#Marcus Acacius x Reader

[kiss-me-muchoo]

in love with whatever this is

[freshbakedbreadstick]

Have mercy 🫠

✶ ┄ HOUNDS OF LOVE !

part one | part two

summary: you and marcus live lightyears apart within the city walls when emperor geta takes a greater liking to you than expected. you start to find a strange sense of understanding within the crazed emperor, while general acacius plots your escape. (11k)

pairing: marcus acacius / f!reader, emperor geta / f!reader

contents: established relationships, angst, hurt/comfort, cw for mentions of war, mentions of sex work, brief mentions of emotional abuse (geta has anger issues he's working on), swearing, smut 18+ (dubcon, unprotected sex, exhibitionism & voyeurism) (this is another dark fic!! please heed the warnings!!)

“Meet me in the garden,” you pant against the General’s mouth as you kiss him with a desperate sort of fervor. It’s all wet and hungry and unforgiving, like biting into an apple. “At sunset, on the morrow. Say you’ll meet me there.”

Despite your delicate touch, you cradle Marcus in a most violent hold. You keep him impossibly close with one hand wrapped around his neck, tanned and taut with the strain of war. Your other twists in his hair, dancing through the greying curls of fine silk. You embrace the General within the candlelit crypt where, before now, only death seemed to roam.

Marcus stands as still as the statues of ghosts surrounding you. You lick into his mouth like you plan to breathe life back into his lungs, even while he withers into nothingness at your feet. A thin layer of your spit coats the scruff of his chin. He balls his calloused hands into fists at his sides and pretends a part of you isn’t glittering upon him. He holds onto plausible deniability like a shield.

“It is not safe,” Marcus murmurs in a gruff whisper when you pull back to take a breath. His lidded eyes dart over your kissed face — gaze heavied, lips swollen. Beautiful devil, fallen angel. “You know this.”

Not anymore, he wants to say. Not while you belong to Them.

“Why not?” you challenge, always so girlishly gentle in your stubbornness. “Everyone will be at the feast, Marcus— No one will see us, I’m sure of it.”

Your eyes flit between his kissed mouth and dark-eyed gaze. Universes shine in your irises despite the shadows of the labyrinthine tomb. Marcus feels a white-hot knife twisting in his chest as he resists the urge to hold you.

“It’s the world we live in now, petal. There is little use in questioning it.”

“But why?” you question, anyway. “Why must we live in this world, hm? The war is over— We could make our own, somewhere far away from the city. Somewhere no one could ever find us—”

You create heavens with your naivety.

Marcus burns them down with words.

“The Emperors would not stand for losing their general. For them, the war is never finished,” the General interjects in a sorrowful deadpan, aching when your face twists with grief. “And if they misplaced you? They… They would burn cities to the ground in their hunt… They would set the world aflame before they stopped searching for you.”

Marcus knows this because he knows himself — every star in the sky would burn out before he stopped looking for you. He knows this, too, because he knows the Emperors. Perhaps better than anyone else in the entire world. 

Geta and Caracalla were born with the belief that they possessed ownership over everything they touched. Anyone stealing from their Empire would meet a swift and tortuous demise. They were merciless gods who dangled life and death on their fingertips. Only those who kissed the ring would make it out of their rule alive.

And you knew it, too. 

That was the worst part of it all: you knew it.

Tomorrow comes and passes like rolling summer clouds, slow and heavy and suffocating. You watch from the royal garden as the sky turns from a glittering sapphire to milky shades of peach and lavender. Another day gone by that you’ve spent grieving on your own. 

Though time marches mercilessly on, threatening to untie unbreakable bonds, it changes little of how much you and Marcus have grown together. Like cherry trees kissed with the promise of spring, with your roots tangled gracelessly together. It’s a knot that cannot be undone, not even by the promise of death. 

And for that, you figure you must be grateful.

Because as you sit on the stone steps of an artificial lake, twirling your fingers in the warm water of the koi pond, you wonder how dreadful it must be for the multi-colored carp. To swim in circles your whole life, to think the world is only as big as the bricks holding you hostage. 

At least you know what it means to grow up in the rolling green of an infinite countryside. At least now you have gardens to roam in the greatest city in the world. At least now you get to live.

A breeze sweeps suddenly through the garden, rippling the crystalline water and rustling the bright green leaves over your head. It carries the soft sound of footsteps scraping the stone trail. Your ears perk, your heart stops, and your head whips over your shoulder. You hope to see Marcus standing at the steps below you.

Your chest tightens and deflates all at once at the sight of Emperor Geta.

He’s adorned in his white-gold cloak, with his laurels sat atop his strawberry-blonde curls, and carrying a jeweled ring on each finger. The sunlight paints the man in flaxen rays of light. The rainbow-colored flowers seem to bloom with every one of his steps. All you can think is how beautiful he is — much too pretty to be so cruel.

“I did not mean to frighten you,” the Emperor concedes, eyes wide and palms splayed in surrender. His sandals scuff the cobbles with each hesitant stride.

“No, of course not,” you blurt with a rapid shake of your head, a quickness sure to give away your choked-back terror. “I just… I only thought you’d be at the dining hall with the rest of the court.”

“I was. Until the handmaidens notified me of your absence.”

You meet his wide-eyed expression with a narrowed gaze, lips curling into an unsure smile. “How can I be absent from a place I do not belong, Your Majesty?” you quip, though your voice threatens to shake.

Geta’s brows furrow. His ringed fingers twitch at his sides. “Belong?” he echoes.

“The feast is for nobility, and I grew up in a brothel,” you answer, giggling quietly under your breath. “I am certainly the farthest thing from royalty.”

You flash him a gentle smile and playful gaze, but the Emperor only frowns. 

He can hardly stomach the thought of it — of his most precious thing living in the countryside, surrounded by filth, touched by unworthy hands. He’s glad you’re now, where only he can touch you. Where he can make you clean.

“There is a place for you there, nonetheless,” Geta tells you and takes another step closer. He stands at the bottom of the stone steps and tilts his chin to his chest. His chocolate eyes harden as he presses more firmly, “And I will see that you attend.”

His sudden glacial disposition makes your stomach wrench. You’ve grown so used to him now, learned all the ways to keep him satisfied, that you’ve forgotten how quickly angered he can be. You don’t want to remember his wrath. 

You nod at the invitation with a wavering smile, knowing you aren’t at liberty to turn him down, and rise from your spot by the pool.

You hold your gown in both hands as you descend the stairs, flinching slightly when Geta rushes to help you. Sometimes, you think he can sense your worry, or that he regrets snapping at you the way he does. Either way, his efforts to pivot the situation are apparent to you — like he never learned how to apologize, so he’s forced to improvise in the matter.

His warm, petaled hand engulfs you to ease you down the tricky cobbles. 

“I only mean that… it is strange. Being without there… Or anywhere, really,” he admits, talking slowly like each word is foreign to him. His gaze darts from yours to the vacant path ahead. “I find that I am looking for you in places I knew you could not be. It’s foolish, I know.”

His gentleness is perhaps more striking than his rage.

“It isn’t foolish, Your Majesty,” you insist as you reach the bottom of the staircase. You peer at him through your lashes and fake another smile. “I just didn’t know you were such a poet.”

Geta doesn’t understand your meaning. Where was the poetry in his words? How did such burdensome feelings of tenderness make him a poet? 

“Neither did I,” he muses, guiding you out of the garden with his hand in yours.

Though still riddled with feelings of uncertainty, Geta is strangely moved by how you’re looking at him now — with the sun sparkling in your softened gaze, more gentle than anyone deserves to be looked at. So he figures he can be a poet for you, if he must.

You bathe again in the rosehip oil Geta always insists you wear, and dress yourself in the fine silk gown you know he prefers. The pale blue fabric drapes off your shoulders and flows to your ankles, cinched at the waist with a jewel-encrusted belt of gold. Your skin and body are adorned, in this moment alone, with perhaps more money than you’ve ever seen in your life. 

The thought makes your head swim as you amble to the dining hall. 

The silent guards at your side make no effort to rush you for fear of the Emperors’ wrath. Still, though, the notion that they are commissioned to ensure your attendance is not lost on you. Any attempt to flee will surely be met with force — if not from the knights, then from Geta himself.

The feasting is long done by the time you arrive. Mingling bodies flit around the crowded manor in a blur. Live music swells distantly as rose petals fall from thin air to decorate the marble floor. You wring your hands nervously together as you weave through the bustling court, gravitating to the large open window at the back of the hall — where you know the Emperors rest on their plush, velvet chaises.

Caracalla notices you first.

The boy rises from his lounged position — laurels crooked on his blonde head and robe shifting up his pale thighs — and smiles at you with all his crooked teeth. His lone golden tooth glints in the sunlight. 

“You showed,” he announces to no one in particular, just before his wild head swivels to his brother on the other side of the couch. “See, brother? I told you there was naught to worry about. Did I not?”

Geta does not appear happy to see you. His features remain in an emotionless scowl while his smokey eyes rake over your form. “You did,” he responds distantly, if only to appease his younger brother.

Caracalla doesn’t seem to notice the tension caging him on both sides as he flashes you another toothy grin. “He threatened to send the Praetorians after you,” he lilts like it’s some kind of silly secret. 

The Emperors’ bodyguards line the wall behind them, as well as all the entrances and nearly every window. They were like your Marcus — military veterans, strong and sharp and ruthless — though you imagine the only soft side you’ll ever see of them is a fist. They are certainly not the kind of people you want sent after you.

“Well, you were right, Your Majesty,” you grin. “There was naught to worry about. I was simply making myself presentable for the court.”

Caracalla holds his ringed hand out for you as you near him. You bend at the waist to kiss the emerald on his ring finger. The motion is muscle memory to you now. “You look beautiful,” he slurs like a child. “Like a fairy, almost.” 

“You flatter me, Your Majesty,” you nod politely and rise to full height again. 

You feel his ocean eyes on your body as you pass him by, glassy and sparkling with a boyish sort of wonder. A stark contrast to the way his brother glares daggers at you. 

“You certainly took your time,” Geta monotones in place of a greeting.

You stand obediently at his side and twist your clammy hands into knots. “I was only getting dressed, Your Majesty. I wanted to look pretty for you—”

“Nonsense,” the Emperor spits and turns away. You’re always pretty, he’d say if he could get the words out. Instead, he softens his suddenly hardened edges and flashes you a gentler glance. “I thought you’d defied me,” he confesses, as though in lieu of an apology for his fleeting hysterics.

“I couldn’t,” you murmur with a quiet smile.

Not wouldn’t, he notices. Not shouldn’t.

But couldn’t. Like your body was fated to listen to his command.

A funny feeling sparkles like gold in his chest. It makes him fidget uncomfortably on the couch. “Sit down,” he instructs with a wave of his ringed hand before slouching back in his seat, pale arms splayed along the edge of it. His brows pinch when you descend onto the empty spot beside him. “Not there.”

You freeze in place. Your eyes widen and dart to his thighs, spread out and hidden beneath the skirt of his robe. You look to Geta once more and cower beneath his expectant look. You sink hesitantly onto his lap, feeling like your heart’s in your throat as you lean into his chest. 

Your unsure hands curl around his shoulders. His curls brush your cheek. He smells overwhelmingly of musk and wine and cinnamon. Something about it makes you dizzy.

You survey the room from your position in Geta’s lap. Most people aren’t looking, you find, too busy talking and flirting and dancing together. A few noblemen across the way leer incredulously at you, though, like they’re trying to gauge if they know you from somewhere. You presume you likely slept with one or more of their sons during the war, most of which are likely dead now.

A few women crowd behind the chaise — all dressed in muted shades of silk, all dripped in jewels and gold. They’re pretty, effortlessly so, as they talk into their goblets full of wine. Some looked relieved to have the Emperors’ attention off of them. Others sneer at you for it, having no idea you’d switch places with them in a heartbeat if you could.

Your eyes dart across the dining hall, almost instinctually so. They lock immediately with Marcus the moment he enters the room. 

The General wears his black-gold armor and a faraway look in his eye as he leads a group of foreign gladiators into the manor. A hush lulls over the crowd, which parts for him without thinking. Marcus navigates through it with an absentminded sternness, like every step is muscle memory. 

He softens only when his gaze meets yours. 

His puffed-out chest deflates with a wavering exhale at the sight of you, a lamb on the lap of a man who holds a knife to your throat. He blames himself for it most of all, knowing he’s the one that brought you to slaughter. 

“Finally!” Caracalla shouts into the silence, voice ringing through the hushed court. “Where have you all been— In the showers together?” 

A bout of laughter rolls over the crowd as the blonde boy leans over to you. You try not to grimace at the bitter smell of wine on his breath. “Who nearly missed the games, little dove,” he croons too close to your ear. 

The nickname makes you tense. You muster a smile, anyway, and remind yourself to breathe. “What a shame that would’ve been,” you lilt in response.

“The armor is tricky, Your Majesty,” Acacius confesses, voice deep like a cathedral organ. “Especially for those who have not donned it before. Such as yourself.”

There is a bite to his words despite their monotoned delivery. Caracalla pays it no mind as he lounges back on the couch, wine sloshing in the chalice he holds in a limp hand. “Get it out with it, then,” he slurs.

Each gladiator faces the other. One is tall and sturdy, like an oak tree. The other is shorter and lankier, much too young and far too pretty to fight in such gruesome battles. As Marcus’ voice booms throughout the quiet dining hall to introduce them — The Barbarian versus The Might Vincenzo — Geta presses his mouth to your ear. 

“Which one shall we bet on, little dove?” he whispers to you as his hand curls tighter around your waist. His other idles over your skirt, pale and jeweled and warm, though his long fingers threaten to dip between your thighs.

You blink hard to keep your head from swimming. “Hm?”

“Which one of these imbeciles do you think will win?” Geta repeats.

“Oh, um, I— I don’t know, Your Majesty,” you stammer in response. It’s hard to think about anything other than how close Marcus is to you now. How pretty and wartorn he looks. How desperately you wish to hold him.

“Just guess,” the Emperor presses, squeezing softly at your hip. “It’s only for entertainment, anyway.”

How could certain death possibly entertain you? your mind races as your mouth blurts, “The little one, then.”

“Really?” Geta hums in amusement. His dark eyes, smudged with brown liner, squint softly at your glossy profile. They flit across your features like he’s seeing you for the very first time, though you aren’t looking back at him to notice. “Hm. I would’ve picked the oaf.”

“Well, it is the most obvious choice, Your Majesty. Though, I find it’s often the smaller ones that surprise you—” 

You turn your head to look at him. Your breath catches audibly in your throat when you find the Emperor much closer than expected. He’s so close your eyes nearly cross to meet his gaze. So close, that the tip of his large nose threatens to brush the bridge of yours. So close, you get drunk on the alcohol tainting his breath.

Geta’s wine-stained mouth curls upwards in a cynical smile. “They do, indeed,” he croons quietly, raspberry breath fanning warm over your jaw. 

Chills pebble along your skin accordingly. It takes great strength from you to break his magnetic chocolate gaze. You turn away from the Emperor and focus instead on the gladiators circling one another. Vincenzo moves in seemingly practiced motions, unfazed by the brutality of such duels. The nameless Barbarian houses a great sadness in his young eyes — a hardened look of regret, perhaps, for what he knows he must do. 

“Let’s not entertain them for our amusement, brother,” the Barbarian mutters lowly to his opponent, blade hanging limp at his side.

The larger man charges like a rhino. A deep roar sounds in his throat as he thrusts his knife towards the younger boy’s neck. The Barbarian dodges the swing with ease, possessing all the swiftness of a snake as he ducks past his opponent and slices his muscular bicep with one fell swoop.

The crowd gasps in a mixture of horror and amusement as Vincenzo’s blood drips onto the floor like deep red wine. It stains the marble in fat droplets, blending with the rose petals littered at the gladiators’ feet.

You flinch at the sight. Your breath hitches as you turn away — eyes squeezed shut, brows tightly furrowed. Geta chuckles with merriment. You feel it rumbling in his chest as he murmurs, “Don’t be frightened, little dove. It’s only a game.”

Something in you aches when the Emperor reaches for the jeweled goblet at his side. Your fearful eyes remain fixed on his face while the hall erupts in a symphony of violence — of battle cries and laughter, of dropped blades and dull smacks. 

“Here,” Geta offers with the wine in hand. “Drink. It will calm your nerves.”

He presses the rim of the chalice to your mouth. His gaze never waves from your lips as they part to welcome the bittersweet raspberry. The wine pools like blood on your tongue. It tastes like guilt going down.

Dusk falls over the city like a wounded swan. The velvet darkness outside your window makes shadows of everything it touches, only partially diminished by blinking stars and waning silver moonlight. The crescent shape of the bright white orb would fit just perfectly beneath Marcus’ jaw, you think to yourself. 

The thought alone sends a warm, melancholic feeling down your spine — with such an intensity only the tenderness of twilight could elicit.

You slide from the crimson satin of your mattress with a tight chest. You migrate towards the entrance — bare feet padding faintly along the floor, thin cotton nightgown trailing behind you. You stand before your bedroom door and rap your knuckles rhythmically against the wood. 

Twice, once, three times. 

And then you wait.

“It’s me,” you hear Marcus murmur from the other side.

Your heart swells like sunshine in your throat. You smile wide despite yourself, with no one else around to see it. “It’s been Romulus for nearly a fortnight,” you tell him, panting slightly from where you’d held your breath in anticipation. “I was starting to think you’d been banished from your post here forever.”

“You know the Emperor likes to torture me,” he quips, though his usual monotone never wavers. 

It might’ve been easier on you both, if Geta had shipped him off to lead another meaningless campaign. At least then Marcus could miss you from leagues away. Instead, he has to guard your bedroom door and miss you from the other side of it. Torture is an understatement.

“Well, I quite like it when you’re here,” you confess quietly, tracing shapes onto the doorframe with an absentminded hand. “Makes me feel safe.”

You wait patiently for a response.

“Good,” is all the General can think to reply.

Your face pinches with concern. Your chest does, too. “Are you angry with me?”

“Why should I be angry with you?”

“I don’t know… Our conversations together have grown so short— I worry you do not wish to speak with me at all.”

Though you cannot see him, Marcus flinches at your words. He stands like a statue outside your door, in the middle of the dim corridor, and glares over his shoulder into nothingness. “It isn’t true,”  he insists, voice low but honeyed still. “I wish to speak with you always.”

“Then why do you not?”

“Because it isn’t safe,” he repeats, though you never seem to hear him.

“Will it ever be?”

Marcus goes silent as he ponders for a moment. Quiet engulfs the bedroom all over again, filled only by crackling candles. “No,” he answers after a few long moments. “Not for a long while.”

You feel like he’s stabbed you with a freshly sharpened blade, right between your ribcage and into your bleeding heart. It would hurt less, anyway.  “Why?” you wonder aloud in a pained whimper, knowing the answer will do nothing more than twist the knife.

The answer sits ready on Marcus’ tongue, as though the question of why has plagued him long before you asked it.

“Because I… I ruined you. By bringing you here.”

“You saved me,” you correct.

“I destroyed you,” he retorts, voice heavy with choked-back emotion.

“I would be dead if it weren’t for you,” you remind him of the blatant reality, which threatens to consume you every time you see his face. You wish you were holding it now, cradling Marcus’ bearded cheeks in your supple palms, so that he might understand the weight of your words. “I would’ve lost everything if you hadn’t taken me with you. I would’ve been tortured, probably killed. But now I get to—”

The word gets caught in your throat. You swallow hard and fake a smile at nothingness. The pretending comes naturally to you now.

“Now I get to live. Both of us do.”

There is a brief moment of knowing silence. This isn’t what living is supposed to feel like — fleeting touches in dark crypts and whispered conversations through bedroom doors. Both of you know it, but it’s a truth too brutal to admit out loud.

“Marcus?”

“Yes?”

“You know… We aren’t unspectacular things, Marcus,” you speak slowly and with a strangled intention. “We’ve already come so far. We’ve survived so much— We can survive a little more, can’t we? Until it’s safe again?”

“I don’t presume we have any other choice.”

“We don’t,” you sigh. “Because I love you.”

“I know,”  Marcus nods, with an air of surrender in his words. “Because I love you, too.”

You fall into the heavy wooden door as though it were your lover’s body. You did not need to see him to feel held by him. He hadn’t touched you, and he didn’t need to. His presence alone affects you in such a way that it feels like he has been caressing you for a long, long time.

Marcus’ heavy armor clunks faintly on the other side of the door as he stands up straighter. Emperor Geta enters his line of sight, a shadow slinking down the candlelight corridor. He clears his throat. “Your Majesty—” the General announces, for you and you alone.

He hears your feet pad against the floor as you scurry from the entrance.

“Dog,”the Emperor greets in a cynical deadpan. 

His sandals scuff the cobbles when he stands before the taller man. The torches hanging on the walls bathe Geta’s face in flickering amber hues, highlighting his tired features where the makeup had worn throughout the day. He seems weighed down by a certain kind of grief. The kind that makes Acacius feel ten feet tall.

“Have you been guarding my Empress like a good little hound?”

Marcus nods politely, though the term of endearment catches him momentarily off guard. To be the Emperor’s whore was one thing, but it was entirely another to be referred to in such high regard. The General tries to contemplate what that must mean as he answers, “Of course, Your Majesty.”

Geta grins despite his visible fatigue. “Good boy.”

You’re already back in bed by the time the door swings open. You lounge along the expensive satin sheets and pretend you’ve done nothing but wait obediently for the Emperor, while simultaneously swallowing down any remaining feelings of longing and heartache.

Geta enters the room like a rolling storm cloud. He wears all the chaos of the day in his mussed blonde curls, smudged makeup, and wrinkled garb — a palpable sort of disarray. You scramble on the mattress to greet him, like you often do, until he dismisses you with a wave of his hand.

“No. Don’t,” he commands. “Stay there. Don’t get up.”

You obey, freezing partially upright, with your elbows holding most of your weight. Your face swirls with concern at his look of annoyance. Your heart drops to your stomach in fear.

“Are you alright?” you ask him, though the Emperor pays you little mind as he migrates to the table by the window. 

He pours himself a chalice of wine. The glugging flagon fills the heavy silence. You swallow hard and stare timidly at the back of him. “Are you angry with me?” you repeat once more — a question that seems to accompany womanhood, especially when bound by the innate violence of man.

“I couldn’t be,” Geta answers like it’s obvious, sparing you a fleeting glance over his shoulder. He turns away to down the full goblet in three lengthy gulps, then wipes his stained mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s only my brother,” he confesses through labored breaths. 

Your worry lessens, but only slightly.

“Is he alright?”

“He’s acting like a child,” Geta spits, angered all over again, as he pours himself another cup. “More so than usual.”

“Has something happened?” 

“Nothing that should concern you.”

“Well, it’s certainly bothering you, Your Majesty,” you coo in slow and calculated measures as you rise from the many cushioned pillows. “So, forgive me, but it cannot help but concern me as well.”

Geta is unaccustomed to such tenderness. He tenses beneath it, glances hesitantly over his shoulder like he plans to find a ghost sitting in your place — as though he’d only heard the words in the wind and not from your mouth. A foreign feeling swirls again in his hollow chest, like a blizzard of snow or a flurry of rose petals.

“He’s jealous of me. Just as he always has been,” the Emperor tells you as he stalks toward the bed. He gestures mindlessly with his hands, and the wine sloshes over the rim of the gold chalice until it hits the stone floor. He raises it to his mouth, tips his head back, and down the bittersweet pomegranate.

His neck is long and milky white. His protruding adam’s apple bobs with each languid swallow. A drop of deep red trails from his mouth and down his chin once he’s finished. He rubs it away with a fist. You forget to stop staring.

“Lay down,” he commands, chest heaving. 

Your body obeys without a second thought. You lie back on the velvet cushions, docile and willing, in a way that comes naturally to you now. You’ve been Geta’s thing for so long that a part of you has grown used to it. Needy for it. 

The mattress dips beneath the Emperor’s wait as he kneels beside you. Your mind starts to reel. 

Your brain seemingly anticipates an inevitable pleasure, which comes to you like clockwork most nights. It makes your mouth water like a drooling hound that knows when it’s feeding time. A funny feeling stirs in the pit of your belly and pools like honey in your undergarments. Your thighs clench together when a subtle throbbing begins to pound between them.

You should be grateful when Geta crawls beneath the sheets only to rest his head on your chest.

You’re shocked, most of all, by such a foreign act of tenderness.

Your breath catches when his cheek presses to your breast. He nods gently to rub his burning skin over the smooth cotton. A deep exhale fans from his nose as he rests his body weight against you. 

You cradle him with hesitant hands and remind yourself to breathe. Your fingers scratch lightly over his clothed shoulder while your others comb through his strawberry-blonde locks. It’s a warmth so foreign to the two of you that it threatens to bring you both to tears.

“He says he wants someone like you— my brother,” Geta admits after a few moments of long silence.

“A whore?”

“A paramour,” the Emperor corrects, face twisted in irritation at your use of the term. He focuses on the muffled sound of your heartbeat when anger threatens to consume him. A heavy sigh deflates his chest. His anxious fingers twist in your nightgown. “I told him he could have his pick— Between us, we have plenty of women to go around, but… He insists his mind is stuck on you.”

Your bated breaths come to you in trembling inhale-exhales. You hope he doesn’t sense how frightful his words have made you. 

Geta is cruel, yes, but he is at most times predictable. Though Caracalla may be kind, he is most of all volatile. And there is nothing more dangerous than an erratic, easily excitable ruler.

“And what did you tell him?” you wonder with a feigned sense of curiosity.

“That you were mine, of course,” Geta blurts like it’s obvious. “He offered to share, to which I told him that he should be grateful that I’m sharing the throne alone with him… And now he’s off with his monkey, crying like a child…”

You feel strangely comforted by his words. You breathe a sigh of relief through your nose and rake your fingers through his blonde-brunette curls. “Your brother is a fragile thing, Your Majesty,” you advise in gentle murmurs. “You must be gentle with him.”

“I don’t know how to be gentle with anything,” Geta confesses, half-muffled into your chest. “Least of all, with someone like him.”

“Shall I speak with him? Perhaps I can calm him— make him understand?”

“It’s my burden alone.”

“It is mine as well, Your Majesty. So that mustn’t be true.”

Geta turns slowly to face you, with all the hesitance of someone unused to such kindness. His chin rests on your clothed sternum and bobs with each word. “You shouldn’t have to carry it,” he whispers into the honeyed silence of the candlelit bedroom.

You muster a small smile. “I know. But I will, anyway,” you shrug. “When you care for someone, your brain has little say in the matter.”

Geta falters at your admission. A foreign emotion swims in his chocolate button eyes. He’d rather blame it on the flickering flames strewn around the room. “Is that what this is?” he mutters, almost to himself, when he finds the breath to say the words.

Your fingers in his hair slow to a stop. “What do you mean, Your Majesty?”

“This… This tenderness,”  the Emperor answers, spitting the word like it’s the first time he’s ever tasted it. His face scrunches distantly, as if it were sour on his tongue. “Sometimes it overwhelms to the point of tears. It’s a… a blinding radiance, like… a knife— lodged somewhere deep in the body…”

You cup Geta’s freshly shaven face between two, gentle hands. He swears he sees the sun.

“Why do you speak of love like it hurts you, Your Majesty?”

