littlemisspascal - Tumblr blog

littlemisspascal · 3 days ago

Text

Thank you for reading 🧡🧡🧡 Your kind support is super appreciated!!

Creature Comfort

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Female Reader/OFC

Word Count: 7.6k

Summary:

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

Your husband-to-be.

Rating: M / 18+ only

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your husband-to-be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Raise the veil,” the priest says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The rest of the world can have Adonis.

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

Your husband.

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

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

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

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

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

It’s overwhelming to say the least.

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

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

You must be stronger. Braver. Better.

Where Icarus fell, you must fly.

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

“Is it time to leave?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’d rather you bite it.”

The fragile thread snaps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A blink. That’s all it takes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A memory,” is all he offers.

“Oh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They?

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

“Who says that?”

“The Emperors.”

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

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

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

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

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

“The Empire will either burn or drown."

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

Acacius doesn’t have an answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Actions have always been louder than words.

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

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

No. You think not.

“Out where?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another call of my name.

“Let’s not waste a single second.”

#reblog

347 notes · View notes

littlemisspascal · 3 days ago

Text

Pedge's Tree

Oh this is fun! Pedge and I have never done this before, so I wanted to get a quick start since I'm late in the season! Maybe later I'll update with Christmas Fics I've enjoyed this Holiday Season, but for now, Pedge and I are busy making cookies! Weeeee!

Decorate my tree. I mean...if you want to. Like, if you have time...Pedge says I was being too bossy...

@morallyinept @littlemisspascal @wannabe-urs

@beefrobeefcal @sawymredfox @wordywarriorwrites @burntheedges

@janaispunk @inept-the-magnificent @timelordfreya @schnarfer @devineconjuring

@mermaidgirl30 @mandolover37 @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @joelmillerisapunk @jennaispunk

@sheepdogchick3 @marcus-is-my-muse @guiltyasdave

@copperhalfcent @bluesweaters15 @drewharrisonwriter @darkheartgatita @princesspurple75

@harriedandharassed @brittmb115 @confusedpuffin @zaniasky @quicax3

#signal boost

26 notes · View notes

littlemisspascal · 3 days ago

Text

wip poll

Rules: Make a 24hr poll listing the titles of every WIP you want to work on. (It’s fine if you only have one, still make a poll for the vote count). Whichever WIP title gets the most votes, write 1 sentence for every vote received.

Thank you for the tag @wildemaven 🧡 Alas I don't have many exciting options to pick from, but any vote is appreciated!

No pressure tagging: @wheresarizona @whocaresstillthelouvre @trulybetty @morallyinept and anyone else who wants to share!

#wips #poll

13 notes · View notes

littlemisspascal · 3 days ago

Text

The Christmas/New Years Masterlist

all my christmas/New Years themed fics in one place 😌

Updated: December 19th 2024

✨ = newest updates

Fic Ratings (read warnings in fic for details):

(G) General Audiences

(M) Mature

(E) Explicit: only suitable for adults

A Christmas Carol - Made in Colombia

Nothing was the same since Escobar was gone. Javier didn’t want to be back, but he had no other choice. He was there to do a job and a job only. When a stake out went wrong and Javier ends up in a drug induced coma the three ghosts of Christmas show him what he was blind to see. (Mini Series, Javier Peña x fem reader; G)

How I met the King of Mandalore (without knowing it)

AU: A business meeting after Christmas takes you to the small kingdom of Mandalore where you meet a handsome stranger at your hotel bar who does not only show you the beautiful town but a side of himself that made you fall for him in a matter of hours. What happens when you run into the same man on your mission to return a child you had run into on your tour through the palace the next day? Did you… accidentally sleep with the next King of Mandalore? (One Shot; Din Djarin x fem. reader; E)

Alone (with me)

Christmas sometimes is a lonely affair. Until you find someone you can be alone with. (One Shot; Frankie Morales x fem. reader, G)

Alone (with you)

You spend the week between Christmas and New Years getting to know Frankie better. (One Shot; Frankie Morales x fem. reader, G)

A walk in the woods

Frankie talks you into taking a walk to the local farm to pick out a Christmas tree. (One Shot; Frankie Morales x fem. reader, G)

Roasted Almonds

Almost getting knocked over by a handsome stranger on a christmas market might be the start of your personal Hallmark Movie experience. (One Shot; Marcus Pike x fem. reader, G)

New Years wishes

After spending difficult six month without Marcus he surprises you for New Years Eve. (One Shot; Marcus Pike x fem. reader; G)

Lonely Christmas

A storm that makes it impossible to leave the island, leaves you spend Christmas with your friend and boss Javi. (One Shot; Javi Gutierrez x fem. reader; G)

Cookie Kisses

Dieter finds you baking cookies in your home after being away to shoot his series for months. (One Shot; Dieter Bravo x fem. reader; G)

Here comes Santa Claus

After working as Mrs. Claus with Dieter Bravo as your local mall Santa for the last six weeks you finally agree to go out for drinks with him, not knowing how this night would end for you. (One Shot; Dieter Bravo x fem, reader; E; dub con/noncon)

✨ Miller's Christmas Tree Farm ✨

Wanting a fresh start after your husband died, you and your nine year old Step Daughter Ellie move from San Francisco to Noel, a small town in Colorado where you, looking for a job are found by Tommy Miller, who offers you a place to stay and a new job at his family owned Christmas Tree Farm that is in dire need of some fresh ideas to make some money. There is only one problem, his brother Joel Miller, who, judging by the google reviews of the Christmas Tree farm, is an asshole. But you like a challenge. And Joel? Joel can only try to pretend to be grumpy for so long until he finally realises that you might just be what he needed. (Mini Series; Joel Miller x fem. reader; E)

Christmas Writing Challenge 2019

Christmas Writing Challenge 2020

Christmas Writing Challenge 2021

December Writing Challenge 2022

Winter Writing Challenge 2023

#fic rec

20 notes · View notes

littlemisspascal · 4 days ago

Text

wip poll

Thank you for the tag @trulybetty 💕 I guess this means I have to dust off my laundry list of wips I’ve forgotten about or abandoned…

it’s not a lot, but it’s somethin’.

NPTs @kteague @snshineandgnpwdr @littlemisspascal @savedyounine @gothcsz @iamskyereads @lovesbiggerthanpride and anyone else who wants an excuse to make a Wip poll

#signal boost #i wanna vote for alllll of them!

19 notes · View notes

littlemisspascal · 4 days ago

Text

New Writers added to The Pedro Library 🐼

Things have been hectic here getting ready for Christmas 🎄 plus I'm enrolling in school again and that's its own chaotic adventure 🤪

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 😊

@toomanystoriessolittletime @jennaispunk Joel Miller’s Christmas Tree Farm

@absurdthirst @storiesofthefandomlovers Joel The Last Piece of Us

@evolnoomym Joel Steal Your Girl

@almostfoxglove Joel One Night Early

@secretelephanttattoo Frankie Gold, Frankie-cense & Myrrh

@schnarfer Frankie Be My Baby

@morallyinept Dave The Lonely Space Between Floors

@stylesispunk Marcus A ‘The soldier in the armour’ / Joel 'Merry Christmas, please call me'

@eff4freddie Marcus A For the Glory of Rome

@whocaresstillthelouvre Dieter Bravo Ireland

@something-tofightfor Tim To You, From Santa

@trulybetty Tim Secret Santa

@milla-frenchy Javier The Constant

#my library #joel miller #frankie morales #dave york #marcus acacius #dieter bravo #tim rockford #javier peña

63 notes · View notes

littlemisspascal · 4 days ago

Text

Oh thank you so so much for the kind comments on this fic 💕 I really appreciate your time reading!!

Love Triangles Part 6

Pairing: Dieter x Female Reader

Word Count: 3200+

Summary: We need to talk. The four most dreaded words of all time. And yeah, it’s true, you’ll admit you and Dieter need to talk about a lot of stuff. Like, a lot a lot. But hearing him acknowledge it has you suddenly feeling like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff. And you’re 100% certain you’re not gonna like what’s at the bottom.

Warnings: Canon Divergence, Angst, Fluff, Pining, Language, Soulmates AU with Identifying Marks, Reader has no name or physical description except for being shorter than Dieter, Mention of character death, Disney references, Dialogue heavy

Author Note: Thank you everybody for the unbelievably kind support of this fic from beginning to end! I’m thrilled y’all have enjoyed reading Pidge and Dieter as much as I’ve enjoyed writing for them 💝 I hope y’all like this final chapter!

PART 5

Keep reading

#reblog

613 notes · View notes

littlemisspascal · 4 days ago

Text

'Merry christmas, please call me' day 1/3

no outbreak! Joel Miller x f! reader

summary: one year after your breakup, joel is pleading to his phone for a call from you. 🌲

w.c: 6k>

warnings: age gap (joel is fifteen years older than reader) angst as usual and fluff with a happy ending like in the Christmas movies.

a/n: welcome to the first day of my joel's fic christmas version event. I want to remind you that i'm from south america and my christmas has always been hot because of summer, so i'm feeding my dreams. I hope you like this one and see you again on the second day of my mini event! Happy reading 💌

The smell of burn cookies made Joel nauseous. The lights of the Christmas tree in the corner of these four walls seemed to gave him a migraine.

A night like this where everyone was celebrating around a table full of food and loved ones. He was lonely with his thoughts drifting away to you. You were on his mind, day and night for the last 365 days that he had been without you.

It was his fault.

He recalled, this exact same night a year ago when he broke up with you out of the blue, due to poor excuses nor even him believed.

Your age gap, that you were childish, that you deserved someone better, he’d said. Someone whole. A ridiculous justification that even he couldn’t stomach now. At the time, he’d convinced himself it was for the best. He had no right to drag you into his mess of doubts and guilt, into his constant battle with the ghosts of his past. But it didn’t stop the ache from settling in his bones, lingering there like a wound that refused to heal.

His thumb hovered over your name in his contacts. It had been a year since you left, a year since the fight that had left him standing alone in the doorway, watching you walk out with tears in your eyes and a suitcase in your hand. He hadn’t dared delete your number, which now stared back at him, mocking him in the silence. How many times had he replayed that night in his head, hoping he’d wake up and find that it was nothing more than a cruel nightmare?

Call her, the voice in his head whispered.

But what could he say? What words could possibly undo the damage he’d caused?

A sigh escaped him as his head dropped back against the old couch, the springs groaning in protest. The soft hum of a Christmas song playing from a neighbor’s apartment felt like salt in the wound, each note a reminder of what he’d lost.

You were his person. You’d been his anchor through the storms, the one who never let him drown, even when he tried to push you away. And he had pushed you, hard enough to make you leave for good.

But Joel still hoped. Pathetically, desperately. Every buzz of his phone made his heart lurch, only to drop moments later when it wasn’t you. He hated himself for it, for waiting on a miracle he didn’t deserve.

Finally, with trembling hands, he let his thumb tap against your name. The call button loomed there, so simple and yet so heavy. He stared at it, his pulse pounding in his ears.

“Merry Christmas,” he muttered, voice rough. The silence of the house swallowed his words. “Please call me... God, just call me.”

He closed his eyes, pressing his palms to his face. You were out there somewhere, probably laughing, surrounded by family or friends. Did you even think about him? Did you miss him the way he missed you? The unanswered questions gnawed at him, the kind of pain he’d learned to carry in his bones over the last twelve months.

When he finally looked at the phone again, he couldn’t stop himself. He typed out a message, the words simple but raw:

Merry Christmas. Please call me.

He hit send before he could second-guess himself, the soft whoosh of the message sending feeling louder than it should have. Now, all he could do was wait.

You won’t reply, he thought bitterly. Why would you?

But just as he began to put the phone down, it buzzed in his hand.

The sound of laughter echoed around the room, your cousin telling some exaggerated story about their vacation as everyone leaned in, caught up in the humor of it all. You tried to smile, to focus on the holiday warmth and cheer, but it all felt distant, like you were watching it from behind a thick pane of glass.

For the last four Christmas you had had someone by your side, holding your hand and making you feel a whole in the room.

Now he wasn’t here.

Now it had been a year since he pushed you away from his life.

You excused yourself for a moment, slipping out to the porch where the cold December air stung your skin. It was quieter out here, the twinkle of Christmas lights from neighboring houses reflecting off the snow. You wrapped your arms around yourself, breathing out slowly, your breath a cloud in the chill.

And then you felt it. The buzz of your phone in your pocket.

Sliding it out, your heart stopped when you saw the name.

Joel.

The message was simple, just four words Merry Christmas. Please call me.

You stared at the screen, your mind racing. You hadn't heard from him in months. The last time had been his birthday three months ago, a tentative text you’d sent just to say you hoped he was doing well. He’d thanked you, but the conversation died before it could have started. You thought that was the end of it, that Joel had moved on, just like everyone told you he would.

But now... this.

You sank onto the porch steps, your fingers tightening around the phone. The memories came flooding back: The past Christmas, when he’d held you in his arms by the fire, murmuring promises you’d believed in so completely. And the fight that tore it all apart, the anger in his voice masking the vulnerability he was so terrified to show.

You swiped at your screen, opening the message again.

Call him, a voice in your head urged. Just call him.

But another voice whispered fearfully

What if he’s just lonely?

For a moment, you hesitated, your thumb hovering over his name in your contacts. Then, with a deep breath, you pressed the button. The phone rang once, twice, each second stretching into eternity.

“Hello?” His voice was low, rough, like he hadn’t spoken in hours.

You closed your eyes, the sound of him unraveling something inside you. “Joel,”

….

You’d spent hours making everything perfect. The table was set with Joel’s favorite dishes, the candles were lit, and soft Christmas music floated through the air. The snow outside created a picturesque view through the windows, and for the first time in days, you were excited. Joel had been distant lately, his long hours at work bleeding into your evenings, but tonight would be different. It had to be.

“Joel, you’re late,” you said softly as he walked through the door, his shoulders slumped, his face tired.

He barely glanced at the table as he shrugged off his jacket. “Got caught up at work.”

“I made dinner.” You gave him a small smile, trying to meet his eyes. “I thought maybe tonight—”

“I’m not hungry,” he cut you off, his voice sharper than it needed to be.

Something in his tone made you flinch. You watched him sink onto the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. The weariness in his face didn’t feel like exhaustion; it felt like resignation.

You walked over to him carefully, sitting on the edge of the coffee table so you could face him. “But it’s christmas eve.”

“I know.” he muttered, but his eyes wouldn’t meet yours.

Your stomach twisted. This wasn’t the man who used to pull you into his lap and kiss your worries away. This was someone locked behind a wall you couldn’t reach. “You’ve been different lately. Talk to me. Please.”

He let out a long breath, his hands running through his hair. “I don’t know what we’re doin’ here.”

The words slammed into you like a physical blow. “What?”

Joel looked up at you finally, his expression hard, guarded. “Us. This. It doesn’t make sense anymore.”

Your heart pounded. “What are you talking about?”

He stood up abruptly, pacing the room like he needed to get away from you, as if your presence burned his skin. “You’re too young for this—”

“Don’t.” Your voice trembled, but you stood too, following him. “Don’t do that. You’ve never cared about the age gap before.”

“You should be with someone who can give you what you want, not some old man who can’t figure his shit out.” He turned, finally meeting your eyes, and his were cold, deliberately so. “Someone who isn’t afraid for what people say.”

The words hit like ice water, sharp and cruel. You took a step back, shaking your head. “Joel, that’s not fair. I don’t care about any of that. I love you.”

“Don’t,” he said again, his voice a low growl. “You’re just sayin’ that because you don’t know any better.”

The tears you’d been holding back spilled over. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because it’s the truth.” He swallowed hard, his jaw tight, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I can’t be what you need. And you deserve better than what I can give.”

It wasn’t the words themselves that hurt the most, it was the way he said them, like he’d already decided this for you, like he’d been carrying it around for weeks, months, without telling you.

