted to end your second meeting and start your third and final one.

But you just couldn’t.

You couldn’t feel sad when Joel was still cracking lame jokes and suppressing smiles at your grudging laughter. You couldn’t feel worried that you fucked everything up when he handed you your ice cream cone with easy care, letting your fingers brush for a prolonged moment. You couldn’t fear that he wanted to end things when he asked if you had any plans for the local holiday next weekend; as if he paid attention, as if he cared. 

“Nah,” you answered. You didn’t notice Joel’s golden eyes flicker as you busily chased a trickle of melting ice cream with your tongue. “Well, I mean yes, but they’re the same as everyone else’s. Go out, get drunk, have a good time.”

“Where’s your favorite place?”

“What, to go out? The Chameleon, probably.” Your eyes closed to savor your ice cream.

The Chameleon was a place you’ve mentioned before. It was sort of a bar and a club stuck together, but the setup worked for everyone- especially the bar, whose patrons only needed to head into the back to ramp up their night out. You'd said the 'vibes' there were always good, which Joel thought sounded a bit retro, but which you assured him was currently modern slang again.

“Any good times planned?”

You sent Joel a curious glance. “Some, for sure, but they’re more open-ended plans.”

Joel looked away, across the lot full of picnic tables and families with their sweet treats, and concentrated on his cone. The height of his ice cream swirl steadily shrank, until finally it was level with the top of the cone. “So,” he said. “Kitten.”

You froze, a mouthful of ice cream half-melted on your tongue. You swallowed quickly, shivering as the cold caught in your throat. “Kitten,” you agreed.

The memory made you smile. Nostalgia tangled with a twinge of inevitable sadness as you finally told the story that had held the end at bay for so long.

“I was hired at Ruby’s right before Halloween. Normally Ruby meets all the new hires herself, but she was away that year for some reason. So I didn’t meet her until the day of Halloween. I was wearing a headband with little cat ears on it- employees were allowed to dress up, but I’d only just started, so I didn’t wanna do anything crazy- so the headband was my only ‘costume’, but Ruby comes in and she looks at me and goes ‘Well, who’s this little kitten?’”

Joel could hear it in Ruby’s exact tone. You laughed, shaking your head, and continued. “She just called me ‘kitten’ for the rest of the night- for the rest of the week. She did eventually learn my name, but it was too late by that point. Everyone else there started calling me 'kitten', too, and it just stuck

You shrugged, darting a glance at Joel. “I told you it wasn’t that exciting.”

“Maybe.” Waffle cone crunched between his teeth. “You mind that I use it?”

You looked up in surprise. “No.”

Joel’s eyes were bright, the yellow as defiant as dandelions. He popped the end of the cone in his mouth with relish and sucked the ice cream off his fingers. “Good,” he said. “Kitten.”

---

Thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist

[littlemisspascal]

THE FUNERAL

Joel Miller x f!reader || 600 words

Summary: Joel fucks you at a funeral.

Tw: 18+ mdni, smut, spanking (1), hair pulling(1), rough sex, unprotected piv, creampie, degradation but it’s sweet, mention of death, infidelity, dark undertones. Reader has hair, wears a dress.

A/n: I just saw these two pics on Pinterest side by side and my brain birthed this. not beta-ed, barely edited. Hope you’ll like it<3 dividers by @saradika-graphics

MASTERLIST

You drag Joel to the bedroom by his big hand and as soon as the door closes behind you two, you kiss him with passion and hunger, that you haven’t known until meeting him.

“Take me, Joel.”

“Now?”

“Yes. All those fake tears and awkward condolences make me wanna scream. I‘d rather scream because of you.”

You’re heaving, suffocating with lust that is rippling through your body in waves.

Joel’s crooked smile tells you that he’s in and soon your cheek is pressed to the bed and his clothed hard-on is rubbing against your ass.

“You look so hot in black.”

His compliment makes you smile but the next moment a whimper crawls up your throat when his warm hands slowly glide up the back of your naked thighs, lifting the hem of your dress and exposing you. Joel growls when he sees that you’ve been naked and dripping under your mourning dress. The clang of his belt and the clothes rustling send shivers down your spine and then you moan with anticipation as his hot cock heavily lands on your ass cheek.

“Fuck me hard. Let me feel what I’ve done. Punish me.”

Joel chuckles but the sound lacks cheer. Bitterness coats his words.

“You’ve done nothing wrong, baby—“

He almost chokes when his tip pushes between your wet folds.

“— only waited for your rich old husband to die.”

“Meanwhile fucking you,” you add with a smirk and then gasp as his fat head catches on your soft hole and he slowly starts pushing it in.

“Damn, you’re soaked.”

“Been thinking about this all day. Couldn’t wait for you to ruin me.”

Instead of a reply Joel slaps your ass cheek and you jerk at the hard stroke.

“Such a slut. Horny for your lover at your husband’s funeral.”

You moan loudly, not caring who could hear you, when his thick member is spreading your walls so nicely, and you tremble at the delicious stretch.

“Say it again,” you whine.

You hear a smirk in his voice when Joel repeats,

“Your husband’s funeral.”

The sound you emit almost makes him spill inside you— it’s full of ecstasy and joy.

“Bad girl.”

He bottoms out and you clench the sheets, before he drags his cock out almost to the tip. You squeeze around his bulbous head, pussy greedy and desperate.

“Yes—yes—yes,” you chant as he starts fucking into your cunt with energetic thrusts, sending you higher to your peak.

Suddenly Joel grabs a handful of your hair and pulls you up against his chest. You don’t feel pain, just lust and pleasure are licking at your body, as his hips are hitting your ass, sending his cock deeper into your core.

His hot breath tickles your ear when he gruffs through the sound of skin slapping against skin,

“I’ll keep punishing you like this forever, baby. You’ll be my little cock sleeve. My personal slut with a dirty secret. We’re connected forever now.”

“Forever,” you breathe out and turn your head to latch onto his mouth.

The kiss feels almost violent, all teeth and groans, and you break it abruptly to search for his blown eyes.

“Promise you’ll protect me. Promise no one will know what we’ve done.”

Joel presses his sweaty forehead to yours and slows down his thrusts to whisper,

”I promise.”

With his arms holding you tightly, his stiffness languidly massaging your soft spot, you come on his thick cock and your pulsating cunt makes him squirt his creamy load against your walls. It’s hard to breathe in his steel embrace while he’s filling you full, but tears of happiness are flowing down your face because finally, finally, you are free.