He swallows hard. “Because it does,” he confesses before rising from your body. 

You mourn his warmth as he swings his legs over the side of the mattress. He sits with his back facing you. His dove white robe hangs off one pale shoulder when he bows his head.

“I never believed in it as a child— the permanence of it all, of… love. And yet, I… I find myself longing for it anyway. Like a fool.”

You rise on one elbow and resist the urge to touch him. “Wanting to be understood by someone doesn’t make you a fool, Your Majesty.”

“I know that I… That I haven’t been the most gentle with you at times. But I am… I am sorry for it,” Geta tells you in near inaudible murmurs, flashing you a sheepish glance over his freckled shoulder. “I understand it must be difficult for you.”

“What, Your Majesty?”

“To be caught between all that was. And all that must be.”

Your stomach wrenches at his words. Your chest tightens beneath the weight of them until you have to fight for every wavering breath. You take a trembling inhale and rise so you’re sitting at his side, taking careful calculation in the following words you speak.

“We cannot… We cannot choose who we love, Your Majesty. We can fight ceaselessly against it, perhaps, but it doesn’t change fate.” 

You reach out for him with one tremoring hand. You rake a rogue curl behind his ear and hope he doesn’t know Marcus’ face is the one stained permanently behind your eyelids. 

“We love who we love, Your Majesty. And the rest stay ghosts.”

Geta’s eyes glitter with an emotion you’ve not seen from him before. His dark eyes flit between both of yours, as though searching for something in your gaze — sincerity, perhaps, or maybe an equal sense of longing. 

You blink, and his mouth is on yours. Geta kisses you back onto the velvet-satin and settles over you once more. It’s wet. Hungry. Unforgiving.

You kiss him back with a similar intensity, clutching his robe in both hands, desperate to understand him.

Marcus remains on the other side of your door — an invisible ghost, an unwilling witness. He hears all of it, as clearly as he would if he were seeing it with his own eyes. A hollow feeling of yearning and hunger gnaws at the pit of his stomach as he tries to imagine your pleasured form. The painting behind his eyelids is blurred and distorted with time.

He wishes he could see you now, even with Emperor Geta fucking you into the mattress.  He could pretend that he was the one fucking you, at least, and let the image alone bring his withered form back to life. 

You’re together in his head, entwined still, with your mouths bruised in a relentless kiss.

Marcus hopes you’re still together in yours, too.

General Acacius spends most of his nights in the crypt, which he feels is rather fitting for a half-dead thing like him. When he is not surveilling your bedroom door, or being otherwise taunted by Emperor Geta, he finds a strange sanctuary in the dreary tombs. It is perhaps the only place where he is left alone. 

Caracalla is petrified by thoughts of ghosts, and Geta detests history, so neither is likely to show their face in such an ancient mausoleum. Which is ideal for someone plotting an insurrection.

You find him there in the wee small hours of the late, late night. He wears a deep red cloak over his white robe, perhaps to conceal himself, as he shuffles around the room to snuff out flickering candles. You wonder who he lit them for because you know he does not need them. He’s grown too used to navigating in the shadows.

Your sandals scuff suddenly against the damp cobbles. Marcus does not seem startled by the intrusion. He knew you were there by the sweet scent of your perfumed body alone. There is nothing about you he would not immediately notice.

“What are you doing here?” he wonders with his back facing you, voice low with a timbre that bounces off the tomb walls.

“I wanted to see you,” you answer sheepishly.

Marcus says nothing in response.

You wring your hands into knots and shift your weight on your feet. He extinguishes the torch on the far wall, and shadows engulf the windowless crypt — save for one lone candle flickering atop Emperor Commodus’ cracking tomb. Your eyes flit from the flame to Marcus’ silhouette, gaze swimming with uncertainty.

“May I ask you a question?”

“I don’t see why not,” he monotones and flits across the room like a ghost.

“What do you do down here?” you ask. When your voice inevitably trembles with distant alarm, you quip, “I only mean it mustn’t be healthy— Spending so much time in the dark.”

“It’s none of your concern,” Marcus insists with a venom that makes you flinch. He hooks his pointer finger around the hook of the candle holder, and the dancing flame paints his statuesque features in shades of amber. He softens immediately at the sight of you.

“I just do not wish to incriminate you,” the wartorn man confesses.

Your chest aches with an immediate concern. “What does that mean? Please do not tell me that you’re doing something perilous—”

“No,” Marcus interjects firmly, then amends. “Not yet, at least.”

“Explain it to me, then. Help me understand.”

“It’s best you do not know, petal. It’s safer that way.”

The word alone makes you cross. You wish he’d stop using it.

“But I will tell you when the time is right, I swear,” he assures you, though his voice threatens to tremble with wavering strength. His dark eyes flit between both of yours, heavy with an emotion you cannot place. “I will keep you safe no matter what, you know that—”

“It’s not me I’m worried about, Acacius,” you murmur with a stern glint in your eye, clutching the downy fabric of his robe in your fists.

“There is naught to worry about, petal. I assure you.”

Marcus takes a step closer to you despite the voice of reason in his head telling him otherwise. He lifts his free hand and swipes a callused palm over your cheek, soft and warm with sleep. You lean into his touch like a cat. A funny feeling blossoms in his chest.

“I’ve been thinking… About what you said some days ago… Making a new world for ourselves…” He talks slowly and deeply and nearly to himself. You nod against his palm to egg him onward. “You were right. We deserve better than this— Why should we have to live like dogs?”

Marcus swipes his thumb over your jaw and takes another daring step closer. You feel the heat from the candle he holds in his free hand, though your eyes remain on his face. You couldn’t look away from him if you tried. A part of you is hesitant to blink even, for fear that you might miss him for a millisecond too long.

He angles your gently head upward with his weathered palm. You can smell the musk on his tanned skin from here, as well as the ale and mint leaves on his breath. It’s dizzying. The ground seems to sway under your feet at the dwindling proximity between you.

“We love each other, don’t we?” he murmurs in a honeyed voice.

You nod without a second thought. Your mouth waters with the hopes of tasting him.

He nods with you. “So fuck the war.”

Marcus ducks down to press his mouth to yours. His lips swallow your own in a kiss, lingering and languid and deep enough to drown in. 

You melt into his touch with a heavy sigh exhaled through your nose. The warm breath fans across his unshaven cupid’s bow while your hands migrate to his hair. You twist the greying tendrils in your fingers, keeping him impossibly close against you. 

When Marcus goes to grip the fabric of your nightgown in both his hands, the candle holder tumbles to the ground. The gold clatters audibly across the cobbles. The wax light falls on his side, and the flame begins to dwindle on the murky stone floor. 

You wonder, briefly, if it will take fire — if the smoke will give you away, or if the tomb and all its history will burst into flames, or if the inferno will take you and Marcus with it.

Though it snuffs quickly out, bathing the two of you in a navy blue darkness, you figure you wouldn’t care if it did burn you to ash. Not as long as Marcus was there to kiss you into embers.

Marcus’ face consumes your dreams. 

The details are blurred with the haze of sleep, but he was there — touching your face, asking to try again. You merged into one another like ghosts. Like drops of melted honey. Like lovers of Pompeii turned to ash. Every day, you tell yourself that it is unsafe to love him more than you do now. And yet he haunts your dreams, and yet you find more love in you for him.

And yet…

A violent hand pulls you from your gentle slumber. It jerks mercilessly at your arm, snatching you from your peaceful dreams and waking you into a nightmare.

“Wake up!” a strident and familiar voice bellows into the quiet bedroom, lit only by the faint blue of an early morning. The words are punctuated by another rough tug at your wrist. You awake to the sharp aching in your fingers.

“Wha—” you slur, trying to blink away the bleary mist as you lift your heavy head from the pillows. “What’s going on? What’s happened?”

“Up!”

You’re urged from the mattress by the unforgiving fingers digging bruises on your arm. You squint through the sleep and ebbing darkness to find Geta looming over you — blonde curls mussed on his head, swollen eyes wide and wild, velvet robe askew on his shoulder to reveal his pale chest. His skin there is flushed red with anger. You don’t know what you did to deserve his wrath.

“Geta?” you gasp through a faint whimper in your throat, trying to pull your wrist from his grip. He only holds you tighter. “What are you doing— You’re hurting me.”

“Liar!” is all he shouts in response, like he doesn’t even hear you.

The crazed Emperor drags you out of bed just to drop you to the cobbles. The thin sleeves of your nightgown slip off your shoulder; the skirt of it bunches at your thighs. You make yourself as small as possible as you shrink away from the man towering above you. 

“I don’t understand,” you squeak through the heart in your throat.

“Liar!” he shouts again.

His voice rings through the shadowed bedroom. You cower in response. He sobers at the fear twisting your features, but only slightly. His heart pounds hard against his ribcage, beating red-hot rage through his veins. He can hardly hear you through the rushing in his ears.

“What have I done?” you whisper, voice trembling.

“You have made…” Geta trails off, swallowing the emotion threatening to strangle him. He blinks away burning tears and spits, “A mockery of me.”

Fear ebbs into confusion. “I have not—”

“You lie!”

“I do not!” The volume of your voice startles even you. You blink up at him with wide, pleading eyes, searching for any ounce of mercy within him. 

You find none. 

Just a man made of towering orange flames, threatening to set you ablaze. 

“I have given up everything to be here,” you whimper. “To be at your side. To understand you—” 

“Make no mistake… Your lies no longer have an effect on me, little dove,” Geta interjects through a bout of cynical laughter. He shakes his head and grins despite the tears glittering in his eyes. “You think you are so clever. That you were brought here, to my Empire, to be cherished...”

The Emperor takes slow, daunting steps towards you. You shrink away from him and choke back a sob bubbling in your throat. Tears fall from your lashes in fat droplets down your burning cheeks. 

Geta grins like it pleases him.

“Let me be clear, so there is no longer any misunderstanding…” he tells you, speaking in slow, deep murmurs as he crouches before you. You can see the flecks of gold glimmering in his deep brown eyes from here. You can see the fire swimming within them, too, as he assures you, “You were created merely for me to destroy you.”

The throne room is absent of its usual bright red roses and ornate gold decoration. The chandelier overhead has not yet been lit. Instead, the spacious room is illuminated by an ever-rising sun — which basks everything it touches in shades of melancholy blue. 

The servants light torches along the wall while you and Marcus stand together before the scowling Emperor. Something about it strikes a feeling of nostalgia in your chest, though these circumstances are much different than the ones you were brought here under. Geta no longer looks at you with lust in his dark eyes. He looks at you, instead, with betrayal.

“Thanks to the civic virtue of some good men…” the eldest Emperor quavers into the silent room. “…Your insurrection has been revealed.” 

Your stomach twists at his words. Your mouth falls softly agape with shock. Of any explanation you could’ve been given upon your sudden imprisonment, you couldn’t have expected this one. You thought, perhaps, that he had somehow found out about your meetings in the crypt with Marcus. You would’ve been able to stomach that, at least. Your love for Acacius is something you’d be willing to die by.

But not this.

Not something you were completely unconscious of.

Geta continues tearily. “The honor… The dignitas that Rome has bestowed upon you— All this, you have forfeited by your treachery.”

“Emperor Geta, please,” Marcus sighs. His deep voice echoes through the empty throne room like a heavenly, sorrowful instrument. He bows his head and swallows hard, knowing now that he must beg for mercy. Not for himself. But for you. 

“Torture me, if you wish, but let her go. She had no part in this—”

“Forgive me,” Geta spits emotionlessly. “But I have no cause to believe you, General.”

Marcus turns to you then, tired eyes wide and pleading. “Tell him. Go on, it’s alright,” he urges gently, though your silence makes his chest ache. “Petal, tell him— Tell him you were unaware.”

You say nothing.

“Tell him!”he repeats in a shout that rings through the quiet throne room. His trained apathy splinters for the first time in front of Geta. He is perhaps more fearful now than he has ever been before. No war was nearly as frightening as the thought of losing you.

“What does it matter?” you mutter in response, voice fragile like glass. “He made up his mind the moment he found out.”

“Then take me if that’s what you want,” Marcus says, pleads to the merciless Emperor. His sandals scuff the stone floor as he takes a step closer in surrender.  “Put me in the Colosseum— Crucify me on the royal steps, if you must— But please, do not make her suffer for something I brought upon her. Do not punish her for my sins.”

“You are the Great General Acacius…” Geta croons bitterly. “What could one more splash of blood possibly mean to you?”

“Everything,” Marcus answers without a second thought, voice heavy with a predestined grief. “It would mean everything.”

Something in Geta shifts. You see it flickering in his dark, teary eyes. A surge of power, almost, like a stroke of bright white lightning. The corner of his pink mouth twitches as he tilts his chin upward. “Step back ten paces,” he commands suddenly.

Marcus’ brows pinch first in confusion, then relax a moment later when he inevitably obeys. His feet sound along the cobbles as he takes ten slow steps backward. He mourns the distance it puts between the two of you.

“Turn around,” Geta’s voice echoes through the vacant throne room.

You hear Marcus take a wavering breath in. He spins on the heel of his leather sandal until his back is facing you. His heavy eyes flutter shut as his chin falls to his chest. He searches for an ounce of hope within himself, knowing he’d lost all of it some time ago now.

The Emperor smirks. “Good dog.”

Acacius seethes.

Geta’s dark eyes, rimmed red with emotion, flit back to you. Something heavy settles in the pit of your stomach — dread, perhaps, or maybe acceptance for what’s surely to come. 

“Was it a lie?” 

“What?” you ask with bated breath.

Geta shrugs, then readjusts his robe when it falls from his shoulder. “Any of it.”

“No.”

“Tell the truth.”

“I am.”

Geta snarls at your subdued emotion. “I am the Emperor of Rome. I could have my pick of whores— You being here is a privilege. Do you understand?”

You nod once. “Yes.”

“You came from filth— to the greatest city in the world,” Geta spits the words like so many drops of venom. He waves his hands up and down your form, pale fingers now void of their usual gold rings. “You were just… some whore without a face before I made you better. I did this!” 

He gestures wildly around the darkened manor, voice breaking at the volume of his shouting. His robe falls askew to reveal more of his bare chest as spit coats his bitten lips. You remain in place while the Emperor inches closer. The fear has left you, as well as any instinct to cry — your grief is too violent for that now.

“I brought you here,” Geta convinces himself. His saliva splatters on your cheek in faint droplets. Tears glitter on his cheeks like stained glass windows. A fire flickers in the deep brown of his eyes. 

“I willed this— I cared for you with every bit of conscience as I was born with.” He takes a deep breath and steps back, shaking his head in disgust. “And yet…”

He turns away. 

You’re able to take in a deep breath for the first time in several minutes when he parts from you. The leadened weight on your chest remains.

“If you do not wish to be here, I certainly will not make you,” Geta rambles in teary blubbers. “One whore is as good as any other— Perhaps I can find one who is capable of pretending she cares.”

You step towards his retreating form. “Geta—”

“Go!” he shouts, looking back at you with a crazed look in his sleep-worn eyes. He wipes spit from his chin and quietens, strangled by an unavoidable emotion. “Now. Walk through those doors, and I promise no harm will come to you. Just do not stand before me and patronize me in this way, I will not stand for it.”

His promise makes your chest swell with hope. You remain frozen even still, stuck at an unnavigable crossroads. Such assurances of safety mean little to you when Marcus

has a sword to his throat. 

You look at the man over your shoulder. He has not moved from his spot some feet behind you. His back still faces you, though you notice his hands are balled into trembling fists.

Even if it were true — even if Geta really planned to let you go without a knight slitting your throat — it would mean little without Marcus. You would not know where to go without him. You would not be able to live with yourself if you left him here, not knowing what Geta planned for him. You would be away from the city, yes, but it would not be freedom.

Your instinctual will for survival is replaced by the primal need to keep Marcus alive.

To do that, you must reach for the bloodied hand of death.

You turn away from your lover — away from the opened cage door and the promise of freedom — and rush to the heartbroken Emperor. You clutch his cotton robe in your fists and tug at the gold trim to pull him closer. You meet him in the middle, entwining your mouth with his.

You kiss him. Hard. With enough ardor to snatch the breath from his lungs. His pink lips part for yours, almost instinctually so, and you swipe your tongue over the rough pad of his own. He tastes of sleep and honey and very distantly of wine. He gets heavy against you as he falls into your kiss. His hands cling to the skirt of your nightgown until his fists start to shake.

You pull away only when he’s melted for you all over again, when the red-hot anger has ebbed from his milky white body. A thin string of saliva keeps you connected until it splits against your chins.

“I know… I know you are hurt, Your Majesty,” you speak in slow murmurs, and through uneven breaths. Your fearful eyes dart over his face and find him utterly kissbitten — mouth swollen, eyes heavy, cheeks flushed. “And I know that it is difficult to forget pain. But I’ve found it’s harder to remember happiness. Glory.”

Each word from your mouth is stamped with intention. 

You speak of glory only with the hopes that he might remember his many useless wars, all of which Marcus has won for him without complaint. There would be no Empire to rule without the Great General Acacius, who dares not to sneak a glance at the two of you over his shoulder. He, instead, keeps his heavied gaze on the torch hanging by the door. The flame sears his vision until he can see you dancing within it.

“We have no scar to show from sweetness, do we?” you quaver with a forced smile, cupping Geta’s burning cheeks between both your hands. You swipe your thumb over a fat tear clinging to his cheekbone. “How can we allow ourselves to be blinded by anger when there is still so much love?” 

Geta snivels and rests his forehead against yours. His long lashes flutter against his glowing cheeks.

“I wept for you,” the Emperor confesses quietly, words weighed down by tears. “I had come to believe that… If I wanted something badly enough, the sheer strength of my desire would make it mine. I see now that it was foolish—”

“Perhaps it is true,” you whisper to him, breaths entwining and kissing both your cheeks. If he notices your voice shaking, you hope he confuses it with desire and not with fear. “Perhaps that is why I’m standing here now. Because I am yours…”

A moment of silence lulls over the blue hour. The quiet feels deafening in the large throne room, quelled only by the sound of heavy breathing. Yours hitches in your throat when Geta parts wordlessly from you. He sniffles once, then exhales hard through his mouth. 

Your gaze remains fixed on his face in an unwavering stare as you try to gauge his reaction. His features are emotionless, but his heavy-lidded eyes flit back and forth between yours — as though he, too, were trying to measure your sincerity. 

Your fate, in that split second, teeters on a knife’s edge. You hold your breath and wait for him to raise his hand. Not to hit you, maybe, but to sic his guards upon you like dogs — either to drag you into a cell or to be kind enough to kill you on the spot.

Geta lifts his palms only to cradle your jaw between them. His long fingers wrap around your neck like he intends to choke you there. He drags your mouth back to his instead. Your noses smush together with the intensity of his touch. It’s all teeth and tongue and spit. Desire and anger and grief. A billion things he licks into your mouth.

The weight of his hunger smothers you. Consumes you. He could kill you this way, if he wanted. There is little difference, you’ve found, between a bite and a kiss. It only matters how deep he buries his teeth into you.

Your chin shines with his spit when he parts from you. Geta’s chest heaves with labored breaths, flushed and swelling with proud. He hasn’t yet let go of your neck. You wonder if he can feel your thrumming pulse against his fingers.

“Show me, then,” he pants. “That you’re mine… Prove it to me.”

The Emperor goes to step back from you. Your hands dart for his wrists, holding him there when he threatens to pull them away. Geta’s eyes widen in shock.

“Don’t make him watch,” you plead in a delicate whisper.

His wide, chocolate eyes flit over your shoulder. He seems to forget about Marcus’ presence until that very moment. He looks back to you, at the plea swimming in your eyes, and nods once in response. 

“Take him,” he calls to the knights lurking in the darkness.

Their heavy armor clinks together as they comply without complaint. They lead Marcus to the door with their hands on the hilts of their swords. You watch him leave from over your shoulder, in the very corner of your eye. You hope he understands, but you wouldn’t blame him if you didn’t. You find it hard to forgive yourself even now.

Marcus always said that people find out who they truly are during times of war. Maybe this is who you are. Maybe you cannot kiss the devil without taking some of his sin.

The door closes with a heavy thud across the room. 

The weight of being alone with the Emperor washes heavily over you. Like drops of ice-cold rain. Like warm, melted honey.

Geta peers at you with a similar uncertainty. Head bowed slightly, wide eyes glittering from beneath his lashes. You do what you have always done — take care of this man the way he’s asked you to, placate his anger with your body. Giving yourself away is as natural as breathing most days.

“Sit down, Your Majesty,” you urge in a gentle whisper.

The Emperor listens as obediently as his knights. 

The sound of his sandals padding along the cobbles fills the suffocating quiet. He descends upon his throne like he was made for it, spreading his legs before him and propping his arms along the golden rests. He looks like a painting upon his seat of power, bathed in the deep blue of an early morning. An angel dragged to hell.

Geta watches you with an unwavering stare as you take slow steps toward him. His brown-eyed gaze goes glassy at the sight of you, an angelic thing all dressed in white. His thighs part to welcome you between them. He tenses under your palms when they smooth over his milky white chest, past the sparse chestnut hair littered there and down to the tie of his robe.

His stomach rises and falls in heavy, uneven pants under your touch. You unknot the string with bated breath, then brush the golden trimming to his sides. He’s bare underneath it, likely from where he’d been brutally roused from his slumber. His cock is on immediate display — resting on his fuzzy thighs, half-hard and glowing red at the tip.

You descend to your knees to take care of him on instinct. His hands dart to your shoulders to stop you. “Ride me,” he commands, though it sounds more like a plea as it spills his swollen mouth.

Wordlessly, you straddle his thighs. The cotton fabric of your nightgown bunches at your hips. You spit into your palm and reach between your bodies for his cock in a single practiced motion. He feels like velvet in your fist. 

Geta’s nostrils flare with a heavy exhale when your hand drags up the length of his cock. His head tips back onto his throne when your fist falls back down again. Your lips find the expanse of his long, white neck like a deep-seated compulsion. You kiss his pulse as though it were his mouth. He cradles the crown of your head and brings his lips to your ear.

“You love me,” he sighs within a moan when your thumb brushes the head of his drooling cock.

You can’t tell if it’s a command to repeat the words back to him, or an affirmation he repeats only for himself. Either way, you nod in response and line his stiff cock at your entrance. Geta’s mouth parts in a silent moan at the feeling of your silky cunt. 

“I do,” you whisper just before you mount him. 

There is a dull ache in your belly when he pierces you, though you’ve grown accustomed to his length with time. Your satin folds split to welcome every inch of him accordingly. Your hips rock back and forth over his supple thighs and your velvety walls pulse around him, swallowing him further inside.

Your breathy moans entwine and fill the air. You keep a white-knuckled grip on the back of the golden throne as you ride him, without break and without mercy — in spite of the burning sensation in your thighs. You tell yourself it’s to finish him quickly, though a primal part of you chases after your own pleasure.

Geta’s breaths leave his parted mouth in huffed exhales as you bounce on top of him. He mourns the sight of him disappearing in and out of your glistening pussy but fights to keep his eyes open to watch the rest of you. Your fucked-out face swirls in a mixture of concentration and pleasure as Geta lifts his hand for the collar of your gown.

He unties the dainty knot at your sternum and tugs the fabric down your chest, baring your breasts for him. His mouth waters at sight of your plush skin, moving in time with your rhythmic grinds over his lap. 

A strangled moan sounds in your throat when he takes your left nipple in his mouth. You caress the back of his head, twisting your fingers in his honey hair in an effort to keep him close. He runs the rough pad of his tongue over your sensitive tit and smiles when he hears you whimpering. 

“You love this,” he mutters against your chest. “You love when I fuck you. ”

You nod until the words catch up with you. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“God—” he grunts through gritted teeth, tipping his head back when one particular grind makes him twitch inside you. His hands grip your thighs over your skirt. His fingers threaten to sear bruises onto your skin. “Your pussy was made for my cock, wasn’t it?”

You nod again.

His right hand parts from you only to come down a moment later. The dull smack of his palm against your clothed hip echoes through the throne room. “I don’t think I heard you.”

“Yes,” you squeak with your face scrunched, trembling when your clit drags across the thatch of pubic hair at the base of Geta’s cock.

“Who’s cunt is this?”

“Yours—”

His hand lifts again. You hear the impact of his palm against your ass before you feel it, a subtle stinging you find a strange comfort in. Geta laughs in maniacal, breathy chuckles when you keen for him. 

“I can’t hear you.”

“Yours!” you exclaim in a feeble gasp, clutching the Emperor to your chest. You shudder on top of him when an orgasm rakes suddenly through your body. It flows quickly and without mercy, but never quite ebbs. You’re left a whimpering, weeping mess while the aftershocks of your pleasure consume you. 

“It’s yours,” you squeak in nearly inaudible blubbers, pressing your kissed mouth to the shell of Geta’s ear, repeating the phrase like it’s the only one you remember. “’S your pussy… It’s yours…”

The words alone are enough to make Geta burst inside of you. 

He tenses all over. His dull nails press crescent shapes into the skin of your thighs. His rosy mouth parts to exhale a guttural moan. You feel his cock jerk with your drooling confines right before he spits several loads of cum inside you. Your cunt pulses around him, instinctually milking him for every drop of liquid pleasure, and a whimper sounds in Geta’s throat.

You feel it bloom in the pit of your belly like a flower — something soft and warm and seeping. As the two of you relax against one another with wavering exhales, you feel his cum leaking out of you like drops of summer rain. It pools on his lap and drips down to the throne underneath him, tainting the gold with a mixture of your sin.

It proves a point. Marks a territory.

Geta swells with pride.

Your back slouches as you melt into his body. You hide your burning face in his neck as his feverish grip on you loosens. Geta twitches beneath you when your cunt pulsates around his softening cock. “Mm…” you hear him hum, mixed with a laugh you feel rumbling in his chest. His head tilts back as a lopsided smile tugs deliriously at his mouth.

He runs a gentle hand up and down your spine, a reminder of his being there despite your feeble efforts to dissociate your brain from your body. You can’t ignore the warmth of his touch on your tingling skin, or the way your hearts press together and beat to the same rhythm.

A distant feeling of acceptance pools in the pit of your belly along with the Emperor’s cum. Your grief is a much more discreet thing, however, and you miss Marcus like an unstitched wound that won’t stop bleeding. Like a knife lodged somewhere deep in the body.

“I think… I think I’ve found an adequate punishment for the General,” Geta pants, the crooked grin audible in his words. “Perhaps he will learn his lesson when I’ve fucked a child into you—”

You tense when the Emperor’s palm splays over your stomach.

“—Perhaps then he’ll understand that you’re mine.”

[pedro-my-love]

Just rewatched 'Gladiator 2' today, and like,,,

I think we moved past "Torture me if you want. But do not lecture me." Wayyyy too quickly.

Like I was watching it and did a whole

😲->👀->😏->🤭

Like okayyyy sir. And the way he looks in it too???

(I know this is behind the scenes but like...)

Girl. HELLOO????

[myownwholewildworld]

the mists of avalon (snippet)

↪ a marcus acacius ficlet inspired by the arthurian legend of the lady of the lake

a/n: posting a small snippet here because i was meant to post this fic this weekend but i haven't finished it yet 🥲

And there, right by the shore, amid the heavy mist, knelt King Acacius. The second his eyes landed on you, his whole face lighted up—the doom casting a shadow on his eyes, on his features, lifted; his eyes sparkled at the sight of you, wide and attentive.