“Don’t you dare decide what I deserve,” you whispered, your voice breaking.

Joel looked at you then, really looked at you, and for just a moment, you saw it: the regret, the pain, the fear he was trying so desperately to hide. But then he turned his back to you, his shoulders rigid.

“Go,” he said quietly.

Your breath hitched. “What?”

“I said you should go.”

The room went deathly silent except for the sound of your soft, choked breaths. Joel didn’t move, didn’t turn around as you stared at him, waiting for him to say something, anything, to take it back. But he didn’t.

“We had been together for five years, Joel” you sobbed “Are you throwing away?”

Joel's jaw tightened, his back still turned to you as if he couldn't bear to face what he was doing, what he had already done. His hands gripped the edge of the kitchen counter, knuckles white as if he were holding himself together by sheer force. The dim light from the Christmas tree glowed faintly in the reflection of the window, mocking the warmth and love that should've filled this night.

“I’m tired.”

You couldn’t stop the tears, couldn’t keep the crack out of your voice as you pleaded. “Tired of what? Of me?”

He flinched at the sound of your voice breaking, his shoulders drawing tight. “It ain’t just that,” he muttered, the words coming out strained. “It’s everythin’, me, us—” He finally turned to face you, his eyes dark and distant, as though he’d already started pulling himself away long before tonight. “You deserve better.”

“Don’t do that,” you snapped through the sobs, pointing at him, your whole-body trembling. “Don’t you dare try to make this about me, Joel. This is about you. You’re the one running away, you’re the one who—” You swallowed hard, the pain rising in your throat like a wave. “Who’s giving up.”

Joel's face crumpled for just a second, but he smoothed it out quickly, replacing it with that familiar mask of stubbornness. “I am tired,” he admitted, his voice low, hoarse. “Of fightin’ every damn day with the parts of myself you don’t see. I can’t—I can’t drag you into that. Not anymore.”

You shook your head, your tears falling faster now. “I knew what I was getting into when I chose you, Joel. I chose you! Over and over for five years. So don’t you dare tell me I can’t handle it, or you.”

His gaze flickered toward the floor, like he couldn’t stand to look at you. “It ain’t enough.”

Those words cut deeper than anything else he’d said. “What’s not enough?” you whispered, your voice breaking as you stepped closer. “Me? Or us?”

Joel looked back at you then, and for a moment, you thought you saw his resolve crack. You thought he might say he was sorry, that he’d been lying, that he still loved you the way you loved him.

But all he said was, “You need to go.”

Your heart shattered.

“No,” you choked out, shaking your head violently, refusing to believe this was happening. “I’m not leaving. I’m not walking away from you.”

Joel’s face hardened, though his eyes betrayed the storm inside him. He took a step back, deliberately creating distance between you both. “I already did, darlin’.”

A sob escaped you, and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe. Your chest ached; your lungs empty despite the cold air filling the room. It felt surreal, like you were living a nightmare you couldn’t wake up from.

“Fine,” you whispered, your voice ragged. You wiped angrily at your tears, glaring at him through the blur. “If you want me to go, I’ll go.”

“I hope you know what you’re losing.”

Joel didn’t respond. He didn’t move. And when you finally stepped out into the cold December night, suitcase in hand, the sound of the door closing behind you felt like the final nail in the coffin of everything you had built together.

It wasn’t until you were gone—until the silence swallowed the room whole—that Joel let his mask fall. His knees buckled, and he sank onto the couch, his head in his hands as tears slipped through his fingers.

Because he knew.

He knew exactly what he was losing.

And he left you walk away with nowhere to go.

“Hey,” he said, clearing his throat. “I—I wasn’t sure if you’d...” He trailed off, unsure how to finish.

There was a pause, and then you spoke. “I wasn’t sure either.”

His heart clenched. He wanted to say a hundred things, to tell you how much he missed you, how every day without you had been a slow, aching torture. But all he managed was: “Thanks for calling.”

“I wasn’t sure I should,” you admitted, your voice almost a whisper. “Joel, why?

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Because it’s Christmas. And because...” He ran a hand over his face, forcing the words out. “Because I’ve been a damn fool. I didn’t fight for us when I should’ve. And not a day’s gone by where I don’t regret it.”

The silence on the other end felt unbearable. “I know I don’t deserve this,” he added quickly. “But I just needed to hear your voice. Even if it’s just this once.”

His words cut through the cold night air, stirring something deep inside you. Joel had never been good at talking about his feelings, and hearing him now, his voice raw and unsteady, you realized just how much this call meant to him.

“You hurt me, Joel,” you said quietly, your voice trembling. “I gave you everything, and you... you pushed me away.”

“I know,” he said, his voice thick. “I know I did. I was scared, alright? Scared of messing up, of losing you... and I ended up doin’ just that.”

You swallowed hard, your eyes stinging. “And now? What’s changed?”

“I have,” he said without hesitation. “I’ve had a year to think about every mistake I made, every time I let my pride get in the way. I’m not sayin’ I’ve got it all figured out, but... I know I can’t go another year without you, darlin’.”

The silence stretched between you, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid.

“Joel,” you whispered, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“Just tell me if there’s a chance,” he said, his voice breaking. “Even the smallest one. I’ll do whatever it takes, I swear it.”

“Are you alone?” you asked, feeling your voice trembling.

Joel froze for a second, caught off guard by the question. He exhaled softly, his breath shaky. “Yeah,” he admitted, his voice low and rough. “It’s just me and some burnt cookies.”

Your heart ached at his words, but a small, broken laugh escaped you at his words. Burnt cookies. Joel had never been much of a baker. That was your thing. And yet, every Christmas, he’d insist on helping or more accurately, on getting in the way, while you made batch after batch of cookies.

“You burned them?” you asked softly, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips through the tears.

“‘Course I did,” Joel grumbled, though there was no bite to it. “Turns out, I’m no better at bakin’ now than I was then.” He hesitated before adding, almost shyly, “Guess it’s not as fun when you’re not here to yell at me for sneakin’ the dough.”

“Joel, I swear to God, if you eat one more spoonful of that dough—”

He grinned, a mischievous gleam in his eyes, before scooping up another bite and popping it into his mouth. “What? I’m just makin’ sure it’s good, darlin’. Quality control.”

It was like that every single time, you’d roll your eyes, only for him to pull you into his arms and press a kiss to your lips, soft and lingering, tasting of sugar and butter.

You’d tried to scold him, but he always made you laugh instead, his hands sneaking around your waist to pull you close. The cookies always took twice as long as they should’ve, and more flour ended up on the two of you than in the dough. But those moments had been yours—sweet, simple, and full of a kind of love you didn’t realize you’d taken for granted until it was gone.

“Do you remember?” you whispered, your voice trembling.

Joel’s breath hitched on the other end of the line. “Every second of it,” he admitted softly. “I remember how you’d get that little crease in your brow when you were concentratin’, tryin’ to make everything perfect. And how I’d ruin it all just to get you to look at me instead.”

You smiled through your tears, the memories making your chest ache. “You never helped. You just kissed me the whole time.”

“Well,” Joel said, his voice thick but warmer now, “you didn’t seem to mind too much.”

You swallowed hard, pressing your hand to your chest as if it could stop the way your heart ached for him. For all of it. “I didn’t,” you admitted quietly. “I loved that.”

There was a pause, heavy and delicate all at once.

“I miss you,” Joel said finally, his voice low and rough. “I’ve missed us. Not just the cookies, or the traditions... but you, darlin’. I miss seein’ you smile. I miss hearin’ your laugh when I did somethin’ dumb. I miss... kissin’ you in the middle of a mess we made together.”

Your throat tightened, tears slipping silently down your cheeks. How was it that Joel always managed to say the exact words you’d been afraid to admit to yourself?

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you whispered. “It makes it harder.”

Joel went quiet on the other end of the line. The soft crackle of the connection was the only sound between you, filling the heavy silence where words struggled to exist. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper, as though he was afraid saying it out loud might break you both.

“What?” he asked, hopeful somehow.

"To hate you" you said, bluntly.

“I don’t want you to hate me, darlin’.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing the heel of your palm against your forehead to stop the tears. “Well, it would’ve been easier if you’d stayed away.”

“I tried,” Joel admitted.

You could picture him sitting there, in the same living room where you’d spent so many nights living together. You imagined the empty house around him, quiet and cold, without the warmth the two of you used to fill it with.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence on the line felt heavier now, like it was holding both your hearts in its grip.

“I thought—” you started, then stopped, the words catching in your throat. I thought you’d moved on, you wanted to say. But you couldn’t. You weren’t ready to admit that fear aloud, not yet.

Joel seemed to understand anyway. “There’s no one else,” he said softly. “There never could be. I—I didn’t want to make you think I was waitin’, like I was hopin’ for somethin’ I didn’t deserve. But I couldn’t... I couldn’t bring myself to move on. You’re it for me.”

Your breath hitched, tears welling up as his words sank in. You’re it for me. Joel Miller, stubborn and guarded as he’d always been, was laying himself bare in a way he never had before.

“Why now, Joel?” you whispered, your voice cracking. “Why tonight?”

He let out a heavy breath. “Because i'm in love with you” he said, leaving no room for doubting “And because I couldn’t let another month pass without tellin’ you what’s in my heart. Even if it’s too late... I needed you to know.”

The line went quiet again, but this time, it wasn’t the kind of silence that felt heavy with regret. It felt different—like a small flicker of something you weren’t ready to name just yet.

“Get some sleep, Joel,” you murmured softly, surprising even yourself.

He chuckled lightly, a sound you hadn’t realized you’d missed so much. “Alright, baby. I will. You too.”

“Goodnight,” you whispered.

“Goodnight,” Joel replied, his voice soft and warm.

You hung up the phone and let it rest against your chest as you lay back on the couch, tears still wet on your cheeks.

You stood up to go back inside the house and the room felt still, like the world had paused just for you to breathe, to take in everything that had happened. The faint glow of the Christmas lights cast soft, colorful patterns on the walls. It felt bittersweet, like the warmth of a memory that wouldn’t quite let go.

Your chest ached with the weight of it all. Joel’s voice still lingered in your mind, the way he’d said baby, soft, familiar, like it belonged to you and no one else. It had been so long since you’d heard it, and it stirred something in you you’d tried to bury. Something tender and raw, something that reminded you of stolen kisses in the kitchen, of his arms wrapped around you on cold nights, of the way he used to make you feel like home wasn’t a place but a person.

You wiped at your cheeks, sniffling quietly. “Damn you, Joel Miller,” you whispered to the empty room, but your voice lacked conviction. The truth was, you didn’t know how to feel. Angry? Relieved? Hopeful?

“Are you okay?” your mother’s voice broke through the stillness, soft but laced with concern.

You startled slightly, turning toward the sound. She stood in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the dim glow of the hall light, her face etched with the quiet worry only a mother could carry.

You tried to smile, to brush it off like you always did, but the tears still wet on your cheeks betrayed you. “Yeah,” you croaked, your voice hoarse from the emotion threatening to spill over. “I’m fine.”

She tilted her head, unconvinced, and took a slow step closer. “Sweetheart...”

The way she said it made your composure wobble. You looked away, blinking rapidly as if that would erase the evidence of the storm swirling inside you. “It’s nothing, Mom. Just... Christmas stuff.”

She didn’t say anything right away, just moved to sit beside you on the couch. Her warmth and presence were enough to break something loose inside you, and for a moment, you just sat there in silence.

After a long, heavy pause, you finally spoke, your voice trembling. “I have to go.”

Your mother turned to you, her brows knitting together in quiet confusion. “Go? Where?”

You swallowed hard, your hands fidgeting nervously in your lap. “I... I don’t know…home?”

Her expression softened, and she gave a small, knowing nod. “To Joel?”

You glanced at her, startled that she understood so quickly, but you shouldn’t have been surprised. Mothers always knew. “I just-” You broke off, your voice faltering.

She studied you for a long moment, then reached out to gently clasp your hand. “Then go,” she said quietly, squeezing it in encouragement. “But go for the right reasons, sweetheart. Not because it’s Christmas, or because you feel like you owe him something. Go if you think it’s what your heart needs.”

You blinked at her, your throat tight. “What if I regret it?”

She smiled softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “And what if you don’t?”

The question hung in the air like a challenge, one that settled deep in your chest.

You exhaled shakily, then stood, your movements unsteady but resolute. “I’ll be back soon,” you said, though you weren’t sure if it was more for her benefit or your own.

She gave you a gentle smile and stayed seated, as if she knew this was something you had to do on your own. “Take a coat,” she reminded you softly.

You nodded, grabbing your coat and scarf off the rack by the door. The cold air outside hit you immediately as you stepped out, but it didn’t slow your steps as you headed to your car. Your heart pounded, nerves swirling in your stomach as you turned the ignition and pulled out onto the quiet, dark road.

Joel sat slouched on the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the Christmas tree he’d half-heartedly decorated earlier that day. The glow of the lights cast soft, uneven patterns on the floor, but he wasn’t really seeing them. His mind was stuck somewhere else—on the sound of your voice, on the quiet goodnight that hung heavier than he could have imagined.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, tired in a way that sleep wouldn’t fix. It was the kind of weariness that came from missing someone so deeply it felt like it hollowed you out.

A sudden knock at the door startled him. He frowned, glancing at the clock on the wall.

With a groan, he pushed himself up, grumbling under his breath as he trudged toward the door. “Tommy, I swear I’m fi—”

He pulled the door open mid-sentence, the complaint dying on his lips when he saw who it was.

You.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. You just stood there on his doorstep, wrapped in your coat and scarf, your cheeks pink from the cold, your breath visible in the freezing air. Your wide eyes met his, filled with something he couldn’t name—surprise, maybe, or uncertainty.

Joel froze, his hand still on the doorknob, his heart thudding hard against his chest. He blinked, like he was trying to make sure you were real. “Baby?”

“Hi,” you said softly, the single word carrying so much weight it nearly knocked the air out of him.

Joel let out a shaky breath, his voice rough when he finally spoke. “What... what’re you doin’ here?”

You shifted the bag in your hands, your fingers clutching the handles tightly, like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. “I, uh... I brought some things to bake cookies,” you said quietly, your voice trembling just enough to betray the emotions you were trying to hold back.

Joel just stared at you, completely still, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. The words sank in slowly, and something in his chest tightened—hard and sudden—until he felt like he might break right there on the spot.

“You... you brought stuff to bake cookies?” he repeated, his voice so low it was barely a whisper.

You nodded, a small, almost shy smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah,” you murmured. “I figured... if it’s just you and some burnt cookies this year, maybe you could use a little help.”

Joel exhaled sharply, a shaky breath that sounded dangerously close to a sob. He turned his face slightly, as if trying to gather himself, but there was no hiding the way his eyes shone in the soft light spilling from the doorway.

For a long moment, he didn’t move, didn’t speak, he just looked at you, like you were something fragile and precious, something he couldn’t believe was right in front of him. Finally, he cleared his throat and stepped back, his voice rough as he spoke. “C’mon in, baby. It’s too damn cold out there.”

You stepped inside, the warmth of home enveloping you, after being away for a year, this house still carried the faint scent of pine, Joel and something a little burnt, probably the remnants of his earlier baking disaster. Joel shut the door behind you, lingering for a moment before turning to face you again.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he said softly, his voice uneven, like he was fighting to hold something back.

“I know,” you replied, meeting his gaze.

Joel swallowed hard, the weight of your words sinking into him like a balm to every ache he’d carried for far too long. “You always know how to fix my messes,” he said, his lips curling into a small, almost wistful smile.

You gave him a look, a teasing edge to your voice despite the tension still lingering between you. “Well, someone’s gotta make sure you don’t burn down the kitchen.”

Joel let out a quiet laugh, gruff and hoarse, but real. It sounded like the kind of laugh that had been buried for too long, and the sound of it made your heart squeeze in your chest.