Thank you for reading! Leave a comment and reblog if you enjoyed the story<3

MASTERLIST

Tag list:@milla-frenchy @harriedandharassed @iamasaddie @nervousmumbling @bbyanarchist @stevie75 @puduvallee @auteurdelabre @mountainsandmayhem @senoratess @flamingochick55 @theoraekenslover @schnarfer @mermaidgirl30 @staywildflowahchild @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @evolnoomym @keylimebeag @joelmillerisapunk @pascaltesfaye @fruityreads @itwasntimethatdidit40

[littlemisspascal]

Fruits of Passion {Marcus Acacius x F!Reader}

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 10.6k

Warnings: SEX POLLEN!!!! War, dubious consent, talk of whores, sexual repression, masturbation, oral sex (male and female receiving), rough sex, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms

Comments: Sent to wage war on your kingdom, Marcus seeks to minimize bloodshed as do you as your realm's queen. So you feed him fructus voluptatis, which he finds has a very strange affect on him and his army.

Co-written with @storiesofthefandomlovers

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|| MasterList || Marcus Acacius MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

Marcus sighs as he strides down the marble hallway, his sandals slapping and making a noise that echoes. He has been summoned to the emperors and he is reluctant to hear about their latest whim. He nods at the guards on duty and enters the ostentatious room. "Ah General. Welcome. Welcome." Geta coos while Caracalla smirks at a woman who is redressing. Both men are handed a cup of wine by the woman before she leaves. "She is available if you wish to indulge." Caracalla smirks and Marcus rocks his jaw, "I am fully satiated, thank you Caesar." He bows his head slightly and Geta wraps his robe around him and takes the cup of wine from Caracalla's hand. "We want you to conquer more land for Rome...in our name." He says after he has a sip. Marcus frowns a little, "but I just returned." The men look at each other and laugh, "and you shall return again. With more land." Caracalla says, tilting his chin. Marcus knows there is no argument. He must leave. "I shall gather my men." He bows his head and Geta grins, "may Mars bring you home victorious." 

**** 

You stand on your balcony, staring out across the land that your ancestors fought for, that your grandfather and father fought hard for. Heavy is the head that wears the crown and you know that intimately. Their riders kick up dust and you can see the cloud coming closer to your kingdom. "They will be here before sunset. No doubt they will set up camp and rest before they attack. Let us prepare to fight." You turn to your general who nods and bows his head. Once again, you must fight Rome for your home.

The sounds of war are nothing new to Marcus, as wearisome as the sound may be. The whistling of arrows as they slice through the air or the sounds of men screaming as they lay broken on the fields to rot and fall silent. And yet - he has never encountered an army with as much skill and determination as the one he leads. Not an inch of ground has been taken, not succeeded by the ruler of the lands he wishes to conquer on orders from his emperors. Tactics that he had never imagined before used to repel his advances and he is sustaining more losses than he had calculated.

You watch from your balcony as your men fight for their independence. They are trained well, trained by their fathers and their fathers who knew these days would come. "I want to be out there with them." You tell your advisor, Cyrus, who stood alongside your late father. "You are well trained but these men would not hesitate to take you, to brutalize you and use your body as an example to all that refuse Rome. You are where you are supposed to be. Leading from afar so the men have a home to return you, a queen to return to who will offer them glory and reward." You nod, biting your lip as you prepare for losses and to console the wives of those whose husbands fell under your sword.

The siege has lasted for weeks, Marcus sighs wearily as he stares up at the fortified city. He has to commend the generals of this army, they have trained their men well. While he believes this is foolish, he must succeed for his emperor’s. “Raise the flag.” He commands. “I wish to talk to their generals.”

You are surprised when Cyrus enters your chambers and declares that the Romans have asked for a truce. You stand up and adjust your robes, "they shall have their truce but I wish to meet their general. Have an adult discussion." You command and Cyrus nods, bowing his head as he leaves your chambers.

Once Marcus learns that the generals are willing to meet to discuss terms, he takes the time to bathe, wanting to give the appearance of a leader who has nothing to worry about. Dressing in the impressive armor, shiny and oiled, he strides out of his tent to meet the party.

Cyrus is among the men meeting the Roman general and his men. They journey into no man's land and both groups stand opposite each other. "Shall we take this as your surrender?" Cyrus calls out and his men laugh while the Roman's clench their jaws, frustrated by the length of this conquest. They should've been returning home to their warm beds by now. "We are not surrendering." Marcus replies, his voice strong as he steps forward from the lineup. "I want to meet your infamous queen. The one whose name echoes across the Empire." He declares and Cyrus steps forward, "she wants to meet you. Only you." He adds after a pause.

Marcus glances at the general and the men flanked at his sides. He can feel his own men bristle at the suggestion but he holds up his hand. “Very well.” He decides, reaching for the belt that holds his sword. “I will come meet your queen unarmed.” He tells them, “but if I am taken captive or killed, my men will destroy this city by fire.” He warns.

You watch as the food is laid out, meats and cheeses alongside fruits. Copious amounts of wine...it's a feast for your enemy. You know the General will be suspicious of your generosity but that is how your father taught you politics. "He is here, my Queen." Your guard announces and you nod, "send him in." You order and the doors open to reveal the Roman General escorted by Cyrus. You stand straighter and prepare to face the man representing the enemy. "Welcome, General." You greet him coolly, holding your hand out to him.

Surprised by the apparent feast, he takes your hand and bows over it slightly. Unsure of what to call you in these circumstances since he would not call you his queen. “I have heard tales of your courage and beauty, but I find them to be under-exaggerated.” He says, looking up and wondering how you have not already been conquered with a face as beautiful as yours.

You tell him your name, "I do not care for titles" you say as you offer him a smile, lowering your hand from his and you nod to Cyrus, letting him know you will be fine. "And I have heard many stories of the great General Acacius of Rome. You have conquered many lands. but mine will not be one of them. Come, I am certain you are hungry after your battles with my men. I fear my mother would turn in her grave if I was not a good host." You gesture to the table as Cyrus closes the doors, leaving you alone with Marcus.

Marcus appreciates your plain speaking after dealing with the subterfuge and double entendres of Roman society. Especially in the emperors’ palace. “Marcus.” He tells you, giving you his first name. “Unfortunately, we will take this land because my emperors wish to claim it for their glory.” He sighs. “Perhaps we can come to an agreement so that not too many of your people need to die.”

You sit down and stare at him from across the table. "I would like to counteroffer. You leave now and Rome will not lose more of her soldiers. No doubt your Emperors wish to expand their lands across the sea, I do not understand what my lands have to offer other than territory." You don't mention the natural resources your lands have, it's a well kept secret among your people and why you are so defensive. "I think the easiest solution is you return to your emperors, inform them that my lands are not for the taking, but bring good news that the losses were fewer than anticipated so you have more men for your next conquest." You smile, picking up the pitcher of wine to pour him a cup before you pour your own, setting the pitcher down then you pick up your cup to take a sip.

Marcus watches as you take a sip, wary of a poison that you would offer him. Furrowing his brow when you swallow and smirk at him. “Unfortunately, my emperors would not accept that.” He admits. “They would just send another army, three times the size of the one with me.” He takes his own sip of wine and has to admit that it’s delicious. He sets the cup down and waits to see if it will have any ill effects on him, settling back in the comfortable chair. “You could always surrender now, I would be willing to negotiate fair terms for your people.” He pauses. “And you, as Queen.”