His cupped hands let go of the remaining water and Marcus quickly stood up on the edge. He stepped forward into the water and, uncaring of his outfit, walked on the lake’s bed towards you. As if he couldn’t wait to have you in his embrace any longer. As if he’d been needily craving your presence besides him. The same way you did him. Silently so, though.

You swiftly swam towards him and met him a few metres away from the shore, when the water kissed his knees.

You stood there for a never-ending second, lost in his brown eyes, until gravity pulled you into his arms. Marcus wrapped you in his warmth, the palm of his hand resting on the back of your head. You slid your hands towards his lower back, pressing his armoured body into yours, and burying your face in the curve of his neck.

If home ever had a smell, it was his. Your home amidst the chaos of the underworld. Because your home was a person, not a place.

But this one hug felt different. Warmer, calmer. Definite. Steadfast.

Loving.

“My soul has been aching for the absence of your presence. Now I shall be at ease, my lady,” Acacius softly delivered words caressed your forehead, his lips mellow on your cold skin.

They reached deeper than you would have ever allowed. They took root in your core, hugging your fears in a way you had never felt before. They were sincere, purposeful. Truthful. A blooming heat spread across your chest and for the first time in an eternity, a sliver of hope settled in your heart.

Perhaps The Morrígan was wrong. Perhaps he could live. Even if that meant you would never truly have him by your side.

Because love, as painful as it was, meant letting your loved ones go when the time came.

Perhaps this was the time. Or perhaps not.

“Every time you leave, I find myself adrift in the mists of Avalon. Yearning, longing for the shore of your embrace, my King,” you confessed, looking up at him through long, wet lashes.

i have a taglist for this, if you want to be tagged, please let me know <3

[baronessvonglitter]

I have a penchant for angst and this one hit the spot 👌🏼 now I’m crying in the middle of the day

I can't hear it now

acacius x f!reader // 3.6k

summary: A love that was never meant to be. A choice that was never truly yours to make. Acacius was never yours to keep, yet in the dark of night, beneath the weight of duty and desire, he was yours still. For stolen moments, for whispered names, for aching hands tracing the lines of something fleeting, something doomed.

But love does not always mean staying. And when his words reach you at last—words of longing, of regret, of a desperate plea—will you go to him? Or will you let the fire consume him, the way he has already consumed you?

warnings: mdni, 18+, alludes to smut, acacius is married, forbidden love, this is pure angst like I hurt myself writing this lol I wanted it to hurt real bad... I am sorry.

notes: this is for Freya's @almostfoxglove 's angst challenge. this was my moodboard. I have not written for Acacius at all so please be gentle with me. The moodboard and song Freya so kindly created and linked really gave me an idea instantly so thank you for giving me such a beautiful idea, this was probably the easiest I've ever plotted out a fic before and it's all thanks to your creative genius. Big thank you to my baby @thundermartini as always for being my biggest cheerleader, reading this over for me and always assuring me. how could I ever write anything without you? I love you so much <3 and big thank yous to my other cheerleaders for always supporting me big time @itwasntimethatdidit40 @sawymredfox and @myownwholewildworld I love you all so so so much <3

masterlist

The room lay bathed in shadow, the moonlight slipping through the narrow slats of the shutters, casting silver bands across the floor. The air was thick—heavy with the mingled scents of sweat and skin. Distant voices carried from the villa beyond, but they were meaningless here, swallowed by the hush of this stolen moment.  

Acacius’ hands found you, firm and unrelenting as he pressed you against the cool stone wall. His tunic hung loose, its ties undone, revealing the golden plane of his chest, glistening in the dim glow. His lips were warm upon your throat, tracing a path of fire that left your breath unsteady, and your limbs weak.  

"You are reckless," you murmured, though your hands betrayed you, tangling in his dark hair, nails grazing his scalp.  

"Reckless?" His voice was a low whisper, rough with amusement, yet laced with hunger. "And yet you are here, pressed against me, trembling beneath my touch."  

You said nothing, could say nothing, for his mouth was upon yours in an instant—urgent, possessive, as though he might claim you wholly in the space of a single heartbeat. You let him, let yourself drown in the sensation of him, for when all else was stripped away, this was all that remained.  

His hands slipped beneath the folds of your clothing, calloused palms branding your skin as they traced the curve of your waist. He drew you closer still, until there was nothing between you but heat and need. A gasp escaped you, and he exhaled a quiet laugh against your lips.  

"Soft, sweet thing," he murmured, though his voice held no mockery. "Do you know how often I dream of this?"  

"Then do not speak of it," you whispered, though even as you said it, you knew it was futile.  

 "Let them hear you," he rasped, his breath hot against your ear. "Let them see what you do to me."  

A laugh trembled at the edge of your lips, but it died the moment his mouth found yours again, slower this time, less desperate—deep and consuming, as though he wished to savor every moment, every taste. His hands roamed you as if memorizing you, as though the mere thought of parting was unendurable. 

For a fleeting breath, you allowed yourself to forget the wife who awaited him beyond these walls, the life he could never offer you, and the cruel weight of reality that loomed just beyond the night’s embrace.  

But then his lips left yours, trailing lower, and your mind unraveled once more, dissolving into nothing but him, only him.  

"Acacius," you whispered, his name slipping unbidden from your lips, trembling upon the air between you.  

He stilled, his forehead pressing to your collarbone. His breath came heavy, ragged. "Say it again," he murmured, hoarse with longing, his grip tightening upon your hips.  

You obeyed, softer now. "Acacius."  

He lifted his head, meeting your gaze, and in his dark eyes burned something raw, something perilously close to love—but shadowed with something else, something darker still.  

"I am unworthy of you," he said, the words thick with sorrow. "But I would sooner rend the stars from the sky than let you go."  

You cradled his face between your palms, thumbs brushing over the sharp lines of his jaw. "Then do not," you pleaded.  

If only it could be so simple.  

His lips found yours again, fevered with desperation. His hands roamed your body, as though trying to commit each curve, each breath, each shiver to memory—as though he feared this would be the last time.  

And perhaps it would be.  

The bed was scarcely large enough for one, but neither of you cared as he laid you upon it, the weight of him pressing into you in a way that made you ache, made you crave. Your hands roamed his broad shoulders, pushing the fabric of his tunic aside, eager to feel the heat of him, the solidness of him.  

A growl rumbled low in his throat as he shuddered beneath your touch. "You undo me," he confessed, his lips ghosting over your skin.  

You smiled, breathless. "Then show me."  

He did.  

The world beyond ceased to exist, lost in the press of his body, the reverence of his hands, the whispered prayers of your name against your skin. He worshipped you as though you were something sacred, something divine.  

And for a time, you allowed yourself to believe it.  

When at last you lay spent in his arms, his breath stirring against your temple, he murmured something soft, almost inaudible.  

You did not ask him to repeat it. You did not wish to break the fragile peace that had settled over you both.  

But peace is a fleeting thing.  

As the first light of dawn crept through the shutters, reality stole back in with it.  

"Do you ever wonder?" you whispered, breaking the silence.  

Acacius stirred, his lips grazing the tender hollow beneath your ear. "Of what?"  

"What it would be like," you said. "If we did not have to hide. If this," you gestured faintly between you, "was not all we could ever have."  

He stilled. You felt it in the way his fingers once idly tracing patterns against your skin, froze. The weight of your words hung heavy between you, thick as the morning air.  

"It is better not to think on such things," he said at last, his voice rough, his gaze falling away as he sat up. "I cannot give you what you deserve."  

The words struck as surely as a blade, though you had known them long before he ever spoke them aloud.  

"But you will take all that I may offer," you said, sharper than you had intended.  

His head snapped up, a flicker of pain in his dark eyes. "Do not say that."

"Why not?" you challenged, sitting up, putting space between you. The warmth of him, once a comfort, was now a memory. You already missed it. "It is true, is it not?"  

Marcus raked a hand through his dark hair, his chest rising and falling with the force of his breath. "You think this is easy for me?" he asked. "You think I do not loathe myself with every step I take from you? With every lie I speak to her?"  

You flinched, and he saw it.  

"Do not speak of her," you whispered. "Not here. Not now."  

His hands came to your arms, gentle but firm, forcing you to look at him. "I would protect you from all of this," he swore. "From her. From them. From myself."  

You laughed then, but there was no mirth in it. "You cannot even protect yourself, Marcus."  

His hands fell away. The silence between you was deafening.  

"I love you," he said suddenly, the words scarcely more than breath, yet they shattered you all the same.  

Your throat tightened. Your eyes burned. "Then fight for me," you pleaded. "Do not let this be all we are."  

For a moment, you thought he might say yes. You saw the battle waged behind his eyes, the war between duty and desire. But then his shoulders sagged, and he looked away.  

"This holy ground burns my feet. I cannot stay, and yet I do not want to leave," he said, so softly it nearly broke you.  

Tears slipped free, and you did not stop them. You turned toward the door, your movements slow, heavy with the weight of what had just been spoken—of what had been left unsaid.

Your fingers trembled as you reached for your discarded garments, the fabric cool against your skin as you pulled them back into place. Each tie fastened, each fold smoothed, felt like sealing away a part of yourself, tucking it back behind the mask you wore beyond these stolen hours. The warmth of his touch still lingered, but it would fade, as it always did.

"Wait," he said, his voice cracking. "Please."  

You hesitated.  

He reached for the simple band of gold upon his finger, hesitating only a moment before sliding it free.  

"Take it," he murmured, pressing it into your palm. "Keep it. Until we meet again."  

You hated how easily you let yourself believe him. How your heart still clung to the idea that there would be another moment after this, another night where his hands would map your body and his lips would trace words he was too much of a coward to say aloud.

You swallowed hard, forcing down the ache that lodged itself in your throat. “And if we do not?”  

Acacius exhaled sharply through his nose, his head bowing for the briefest moment before he shook it, as though warding off the thought itself. “Do not speak of such things.” His voice was strained, rough with something perilously close to despair.  

You stepped back, slipping the ring into the folds of your clothing. It should not have felt so heavy. And yet, it did.  

Acacius turned away, his movements rigid as he reached for the table in the dim corner of the chamber, where his armor lay in a careful arrangement. A small scroll of parchment rested beside it—deliberately placed, waiting.  

He picked it up, his fingers lingering over the edges, then hesitated before pressing it into your hands.  

“If ever you should change your mind,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the space between you, never daring to meet your gaze, “open it.”  

You hesitated, fingers curling but refusing to take it. “What is this?”  

His jaw tensed, a muscle feathering in his cheek. “A choice.”  

A quiet, bitter laugh slipped from your lips before you could stop it. “No. It is another way for you to break my heart.”  

Acacius flinched as though you had struck him.  

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Slowly, your fingers closed around the parchment. Without a word, you tucked it away, into the same hidden place where his ring now rested.  

And then you turned.  

You did not look back.  

He did not call you to stay. 

—

Days passed. You did not open the letter.

Every night, you traced the edges of the ring beneath your fingertips, feeling its warmth against your skin, like it still held his touch.

He did not come to you again. You did not go to him.

Then, a week later, you cracked.

It was late when you unrolled the parchment, your hands shaking, the candlelight flickering against the ink-stained words.

My love,

I do not know if these words shall ever reach you. Perhaps they should not. Perhaps it is a cruelty to write at all, to leave behind mere ink when I have already left so much else. And yet, I must. I must, for the weight of what I carry cannot go unspoken.

I did not wish to leave you—never think it so. Had the gods willed another path, I would have taken it, would have stood against fate itself with sword in hand if it meant remaining by your side. But this world is not merciful, nor does it grant peace to men like me. Had I stayed, it would have torn me from you in ways far worse than this. That, I could not allow.

You were my only sanctuary, the one truth I never questioned. To love you was the sole virtue of my life, the one act I shall never repent. And though I am lost to you now, though the fates have severed what was once whole, know this: I am yours, now and always. Neither time nor death shall unmake what we were.

I pray the gods are kinder to you than they have been to me. That joy may find you once more. But if it does not—if the world turns cruel, if you find yourself adrift and wonder whether I still think of you—know that I do. In this life and the next, I shall always think of you.

And so, I ask this of you, though I have no right to, come to me I beg it of you. If there is still a place in your heart that has not turned against me, if even the smallest ember of what we were still lingers, meet me where the olive trees stand at the edge of the city, where the river bends and the world quiets. Let me look upon you once more before the gods tear me away, if only to commit your face to memory, to carry the light of you into whatever darkness awaits me. If nothing else, grant me this.

With all that I am,

Acacius

The candle’s flame flickered against the parchment, casting long shadows that danced across the walls. Your hands trembled as you read Acacius’ words, your breath catching on the weight of them.   

Each sentence carved through you like a blade, slicing past your anger, your sorrow, your resolve. I am yours, now and always.   

How dare he? How dare he write such things, spill out his soul onto parchment, and yet still choose duty over you? Still choose a life where you were nothing more than a whispered secret?  

Your vision blurred, a single tear spilling onto the page, smudging the ink where his name had been signed with careful, deliberate strokes.  

You hated him.  

You loved him.  

The fire crackled beside you, the embers shifting like they, too, could feel your turmoil. You held the letter over the flames, hesitating just for a moment—just long enough to wonder if you'd regret it.  

Then, with a sharp inhale, you let go.  

The parchment curled as the fire devoured it, blackening at the edges before collapsing into itself. The words disappeared, burned away as if they had never been written at all. But you felt them, still, seared into your skin, your soul.   

You pressed the ring tethered around your neck against your lips. You should throw that into the fire, too. Should rid yourself of every last piece of him.   

But you couldn't 

Days passed.

You should have let it go. Should have cast the ring into the river, let the current carry it far beyond your reach. Should have buried the memory of him in the recesses of your mind, left it to rot like the dying embers of that flame.

But you did not.

Instead, you wrote.

Your hand trembled over the parchment, but the words came quickly, as though they had been waiting to be freed.

Acacius,

I have burned your letter.  

Not for hatred—though I wish I could hate you. Not for anger—though I should be wrathful. No, I burned it because to read it again would be to let it wound me anew, and I have suffered enough at the hands of your absence. Your words, though fair, are a cruelty. They speak of love yet bring only sorrow.  

You write that you did not wish to leave me, and yet you went. You write that you have loved me, and yet you chose a life where I am nothing but a shadow. You speak of the gods as though they are the authors of this pain, but it was not their hand that severed us—it was yours.  

And yet, I am a fool. A fool, for I write you still. A fool, for though I know you will break me again, I offer you this:  

Come with me.  

Leave the battlefield. Abandon your duty, your name, your oaths. Let the burdens of Rome fall from your shoulders. We will go where no man knows us, where no law binds us, where the weight of our sins shall belong to no one but the gods themselves. You speak of fate as though it is unyielding, but I do not believe in fate. I believe in choice.  

So choose me.  

Come to me, Acacius. And if you do not, if you cannot, then let this be the last time my name passes your lips, the last time you think of me beneath the stars.  

With all that I am,  

Yours

The moment you set the quill down, you felt the finality of it settle into your bones. You had bared your soul upon the parchment, laid it before him with trembling hands. And yet, you did not send it.

Not that day.

Not the next.

Days turned to weeks, and still, the letter remained hidden away, unsent, unread.

And then, one evening, when the city was bathed in the amber glow of torches and the streets murmured with whispered news, you heard his name.

You did not want to turn, did not want to listen. But the words struck you like a blade to the chest, piercing through bone and marrow, hollowing you out from the inside.

Acacius was dead.

They said he fell in battle, a sword through his ribs, the blood pooling beneath him dark as the night sky. They said he fought like a man possessed, as though he had nothing left to lose.

Your breath left you. Your knees buckled, but you did not fall. You could not fall.

You had waited too long.

The letter still sat, unsent. He would never read it. Would never know.

The world felt unbearably still.

But grief did not move you to tears. No, grief moved you to action.

The moon was high when you reached the place where they had laid the fallen. The air was thick with the scent of death, blood, and smoke, and the torches lining the corridor flickered against the stone walls like restless spirits.

You had no right to be here. No place among the mourning wives, the grieving mothers, and the sons who had come to claim the fathers they would never see again.

But you came anyway.

Acacius was there, just as they had said. His body lay upon the raised stone, displayed beneath the flickering torchlight, surrounded by the scent of burning oils. There were no mourners. No whispered prayers. Just silence.  

Just you.  

He looked almost peaceful, as though he had simply closed his eyes and drifted into slumber. But the truth was written in the deep wound beneath his ribs, in the dried blood that marred the golden skin of his chest.  

He had died a soldier’s death.  

Your breath came shallow, uneven, as you stepped forward. No one stopped you. There was no one left to do so.  

Slowly, carefully, you reached out, your fingers trembling as they brushed against his skin. He was cold. Cold in a way he had never been before. A lump formed in your throat.  

“You fool,” you whispered, the words meant only for him. “You were supposed to come back to me.”  

But he had not.  

You had given him a choice, and in the end, he had made it. He had chosen the battlefield over you, just as he always had. And now he had paid the price for it.  

Your fingers curled around the ring that still hung from your neck, the small band of gold that had once rested upon his hand. You held it tightly, as though you could somehow press all your grief into it, as though it might carry the weight of your sorrow in place of you.  

It would be easy, you thought, to slip it back onto his finger. To leave it with him, to bury it alongside him when the time came. But something inside you rebelled at the thought.  

He had left you behind in life. You would not allow him to do so in death.  

Carefully, you took the ring and tucked it away once more, pressing it against your skin as though to keep him there, with you, even now.  

Then, with hands that did not shake, you reached into the folds of your cloak and withdrew the letter. The one you had never sent. The one that had remained hidden away for far too long.  

Your eyes burned as you looked at it, the inked words staring back at you, mocking you with all the things he would never hear.  

A fool’s hope. That was all it had ever been.  

And yet, still, you bent forward, pressing the parchment into the stillness of his hands.  

“Here,” you whispered. “Take it, Acacius. Take the choice you never made.”  

He could not read it now. But perhaps, if there were gods beyond this life, they would allow him to hear your words. To know that, even in the end, you still wanted him.  

Your gaze lingered on him, tracing the lines of his face, memorizing every detail before the earth claimed him. He had always been beautiful, even in death. And that, more than anything, shattered you.  

A quiet breath left your lips as you leaned down, pressing your forehead against his. His scent was faint now, masked by the oils and the cold stillness of his body, but it was there. Just enough to remind you of what you had lost.  

Then, with all the tenderness you had once held back, you kissed him.  

One last time.  

His lips were cold, unmoving, but you kissed him anyway. Slowly. Softly. As though, for a moment, he might still kiss you back.  

But he did not.  

He never would again.  

When you finally pulled away, your vision blurred with tears you refused to shed. You had lingered long enough.  

So, with one final look, one last whispered goodbye, you turned and walked away.

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Prima Nocta

Marcus Acacius x Virgin!F!Reader oneshot

{ Main Masterlist }

Rating: E (18+ only)

Summary: Tomorrow, you will marry your husband-to-be. But tonight - it belongs to his father.

Word count: 6k

Warnings: DUB CON only due to nature of prima nocta, both parties enthusiastically consent, twist on prima nocta, unspecified age gap, loss of virginity, dirty talk, oral sex (F receiving), fingering, dry humping, unprotected sex, unrealistic descriptions of first sexual experience, all manners of historical inaccuracies and linguistic anachronisms sorry not sorry, ignores the events of the movie so you can consider this an AU, Marcus is widowed and has a son, shall we call this bfd: Ancient Rome version lmao

Notes: I'm a bit rusty for sure, but I had the absolute best time writing this oneshot. It's a departure from my usual themes to say the least, but once this idea took hold of me it never let go. I know prima nocta is meant to be invoked on the wedding night, but I like the idea of it being the night before so I made it so 🤷🏻‍♀️ Gorgeous dividers by @firefly-graphics as always.

He thought he had gotten away with it. Having lived more than fifty winters in the capital and outlasting eight emperors, he regrets to confess that he is still none the wiser. 

It would have been such a clever manoeuvre. Palming off a generous but very much unwanted gift from the emperors, and marrying off his son in one fell swoop. 

He should have been suspicious of their swift assent to his proposal. In his eagerness to bow out of their audience, it had been convenient to dismiss the flash of malice in their eyes.

And in the snake pits of Roman court, no misstep goes unexploited.

He is not proud that he is caught off guard by the emperor’s closest advisor who intercepts his walk home from the armoury, even less so of his ineloquent response to the missive handed to him.

‘What is this?’

‘Urgent word from the emperors, sir.’

Cold sweat prickles the back of his neck as he stares unseeingly at what is scrawled on the parchment.

‘I cannot,’ he blurts out, indignance rising fast and hot in his chest. ‘I will not.’

‘You think it wise to twice refuse the emperors’ generosity, general?’

General. To him, the culmination of a lifetime of service and sacrifice. To them, an instrument of bloodshed in war, a plaything in peacetime.

Desperate, he tries a different tact. ‘The right of the first night belongs to the emperors. I dare not commit sacrilege.’

‘It is not sacrilege if it is freely bequeathed upon you, general.’

There is no mistaking the warning lilt in the last word, and he has no answer.

‘The hour grows late. You had better not keep the bride waiting,’ says the advisor with an air of finality before retreating into the shadows.

Marcus shudders at the cold that settles into the empty space, fingers stained with ink from the now crumpled dispatch. 

He remembers nothing of the remainder of his short journey to his quarters. As the front door swings open, he realises there is something in the night air that is out of place.

Sea salt.

You are here. 

Would you be demure? Frightened? You are of royal lineage, a lady of the small but proud coastal kingdom strong-armed by Rome into an unequal treaty for its profitable trading posts, in return for the mercy of not being razed to its fertile grounds.

And now, you are lowered to marry a general’s son. 

Worse, lowered to have your virginity taken by his father.

Candlelight spills from the crack underneath the door to his bedchamber. Marcus takes a deep breath, and pushes it open.

You hear him. The swish of fabric, the slide of leather soles on marble.

The general is here.

Your hand in marriage is part of the terms of the treaty, and the missive that sent for you announced your match as the widowed hero general. You had him cast on the wretched journey from your home as one of the domineering, brutish soldiers now garrisoned at your family’s kingdom - only to be told on your arrival that you will be marrying his son instead.

Relief at the news that your future husband would not be decades older than you is instantly snatched away by furtive whispers of prima nocta.

Your future father-in-law will take you first.

The humiliation is bitter on your tongue. You are Rome’s to marry off, hers to give to whomever she pleases -

But she won’t break you.

The door creaks. You stand tall and hold your ground.

He sweeps into the room with an air of well-worn authority, the cloak on his back dark as the shadows that nip at his heels.

The candles flicker when he sheds the heavy robes with a smooth sweep of his arm.

You stare, in a manner that would have had your lady-in-waiting tutting. But you are alone, very much so, with this man not ten paces from you.

General Marcus Acacius. 

He is older, certainly old enough to have a son your age. But you had not imagined him so - strong, for the lack of a more imaginative word. His shoulders are broad under his wine red tunic, and you can see the muscles in his arms flex as he clenches and unclenches his fists at his sides. From where you stand, you can hardly see any silver in his dark curls.

Marcus unflinchingly assesses you right back. 

No, you are decidedly not demure. Or frightened. Far from it. 

You are defiant, even as you observe him with evident curiosity. Your head held high, a telltale sign of your noble breeding, mouth set in a stern line while your eyes burn bright with a proud fire. 

Judging the silence has gone on long enough, he breaks it with a formal, ‘My lady.’

‘General,’ you answer steadily.

The door slams shut belatedly behind him, and you flinch - the first glimpse of weakness you concede. 

Marcus breathes in, delivering his next sentence with as much composure as he can muster. ‘I expect you have been informed of the - formalities that we are to perform tonight.’

You grind your teeth so hard you are astonished that your jaw doesn’t crack.

Your virtue is just a formality.

Refusing to dignify his question with an answer, you nod once. 

He watches you wordlessly, and you meet his gaze. You thought you would find something else there, not the regret that you see.

Turning away from you, he reaches for the amphora on the table. 

‘Wine?’

‘Yes, please.’

The wine is drunk in silence and moderation. Him at his desk, you perched on the end of the bed.

As you sip, pacing yourself, you observe the general discreetly from across the small distance between you. 

To say that you are disconcerted by his behaviour would be an understatement.

You assumed that he asked for this - for the perverse pursuit of deflowering his son’s bride-to-be while eschewing the unwanted responsibility of a wife. 

Yet, watching him stare pensively into his goblet, lips pursed in a pout that is almost sullen, you are not so certain anymore. 

When you bring your drink to your mouth to find it empty, you clear your throat. ‘I have to wake up early tomorrow morning - for the wedding.’

The general starts before collecting himself, drawing himself up to his full height as he sets down his cup with a heavy clunk. ‘Understandably, my lady.’

Then he moves, charting a course across the room, licking his thumb and index finger to douse the candles dotted around the space.

The thought comes to you unbidden - he has thick fingers. And big hands. 

Your cheeks tingle with heat.

Soon the chamber is cloaked in darkness, save for the candles next to the bed, the warm light pooling in the most inviting manner on the soft surface despite your trepidation. You long to rest your aching feet. 

He comes to a standstill on the other side of the bed, as if waiting for you to take the lead. You cannot decide whether you are thankful for him not imposing on you, or frustrated at him for not taking the lead in what is very much unfamiliar territory.

In the end, the desire to get off your feet wins out, and you gesture at the bed. ‘Shall we…?’

‘Certainly.’ He bends down, you assume to take off his sandals. You do the same, toeing off the soft leather slides the maids had you change into when they dressed you.

Once barefoot, you climb in with as much grace as you can summon, acutely aware that you have an audience. Your knees sink into the mattress, and you’re relieved that it is stuffed with feathers, luxuriously giving under your weight. Shifting primly, you find your back against the headboard, cushioned by equally soft pillows.

The general follows suit, the frame creaking as he eases onto the suddenly too small bed, strong shoulders brushing yours as he settles next to you.

You stare hard at the back of your hands, the only way to stop your gaze from wandering to the span of his fingers splayed wide on sturdy thighs, or lower to the bony ridge of his knees - gods, you must be unwell, since when have you been drawn to knees?

You are still questioning the state of your sanity when the general, who has been nothing but unperturbed and composed since he stepped into the room, stumbles over his words in a manner that is neither, as if he had held the question behind his teeth for too long.

‘Are you - are you absolutely certain - in no doubt - that you are… untouched?’

His question stings like salt in a festering wound. Indignant doesn’t even begin to describe the retort you spit at him. ‘Yes, I am. Are you?’

Peering at you sideways, his eyes widen at your outburst, and fear briefly flits across your heart that you have overstepped.

 But then, he surprises you with a smile. ‘You bite, don’t you?’ 

You let your shoulders sag, too far gone to hold onto your facade. 

‘It’s been a long day, sir,’ you admit. ‘To be frank, I just want to get this over with and forget it ever happened.’

He pauses at your confession, as if weighing his options. Then he shifts, and says, ‘The reason I ask if you were untouched is because, if you were not - we could have just pretended we did this.’

You frown. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I did not invoke prima nocta, it was imposed upon me. The emperors are displeased that I turned down the betrothal, this is their way of punishing me for my ungratefulness.’ 