“Yeah,” he said softly, watching you with that same unreadable expression. “Guess someone does.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the air between you thick with unspoken words and years of memories. Then Joel sniffed, scrubbing a hand down his face as if to steady himself. “You still use that same recipe?”

“Of course I do,” you replied, your voice light but steady. “You’re gonna help me this time, though. And I mean actually help.”

Joel watched you for another long moment before he turned toward the kitchen, clearing his throat again. “Alright, then,” he said, his voice thick with emotion he couldn’t quite hide. “Let’s make some cookies.”

The kitchen was filled with the warm, sweet smell of freshly baked cookies. A few floury handprints stained the counter, mixing bowls were stacked haphazardly in the sink, and a couple of slightly misshapen cookies sat cooling on the tray. It wasn’t perfect, far from it, but it felt like you. Like him. Like the pieces of something familiar were falling back into place.

You set the final cookie down on the tray, brushing a bit of flour from your cheek with the back of your hand. “Well,” you said, stepping back to admire the messy success, “I think we did it.”

Joel didn’t answer right away. When you turned to look at him, you found him leaning against the kitchen doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. There was something soft in the way he looked at you, something so Joel,it made your breath hitch.

“What?” you asked, self-conscious under his gaze.

He shook his head slowly, that smile growing just a little. “Nothin’,” he said, his voice low and steady. “Just…you look even more beautiful than I remember.”

The words hit you like a wave, sweeping away all the uncertainty you’d been holding onto. Your heart skipped in your chest, and your breath caught in your throat, leaving you momentarily speechless. You hadn't expected that—hadn’t expected him to say that, especially after all this time.

You glanced away for a moment, suddenly unsure of yourself. The kitchen suddenly felt warmer, the space between you two too close, and yet it felt like everything was finally falling into place, as if you’d both been waiting for this moment without knowing it.

“Joel…” you whispered, your voice barely audible as you tried to steady your breath. You met his gaze again, and this time, there was something different there—a vulnerability, a longing that mirrored your own.

He stepped forward, slowly, as if giving you the space to decide what came next. But you didn’t pull away. You stood there, rooted in the moment, caught somewhere between the past and the present, unsure of what the future held but certain that, for once, you wanted to face it with him.

“I mean it,” Joel added, his voice soft but unwavering. “You always did have a way of lightin’ up a room, darlin’. But right now… you’re more than I remember.”

A lump formed in your throat, and for a second, you couldn’t hold back the emotion that swelled within you. It was like he had reached right into the depths of what you’d been afraid to feel and pulled it all to the surface. You reached out instinctively, your hand brushing his arm, the warmth of his skin making everything feel so real again.

“Joel, I—” Your voice broke, and you paused, unsure of the words.

Joel didn't let you finish your sentence. Before you could gather your thoughts, before the words could fall into place, he closed the gap between you. His hand found your cheek, his thumb grazing the soft skin there, as if he needed to feel you, to make sure this wasn’t just a dream. His lips met yours, soft at first, hesitant, as though he was giving you the chance to pull away, but you didn’t.

You kissed him back, your hands coming up to tangle in his shirt, pulling him closer as the familiar taste of him flooded your senses. It was like stepping into a memory, one you’d been holding on to without even realizing it. All the years, the distance, the pain—all of it seemed to melt away in the warmth of his embrace.

The kiss deepened, slow and tender, and you let yourself lose in it, in him, in the feeling that maybe, just maybe, this was how things were meant to be all along. There were no questions, no doubts, only the comforting certainty of him being right there, of the connection you had never truly lost.

When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathing heavily, you gazing the floor instead of his eyes.

His hands were still on your face, his fingers brushing over your skin like he was memorizing every part of you again.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” Joel murmured, his voice rough with emotion. His eyes searched yours, vulnerable and open in a way that made your heart flutter.

“Are you going to push me away again?” you asked, meeting his eyes with some fear dancing on them.

Joel’s expression faltered for a moment, his gaze flickering with a mix of fear and hope. He searched your face, as if trying to understand what you were really asking, what you really meant.

“No. I will never do that again.” he answered, “I was scared,” he admitted. “Scared of not bein’ enough for you. Scared of how people talked about us. Scared that you’d wake up one day and realize you deserved better.”

“I never thought that,” you said softly, finally meeting his gaze.

Joel swallowed hard, his eyes searching yours. “I was a damn fool for pushin’ you away. And if I could go back and fix it, I would. But I know I can’t. I just…” He paused, his voice breaking. “I just needed you to know how sorry I am.”

“Joel,” you said softly, your voice trembling. “I don’t know if we can go back to what we had. But…maybe we can start somewhere new.”

Joel’s breath caught, hope blooming in his chest. “I’d like that,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’d like that a lot.”

The silence that followed felt different than before. It wasn’t filled with regret or confusion, but with a shared understanding—a quiet acknowledgment of what had been lost and what was still possible. You stayed close, your hands gently resting against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips.

Joel finally let out a shaky breath, as if he’d been holding it in for far too long. His hands came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone, like he was memorizing the feel of you again. "I’m not askin' for all of it back. Just... a chance. To show you that I can be the man you deserve. The man I should’ve been all along."

You nodded slowly, your heart heavy but hopeful. “I’m not sure what this looks like, Joel. But we can figure it out, right? Together?”

A soft, sincere smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and he leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. Joel pulled back slightly, his hands still resting on your face as he looked at you with love and something more vulnerable, but what was more vulnerable than love? He took a slow breath, and then his gaze shifted toward the window, the quiet fall of snowflakes beginning to collect on the sill outside.

His voice was soft, almost reverent. "Look at that," he murmured, his eyes tracing the peaceful scene outside. "First snow of the year."

You turned to look out the window, your heart fluttering as you watched the snow gently blanket the world in white, the quiet stillness of the moment wrapping around you both like a cozy blanket. It felt surreal, almost like something out of a dream, a dream you didn’t want to wake from.

Being this close to the man you loved felt like a dream.

Joel stepped behind you, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close again. His chin rested on your shoulder as he whispered in your ear, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver down your spine.

“Merry Christmas, baby,” he said, his voice full of raw tenderness, the words wrapped in the kind of love that had been buried for too long but never truly gone.

Before you could respond, he turned you gently, his hands sliding down your arms to hold your waist as he kissed you again, soft and slow, like this moment was meant for both of you, like it was always meant to be this way. The world outside faded, leaving only the quiet hum of your heartbeat and the warmth of his touch, the promise of something new blooming between you two.

And for the first time in a long time, it felt like home again.

#fic rec

870 notes · View notes

littlemisspascal · 4 days ago

Note

hello, my dearest Milla 🤍

with this ask I challenge you to write a ficlet (or anything bigger if you want) inspired by this screenshot:

may the writing muses be with you,

kissing you on your forehead (if you allow it not then just waving from the distance!)

The constant

0k5 | Javier Peña x fem reader | ao3 | Masterlist

Summary: Javi wakes up after a nightmare Warnings: 18+ mdni. Angst, piv. No age specified

a/n: thank you for the inspo, Aly 💛(smooching you, if you allow 😌), thank you @aurorawritestoescape for beta ing 💕

He woke up restless, sweating. Heart beating so fast and hard in his chest that he thought it was about to explode. And then he remembered his nightmare, his brain torturing him at night, making him recall insidiously the events he had faced earlier. As if the anxiety that had its grip on him all day wasn't enough, it had to come to him at night too.

He felt useless. His job was useless.

He grabbed an ashtray and his pack of cigarettes from the nightstand, and lit one. Too bad about the nicorette. Migraine hit him and he pressed his palm to his forehead.

“Javi?” you murmured, voice sleepy.

“Shit, I’m sorry hermosa. Did I wake you up?” he asked, still haunted by the images swirling like ghosts in his mind, his gaze lost in the sheets he couldn't even see.

“It’s ok, baby,” you answered. You sat up and wrapped your arms around him, cheek resting on his shoulder. The warmth of your naked body against his, an attempt to get him back to you.

You knew what was torturing him, you had lost count of his nighttime awakenings, mumbling in his sleep.

He kept smoking, flicking the ash into the ashtray from time to time.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

“Hey… don’t do that,” you replied, kissing his shoulder and tightening your grip around him. “I’m here for you, no matter what.”

His Adam's apple throbbed and then returned to its place, almost painfully.

“Javier,” you insisted.

The corner of his lip slightly twitched into a smile, as he heard you say his full first name to prove that you meant it. You were the only one who never made him roll his eyes, always knew how to act around him, instinctively.

“Tell me what you need,” you said, encouraging him.

He put out his cigarette and placed the ashtray back on the nightstand. “Need to forget,” he breathed, still unable to look at you, as if he hated himself at those moments.

“Come here,” you said, hand tight on his bicep as you lay down on the bed and spread your thighs lightly. He positioned himself between them, his eyes finally plunging into yours. You brushed his cheek as he nestled his cock at your entrance. His tortured, haunted eyes fixed on yours, but not quite present yet.

He slowly pushed in and the warmth of your cunt surrounded him. He frowned, as if he was fighting against the darkest part of himself to come back to you, mentally and physically.

Your body responded to his length, his touch, and covered him with your wetness. Your fingers played with his hair at the back of his neck as he slid his arms under your shoulders. He moaned softly when he felt your body fully welcome him.

You didn't take your eyes off him, watching his gaze changing and the anxiety leaving, as he was fucking you slowly, your clit already throbbing against his skin.

“You’re my constant in this world, hermosa,” he had told you once.

And each of those moments proved it to you a little more, night after night. You knew he would be okay as long as he would be against you, inside you. And so would you.

Javi p masterlist

Thank you for reading 🙏

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated ❤️

Follow @millafics and turn notifications on for fics updates

@littlemisspascal @pascalsanctuary @survivingandenduring

#fic rec

252 notes · View notes

littlemisspascal · 4 days ago

Text

The Heart of Rome (Marcus Acacius x OC)

All Chapters List

XVIII. The Unexpected (Smut!18+!MDNI)

Guys I did some research on the baby's name and since my sister is a historian I consulted her. In Rome, names are arranged as follows: a male Roman citizen typically had three names (the tria nomina): a praenomen (first name), a nomen (also called nomen gentilicium, identifying the clan or gens), and a cognomen (a nickname, identifying a particular branch of a gens). So Marcus(given name) Justus(probably like the title or Justia gens I think they gave him that name in the film because it means ‘just’) Acacius (clan name which you cant change like a surname) so in this case I named the baby Marcius. if you look at the quote from Wikipedia you will understand better: In Latin, most nomina were formed by adding an adjectival suffix, usually -ius, to the stem of an existing word or name. Frequently this required a joining element, such as -e-, -id-, -il-, or -on-. Many common nomina arose as patronymic surnames; for instance, the nomen Marcius was derived from the praenomen Marcus, and originally signified Marci filius, "son of Marcus”.

so enjoy the chapter!

"Vivere est militare..."

To live is to fight...

It had been almost a month since the day you considered the most beautiful day of your life, the day you gave birth. You hadn't anticipated that day to unfold in this way, but life often has a way of surprising. You were pleased and eager as you bade farewell to Palatine Hill and returned to the villa. It would be fair to say that the population of both Rome and the villa had increased by one. It wasn't easy for newborn babies in Rome either. Firstly, the baby had to survive the first month, as almost half of newborn babies did not make it through the first week. In the days after the birth, it was traditional to wear a chain of amulets around the child's neck. You made him wear it as per the custom, but after a month you decided to take it off because it kept waking him up from his sleep. That's why a special naming ceremony was held when the baby was one month old. Fortunately, since your baby was healthy and strong enough to be a newborn – probably because he got his strength from his father – he survived the first month very well.

On the day of the special naming ceremony at the Juno temple, after the customary sacrifices to the god Juno and other deities, Marcus announced the baby's name and offered a prayer. As the firstborn son, you thought it fitting to give him the name Marcius Justus Acacius. He bore a striking resemblance to his father as if you had given birth to him anew, just as you had wished. A son who was a true reflection of that wonderful man in every way. This was perhaps best confirmed by Tullia, as she was the only person who knew Marcus from the moment he was born. The baby, Marcius, brought joy and light to the villa with his loud cries. He was a source of joy for everyone. While everyone was looking after him and taking good care of him, you spent most of the time breastfeeding him and recovering from exhaustion after the birth. For the first two weeks, Marcus was seldom absent from the villa, and very attentive to you and the baby. He seemed to be in a more cheerful mood lately, always smiling.

During that time period, your aunt Antonia and your cousin Paulina came to the villa on several occasions to see the baby. Your aunt seemed pleased and proud that you had given birth to a son. Paulina had been told by her own midwife that her baby was a boy, which seemed to make her really happy because she already had two daughters. They offered you one of their slaves to help you breastfeed your baby, but you refused. You were determined to breastfeed him yourself. The midwife too, came by each week to check on the baby's progress and your recovery. She advised against hot baths, so you took care of your personal hygiene with the girls' help. It looked like the bleeding had stopped completely, but it would be another two weeks before the midwife could say that you were fully recovered. After a lengthy period of waiting, that night had finally arrived. The night you and Marcus had been looking forward to for so long. You were eager to take a hot bath, as well as to touch his skin freely. After breastfeeding the baby that evening, your heart was pounding with excitement as you took your bath in the balneum with the help of Decima and Norell. The baby was going to stay with the girls tonight, so after breastfeeding him, you kissed him and went up to the room.

First, you put on your tunic, which is made of very thin, see-through fabric. You smiled as you touched your waist and felt the slimline. You were pleased that the big belly was gone, but you still missed that feeling. You looked at your reflection in the mirror Marcus had given you and ran your fingers through your hair. It was both strange and amazing to see yourself so clearly. You put the mirror back in the drawer, took a fig from the tray with the food you'd prepared, and went out to the balcony. Gazing out at the garden below, you thought back to that special night, that sacred night when you gave yourself to Marcus, your first time. You might not be as inexperienced now, but you were feeling the same excitement. As the minutes passed, it became more difficult to wait, because remembering that night made you remember his every touch on your skin. You peeled your fig and popped it in your mouth, watching the moonlight dance on your creamy skin as you chewed.

You returned to the inside of the room and lay on your front on the bed. It had been months since you'd been able to lie in this position, so you were really enjoying it. Just then, you heard voices coming from the courtyard and your heart started to beat faster. The footsteps on the stairs were loud and sounded like they were moving quite quickly. You grinned and turned on your side in bed, smoothing your hair.

Marcus entered the room briskly, his eyes seeking you out and a hint of a smile playing on his lips when he saw you on the bed. He closed the door behind him, looking at you intently, his heart racing.

"Or did you begin without me, princess?"

"How could I, General?" You got out of bed as he removed his shawl. "Wine?" You picked up the wine cup on the tray and poured wine from the decanter. Marcus was sitting on the bed, taking off his sandals. “Please."

He'd finished, waiting for you as you walked over to him holding two cups in your hands. He was looking into your eyes as he took the cup from your hand, even as he drank. "Have you been touching yourself in my absence?" He smirked as he gazed at you from head to toe.

"Marcus..." you whined cutely.

"Tell me," he demanded, and sat you on his lap, licking his lips.

Your cheeks flushed. "Maybe a little." You took a sip of your wine.

"Where? Show me."

You smiled mischievously and took his hand, guiding it to where you wanted him most. "Here. But I much prefer your touch."

Feeling your wetness beneath the fabric, he swallowed, breathing heavily now. He quickly drank his wine and placed his cup on the floor, wrapping his arms around your waist.

"Let me feed you first, my love. You must be hungry.”

"I am not hungry." His brown eyes were alight with desire. "I am starving." He said in a deep voice as he took the cup from your hand. "Besides, the night is long." He grinned and pushed you onto the bed, he did it so fast that you gasped.

He leaned over and you felt a shudder run through you, not from the light breeze that blew in through the balcony and extinguished the oil lamp's flame, but from a deep longing, a passionate desire, and a strong urge to kiss. His eager lips found yours and moaned as he pushed his tongue into your mouth. He placed his hand on the back of your neck and drew you closer, deepening the kiss. He was very much compelled by your sweet tongue and breath and longed to drink from your mouth as he wished.

