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wordywarriorwrites · 22 hours ago

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I need them to be TOGETHER!!!

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!

#wordywarriorreads #fic rec #marcus acacius fanfiction #fuckyeahdindjarin #prima nocta

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wordywarriorwrites · 3 days ago

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STAYING THE NIGHT?!?!?! 😲🤭

Crazy on You

Summary: When his brother's new relationship brings an unexpected reunion into Joel Miller's life, he takes the chance to explore it in more ways than one. Y'all, this is just gonna be smut. Let's not pretend.

Content Warnings: explicit sexual content, piv sex, oral sex, use of restraints/blindfold, implied sploosh, i think they're in love how did this happen, anachronistic cellphone/emoji use don't even worry about it, reader has nickname but no physical description given, reader and Joel are same age

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 2.7K

Pairing: No-Outbreak!Joel Miller x f!reader

Previous Chapter / Series Masterlist

Track 7: Will You Be There

“Man, you got somethin’ you want to tell me?”

Joel slams the tailgate of the truck and frowns at Tommy. “They got the three-quarter ply or not?”

“I was trying to look at the website–” Tommy holds out Joel’s phone, his own broken for the third time in as many months – “but all this came up.”

Joel grabs it, his eyes scanning over the search history that his idiot brother somehow managed to open. “Goddamnit, Tommy.”

Some of the things on your list hadn’t been quite clear to him and he’d only looked up the words – nothing more. It’s not like he was looking for porn. He just wanted to be sure he knew what you wanted.

“You know, brother, if you got questions, I can help you out.” Tommy’s resting on his forearms against the side of the truck, the shit-eating grin on his face stretching from cheek to cheek.

“Get in the damn truck.” Joel shoves the phone into his pocket and stalks to the driver’s seat. “We got work to do.”

---

“What was it you had to look up?” You have the phone tucked into your shoulder as you toss things from your dresser drawer towards the open backpack sitting on your bed.

“Didn’t know what ‘free use’ meant.” You don’t want to laugh at him but he just sounds so aggrieved. “I wanted to do it right.”

“But Joel –” you lower your voice to a whisper, trying to sound serious – “I was going to free use you.”

You can picture the twin furrows creasing deep between his brows as he considers this. And then he answers. “Guess that’d be fine.”

You laugh. “I’m going to hold you to that. Did you have to look up anything else?”

“That last one. Couldn’t figure it out though.”

“‘Marshmallow Taco’?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that’s because I made that one up.” You drop to your bed, falling back onto your pillows. You half-wish your phone had a cord – the only difference between talking to Joel back then and talking to Joel now was getting to twirl the spiralling cord around your finger. “My list looked too short.”

“Funny.” You wonder where he is right now; you like to picture him stretched out on his own bed. “What time you comin’ over? Sarah’s already gone for the concert.”

“Was she excited?”

“Bouncing off the walls. Said it’s her third favorite band. I’m just glad Keri’s mom wanted to take ‘em.”

“And they’re coming back tomorrow?”

“Sometime after lunch.” He clears his throat. “So come on over whenever you’re ready.”

“Okay.” You sit up and plant your feet on the floor. “I’ll be there in a little bit.”

You’ve just gotten your sneakers on when the phone pings from where you’d left it on the bed.

if you wanted to

You are reading the message a third time, wondering what you’re missing, when the second text comes through.

you could stay over tonight

You look at the backpack sitting open on your bed. A silky scarf in riotous rainbow hues is spilling out of the top; you shove it back in as you consider his offer.

This feels easy.

And that feels hard.

But what the hell. Chewing the inner edge of your lip, you type out a few words.

What’s for breakfast?

---

“That’s a lot.” Joel feels like he’s watching a magician’s act as you pull each silky length from your backpack, piling the colorful scarves into the center of his bed.

“I like to be prepared.”

He picks up one – purple and blues swirling dizzily on a gray background – and passes it over his other palm. It’s soft and delicate: feels like it might snag on the rough places on his fingertips.

“How’s this work exactly?” He picks up another: one in each hand, floating and diaphanous as he waves them in the air. “Am I tying you to the bed or –?”

“Oh, Miller.” Your grin is a mile wide, eyebrows pushing high onto your forehead. “You’re not tying me up.”