Oh.

As much as you didn’t want this either, your pride suffers to hear him describe it as a punishment.

‘I know…’ you stumble, halting to steel yourself. ‘I know I am nothing like the women here in Rome. I spend too much time in the sun, and my hands are rough from working with horses -’

‘Why do you say that?’ he interrupts you.

You look away. ‘That is why you do not wish to marry me, is it not? And why you do not want this - why you do not want me.’

The general sits up, palms on the mattress to support his weight, the lines on his forehead deepening with a frown. ‘No, that is not the reason. You are young, you deserve a husband who can build a life with you in the years to come. Not a washed-up widower.’

The bitterness in his voice turns your head. 

‘You’re not washed up, from what I hear.’ Somehow, you find the courage to add boldly, ‘Or from what I see.’

Letting your eyes trail unabashedly over his broad frame, a thrill chases through your blood when you notice his Adam’s apple bob with a tight swallow. He’s so close that you know you’re not imagining the heat seeping into your bones.

Silence stretches between you, charged with a consciousness that creeps in and spreads. Two souls from different worlds and stations put in a situation in which neither of you had a hand. This may not be how you imagined giving away your virtue - far from it - yet your stomach twists in anticipation.

You glance upwards, only to find him already watching you.

Something has shifted when you so bravely reached out and tipped the balance with your words. He can tell that you are not one for flippant flattery, and it takes him a moment to collect himself, harder said than done with the blood roaring in his ears.

When he speaks, it comes out in a much lower register than he intends, so much so it sounds like a secret. 

‘You say you just want to get this over with. But I can - I can make it good for you. It doesn’t have to be something you want to forget.’

Your eyes widen and your lips part, and heat blooms almost uncomfortably in his chest. ‘You would do that for me?’

‘I will serve you in whatever way you ask of me tonight, my lady.’

Never have mere words, albeit delivered in such a delicious baritone, moved you so. You came in expecting to have your virtue stripped from you, the same way Rome callously stole you away. Where you thought humiliation and dishonour awaited, this man is offering deliverance and devotion - if only for one night.

Your throat tight with emotion, you nod in lieu of a spoken answer.

Marcus is deliberately slow in his movements, wanting you to feel safe in his presence. ‘How much do you know? So I know what I need to teach you.’

Despite yourself, shyness rears its head and you mumble, ‘I’ve - I’ve heard stories. I know what… happens… between a man and a woman in the bed chamber.’

He nods reassuringly, making you feel less of a fool for the juvenile answer you gave. ‘And has anyone touched you before?’

There’s no mistaking the lurch in your stomach as your heart hammers violently. ‘No. No one. Never.’

The protector in him stirs, summoned to duty, warring with the desire that seethes under his skin like the unholy flames of Vesuvius. He fears it is a quickly losing battle. 

Reading the desire in your endearingly open face, Marcus reaches over you to settle one hand on your hip as he leans close, his breath warm on your cheek.

‘Have you ever kissed a man?’ he rasps. 

You shake your head, eyes fixated on his mouth, framed by a tidy moustache. He is so close that you can see his beard is flecked with silver.

You swear the general is leaning into you, and every inch of you is on tenterhooks, enraptured by his proximity -

‘You should save it for your husband.’

You barely forestall the whine of protest that teeters on the tip of your tongue, pinching your lips together, but his lopsided smile tells you that he knows. 

‘I can kiss you elsewhere though.’

‘Oh,’ you inhale shakily when he dips to mouth at the side of your neck, landing on your pulse point in a suckle. Your whole body arches off the bed, hands gripping the sheets, head spinning at all the sensations that are new to you - the burn of his stubble, the cool trail his lips leave behind -

Then the palm on your hip pulls you into him, sprawling you against the wide cage of his body, your breasts pressed against his broad chest. The dress they put you in is thin, and the fabric rubs against your pebbling nipples as his kisses travel daringly low.

‘Am I going too fast?’ he pauses, voice strained.

Breathlessly, you shake your head.

‘If you want me to stop, or wait, you say the word. Understood?’

‘Yes, general.’

Two words he hears daily from his men, and yet from your lips, they unleash a dangerously feral side of him.

More. Is the only coherent thought that remains. 

Impatient hands reposition you so that you are astride him, and he groans when you slot flush in his lap. He watches your eyes widen at what you feel between your legs. Your dress rides up, and his blood rushes south at the bare expanse of your inner thighs on his skin. 

‘I want to see you,’ he speaks plainly, palms squeezing the dip of your waist. ‘May I undress you? Please?’

All decorum flees you, and you might have chanted yes, yes, yes to his question.

Dropping your chin, you watch his thick fingers nimbly undo the knot holding the front of your dress together. The silk capitulates like water, tumbling down in delicate drapes around your waist, baring you to his heated gaze.

‘You are beautiful,’ he declares with a solemnity that steals your breath.

And it is easy to believe him, the way his dazed eyes trail over your breasts, before his hands follow. Calloused palms, which you are sure have held many a sword in triumph, now cup your tender flesh in reverence. 

Your head lolls to the side as he teases you, but when he rolls his hips upwards, your eyes snap to the pained expression on his face. You’ve heard ladies in court whispering over wine about length and girth, but nothing could prepare you for the thrill of feeling a man’s undeniable desire for you.

Instinct guides you, moving your hips so that you are grinding against his length, seeking relief from what is building deep within you.

‘Do what feels good,’ the general murmurs encouragingly, palms on the small of your back to let you take control.

And just like that, you are thrown back to one summer’s day in your youth. You were bathing in a rock pool, under the spray of a waterfall in perfect solitude when you accidentally slipped forwards on the smooth stone surface. The unexpected sensation between your legs ripped through you like lightning on a clear day. And you chased that feeling, hips undulating until you shuddered and cried out. Knees trembling in the aftermath, you never dared to seek it out again, but neither did you forget.

And now, years later, you finally know what had transpired. Pleasure. And this time, under the general’s hooded gaze, you pursue it with single-minded determination.

Marcus wishes you knew how beautiful you are in this very moment. Breasts swaying in tandem while you rock back and forth on his clothed length, eyes glazed, every whimper from your swollen lips making him throb harder for you.

‘Good girl,’ he rasps, throat tight. ‘Take your pleasure. Take what you need.’

And when he sucks your nipple into his mouth, you wail, tipping forward at an angle that unexpectedly takes you apart.

The waves that wash over you are more intense than you remember, and you are sure that has to do with the man holding your hips to his as you buck, and the warm swirl of his tongue against your breasts, sucking and nipping as you come down from your high.

‘That was not your first time,’ he states as a matter of fact when the white noise in your ears finally fades.

‘It happened once, a long time ago, and I didn’t understand then -’

‘And now you do.’

‘Yes, general.’

This time, he lets loose a moan at your words. ‘I can feel your wetness through your dress.’

Confused, you look down, and your cheeks burn when you spot the dark patch on the delicate fabric. ‘Oh, I -’

‘It’s natural,’ he assures you. ‘The wetness makes it easier for -’

It dawns on you when you feel his hardness twitch under you. Oh. 

‘It - you feel -’ you stutter, struggling to comprehend how the girth of what you are sitting on could possibly fit inside you.

Taking your hand, Marcus presses a chaste kiss to your palm, eyes warm and open. 

‘We will take it slow. I will use my fingers first, to prepare you for me,’ he explains patiently. ‘I promised I would make it good for you, did I not?’

‘You did.’ 

And you have complete faith in him.

Your knees knock into each other hopelessly when he slides you off his lap, and he has to bodily prop you up against the pillows. Sinking into the soft feathers, you watch him kneel between your parted legs, and you feel so safe even as he towers over you. 

‘May I disrobe you?’

You bite your bottom lip, and nod. 

Except it’s not a disrobing, it’s nothing near as civil as that. The general rips the rest of your dress clean down the middle, rendering you completely bare beneath him.

Marcus knows should be ashamed of his brash behaviour. But how could he when you react so viscerally, jaw slack as your chest heaves in unmitigated desire? 

His gaze shamelessly trail over every curve and dimple, from the breasts he has tasted to where your knees are demurely closed, and knowing that he is the first - the only - to have laid eyes on you makes him impossibly hard. 

It matters not that you are not his to keep. This will always be his. 

‘You are exquisite,’ he professes, voice tight. 

You duck your head, more shy of his compliments than being nude before him. ‘You don’t have to.’

Sliding a finger under your chin and tilting your head until you meet his gaze, he assures you, ‘I mean every word.’

Then he moves down the bed until he can rest his weight on his elbows, and you startle when rough palms glide over the outside of your thighs, stopping at your knees. 

He pauses to give you time. ‘Are you certain you wish to continue?’

Your answer is a confident yes.

Then, as if opening the shell of Venus, he delicately pries your knees apart, and his breath hitches as you are revealed to him.

He is aware that he’s staring like an imbecile, words failing him. As the silence stretches on, you become self-conscious.

‘General,’ you demur, moving to cover yourself.

Shaking his head, he finally says, ‘Forgive me, but you are perfect.’

Then he looks up at you with such intensity that has you struggling to catch your breath, and without breaking eye contact, he bows his head - 

And closes his lips over you there. 

You are wholly unprepared - no one has ever gossiped about this in court. Your hips buck violently off the bed, but Marcus holds you down with reassuring hands, suckling on the pearl between your thighs with gentle laps of his tongue.

‘Oh, oh, oh,’ you stuttter, torn between watching the man wreak the most devastating pleasure on you and averting your gaze.

You’ve only ever known worship to be pious, and yet, this most vulgar adulation is the closest you’ve been to the gods.

His beautiful curls brush the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, catching the candle light as he moves, and the crook of his nose - so proud even with the scar on its bridge - draws patterns on your skin as he stakes his claim where no one has ever touched you. 

You quickly realise that what you felt just now in the general’s lap was insignificant and thin in comparison. This pleasure is all-consuming, something divine that has you weak and trembling all over. All you hear are slick, wet sounds of tongues and lips, and your own whimpers between garbled groans.

Marcus feasts on you, unapologetically. Flattening his tongue, he tastes you in broad sweeps, moaning into your sweet cunt as you writhe above him, your needy mewls driving him to the edge of madness. You taste like fig - the earthiness of the purple peel, ripe sweetness of the pink flesh.

Then your hands wind into his hair, pulling him closer, ankles hooking over his shoulders. He groans harder, the sound rattling in his ribs as you soak his beard. Surrendering any last vestiges of shyness, you rock against his tongue, nails scratching his scalp as you whine louder into the night air. 

Moans that will echo long after you’re gone.

The thought alone hardens his resolve to mark you unequivocally. You’re close, your pliant body quivering and breaths coming in shallow gasps now. He peers up at you, but your eyes are sealed shut and upturned at the gods, your breasts heaving.

Gently, he eases one finger inside you, and he grunts at how easily he slides in. You barely react, and so he pushes back in with two, coaxing a cry from you. Your cunt clenches as he gently thrusts his digits in and out, stretching your tight walls. 

‘Oh gods. Oh gods,’ you pant violently.

You’re close, so close. He wants to warn you of what is to come, but it feels like sacrilege to tarnish the moment with words. When he feels you begin to quiver, he laves at your clit harder, burying his fingers inside you to the knuckle, until he feels you crest and break. 

‘Gods, oh gods - Marcus!’

The cry of his name catches him off guard. He nearly loses control right there and then, as you ride out your high on his fingers, but by some miracle he holds out through gritted teeth. He devotes his attention to kissing his way up your body, from the slick inside of your thighs, to the side of your hip, making you jump when he sucks on your sensitive breasts.

You stare at his mouth with wild, dark eyes, and him at yours, but he vowed to leave your first kiss to your husband. Girding his self-restraint, he asks, ‘Are you alright?’

‘Yes, Marcus.’

His cock twitches at the sound of his name on your lips. He wants to hear you say it in all manners of ways - whisper it, gasp it, scream it. And by the cheekiness in your smile, it’s clear that you know what he’s thinking.

Your eyes drop to where his hardness is pressed against you. ‘Will you teach me how to please you, general?’

He swallows a groan, the animal in him rattling the bars of its cage. He replies diplomatically, ‘I will teach you how to teach your husband.’

In one smooth tug, he shucks off his tunic, then his loincloth, and he tries not to be self-conscious under your watchful gaze. Pulling you against him, skin on naked skin, he smears kisses along the side of your neck, smiling at your answering shudder. In return, you run your lips and scrape your teeth over his collarbone. 

Taking your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm, he slides it all the way down his chest and wraps your fingers firmly around his throbbing cock, his pained moan in your ear.

Eyes wide, you marvel at the size of him in your grip. ‘You are so big.’

Marcus curses through clenched teeth. ‘You are an insolent girl.’

With a wicked glint in your eyes, you correct yourself, ‘You are so big, general.’

If he wasn’t so aroused, he would have chuckled at your cheek. Instead, he growls, ‘Such insubordination.’

Tilting your head to one side, you grin. ‘And how would you discipline me, sir?’

He lets the silence linger for a beat, allowing anticipation to build as one big hand splays over your ass, hot lips brushing the shell of your ear. ‘I would deny you my cock, my lady. Let your sweet cunt weep for me, empty, not knowing how good it would feel to have me deep inside you.’

You are unsure if you are more shocked at the explicitness of his words, or at the gush of wetness that has you pressing your thighs together. If you had to wager a guess, he is just as affected as you by the way his length pulses in your grasp.

Marcus smiles as he takes in the way your body reacts to him. ‘But how can I deny such a lovely, desperate creature such as yourself?’

A sob escapes you. ‘Please, Marcus - I’m yours to take.’

With that, all self-restraint abandons him, and his lips crash into yours. At the back of his mind, he knows you deserve a better first kiss, something gentle and sweet. But to your credit, you seem to take it in stride, winding your arms around his neck with a deep groan as he deepens the kiss. Opening up your mouth, he sweeps his tongue against yours, making sure you taste yourself and the pleasure that he had wrung from you.

When he reluctantly pulls back for air, you hum, ‘I thought you said I should save that for my husband.’

He all but snarls, ‘Damn your husband.’

The possessiveness in his tone sends you reeling, and his resolve wears even thinner when your cunt brushes against him, so wet and soft, begging for him. 

‘I cannot wait any longer,’ he declares.

You bite your lip beseechingly. ‘Please, Marcus, I cannot either.’

He braces himself above you on strong arms, until all you can see is him, backlit by the soft candlelight. Beholding his beauty - the wisps of gray at his temples, the scar lining his cheekbone - your breath catches at the tenderness in his eyes as he stares down at you.

Holding the base of his cock, Marcus notches himself at the entrance of your cunt, trembling as he holds himself back. 

‘I will go slow,’ he assures you. ‘If it hurts, you tell me to stop. Understood?’

Your mouth dry, you can only nod. 

Holding your gaze, Marcus rolls his hips ever so slowly, jaw slack when he breaches you, inch by tortuous inch.

He is barely inside you and you already feel so unfathomably full.

‘Marcus,’ you gasp when it gets impossibly tight, nails digging into his broad shoulders.

He stops, and whispers encouragingly, ‘You are doing so well for me, taking me so beautifully. Just breathe.’

In between his patient, languid kisses, you unfurl, and Marcus gently pulls back, before pushing into you, deeper this time.

When you cry out, he shushes you, brushing the wet corners of your eyes with his lips. ‘Does it hurt?’

You shake your head. ‘No, it’s just - so much.’ 

‘I know, I can feel how tight you are gripping me,’ he mumbles into your neck, throbbing inside you while he holds himself still as you adjust. ‘Brave, sweet girl.’

When you find your voice again, you give him cheek. ‘I am a woman now, general.’

He smiles at you - a warm curl that crinkles the corners of his eyes endearingly - and claims your lips again. Feeling the tension seep out of your body, he thrusts shallowly so you can learn the movement of his hips. When he hits a spot that makes your jaw drop and your hips buck, he pulls all the way back, and drives himself to the hilt in one smooth motion.

And with that, you become a part of his soul, and his yours. His chest swells with the fiercest possessiveness and the greatest honour all at once, despite knowing that the circumstances that brought you together will inevitably tear you asunder at the break of dawn.

‘Marcus!’ you choke on a sob, throwing your head back, your walls clutching his cock in a merciless grip.

‘There she is,’ he grunts, mouth scraping the shell of your ear. ‘Say my name like that.’

And you do, over and over again, as he fucks into you. His pants land harshly in the crook of your neck with every thrust, hands greedily squeezing all the skin he can find - the curve of your ass, the dimple in your waist, your thigh to hitch it over his hip.

Looking down at you, eyes drunk and unfocused as you stare back at him, each squeeze of your wet cunt around him, every breath from your lips feels sacred.

He is seized by a sudden need to know. ‘How does it feel?’

Your eyes soften, and he shudders when you cup the side of his face to bring his nose to yours. ‘Divine.’

Marcus loses himself in you, in the wet squelch of your cunt around his length, the way your tightness takes every thrust. Words of praise that he doesn’t even hear tumble from his lips and onto every inch of skin he can reach as you cling to him, scraping your nails down his back and digging into the meat of his ass.

Pitching forward to press a hard kiss to you, he says, ‘I want you to fall apart for me again.’

‘Please, Marcus, please.’

Pushing himself up to his knees, still buried deep inside you, he spreads your thighs obscenely wide over his hips, and he moans at the sight of your cunt so full of him. With hooded eyes, he sucks on two of his thick fingers and brings them between your legs, carefully drawing circles on your clit, knowing that you are already sensitive from cumming twice for him before.

Your face twists in agony as he builds you towards another climax, patiently weaving the web of pleasure that wounds you tighter and tighter until your spine feels like it will snap in two. ‘Marcus, oh - don’t stop, don’t stop, oh gods -’

He bares his teeth as he feels you start to clench around him. ‘That’s it, that’s it. Cum on my cock, let me feel you, give it to me.’ 

Your peak crashes into you relentlessly, and as you are swept away, you can only wail and thrash, while Marcus curses and stutters unintelligibly above you as he spins out of control.

He had every intention to pull out, but it is as if some higher power is determined to foil his plans. With a guttural roar, his hips snap flush against yours, big palms grasp you so hard by the waist that you squeal, and he spills into you in hot gushes, once - twice - and again until he is spent.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

He doesn’t know if he said that aloud or if it was a trick of the mind. All he knows is that he eventually collapses bonelessly onto you, skin fused together with sweat and cum as your breaths become one in the crisp night air.

It is him who breaks the stillness, his old bones creaking when he stirs to relieve an ache in his back. His softened cock slides out of you, prompting you to whine in protest. He grunts when he looks down to see his cum dribble out of your cunt, leaving a pearly trail on the inside of your thighs.

When he meets your eyes, there is no awkwardness in the silence. ‘Forgive me, I didn’t mean to spill my seed inside you. That was reckless.’

Your heart skips a beat at his admission, and you can’t hide the pride in your voice. ‘Do I make you reckless, general?’

He tries and fails to be stern in his answer, the tenderness with which he brushes his nose on your cheek giving him away. ‘I know better than to encourage your insolence with an answer.’

You are far from discouraged though, quite the opposite. Knowing you have this man - who commands armies of thousands - at your mercy is a siren’s call.

Peering at him from under your eyelashes, you curl one leg around his waist. ‘Do you want to be reckless again?’

He huffs, but a smile breaks through. ‘Have you ever been told that you are a cocktease?’

You hum teasingly. ‘I have never heard that word before, but I like it.’

‘You do?’ he breathes against your lips. ‘You like being my cocktease?’

‘Yours, general.’

Marcus is astounded when he feels himself harden again, and he moans as you press open-mouthed kisses down his neck. ‘What spell have you cast on this old man, my little cocktease?’

You grin, letting him ease you onto your back so he can settle between your thighs again. ‘The kind that lasts until dawn.’

Eventually, morning must break, sure as the moon turns and the sun rises. In the golden rays of day, you will wed his son in ironic, virginal white, showered in rose petals. He will look on from the side in his finest ceremonial robes of red, as you walk away from him and into your new life as someone else’s wife.

But in the velvety folds of this night and many more to come, safely ensconced in the deepest corners of his memories, in lands far away, in war and in peace, there he keeps you - where you are not.

More notes: Thank you for reading! As usual, comments/reblogs/asks would be very much appreciated 🥰 I hope you enjoyed this fic as much as I loved writing it!

[erajunex]

Here’s a small extract from my upcoming Marcus Acacius x MarcusAurelius’daughter!reader one shot.

18+ content below the cut, MDNI.

—

His hands know your body to perfection, like a map they have wandered through every hidden corner, and there is no part of you that has not been blessed by their touch.

“Promise me you’ll wait for me… that no man will touch you while I’m gone…” You shake your head fervently, but it’s not enough for him. “Promise me you won’t let anyone touch you the way I do…” he whispers, fiercely, between each kiss, as you keep moving against his soaked fingers.

“No, Marcus, no one will…”

“Swear it.” he insists, returning to your lips.

“I swear no one will ever touch me the way you do, no one could ever be a-… mmm!” your words are all he needs to push two of his thick fingers in you with unwavering force, until his phalanges are completely enveloped by the warm walls of your tight cunt.

—

a/n: i know i know this had to be published months ago but i’m currently studying for a lot of exams at uni i’m sorry😭 anyway, leave a comment or lemme know if you wanna be added to the tag-list for this work (it will be published in two parts)

(Sorry for any mistakes, English is not my first language)

[unsuperingyournatural]

the general & the empress - part i

General Marcus Acacius x Empress!Reader

age gap, reader is in her 20's

dividers @saradika-graphics

Golden laurels shimmered beneath the relentless sun, their gilded leaves catching the light as though Rome herself had bestowed them from the heavens. General Marcus Acacius stood solemnly beneath the arch of triumph, the voices of the assembled crowd rising like a tide. He bowed his head as the golden wreath was placed upon his brow by the Emperors themselves. Caracalla's grip was cold and perfunctory, a ceremonial act devoid of warmth, while Geta offered a more sincere nod, the corners of his mouth softening just so.

The crowd chanted his name, Rome roaring in her triumph, but Marcus's gaze moved restlessly across the sea of faces—searching.

She was not among them.

The realization struck him not with surprise, but with quiet resignation. It was to be one of those occasions, then. Another moment from which the Empress, sister to the Emperors, had been deliberately excluded. Deemed too fragile for the scrutiny of the masses, too unpredictable for the sharp-edged eyes of the court, she remained hidden from public view—an exquisite bird kept in a cage of gold and silence.

The Senate had long advised that she be married off to a man who might keep her gently confined, or worse, put away entirely under the pretense of protection. Yet Geta, ever the gentler of the two brothers, refused to act. She was the only member of his family he could still look upon with warmth, the last fragment of innocence in a world poisoned by ambition. And though her strangeness unsettled the court, Geta could not in good conscience part with her. Thus, she remained in limbo, trotted out for ceremonial appearances, kept distant from the affairs of the world, silenced by soft hands and locked doors.

Still, she was his favorite.

And she was Marcus's favorite, too.

He had known her since she was scarcely more than a girl, long before his campaigns had won him glory. Even then, she had evoked something in him no battlefield ever had—a quiet instinct to protect, to shield, to soothe. There was a light in her, strange and flickering, but beautiful. He had once, long ago, considered asking for her hand—not out of romantic ambition, but out of a desperate yearning to take her far from this gilded prison. He had imagined her walking freely in the gardens of his estate, surrounded by quiet and birdsong, a life of peace beyond the city's cruelty.

But Geta would never part with her. Caracalla, perhaps, would have given his blessing simply to be rid of her, but Geta was immovable in this. She was his to protect, and he would not let her go.

So Marcus had turned his attentions elsewhere, toward duty, toward Lucilla.

Lucilla, who had grown to understand more than he ever expected. She had seen how he looked at the girl with sorrow and tenderness. And though the Empress had been hesitant in her presence, shy in her gaze, Lucilla had seen her goodness. Had even grown fond of her. She had never interfered, never questioned. But she knew.

Later, when the marble halls echoed with the weight of political ambition and the drone of new campaigns, Marcus stood respectfully still as Caracalla launched into visions of conquest. Yet when opportunity allowed, he asked for a respite—a brief return to his estate, to his wife, to the quietness of home. Geta acquiesced with a nod of reluctance. Caracalla merely shrugged.

Marcus did not wait for the festivities to end.

With practiced ease and a soldier's discretion, he withdrew from the great halls and slipped into the shaded corridors of the imperial palace. He knew the path well. Guards stood at attention outside the secluded garden where she was permitted to wander. The Praetorians straightened at his approach, wary but deferential.

He nodded. They parted.

And there she was.

Kneeling at the edge of a stone-carved pond, her fingers drifting languidly through the water, stirring it into gentle spirals. Fish scattered beneath her touch, darting and weaving like brushstrokes beneath the surface. It was a scene from a dream, unchanged by years of absence. He had seen her like this before—long before she bore the title of Empress, before she was locked away like a precious and perilous relic. She had shown this same tranquil ritual to Lucilla once, when she had begun, hesitantly, to trust her.

Now, Marcus watched her in silence, allowing the vision to still the tempest of war that had not yet quieted within him.

After a moment, he cleared his throat.

She turned, startled. Her head snapped toward him, and the shock in her expression bloomed into radiant joy.

"Marcus!"

In a breath, she was on her feet and rushing toward him, skirts gathered in her hands, hair tumbling over her shoulders like a cascade of silk. She leapt, and he caught her with a grunt of surprise, strong arms wrapping around her as she laughed against his chest.

"You’ve returned home!"

He closed his eyes for the briefest of moments, breathing her in, letting her presence calm the tremors he had grown used to hiding.

"I have, Highness," he murmured, voice low and fond. "Just as I vowed I would."

She pulled back, her smile luminous as the midday sky. "You conquered Numidia, then?"

He gave a weary nod, lips pulling into a grim smile. "Rome stretches her ferocious arms once more."

Her joy faltered. She peered into his eyes, lifting a pale hand to cradle his cheek, the curve of her palm soft and steady.

"It has cost you," she said gently.

He did not answer. He never did when she said such things.

She had always straddled that strange line between the naive and the all-seeing. At times, she seemed to drift through a world only she could touch, and yet, in moments such as these, she pierced through flesh and bone, speaking with the insight of an oracle.

"My poor Marcus," she whispered, "always bearing the weight of an empire that teeters forever on the edge of ruin."

He hated the sadness in her voice, hated that darkness should ever brush her gentle spirit. Yet he marveled still—she understood more than any Senator ever would.

She leaned in, kissed his cheek, and reached for the laurel crown he wore. He bowed his head, allowing her to lift it. She turned it over in her hands, examining the craftsmanship, the threads of gold and green.

"It would look better on you," he offered, voice wry.

She shook her head. "But for the weight of it," she murmured. "Each leaf forged from blood, each stem a soul lost."

Without warning, she flung it into the pond.

The splash startled the fish, and she let out a delighted laugh, sweet and unburdened.

Relief washed over him.

She turned and grasped his arm once more, her smile bright. "Will you walk with me?"

"Of course, Princess," he said, his fingers curling protectively over hers.

They walked together through the winding paths of the private gardens, sunlight dappling their figures through the branches above. Roses spilled over stone walls, their scent carried on the breeze. Marcus stayed close to her side, his steps slower than usual, his gaze flicking to her often, as though needing to reassure himself she was real and whole.