You ran your fingers through his grey hair as the kiss itself became a lascivious, passionate mating of mouths. It wasn't until he broke the kiss to run his lips over your trembling skin that you realised you were breathless, dizzy. He pushed your hair back to expose your neck and ran his lips and tongue over your jugular. As he licked your skin, he was pleased to realise you'd just had a bath and your skin smelled like the jasmine oil you'd rubbed on your body – you were doing it all for him. His hands grabbed the straps of your tunic as his lips moved under your chin. But as he slid them down, the threads on the straps caught on the ring on his finger. You giggled at him, but he looked serious.

"Having fun, I see…"

"It's just like our wedding night all over again," you teased. "There's something in the way again."

He smiled smugly. "I'm a soldier. I can overcome any obstacle in my way," he said, in a husky voice. "Break through the front…" He grasped the straps with his thick fingers, holding on tight. "And attack."He roughly tore the fabric apart, making a loud tearing sound. You looked at him with your eyes wide, but he was focused on your exposed breasts. It might have been Marcus' hot breath licking them before his tongue or the fact that you'd just nursed the baby, but they were already aroused and fully erect, and a few drops of milk slowly trickled from your nipples.

"May I?" he asked.

You nodded, knowing full well what he was asking.

He pulled your torn tunic down to your waist and buried his face between your breasts. You felt a pleasant shiver ran down your spine with pleasure as his warm tongue traced the path of the milk and found your nipple. This was a rather different feeling from the previous ones. You weren't sure if it was because your breasts were producing milk now, but it was very beautiful and extremely arousing. He took one nipple in his mouth and you clenched the fabric of his tunic as he sucked gently and then hungrily, enchanted by the taste.

"Marcus!" you gasped.

He stopped what he was doing and looked at you. “Am I hurting you?”

You inhaled, taking a deep breath. “No, you're amazing, it's just I breastfeed Marcius you know and I'm afraid if you suck on me like that..."

He cut you off with a kiss placed on your sternum. "I'll be gentle my love, I promise."

And he picked up where he left off, but more gently, as he promised. As he sucked on one, he rubbed the other nipple, making you moan softly. He licked his lower lip. "This is the best thing I've ever tasted in my whole life."

You laughed and ran your finger through his lips. "What about my wetness?" You asked in a seductive tone.

He stared. "Woman, you're driving me mad. The more I try to be gentle, the more you try my patience." He grunted as he ripped your tunic off and freed you from it. Then he removed his own tunic and grabbed you by the legs, pulling you towards him and sliding you over the silk sheet. Your heart began to beat in your throat. "Let me see how wet you are." He said with a grin.

As you looked at his bare chest, admiring the view, he leaned over you and placed one leg over his shoulder, then the other.

He then buried his head between your legs, his beard and moustache tickling your inner thighs, which was a huge turn on for you. You both realised how much you'd missed this. His warm tongue licked along the seam of your cunt, dipping in between the folds of your labia, expertly but eagerly.

Just as you were about to grab onto his hair tight, directing him to where you needed him, he buried his nose in the pale locks on your mound, letting his lips encircle your pearl. He drags his tongue across it, before sucking softly, and you whine, tangled your fingers in his curls, your head tipping back as the warm ache in your walls sharper, more insistent.

He stopped sucking you long enough to say, "How I've missed the taste of you. It's even better than my memories and my dreams – so much more delicious."

You had to swallow before you could speak. "Have you been dreaming of my taste?" You panted.

"I couldn't think of anything else. Every time I got one of your letters, I found myself thinking about this moment only."

You propped yourself on your elbows and looked at his face through between your legs. "Marcus..." You murmured.

"I didn't write you many letters back, I couldn't. I guess I wanted to show you how I felt instead of writing." He smirked.

You reached out to give him a kiss.

"These words you say are better than a letter."

"Right..." His gaze deepened again. "Now..." He placed his hand between your breasts and pushed you back gently. "Let's continue, shall we?”

"Fine by me," you giggled but it was replaced by a moan as you felt his finger slide inside you. You gave yourself over to him completely as he played with your most sensitive spots at will. Since his big hands were gripping your hips tight making it impossible to pull away from his touch anyway.

He continued to suck more hungrily this time, taking in delight in the fact how swollen you were getting, your deep moans sounds like music to his ears, simply encouraging him keep going. The pleasure became too much as the relentless movements of his mouth became a slick sounding action and your back arched, your eyes closed tight, your fingertips curling. Soon, your legs were shaking violently, you gripped the sheets so hard you wanted to tear them into pieces and… You are in Elysium.

He felt your release; your warmth coated his mouth and chin. His tongue went inside you and licked up every tasty drop that dripped out. When he had finished, he leaned over, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, kissing him, pushing your tongue inside his mouth, tasting yourself.

He then pressed himself against you as he deepened the kiss, using his weight to pin you to the bed.

As the tip of his glorious length brushed against your wet clit, you writhed, feeling like you were about to fly out of your skin. He ran his fingers over your body, enjoying the softness of your skin against his rough, battle-worn fingers. He slowly pushed himself inside you, watching your face as he did so. You were breathing heavily, your hazel eyes wide with excitement and a hint of pain. It was almost as painful as the first time, perhaps because it was your first time after giving birth. Fortunately, Marcus realised this immediately and was determined to give you as much pleasure as possible. And it worked perfectly. His amazing tongue found your nipples again, and as he pushed you towards the heights of pleasure, he pushed his full length against your walls. You both moaned with pleasure, digging your fingers into his back and wrapping your legs around his waist, pressing yourself against him, writhing for more.

"Damn," he growled. His hot breath licked your neck. He stroked your legs he thought about the nights he'd spent without you and for a moment he realised he almost regretted leaving you to go to the damn battle.

“Marcus, please, oh gods," you begged, as the sensations became almost painfully overwhelming and your body began to shake.

He pushed the thought aside and began thrusting. He watched your expression and thought maybe he could hurt you, but he didn't. The pain you felt was replaced by pleasure as you clenched down on him every time he entered you. He smiled and feeling blessed when you leaned into him and wrapped your arms around his neck, showering his face and neck with kisses. His desire for you increased double. He wanted to possess you, take you in every way that was humanly possible. He moved inside you, more roughly aware than he had ever been, you responded to him with a loud moan. He held you close, whispering in your ear beautiful and foul things and you giggled in response. He held you close, as if you weren't already close enough. He wrapped his arms around you as he picked up the pace and thrust harder and harder, and you began to bite and nibble on your lower lip as you felt him deeper inside you. His tongue licked your lips, parting them as if he wanted you to scream his name, and you dug your fingers into his flesh and did as he wished; screamed his name over and over. Your breath hit his collarbone, which served him to thrust deeper.

Your climax roars through, and you had trouble keeping your balance. When you thought you might pass out from the pleasure, you felt his smile, pressed into your neck, as his body collapsing into a quivering climax. Your voice was shaky as you moaned his name again, your limbs twitching and shuddering. He follows only a moment later, he cupped your cheeks in his hands, pushing your foreheads together. His brows tense, his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth falls open, his breath showering your face all over. You just watched the sweat on his brow, listened to his breathy moans, stroked his shoulders all the way down to his arms. When he opened his eyes again, his hand came up to cover yours, planted a kiss in your palm.

There’s still a long way to go, but this was enough for now.

You both lay snuggled together on the bed for a while till your breathing became regular. Then Marcus got out of bed to retrieve the tray of food and place it on the bed. He then sat cross-legged on the bed. You propped yourself up on your elbow and reached for the tray to pick a few grapes. He reached out before you and picked the grapes and fed them to you. Then he began to eat his own food with great appetite, and you rested your head in your palm and watched him eat, admiring him.

"I see you must be very hungry, given that you left early this morning." You mumbled and placed your hand on his knee.

Marcus nodded as he chewed his morsel. "That's right, my lady. The soldiers who were supposed to be taking Elagabalus to Ostia hadn't returned. I sent some soldiers after them, which kept me a little busy."

You frowned. "I hope everything's alright."

"I hope so too, but that man..." He fed you another grape. "He's as annoying as Caracalla."

"So is Geta, isn't he? You used to find him annoying too, but I guess not anymore. You two are quite like brothers now." You smiled.

Marcus stopped chewing and stared. "I trust him in a weird way, although I do still have some misgivings about certain matters.”

You returned your gaze to the grape on the tray. "I was pretty mad at him for sending you to battle and not going himself as emperor, but turned out it was his cousin who caused it. He's trying to prove himself you know. He hasn't organised any games for a while too."

"That is not the only reason," Marcus said, taking a sip of his wine.

You looked at him. He brushed your cheek with the back of his hand. "I suggested him not to come. I thought it would be better for him to stay, and it was. When the Persian army and other troops realised they'd made a mistake, they hightailed it out of there without looking back. They weren't too keen on the Emperor's presence either."

You raised your eyebrows. "You didn't want him to leave? Ah, I shouted at him in vain then." You twisted your lips, feeling incredibly guilty.

Marcus grinned, shaking his cup. "You shouted at him? I wish I'd been there to see it."

You squinted at him. "Maybe if you'd told me in time I wouldn't have to do this. I'll make it up to him when I see him."

"No, you won't." His tone was sharp, not open to argument.

You squinted at him as he finished his wine. His commanding presence often turned you on. "He's my brother."

"And I'm your husband."

"So?" You gave him a bit of a tease.

He responded to your playful expression with a crooked smile.

"The duty of a wife to obey her husband's wishes and orders."

‘'That doesn't seem entirely fair. Then my husband should obey my wishes and orders too."

Marcus pushed the tray away and crawled towards you, his gaze holding yours with a steady intensity. He touched your cheek, his thumb tracing the outline of your lips. "Whatever you want from me, whatever you order, I'll do it, just say the word."

You looked at his lips. "Kiss me." You whispered.

He obeyed your order immediately. You smiled as you tasted the wine from his warm tongue, he broke the kiss and you licked his lips as you looked at him with raised eyebrows.

"It's my turn now," he said, and his eyes lit up with desire. "Turn round." He ordered.

When you realised his intentions, your heart began to beat rapidly with excitement and your cheeks were burning. The look on your face amused him.

"Get on your hands and knees," he said, gesturing to the bed with his eyes.

You did as he said, blushing even more at the thought of the view he was seeing. He had taken you in this position many times, yet each time you couldn't help feeling a little embarrassed. "Marcus?"

"Ssshh, relax my love.” He soothed you. “You have no idea how much I've missed this." He finally touched your asscheeks, squeezing your plump buttocks with his hands and your face flamed. You closed your eyes and bit your bottom lip as you felt his hot breath against your back.

He grabbed you roughly by the hips and dug his fingers into your flesh to steady you. He then leaned down and kissed your asscheeks and stroked your folds with his fingers, smiling himself when he felt your wet warmth in his palm and settled behind you. You propped yourself up on your elbows and raised your hips as his ever-present need caressed your folds. Since your walls were too slippery, he easily slid his now throbbing need into your warmth. "Oh," You moaned loudly, he cursed, accompanied by the slick sounds of his groin against your thigh with each thrust. The atmosphere of the room was filled with the pleasure and triumph of being reunited once more. You gripped the sheet tightly and squeezed your eyelids shut, letting out a muffled moan as he reached for your breasts, grabbing them and cupping them possessively. Roughly, he kept slamming into your buttocks again and again, giving you indescribable pleasure with each thrust. He kept up the rhythm, grabbing your hair in his hands and leaning down to kiss your neck, but you had bent forward without realising it. His other hand moved from between your breasts up to your collarbone, gently cupping your slender neck. It was as if he was going to strangle you, which was quite arousing, and he pulled you back towards him. You shuddered with pleasure as your slim back arched against his strong chest. His tongue traced a path from your earlobe down to your neck and shoulder. When you turned your head to look at him, he quickly found your lips and kissed you passionately.

He kept kissing you while pushing into you, and you kept pushing against his crotch. Then he touched your clit with his finger, making your stomach drop and building up until you were gasping, then he kept going and you were moaning loudly into his arm, which was wrapped around you.

After you came, Marcus picked up the pace even more, but not before gripping your hips more firmly, digging his finger into your flesh deeper, almost hurting you in the process.

You could tell he was about to climax by the way he started thrusting erratically, the way his arm muscles tensed and he grasped you so tightly that you were almost breathless, and how he leaned down to suck even bite your neck, burying his face in your hair and groaning loudly with his release.

He continued to thrust as he came, only stopped when he realise you'd thrown your head back against his shoulder to catch your breath. He reluctantly pulled out, his warm liquid running down your thighs and dripping onto the bed sheets. He grabbed the end of the sheet, and you stood still as he wiped your upper legs, thighs planting many kisses on your back before turning round. He cupped your face and turned it to his, reading your expression to see how he'd made you feel. He smiled. He then kissed your reddened cheeks and lips then made you lie back on the bed and lie next to you, his strength and effort spent. You sighed and curled up next to him, and he held you despite how sweaty he had become. He fell asleep after placing your - his princess’- head resting on his chest.

As the morning sun streamed into your room through the window, the birds outside were already up and about, filling the air with their cheerful songs. However what woke you up was that sound you still couldn't believe every time you heard it, the sound of your baby crying. You opened your eyes and tried to sit up, but you found that Marcus's arm was caging you, making it impossible to move. You turned your head to him and noticed that even though his eyes were closed, he still had considerable strength in his arm. He must have been tired, after all the exertion you'd done in the night but still. You smiled to yourself as you remembered those moments. You wanted to snuggle into him and get more sleep, but the baby must have been hungry, so you gently pushed Marcus' arm away and tried to get up, but he stirred in the bed and held you tighter.

“Marcus.”

“Hmm?”

"I really should get up."

He opened his eyes. "Why? Are you alright?" He asked sleepily.

"Can't you hear the noise?"

He frowned and listened. "Oh, right." And he released you and let you get up. "I should have got used to this by now."

You leaned over and gave him a kiss. "I need to feed him." You said and got up to check the floor.

"Looking for this?" Marcus smirked as he held up the piece of your tunic he had torn last night.

Your cheeks are a little flushed. "I suppose I'll have to put on another one."

As you walked over to the closet, he propped himself up on his elbow, examined the bits of food, wine stains and other things scattered on the bed. "We've made quite a mess, haven't we?"

You smiled as you got dressed. “But it was amazing."

Last night came back to you as you were tying the threads on the collar of your tunic. You weren't sure how many times he'd taken you last night, you'd lost count at some point.

“Indeed, it was.”

You were taken aback when you heard his voice just behind you. He embraced you from behind and kissed you on the cheek before you turned round.

"I'll tell them to prepare the bath," he said, wearing his tunic. He then opened the door to call out, Decima heard him and came in with Marcius in her arms who was crying incessantly. Marcus took him carefully. "Are you hungry you little noisy one?"

You smiled as you watched the two of them and walked over to sit on the bed. Marcus placed him in your arms with care. He sat next to you on the bed, watching you intently. You touched your baby's upper lip with the nipple. He opened his mouth wide, then you brought him to the breast, and he started sucking with great appetite.

"I was planning to spend the whole day here with you, but I have to go to the barracks for a few hours in the afternoon."

"Is everything alright?"

He sighed. "Felix lost two fingers in the battle and is having trouble holding his sword. I need to talk to him and see what might be useful for him."

"I'm sorry about that."

"If he can wield his sword with his left hand, he'll be fine. We'll have to teach him, which will be difficult." He put his hand on your knee. "I want you to learn too."

"Sword? Me?" You frowned. "I've barely got used to the knife."

"You did well, though." He gave a little grin. "Would you like me to get a custom-made sword for you?"

You let out a sigh. "Like you'd back down if I said no. Fine, but I'm sure you'll give up on me at the first lesson."