“But –” He stops, remembering your list: ‘tied up/blindfolded’. It didn’t say who. “Oh.”

You tilt your head, eyes softening. “Only if that’s okay, though. And it’s also okay if it’s not.”

“You mean I just get to lay there and enjoy myself?” He smiles at you, dropping the scarves back into the pile. He’s not worried – he trusts you. “Sounds like a hell of a deal.”

“I like that attitude, Miller.” You reach for him, your lips slanting against his as your fingers pinch the hem of his shirt.

You move slowly, inching the soft jersey up his belly, gathering it into fistfuls as you go. Your mouth leaves his. “Arms up.”

He lifts them, letting you pull the shirt over his head and drop it on the floor. You lean towards him, placing a kiss against his shoulder, another on his neck.

You tap the button of his jeans. “Now these.”

He sheds his jeans as you tug your t-shirt off and drop it on the floor. He hasn’t seen this bra before: deep red and sheer, and when you step out of your own jeans, he sees that your panties match.

“Those are pretty.” He drags his eyes down you and then up again – sees the corner of your smile twist. “New?”

You shrug. “I might have done a little shopping.”

He grins. “For me?”

You tuck your finger into the waistband of his boxer briefs. Also new: he thought they were a step-up from the usual plain plaid boxers he wears. “Are these for me?”

“Yeah.” He raises his eyebrows as he lifts one hand to gently cup your breast, his thumb drawing light circles around your nipple that is puckered beneath the see-through fabric.

You laugh. “Then yes. These are for you.”

“Like ‘em.” He brings his other hand to your cheek and kisses you – soft as he can manage, and slow, until he feels your breath warm his lips. “Thank you.”

Your finger slides along the elastic edge of his waistband, until your knuckle is pressing into the fine hair that trails from beneath his navel. “And thank you. But these need to come off.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice: shoves the briefs to the floor and kicks them into the pile of his clothes.

“What about yours?” He slips his fingertip beneath the strap of your bra and begins to ease it over the rounded curve of your shoulder.

“Unh-uh.” You shrug his hand away, eyes twinkling, and pick up one of the scarves from the bed. “Lie down, Miller.”

Once he’s stretched out on the bed, you kneel on the mattress next to him, lifting his arm towards the headboard. He likes watching you as you work: the focused furrow creased between your brows, the tip of your tongue caught between your teeth. You wrap the scarf around his wrist and around the spindle of the headboard, once, twice, three times, then secure it with a quick knot.

“That feel okay?”

“Should be my hand be numb already?”

You wrinkle your nose at him. “Funny.”

You lean across him to reach his other wrist – the same wraps, the same knot – and he resists the urge to lift his head from the pillow to kiss the relaxed sway of your belly as you hover over him.

“There.” You sit back on your heels, smiling. “You look kinda good like this, Miller.”

“You look kinda good yourself.” He likes it when you laugh.

“Now –” you pick up a third scarf, emerald green and black in a geometric print – “this one.”

You fold it, again and again, and then place it over his eyes; he raises his head for you, letting you carefully knot it.

“Can you see?”

He can’t, not really – just the slightest horizon of light beneath the bottom edge. “Nope.”

“Good.” Your breath is close: warm and humid, scented with mint toothpaste and the honey lip balm you like. Next he feels your lips, gently brushing his. The tip of your tongue traces the perimeter of his mouth, then finally a kiss: lips parted, damp, and he edges his tongue into the space to find yours. You start to pull away, and he lifts his head, blindly chasing your mouth.

“Settle down, Miller.” Your fingers thread into his hair, guiding his head back down onto the pillow. “We have all night, remember?”

“Just like kissin’ you.”

“Flirt.” He can hear the smile in your words as you bump the tip of his nose with your own. A kiss on his forehead, one on each cheek, and then he feels your weight on the bed shifting as the heat of your body leaves him. Beneath the blindfold he squints: listening to the sound of your movements, trying to make sense.

He thinks he hears the tiny click of your bra clasp; he feels proud of himself when you stretch out over him again and the confirming softness of your bare breasts drag against him. Your hands are moving on his chest – fingernails not-quite-scratching, just a pleasant drag on his skin, made better by the kisses that you trail behind. When you reach his stomach, he realizes he’s holding his breath: his belly drawn tight beneath your open mouth.