You tilt your head, watching him as you take another sip of wine. “I have told my men to offer food to your troops. I know you have traveled far from Rome and I am certain your supplies are dwindling. You did not anticipate my people to hold out so long. I’m sorry to disappoint, but we will not surrender. I will not surrender.” You declare, “but let us not discuss battles when I am certain you are hungry. Please, eat.” You gesture to the table.

He doesn't know what kind of game you are playing but he watches as you start to pick and choose items randomly from the table to eat. Obviously proving that the food is safe. "Why would you feed my men?" He demands. "It will just allow us to linger here longer. Fight harder."

“Our culture.” You explain, “it would be remiss to not feed a guest, no matter how unwelcome they may be. My ancestors fed their enemies. It is tradition.” You explain, “and I will follow tradition.” You reach for some bread, wanting to show him that you aren’t poisoning him. “This is our local fruit. A delicacy here.” You declare as you pick a piece up and pop it in your mouths humming in content.

He is curious about the fruit, never seeing such a thing before. It looks like it is juicy and sweet, making him hesitate for only a moment before he reaches for the fruit. "Local, you say?" He asks, inspecting it closely and admiring the vivid pink coloring of the fruit's skin before he pops it in his mouth. The emperors would want to try any local resources that they do not have in Rome.

You watch him chew on the fruit, picking up your cup of wine. “Tell me, General, how is your camp? Are you comfortable? Are you served well? Serviced by whores?” You ask nonchalantly, tilting your head and licking your lips as you reach for another piece of fruit.

He nearly chokes on his tongue by the way you ask about his sex life. Managing to swallow the sweet fruit, he reaches for the wine again to wash it down so he doesn't cough. "No." He admits, with a shake of his head. "I do not use the women that frequent the camps." He never has since he had gained rank and privilege.

You hum, letting your eyes trail along his form, covered by intricate armor that has you admiring his strong form. “I imagine they are very upset by that slight. Do you partake in your fellow soldier?” You ask, curious about the General and his tendencies.

His brow arches up at your boldness and he takes another sip of the wine and sets it down before plucking another piece of the fruit from the tray. "No." He chuckles. "I satisfy my own needs when they become urgent." He tilts his head. "Are you always so concerned with the sexual appetites of your enemy?"

You chuckle, leaning forward in your chair, “to know a man’s sexual appetite is to know how he fights on a battlefield. It is easy to ascertain your weakness and you’ve just told me yours, General.” You smirk, licking your lips as you pluck a grape from the tray and place it in your mouth.

He snorts, unsure of what kind of thought process that is, and he shrugs. "So what did I just tell you?" He asks curiously, wondering what you could possibly get from not fucking camp whores.

“That you’re pent up. You haven’t fucked a woman since you have been on the road for many months. You’ve been camped outside my lands for weeks. You must be aching. Yearning for a release, to bury your cock in a woman and find some mind numbing bliss in her. You’re mentally foggy. Frustration can do that. A man with empty balls has a clear mind. He’s not preoccupied with the need to relax, he’s not distracted. That’s your weakness and distracted soldiers make mistakes. You’ll make a mistake.” You finish and cross your arms together to push your breasts up.

He knows the blatant attempt to make him look at your breasts and he smirks as he does just that. He has control, even if his cock twitches under his armor at the soft swell of flesh on display. “Who says my balls are full?” He decides if you speak as crudely as a soldier, he should not temper his own words for the sake of propriety. “My hand can provide a release when needed and I do not have to deal with a whore thinking that because a general ruts between her thighs that she runs the camp.”

You chuckle, leaning back in your seat, and you reach for your cup of wine once more. He’s smart and handsome. If he weren’t the enemy, you’d definitely have him between your thighs for the foreseeable. “You may think the men run the camp but those women work harder, fight harder, than any soldier. They fight to survive in a world that has their death warrants signed. So your hand suffices and you come here now, ready to accept my surrender and then what? You’ll return to your uxor?” You raise your eyebrows, “are you loyal to your wife and that is why you are satisfied with your hand?”

You are impressive and smart. Beautiful and brave. It’s a fascinating combination and if he did not have to conquer your lands, he would be interested in seducing you. “I am not married.” He reveals. “No uxor waiting at home, no lover.” He shrugs. “I will go home and see what next campaigns the emperors would send me on.” It's almost a dreary existence, but he has no choice right now.

You scoff, “they have everything they could ever wish for. Riches beyond imagination. Gold, wine, medicines. Yet it’s never enough. They are greedy and they will be the downfall of the Empire.” You declare with a scoff, “you are not like most Romans. Many would’ve come in here with a concealed weapon to try and kill me. I've had others try. All have failed.” You warn the General and you pick up another piece of fruit, “have another piece. It’s our greatest asset.” You order as you bite into the fruit.

Marcus helps himself to the tasty fruit, reminding him of a sweet cherry, but it’s slightly tart. Delicious and juicy, it makes his mouth water when he eats another. “What is this fruit called?” He asks. “I will have to bring a wagon full back to my emperors.”

You smirk, plucking another piece for yourself, "it's called fructus voluptatis and I am certain it would be wasted on your emperors. They would not appreciate its lingering sweetness." You shake your head, having heard rumors about the indulgent Roman Emperors. "Tell me, Marcus, why do you fight for them?"

Marcus knows that it would be foolish to admit the truth to you, it could get back to emperors, but he is tired of fighting useless causes. Tired of sending men to die. “Because I serve Rome and her people.” He sighs, picking up another piece of the fruit and eating it eagerly. “They are the will of Rome, so I serve them.” He does not say that if he refuses he would be killed, but he’s certain you know that. “If I am leading the army, perhaps I can send a few more sons and husbands back to their families.”

You tilt your head and narrow your eyes slightly, “you are not what I expected, General.” You declare and he chuckles, wiping his lower lip with his thumb, “and what did you expect?” You hum, trailing your fingers along the tabletop, “a beastly, pompous, prick who would do anything to destroy my people and take our land. You are…definitely not beastly. You are here with me when most men would’ve picked up that knife and held it to my neck already.”

Marcus watches your fingers, the image of them trailing over his chest and wrapping around his cock springing to life in his mind and making him shudder. His half hard cock twitching and he coughs slightly and shifts in his seat. “I have no wish to harm you or any of your people.” He admits. “I am a violent man by trade, but not by nature.”

You hum, trailing your finger along the rim of your cup, your eyes looking at him from under your lashes, “I can tell that you are not blood thirsty. You do not take pleasure in your kill so I ask once again what’s your pleasure? Your hand? Do you not want more?”