He stood up and leaned towards you. "Continue to ignore how strong you are but I can see the truth, my lady." He kissed you adoringly on the lips. "I'll be waiting for you in the balneum. Feed our son and come." Then he kissed Marcius' little head tenderly before leaving the room.

After a relaxing bath and getting dressed together, you had a late breakfast in the courtyard. Then Cato arrived at the villa with some news. He was in a bit of a rush. Whatever the news was, Marcus left the villa with him in a hurry. Once they had departed, Norell put the baby to sleep, and you went to see Decima, who you realised had been upset all morning. You found her watering the flowers in the garden, seemingly lost in thought. Upon seeing you, she rose to her feet, giving you a faint smile.

"Decima, is something wrong?"

"It's nothing, don't worry about it."

"Come on now, there's no need to hide it from me, I'm your friend."

She sighed deeply. "Octavius. He wants to marry me."

"Oh, Decima! That's wonderful!" Your smile faded. "But, why are you upset?"

"Because I am a slave." She bowed her head.

She was right, slaves weren't allowed to marry in Rome unless their master freed them.

"Domina!" one of the slaves called out, interrupting you.

You took Decima's hands. "We'll talk about this later. I will tell Marcus all about this when he returns."

She nodded and hugged you.

“My Lady.”

You turned and looked in that direction and saw it was just one of the slaves. "My lady, Emperor Geta has arrived!"

You raised your eyebrows in surprise, but you were pleased, and a smile spread across your face as you walked into the courtyard. Geta was sitting on the lectus, adjusting the shawl he'd wrapped around his arm. When he saw you, he stood up and came over to give you a hug.

"How are you, sister?' I've really missed you and my nephew."

"We have missed you too. He's currently asleep, so please have a seat. I'll bring him to you when he wakes up."

Geta sat down, crossed his legs and adjusted his shawl again. "Actually, I don't have much time."

You asked the slaves to fill his cup with wine.

"Have things got complicated in the palace again? With a mother full of intrigue, it would be more surprising if it hadn't." You said, picking up your cup and sitting down opposite him.

"It's been that way since I was born, I can assure you. My mother likes to boss me around and now she's obsessed with getting me wed, which is getting on my nerves."

"I have to be honest, I don't like Julia, but I have to say I agree with her on this one. To be a powerful emperor you must have an heir-"

"I'm not going to marry, sister!" He and you both surprised at how loud his voice had been, but when he looked at you again, his face was soft. "There's still time."

"As you wish." You said, murmuring. "But think about it."

He gave a little smile. "I'll do it for you." Then he let out a sigh. "I was easier when Caracalla's around. It was his turn. I wish it hadn't ended like this. I do miss our brother, sometimes. I loved him, you know, despite everything he did."

'Was that why you didn't get his face removed from the denarius and the imperial banners? And of course, from the armour of the Praetorians."

Geta grinned, "You wouldn't believe it, but it was to avoid unnecessary expense." He sipped his wine.

"That's really strange coming from you."

"I made a promise, sister. It's one of the things I have to do to look after my people and make Rome a better place."

"I'm proud of you," you said with a smile.

He stared at you with wide eyes and then looked away and sighed. "So..." He put his glass on the table and stood up. "I'm going to walk the streets, see how people are doing, starting with the Poorhouse, though it looks more like an insula now."

"I've heard about the improvements you've made there. I'm glad you did. Those people should be grateful to you."

"More for you, they ask about you every time I visit there."

It's been a while since I've been there. You suddenly realised it would be a good idea to join him. "Can I come with you?”

His honey-coloured eyes sparkled. "Brilliant idea!" He clapped his hands. "Let's get going then.’" He stood up but you grabbed his arm.

"Wait, I have to put on my stola first," you said, turning towards the stairs.

"Don't keep the Emperor waiting too long!" he shouted after you.

Upon his arrival at the barracks, Marcus was met with an unexpected sight. One of the soldiers who had been sent after Elagabalus had unfortunately sustained a shoulder injury and was resting on the ground. His childhood friend Darius, who had become commander of the Praetorians, was standing next to him. Marcus dismounted his horse and approached him at a brisk pace.

Darius inclined his head respectfully, "General."

Marcus nodded back, his gaze fixed on his injured soldier. He then summoned Octavius to his side. "What happened to him?"

"Sir, he said they were attacked and there was a skirmish. He was hit by an arrow and barely escaped alive.

"Elagabalus?"

Octavius shook his head in the negative.

"Acacius, I would like to speak with you in private."

He looked at Darius. "Follow me." He turned to the others. "You get him to medicus now!”

Octavius and Darius followed him up to his room.

"How did this happen? Any word from the other soldiers?"

"Not yet, sir. There's no sign of them or Elagabalus, and he hasn't boarded the ship."

He frowned and crossed his arms. "Tell them to look everywhere, in every street. If he's hiding, they'll find him."

"My men are already on it," Darius said. "However, that's not what we need to be discussing. I wanted to run this by you before I tell Emperor Geta."

"How do you mean?"

He took a deep breath. "The ones from Leptis Magna, I know you don't trust them because they are loyal to Empress Domna, and neither do I. When you went to war, I had them all followed and we learned something I needed to confirm. It turns out that Elagabalus wasn't just meeting with members of the senate in secret. He's actually a lot more dangerous than we thought."

"What is it you want to confirm? I don't follow."

"He had someone kidnapped that night while we caught them red-handed."

Marcus raised his eyebrows. "Who?"

"A slave girl. I didn't understand why they would kidnap a slave girl until I saw her and the child."

"Did you say a child?"

"Yes, a boy.” He said in a bit of a suggestive way.

Octavius and Marcus exchanged glances, now it all made sense.

"This girl, or… Octavius, didn't you say that time you saw that girl die?"

"Yes, sir, she was badly wounded. The guards took her to the other dead slaves because she was dead."

Darius interjected. "General, I spoke to the girl and she said that you and Lady Aurelia know her and would believe her."

Marcus nodded. "That girl saved Princess Aurelia's life." He felt a shudder as he remembered that time. He was aware of the close relationship between you and that girl. "Take her and the child to Palatine Hill at once, I will accompany you."

"The Emperor is not at the palace right now, Acacius. He wanted to visit the Poorhouse."

Marcus looked at him angrily. "It's not safe for him to be out when Elagabulus is around." He hissed. "You make sure the girl and the child are safe. Octavius and I will take Geta to the palace.”

Darius nodded and left in a hurry.

"Do you really think that child is Geta's?" Octavius asked.

"I think so. Why else would they want to kidnap an ordinary slave girl? Geta needs to know about all this. Help me get my armour on so we can go find him."

Octavius seemed to be dwelling on the word 'ordinary slave girl'. He was lost in thought. He was thinking about his slave girl.

"Octavius! Didn’t you hear me?" His General's loud voice brought him to his senses. "Yes, sir!"

Marcus observed his face as he put his armour on him. "You're distracted. I want to know why."

He tied the strings of his armour. "There's nothing to worry about, sir."

Marcus touched his shoulder, stopping him. "I'm not asking you this as your General, I'm asking as your friend."

"I appreciate it, Acacius. But could we talk later? Geta's situation is more urgent at the moment."

"Later... Very well, then.”

The Imperial Carriage came to a halt on a street close to the poorhouse. During your and Geta's walks accompanied by the guards, the people greeted you with great interest and affection. You remembered how it was when you first came to Rome. There were lots of people in the streets who were hungry and looked poor. But now there were hardly any destitute people on the street. You were pleased to see this for yourself. People seemed more hopeful and happy. They were greeting their emperor, who they had previously disliked, with affection. But there was one thing everyone could agree on: they loved their princess and their hero, the general himself, much more. As one of them approached you, the guards were alerted, but he only wanted to give you flowers. You smiled at him as you took the flower, and then you noticed someone in the crowd wearing a cloak. You thought he looked like someone you used to know, but that was impossible. When you looked again, he wasn't there. Probably someone who looked like him, you thought to yourself.

"They look happy, don't they?" Geta's question distracted your thoughts for a moment, but you still had the feeling that you were being watched.

"Yes, they do."

"So, do you think they'll be happier if I get some new games organised at the Colosseum soon?"

"I'm surprised you lasted this long," you said with a laugh, your eyes still roaming the crowd.

"Your husband, Acacius, wasn't keen on organising any post-war victory celebrations or games," he said, pursing his lips. "However, the good news is that our budget is in good shape, so we can finally have our long-overdue celebration and get the games organised. Don't say you won't attend. I'd really like you to be there with me. You know, the seat next to me is yours."

You nodded, looking at his eyes, which seemed a little curious. "I'll be there brother."

As you made your way to the Poorhouse courtyard, the crowd thinned out. "Brother... Acacius said you wanted to go to the war too, but he said that he stopped you."

"Did he?"

"Yes, I'm sorry to accuse you, forgive me."

"I'll only forgive you if you do one thing." He looked at you mischievously.

You rolled your eyes. "No."

"But I haven't told you what I want yet."

You sighed. "Well, what is it?"

He leaned down to your ear, trying hard not to laugh. "One kiss."

You squinted at him. ‘See? I guessed the answer before you asked."

"On the cheek, I mean."

"Still no.”

He laughed again, clearly amused. "Acacius doesn't need to know."

"Oh, you're like a child. Cut it out." You said angrily, picking up the pace. You soon left him behind.

"Forgive me, sister, don't hate me!" He quickened his pace, trying to keep up with you.

Marcus was right, you shouldn't have told him about it. He didn't mean any harm, but he did show a bit too much interest in you, which could easily be misinterpreted from the outside.

As soon as the children saw you, they ran over and gathered around you. They were really happy and called you by name. You smile at them and take a quick look around to see what changes have been made. It had been a while since you'd been here, and now everything looked clean and well-organised. It was now a more liveable place. People, men and women alike, were delighted to see you again. They congratulated you on your baby, and you thanked them. Even their clothes were like ordinary people now, and it made you sad to think of how they used to be. Then you saw a man standing in the corner who looked a bit unwell. It wasn't just him, there were a few others too. While Geta was chatting with the children, you checked on them, examining them as a medicus. Even though they weren't poor anymore, they weren't wealthy enough to afford a medic. Some were working in the fields, some were porters, and some were chronically ill. After examining a few people, another person came to the end of the queue. He was wearing a cloak, and you couldn't see his face. You wrapped the hand of the woman next to him with bandages, and it was his turn. There was no visible sign of any injury. In fact, he seemed quite well built and healthy.

"You don't appear to be unwell or injured. Let me see your face."

He did as you said pushing his hood back. As soon as you saw his face you froze, the bandages and the medicine vial you were holding fell to the ground.

"It's been a long time, Aya."

Your mouth opened slightly in surprise. You were so taken aback that you were momentarily unable to respond. After all, it was him, standing right there, looking at you with his blue eyes, smiling at you as he always did.

You shook your head to regain your composure and looked at his face once more.

“Hanno?"

Yes, I know you are surprised and you are probably thinking that Lucius came too, yes and no. He is not the Lucius we know as the Roman prince from the movie, I just added him as Hanno, a friend of Aurelia from Egypt. You will see the details in the next chapter, thanks for reading!

@orcasoul @pedroslut4eva @immyowndefender @lailathepedritofan @screechingchildfury @shinymusicpanda @somedayheaven @ivoryandflame @negrita2345 @music-lover09 @javiismyhsbnd @idontcareihavenoidea @jisungandpedrolover @mmkkzz @ro-nahime-things @indiegirlunited @kluvspedro @movievillainess721 @berriesarepunk @bonadeamo @heramj @blushingwueen @smoochispoof @littlemisspascal @kirashess @okaaaadereeee @this--is--music @mmkkzz @ro-nahime-things @indiegirlunited @kluvspedro @movievillainess721 @berriesarepunk @bonadeamo @heramj @blushingwueen @smoochispoof @littlemisspascal @kirashess @melsunshine @meetmeatyourworst @footballfangirl94 @daejangandimja @ariesandwolves @hooomansstuff @vlonerv @chewie-bars @meetmeatyourworst

your likes, comments and reblogs are soo important to me, and thank you for all support, love you all❤️

if anyone wants me to tag them please comment or msg me :)

#fic rec

325 notes · View notes

littlemisspascal · 4 days ago

Note

Hi Rae!! Hope you’re having a good night!

For the end of year asks, how about 1, 6 & 10?

Thank you so much for the ask + also for making them 💗

Did you write something this year that you’re proud of? - It's hard most of the time for me to feel proud of something I did/created. Usually I tear it to pieces more than I praise it 😅 but I guess, yeah, I'm a little proud (and super beyond stunned) that Creature Comfort has received more kudos than anything I've written since 2022 😲 like...what

6. Did you write anything this year that surprised you? If so, what was so surprising about it? - I'm surprised I wrote and actually finished Creature Comfort. I had a whole emotional breakdown over that dumb thing, quit writing for several months trying to get my head back in order, and then just typed one word at a time trying to convince myself not to delete my whole computer lol

10. Is there a story you’ve been wanting to write for a while now that you’re hoping to get to in the new year? Spill a few beans about it! - Too many to count 😅 but I do have an idea for a Din fic that maybe I'll try attempting after Christmas...All depends on how much free time my new school schedule will allow me!

#i love getting messages #ask game

4 notes · View notes

littlemisspascal · 4 days ago

Text

My top post of the year was about the Pope using a slur. 👁️👄👁️

#a carlando vid #very happy about this

8K notes · View notes

littlemisspascal · 5 days ago

Text

secret santa.

pairing: tim x cagney (f!reader) word count: 2,108 warnings: none, just tim being tim - set in the tim x cagney universe, somewhere before they become a thing for the first time, but you don't have to read any of that to get this estimated reading time: 10 minutes summary: secret santa at the lapd, for the first time tim is participating. ao3: linked

A/N: forgot to add a little note yesterday in my rush to post! This is for @bluestar22x's Christmas Writing Challenge - I recommend you check it out! Also thank you as always to the lovely @gnpwdrandsnshine for providing feedback and ideas and for always being the best to shout about characters and ideas with! 😘

The LAPD precinct was hardly the kind of place to muster any kind of Christmas spirit. The walls were a dull beige, the air reeked faintly of stale, over-brewed coffee, and the fluorescent lights flickered in a way that might make you question your sanity. But that night, the detectives, officers and support staff had transformed it—twinkling lights hung precariously from any high enough hook, a tree stood proudly (if slightly lopsided) in the corner, and the air buzzed with a rare, warm cheer.

Tim leaned against his desk, arms crossed, scowling at the garish tinsel someone had brazenly strewn around his office while he was out. He didn’t do office parties. He didn’t do tinsel. And he certainly didn’t do Secret Santa.

Except this year, he did.

When the sign-up sheet had been passed around, Tim had ignored it. But when you had casually mentioned how excited you were to participate—how the fact that the precinct had invited the assistant DA to join meant so much to you—he’d swiftly hunted down Betty in Operations, who was arranging the whole thing, to scrawl his name down on the list.

However, he didn’t trust fate to do its job. He’d called in a small favour with Betty—an exchange of the kind of mundane paperwork no one wanted to touch—and suddenly he had the only name he cared about.

You wouldn’t know. He’d swear up and down it was destiny if found out.

Paper snowflakes clung to windows, and the smell of mulled cider filled the bullpen. You were standing next to a crowded, multicultural-filled table laden with an array of foods. The warmth of the party tugged a reluctant smile to your face. It wasn’t every day that the grim halls of the LAPD felt this festive.

Your name echoed from somewhere across the room, “Hey, Cagney, come take a look at this tree! I think it’s leaning more than you do after three drinks.”

Detective Rivera waved you over, you rolled your eyes but laughed anyway. The nickname had stuck after Tim—in irritation of course—had called you Cagney after the two of you had argued over a case. He’d meant it as a pointed opinion that you had overstepped your boundaries as ADA. You were too stubborn and very much relentless—it was why you were so good at your job. But it’d firmly stuck when it’d been overheard by Rivera—though he’d remarked that naming you 'Elizabeth' would be more apt given Tim’s last name. The reference had flown over your head at the time. Tim had shut Rivera down with a withering look that had caused Rivera to laugh even harder when you had asked what was so funny.