"And how have your days been, Princess?" he asked softly, his tone tinged with that quiet warmth he reserved only for her. "What have you done to keep yourself busy while the world beyond these walls remained ever restless?"

She smiled faintly, trailing her fingers along a hedge of lavender. "I found a little bird’s nest," she said. "It had fallen from one of the olive trees along the north path. Both eggs were still intact, no cracks at all. So I brought them inside. I was determined to keep them warm, to help them hatch. I even gave them names."

Marcus raised a brow, amused and touched. "Names?"

"Marius and Septima," she said proudly. "I requested warm cloths and extra braziers. Turned my chamber into a little nest of its own. I sang to them. Little lullabies. I was going to raise them myself."

Her voice faded. She paused at a flowering bush, her hand resting lightly on one of the branches.

"But Caracalla found out. Some of the staff mentioned the extra requests. He stormed into my chamber while I was singing to them... and when he saw the heat, the nest..."

Marcus’s jaw clenched.

"He called me mad," she continued in that same calm, detached tone, as though recounting an ordinary inconvenience. "Said I was no sister of his. And then he snatched the nest from the blanket I’d set it on... and threw it into the fire."

Marcus stopped walking.

"I wept," she said softly, not looking at him. "I tried to get it out. Burned my hands badly in the process. But it was no use. The eggs... were gone. He told me I should toss myself into the flames and be done with it."

Her tone did not shift. She spoke as though she were recounting a meal, not a cruelty. Her gaze was fixed on the rose bush, her fingers delicately brushing the edge of a crimson bloom. She had let go of his arm without either of them noticing.

Marcus stepped forward and gently took her hands in his. She did not flinch.

He turned them over in his palms. There, along the tender skin, were the faint marks—burns not fully healed. He brought her hands to his lips, reverent, aching, and pressed a kiss to each one as though he might soothe them belatedly.

She watched him with a sad smile. "Princess..." he began, but no words followed. The things he longed to say would never pass his lips—not here. Not in a garden woven with secrets and eyes. He wanted to take her from this place, to see her free and smiling beneath the open skies of his estate. He wanted to run Caracalla through with his sword a thousand times, and never once feel regret. He wanted a world that would never wound her again.

But Geta would never allow it.

All of Rome knew that Geta had bound himself to her care after the death of their parents. That her delicate constitution, her strange whims, had earned her both affection and confinement. She was his responsibility, his treasure. And Marcus had never dared to ask for what he most desired—because he knew the answer would never change.

She gently pulled her hands back and returned to the rose bush, selecting the fullest blossoms with quiet purpose. Her voice, when it came again, was soft and measured, as if she were merely continuing a tale she had not noticed she’d paused.

"Sabine told me that they had found me kneeling before the fireplace. My hands were scalded. I suppose that happened because I would not stop reaching for what could no longer be saved. They had to drag me away. Sabine held me while I cried. The others tried to salvage what remained, but there was nothing left."

Marcus stood motionless, stricken.

"A medici was summoned. Word reached Geta not long after. He arrived in haste, his expression unreadable. When he saw the burns... and saw the state I was in..."

She moved to a nearby bench and placed the roses carefully in a woven basket. Marcus lingered where he stood, unwilling to interrupt the rhythm of her tale.

"He was furious," she said simply. "He did not say a word. Only turned and left. I did not see him again until later, when he returned to my side. Sabine was still with me, I believe to ensure I did not try to reach into the fire again. Geta dismissed her, then took my hands and examined the wrappings. He said they had been well applied."

Her voice wavered just slightly.

"I turned my back to him. I did not wish to speak. I could not. I cried until I had no voice left."

Marcus’s boots finally moved across the gravel path. She looked up as he reached her, and wordlessly patted the empty space beside her. After a moment’s hesitation, he lowered himself to the bench.

"He apologized," she said, eyes drifting toward the trimmed rose stems. "Said he had spoken to Caracalla. That it would never happen again."

She did not dwell on it. Her expression lifted slightly.

"He said he would make it up to me. And he did. One afternoon, after I returned from a walk, one of his manservants met me. Led me to the smaller library. When the doors were opened..."

She smiled.

"There were birds everywhere. All manner of them. Some in cages, some free. They sang. They chattered. They filled the air with color and light and life. And Geta was there, smiling. He said they were mine. That I could be their mother, if I wished. That no one—not even Caracalla—would lay a finger on them, lest they lose their head."

She laughed softly, and it was a balm.

"He has kept that promise. I have so many now. Too many to name. Sabine helps. A few of the younger staff too."

She looked down at the roses in her lap. "There," she murmured. "That will do."

When she turned back to Marcus, he was watching her—not with pity, but with something deeper. Troubled. Reverent.

"Oh, Marcus," she said gently, "I’ve kept you far too long. Lucilla must be waiting. You’ve been gone for so many months, and I’ve spent this entire visit rambling on about silly birds."

She laughed softly, a touch shy.

He placed his hand gently atop hers. "Silly is not the word I was thinking just now."

Her smile returned, softer still. She drew her hand back with quiet grace and reached for her flowers again. "Will you come back soon? To see them?"

"I shall."

She looked up, pleased. "I cannot wait for you to meet them."

She withdrew something from her basket—a crown of roses, loosely threaded but lovingly made. "This should do," she said, and he leaned down slightly to accommodate her.

She placed it on his head, then leaned back to admire the effect. Her smile blossomed.

"A fitting crown," she declared. "Not too heavy. And one of true beauty."

He did not move, did not object. Not when she bent and kissed his brow. Not when she began to hum again, her attention returned to her blooms.

He could have stayed there forever. But duty called him elsewhere.

Lucilla was waiting.

He stood.

She turned to him, smiling.

He took her hand in his and bowed low, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

"I will return," he said. "You have my word."

"And I shall be waiting," she whispered, rising to kiss his cheek. "Goodbye, Marcus."

He walked away slowly. At the edge of the garden, he turned back. Removed the rose crown. Studied it.

Then, with one final glance back at the Empress who was humming as she walked deeper into the garden, he stepped beyond the guards and back into the palace.

Lucilla awaited him. Her embrace was soft, her kiss familiar.

They dined together, spoke of ordinary things. But she saw it—the distant look in his eyes, the weight that had not left his shoulders.

Lucilla awaited him. Her embrace was soft, her presence familiar.

They dined together and spoke of ordinary things, but she saw the shadow behind his eyes—the weight he carried.

Later, in the quiet of their chambers, she reached for his hand. "What troubles you, husband?"

He looked to the door, then back to her. He drew her hand into his, bowed his head, and said:

"I am going to free her."

Lucilla froze.

"I told myself as long as she was happy..." he continued. "But the time has come."

"Marcus... you cannot," she whispered. "Geta will never let her go."

"He must." His eyes burned. "Caracalla was cruel to her, Lucilla. Again. He caused her to burn her hands. She told me herself."

She said nothing.

"I should have taken her long ago. I will not make the same mistake again."

He released her hand and sat back, his thoughts dark and distant.

Lucilla was quiet for a time. Then she asked, "And how do you intend to do this?"

He met her gaze.

"I do not yet know. But even if it is the last thing I do... she will be free. I swear it."

The sun hung low over the palace gardens when next Marcus returned, this time with Lucilla at his side. The golden light cast long shadows across the marble colonnades and the trimmed hedges, warm and gentle, like the hush before prayer. The Empress greeted them with bright eyes and an eager smile, her joy immediate and unrestrained.

"You came," she said, her voice light with pleasure, her gaze flitting between them like sunlight on water. "Both of you. I hoped—but to see it come true is still a joy beyond measure."

"Of course we came," Lucilla replied, smiling fondly. "We could not resist the invitation."

"Come, I must show you the aviary. There are new birds I wish you to see—one of them sings your name, Marcus, or at least tries to." Her laughter danced on the air as she stepped forward, reaching for Marcus’s arm.

He offered it without hesitation, and together they began to walk.

But after only a few steps, she paused, noticing that Lucilla had not followed.

"Will you join us, Lucilla?"

Lucilla’s smile was gracious. "In a moment, dearest. I must speak with your brothers first."

The younger woman accepted this with ease, giving a small nod before turning with Marcus toward the palace. As she led him through a shaded corridor toward one of the smaller libraries, Marcus cast a glance back. Lucilla was already moving away in the opposite direction, the folds of her gown disappearing down a columned walkway. Their eyes met briefly—hers holding quiet purpose, his barely concealed tension—and then he turned away.

Lucilla was met by the emperor’s stewards and was granted a private audience shortly after. She found both Geta and Caracalla within a private chamber off the western court, reclining amid cushions as a troupe of musicians played a slow, haunting melody. Dancers moved languidly through the chamber, their silken garments fluttering with each graceful step, the scent of incense curling through the air.

She inclined her head in deference. "Your Highnesses," she began, her voice calm, her bearing regal. "Forgive the intrusion, but I wished to make a request. It occurs to me that your sister might benefit from a change of scenery. She has spent so long within these walls. I would be honored to host her at our villa as a guest of state. Only for a short time. The countryside is serene this season, and she would be well cared for."

Caracalla barely looked up. "Do what you like," he muttered, uninterested.

But Geta's gaze sharpened. "Your offer is generous, Lucilla," he said slowly, "and I do not doubt your intentions are pure. But she is best kept here. Her health is not suited to travel, and too much change unsettles her."

Lucilla met his words with graceful persistence. "It would be a brief reprieve. She would not be alone. Marcus and I would tend to her ourselves."

"She is under our protection," Geta replied, the finality in his tone unmistakable. "And here she shall remain. I thank you for your thoughtfulness, but I must decline."

Lucilla bowed her head again, concealing her disappointment behind the composed veil of imperial decorum. "As you wish, Caesar."

And with that, she withdrew, knowing that the first attempt had failed.

Within one of the palace's more secluded libraries—its scrolls replaced long ago by bird perches, cages, and sweet-smelling herbs—the Empress led Marcus into her sanctuary.

The room was alive with gentle movement and song. Birds flitted from branch to perch, their cages left open where it was safe. Some preened beneath shafts of light that poured in through narrow windows. Others chirped softly from the ivy-strung rafters.

"This one," she said, lifting her hand toward a small, speckled bird with bright yellow eyes, "is Cassian. He sings more sweetly at dusk. Listen."

The bird chirped once, then again. She whistled, a quiet sound, and the creature answered in its own way, mimicking the note as best it could.

She laughed, her whole face alight. Marcus, standing beside her, found himself without words.

"Is he not magnificent?" she asked, stroking the bird’s downy breast with gentle fingers. "Here, hold out your hand. He’ll come to you."

Marcus hesitated, shaking his head slightly. "I am no bird handler, Princess. I am a soldier."

She turned a mock glare upon him, her eyes glinting with mischief. "Marcus, hold out your hand. Your Empress commands it so."

With a weary sigh, half-smile upon his lips, he complied.

She turned to the bird. "Cassian, be kind," she whispered.

The bird tilted its head, then stepped delicately from her fingers onto his. Marcus stiffened. The bird was warm and light, its tiny talons brushing his skin.

He looked to her, uncertain.

"Like this," she said, and lifted his hand, her fingers sliding over his to guide the motion. Together, they coaxed a soft stroke over the bird’s breast. She whistled once more, and Cassian responded in kind.

Marcus could only stare.

The sound, the motion, the light in her eyes—it was too much and not enough. Something within him unraveled.

She turned slightly, laughing at some private thought. "You stare as if I’ve grown three more heads. Has it happened, and I was unaware?"

He shook his head slowly.

"Then what is it?"

He did not answer at once. Instead, he gently withdrew his hand from hers, his fingers lingering before brushing a loose tendril of hair from her cheek. She froze beneath the touch, and when their eyes met, a hush passed between them, quiet and unspoken, as if the moment itself asked for reverence without reason.

He was about to speak—gods, he was about to ask her to run, to leave this place with him—when the door creaked open and Lucilla stepped inside.

"Lucilla!" the Empress cried, her voice bright with joy. She turned and rushed to her, taking her hand and pulling her forward. "You came!"

"Of course I did," Lucilla said warmly, allowing herself to be drawn into the room.

"Look what I’ve done," the Empress said, gesturing back to Marcus, who still held his hand half-raised. "I made him hold one of my birds."

Lucilla laughed. "A brave feat, truly."

The Empress coaxed Cassian gently from Marcus’s hand onto her own and then extended her arm toward Lucilla.

"Would you like to try?"

Lucilla nodded, and the bird transferred once more. She took to it naturally, her motions elegant, practiced—as though she had always known how.

Marcus stood beside them, his heart still not settled in his chest. The moment that had nearly passed between himself and the Empress lingered like a held breath.

She was explaining the bird’s name now, the way she’d chosen it, a story of songs and old verses. Her voice carried with ease, and Lucilla listened attentively, her expression full of quiet affection.

And Marcus, watching them, silently renewed his vow.

He would find a way. No matter what it cost him. He would see her free.

[thehydraethereal]

still available! ♡♡

⋆⁎✽๛ 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒 --- for requests

෴ 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐑: This content is dark and very triggering. Minors and easily triggered people, do not interact. Your mental health matters. You are responsible for your own media consumption.

෴ 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: MY CONTENT IS DARK AND DARK ONLY. My requests are now OPENED. You can request as many fictions as you want, but you have to check out my CHARACTERS LIST and my WARNINGS first. IF YOU ARE ANON, USE AN EMOJI, SO WE CAN TALK MORE <3. Request via my INBOX. Please, also write a short summary of your ideas, do not just send in the number of the promp and the character. Thank you.

𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 I will use for these: Choking; chasing kink; Dacryphilia (tear kink); fear kink; dv + heavy violence; restraints; manhanding and others. Please choose a few in your request.

"You flinch like that again in public, and I’ll give you a real reason to." (1)

"I don’t remember asking what you wanted, sweetheart." (2)

"You can cry if you want. Won’t change a damn thing." (3)

"That’s the problem with you. You never fucking listen." (4)

"Go ahead. Tell me no again." (5)

"You move, and I promise it’ll be worse." (6)

"I told you to sit down. Don’t make me say it twice." (7)

"You think I give a fuck if you’re scared?" (8)

"I liked you better when you knew your place." (9)

"You’re only still breathing because I let you." (10)

"See how quiet you can be after I slap you around?" (11)

"You can beg if you want. Doesn’t mean I’ll stop." (12)

"Do I look like a man who’s gonna change his mind?" (13)

"At least make yourself useful, baby." (14)

"You act like I haven’t done this before." (15)

"If you were strong enough to stop me, angel, you would have by now." (16)

"C'mon, baby, don't cry...we haven't even started." (17)

"I'll destroy your pretty face of yours if you do that again." (18)

"Come here. Now." (19)

"I'd suggest you returned because if I catch you...you won't like what I'll do to you." (20)

[paulyenvol6]

As Slow As You Need (Chapter 3)

Marcus Acacius x female reader (Part 1 I Part 2)

It took me a while, but here is part three of this mini-series. Enjoy :)

(And thanks to @mrspascalsworld for the idea)

Contains: smut, p in v, unprotected sex, oral (f & m receiving), implied age gap, dirty talk, little bit of gagging, lots of praise, soft dom!Acacius, fluff, aftercare I guess?, manhandling, overstimulation, Acacius being very caring and sweet and talking you through it

Wordcount: 5,685

Masterlist

It was remarkable because when you woke up the next day the first thing you noticed was that it seemed like your body hadn't shifted for once during the night.

You were still nestled against Acacius' chest, his hands where they had been when you had fallen asleep, and your own hands lingered on his arms. You thought a day couldn't start better than this, with the sun shining into the room and your body feeling more rested than ever despite the odd sleeping position. And when Acacius opened his eyes seconds after you had woken up you wanted to kiss the gods good morning just the way you began covering your husband's face with kisses.

He blinked a few times getting rid of his drowsiness but soon kissed you back.

"Good morning my love," he hummed stroking your cheek in lazy circles as his lips crashed against yours over and over again before he pulled back fearing that he might not be able to control himself around you, especially considering you were being so close to him right now.

"How did you sleep?" you asked as you stroked his temples with fingers that were as light as a breath of wind.

"You might not believe it, but I haven't gotten this good of a sleep in quite a while."

You twisted your lips in amusement but then lifted your eyebrows as you seriously watched him. "Acacius?"

"Yes, little dove?" he replied hands running up your sides.

"Can we go to the beach?"

He pursed his lips, eyebrows shooting up but then smiled.

"Today?"

A nod from you made him scratch his head, pondering your suggestion. "Well… why not? I don't have any appointments today… When do you want to go?"

You bit your lip in anticipation, unable to hide your excitement. "In the afternoon. Perhaps we can watch the sunset."

And with that it was set. The two of you had a lazy morning cuddling in bed until you eventually got up to get ready for the day. You wore your hair down and chose a pretty and yet practical summer dress to wear at the beach. Your husband looked divine in his linen tunics and you appreciated seeing him in comfortable clothing instead of his formal uniform.

You had a meal which consisted of bread and cheese and then in the afternoon Acacius took you down to the beach. It was sunny and the heat was shimmering off the stony path, making you sweat as soon as you stepped outside, which was why you couldn't wait to dive into the cool, fresh water.

Your fingers had gripped Acacius' hand, but you had to let go as you both reached the beach, smiling as you realised your husband had led you to a quieter and more private part of it. There wasn't a single soul within a mile, the only living creatures around here being the fish and crabs in the sea.

Acacius laid a large blanket on the grass that was a little farer away from the ocean so your clothes wouldn't get all sandy when you sat down.

At first you lay down with your head resting on his shoulder as you looked up into the sky your hand protecting your eyes from the sun. Not a single cloud was visible and together with Acacius' steady breathing, the quietness and the sound of the waves crashing against the sand far away you could have fallen asleep like that had you not felt so eager to take a swim.

So you sat up running a hand over Acacius' thigh and twisted your lips into a smile watching him open his right eye.

"Let's get into the water," you said and watched him prop himself on his elbows.

"You have to eat something first, little dove. And drink some water as well. I don't want you to collaps and then the hot weather…"

You sulked pinching his skin lightly but had to admit that he was right.

"Fine. But afterwards you're going to join me, right?"

He laughed as he opened the basket, which was filled with all sorts of delicacies such as grapes, bread, cheese and olives, and then began to arrange them around you on the large picnic rug.

"What are you in the mood for?" he wanted to know and you frowned observing the food in a concentrated manner.

"I think I'm going to start with some olives."

Acacius handed you the black little vegetables while reaching for the bread.

"It was a good idea to come here," he spoke in the meantime. "We should do it more often. I didn't know you were such a great lover of the sea."

"I am. I used to go to the beach with my family all the time when I was young. It was my favourite place in the world. Maybe because it was the time that my whole family was alive and well and… I remember being there for hours after sunset and we were just laughing and giggling and everyone was so peaceful and content."

You felt tears welling in your eyes at the vivid memory of your father and had to swallow loudly. Acacius hand caressed your arm soothingly, waiting patiently until you turned your head to him again and then propped himself on his side.

"That sounds lovely. We can come here whenever you want to. It might not be the same as it was with your family but if it makes you happy it makes me happy as well."

A warmth spread through your body, which certainly wasn't necessary considering the hot weather and yet you were once again amazed by the physical reaction you had to his words and actions, shyly lowering your gaze while you continued to enjoy the olives.

"I think I'd like that," you replied, shuddering at his hand on your bare leg in the best possible way.

The two of you spent another 30 minutes talking and giggling until you finally left your spot on the grass to approach the sea. You clenched his hand in yours excitedly pulling Acacius with you until your bare feet touched the water for the first time, a warm shiver running down your spine.

"It's so beautiful," you whispered feeling the water run over your toes, the salt prickling on your skin.

Acacius smiled watching your profile and then stepped behind you to wrap his arms around your waist, his lips brushing over the back of your neck. You giggled and rested your hands on top of his arms before pulling forward.

"Come on. We have to take a swim!"

With these words you winded in his hold turning around and then running backwards into the wide ocean as you kept your eyes on him, your arms spread to gesture him to follow you.

"Come, Acacius!"

For a moment your husband stood still and you almost wanted to speak up again but then he eventually started to run as well and you slowed down until he was on the same height as you grabbing his hand while the two of you crashed against the waves.

First, you could only taste and smell the salty water that was soaking your hair and slightly burning in your eyes. You used your hands to dive to the surface, your eyes blinking a few times as you looked around to find Acacius right behind you, brushing his wet hair out of his face.

"I missed this so much," you said, lifting your hand to your brow to protect yourself from the sun.

Then you opened your arms and let your body drop backwards again, savouring the way the coldness created an intoxicating contrast to the thin hot layer of sweat on your arms and face.

You spent some time like this, either jumping and playing in the clear blue water, splashing Acacius with water and diving under the gentle waves, or drifting peacefully beside your husband, your eyes closed to the sun as you enjoyed the tranquillity of this magical place. It was nearly an hour before you found yourself in his arms again, his hands tracing patterns down your bare back and his lips never more than an inch away.

"Acacius," you whispered, your fingers buried in his muscular shoulders.

"Yes, little dove."

"I want you," you said, eyes threatening to close as you felt him take your bottom lip between his to gently kiss it.

"Yes, sweetling?" he asked, his hot breath lingering on your cheek.

"Yes. Need you."

His grip on your waist became more firm now, his hands squeezing your flesh as his strong chest clashed against yours.

"You want me to get us out of here?" he then whispered and all your cloudy mind could bring about was nod.

But it was all the reassurance Acacius needed, for the next thing he did was to lift you effortlessly by your waist, your legs instinctively crossing behind his back and then he walked the two of you out of the water that had started to feel a little cold.

But now nothing was cold anymore. Your lips didn't separate for once, not even to catch a breath, your eager and heated hands reaching for him in a desperate attempt to melt with him. His hands on your body felt like fire igniting your nerves and it didn't take long until you panted into his mouth. You hadn't even noticed that you had arrived at your spot in the grass again so when you felt him carefully lay you down on the blaket you shrieked, hands grasping his arms.

"Don't worry, little one," he chuckled and immediately followed you down to the ground, his broad body caging you beneath him as he kissed his way from the swell of your breasts up to your chin, teeth carefully grazing your skin.

"You're so incredibly beautiful, my sweet love. I want to make you feel so good. I want to make you feel things you've never felt before."

You moaned, eyes fixed on his piercing gaze that examined you like he was trying to memorize every muscle and vein.

"Yes, that's right. I want you to give me all of these sweet little whines. Wanna hear them all... You think you can do that?"

"Yes, Acacius," you whined barely audible and buried your hands in his neck, fingers running through the short curly strands of hair.

"I need a taste of you," he whispered in your ear, as if he had saved the words just for you to hear.

"Are you gonne let me have a taste of your pretty cunt, little dove?"

Of course you nodded, the throbbing heat between your legs an uncomfortable reminder of how eager and lustful you were for your husband's touch.

"Yes, please," you whimpered, but were quickly silenced as Acacius' lips devoured your mouth, tongues and teeth clashing in a heated yet playful battle.

And then, just when you thought that you finally needed some air to breathe he let go and kissed his way down your body, leaving wet traces behind as he made sure to give attention to every inch of your body. He made a stop at your chest to suck your hard nipples in his mouth and twirl his tongue around the buds. You could already feel the wetness running down the insides of your thighs and couldn't help yourself when you buckled up your hips, rocking your center against his body in search for some friction.

Acacius noticed your attempts with a smirk on his face and let you proceed, but didn't fasten up. He took his time with his treatment for your breasts, his hand taking care of your one breast while his mouth toyed with the other.

When he was finally done your nipples were sore and pulsating and you felt both satisfied and eager for more but Acacius didn't grant you any time to process the beauty of his touch because he immediately traveled further down, his mouth tenderly brushing over your pelvis until he finally dived between your shaky legs.

You could only see the frame of his dark-haired head through your blurry eyes, your mouth agape while you gave yourself to his touch. He trailed with his pointed tongue through your slit, licking up your wetness like he was already addicted and then pressed an open-mouthed kiss to your quivering hole.

"Fucking divine," he cursed and you instantly felt your pussy clench at his husky and rough voice.

He didn't tease you long tonight, instead getting to work to bring you to orgasm by focusing on your clit. Acacius' tongue licked over the underside of your throbbing clit, using his hands to spread you wider for him while his soft lips enclosed around the whole of your little pearl.

He grunted deeply, the vibrations tingling in your limbs and then locked eyes with you as he lifted his gaze which sent shockwaves through your body. Your eyes were half-closed and teary with tension, threatening to close from the pleasure you were receiving, but at the same time you just didn't want to look away and forced your mushy brain to keep them open.

"That's perfect, little dove," Acacius praised you and you felt like each syllable made the muscles in your thighs twitch. It was almost embarrassement that creeped up on your cheeks in form of a flushness but at the same time you knew just how much your husband enjoyed seeing you this way.

"You're perfect, my love. Letting me devour your sweetness… So good to me…"

He flicked your clit to the side with his thumb, applying enough pressure to evoke more of these little pleas but not so much that you would be in pain. He wanted to be perfect for you too after all. Make you feel things that would haunt your mind for days and make you blush at any time of the day before replacing them with new, more vivid memories.

You brought a hand to your chest, kneading your breast while your other hand grabbed his hair, not just to hold on to him and release some tension but also to move his head according to the motions of your hips. You had begun to rock your centre against his mouth, which Acacius more than welcomed as he let you circle your hips to create the most thrilling friction for your needy clit.

"That's right," his praise came immediately making your head spin. "Take what you need from me. You're doing so wonderful, my sweet girl."

"It's so good, Acacius, fuck… I need you, please."

The vibrations of his dark chuckle sent tingles through your chest and your toes curled as he slid two fingers into your weeping cunt, the slickness of it making it unnecessary for him to give you time to adjust to a single finger.

"I know, little dove, I know. I just love spoiling my sweet little princess too much, mhm? But you take it so well every time… Just can't help myself."

His thick fingers stretching your walls and curling up at the right angle elicited another whimper from you that was music to Acacius and made him fasten up the dance of his tongue over your little nub. Your heart pounded in your chest, your head feeling dizzy and somehow you felt like the two of you had been making love for hours already although he had only just started.

"I need to – Fuck, Acacius, I…" you stuttered, teeth sinking down hard on your lower lip and then you shrieked when the pats of his fingers softly like a lover's kiss touched the spongy spot hidden deep inside you that your husband was capable of finding quicker than you could.

"There it is…," he smirked teasingly circling your clit and it developped into a chuckle when he felt you writh and squirm underneath him.

"Oh my sweet girl is getting closer, isn't she?" Acacius grinned and felt his heart flutter at your round eyes staring down to him while quick and unsteady breaths left your parted lips.

"Yes. Yes, I think…," you muttered, your legs crossing behind his head to pull him impossibly closer.

"You can let go, little dove. I'll be there to catch you, c'mon. Soak my face with your sweet juices."

Your face tensed, the pleasure visible in the way the crease between your brows deepened and just as you wanted to beg Acacius once more, asking for things you couldn't even exactly identify yourself, the knot in your belly tightened and waves of pleasure crashed down upon you just as the deep breaths of the ocean broke against the rocks a few feet away.

"Huh. Oh, Acacius…," you screamed out, your nails surely leaving marks in the way they scratched his scalp but he didn't even flinch, keeping his mouth connected to your clit while squeezing every last sigh out of you.