Marcus feels your question humming through his veins, lighting up desires and needs that he has spent a long time burying under duty and a strict sense of propriety. The emperors may indulge themselves in whatever and whomever they please, but Marcus wishes to treat the people under his direction with respect. He snorts. “Of course I want more.” He grunts, cock twitching again and thickening to the point where it’s tenting the tunic in his lap. Head already weeping with need like he’s been drawing out his pleasure like he sometimes does. It seems to take the edge off for longer. “But I don’t want a woman to crawl into my bed because she feels she has to, or to gain some favor by being my whore.” He admits. “I would have found a woman to enjoy my time with while I was in Rome, but the emperors were too eager to claim your land for their own.” His tongue is surprisingly loose and he frowns as he reaches for another little fruit. They are addictive.

“You’re a handsome man, General. I imagine most women would only be too eager to fall into your bed, give you pleasure like sucking your cock, letting you use their bodies for your frustrations. Without payment of coin. Simply because they want to.” You smile, licking your lips as he chews on the fruit

He shifts again as he swallows, wondering if you think that seducing him will send him on his way without your lands. Shivering again and shaking his head slightly as he reaches for his wine to wash away the way his mouth suddenly waters slightly. He had watched you lick your lips and wants to taste the fruit from them. "I have had my share of lovers." He admits, his voice raspy. "I believe they were all satisfied."

You notice his eyes darken and he fidgets in his seat. You smirk and watch him struggle, the effects of the fruit hitting him. “I’m certain they were. You seem like a capable lover. Nothing worse than a selfish leader. It doesn’t bode well to success. You, General, would be a force to be reckoned with in bed…as well as the battlefield.”

He feels his face flush at your compliment, something that never happens to him. He doesn't fluster easily, but his entire body seems to warm through. "Then you know you should surrender to me." He grunts, imagining you submitting to him in bed rather than surrendering your lands. "I will treat you fairly."

You scoff, shaking your head, “I will never surrender. I would sooner die alongside my people than allow Rome to take my land.” You say as you trail your fingers along your collarbone. “Are you feeling okay, General? You look flushed.” You comment, pouting slightly.

Marcus clears his throat, swallowing again at the excess saliva filling his mouth. "Fine." He rasps out, nodding as if that would make it believable and he downs the rest of his wine quickly before setting the cup down. His eyes slide along your skin with your fingers, watching the innocent move with a hunger to trace that same path with his lips.

You giggle, noticing how affected he is, and you reach for the clip that keeps your robes together. You smirk, seeing his eyes widen as your breasts are exposed to his eyes. “It’s so hot in here. Are you heated, General?” You ask, picking up your fan to try and cool yourself down. “Forgive me for my nudity, I am a little dizzy.”

Marcus chokes out your name, ripping his eyes from your tits even though he wants to touch them. His hands curl into fists so that he doesn’t reach for you. “Is that- do your people just strip down when the heat overcomes you?” He asks tightly, his entire body on fire now and he is starting to sweat.

You continue to fan yourself, leaning back in your seat, “when we are overwhelmed. Of course.” You shrug like it’s nothing and your tits jiggle with the move. “It’s best to have some cool air on your body instead of sitting in silence and suffering.” You coo, “you look overheated.”

He is. He’s so fucking hot right now, so fucking hard. He wants to strip down so he can sink into your cunt and fuck you until you are screaming his name for your entire realm to hear. “Thirsty.” He reaches for the pitcher of wine to pour himself so more, trying to keep his eyes off your breasts.

You smirk, leaning closer and you set your fan down before you cross your arms to rest them on the table. “Drink as much as you want, General. We have plenty.” You see how his chest heaves, the sweat on his brow, “you need more, don’t you?” You guess, knowing how the fruit can take effect.

“Yes.” He croaks out, pouring a large goblet full of wine and starting to down it like a man dying of thirst. “More.” He gasps when he drains the cup and still his body is on fire. His cock is throbbing and he shudders as he shifts in his seat as the fabric of his tunic brushes over the sensitive skin.

You watch how he shudders, “you can touch yourself. It’s okay. I won’t tell anyone. It’s our secret.” You wink and cup your breast, “I’m overheated too.” You murmur, moaning softly as you pinch your nipple.

“What the fuck is happening to me?” He groans quietly, swallowing as you palm your tit and moan yourself. “What did you poison me with?” He accuses, glaring at you and clenching his hand into a fist.

You giggle, “it’s not poison. It’s the fruit. It has…lusty effects. You are hard, no?” You ask and he nods, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “You need release. You will not be comfortable until you touch yourself, General.” You slide your hand up until you’re palming both tits. “You need to cum. That’s the only way to stop this feeling.”

“Fuck.” He closes his eyes and hisses softly as he tries to control himself. “You- you planned this?” He asks breathlessly. “You ate the fruit as well.”

“I did, but I have a tolerance to it. We eat this regularly.” You are a little heated but not overwhelmed like he is. “You need to touch yourself. You will not feel better until you do. You’ve eaten a lot. You will die if you do not touch yourself. Your heart will only take so much.” You reveal with a smirk and chuckle when his eyes widen.

This has to be some kind of trick. To make him embarrass himself. He shakes his head. “If I die, your kingdom will be razed to the ground.” He reminds you. “You would not put your people in danger.”

You smirk as you stand, letting your robes fully drop from your body, and you step out of the pile gathered at your feet, “your army was given a generous sample of fruit. I’m certain they will be fucking each other senseless by now while my men remove their weapons from under their noses.” You giggle, swaying your hips as you make your way over to the bed behind the silks, eager to touch yourself after having the fruit. You’re still affected somewhat by its power.

“Gods be damned.” You have effectively crippled his army. He knows that if they are half as afflicted by this fruit as he is, they will be balls deep in each other and every available whore in the camp. A veritable orgy. Marcus can barely see you behind the silk and he grips the edge of the chair before he stands, giving into his need to see what you are doing. To see your body again.

You moan as you lay down on the bed, stretching out, and your hands slide along your body, unashamed of your form, and you look up when you see Marcus slide past your silks. "Like what you see, General?" You tease, squeezing your breast.

His breath is ragged, panted out as he struggles for control. “How- how long will this last?” He groans, cock twitching and bobbing heavily under his tunic. He still doesn’t touch himself, but he watches you.

"Depends. If you refuse to pleasure yourself, it will be a slow death. If you find pleasure, it will leave your system in hours." You hum, pinching your nipple and you are soaking wet as you trail your eyes down to the tent in his tunic.

Marcus grapples with the issue at hand. He could not believe you, but why would you lie? You are lying naked on a bed, touching yourself. He groans as you press your thighs together and then spread them to let him see your curls wet with arousal. “Fuck.” He swallows harshly as reaches for the ties of his armor.

You watch him as he starts to strip his armor. He's so broad and it's not just the armor that fills him out. He's strong and although his stomach is softer than younger soldiers, he has your folds dripping wet as you watch him expose his body inch by inch. "Touch you. I want to watch you touch yourself." You demand, adding a moan when your fingers slide through your folds.