Regardless, the name stuck and caught on faster than wildfire across both the precinct and the courthouse. You’d leant into it, mostly in defiance of Tim, fully cementing it when you’d dressed up as the detective one Halloween, and then promptly pulled into court. And thanks to an amused Judge the name and outfit reference were recorded in the case transcript courtesy of the court's stenographer.

Still, you didn’t mind it. It made you feel like one of them—an honorary member of the squad, a role that the actual DA, Connor Wallace, struggled with.

“Hey, at least it’s standing up better than you do under cross-examination,” you countered back receiving a chorus of ‘Oooo’s’ from the pen and Rivera’s signature cackle. “Anyway,” you said as you inspected the artificial tree’s crooked branches, “it looks like someone threw a bunch of ornaments on and hoped for the best.”

“If I didn’t know better,” Rivera remarked, flicking a branch, no one knew how old it was but it had been determined it predated even the oldest of them, “I’d say Tim had been involved.”

You laughed as you looked around the room for the detective, “Speaking of, where is he? I thought he was supposed to be a part of this.”

Rivera took a sip of his cider as he nodded to the other side of the room behind you, “Speak of the devil.”

Tim strode into the bullpen, his mere presence demanding the attention and respect of the room. He had left his jacket behind, dressed in his standard uniform of dark slacks, a white pressed shirt with its sleeves carefully rolled up to his forearms. His signature holster over his shoulders, and as always, one of the three ties you knew he owned hung loose around his neck—a minor display of defiance of having to wear one.

Turning around you just caught the softening of his face as he saw the sight of the wide grin you threw him, “There he is, Mr. Christmas himself.”

For just a second, his shoulders seemed to relax, which made your smile a little brighter. But then, as if catching himself in the moment, he looked away, his expression smoothing back into something neutral.

The gift exchange started with the usual mix of chuckles and groans—cheap mugs, joke gifts, lottery tickets that might pay off someone’s bar tab if they were lucky. You perched on the edge of one of the desks, absently sipping cider, when your name was called.

Placing your cider down you stepped forward, catching a few good-natured jeers about ‘lawyers stealing all the good presents, taking all the credit’, and plucked the neatly wrapped package with your name scrawled on it. The wrapping paper was a deep navy blue, tiny gold stars adorned the thick luxury paper and topped off with a velvet red bow. It was too thoughtful for this crowd. You felt a twinge of curiosity and you looked around the crowd gathered trying to figure out who would have been so thoughtful. Carefully, you opened the present with a reverence that felt almost out of place in the boisterous atmosphere.

You swallowed the gasp, curiosity giving away to something else, something softer, when you pulled back the paper to reveal your gift.

It was perfect. Your kind of perfect.

Nestled in a second layer of delicate tissue paper was a cardboard box, its familiar blue red and white colours standing out to you already. You didn’t need to pull back the paper to know what this was. This was a 6 Transistor Tape Recorder made by North American. Your breath caught. This wasn’t a generic Secret Santa gift, not the kind of gift you’d get someone who didn’t know you. This was personal.

You lifted the box to look inside—it was pristine, in so much better condition than the one you had tried bidding on over the summer. There were maybe a handful of people—if that—you had told about listening to your grandfather dictate his case notes in his study. He had so many devices, but this one had been his favourite.

You turned it over in your hands, a warmth spreading from your chest spreading to your cheeks. “Okay,” you said, raising it slightly for everyone to see, “This is amazing. Whoever my Secret Santa is—you have some explaining to do.”

The room quickly erupted into good-natured whistles, laughter and the odd question of confusion, but quickly enough moved on to the next Secret Santa participant. But one person caught your attention.

Tim.

He was leaning against one of the desks, arms crossed casually sipping from a chipped LAPD coffee mug. He looked like he did most days—stoic, brooding, and completely uninterested in anything remotely festive. You couldn’t help but feel though that he’d been watching every nuance of your reaction to your gift. That was, except for the briefest flicker in his eyes when he caught you looking at him, he raised his mug in a silent cheers and you could feel an unspoken acknowledgement between the two of you.

The office party had thinned out, most of the partygoers had dispersed, off home or to late-night patrols. It left the precinct quieter but still glowing under the soft multicoloured lights strung everywhere.

You knew where to find him—Tim. Picking up your belongings, you headed towards the far end of the bullpen, pushing through the swinging gate and heading back into the warren of offices that served as detectives’ domains and interrogation rooms. You didn’t have to double-check; you’d probably spent more time in his office than he had.

He didn’t hear you approach, his office door wide open, he was sitting behind his desk, swirling whatever was left in his mug.

“Detective Rockford,” you said, announcing your presence as you leant against the door frame, “you really are not much for festivities are you?”

He cleared his throat, his usual mask of indifference firmly in place, “Not really my thing.”

As he spoke, his knuckles tightened slightly around the mug’s handle, and you caught the way his gaze flicked from your face to the gift under your arm before he forced himself to look away.

You pulled your gift out from under your arm, “This is something, though. Pretty big coincidence, don’t you think detective?”

He shrugged, a little too casually—for such a hardened detective, his poker face needed some work, “Could’ve been anyone.”

“Could it?” You asked, tilting your head, and narrowing your eyes. “Because I’m thinking…” you tapped your finger against your bottom lip, “it’s not a coincidence. There’s less than a handful of people I told about this, and only one of them is in this precinct.”

You saw him stiffen slightly, still not wanting to admit his part in the gift, “Don’t know what you’re talking about Cagney. There’s a handful of competent detectives around here and half of them were in on this too, they could have figured it out.”

“You sure?” you stepped closer, placing your gift down, you placed both hands on his desk and leaned forward lowering your voice, “because either you’re my Secret Santa, or you’ve been sharing my secrets with someone else.”

The space between you seemed to shrink, the air thickening. You watched the muscles in his jaw tense, his eyes flick down to your hands on his desk. The idea of him gossiping was absurd, and you both knew it.

This is what finally cracked him, he pushed back in his chair and his lips twitched—barely, but enough for you to catch it.

He rounded his desk, avoiding the self-satisfying smirk on your lips. You opened your mouth to revel in your detective prowess, even if it was an open and shut case, when you glanced up. There, just above you and Tim was a small sprig of green tied with a neat red bow dangling from the ceiling.

“Huh,” you said, your voice full of mock innocence, “would you look at that? Mistletoe.”

His eyes followed yours, his posture stiffened and you could see a flush creeping up his neck, “That’s Rivera’s idea of a joke.”

“Sure,” you nodded, looking up at him, “but you know, the rules.”

“The rules?” he asked, swallowing hard.

“Uh huh, and we all know how you’re a stickler for the rules.”

For a moment, you weren’t sure if he’d move. His jaw tightened, and his gaze locked on yours. The air between you crackled, growing heavier, warmer. He didn’t pull away when you stepped closer, close enough to see the flicker of something uncertain in his eyes.

You were close enough to catch the faint scent of his aftershave, to see the tight line of his shoulders, as if he were deciding which way to move. Neither of you had mentioned the almost kiss in his car almost two months ago now—when you’d been taking part in the compulsory ride-along, he’d pulled strings then too. Then he had made the first move, this time it seemed like he was debating the value of the moment.

So you made the first move.

You leaned in and kissed him, soft and brief, but enough to feel his breath catch against yours. It was shorter than you’d like, but if you were going to kiss this man, and kiss him properly, it wasn’t going to be in his office with half the department outside the door. When you pulled back, his eyes stayed on yours, dark and unreadable, but his lips parted as if he wanted to say something.

You smiled, a genuinely warm one, feeling your heart pound against your ribs. “Merry Christmas, Tim.”

For the first time since you’d entered his office, his mask cracked, and he gave you the faintest, most genuine smile you’d ever seen, realization dawning on him. “Merry Christmas Cagney.”

#fic rec #awwww #this is wonderful!!!#i wish i had someone like tim picking out my presents

24 notes · View notes

littlemisspascal · 5 days ago

Text

To: You, From: Santa (1)

Pairing: Tim Rockford x Female Reader

Word Count: 8,952

Summary: Participating in the office Secret Santa exchange shouldn't be nervewracking ... but when Tim Rockford is involved, that changes.

Rating: M, just for language though.

Author's Note:

I meant to have this done for Christmas in July, but didn't... so have my annual cheesy Hallmark Christmas story for actual Christmas instead. Also, it was supposed to be like 6 k max, and now it's pushing 17. whoops.

This is not connected to Black Days. Reader works in Tim's precinct, but not as a fellow officer/detective. I have no idea how the actual evidence rooms work, so suspend disbelief here a little when it comes to chain of custody, please and thank you.

Part 2 is completed and scheduled to post on Wednesday, December 18.

Thanks for reading!

*dividers by @/strangergraphics

He was paid to figure things out, but Detective Tim Rockford was stumped when it came to choosing a gift.

He’d happily joined the department’s Secret Santa exchange, filling out the form with his name and his interests along with a few gift suggestions - just like everyone else. And he’d hoped that whatever name he’d drawn would be a simple buy - a gift card or a pair of thick socks or even a bottle of wine or chocolates, like it was every year.

But the moment he’d unfolded his chosen name, Tim had known that things wouldn’t be that easy. Because he hadn’t drawn Betty in accounting or David in dispatch. It wasn’t as simple as getting his partner’s name and cutting the season’s gift buying number down by one.

Instead, Tim had drawn your name … and that was a problem - which meant that he’d need to take drastic measures to solve it.

Your job was typically an easy one, with long lulls between in person interactions.

As an evidence officer for the police department precinct, you had it good. It was a lot of paperwork, but it was easy, and it meant that you could zone out and listen to music for the majority of your shift. It was much better than the last assignment you’d had, and despite the difficult situations many of the people that came to see you were in, they were usually pleasant enough.

Especially Tim Rockford.

He had a reputation for being a hard-ass, but whenever he came down to see you, he was nothing but friendly. You assumed that it had to do with the fact that without you - and your help - his job would have been much more difficult, but you liked to pretend that that wasn’t the case.

You also liked to think about what it would be like to see him in normal circumstances.

You imagined sitting in the courtyard with him, talking about things that had nothing to do with police work or evidence, his glasses discarded on the table beside him as he leaned in closer. Other times, you let yourself daydream about seeing him at a bar or a restaurant, or even a store, and the two of you conversing without a time limit.

But in reality, you’d never said more than a few words at a time to him outside of work requirements - nothing more in-depth than a hey, how’s it going? or a have a good weekend, get some sleep. Because if there was one thing you knew about Detective Tim Rockford, it was that when he was at work, he was focused.

It was why he had the second highest close rate in the county. It was why other departments and divisions turned to him for help, sending over files and evidence that you needed to check in and out to him. It was one of the reasons why you’d chosen to admire him from afar for the year that you’d worked with him.

You heard the rumors about his dating life, because the other women in the department liked to gossip. In the rare moments you were up on the main level of the building, you’d glimpsed him interacting with other officers and employees, his lips quirked into a small smile as his attention was focused on them. You had a feeling that he could truly turn on the charm when necessary, and while part of you was very interested in finding out exactly what being the focus of that felt like, you knew that it was probably a terrible idea at the same time.

So you kept to yourself for the majority of your day, ensuring that the evidence logs were organized and everything was accounted for.

You talked to the people that came down for various reasons, and helped them find things when it was necessary.

You did your job and did it well, the praise coming in emailed memos from your bosses and coworkers, and in the form of treats like cups of good coffee and snacks from some of your favorite local places left at your window or handed directly to you across the counter.

It made the days go faster, and it gave you a chance to get to know some of the men and women that relied on you at the same time. Which meant that it didn’t surprise you when Amy, one of the dispatch girls, came up to you in the break room one day just after Thanksgiving, shaking a small box back and forth.

You were thrilled to participate in the Secret Santa exchange, and looked forward to shopping for whoever you picked from the remaining names - until you unfolded the paper and saw familiar handwriting scrawled across the different sections.

It was just your luck that out of about 50 possible matches, you’d pulled Tim Rockford’s name.

You had one headphone in and were scrolling through your phone, a half eaten bag of chips on the table in front of you when you heard his voice. “Can I sit?” Glancing up, your eyes widened slightly at the sight of Tim Rockford standing just beside your table, a grease-spotted paper bag in one hand. “All the other tables are full.”

“Sure.” Nodding, you gestured to the chair in front of him. “I’m almost done anyway, so you’ll have it to yourself soon.” You still had nearly 20 minutes before you needed to be back downstairs, but the truth was that you didn’t know if you trusted yourself to be in his presence for that long, or if you’d be able to make coherent conversation with him if he was interested in talking.

Because that day, Tim was a little more disheveled than usual, his hair messy and tie loosened so that the top button of his shirt could be undone. You liked the way it looked - probably a little too much - and didn’t want what would likely be the longest conversation you’d ever had ruined by your awkwardness about the peek of skin at his throat.

He unpacked the bag, pulling out a white container that you recognized as from the preferred Chinese restaurant for most of the department. It was followed by a small plastic tub of wonton soup. “This is probably the first time in weeks I’ve gotten to eat while my food’s still the right temperature.”

“Yeah?” You pulled the earbud out, sliding it back into the case and snapping it shut. “No cases to crack?”

“We actually just wrapped one up,” he started to speak while he opened the container, dumping in the bag of crispy noodles that had come with it. “The Boulton case? That old lady who -”

“Oh, the one that killed her husband all those years ago?” Tim noded, carefully stirring the soup before lifting a spoonful to his lips. “It’s done? I wondered why you hadn’t come to visit me in the evidence room lately.”

“It’s done.” He confirmed with a nod, eyeing you over the rims of his glasses. “Made the final arrest this morning, and now we wait for the trial.”

“Congrats, Detective.” You raised your drink in salute, giving him a smile. “That had the whole department stumped.”

“It did. We were all going in fucking circles.” He chewed, nodding as he narrowed his eyes and looked at you thoughtfully. “And there’s plenty more for me to work on, but I decided …” He leaned in, grinning. “Fuck it, I’m taking the rest of the day to myself.”

It was officially the longest conversation that you’d had with Tim, but you’d already learned something valuable to you - and your search for the right gift for him. And it’s got to do with his food preferences. “And yet you’re still here, eating take out, and -”

“I’m observing.” He wrinkled his nose. “I have to figure out what to get my Secret Santa, and I’m not going to do that by going home.” He pointed at the door, shaking his head. “I’ve already done my rounds and talked to a few people, asked a couple questions.”

“Who do you have?” Leaning back in your chair, you cocked your head to the side. “Maybe I can help. I’m in here a lot and -”

“I can’t tell you that.” He took a bite of rice, rolling his eyes. “Defeats the whole purpose of a secret Santa, hmm?” It did, he was correct, but you’d still had to try. “Who do you have?”

“If you’re not telling, I’m not telling.” Eating one of the chips, you scowled at him. “It’s only fair.” Plus I want to see if I can figure something out for you that isn’t a gift card or a magazine subscription. He laughed again, returning to his food. “Why don’t you just get one of the things they asked for? We all filled out three suggestions, so that makes it simple.”

“I’m a detective.” He drummed his fingers on the tabletop, staring at you. “I should be able to figure out something that’s not a standard $25 gift.”

“I have faith in you.” You finished your drink, twisting the cap back onto the bottle and setting it down. “I’ve seen the way you go through evidence. And you’ve still got like two and a half weeks.”

“I do.” He sighed, rubbing a hand against his jaw. “And now that I’m not thinking about this case 25/8, maybe I’ll have time to figure it out.” That made you laugh, and after a few seconds Tim joined you, the sound of it filling your chest with warmth. “At least tell me this.” He crossed his arms and then tapped his finger a few times against his bicep. “Are you buying them something that they put on the list?”