"There you go…," he hummed deeply, his breath brushing over your sensitive bud making goosebumps rise on your arms and legs.

"That's a good girl right there… Drowning my face like the perfect little dove you are… Come on, you can give me more, right? Let me taste it all, babygirl, it's alright. I got you…"

A painful whimper escaped your lips and Acacius was quick to recognise it as a complaint about the overstimulation you were experiencing. His tongue hadn't come to a stop yet, the pointed tip grazing your clit in such a precise way that you jolted away, your feet pressing against his side.

"Acacius. Fuck... so much…," you whined while throwing your head to the side, your eyes half closed.

"I know, love. I know. But you can take it, right? You're not gonna deny me your sweet cunt, are you? Not after I've had my first taste and can't stop. You just taste too sweet for your own good, litte dove."

He dived back between your thighs and of course you made no attempt of holding him back. In a matter of a few seconds his touch had started to feel heavenly again and you soon shifted around, white pleasure blurring your view as you tried to catch your breath and stay still for him.

You managed to do so for a few minutes, but then your husband noticed that you just couldn't control yourself any more and his hands came up to rest on your hips, applying a little pressure to keep you still and open to him.

"Stay right there, sweetling. S'perfect. You taste better every time I dive back in, how do you do it, mhm?"

You weren't able to answer him because you were too busy trying not to suffocate, as your rapid breathing didn't allow much oxygen to reach your lungs. Acacius curled his fingers just the right way, tapping against your spot over and over again which made you buckle your hips towards him every time. Inevitably you came again, and this time your husband crawled up to meet with your gaze on the same level.

"Oh fuck, fuck, fuck," you cursed, head thrown back and your hair hanging all over your face.

Your body uncontrollably writhed and winded, sweat collecting on your forehead and back and your toes digging into the grass next to you. Acacius caged you underneath him, surpressing your moans with his mouth before whispering words of comfort in your ear that were supposed to soothe and comfort you just like during your first release.

"You're doing so wonderful, little one. I love seeing you fall apart for me, because I know it's just for me to see."

He chuckled softly, nibbled tenderly at the lobe of your ear, and gently, as light as a feather floating in the wind, brushed his hands over the sides of your breasts.

"You're mine just as I am yours, sweetling. And I swear I will strangle anyone who dares come near you. You're mine to love and protect."

You exhaled deeply, beginning to feel calmer again and your rapid heartbeat had started to slow down as well. But your head was still muzzy from the effects of your high, so the next words that came out of your mouth were a little weak and indistinct.

"I wanna taste you too," you mumbled against the prominent vein on his neck, your possessive hands gripping the back of his head.

"Yeah?" he whispered as he carefully stroked the hair out of your face to take a better look at you.

"Yeah. Please, I really want it."

Acacius chuckled lowly and you didn't know what it was about it but the husky sound never failed to make your heart skip a beat; especially in combination with his brown puppy eyes.

"Alright, kitten," he growled, his hand firmly taking hold of the side of your face as he kissed your nose and then your hairline.

Then he rolled off you to lay down right next to you and spread his legs while you turned around to sit up. Your head spinned, your limbs and especially your knees weak and wobbly but you managed to crawl between his legs and crouched to lower your head to his cock while Acacius ran a hand through your hair.

"Look at me, dove," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper that prickled on your skin like the warm sun and you followed his demand, lifting your head to meet his gaze under your lashes.

"Fuck… my sweet girl," he hissed, his hand enclosing around your chin and his thumb skimming over your bottom lip.

"You wanna take it? You can have it, babygirl. You can take whatever you want from me…"

You swallowed loudly and then lowered yourself further, your lips curling in a smile and your eyes on him at all times. You began by swirling your tongue around the swollen tip of his cock, grazing over it so tenderly that Acacius buckled his hips towards you, the hand in your hand tightening. You smiled to yourself and put your hands on his thighs for support and then went a little deeper, your tongue trailing up and down his shaft and tracing the thick veins before taking the whole of him in your mouth. You also sucked in your cheeks to create an intoxicating pressure, and as you drew back with a pop, Acacius watched you with half-lit eyes, his jaw clenched.

"Sweetling... you... fuck, that's right," he moaned as he clenched his teeth and you giggled softly, feeling a familiar pride creep up on you at the way you had managed to sweep him off his feet with a single lick up and down his length.

"Just like that, little dove. I know you can take it all…"

You had taken him down your throat again and this time bobbed your head around his already throbbing dick that leaked with precum you were happy to lick up. Knowing how much it drove Acacius crazy, you used your tongue to draw patterns across his shaft, so motivated that you soon triggered your gag reflex for the first time when his tip brushed the back of your throat.

"Babygirl… Don't want you to hurt yourself," your husband warned you, his hand slightly pulling you off him.

You nodded and whispered a "I know" which you weren't quite certain he had heard but you were too eager to make him feel good so you didn't waste a lot of time and continued to suck his cock like your life depended on it.

"Don't want you to go so deep," Acacius groaned, gently guidind your head on his dick to make sure you wouldn't go too far.

"Just like that… S'already enough, sweetling. That's right, you're doing so well for me…"

He squeezed his eyes shut which you managed to see as you glanced up to him, his chest rising and falling heavily and his teeth scratching over his bottom lip. In response you reached up to run your hands over the toned muscles of his chest and stomach. You were lost in the sounds coming from his mouth that were like music to you, your tongue dancing along his length in time, moaning as he suddenly pulled you off his cock.

Your eyes flashed at him and your hands instantly reached for his length but your husband sat up on the blanket, taking hold of your face.

"I need to come inside of you, sweetling. Are you gonna let me do that… mhm? Are you gonna let me spill my seed in your perfect pussy?"

Just as quickly as your frustration had come it vanished at his words and you eagerly nodded with your head while Acacius manhandled you on your back again. His large hands came to rest right next to your head, cradling you for a few seconds before guiding his cock through your slit that was all sticky and puffy with the aftermath of two orgasms.

"Good girl," he praised you, closing his eyes at the way his tip already got to feel the warmth and softness of your cunt and then when he circled your entrance your muscles tensed in anticipation and you almost let out a squeal.

"Please, Acacius. I need it."

"I know, little dove. I know just what you need. I'm gonna make you feel so full and stuffed with it," his words brushed over your ear and then he kissed the corner of your mouth as he lined himself up with your drenched hole.

"Relax, my love."

You inhaled deeply, your eyes springing wide open while he slowly worked himself inside you, your breath hitching in your throat and your hands clenching around his shoulders. The two of you panted against each other's open mouths and when Acacius grabbed both of your hands to press them to your chest a whine escaped your lips which drove him insane.

He was snug inside your pussy now, your walls wonderfully pulsating around him and your hips already buckling up to make him create friction.

"Patience, little one," he chuckled and kissed your hands and just as you made an attempt to speak up, begging for him to start to fuck you already he bottomed out and pushed back in one motion.

"Ohhh yes," a long sob cut through the flickering air and you threw your head to the side, giving Acacius the opportunity to suck on your neck which he immediately took advantage of.

While his hips crashed against yours over and over again, his cock pounding your cunt at a steady pace, the two of you were visibly growing lazy and eager to come. His thrusts became sloppy but somehow he managed to hold back with the goal to make you finish again before doing so himself.

Your eyes were half open as Acacius grinned down at you, one hand on your hip, the other holding the back of your head to keep it from hitting the hard floor.

"You're gonna give me another one?" he asked while the hand on your hip slid between your thighs to rub your clit. You jerked at the contact, your whole body shaking, but he didn't hesitate to stimulate your swollen and twitching pearl to squeeze another orgasm out of you.

"Acacius…," you whimpered, not even able to lift your arms to initiate body contact because instead your hands lay flat next to you.

"I need you to give me another one, little dove. I know you can do it, just trust me, alright? S'gonna be fine."

A hiccup left your mouth that made Acacius' heart overflow with love and affection for you. How was he supposed to hold back much longer with you looking like the sweetest creature on earth beneath him?

"It's fine… Just take it, babygirl," he growled and then his lips twisted in a wide content smile when he felt you tense up around him.

"That's it, yeah…," he praised you and then the world around you collapsed and you finished with a shriek. You gasped for air, eyes looking almost surprised about the intensity of your third high of the night but then your face twisted as he still hadn't stopped circling your overstimulated clit with his thumb.

"Acacius…," you whined, your hips relentlessly shifting under his sharp thrusts but he was quick to hush you with a finger tapping against your swollen lips.

"Shhhh… It's alright, little dove. You can give me one more, mhm? Just one more for me, I know you can do it."

You wriggled underneath him, feeling not so sure about his words but Acacius's body weight kept you in place and he also managed to soothe your racing mind.

"You can, babygirl. You trust me, don't you? You can give me another one. I just need to hear more of your sweet little whines and then I'll let you rest, I promise. Just need you to come one more time, pretty girl."

His deep voice evoked something in you that made you want to please him so badly that you nodded over and over again, your little sighs soon turning into long whines again.

"Yes," you cried out at a particularly deep thrust, and he grinned as he trailed his finger up the side of your neck, where he had left a few marks from sucking on your delicate skin.

"Yes? You're gonna be a good girl for me and come again?"

Your jaw was tense, lips pressed together and your mouth forming a thin line while you nodded and kept your glossy eyes on him.

"Good," he replied, picking up the pace and increasing the intensity with which he stimulated your clit and the thrill made the adrenaline shoot through your veins, the addicting feeling of his thumb in combination with his deep thrusts threatening to push you over the edge soon.

"Oh babygirl… You're so fucking perfect, you know that? I love you so much and you're always doing so well f'me. You look perfect like that and I wanna fill you up so badly…"

He knew exactly what to say to make you break down for him and this time little jolts went through your body and you just couldn't keep your eyes open anymore. There was a roar in your ear, the skin on your arms and legs tingling and this beautiful sticky warmth spreading from your lower abdomen all over your body.

Everything was perfect and you were almost disappointed when the pleasure slowly began to fade and you fell back on the ground, reality catching up on you again. But honestly, reality wasn't any worse because in this moment you felt Acacius come inside of you, his hot seed painting your walls while his forehead crashed against yours and his body collapsed on top of you.

Your heads were quivering and throbbing with sensation and for a few seconds neither of you could say or do anything. But then your husband seemed to fully return to the moment and exhaled deeply, blinking a few times to get rid of the drowsiness that had creeped up on him. His insides clenched at the view before him, your eyes shut and your mouth greedily inhaling fresh air and he couldn't help himself and kissed your flushed cheek.

"I love you so much," he whispered and although he wasn't sure you had heard him your face seemed to brighten up.

It had gotten cold on the beach Acacius now noticed and so he didn't hesitate, fearing that you might get sick and rolled off your exhausted body with the intention to get you inside the house as quickly as possible. You moaned in disfavour, legs trying to cross behind his back so he would stay with you but he gently put your ankles down to the ground, got dressed and started to pack up your things.

"It's alright, little dove. I'll bring you home now. You just rest and relax. I know that it's been a lot tonight but you did so wonderful and I'm so proud of you," Acacius kissed your temple and then picked up your clothes to put them back on your body. You were only little help, your limbs sluggish and heavy, but eventually he succeeded and you were fully dressed and ready to go.

Your tired eyes opened slightly as you felt him pick you up and before you knew it you were lying in his arms, one of his arms around your shoulders and the other supporting you under your knees. You moaned and nestled against his chest, causing a warmth to envelop Acacius' heart as he tried to reach the basket he had brought without having to put you down again.

In the end he managed to carry not only you but all the things he had taken to the beach and started the short walk back to the house. The wind whispered in his ear, a peaceful silence now settled over the city, and he enjoyed the ethereal atmosphere and the chirping of the crickets so much that he didn't even notice you dozing off along the way.

Once he was inside the villa he did though and connected his lips with your forehead in a warm kiss, a smile curling on his mouth. Acacius laid you down on the bed, carefully so you wouldn't wake up and only then took care of the basket of food that he emptied and put away before approaching the bed as well.

You hummed once you felt his soft body next to you, your hands reaching for him when he pulled you to rest your head on his shoulder. He let you enclose your hands around his arm and then your body shivered with satisfaction, his breath slow and steady in your ear.

"Sleep well, little dove," he said with a voice so quiet and soft that he nearly didn't hear it himself.

He hadn't expected an answer, but he felt you nudge your nose against his bicep and that was enough to tell him all he needed to know.

[kiss-me-muchoo]

IM SORRY HES SO HOT MARCUS CLAIM ME NOT THE CITY

[theetherealbloom]

You Got Me So In Love, I've Never Been This Possessive

Summary: While on a scenic boat trip along the coasts of Malta, you bask in the crystal-clear waters, and laughter with Pedro’s cast and crew. Despite his injured arm keeping him on the boat, Pedro can’t keep his eyes off you.

Paring: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader

Warnings: Established Relationship, TOOTH-ROTTING FLUFF, Slight Nudity, Slight Angst, Swearing, Anxiety, Cheesy Dialogue, Romance, Kissing, Real People Fiction, Cameras, Swimming, Bikini, Flirting, Teasing, Cast, Pedro Fell Down The Stairs, ER visit, Hurt-To-Comfort, Mild Spice, Banter, Idk Spanish so the terms might be wrong but I'm trying my best

Word Count: 5K

A/N: GOOD MORNING CHICKENS!!! Y’know how I said there would be a part two? Yup. Also, I know no one asked, but back in High School, I fell down the stairs… A LOT. Like every year for six years. No major bones were broken, only a sprained ankle every time I fell down the stairs, so in a way I guess I was lucky. PSA to always hold the hand railing, and like Pedro said, it can happen to anyone!

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: Te Quiero by KISS OF LIFE

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PASCAL RESIDENCE, CHILE — AFTERNOON  

The sun bathed the Pascal family home in a golden glow, the air filled with the scent of freshly baked empanadas and the gentle hum of conversation. You were seated on the patio, your legs tucked under you, watching as Pedro animatedly retold a story from his teenage years. His siblings—Javiera, Lux, and Nicolás—listened with rapt attention, their laughter bubbling over when Pedro’s dad chimed in with his version of events, insisting Pedro had exaggerated again.  

“Exaggerated?” Pedro placed a hand on his chest, feigning offense. “I would never! Everything I say is 100% true and scientifically proven.”  

“Scientifically proven to be full of nonsense,” Nicolás teased, earning a round of laughter.  

You couldn’t help but grin, soaking in the easy camaraderie of the family. Pedro’s hand found yours under the table, his fingers lacing with yours in a way that felt like second nature. He glanced at you, his dark eyes soft with a love so deep it made your chest tighten.  

“Tell them,” Pedro said, turning to you with an exaggeratedly serious expression. “Tell them I’m not lying.”  

You bit back a laugh, tilting your head in mock consideration. “Well… the story did sound a bit too good to be true.”  

“Et tu, mi amor?” he groaned, but the corners of his mouth quirked up in a smile.  

Javiera, ever the ringleader, stood and declared, “Enough storytelling! Let’s put her to the test. If she’s going to be part of this family, she needs to learn brisca.”  

Pedro leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear. “Fair warning: They’ll gang up on you.”  

“Good thing I’ve got you on my side,” you murmured, a soft blush rising to your cheeks.  

“I’ll always be on your side,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple that sent a shiver down your spine.  

A FEW HOURS LATER…  

The sun had dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the yard. Pedro had wandered inside to grab more drinks for everyone while you stayed on the patio with Lux, discussing her latest project.  

The sound of a crash shattered the peaceful air. You froze, the glass in Lux’s hand slipping and shattering on the ground.  

“Pedro!” you gasped, bolting toward the house.  

Inside, you found him crumpled at the base of the stairs, his face pale and contorted in pain. Nicolás was already at his side, his hands hovering uncertainly as if afraid to make things worse.  

“Call an ambulance!” you shouted, your voice shaking as you knelt beside Pedro.  

He looked up at you, his breaths shallow and uneven. “I’m okay, I’m okay,” he said through gritted teeth, but his wince betrayed him.  

“You’re not okay,” you said, your hands trembling as you gently brushed the hair from his forehead. “What happened?”  

“I missed the last step,” he muttered, trying to manage a weak smile. “Guess I’m not as graceful as I thought.”  

“Pedro, this isn’t funny,” you whispered, tears pricking your eyes.  

Javiera appeared with the phone pressed to her ear, speaking rapidly to the emergency dispatcher. Lux crouched beside you, her face pale as she reached for Pedro’s uninjured hand.  

“Help’s on the way,” Javiera assured you, her voice steady despite the panic in her eyes.  

Minutes felt like hours as you waited for the ambulance. You kept your focus on Pedro, your hand gripping his tightly. “Just breathe, okay? I’m right here. You’re going to be fine.”  

THE ER — EVENING

The antiseptic smell of the hospital hit you as you paced the waiting room, your heart pounding in your chest. Pedro had been whisked away for X-rays, and you felt helpless, the absence of his hand in yours leaving you cold.  

When the doctor finally emerged, you rushed to meet him, Javiera and Nicolás close behind.  

“Mr. Pascal has a broken arm,” the doctor explained. “It’s a clean break, but he’ll need surgery to set the bone properly. We’re scheduling it for late January.”  

Relief and worry collided in your chest. “Can I see him?” you asked, your voice small.  

The doctor nodded, and you followed the nurse to Pedro’s room. He was sitting up in bed, his arm in a temporary sling, his face pale but his smile still intact.  

“Hey, troublemaker,” he said, his voice softer than usual.  

You crossed the room in a few quick steps, perching on the edge of his bed. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again,” you said, your voice breaking as tears spilled over.  

Pedro reached for your hand with his good arm, his thumb brushing soothing circles over your knuckles. “I’m sorry, mi amor,” he murmured, his eyes glistening.  

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his. “I thought… I thought something worse happened. I couldn’t breathe until I saw you.”  

“I’m here,” he whispered, his voice steady despite the pain. “And I’ll be fine. Especially with you by my side.”  

You kissed him gently, pouring every ounce of love and relief into the touch. As his lips moved against yours, you felt the fear begin to fade, replaced by the overwhelming gratitude that he was still here with you.  

“I’ll take care of you,” you promised, pulling back just enough to look into his eyes. “Whatever you need, I’m here.”  

Pedro smiled, his gaze tender. “I don’t deserve you.”  

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you said, brushing a tear from your cheek. “You deserve the world.”  

And in that moment, surrounded by beeping monitors and the sterile walls of the hospital, it felt like nothing else mattered but the two of you.

FORT RICASOLI, MALTA — DAY  

The sun was high over Fort Ricasoli, the Mediterranean breeze carrying a salty tang as waves crashed against the nearby shore. The reconstructed Roman Colosseum loomed grandly in the fort, its grandeur a perfect backdrop for the epic Gladiator II production. You stepped out of the transport van, sunglasses shielding your eyes from the bright Maltese sun, a bag slung over your shoulder filled with Pedro’s essentials—medication, snacks, and a cold water bottle you knew he’d try to avoid drinking unless reminded.  

As you walked toward the set, Pedro spotted you first, his face lighting up in a way that made your heart ache with affection. He was seated in the shade near the makeup tent, his left arm encased in a royal blue cast that made him look both ridiculous and endearing.  

“Hi,” you called, setting your bag down beside him. “I’m here to be your nurse.”  

Pedro’s grin widened, his dark eyes softening. “You’re more than my nurse. You’re my lifesaver. And I love you so much.”  

You rolled your eyes playfully, leaning down to press a quick kiss to his forehead. “How’s the arm?”  

“It’s humiliating,” he muttered, holding up the cast as if it were a mark of disgrace. “Everyone keeps staring at it. Or laughing. Or both.”  

“There’s nothing humiliating about needing help once in a while, my love,” you said gently, brushing a curl from his forehead. “Besides, it’s a great conversation starter.”  

“Oh, yeah. Real smooth. ‘Hi, I’m Pedro Pascal, and I fell down a flight of stairs like a medieval jester.’”  

You smothered a laugh just as Joseph Quinn sauntered by, pausing dramatically to give Pedro an exaggerated salute. “How’s the mighty warrior today? Still battling gravity, I see.”  

“Go away,” Pedro groaned, waving his good arm dismissively.  

“You’re a walking PSA now,” Fred Hechinger added as he passed. “Don’t text and walk down stairs, kids!”  

Denzel Washington approached next, shaking his head with mock solemnity. “And here I thought I was the one who’d pull a stunt like that.”  

“Traitors,” Pedro muttered, pulling you closer as if you could shield him from the teasing.  

Coco, his ever-sassy hair stylist, smirked as she fixed his curls. “Just make sure she doesn’t trip over your ego next.”  

“Coco!” Pedro whined, but his cheeks flushed, his pout making him look boyish and undeniably adorable.  

Ridley Scott ambled over, his tone a mix of concern and exasperation. “Take it easy, Pedro. You’re not 25 anymore.”  

“Gee, thanks, Ridley,” Pedro huffed, pulling you against him as if seeking comfort.  

The day pressed on, the heat making Pedro’s clinginess somehow both unbearable and heart-meltingly sweet. Despite the steady teasing from the cast and crew, he stuck close to you like a second shadow whenever he wasn’t on set, his blue cast drawing as much attention as his ever-present pout.  

During a break, he tugged at your hand, a soft whine slipping from his lips. “Go with me?”  

You glanced up from the book you were pretending to read. “Go where?”  

“Craft services,” he said, gesturing toward the shaded area where snacks and cold drinks awaited. “I’m starving, and I need moral support.”  

“You literally just had a protein bar,” you teased, but stood anyway, slipping your hand into his.  

“As long as you hold my hand,” you added with a smirk, letting him lead the way.  

His good hand entwined with yours, his thumb brushing lazy circles over your skin as you walked. “You know I’m not letting go, right?”  

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”  

Reaching the craft services tent, Pedro made a beeline for the iced lemonade, his cast making the process comically awkward. You reached over to help him hold the cup steady as he poured, ignoring the amused glances from the crew around you.  

“I got it,” he insisted, though his pouty tone betrayed his frustration.  

“Sure you do, Mr. Dexterity,” you teased. “Here, let me.”  

As you steadied the cup, Paul Mescal appeared beside you, a mischievous grin plastered across his face. “What’s it like being Pedro’s personal assistant and cuddle therapist?”  

Pedro narrowed his eyes, his body shifting slightly as if to shield you from Paul’s teasing. “She’s an angel,” he declared, his tone defensive. “Unlike all of you degenerates.”  

Paul laughed, grabbing a handful of chips. “Touché.”  

Connie Nielsen joined the growing group, her warm smile softening the teasing atmosphere. “An angel with the patience of a saint,” she agreed. “He’s lucky to have you.”  

You squeezed Pedro’s hand, glancing up at him with a playful glint in your eye. “Oh, I know.”  

Pedro leaned down, his voice low and sweet in your ear. “Remind me to buy you something shiny and expensive later.”  

“I’ll hold you to that,” you whispered back, brushing a kiss to his cheek just as Coco walked by, her ever-present smirk firmly in place.  

“Are we making out by the lemonade now?” she quipped, adjusting Pedro’s wig as she passed. “Just don’t knock over the drink dispenser, Casanova.”  

Pedro groaned, but you could see the corner of his mouth twitching, betraying his amusement.  

When Pedro was shooting, you stayed nearby, perched under an umbrella with a bottle of water and a timer set for his next dose of medication. He’d been restless all morning, constantly checking in between takes to make sure you were still there.  

The moment the director called cut, Pedro scanned the area until his eyes landed on you. A small smile tugged at his lips as he made a beeline toward you, his costume slightly dusty from the action sequence.  

“Hydrate,” you ordered the moment he reached you, holding out the water bottle.  

He wrinkled his nose but took it, his good hand struggling to unscrew the cap. You wordlessly reached over to help, earning a sheepish look from him.  

“You know,” he said after a long sip, “you’re bossier than Ridley.”  

“You love it,” you countered, wiping the sweat from his brow with a small towel you’d tucked into your bag.  

Pedro’s lips curved into a soft smile, his gaze lingering on you. “I do,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “A little too much.”  

Your heart squeezed at the tenderness in his tone, and you reached up to brush a stray curl from his forehead. “Good. Now go back to work. Ridley’s glaring at us.”  

He glanced over his shoulder, spotting the director gesturing for him to return. “Fine,” he grumbled, but not before pressing a quick kiss to your forehead.  

As he walked back toward the set, Ridley shook his head, a faint smile on his face. “That woman of yours has you wrapped around her little finger.”  

Pedro shrugged, a smirk playing on his lips. “Don’t I know it.”  

THE XARA PALACE RELAIS & CHÂTEAUX, MALTA — EVENING  

The day had taken its toll on both of you, but by the time you returned to the cozy luxury of the hotel suite, Pedro’s exhaustion only seemed to amplify his need for affection. As soon as the door clicked shut behind you, he flopped dramatically onto the small couch, casting a forlorn look your way.  

“Come here,” he said, his good arm extended toward you like a lifeline.  

You chuckled, slipping off your sandals. “I thought you were tired.”  

“I am,” he replied, his lips twitching into a pout. “But I’ll sleep better if you’re right here.”  

Shaking your head fondly, you joined him on the couch, only to be pulled down against his side the moment you were close enough.  

“It’s too hot for this,” you teased, trying—and failing—to push against his firm hold.  

“Don’t care,” Pedro murmured, nuzzling into the curve of your neck as if you were the only source of comfort in the world. “You make everything better.”  

You sighed softly, your resolve melting as your fingers found their way into his curls. They were still slightly damp from his post-shoot shower, and you gently combed through them, marveling at how they always seemed to spring back into place.  

“I think that’s the heatstroke talking,” you quipped, though your voice was warm with affection.  

“No,” he said, his voice muffled against your skin. “That’s the love of my life talking.”  

Your hand stilled for a moment, the weight of his words settling over you like a gentle wave. You pulled back slightly to look at him, but Pedro didn’t let you get far. His warm brown eyes met yours, brimming with sincerity that made your breath catch.  

“You’re insufferable,” you said, though the tremor in your voice betrayed how deeply his words had affected you.  

“And you’re perfect,” he countered, his tone so soft and certain it made your heart ache in the best way.  

Your cheeks warmed, and you leaned down to press a tender kiss to his temple. “You’re lucky I love you,” you whispered, your lips brushing against his skin.  

Pedro grinned, his good arm tightening around you as he pulled you even closer. “I’m the luckiest man alive.”  

For a while, the two of you sat in a comfortable silence, the soft hum of the air conditioning blending with the distant sounds of the Maltese evening outside. Pedro’s breathing began to slow, his head resting heavily against your shoulder as he drifted off. His cast was awkwardly propped up on his chest, and you carefully adjusted a pillow beneath it, not wanting him to wake up sore.  

As you gazed down at him, his face relaxed and peaceful in sleep, your heart swelled with a familiar ache—one born of overwhelming love. He might’ve been clingy and dramatic, prone to complaints about his cast and the heat, but he was also tender and selfless, with a way of making you feel like the most cherished person in the world.  

You traced the curve of his jaw with the tips of your fingers, marveling at how even in his sleep, his hold on you never loosened. He was steady and constant in a way that made you feel safe, loved, and utterly at home.  

He might’ve fallen down the stairs, but it felt like you were the one falling—deeper in love with him every single day.  

Later that night, as the two of you lay tangled together in the king-sized bed, Pedro stirred, his voice groggy but laced with warmth.  