He raises his chin defiantly, but he knows that he needs to touch himself. His cock is dripping onto the floor and he hisses as he watches you revel in the pleasure of your own touch. Spitting into his hand and reaching down to wrap his hand around his cock with a relieved groan at just that simple touch.

You watch him with lust filled eyes. You never intended to touch yourself, you wanted to watch him fall apart before you, but he has intrigued you. You slide your fingers up to rub your clit, "you are magnificent, General."

He just holds his cock in his hand, squeezing it to relieve the pressure. “You are perfect.” He counters. “Wars would be waged over your beauty, your hand being battled for to the death.”

You hum, pleased by his reaction, and you pull your hand away from your cunt, shifting onto your knees to get a little closer to him. "would you fight for me, General?" You ask, raising your eyebrows.

“Yes.” He breathes the admission out without a second’s thought. Groaning as his cock twitching in his and he rocks his hips forward just a fraction of an inch, jerking himself into his grip. He wants to bury his tongue in your cunt while he strokes his cock to see if you taste like the fruit you has tricked him into eating.

Pleased with his answer, you grin as you slide your hand down your body until you’re rubbing your clit again. You moan and watch him as he fists his cock, “stroke yourself. I want to watch you take your pleasure.”

It's like he cannot deny you. Marcus throws his head back and hisses quietly as his hand starts to move. Slowly and achingly sliding up and down the length of his cock as he stands with his feet braced apart. Right now your soldiers could come in and strike him down, but he doesn't care. The pleasure from the slow, tight stroke is too much.

​​You watch him, smirking in satisfaction at the way his jaw drops. He looks so blissed out and you haven’t even gotten started. “That’s it, General. Touch yourself. You look so good like this.” You hum, continuing to rub your clit as you kneel on the bed. “Does it feel good?” You coo, shuffling a little closer.

“So good.” His nostrils flare as he pants out breath, losing control over himself as the need consumes him. His eyes are fixed on your bare body and his hips lurch forward into his grip, as if propelled closer to you, but he barely manages to stop from stepping forward. He will not have you accuse him of attacking you. “This- it hurts.” He groans, a spurt of liquid dribbling from the tip of his cock. “And feels so good.”

“I know. I know.” You nod, pouting slightly in sympathy. “It will get better. You need to spill your seed. Can I - I want to touch you.” You declare, shifting a little closer, “can I touch you, General?” You ask, continuing to rub your clit.

Marcus gnashes his teeth together, but it can’t repress the whine that comes out of the back of his throat. He should say no, he would say no if it were for the burning need that is clawing under his skin, humming through his entire body. “I- I am your- your guest.” He pants out. “You can do anything you want.”

You grin, loving his answer, and you shuffle closer, kneeling on the bed after pulling your fingers away from your clit. “You’re so gorgeous.” You murmur. You want him, want to taste him. You lean forward to take the head of his cock into your mouth when he squeezes his cock.

He chokes out your name, unable to believe that a queen has his cock in her mouth. That you are touching him in such a way. His stomach heaves and he’s embarrassed by the next spurt of pre-cum that leaks out, flooding your mouth, although he’s not even close to orgasming yet.

You moan around him, shifting your weight onto one hand to cover his hand with yours, squeezing him at the base as you take him a little deeper into your mouth. The salty taste of pre-cum has you humming around him and you watch his neck clench as he twitches in your grip.

He should pull his hips back. He should redress and go warn his men about eating the fruit, although he knows they most likely already have. The soldiers are always eager for any fresh fruits they can get their hands on, so it would have been readily accepted. He moans and lets go of his cock, reaching for your cheek and his hand is gentle as he caresses it.

You moan around his cock, taking him even deeper, and you love the way his broad chest heaves. Your other hand caresses a scar on his thigh and you watch him as you hollow your cheeks, sucking on his thick length.

It’s been a long time since he’s received this kind of pleasure. He hisses when your tongue presses against the sensitive head. His fingers curling around your jaw and applying the slightest pressure to it to lift your eyes up to him.

You moan around him, loving the dark look on his face as he watches you suck on his cock. Your hand trails along your stomach and down to your pussy, cupping yourself before you start to rub your clit while you bob your head.

Marcus grips the back of your head, growling incoherently. Enjoying the way you touch yourself without apology. If you weren’t sucking his cock, he’s sure this room would be filled with your moan. “Gods.” He hisses, his body sweating and throbbing with need.

You hum around his cock, loving how he twitches in your mouth. You’re dripping wet as you slide your fingers through your folds, and you close your eyes when he rocks his hips, pushing his cock a little deeper.

His body is so tightly wound, so primed, that the next time your throat closes around his shaft, Marcus is cumming. With a shout of pure relief, he starts to spill down your throat in hot ropes.

You swallow him down, humming around his length, and it’s too much that his cum starts to slide down your chin. When he finally stops twitching, you pull off of him with a gasp, trying to catch your breath and you know you look messy with his cum dripping off your chin.

You look gorgeous covered in his seed. Thoroughly debauched and still his hard cock aches for more. His fingers slide through his cum to grip your chin. “Let me fuck you.” He demands roughly. If you say no, he will have to stroke his cock again, the fever still spiking his blood.

You grin, shifting to lay down on the bed. You slide your hand along your chin to gather his cum so you can lick it from your palm. “Come and fuck me, General. Take me how you want.” You demand, spreading your legs to show him how wet you are.

Your cunt is dripping, glistening in the light of the day and the torches on the wall. Even though his cock is twitching to be buried deep, he lunges forward on the bed, kneeling between your thighs and he dives into your folds face first, his fist around his cock and his moans being breathed into your sex.

You cry out, moaning as his tongue slides through your folds. You didn’t expect him to do that and his mouth is wet and hot as he laps at you. “Fuck, General, you are eager.” You gasp, tangling your fingers in his damp hair.

He is eager. It’s been so long since the taste of a woman has been on his tongue that he is ravenous. He doesn’t pull away to answer, simply groaning into your folds as he doubles down on his efforts to make you cry out again.

You moan breathlessly, arching your back slightly as you lift your leg onto his broad, strong shoulder. You’ve had many lovers and no one has been this ravenous when lapping at your cunt. “General. I need - oh gods.” You moan when he sucks on your clit.

He’s not been so long without a woman that he doesn’t remember what drives them crazy. The little nub of flesh that puffs out from between your lips is so sensitive to his attention. He groans when your fingers tug at his hair and makes his scalp burn. His hand around his cock starts to pump his length as he sucks.

You hear him pumping his cock as he sucks on your bundle of nerves, making you throw your head back and fall apart. Your moan turns into a cry as he pushes you over the edge and your thighs tighten around his head.

You are falling apart, squeezing his head between your thighs and soaking his face with your release. Making Marcus groan as he moves down to lap it up eagerly, wanting to see if you taste as sweet as the fruit you tricked him with.