“I hope not.” Giving him a onceover, you shrugged. “Nobody puts personal things on these damn lists, though. It’s all ‘candy’ or ‘a gift card’ or ‘fuzzy socks’ or ‘lottery tickets’.” You checked the time, sighing as you realized your break was almost over. Get one more question in. “What did you put on your list, Tim?”

He pressed his lips together and then reached up, taking his glasses off and setting them on the table before he rubbed at his eyes. “Lottery tickets, a gift card to the grocery store by my house and the first throw blanket that came up when I searched Amazon because my feet get cold when I lay on my couch and watch movies.” You tried to hold back your laugh and failed, because even though you’d known that those things were on his list, hearing him say them was amusing. “I know. It’s a shitty list, but me telling my family what I want is just as bad.”

“You just want to win the lottery so you can quit your job.” He chuckled, his smile soft and his deep brown eyes glittering in the fluorescent lighting. No one should look that fucking handsome in this lighting. No one.

“But if I quit my job, I won’t have lunch breaks like this one to look forward to.” You sighed, pushing to your feet and gathering your trash so that you had an excuse not to meet his eyes. He’s not flirting. He can’t be. “Time to go back?”

“Yeah, I’m going to turn into a pumpkin unless I get back to the evidence locker on time.” He snorted, poking his fork into the container again, though he didn’t look away from you. “Have a good rest of your relaxing day, Detective Rockford.”

He assured you he would, nodding once before you turned away and headed for the door. You were proud of yourself for holding an actual conversation and not making a fool of yourself. You’d even made him laugh without trying too hard. All in all, things could have gone much worse.

The only problem was that that single conversation had turned your manageable crush on Tim into a full-blown interest, and you didn’t know how to deal with that.

Over the next few days, Tim turned his attention to other cases, painstakingly making his way through information that he’d previously collected and trying to see if there were things he’d missed. He found a new clue here and there, adding information to the files and making a few phone calls to talk to witnesses and others that had been involved. He even made a couple appointments to meet with people, scheduling them out so that he had time to prepare.

But he hadn’t made his way down to the evidence locker at any point, because there’d been no need to. And that disappointed him, because after the conversation you’d had in the break room, Tim wanted to talk to you more.

He’d gotten no good ideas from you for your gift, which was to be expected. That didn’t mean he hadn't learned anything, though.

The short conversation across the table had shown him that you had a sense of humor. It told him that you could keep up with his jokes, and that you weren’t afraid to speak your mind. It also told him that your face lit up when you were amused, and that you made eye contact when you spoke directly to people, even if it took you a few seconds to warm up.

It would have been easy enough for him to ask you out. He knew from others in the office that you weren’t seriously seeing anyone, and that you’d moved to the area after a long term relationship had ended. He’d also looked through your social media for more clues about who you were outside of work, and what he’d learned, he liked.

You liked reading. You liked movies. You liked coffee and animals, and had a penchant for using emojis in your comment replies to family and friends online. He’d also learned that you were planning on taking almost two weeks of vacation at the end of the year, beginning just after the holiday party and timed so that you had both Christmas and New Year’s off.

It would mean that for those two weeks, he’d be dealing with Anthony if he needed access to your storeroom or anything in it, and at the realization, Tim’s nose wrinkled. That’s enough of a reason for me to request time off then, too. He didn’t, though, only entertaining the thought for long enough to consider the fact that his Lieutenant had said they’d be short staffed over the holidays as it was. And so I stay here.

He replayed your conversation over and over in his mind while at work and at home. By the time he actually needed visit to the evidence room again, he was almost desperate for a second one, which was out of character for him.

You weren’t at the window when the elevator doors opened on your floor, and so Tim did the only thing that he could think to do: he leaned against the desk and crossed his arms, trying to peer around the corner and see if maybe you were down one of the aisles. It wouldn’t be unattended. No way.

He was right. When you appeared a few seconds later, two boxes in hand, he let out a breath in relief, pushing away from the wall and heading toward you. “Afternoon.” He nodded twice, settling his hands on the countertop. “I’m sure this comes as no surprise, but I need your help.”

“Of course you do. Why else would you be down here?” You set the boxes down and then picked up the phone, dialing out. “Give me two seconds.” He waited, keeping his eyes on you as you completed the call and let someone know that you had their evidence ready, and all they needed to do was come down and sign for it. You looked tired, and when Tim saw you stifle a yawn, he briefly wondered what it was that had kept you from sleeping soundly. None of my business, though. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

“Need to take a look at some evidence from an open case.” You nodded, clicking on your computer screen and then looking expectantly at him. “Malwes. From about three months ago.” You nodded, typing, and then a few seconds later, you tapped on the screen, your smile widening.

“Got it. Are you signing it out, or just using the room to go through it?” He’d planned on taking it back up to his office, since the main thing he needed to look at was a logbook. But unless he was mistaken, there was a hopeful tone to your voice. Does she want me to stay?

“I’ll stay down here.” He scratched the side of his neck. “Can’t hurt.” You tapped a few more times and then reached for your sign-out sheet, sliding it across to Tim. He took the pen from you and scrawled his name in the right space, watching as you initialed it and entered the time before unlocking the door.

He entered the room and once the door was shut - and locked - behind him, you spun away from the counter and motioned for him to follow you. “Should be right at the end of the shelf. I remember seeing that name the last time I was in here.” He eyed you as you walked ahead of him, confidently leading him down the aisle before reaching for the box and handing it over. “See? I was right.”

“You were.” Your fingers brushed against his when he took the evidence from you, but you didn’t bat an eye, instead just grinning before you pointed back at the lobby, letting him know where you were headed. No, I want to see you. “You want me to sit out there with you? I didn’t know if you’d want me to hang out in here.”

“If you don’t mind.” Sighing, you lowered your head. “It’s really dumb, but the guy I just called to come get files? He’s … asked me out a couple times, and I figure maybe if someone else is sitting there, he won’t do it again.” He felt his jaw lock into place, and Tim watched your posture as you spoke, trying to figure out just how bothered you were. “He’s not being a creep about it or anything, but just hasn’t gotten the hint yet.”

“Of course.” He set the box down and then slid into one of the seats while you headed back for the counter, leaning against it to look over at him. “So you don’t want to go out with the guy?”

“No.” You crossed your arms, rolling your eyes. “I just don’t think we’d have anything in common. He’s not my type.” And what is your type? He watched you for a few seconds longer and then hummed in agreement before turning to his work.

He glanced over at you a few times over the following few minutes, watching as you sipped from a plastic cup that was half filled with ice and some sort of liquid. He smiled when he heard you grumble about the ice never lasting. Hmm. That’s helpful. But it wasn’t until the elevator doors opened that he truly let his attention waver.

Tim halfheartedly flipped through the pages of the book as he listened to you talk to the other person there - a younger officer named Marty. You were friendly, though you made no attempt to engage the other man in additional conversation, Not like she did with me. When you stepped away from the counter to head back into the file room for a different box, Tim finally looked all the way up, meeting Marty’s eyes and giving him a single nod.

“Didn’t see you back there, Detective.” He sounded disappointed, and Tim was barely able to hide his reaction, biting the inside of his cheek to conceal his smirk. “Decided to visit the evidence cave today, too?”

“I did.” He leaned back in his chair, nodding. “Sorry I’m using the table.” The younger man waved him off, rising onto his tiptoes to peer around the corner and look for you. “Which case are you working on?”

“Drug bust with weapons. I need to check some numbers and make sure one of the serials matches the -”

‘Here.” You appeared again, holding up a small bag. “Not in a box.” You stepped back as Marty began to rifle through what was in front of him, occasionally scribbling something down into a notepad that he’d pulled from his pocket. He slid everything back toward you when he finished, and you marked down the time in your ledger, tucking that back beneath the counter as you gathered everything up to carry back to the shelves.

“Got any plans this weekend?” Seriously? “There’s a movie theater at the mall that’s rereleasing a bunch of holiday movies between now and Christmas, and this Saturday’s Edward Scissorhands. Tickets usually sell out pretty quick, so I thought I’d ask now.”

“Saturday? I …” You sighed, and Tim could see that you were trying to come up with an excuse. She shouldn’t need to. “I’m off work, but -”

“She’s going to help me out.” Tim cleared his throat, gesturing with one hand. “I’m stumped with my Secret Santa gift, and need someone to tag along while I shop.” Marty frowned, disappointment evident on his features for a few seconds. Good. “I figured we’d go later in the day and grab dinner as a thank you for her help, so…” He finally looked over at you, unsure of what to expect - and was floored with the gratitude he saw in your expression.

“Didn’t they give you like …three ideas for gifts?” Marty tucked the notebook away, frowning. “Just buy something from that list. That’s what I did.” Of course it is.

“I could do that.” Tim nodded, adjusting his glasses. “But my giftee only gave me one idea, and it was a hat, and I have no idea what to get.” He paused, thinking. “What other movies are they showing?”

“I…” Marty was flustered by the question, but recovered quickly. “I don’t know. Gremlins I think. Die Hard. National Lampoon. Elf. They -”

“Die Hard’s one of my favorites.” Tim laughed, running his fingers through his hair. “People say it’s not a Christmas movie, but it definitely is.”

“I agree.” You spoke up, the attention of both men immediately on you. “My family had that argument a lot “ Tim’s smile widened while Marty’s expression went even more sour, the second man sighing loudly. “And I appreciate you asking, Marty, but even if I wasn’t going with Tim, the answer still would have been no, just like it was last time. I’m not trying to send any mixed signals here.”

“That’s fine.” Marty shrugged. “Just trying to be nice. I won’t ask again.” He spun away from the counter and headed back for the elevator, you and Tim staring after him.

But neither of you spoke until the doors closed, and it was you that did first, covering your face with both hands and muttering good, you jackass. He shifted in his chair, angling his body toward you, but Tim kept quiet, waiting to see if you’d say anything else. “Thank you, Tim.” Lowering your hands, you shook your head. “You didn’t have to say anything. I just … I don’t think he liked being turned down in front of someone, and -”

“No is a complete sentence.” He shrugged. “You’ve said no before, he shouldn’t keep asking.”

“Some people just don’t get the hint.” Biting down on your lower lip, you gestured to the boxes and bag. “I’m going to put these away. If anyone comes down, can you tell them I’ll be right back?”

“Sure.” He watched you go, chest rising and falling as he replayed the previous few minutes. It had been a kneejerk reaction to make up plans that involved the two of you, but your reaction hadn’t been what he was expecting. Does she actually want to go with me?

No one came down while you were gone, and when you reappeared, Tim looked over at you, stunned to see that you were nervous. “I don’t know if you really meant that you needed my help on Saturday, but I don’t have plans.” You paused, and he watched as your fingers flexed, curling in toward your palms. “So if you want -”

“I meant it.” His heart thumped in his chest, Tim fighting to keep his smile from erupting. You have no idea how much I meant it. “Shopping and dinner. But only if you want to.” He jerked his thumb toward the elevator. “If you tell me no, I’ll accept it.”

There was a silence that stretched for a few seconds between you, and for a moment, Tim wondered if you were going to turn him down. But then you grinned, nodding your head and dropping back into your chair without taking your eyes off of him.

“I bet you don’t hear no too often, Detective.” Arching a brow, you continued. “And you’re certainly not going to hear it from me.”

It was just an afternoon of shopping and a quick dinner, so you didn’t know why you were so anxious about it.

Tim had offered to pick you up because of limited parking options, and you’d agreed but that only made it worse. It meant that you’d be in the car with him for almost a full hour between the two destinations, which meant filling those rides with small talk.

You were almost certain that he was interested in you - at least physically - based solely on the way he looked at you. His brown eyes focused on your face when you spoke, though you’d seen him eyeing you almost greedily when he thought you hadn’t been looking. It didn’t bother you in the way that it did when other men leered, though. Because you believed Tim when he said he’d respect your decisions, and his disgust with Marty’s behavior hadn’t been for show.

But knowing that he reciprocated your interest was one thing - and finding the right way to act on it was another.

He pulled up a few minutes before he’d planned to, and when you stepped out to meet him, you wrinkled your nose at the fine mist that was falling. Pulling your hood up, you made a dash for the car, surprised to see that Tim had exited his side and was moving toward yours. “No, Tim! It’s gross out, stay inside.” You waved him off, laughing as you flung the door open and slid into the front passenger seat, Tim getting back in next to you and groaning.

When you looked over, you laughed harder at the sight of the lenses of his glasses, which were covered in water droplets. “I was just trying to be nice.” He grumbled the words out as he reached for a cloth to wipe them clean. “Hi.” He looked over at you once they were situated on his nose again. “You ready?”

“Hi.” He was even more handsome up close and in the confines of his car, the interior of it almost cozy. It’s warm and it smells like his cologne. “Thanks for coming to get me, Tim.”

He nodded in reply and then pulled away from the curb, staying quiet until you were on the main road. “I thought we’d go to the mall. There’s a lot of stores there, so I can look for a couple things that aren’t for my Secret Santa, too, if that’s alright.” He looked over at you, waiting for your nod. “And then we can pick somewhere in the mall or around it for dinner, as long as you’re not sick of me by then.”

“I might be sick of the crowds, but I don’t think I’ll be sick of you after a couple hours.” You nudged him with your elbow. “I hope we find something today.”

“Me too.” He sighed. “I’m running out of days off.” Laughing quietly, you settled into the seat, briefly closing your eyes as you inhaled. If the first few minutes were setting the tone, the rest of the day was going to be fun.

You made small talk until you parked at the mall, choosing an entrance via one of the department stores instead of the main one. It worked to your advantage, and when you were inside, you and Tim stepped off to the right of the doors, making a gameplan. He wanted to go into four stores, but they were in different sections of the mall, which meant that you’d pass others on the way.

“You said you’re looking for a hat?” He nodded as you started to walk through the store, Tim walking to your left. “You won’t tell me who, but can you at least tell me if it’s for a man or a woman? Or if you’re looking for something universal? I need something to go on if I’m going to help you.”

“It’s for a woman.” He eyed a rack of clothes as you passed it, and then turned his head to look at you. “But I don’t want to buy anything over the top. She wrote in a color preference.” That helps. But if she said that much, he could have picked something. “Blue, green, or black were her top three colors.” You nodded, thinking. “What about you? Do you need to look for your gift while we’re here?”

“No, actually.” You stopped to browse a rack of hats and gloves, flipping through piles that you were certain had been neatly folded earlier in the day. “I took care of mine earlier this week.” Looking up, you gave him a broad smile. “Ordered it online, and -”

“What did you get?” He moved to stand next to you, picking up a black hat and then making a face when he saw a giant bow on the side of it. “Was it something on their list?”

“Nope.” You held up a hat in hunter green, Tim reaching over to take it from you to look at the design on the interior fabric. “And I’m not telling. But it’s something for them to use and not just to have.”

Part of you hated teasing him, but you knew that once he opened his gift, he’d immediately understand your clues. I just hope he likes it. And that he’s not … that he doesn’t assume anything. “I could interrogate you.” You both stepped away from the display, Tim once again walking beside you. “I’ve been told that I’m pretty good at it.”

The thought made you weak in the knees, and though you wanted to believe you could handle his questions, deep down you knew that it was more likely you’d cave almost immediately under the intensity of his gaze. Who wouldn’t?

“I’m sure you are.” You exited the department store and stepped into the mall, the sound of Christmas music and an assortment of chatter from the other shoppers loud in your ears. “And I’m sure you could, but that wouldn’t be fair, Tim.”

“Probably not.” He laughed, stepping closer to you to get out of the way while a group of teenagers passed in the opposite direction.”Do they always move in packs?”

“They do.” You pointed at a second group, which was gathered around a pair of benches in the center aisle. “Gives them more confidence for when they’re being annoying little shits.” That made Tim laugh again, and you were pleased to realize that he didn’t move away even when the crowd thinned, giving both of you more space.