“Are you still awake?”  

“Barely,” you murmured, your head resting against his uninjured shoulder. “Why?”  

He shifted slightly, his fingers grazing over your arm in lazy circles. “Just wanted to say… thank you.”  

“For what?”  

“For taking care of me. For putting up with me being clingy. For loving me even when I’m ridiculous,” he said, his voice soft but earnest.  

You smiled in the darkness, pressing a kiss to his chest. “It’s not putting up with you, Pedro. It’s just loving you. And it’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”  

His breath hitched, and he leaned down to press a lingering kiss to your forehead. “I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, his words carrying the weight of unspoken emotion.  

“You deserve everything,” you replied, your voice firm despite the tears prickling at your eyes.  

Pedro’s arms tightened around you, and in that moment, the world outside the four walls of your suite seemed to fade away. There was only the two of you, tangled together in love and gratitude, the promise of another day together stretching out before you like a gift.  

And as you drifted off to sleep, cradled in his embrace, you couldn’t imagine a place you’d rather be. 

COASTS OF MALTA — MORNING  

The morning sun bathed the harbor in a soft, golden glow as you and Pedro stepped onto the pristine deck of the yacht, greeted by the lively chatter of his castmates and the crew. The day promised adventure—an exploration of Malta’s dazzling coastlines, including the famed Blue Lagoon, Crystal Lagoon, and the secretive caves on Comino. The air smelled of salt and freedom, and the water, impossibly blue and inviting, stretched out like a gem-laden carpet before you.  

Pedro lingered close to you, his blue cast slung in a casual sling, though it didn’t stop him from giving your hand a light squeeze. He leaned down, his voice low and teasing.  

"Don’t get too excited," he murmured with a grin, his dark eyes gleaming. "You’ll make me look bad."  

You bumped your shoulder into his, rolling your eyes. "I can’t help it if I’m more fun than you."  

"More fun? Or more distracting?" His gaze flicked briefly to the bikini peeking out from your cover-up, his expression bordering on predatory before he quickly masked it with a playful smirk.  

“Behave, Pascal,” you teased, your cheeks warming under his intense stare.  

As the boat cruised toward its first stop, the Blue Lagoon, the mood was light and cheerful. Connie and Fred lounged near the bow, animatedly swapping stories with the crew, their laughter carrying over the soft sound of the waves. Coco flitted around like a hummingbird with her camera, capturing candid shots of the lively group. Near the railing, Paul was attempting to teach Denzel a ridiculous dance move, the two of them tripping over their own feet and causing more chaos than rhythm.  

You stood near Pedro, feeling the sun’s warmth on your skin, the gentle breeze teasing at your cover-up. A playful grin spread across your face as you untied the knot at your waist, sliding the fabric off and tossing it onto a nearby lounge chair. The vibrant bikini beneath was perfectly chosen—bright and bold against your skin, hugging your curves in a way that made you feel confident and beautiful.  

Pedro, seated comfortably in the shade with his injured arm resting on a cushion, froze mid-sip of his drink. His gaze locked onto you, his eyes darkening as they traced every inch of your form. Appreciation was clear in his expression, but it was the simmering heat in his stare that sent a thrill down your spine.  

You stretched your arms over your head, feigning oblivion to his attention as you joined Coco and Paul in their antics. The movement made your waist curve just enough to draw a quiet groan from Pedro’s lips, which didn’t go unnoticed by Coco. She smirked, leaning down to whisper as she passed him.  

“Subtle,” she teased, her voice dripping with amusement.  

Pedro didn’t even attempt to hide his grin. His eyes stayed glued to you as he shrugged, unapologetic. “Can you blame me?”  

Coco snorted. “Not one bit. But maybe cool it unless you want everyone else to notice how thirsty  you are.”  

“Let them,” Pedro muttered, mostly to himself. His tongue darted out to wet his lips as he watched you laugh with Paul, the way your body moved under the bright sun making it nearly impossible for him to look away.  

When you caught his eye and shot him a playful wink, his good hand flexed against the armrest of his chair, the urge to pull you back to him almost too strong to resist.  

Later, as you leaned over the edge of the boat, peering down at the water with Paul pointing out fish, Pedro’s voice rumbled low behind you.  

“You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”  

You turned to find him standing close, his cast resting awkwardly at his side. “I am. The water’s beautiful,” you said with a smile, but his eyes weren’t on the water.  

“They’re not the only thing,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to the curve of your hips, the dip of your waist.  

Heat bloomed on your cheeks, but you couldn’t help the grin that tugged at your lips. “Pedro Pascal,” you teased, stepping closer. “Are you flirting with me on a boat in front of all your castmates?”  

“Flirting?” He scoffed, his voice rich with amusement. “I’m just admiring. Can’t a man admire his girlfriend?”  

“Girlfriend?” you repeated, arching a brow.  

He smirked, leaning in just enough for his breath to ghost over your skin. “The girlfriend,” he corrected, his voice dropping into a tone that sent a shiver racing through you despite the heat.  

You bit your lip, glancing around at the others, who were too distracted to notice the charged moment. “Behave yourself,” you whispered, though your heart raced at the way his good hand brushed lightly against your hip.  

He grinned, leaning back with an exaggerated sigh. “I’m trying, but you’re not making it easy, sweetheart.”  

The way he said it, rough and low, had your stomach doing flips. The teasing sparkle in his eyes told you he knew exactly the effect he was having on you—and he wasn’t the least bit sorry about it.

When the boat anchored near the Blue Lagoon, you practically bounced with excitement. “I’m going in!”  

Pedro chuckled as you grabbed your snorkeling gear, pausing to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Try not to miss me too much,” you teased before hopping off the boat with an elegant dive.  

“Not possible,” he called after you, his voice tinged with laughter.  

The water was cool and crystal clear, every ripple catching the sunlight like scattered diamonds. You swam alongside Coco and Paul, laughing as he tried to outswim everyone only to splash clumsily when Coco teased him about his lack of grace. Schools of fish darted around you, their silvery bodies glimmering in the lagoon’s shallows, and the thrill of the moment made you forget the world beyond the sparkling blue waters.  

Pedro watched from the deck, his good hand cradling a drink as his cast rested on his lap. He smiled softly, his heart swelling at the sight of you. You were so effortlessly kind, so radiant, laughing and splashing with his friends as if you’d known them your whole life.  

“She’s really something,” Ridley remarked as he joined Pedro at the shaded table.  

“Don’t I know it,” Pedro replied, his voice warm with pride.  

“She’s good for you,” Ridley said simply, his tone laced with a rare softness.  

Pedro glanced at the director, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. She’s my soulmate.”  

Later, you clambered back onto the boat, droplets of water clinging to your skin, sparkling in the sunlight as they traced lazy paths down your arms and legs. Your grin was infectious, the kind of radiant joy that could light up an entire room—or, in this case, the deck of the boat. Pedro’s eyes were glued to you, as though the rest of the world had faded into the background.  

“Having fun?” he asked, his voice tinged with amusement but warm with affection.  

“The best,” you replied breathlessly, grabbing a towel and wringing out your hair. “You should’ve come in with us. The water is incredible.”  

He raised his cast dramatically, pulling a mock grimace. “In case you forgot, I’m a bit handicapped here.”  

“Oh, poor baby,” you teased, crouching beside him. You leaned in to press a playful kiss to his cheek, your lips lingering just long enough to make him sigh. “Next time, I’ll stay on the boat with you. We can sulk together.”  

Pedro’s good hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer before you could stand. “Don’t you dare,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble in your ear. “Watching you have fun out there is the next best thing to being in the water myself.”  

You arched a brow, motioning to your bikini with a teasing grin. “You mean you like the view.”  

Pedro’s lips curved into a slow, devilish smirk. His mouth brushed your ear as he whispered, “I love the view.”  

The heat of his words sent a shiver down your spine, making your cheeks flush. You swatted at his chest playfully before standing and tossing the towel over your shoulder. “Careful, Pascal. You’re not supposed to overheat with that cast on.”  

The boat anchored near the caves on Comino, the turquoise water shimmering like liquid glass. Pedro waved you off with a mock sternness, insisting you go explore while he stayed behind.  

“I’ll hold down the fort,” he said, settling back into his chair with a small smirk. “Don’t get lost in there.”  

You rolled your eyes, blowing him a kiss before diving into the water with Paul and Fred. The group swam toward the darkened entrance of the caves, their laughter echoing off the limestone walls. Inside, the sunlight filtered through cracks, casting dancing patterns on the rocky surfaces.  

Pedro, stuck on the boat, didn’t seem to mind in the slightest. His gaze followed you like a shadow, lingering on the curve of your body as you moved effortlessly through the water. Every so often, you glanced back at the boat, catching him watching you. He didn’t even pretend to look away, his expression soft, adoring, and entirely unguarded.  

When you returned, dripping wet and exhilarated, you plopped down beside him with a dramatic sigh, leaning your head against his shoulder.  

“You’ve been staring at me all day,” you teased, your tone light but your heart pounding at the intensity of his attention.  

Pedro turned his head slightly, brushing his lips against your temple. “Can you blame me?” he murmured. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”  

The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten. You tilted your head to meet his gaze, your hand finding his on the armrest. “You’re laying it on thick today,” you joked, though your voice wavered just slightly.  

“It’s the truth,” he countered simply, his thumb brushing across your knuckles.  

Your moment was interrupted by Paul’s exaggerated wolf whistle from across the deck. “Get a room, you two!”  

Fred chimed in with a loud groan. “Some of us are single and fragile!”  

You laughed, your head falling back briefly before you turned to Pedro, lowering your voice so only he could hear. “They’re just jealous.”  

“Damn right, they are,” Pedro said, leaning in close. “You’re all mine.”  

The possessiveness in his tone was playful but sent your pulse racing nonetheless.  

Later, as the boat rocked gently in the open waters, you sat on Pedro’s lap, his good arm wrapped securely around your waist. The sun had begun its descent, painting the sky in hues of pink and gold.  

“Pedro,” you said softly, your fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on his thigh. “Can we stay like this forever?”  

His eyes softened as he looked down at you, his smile tender. “I’d stay here with you forever if I could,” he replied, his voice filled with quiet certainty.  

The weight of his words settled over you, grounding you in the moment. You bit your lip, leaning in closer until your noses brushed. “Please just kiss me already.”  

Pedro didn’t need to be asked twice. His lips captured yours in a kiss that was slow and deliberate, full of unspoken promises and a depth of feeling that took your breath away. His hand splayed across your back, pulling you impossibly closer as the world around you seemed to disappear.  

When you finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against yours, and he let out a soft laugh. “I think you might be my soulmate,” he said, his voice a mixture of awe and certainty.  

Your eyes searched his, and for a moment, the noise of the others and the gentle lapping of the waves faded entirely. “I think you might be mine too,” you whispered, sealing the moment with another kiss.  

Laughter and chatter echoed around you, the boat a hub of joy and togetherness, but for you and Pedro, time seemed to stand still. In his arms, surrounded by the beauty of Malta and the warmth of his love, you knew you were exactly where you were meant to be.

[lady-artemis27]

This was incredibly sexy! 😮‍💨🔥 Hey Marcus, I like surprises… just saying heh 😏

A seriously good little one shot that you really should read!

Sweet Surprise

A/N: Honestly I'm just writing for myself right now and hoping you guys enjoy it. This is a FFM smut one-shot, my first time writing one. Thanks to @gothcsz for hyping me up enough to post it 💕

Warnings: unprotected pinv, fingering, oral(f!receiving), FFM

Taglist: @clubsoft @the-only-din-i-want @greenwitchfromthewoods

You walked through the palace, reaching the doors to where Marcus was being housed. Pushing them open, you were surprised to find him there already, with a woman straddling him. “Marcus? What is this?”, you asked, voice trembling slightly. He had summoned you, asked you to come here because he had a surprise for you, and instead you find this. You watched as he sat up, lifting her with him with ease; she didn't react to your presence, only moved to suck a bruise into his neck. You watched him shudder slightly and the tension in your chest grew. “You're early, my love.”, he said, reaching out a hand for you. You stayed back, fury clear as day on your face as you watched her continue to lavish his neck with kisses. When you didn't come closer, Marcus lifted her off his lap, depositing her on the bed beside him. She giggled, eyes darting between the two of you in obvious amusement. You didn't miss the way her eyes raked down your body, and if you weren't so angry, you'd be flattered because she was beautiful. Marcus walked towards you, arm outstretched to greet you; you dodged his touch, moving to the window at your left. He followed you, quickly wrapping you in his arms and pulling you back against his chest. You struggled slightly, but knew from experience it was no use trying to fight him.

“What's wrong, sweet one?”, he rumbled, leaning down and placing kisses on your neck. You sighed, your mind slowly letting go of your anger as he sucked on your pulsepoint. “Who is she and why is she here? For you?”, you asked, finally pushing away and glaring up at him, arms crossed. The look on his face morphed from confusion to amusement as he scoffed at you. “No, she's for you.”, he replied, hands smoothing over your arms as he stepped closer. The woman watched you both with interest, hands trailing over her scantily clad body lightly. Your eyes widened as you realized you had it wrong, after all; you and Marcus had talked about adding a third before, and since you had never been with a woman, he wanted to give you that experience. “I thought….I don't know what I thought.”, you murmured softly, allowing Marcus to pull you into his arms, finally. He pressed a kiss to your forehead before tilting your chin up, kissing you lovingly. The two of you stood there, making out slowly until the woman stood up and made her way behind you. Her featherlight touch on your arms made you gasp into the kiss, and Marcus took full advantage of your open mouth to swipe his tongue through your lips. She started to kiss and mouth at your neck and you moaned, grasping at Marcus’ tunic with both hands. She sucked a bruise into your neck before pulling away, circling to your side to push you back from Marcus. Taking your face in her hands, she kissed you gently, the softness of her lips against yours a direct contrast to Marcus. Her tongue slipped into your mouth, sliding against your own softly. You whimpered as she slid her hands up your chest, pinching your nipples through the fabric of your dress. Marcus moved to the bed, thoroughly enjoying watching the pair of you. 

You broke the kiss with a small grin and you both turned to look at Marcus, who was lounging on the bed palming his cock through his tunic lazily. He beckoned you both to him and you obeyed, dragging her with you with a giggle. You tumbled onto the bed with them on either side of you and immediately, hands were on your body. Your dress was pulled over your head, leaving you bare before them. She and Marcus both palmed your breasts with her leaning down to suck one of your nipples into her mouth, tongue swirling. Marcus swallowed your moans as he kissed you roughly; your hand slid into her hair as she laved at your skin. He trailed his mouth down your neck, pausing to kiss and suck at the bruise she had made on your skin. Her kisses continued lower down your body until she reached your cunt. You could feel her breath against you as she repositioned herself between your legs, spreading your thighs wide. Marcus leaned back, watching intently as she licked up through your folds, causing your back to arch and your hand to fly down to tangle in her dark hair. “Fuck! Marcus, she feels so good.”, you moaned, turning your head to look at him. He smirked, watching her continue to fuck her tongue into your dripping hole, her thumb rubbing circles on your clit. Your grip on her hair tightened and she moaned into you, causing your hips to jerk against her face. “That's right, use her face.”, Marcus murmured, tweaking a nipple with one hand as your hips started grinding against her mouth. He got up, shedding his tunic before returning to kiss you once more. Your hands gripped at his shoulders, pulling him closer to you as one of his hands trailed down your body. He fisted his hand in her hair and pushed her down against you, forcing her into your dripping pussy harshly. She moaned, the vibrations feeling like heaven against your clit. Your hips moved faster, grinding against her face as she sucked at your clit and pressed two fingers into you. Her slim fingers curved into you, pressing against the spongy spot inside your walls and you keened as she thrust them in and out. Finally, with one last grind of your hips, you came with a shout, gushing all over her face. 

She crawled up your body, planting kisses everywhere she could reach until she faced you and Marcus. Before you could kiss her, Marcus grabbed her by the back of her neck and pulled her in for a searing kiss, moaning at the taste of you on her tongue. You whimpered, watching the two of them together was mesmerizing. Marcus pressed hungry kisses into her neck as she leaned forward and kissed you, her tongue moving with yours as she moaned. He tapped your hip, motioning for you to move over; when you did, he quickly flipped her over onto her back, breasts bouncing as she giggled. He then pulled you towards him, kissing you for a moment before positioning you over her, thighs bracketing her own, ass in the air. His grip on your hips was tight as he pulled you back, grinding against his cock. You moaned as he slid into you, filling you up as he bottomed out. She immediately started touching you, mouth on your breasts as Marcus started to thrust into you, pushing your hips down against hers. Each thrust caused you to grind together and the sensation had you both moaning Marcus’ name repeatedly. “Fuck, Marcus, ohmygod you're so deep.”, you cried out, losing yourself to the sensations. He leaned over you, pressing openmouthed kisses to your spine and shoulders as he pistoned his hips into you. She continued to mouth and suck at your tits, your back arching against Marcus as he fucked into you. The faster he moved his hips, the faster you ground down against her and it was almost overwhelming. Your clit kept catching the hair on her cunt, the sensation heavenly. 

She moaned against your chest, hips and thighs trembling as she came against you, her slick causing more friction between you. “Oh my god, Marcus, please, I'm so close!”, you moaned; he lifted you off of her and started pounding up into you, your back to his chest. She lifted herself up, standing on her knees in front of you. A hand slid down your body until her fingers landed on your clit, rubbing tight circles in time with Marcus’ thrusts. One hand fisted in his curls, the other bracing yourself on her shoulder, you keened and your body shook as your orgasm crested within you. Your hips shook as he continued to fuck into you once, twice, three more times before he came deep inside you. Marcus let you go and you collapsed onto the bed, breathing heavily. She followed you down, kissing your neck and shoulders as her hand slid through the mess of your pussy. She brought her fingers to her lips and sucked them into her mouth with a heady moan. You couldn't help but watch as she licked the digits clean, humming around them. Marcus rested against your other side, pressing his lips to your cheek reverently. “You okay, sweet one?”, he asked, resting his hand on your stomach. You nodded with a tired giggle, pulling her into your side as you grinned at him. “That was such a good surprise.”, you whispered, kissing his lips softly. 

[thatboisus]

me logging onto tumblr after consuming a new piece of media

[chuulyssa]

being an x reader writer and trying to be inclusive of all readers makes me overthink so much like should i write about you having smth with milk in it? no no what if the reader is lactose-intolerant. about the reader being the big spoon? noo what if they wanna be cuddled like a little spoon. about fingers through your hair? noooo what if the person reading it is bald

[myownwholewildworld]

the mists of avalon

↪ a marcus acacius ficlet inspired by the arthurian legend of the lady of the lake

main masterlist | ao3 pairing: arthurian!marcus acacius x cursed!f!reader summary: you've been regent to the netherworld for as long as you can remember. as the lady of the lake, you know providence will put king marcus acacius in your path. so when he invokes you, you go to him, ready to fulfill your destinies. author's note: so this is what happens when i spiral down into hell. i present thee: king of camelot, marcus acacius. this is a retelling of the arthurian legend "the lady of the lake", where said lady (you) finally meet acacius (king arthur). enjoy <3 tags/warnings: 18+, mdni. gothesque vibes (i tried). soulmates trope. merlin makes an appearance. reader is neither dead nor alive. angst (it's the acacius curse i swear). smut. fingering. oral (f! and m! receiving). unprotected piv. creampie. the crow is important, y'all. interpret the ending as you wish <3 unedited, we rawdog it in this house. wordcount: 7.5k divider by @\saradika-graphics

With every step Marcus took, the sense of belonging grew. Through the dense forest he made his way, the overgrowth so thick he barely could see his feet.

Night had fallen like a heavy blanket, yet the bright moonlight, filtering through the branches, lit up the way for him. The moment he had surpassed the first trees, the cold nipping at his skin had vanished, being replaced by the warm humidity hanging in the air.

“What is this place?” Marcus had asked Merlin before they parted ways on the edge of the woods.

“Avalon,” Merlin had breathed, his husky baritone like a ghoul whispering its sorrows. “And remember this place, Acacius, for you will never see it in this same way again. Here the Lady of the Lake reigns.”

Merlin had not given him any more words of caution. With a simple instruction—to drink from the lake to invoke the Lady—Marcus had made his way through the ferns alone. Crickets sang their ethereal chant, breaking the overwhelming silence surrounding him.

And as much as he felt like he belonged here, he also felt like an intruder—as if a mortal’s presence would wither and poison this oasis. As if this celestial place was not to be witnessed by a mortal’s eyes.

A hoarse rattle unsettled the peaceful air, the coo of a crow circling above the canopy. A bird he’d been hearing for so long now, but was never able to see. It grated on his nerves, but Acacius decided to ignore it and push onwards.

With the hairs on the nape of his neck standing, fully alert of any other subtle changes in the air, Acacius trudged forward. The lent sword he held felt flimsy on his hand, hollow and weightless. King Pellinore had broken his own, leaving him badly wounded after Acacius confronted him for murdering one of his most trusted subjects.

If Marcus owed his life to anyone, it was to Merlin—his advisor had intervened in the nick of time, snatching him away from Death’s cold hands by casting a sleeping spell on Pellinore. It was also thanks to the mage that Acacius was still standing on his two feet, having dragged him across a forest to pay a visit to one of the most knowledgeable hermits on the land of Camelot.

Marcus swung the sword to clear the way ahead of him, finally arriving to a clearing. No longer protected by the warmth of the forest, Acacius was welcomed into an icy coldness that seeped through his flesh and adhered to his bones.

A mystical lake appeared in front of him. The greyish waters expanded in front of him, daunting as a battlefield. Rotten water lilies danced around, gently stirred by a soft gush of wind. A low, thick mist kissed the surface, making it almost impossible to distinguish where the shore began. The trees framing the lake had some low hanging, naked branches caressing the water too, giving the whole scene a rather lugubrious appearance.

The cold air was heavier too—constraining his lungs, the humidity clung to his nose, his breathing becoming shallower. The full moon dominating the sky casted a leaden shadow in the foggy landscape, stripping everything of colour—only a palette of greys.

And Marcus could no longer hear the chirping of crickets either, a hefty silence uncomfortably hugging him.

Acacius thought he’d entered some kind of underground world. Completely devoid of life, a striking contrast to the lushness of the forest he’d left behind. There was nothing nor no one here. He was alone. It felt like a blinding veil had fallen upon his eyes, turning everything into a silvery, dull hue.

In reticent awe, Acacius took in the gloomy picture. He belonged no more.

And suddenly got startled by the piercing caw of a crow. The bird flapped its broad wings in front of him, its sharp claws curling around a branch just a foot above the water. Its black eyes were like an abyss, no windows to a soul. Its head tilted, the animal watching him with intent.

Then the bird squalled at him again, graciously hopping down the branch until its peak touched the water, then its head snapped around in his direction.

It wanted him to drink.

Marcus stood there for a long second—his brown eyes transfixed on the crow, then on the water.

“Drink for you shall see the gift the Lady bears. But only if you’re worthy of it,” Merlin had muttered under his breath before disappearing from Marcus’ side.

Just as midnight stroked the ashen sky, Acacius sank his aching knees in the mud. Cupped his hands and ventured a last glance at the crow as if looking for reassurance—only to find he was the only living soul in this barren land. Had he imagined it all? Was the crow ever there? Was it the one which had been following him all along?

His eyes shot back to the water he held in his hands, tiny silvery droplets filtering through his fingers and running down his wrists. The inviting liquid made his palms tingle with cold and an acute need to quench his thirst overcame him.

So Acacius bowed his head down—and the moment his lips touched the virgin water, Marcus knew he would never taste something so pure. So exquisite. Craving more, the King felt the primal need to dunk his hands again and taste it one more time.

Mid-motion, a flash of blazing heat crawled through his skin. Then a grating coo—a cold shriek piercing through the night like a knife sinking in the flesh of his enemy—warned him of something’s presence. Or, perhaps, someone’s.

Slowly, and with an impeding sense of doom, his dilated brown eyes lifted, catching a glimpse of the moon’s reflection on the water. It sparkled rather brightly, almost blinding him—and for a brief moment, Acacius looked away, eyes squinting.

When his tired orbs darted back to the water, a delicate human hand emerged from it, on the same spot the moon’s shadow had glittered. The same red-billed crow he thought a mirage was now perched on the slightly curved fingers.

Marcus froze in place. His pulse was racing, his mind screaming for him to take his leave and run as fast as his legs would allow, but he just couldn’t. Mesmerised, hypnotised even, Acacius watched the terrifying scene unfold with his heart climbing up his throat, still kneeling by the shore. Unable to move, to avert his gaze.

The hand moved towards him, exposing part of a lifted arm as the figure walked on the lake’s bed towards him, the crow attentively watching him—soft, encouraging chirps blurting out while its head continuously tilted sideways in a rather mechanical way.

And then a head appeared above water, revealing the most beautiful face he’d ever witnessed. A woman of empyrean, yet eerie, beauty took what seemed to be her first breath in a long time. Water cascaded down her face and hair, the massive full moon behind crowning her dampened hair.

Marcus couldn’t find the words to describe you—breathtakingly, painfully beautiful. He’d never seen someone like you before. He could only stare at you in disbelief, his fear gone. But as much as he looked, he really didn’t see you. Not properly—the greyish veil still darkened his sight.

You coughed, struggling for air, and the crow took flight when you dropped your hand to your chest, wobbling towards him.

As if moved by a supernatural force, his strength returning, Acacius managed to get off his knees and tilt forwards to catch you before you fell at the edge of the lake. His sore arms wrapped around you like a vice, the mist surrounding both of you slowly dissolving into thin air—as if the lake itself was relinquishing its grasp on you. You felt so cold in his arms, he thought you dead.

The mud below his worn sandals gave way, and Acacius lost his footing. With his knees kissing the slippery sludge, Marcus kept his hold around you, not letting you go. Your delicate hands curled around the leather straps holding the pieces of his lorica together on his back.

“Sorry,” you whispered, a hushed sigh he almost missed—a sacred canticle that made his skin crawl.

Your cold hands pressed against his bare knees as you pushed yourself out of his embrace. Kneeling in front of him now, Marcus was finally able to discern what felt off to him even through the grey mist eclipsing his gaze: your eyes. They were sombre as the sky above, irises and pupils engulfed by the black holes of your sight. Eerily similar to the crow’s.

And for the first time in his life, Marcus felt… like he belonged. Not to a place, but to someone else. You felt like home. Like a calming balm on his torn heart. Like a ray of colourful sunshine on this grey world. Like someone who could have him on his knees, begging for your attention, your love. Like someone who would have him question his honour and duty. His purpose.

The strength of his own feelings took him aback.

“I— Uh…” Acacius rasped, still trapped by the sheer weight of this revelation.

You looked human but didn’t at the same time. Because if you were, how long had you been underwater? And if you weren’t, why did you look so real? Made of the same flesh and bone as he was, breathing the same air, kneeling on the same muddy bed. Present in the same space, in this very lake.

“King Acacius, I have dearly anticipated your arrival,” you mumbled, a feathery touch on his wrist before you towered above him.

A long, grey, linen dress clung to your curves, hugging your figure through the soaked textile. With the moon on your back, you appeared to him like a Goddess. And, inevitably, on his knees, Acacius bowed his head, overtaken by the sheer allure of your presence. King or not, Marcus was just a man and, in your presence, he was no one. A mortal graced with the vision of you. Had you ever come forth before?