He works you through it and you whimper, tugging on his hair as he laps at you until it’s too much. The fruit has affected you too and you’re desperate for him but you won’t let that show. You drag his face away from your cunt and he groans, shifting onto his knees, your slick shining on his face. He’s pumping his cock as he shuffles closer and you shake your head, reaching down to cup your cunt. “I want you to beg for it.” You smirk, wanting to see him struggle.

He clenches his jaw, his lips firmly pressed together in annoyance that you would deny him now. You had caused him to be in this state by feeding him that fruit and he hates how he wants to beg. It’s on the tip of his tongue but he can’t do it.

You chuckle, keeping your hand in its place. “I can take care of myself, General. I have many times after eating the fruit. Can you? Your jaw is clenched. Your brow is shiny with sweat. Your cock looks like it’s throbbing, dripping with need. You can touch me. Fuck me. Take what you want. All you need to do is beg.” You coo, shifting your leg to slide your foot along his thigh.

He bites his lip, nearly breaking the skin. “Let me fuck you.” He groans, continuing to stroke his cock. “You want me. You want my cock. I see it in your eyes.”

You giggle, sliding your foot across to press against his cock. He groans and twitches under your touch and you press harder. “Not enough to give in so easily. Beg more. I want to hear you whine.” You demand, wanting to hear him.

Marcus hisses in anger but his body betrays him. Hips rocking up to grind against your foot. “You wish to humiliate me?” He growls. “Show your power over me?” He knows that’s what you want, but he is rapidly forgetting why he cares. “Fuck me then.” He compromises. “Ride my cock for your pleasure.” He groans. “Use me.”

Smirking, you slide your foot from his body and shift to kneel. “Lay down.” You order and he growls but follows your demand, laying down beside you. You shift to straddle him, batting his hand away to grip his cock. “You’re impressive, General.” You hum as you lift up and position him at your entrance, keeping your eyes on him as you start to sink down onto his length.

Your cunt is hot and tight around him. Making him groan and his hands bruise your hips with their hard grip. He grits his teeth, the urge to flip you over and hammer into your soft body barely resistible. “Gods.” He hisses out.

​​You pant as he stretches you out. It’s been a long time since you’ve taken a man this thick. “Move.” He demands through gritted teeth, and you chuckle, reaching for the hands on your hips. He reluctantly lets you release his grip and you lift his arms over his head, pushing his wrists into the bed as you start to rock on top of him.

He’s vulnerable like this, you can stick a knife in his ribs before he could react. Right now, he’s not worried about that, occupied by the way your cunt squeezes around his cock as you roll your hips. A queen is fucking him, using him for your pleasure, and he’s groaning while watching your tits bounce in his face so he lunges up to wrap his lips around a nipple.

You moan when he sucks on your nipple, your walls clenching around him, and you close your eyes. He could easily overpower you, he’s strong, but you have him entranced by your cunt. “Oh gods, General. You - you fill me so well.” You compliment him breathlessly as you rock down on his cock.

He hums in agreement, biting down on your nipple and sucking again when you moan in pleasure. You are wanton and sensual, swiveling your hips and grinding down on him as you chase your pleasure. “Touch yourself.” He grunts against your breast. “Cum on my cock.”

You pant, letting go of his wrists and you balance yourself on your palm as you reach down with your free hand to rub your clit. His deep voice has you shaking above him as you use his body for your pleasure. “Fuck. I- I am going to -" You cut yourself off as you fall apart on his cock, clenching down around him.

Marcus groans, his body tensing and he uses the moment to flip you into your back. Growling your name as he plants his knees as starts to fuck you. Needing to feel it again and again, even as your cunt spasms around him. “Fuck.” He hisses. “Cum again.”

Your cry echoes as he fucks you hard. He looks dangerous above you, his eyes black as he pushes into you like a man possessed. Your hands scramble to cling to him, knowing that all you can do is hold on.

You cling to him rather than pushing him away, spurring him on. His hips snapping forward sharply and making your entire body jolt as he drives into you. Groaning in pleasure at the way you yield to him, submitting to his need. He’s close, the fever in his system driving him to thrust harder and harder.

“You can fill me up. I have a tea to make sure I don’t - not with child.” You promise, wrapping your legs around him to push your heels into his ass. “Fuck. You feel so good.” You moan, your whole body bouncing with his thrusts.

Your words tip him over the edge, body going taunt and the vein on the side of his neck bulges as he buries his cock deep. Throbbing as he paints your walls with thick ropes if his sticky seed while he moans your name.

You watch him as he falls apart, filling you up, and you whimper, “you are a force to be reckoned with, General.” You love how hot his seed is as it paints your walls and his cock pulses inside you.

His eyes, closed as he rides out his high, open and focus on you as soon as the last spurt of his seed has been spent. He’s still achingly hard and his need for you burns under his skin. “Not done.” He growls, starting to move again as he lunges towards your lips for a kiss.

Moaning into the kiss, you cup his stubbled cheek and eagerly tangle your tongue with his as he takes control. You rock your hips up, needing more and he gives it to you. Rocking into you a little faster and your pussy squelches around his length as he pushes his seed out.

“You have to need to cum again.” He grunts, pulling away to kiss along your jaw. “Want to hear you cry out again.” He huffs out a reluctant chuckle. “Brave and bold, afflicting yourself with the same need.”

You nod, “yes. Yes. I need it. Give it to me.” You demand, clenching around him and he almost bends you in half to get deeper, achieving his aim as he hits something incredible inside of you. “Fuck. Oh yes. Fuck. Do that again.” You cry out your demand.

Grunting and smirking, Marcus repeats the action again and again, loving how you moan and squeal for him. He feels that you are close to falling apart again, body drawing up and starting to tighten. “Cum.” He orders.

You understand now how so many men would follow him into battle, his voice and his authority is intoxicating. You moan, unable to deny him as you clamp down on his cock, soaking him as you fall apart beneath him.

Marcus growls, loving how you soak his cock as he rocks into you. Fucking you through the orgasm that is making you shake underneath him. “Gods.” He hisses, continuing to hammer into your squelching cunt.

“Fu-uuu-ck.” You moan breaks and continues with each thrust to push you through your pleasure and your chest heaves as you try to catch your breath. “Oh my - fill me up, General. Please. Want - I want it.” You demand, needing to see him fall apart above you again.

His teeth snap together harshly, lips curled up as he ruts into you. “Fuck!” He hisses, knowing that he’s close but he continues to fuck you with abandon. His hands are hard on your body as he finally stiffens with a shout that is equal to a war cry, throbbing and spilling inside you again.

You know he’s going to leave bruises but you love it. You moan, caressing his chest as he looms over you, “that’s it. That’s it.” You coo, watching him as he ruts through his ecstasy.

Marcus is panting as he finally stops moving, collapsing on top of you and pinning you to the bed as he tries to catch his breath. “Fuck, fuck.” He breathes out, finally feeling like he can breathe without wanting to fuck.