“It’s been so long since I was a damn high schooler. I must be out of practice.” He guided you toward another store with a single touch to the back of your arm. “And speaking of high schoolers, I have to pick up a game for my nephew. It should be waiting for us.” You liked the way that sounded - us - but didn’t say that out loud. It would be weird.

There was a short line at the counter, and while he waited in it, you looked around, trying to keep yourself busy. It also gave you time to think - and to process Tim’s behavior in the little while you’d been together. The touching was new, and so was the joking, at least to the extent of it that day. So would it be ok if I touched him back? There was no way you’d do anything as bold as taking his hand or putting your arm around him, but looking through shelves and displays meant you’d be near enough to rest your hand on his back, or even squeeze his arm to get his attention.

It was silly, and in some ways as juvenile as the behavior of the teenagers you’d seen, but there were plenty of factors to consider when it came to being forward with Tim. Namely our jobs. You could have just asked if he was interested. You could have told him you were, just to see what happened. You could turn up the charm and flirt enough to let him know you were open to hooking up with him. But I don’t know him well enough to begin to guess what he’s thinking. So I won’t. I’ll just -

“Got it.” He stood in front of you, holding up a bag. “Ready to brave the crowds again?” You nodded in agreement, giving him a onceover as you did, and letting your gaze linger - just for a few seconds - on his face.

For someone as perceptive as Tim, you decided that subtlety was the way to go - because if he caught it, then it meant that he was watching you just as closely.

He was almost certain that you were flirting with him, but he didn’t know what you wanted him to do about it.

There was a chance that it was just because for the first time, you were together outside of the precinct. He was getting to see you outside of work, to talk to you about whatever came up and without the end of a lunch break or the approach of someone else that needed one of you looming.

And you’d been staring at him occasionally, especially when you’d thought he was otherwise occupied. The truth was that he liked it, and it had been a little while since the feeling things out stage of a friendship had excited him.

He thought that if he asked you point blank if you were into him, you’d answer honestly. He also had a feeling that if he made his interest in you known, you’d respond well to it. But if she doesn’t, then … it complicates things. It would make working with you awkward, and it had the potential to make you feel uncertain about him and his intentions. The fact that he’d driven you to the mall was another consideration, because he didn’t want you to feel trapped. So we’ll just do this.

You made your way through the mall, looking into niche stores as well as ones that sold winter clothing, and Tim was enamored with the fact that you took shopping seriously, even when it was for things he was looking for.

He had no intention of buying you a hat, and was actually searching for one based on his niece’s preferences. But being near the hats also put the two of you close to the other cold-weather accessories, and that was helpful. He watched the things you looked at, making note of the ones you picked up to take a closer look - a pair of gloves compatible with a touch screen in soft gray, a fringed scarf that had a pocket near each end for you to stick your hands in, and a slouchy hat that you contemplated trying on but then decided not to.

You tried to stay focused, though, redirecting the your attention to him and asking more questions about his shopping goals … but you managed to sneak a few more personal ones in there, too. He answered them, being mindful of oversharing, but also found an opportunity to ask a few of his own in at the same time.

He found out more about your holiday plans, and about your vacation time. He learned what you’d already bought in the way of gifts for your family and friends. And even though it was potentially overstepping, he decided to ask you the most personal thing he’d mentioned that day while the two of you stopped to take a break, planting yourselves at one of the food court tables with drinks.

“Do you have anyone special to buy a gift for this year?” He worded it specifically to see what type of answer you gave him, and to Tim’s relief, you didn’t disappoint.

“Do you mean a guy?” He nodded, eyes locked with yours. “No, I don’t make it a habit of buying gifts for men that I go out on one date with before deciding not to see them again.” You removed your coat as you talked, draping it over the back of your chair. “I broke up with my long term boyfriend about a year ago, and ended up having to move. That’s why I wound up working this job.”

“That’s a long time.” You rolled your eyes, sipping through your straw while you shrugged. “Nothing since?”

“Nothing worth talking about.” Pushing your drink to the side, you linked your fingers together and narrowed your eyes. “But since you brought it up … if a year’s a long time to be single, what about you? People talk, Tim, and nobody’s talked about you having a girlfriend in the time I’ve been there.”

“Dating’s shit with my hours.” He dragged his thumb over the top of his cup, thinking. “It’s unpredictable. Women don’t like that.” He thought of the arguments he’d had with the woman he’d most recently dated, wincing at the memory of her accusations of feeling ignored. “I’ve tried, but nothing lasts. My Secret Santa gift will be the only gift I get this year for a woman I’m not related to.” You laughed at his words, closing your eyes as you nodded in agreement.

“There are plenty of women in the precinct that would date you.” Biting your lip, you blinked innocently at him. “I hear them talking. I’m sure you do, too.”

“That gets complicated.” He frowned, trying to figure out if you were trying to bait him into digging deeper, or if you were just making conversation. “Messy, especially when there’s different ranks involved.” Is she trying to get me to ask who’s interested in me? “And I like my job, so…”

Your face fell - just briefly, but it was enough to make him certain that you were in fact one of the ones interested in him, and that the thought that nothing could be done about it was upsetting to you. I should reassure her. I should -

“Detective Rockford?” He recognized the voice and groaned at the sound, both of you turning toward the source. “I just wanted to let you know that it’s cruel to put an old woman in jail right before the holidays.” His gaze flicked over to you, and he saw confusion written on your features as you stared at the redheaded woman, your head cocked to the side. Shit.

“Ms. Boulton, we shouldn’t speak to each other outside of the -”

“I don’t want to talk to you, I just want you to listen.” She stepped closer to your table, and for the first time, Tim noticed the shopping bags hung over her arm, some of them bulging. “My grandmother did nothing wrong. And she’s going to prove it in -”

“We wouldn’t have arrested her if we didn’t have evidence. I understand that she’s family, but …” He stood up, turning his attention onto you again and hoping that you recognized the pleading look in his eyes. “But it’s still an ongoing case, and I can’t say anything more than that.”

“You’re dating someone that arrests old women.” She turned her attention on you, her body angled toward where you were still sitting, fingers wrapped loosely around your cup. “Old women that did nothing wrong except try and keep their family’s legacy alive.” She pointed at him, head whipping back and forth. “So that’s the kind of man you-”

“If Tim arrests someone, he’s got a reason to.” You stood then, reaching for your coat. “And if he is wrong about your grandmother? That’ll come out in court.” Zipping your jacket, you straightened it once you were done. “But you causing a scene in a mall food court isn’t going to help anything, so I suggest you listen to his advice and don’t make this worse for yourself right now.”

Tim watched the redhead’s expression shift from anger to disbelief and then back to anger before it softened into defeat. It sucks for her, but holy shit that was hot. “I can’t believe you.” She spun away and stormed off without saying anything else, and Tim watched as you watched her go, your features set in a thoughtful expression. She’s amazing.

“I’m sorry about that.” He bit his lip and stuck a hand on his hip. “I didn’t think -”

“That from your case last week?” You finally looked at him, your expression softening. “I can’t blame her for being upset, but I don’t … I don’t know what she thought was going to happen.”

“It’s not the first time I’ve been approached in public by a family member or friend, and it won’t be the last.” He sighed, reaching for his shopping bags with one hand and the empty cup with his other. “I’m just sorry you had to deal with it, too.”

“Don’t apologize.” You headed toward trash cans and then to the opposite side of the mall, Tim once again beside you. “You can’t control what other people do.” You were right, and when he mumbled a thank you, he was rewarded with a bright smile and a wrinkle of your nose. The combination of the two lightening the mood immensely. “You ready to finish shopping?”

He nodded once, and then after only a moment of thought, he reached out with his free hand, setting it gently against your back, urging you forward.

“What about this one?” He held up a deep green hat with metallic thread woven into the pattern and a puffy ball at one end. “Would you wear it?”

“I would.” You took it from him, nodding. “It’s big enough that it’ll fit over just about any hairstyle and onto anyone’s head, it’s slouchy enough that it doesn’t have to be pulled tight over someone’s ears to make it look good, and the color is nice. I think this is a winner, Tim.” He beamed at you, and you were happy to see that the interruption from Maddie Boulton hadn’t put a damper on the remainder of your day. “You want to go pay?”

“Sure.” He nodded twice, dropping his gaze from your face back to the display. “Unless there’s… oh, shit, look at those.” He stepped to the side and you followed, confused as he reached for pairs of fuzzy socks, which were haphazardly loaded onto a circular display. “These are…” He laughed as he picked up a pair featuring penguins on candy cane skis, holding them up to you. “Who comes up with this?”

You reached past him, grabbing a pair that had dinosaurs in Santa hats on them. “I don’t know but these are great, right?” He chuckled, returning the first pair to the pile and then pawing through them to grab a second. “Oh, reindeer with lights in their antlers? A little predictable, but still a classic.”

“I like ‘em.” He shrugged, eyeing the socks before he set them down. “They’re soft. Probably really warm.”

“You should get yourself a pair. You said your feet get cold, and you might not get that blanket you asked for.”

“Today’s not about buying myself things, or I would.” He looked back at you. “We can go pay, if -” Tim frowned and stopped mid sentence, reaching for his pocket and then pulling his phone out. “Shit, I have to take this.” He answered the phone. “Hey, I’m here. Give me one second, alright?” He reached toward you, holding the hat out until you took it, keeping the phone pressed between his cheek and his ear. “Take this, if you want to go pay, that way we can get out of here and you won’t be standing and waiting for me." Tim took money out of his wallet and handed it to you, still smiling. “I’ll meet you by the exit. It’s work, so…”

He trailed off but you agreed, taking the money, too, and watching as he returned to the phone call. He greeted another detective by name as he spun away from you and walked back the way you’d come. It was an abrupt change in pace for the day, but as you eyed his retreating shoulders, you realized that it also gave you an opportunity. He’s not getting the blanket from me, but the socks… I can get him the socks.

You selected the pair with the reindeer and then made your way over to the nearest cashier, getting in line. It went fast, even with two transactions, and after you’d stuffed Tim’s socks into the interior pocket of your jacket and zipped it shut, you headed off to find him.

He was still on the phone, but smiled and nodded as you approached, holding his hand out to take his change - and then the bag - from you, mouthing the words thank you before returning to the conversation.

You didn’t want to hover, so you walked a few steps away and sat down on a bench, pulling your own phone out. You figured that dinner was next on the agenda since Tim had finished his shopping, and while part of you was relieved that the outing had gone smoothly, another part of you didn’t want it to be over.

Hanging out with Tim was nice. Getting to know him was even nicer. And being the focus of his attention for longer than the span of a single conversation at work was the nicest thing of all, if you were being honest. Maybe we can do it again sometime. You looked up and over at him just in time to see that he was sticking his phone back in his pocket, lips set in a thin line. That doesn’t look good.

When he made it over to you, though, he gave you a small smile, holding his hand out to help you up from the bench. You liked the way it felt to have his fingers curl around yours and were sad to lose the contact when he let go. “Everything alright? That was a long call.”

“Yeah, he was just updating me on something with one of our cases. They made some progress while working on something else, and wanted to ask my opinion. It’s important, but not important enough to cut this,” he said while gesturing between the two of you, his smile growing, “short.”

“But you’re done. All we’d miss out on is dinner, so if you need to go, I can -”

“No. Dinner’s the part I’ve been looking forward to most.” He stepped next to you while you started walking again, Tim close enough that his arm hit yours every few steps. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“I am.” Your chest filled with warmth, and you wondered if he caught the smile you attempted to hide by looking down and turning your head to the side, away from him. “So where do you want to go? Somewhere in the mall? We can eat at the food court.”

“I’m not taking you to dinner at the food court.” He laughed, tossing his head back and giving you an incredulous look. “We’re going to figure something else out.” You agreed, letting your mind wander to contemplate what was between your house and the mall. But when you felt Tim’s hand on your arm again, you stopped, focusing on him. “Oh, shit, this must be the movie theater Marty was talking about.”

You looked to the right and saw that instead of the usual ‘COMING SOON’ posters, one wall to the side of the theater was adorned with posters depicting Christmas movies and dates that they were playing. Yeah, it is. I didn’t realize we’d walked this far. “It must be.” You pressed your lips together. “Looks like tonight’s sold out, though.” Pointing at the poster, you sighed. “If only I’d agreed to go with him, we could be sitting inside the theater and watching it snow.”

“You’d rather be here with Marty? I’m offended.” Tim nudged you, wrinkling his nose. “I’ll be sure to remember that next time I think about asking you to hang out.” Your heart soared at the implication that he wanted to see you again, even to do something as mundane as run errands. But he said it. And even if he’s joking, there’s still some truth to it.

“I’m perfectly happy here with you, Detective Rockford.” Cocking your head to the side, you took a deep breath. Just go for it. “If you ask me to hang out again, I would not require an outside excuse in order to turn you down.” That got another laugh, but you also saw his nod, Tim’s eyes glittering as he stared at you.

“Even better.” He rubbed a hand over his cheek and then looked over your shoulder and to the box office, the tip of his tongue flashing against his lips as he wet them. “But I really kinda do want to see Die Hard, so if you give me a second, I’m going to go and see if I can grab tickets.”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you took a second to respond. “You’ll have the night off?” He nodded, one corner of his mouth rising as he smiled briefly. “I’ll wait here.” He spun away from you and you watched him go, fingers curling into a loose fist at your side. I hope it’s sold out. Otherwise …

The afternoon you’d talked about it in the breakroom, you’d gone online and bought two tickets to the movie as Tim’s main Secret Santa gift. Since the showings were discounted, you’d still had some budget leftover, which was why you’d chosen the socks - and still had a couple extra bucks remaining for the final part of his gift. But the tickets might be redundant if he buys one tonight.

There was no way for you to clue him in without giving yourself away, though, and so you watched and waited as Tim stood in line, occasionally glancing back in your direction. You wondered if it was just one of his mannerisms; constant awareness of his surroundings was a big part of his job, after all. But another, more hopeful part of you believed that he was specifically looking back and for you.

When he turned away from the counter and headed back to where you waited, you felt a cautious optimism. And that feeling intensified when he rolled his eyes at you, frowning. “They were sold out.” He confirmed the news when he was only a few feet away, dodging and weaving through people to get back to you. “Just haven’t updated it yet.” That’s great.

“I’m so sorry, Tim. That’s too bad.” He agreed, shrugging his shoulders and gesturing toward the direction you’d come from.

“It’s the night after the gift exchange at work, so maybe I’ll just stay at home and watch it. Some streaming platform’s gotta have it on there, right?”

“Right.” Stepping closer to him to avoid a teenager on a motorized elephant racing their friend - who was riding a panda - you groaned. “Those things are the worst damn addition to the mall. It’s always a herd of them zooming down the aisle.”

“I always hope the batteries die.” He leaned in, turning his head so that he could talk into your ear. “Them scattered everywhere is still less in the way than people riding them around.” He was right, and you shivered at the way his low voice sounded in your ear, the end of his confession lifting slightly into a laugh. It felt right to be joking around with Tim, both of you quick to catch onto each other’s quips and moods. It’s almost too easy.

Neither of you said anything else until you were back at the car, Tim opening the trunk so that he could put his bags inside. “Did you think more about dinner? We should probably decide before we pull out of the parking lot.”

“We should.” He leaned forward, eyes locked with yours. “Do you trust me?”

“Yeah.” You crossed your arms. “Of course I do.”

Tim stared at you for a few seconds without blinking and then he closed his eyes, chewing on the inside of his lip. “Ok. Good. Get in.” He opened his eyes and then winked at you before arching a brow. “That alright?”

It was more than alright. I don’t think he even knows hes flirting. “I’ll let you know after we get there.” Instead of giving you a verbal reply, Tim tapped one hand on the top of his car and licked his lips again, turning toward the door.

But I definitely do.

#fic rec #really really enjoyed this!#can't wait for the next part!!!#love how you write time <3

72 notes · View notes