“The Chough has grown impatient with every inconvenience you have encountered in your travels here,” you husked, tapping his shoulder.

His mind was spiralling so hard, he realised he hadn’t said anything of importance yet.

“The Chough?” he repeated, glancing up at you, still gathering his thoughts.

You nodded towards the tree near the shore again, and there it was—the crow, tracking his every movement. The bird happily chirped and rocked the branch under his claws.

“Since birth He has been shadowing you for He knows of your Destiny,” you mumbled, offering him a hand to stand up. “Perhaps you never saw Him until now, but He always saw you. Watched over you. Guided your trusted mage, Merlin, to keep you safe. Brought you here to fulfil your Destiny, my lord.”

Marcus’ calloused hand slid on yours, a soft and warm palm pulling him up. Your fingers curled around his wrist again, a light caress before you withdrew your heavenly touch. His hand felt cold again, destituted of your warmth.

“And what is this destiny of mine you speak of, my lady?”

“I shall not intervene with matters beyond my expertise, my King. For today, your Destiny awaits at the bottom of this lake I have guarded only for you,” you explained, moving to one side, your hand pointing towards the centre of the lake, where the moon shone.

“The sword,” he spoke breathless.

“Not any sword,” you softly corrected. “Excalibur awaits your claim, my liege. I have shielded it from fiends and foes since The Morrígan whispered your name.”

You came forward, your fingers curling around his wrist again. And yet your touch surprised him again—cold but reassuring; icy but comforting. Walking in front of him, you pulled him towards the shore.

Marcus couldn’t bring himself to look elsewhere—you felt so ephemeral, he worried you’d vanish the moment he blinked. But you didn’t, directing his wavering attention to the water.

“King Acacius’ sword, Excalibur, wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps upon the hidden bases of the hills,” Marcus recited the prophecy he’d heard Merlin say once before. The words never really meant anything. Until now. “Have you been safeguarding Excalibur for nine years?” he asked in awe.

You nodded once in reverence, your chin almost touching your clavicle.

“For you I have, my King,” you cooed, letting go of your hold on him. “You are to retrieve it thyself from the bottom of the lake. An unworthy hand would wilt and rot, its owner perish and drown. I will accompany you for the waters hide unthinkable threats for a mortal’s imagination.”

Marcus took in a deep breath, steeling his posture. Merlin hadn’t spoken of this caveat, but he was no stranger to seas and oceans. So he shook his head once in agreement, stabbing the mud with his borrowed sword.

“If you allow me, Sire,” you spoke gently, walking around him, halting once you were on his back. “This armour won’t protect you in this realm; it will only drag you down.”

With no more words than those, Marcus stood still while you unwrapped the leather straps holding his lorica. Carefully, you untied every bow until the metal breast piece felt loose. You helped him lift it off his head and put it down on top of a rock, a worn tunic covering his upper half.

But when your hands moved towards the front to help him get rid of the pteruges he wore, Marcus’ breath hitched. He didn’t speak, but his body did react. His muscles flexed, painfully engaging to tame his own reaction. Your cold breath fanning the back of his neck was a striking contrast to the warmth your hands brought him.

Whether you noticed or not, you didn’t say. Instead, you undid the clasps holding his defensive skirt and turned to leave it with his lorica, giving him enough privacy to rearrange his long tunic in an attempt to keep some decency.

“Come with me,” you muttered, looking over your shoulder, before you jumped back into the lake.

Trusting you felt easy, the right thing to do—and so he dived after you.

The water bit at his skin, colder than anything Marcus had ever experienced before. That didn’t put him off and swam with you until you both reached the centre. The silence was only broken by the splatter of water.

You sank a little, your chin submerged, and the resemblance of a smile curled your lips. “Big breath, my lord.”

And then you disappeared under water. Following your instruction, he took the biggest gulp of oxygen before submerging.

For a moment Marcus doubted if his eyes were open for it was pitch black beneath the surface. He couldn’t see anything, blind as he was in this realm he’d not ventured to before. But your delicate hand took hold of his, and together you dove to the depths of the unknown.

And there, on the bed of the lake, a sparkle illuminated this abyssal world. Excalibur, mighty as it was, caught the reflection of the moon, and Acacius felt its calling. It whispered his name, pulled his soul and heart towards it.

Filled with purpose, Marcus came closer. Looked at you—your hair floating around your face like the Medusa garnishing his lorica—and when you nodded, he grabbed it.

A thunderous feeling ran up his arm, but Acacius didn’t let go. It burnt through him, fingers clutched around the hilt, and a groan escaped his lips in the form of silvery bubbles. The sensation was fleeting yet intense, and as soon as it came, it went.

You swam closer to him, one hand stroking his shoulder while the other cradled his elbow. Your eyes were no longer black, their true colour now showing—beautiful and glittering, full of life. He just got lost for a brief second, before you gestured to go back up.

Holding his empty hand, you pulled him upwards until both of you resurfaced—Excalibur secured.

Your eyes, black again, glistened under the moonlight, and the smile plastered on your plump lips had only gotten bigger.

“Let’s go back to shore,” you said cheerfully, the sad veil haunting your features forgotten.

A minute later, Acacius stood up on the edge of the lake, feeling the weight of Excalibur on his right hand, as you came out right behind him. A rush of energy coursed through his veins, excitement and purpose becoming clearer in his mind. With Excalibur in his power, he would defeat all of Camelot’s dissidents.

“One prophecy has been fulfilled today,” you husked, reaching for his pteruges to help him dress again.

“One of many to come,” Acacius agreed with a smirk, his eyes searching for yours.

In silence, you wrapped his skirt around his waist, securing it properly. You were so close, it was a bit too intimate. Not uncomfortable though, there was something about you… about your presence… the way you carried yourself, that pulled him in. You smelt of lilies and salt, like the fresh breeze coming from the ocean. A musky scent that inundated his brain, clouding his mind.

You glanced up at him through your wet eyelashes, and Acacius saw your tongue darting out to lick your bottom lip before you averted your gaze to focus on the last knot. It had been an innocent look, but one that ignited a longing he thought himself unworthy of.

He just couldn’t resist—would you taste as delicious as the water of this lake? A taste of heaven. That was all he needed for his thirst couldn’t be quenched with anything else.

Marcus bowed his head, lost in the moment, as your eyes drifted up to his. He paused, searching for answers, looking for resistance, and found none. His forehead touched yours as one of your hands travelled up to gently cradle his cheek. Your thumb brushed him bottom lip, and Marcus saw the fight within you. The same war he was waging against himself.

You went on your tiptoes, just enough to caress his lips with yours.

“You shall go now, my King,” you whispered, your mouth softly moving against his with every heartbreaking word you spoke.

“And you?” he couldn’t stop himself.

“I shall stay here until I fade away,” you confessed with a sad, trembling pout, closing your watery eyes before you took a step back, leaving his half embrace.

“Fade away?” he hushed in a panic.

“Without the presence of the sword in the lake and with every passing full moon, I’ll slowly vanish. Return to The Morrígan’s side until I am called back to this world. My destiny has been fulfilled. For now,” you admitted, avoiding his eyes.

“No,” he breathed out, panic building up and shaking his bones, as he reached for your hand. “I won’t take it then.”

“You must, my King. Your kingdom depends on it,” you mumbled with a quivering smile, your thumb stroking the back of his hand.

“Then I’ll come back. Every full moon, I’ll come back to you. I’ll return Excalibur to the lake, then retrieve it again,” he said desperately, but with a determination he’d not felt before.

“Would… would you?” you husked, eyes bright with hope.

Your features softened as you squeezed his hand in yours. The look of faith in your eyes had his mind swirling, his heart pumping so fast he could only hear the rush of blood in his eardrums. Whatever this feeling was, Marcus wanted to hold onto it for however long he could.

“I wouldn’t. I will, my lady.”

King Acacius kept his promise. Every full moon, he came back to you, Excalibur on hand. Didn’t miss, not even once. The man was hardwired to return, find his way back to you, no matter what.

You had seen him at his best, but also at his worst. Had laughed with him, cried with him, listened to his dream of Camelot, the battles he’d left behind and the ones he foresaw, pondered about life and death. You had healed and kissed his wounds, nursed him back to health when his life hung by a thread. Because he would crawl out of war, bloodied and terribly injured, and that wouldn’t be an impediment for him to come back.

And with every meeting, with every little detail you discovered, you just loved him more. How could you not? Marcus was fierce in battle but was fiercer in love. He hadn’t said the words—neither had you—but his acts spoke louder. You felt so at ease with him, you’d told him how you ended up here, in this misty lake, regent to the netherworld—a lingering soul trapped in limbo, stagnant in this curse, keeping vigil of a sword. You told him how the sword had taken your life and hence, would be linked to it for eternity.

Every time he left, your heart sank to the pit of your stomach. You’d hear the whispers carried by the wind and sinking in the water like the rotten petals of a water lily. You would watch out for any murmur of his name. Wondered when you would see him again. Not because you didn’t trust his word—you did, blindly so—but because you were privy to his fate.

Providence would always bring him back to you for the King’s destiny depended on you—rested on your shoulders heavily, a constant nagging at the back of your mind. You knew of the battle of Camlann even though were unsure when it would happen—and you knew Marcus would return to Avalon. To you, for you to mend. To coexist in this otherworldly plane. It was only a matter of time.

You remained in your dormant state, conscious and anxious. Waiting. Always waiting.

Then the caw of the Chough rang firmly and loudly, rippling through the water.

A familiar pull tugged at your heart, waking you up from your sunken slumber. A force of nature propelled you up, your hands reaching for the void above your head until they cracked the surface. When your face breached the water level, you took in a deep breath, your lungs expanding and filling up, easing up the sense of dread blooming in your chest.

You blinked rapidly, sloshing some water while eagerly looking around.

The big, red-billed crow flapped its wings before it settled down on the branch it always did.

And there, right by the shore, amid the heavy mist, knelt King Acacius. The second his eyes landed on you, his whole face lighted up—the doom casting a shadow on his eyes, on his features, lifted; his eyes sparkled at the sight of you, wide and attentive.

His cupped hands let go of the remaining water and Marcus quickly stood up on the edge. He stepped forward into the water and, uncaring of his outfit, walked on the lake’s bed towards you. As if he couldn’t wait to have you in his embrace any longer. As if he’d been needily craving your presence besides him. The same way you did him. Silently so, though.

You swiftly swam towards him and met him a few metres away from the shore, when the water kissed his knees.

You stood there for a never-ending second, lost in his brown eyes, until gravity pulled you into his arms. Marcus wrapped you in his warmth, the palm of his hand resting on the back of your head. You slid your hands towards his lower back, pressing his armoured body into yours, and burying your face in the curve of his neck.

If home ever had a smell, it was his. Your home amidst the chaos of the underworld. Because your home was a person, not a place.

But this one hug felt different. Warmer, calmer. Definite. Steadfast.

Loving.

“My soul has been aching for the absence of your presence. Now I shall be at ease, my lady,” Acacius softly delivered words caressed your forehead, his lips mellow on your cold skin.

They reached deeper than you would have ever allowed. They took root in your core, hugging your fears in a way you had never felt before. They were sincere, purposeful. Truthful. A blooming heat spread across your chest and for the first time in an eternity, a sliver of hope settled in your heart.

Perhaps The Morrígan was wrong. Perhaps he could live. Even if that meant you would never truly have him by your side.

Because love, as painful as it was, meant letting your loved ones go when the time came.

Perhaps this was the time. Or perhaps not.

“Every time you leave, I find myself adrift in the mists of Avalon. Yearning, longing for the shore of your embrace, my King,” you confessed, looking up at him through long, wet lashes.

Your heart pounded hard in your core, your eyes diving in his for clues. Marcus looked at you in utter disbelief, as if your admission was the last thing he hoped to hear. Had you been untoward, misread his words? His meaning?

As the silence stretched, your resolution faltered. Averting your eyes, an unusual sting poking the back of your eyeballs, you took a step back.

But before you could fully escape his embrace, King Acacius held both of your wrists and gently pulled you towards him. One of his hands let go of yours, drifting up to cradle your cheek, his thumb stroking your soul.

Your eyes met, the same gravitational pull that got you out of the lake tugged at your whole being now.

“I love you,” Marcus whispered, both trembling with anticipation.

There. The words you had imagined yourself saying aloud, but that always got stuck in the back of your mouth.

You didn’t answer, you acted.

Draping your arms around his neck, you pushed him towards you, reaching up to trap his lips in a vacillating kiss. Marcus quickly reciprocated, his mouth opening in warm invitation. His tongue ventured in yours, soft and gentle. And what was first a shy kiss, soon became a needy exchange.

His arms threaded around your waist, then dropped until his forearms were below the curve of your buttocks. And when he picked you up, you locked your legs around his hips.

Without breaking the contact of your lips, Marcus walked you both to shore. Your mouth dipped down, kissing his chin, his cheek, his jawline—his beard tickling your lips. A feeling you would grow to crave, no doubt.

Once on the edge of the lake, your feet touched the mud of the shore. A break in the kiss gave Marcus the opportunity to thumb your bottom lip, his eyes full of adoration, a sparkle of want in them.

You needed him. More than what you cared to admit. If this was to be the last time you saw him, you wanted it to count. To be memorable. To show him how much he meant to you, how much his promise to return kept you alive.

It wasn’t that you were indebted to him, but that you were in love with him. Wholeheartedly and irremediably so.

You grabbed his hands, your eyes searching for his. Directed them to your hips, and curled his fingers around the grey fabric of your linen dress. You heard Marcus inhaling sharply, his hands tensing beneath your touch. And then you helped him lift your dress up, just a tad.

“I want you. I need you,” you cooed, going on your tiptoes to kiss him again, delicately this time.

That was all he needed to be spurred on. With determination, he finished the job you had started—lifted the whole dress over your head, leaving you completely exposed to the elements. To his gaze.

Your skin crawled with the sudden cold, but Marcus’ evident hunger made your body flush with heat. You’d never felt this way—like you belonged. Did he feel the same? Did he find comfort in your presence? Did he consider you his home?

He didn’t need to say the words, for his expression told you everything you longed to know. That, no one could fake. Not even a king.

“You… are divine, so beautiful, my sweetheart,” Marcus husked, a careful hand tracing the outline of your right breast. Not quite a touch, but the ghost—or the promise—of one. “A godsend.”

Your lips curled into a smile, and you grabbed his hand, cupping it with yours, to bring his closer to your bosom. And when his warmth enveloped you, you sighed, eyes closing with content. Marcus massaged your boob delicately, testing the weight on his rough palm, before his thumb flicked your nipple.

You bit down your bottom lip, reining in a moan. Your nipple perked up immediately, greeting him, and you saw his Adam’s apple bob in response.

“My King…” his title slipped like velvet on your tongue, his warmth commending.

“Marcus. Please, call me Marcus,” he whispered in response, bowing down to kiss the swell of your breast.

Your skin bristled at his intimate touch. It burnt through you, leaving nothing but need in his wake. And then his mouth dropped, kissing your nub once. And when you gasped, hand darting to the nape of his neck and fingers fisting a bunch of his silvery curls, Marcus gave your button an open-mouthed kiss.

He lathered it with his spit, before trapping your nipple between his teeth and pulling gently.

“Marcus,” you moaned, your head lolling back, a ray of desire coursing through you.

You’d never used his first name, not out loud. But it felt natural, easy. Something you could get used to.

He wrapped his arms around you again, picking you up in his embrace—still latching, his tongue swirling. Marcus moved with you in his arms, but not too far. Breaking contact, he settled you down on a wide, flat and smooth stone by the edge of the lake.

You sat up, glancing up at him. His face was injured, a fresh cut running through the bridge of his aquiline nose. Marcus looked tired, his wild unkempt curls pointing in every direction, and yet, the desire his eyes emanated was… intense.

He knelt before you, and irremediably you reached out, cradling his warm cheek. Marcus closed his brown eyes and kissed the palm of your hand, the intensity brewing inside his orbs evolving into something softer, yearning.

“Let me worship you tonight, my lady,” he muttered, leaning down to kiss your knee.

Your thighs involuntarily pressed together, the meaning of his words taking root. Your face became hotter, your hands slightly trembling. Marcus cupped them with his and pecked your knuckles, feeling your hesitation.

“However you want me to,” he reassured you. “Whatever you want me to do, I will do for you.”

His calm demeanour, his adoring eyes, his thumbs stroking yours… You trusted him. Wholly.

Slowly, you coaxed your legs apart, and Marcus’ sight eagerly dropped to watch the revelation—the gates to Heaven. He took in a deep breath, and you felt the pulse between your legs.

This should have been somewhat nerve-wracking, but it just felt natural—letting him see the whole of you, letting him take everything you had to offer. Only to him.

The King kissed your knee again, his lips moving north on the inner side of your thighs while his hands stroked the back of your knees, holding you open for his attention. His warm breath reached your cunt and shamelessly, he traced your wet slit with the tip of his nose.

Marcus’ tongue darted out, testing the valley between your pussy lips, before sinking it in. You sobbed in need, your fingers raking through his hair while Marcus pushed up your legs, so the backs of your thighs were resting on his shoulders. And then, dove in.

His tongue circled around your gushing entrance while the tip of his nose nudged your throbbing clit. You whimpered, crossing your ankles on his back to keep him exactly where he was. Marcus ventured inside your hole, all the while you leaked your pleasure on his tongue.

“Marcus,” you moaned, looking up to the night sky.

The stars greeted you, sparkling, and the moonlight bathed the landscape in its grey hue. But you could only see colour behind your eyes when you shut them.

Acacius moved slightly higher, and the moment his tongue flicked and licked your throbbing pearl, you couldn’t withhold your needy whimpers any longer. He kissed you so intimately, so sweetly, your cunt palpitated around nothing, a wave of energy surging up your spine. And when he suckled on your clit, your grasp on his greying hair became tighter.

“Oh, Gods,” you wailed, feeling a coil forming inside you, low in your tummy.

Marcus gave you no pause, no truce—he sucked, and lapped, and licked, and kissed, and fucked every inch of your beating cunt. He even slid a couple of fingers in your leaking opening, stroking the perfect spot, gathering your arousal on his fingertips to taste the insides of you.

“I… I…” you stuttered, unable to find the words.

The coil tightened; your whole body tensed.

“I know, mel,” he whispered, lips moving against your bottom ones, before pecking your clit. Marcus curled his two fingers inside you and slowly pumped you. “Let go for me, sweetheart.”

With Marcus’ tongue and fingers working your sweet pussy diligently, you couldn’t help but give in to the crippling sensation between your thighs. His digits bottomed out and he kept them there, his mouth smothering your bundle of nerves.

And finally, you came apart, fisting and tugging at his hair, your back arched, face looking up to the sky. Marcus fucked you and sucked you through your orgasm, drinking every tasty drop you leaked on his mouth.

Your heart was racing so fast, you could only hear your own heartbeat thrumming on your eardrums. You were heaving still, coming down from such a high, while Acacius kissed your mound and unburied his head from between your legs.

His smile was almost blinding, his nose, beard and lips glistening with your cum.

“Pure ambrosia, you taste better than I could ever imagine,” he husked, kissing your left breast, then your right one.

Coming off his knees, Marcus towered above you to unclasp the leather straps that kept his breastplate in place. You reached up to hold it for him and then placed it besides you on the flat rock.

His hands dropped to the belt that held his armoured skirt and halted for a second. His eyes asked for your permission, and you nodded in reply, biting down your bottom lip.

“Let me help you with that, my King,” you offered, eager to see him in all his might.

Your fingers worked the belt fast, and soon enough the skirt was on the ground. Only his worn tunic remained, and Marcus graciously pulled it over his head, revealing his body to you for the first time.

You reined in a gasp. His arms were very defined, so was his chest. His tummy was softer than the rest of him, defined by a pronounced V line—a beautiful sight. But what made your mouth water was below the enticing hairy trail.

His cock was at half mast, throbbing and thick. The feeding vein on his underside was working overtime—you could see it pumping blood. A base of unruly curls, his heavy balls hanging low. And the tip… was already leaking precum, a pearl topping it and sliding down the underside.

He was just gorgeous, in and out. Here he was, in all his glory, just for you. Longing for your touch.

You hadn’t realised how long you had been staring at him until you gazed up and found his dark eyes. Lust swirled in them, pupils blown and hungry. A ferocity you had not seen before—controlled, passionate, fervid. Such a contrast to how gentle and mindful he’d been with you—and you loved both versions of him.

Neither of you needed to speak, the silence between you was loud enough. Eyes locked in on his, you raised your left hand and cupped his balls, taking the weight off. They were warm and velvety, a good size to fill your palm. A sigh of relief rumbled through his chest while you massaged them softly.

His eyes shut, mouth slightly agape, when your other hand darted to his shaft. Curling your fingers around his girth, you gave him a gentle tug. Marcus groaned, his own hand wrapping around yours to lead the way. Under his guidance, you pumped him delicately, squeezing him from time to time. You revelled at how his dick responded, getting harder, warmer and heavier under your attentive touch.

Swiping his slit with your thumb, you buttered the precum on his reddened glans. He was literally weeping for you, silently begging to find refuge. And you could give him just that.

Leaning forward, you pressed a kiss on his mushroom head. His cock twitched on your hand, his balls tensing. You licked the precum off your lips, eyes travelling up to his. You were Marcus’ sole focus—as if everything around you both had vanished, as if everything was muted and there was only him and you.

You smiled at him, and the one he gifted you with almost stopped your heart. He looked so handsome, so worry-free… How could you not fall in love with someone like him? It was destined to be.

Maintaining eye contact, you opened your mouth and took him in. His cockhead was warm and tacky, soft and musky. Sealed your lips around his girth and swirled your tongue around him. Marcus growled above you, one hand landing on the back of your head—not demanding, just commending.

Your eyes shut close, your fingers working his cock while suckling on the tip. You sloppily slurped around it, taking in a quick breath before diving right back in. Pushing his throbbing length down your throat, you let him reach the back of your mouth, then bobbed up and down his dick—revelling in his manly taste, in how full your mouth was, in how natural it all was.

A potent pulse thudded on your tongue. Marcus was close to release, and the most primal part of you wanted him to come in your mouth. Wanted to gulp down his seed, swallow all of him.

His thumb stroked your cheek, and then he gently cupped your chin to push you off his cock. Your eyes fluttered open to look up at him, confused, missing his weight on your tongue.

“Mel, please, I need to be inside you,” Acacius almost begged of you.

You shuddered at his humble request, your clit ticking in your seam.

Scooting towards the centre of the rock, you leaned on your back and parted your thighs for him, exposing your dripping core. Marcus’ chest rumbled at the beautiful sight, and quickly joined you, kneeling between your trembling legs.

Holding your boobs, you felt Marcus dragging the tip up and down your slick fold. And when he tapped your clit, you squirmed and whimpered, lust-stricken.

“Shh, it’s alright, my love,” Marcus cooed, voice raspy with need. He swiped his crying cockhead on your overstimulated bud, using himself to pleasure you. “I’ll be right where you need me soon.”

You furrowed your brows, needing him inside you now. But when he insisted on rubbing your clit with the tip of his dick, you felt that coil forming again. Only this time it was happening faster, the tightening more intense. Pinching your own nipples and with the tension building up, you felt that familiar, delicious pulse right in the middle of your pussy.

Marcus sensed it too, and caressing the back of your left thigh, he spoke. “Come for me again and I’ll give you everything you desire, my lady.”

That was it. His words, in combination with the incessant flicking on your clit, was your undoing. For the second time tonight, a massive wave washed over you, your legs shaking on either side of him while he held your thighs in silent support.

Still blissed out, coming down of such satisfying climax, you noticed the knob of his thick cock nudging at your quivering entrance. And then Marcus rutted into you in one smooth move, burying himself down to the hilt, fully seated in your welcoming cunt.

You moaned audibly, his throbbing dick filling your entire pussy. Marcus laid on top of you, taking most of his weight off by placing his shoulders to either side of your head. Bowed down and kissed you, staying still above you. It was such an intimate moment—tasting him, while his cock sat snugly in your cunt—you never wanted it to end.

Slowly he pushed back, almost releasing the whole of his length, to then hammer back in. You hugged his neck and mewled into his mouth, while Marcus picked up a relentless, almost punishing, pace. He drove in and out of you with extreme ease, your puffy pussy lips kissing his girth, your cunt clumping down around him, gushing for him.

He nipped at your chin, your cheek, your jawline, your earlobe—his teeth were everywhere. King Acacius literally fucked you into the stone, almost becoming one with nature. And with every thrust, your heart beat faster and your hole squeezed him harder.

You palmed his shoulder blades, digging your nails in his flesh in an attempt to remain steady below him. With every prod, your whole body rocked under his weight. It didn’t work—the fierceness of his desire had the stone scratching your back. You draped your legs around his waist, crossing your ankles and pressing on his butt with your heels.

“Marcus, oh Gods, my King…” you whined, tearful and overwhelmed.

“Your King. Always and forever,” he promised, kissing the tears running down your temples goodbye.

His pledge made you swoon, for you believed every single word. They carried a meaning that tugged at your heart—only if you could stretch this moment in time, freeze the universe so he’d remained exactly where he was, forever. But you didn’t have such power—wished you did, though.

Marcus pounded into you, both of your breaths fusing into one as you kissed, teeth colliding amidst the vigour of his shoves. He pulsed and your pussy responded out of her own accord, kneading his shaft between your walls.

“I love you,” you breathed out, gleefully delirious.

“So do I,” he muttered against your agape mouth.

The overpowering sensation took hold of your body when Marcus slipped a hand between your sweating bodies and petted your clit—quick, precise circling motions that had you on the verge of a cliff. You couldn’t contain yourself anymore, your arousal leaking everywhere as your pussy clenched around Marcus’ stiff cock, milking him dry.

Your orgasm signalled his own, and unable to disregard your commending charm, Acacius followed you into the abyss. His warm seed spilt inside you, ropes of white painting your walls the most beautiful of colours. He filled you up to the brim, his cock beating in unison with your heart.

You were still shaking with the intensity of it all, and so was he. Marcus buried his face in the crook of your neck, his cock softening inside you, but not pulling out.

“I wish I could stay here with you,” he said breathless, a gurgling chuckle arising from his chest.

Something twisted inside you. Something dark and unsettling. For you knew how this all would end. But you couldn’t say—couldn’t intervene in his future, for the consequences of your actions would be significantly worse.

“So do I,” you echoed his words, hugging him tight, so he could not see the tears forming in your eyes.

Your eyes snapped open underwater, the whispers of tragedy rippling their way to your ears. Anxiety peaking, you looked around, only to see the dark vastness of the lake’s bed. Nothing around you had changed, yet it all felt different—colder.

Sunk in the bottom of the lake, you swan to the surface like you did every full moon to meet your beloved.

When your face breached the surface, you eagerly looked towards the shore.

Marcus wasn’t there. On his stead, the Chough that had been following him since his birth was on the shore, drinking from the lake. When it felt your presence emerge from the depths, it greeted you with a caw.

Then you heard the tapping of heavy hooves against the ground further away in the woods. A small group was approaching.

“Bring the King to the Lake!” you recognised Merlin’s voice, cracking and frightened.

Your eyes shot back to the crow and then, for the first time, you saw him.

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