You hum, smiling against his chest, and you hear his heart pounding. You lower your legs from his hips, feeling your pulse race as you try to catch your breath. “It was a pleasure fighting against you, General Acacius.”

He snorts, shaking his head when he finally lifts his head and looks down at you. Knowing that you have bested him and he is honor bound to admit defeat. “My army will withdraw in two days time.” He tells you. “They will need a day to recover from their…activities.”

You chuckle, caressing his cheek and you lean in to kiss his lips softly. “As I said, it’s been a pleasure, General.” You murmur and kiss his chin. He sighs and pulls out of you, letting you spread out on the silk sheets and smile in bliss. The burning sensation in your belly satiated and your people protected. You’ve done what you set out to do.

**** 

True to his word, the Roman army starts to pull back, packing wagons and animals with supplies and the army, still a little sore from the orgy from days before, begins the long march back to Rome. Marcus states at the walled city, wondering where you might be right now, frowning slightly. Retreat and defeat are foreign concepts, but he was a man of honor. He would take his punishment from the emperors when he returned to the capital.

**** 

You sigh as you set your scroll down, looking out at the expanse of your lands. Prosperous and free since you sent the Roman army packing. Your people are thriving, they love their Queen and you have protected them from invasion. You’re pulled out of your thoughts when your advisor enters, head bowed. “There is a General here to see you.” You frown, “where is he? Take me to him.” You demand and your advisor escorts you to where he is waiting. You know who it is. You often wondered if he’d ever return and you expect he has his army waiting instructions. You enter the room with your head high, “General Acacius. What an unexpected surprise.” You hold your hand out towards him, your stomach twisting with arousal at the broad shouldered soldier standing before you.

It has been four years since he left these lands. Four years of jabs and comments from the emperors. Feigned disappointment and foul treatment of him by the spoiled brats until the people of Rome had turned on them. Disposing them and installing new leadership. Leaving Marcus with a decision to make. “My lady, your highness.” This time he uses your honorific and bows his head. “However, I lied to your advisor.” He admits. “I am no longer General Acacius of Rome.”

You frown, “then who am I speaking with?” You ask, shaking your head when your guards stiffen. “I am simply Marcus Acacius.” You nod in understanding, certain that he’s lost everything because of your deception. “I’m sorry.” You sigh, “I don’t doubt that you’ve had a difficult time from your Emperors.”

“The emperors have been overthrown.” He informs you. “The current emperor has no interest in your lands, your highness. Peace has been offered and I have brought you a promise of that.” He reaches into his tunic and slowly pulls out the scroll when the guards reach for their weapons.

You hold your hand up to get them to stand down before you take the scroll. You unravel it and scan the words, your eyes widening, “they have assured me that our lands are no longer wanted. We will be left alone.” You are shocked and pleased, looking at Marcus, his brown eyes soft as he watches you. You hand the scroll to your advisor just as footsteps echo down the hall. “Mama! Mama!” You hear your son as he runs towards you, arms open as his nanny runs behind him, trying to keep up with him. “Hello my love.” You coo, picking him up, and you cuddle him close.

Marcus watches as a child, a boy of no more than three, hugs you and presses into your body and kisses your cheek. “I missed you, mama.” He pouts, frowning fiercely at you and it makes Marcus’s heart pound in his chest. He knows, without a doubt, this is his child. He had planted his seed in your womb when you had drugged him.

You can tell he knows the truth and you hold your son close. “I really did take a tea. It was never my intention to become with child. With your child.” You promise him, “and I am sorry for any deception. I had to protect my people. You can go. No one will harm you.” You promise, “and I thank you for the news you have brought.”

Marcus might have attacked your realm on orders from his emperors, but he had no ill will towards you or your people. Watching his son look at him curiously and finding that the boy has his eyes and the edges of his ears curl like Marcus’s does makes his choice easy. “I have nothing in Rome to return to.” He tells you. “No wife, no family, no army.” He might add that to make you feel a little guilty. “I had also come to provide you with another guarantee that Rome would never attack you.” He tells you. “I wish to serve you. Help guard your people.” His eyes are on his son but they shift to you. “You have been my only defeat in war - in life.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. You never imagined that he’d return alone. Perhaps he’d return with an army to defeat the woman who bested him but he wants to serve you instead. “I- wow. This is - quite a shock. But you are welcome here.” You promise, “you shall have a room in the palace. You will be honored as the father to the next king. You have my word that no one will treat you poorly. I wish to have you here.” You add, knowing that you’ve thought about him every day since the day he left with his army in tow.

Marcus never expected you to agree, to want him close. He nods. “I will serve you faithfully.” He vows, wanting to reach out and touch you. You have been on his mind since he had left, remembering your wit, and your body with a desire to see you again. The senate had known of his unhappiness in Rome and had released him from his commitments to her, knowing he would come back. He had left a piece of himself here, more true than he had realized.

You offer him a smile, “Marcus, this is your father.” You introduce your son for the first time. “He went away but he’s back now.” You explain simply, “and he wants to meet you.” You shift the little boy in your arms whose eyes widen, “papa?” He asks and turns to look at Marcus. He wiggles in your grip and holds his arms out towards his father.

Marcus’s eyes widen, surprised that you had named your son after him. He has not held many children in his life, but he is immediately reaching to take the boy. Amazed at how trusting he is as little arms wind around his neck. “Marcus.” He murmurs, looking the boy over in wonder and holding him close. “That is my name as well.” He tells him. “How old are you, son?”

Your son ducks his head, suddenly shy, until he looks at you and you nod, smiling at him. “Thwee.” He answers, still speaking with a slight lisp as he tries to get his pronunciation of words. “Marcus is your name too?” He asks and Marcus nods, “it is.” You rub your son’s back, “this is your papa.” You remind him and Marcus looks at the older man, “papa.” He grins and cuddles him.

Marcus swallows harshly, choking up slightly at the easy acceptance from his son. “Son.” He hums softly, rubbing the little boy’s back as he glances back at you. “Do you like to play with wooden swords?” He asks, knowing that he had watched young children play like that. “I do.” He pulls back and gives a wide grin that Marcus can’t help but copy. “We will have to play together. I play with wooden swords too.”

Your smile widens when your son nods, “yes, papa.” You rub his back for another moment before you squeeze Marcus’s shoulder. “I’m sure you are tired after your travels. Please, take a room and we will bring you food and you can go to the baths to clean up.” You tell Marcus, who nods, “thank you, your highness.” You tut and shake your head, telling him to call you by your name. Your servants rush around after your words to prepare everything for Marcus.

Soon, Marcus is groaning as he relaxes in a hot bath of fresh water, clean and feeling refreshed. Amazed that he hasn’t been turned away and even more amazed that he has a son. The wine next to the bath has been half drunk, but he hadn’t eaten any of the food that was sitting on the tray. He would rather talk to you first.

You look up when there’s a knock at your door, calling out for them to enter, and you sigh when you see Marcus walk into your quarters. “General.” You tease, standing up as he walks towards you in a tunic, looking fresh after his long journey. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” You ask, stepping towards him.

“I wanted to talk to you.” Marcus shifts slightly, eyes roaming over you as you look up from something you were reading. “I - Marcus-“ he falters slightly. “Will I have a role in the boy’s life? Help train him, or would you prefer that not happen?”

You nod, “you’ll be his father if you wish to be. I have no desire to keep him from you or not let him know his father. We are not Rome, we are not Roman. We do not cast aside our people because of marriage or birth. Our son will be the next ruler of these lands and I wish for him to be skilled in fighting, in tactics. Together, I believe we can raise a fine King for my people.” You offer Marcus a smile, “and I want you to be there for every moment. I’m sorry you’ve missed so much. I truly did not intend to become with child after our coupling and I took the tea but our son…he’s stubborn. I did not know where to send word about his birth. I didn’t want the news to get into the wrong hands.” You explain, hoping he understands.

Marcus nods, understanding even if it was disappointing. “Have you taken an uxor?” He asks softly. “I must confess that I have thought about that day, about you, every day since I left in defeat.” He knows you could laugh, or send him away, but he needs to be honest with you, you have been honest with him.

You smile, reaching up to cup his cheek, “I have not taken an uxor since the man I imagined being my uxor left with his army to return to Rome.” You confess, caressing his cheek. “I know we barely know each other. How could I possibly love a man I don’t know? Yet I do. I know you must be angry with me for my deception but I want you if you will have me.”

“It was war.” He reminds you. “Deception is called for, and expected. It also kept more bloodshed from happening.” He covers your hand with his own. “Are you sure you would like a former Roman general as your lover? Surely men must vie for your hand.”

You scoff, sliding your free hand to his chest, “the men of my lands might vie for my hand but too many of them are eager for power. They wish to become king, take power from a ‘feeble woman’. You are here to serve, not to conquer me. You would not just be my lover, you’d be my companion, my confidant, my advisor.” You promise, “I want someone to support me as I lead our people. I want a partner.”

Marcus thinks on your words before he nods. “I have no allegiance to Rome any more.” He promises you. “My allegiance will be to you, my queen, and my son, my future King.” He steps closer to you. “Perhaps I can help train your army, but I will perform any role you wish me to have.”

You grin, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer, “you might be able to teach my men a thing or two about battling the Romans.” You smirk and lean in to press a soft kiss to his chin. Marcus grabs your waist and tilts your head to press his lips to yours. You moan into his mouth, loving the way he pulls you close and you realize the electricity between you wasn’t just the fruit.

Marcus groans quietly and deepens the kiss, you closer to him and feeling his body starting to react to your nearness. It’s not because of the fruit, it’s because of you.

You whimper when his hands slide down to squeeze your ass, his tongue pushing into your mouth and you moan, letting him walk you backwards until you’re pressing against the wall. “I need you Marc.” You plead when his mouth presses against your jaw, “now. Fuck me.”

He hums, breaking away from your lips to kiss down your jaw. “Yes, your highness.” He teases. “I am but your humble servant. This time it’s not because of the fruit that I need to fuck you though.”

It's like a fire is ignited as you fumble to tug his tunic up, wrapping your fingers around his hardening cock to pump him while he bunches your dress up your body to gather at your waist. "Definitely not the fruit." You murmur when he kisses your neck, panting into your skin when you squeeze him, "all because of you, General. My General. My - my love."

Marcus moans your name, accepting now that the fever he feels right now is just because of his feelings for you. His fingers slip under your dress and he finds you already wet. “Have you been thinking about this since I arrived?” He teases as he starts to slowly rub your clit.

You nod, “yes.” Your response is breathless and you whimper his name as he teases you while you pump his cock. “I imagined you taking me while I was sitting at my table, reading my scrolls. Imagined you bending me over and claiming me again and again.”

Marcus growls as he bites down on the juncture of your shoulder. “I imagined fucking you while I was riding my horse on the way to Rome. Seated on my cock while the horse moves. In my bed while I was in Rome.”

“Yes. Yes. I’m yours.” You promise, “please just - I need you inside me.” You whine and he nods, reluctantly pulling his fingers from your clit and he bats your hand away so he can lift your thigh and position himself at your entrance. “Please.” You whimper which transitions into a moan when he starts to push into you.

It’s rough, sex against a wall is far less than a queen deserves, but you seem to love it. Kissing along his neck and moaning into his skin as he fills you up. “Fuck.” He pants, pressing you harshly into the wall. “You are so fucking tight around my cock. Never would have known you had our son.”

You gasp when he pushes into you, his fingers finding your other thigh to lift it so your weight is fully pressed into the wall. "You're so big, amor. So strong. My lover." You moan, wrapping your legs around him as he squeezes your flesh.

He chuckles and starts to move inside you. “A lifetime of battle and blood.” He pants, loving the way you are squeezing his cock. You are so responsive to him.

You caress his chest, kissing his jaw, “and you have a new cause to fight for. I want - I want our son to be as strong as you. I want him to be a great leader like his father.” You murmur, sliding your hands along his shoulders, admiring how broad he is

Marcus groans, moving slowly, showcasing his strength as he rocks into you while keeping you pressed against the wall. “You will teach him politics, I will teach him to fight.”

“He will be a force to be reckoned with.” You gasp when he adjusts you and the angle has him pushing against something delicious inside you. “Fuck, this feels just as good as the first time.”

He can only groan in agreement, kissing you again as he tries to continue to hit that angle again. Loving how your walls clench around him and milk his cock. The magic of the pleasure between you hadn’t been a fluke or because of the fruit. He’s just as desperate for you to cum for him now.

You whimper as he pushes you higher up the wall with each thrust and you slide back down as he pulls back. "You are going to - I'm - oh. Oh. OH!" Your cry echoes across the vast room and you clamp down on his cock, crying out his name as you fall apart for him.

He growls in pleasure when you soak him, your juices dripping down his cock and onto his thighs. “That’s it,” he grunts harshly. “Cum for me. Shake apart for me.”

His cock continues pushing into you and you can't do anything but cling to him, watching as he clenches his jaw. You want to feel him again, no matter the consequences, you need to feel him fill you up. "Cum for me, General. My General." You coo, leaning in to kiss and nip at his jaw.

Closing his eyes, he buries himself deep. Groaning your name in a whimper as he floods your womb with his seed. Coming home to you physically and spiritually. He had come to conquer your lands on behalf of Rome but had been defeated, leaving behind his heart when he left. Only to find that he has a place here, with you and the son you created together. All of this was brought about by the fruits of passion.

[littlemisspascal]

Paul Mescal is down bad, wdym he is mouthing the answers to his favorite ferrari boy

[littlemisspascal]

Paul at any time in this challenge: idc idc carlos is right, carlos is pretty and his eyes are huge so he is absolutely right