Your palms continue their downward journey, to his hipbones and the kisses follow, too: traveling the path of hair below his navel. Your cheek brushes the head of his cock and he tenses, muscles twitching.

“Relax, Joel.” Jesus, he likes it when you say his name. “I’m gonna be nice to you.”

He doesn’t have to be able to see you to know how you’d look right now – knows just how your eyes would sparkle. “How nice?”

“Very nice.” He feels your words against him, ghosting as breath against the base of his cock. Another kiss, a flick of your tongue against him there, and then you move lower, tongue now gently sweeping against his balls as your fingers carefully cradle him.

“Fuck.” He wishes he could see you, but not seeing you is its own kind of pleasure – every pass of your tongue flat against him feels amplified. And when the fingers of your other hand wrap around the shaft of his cock, he can’t contain his groan.

“See.” Your mouth is moving again, tongue mapping a slow line along the underside of his cock towards the head. “Nice.”

Your lips surround him then, all warm wet heat, and he jerks against his binds, a involuntary shudder racing through him. He feels you take more and more of him – feels the head of his cock bumping at the back of your throat – before you draw him almost all the way out again. A flutter of your tongue around the head, and then deep again – you do it over and over, so slowly he thinks he might lose his mind.

“Please.” He doesn’t know what he’s asking for. “Please, baby.”

“You taste so good, Joel.” Your fist moves over him, slick from your saliva. “But I don’t want you to come yet.”

The mattress dips as you move again. He can feel the smooth skin of your calves settling against his thighs, then your hand is tightening around him even more as you drag him through your folds.

“You have to wait.” You notch the head of his cock into your center, and he feels the snug squeeze of you taking him in. “Because I need to use you a little first. Is that okay?”

He grimaces as your pussy stretches around him, and you sigh as you fall forward. He feels your breasts flatten into his chest and then the nip of your teeth on his bottom lip.

You tug it gently, then let go. “Answer me, Joel. Do I get to use you?”

“Yeah.” His voice is rough-edged and thick. “You can use me.”

A kiss to the corner of his mouth, then your palms press into his chest – he feels you push yourself up, the movement sinking his cock even deeper. Your hips start a slow roll, unhurried grinds that make his fingers tighten into fists. Jesus, he wants to see you, but he settles for listening: the hushed breaths that ease out of you as near-whimpers, the quiet skritch of your nails through the hair on his belly, the hesitant bump of his headboard into the wall.

And he settles for feeling you, too: the velvet grip of you sliding along his cock, the viscous warmth of your slick slipping down to coat his skin, the sweat-damp press of your thighs against his hips.

He feels your fingers sneak into the space between your bodies, brushing his cock as you touch yourself.

“I’m so close, Joel.” Your voice is a murmur, nearly a moan. “Need to come on this big cock.”

He half-wishes he had earplugs to go along with the blindfold; your words are about to undo him.

“Oh, fuck.” You tighten around him, your other hand digging nails into his ribs. “Oh, fuck.”

Your rhythm stutters, falling apart as you come. He has seen you enough to know what you must look like right now: eyes closed, lashes shadowing your cheeks, lips parted, head rocking back. Your skin would be glowing, damp with the sheen of exertion – it would taste salty on his tongue.

He’s picturing all of that when you’re moving again, lifting off of him; he can’t contain his complaint. “Where ‘re you goin’?”

“Shh.” More movement, and then he understands: feels your legs settle outside of his arms, feels the wet heat of your pussy slip over his chin to his mouth, feels the tight ring of your own mouth slide down his cock.

You’re drenched, soaking his mustache and cheeks. He laps at you, savoring you shiver when he swirls his tongue around your clit. He wants to make you come again – needs to. He wishes he had his hands for this: pictures his palms on your ass, thumbs pulling you open for his mouth, for his tongue, for his eyes. God, you’d be pretty like this.

“You can come now, Joel.” Your tongue flickers around the head of his cock, and then you take him deep – he feels the back of your throat begin to yield to him, and his toes fucking curl it feels so good.

He chokes back a groan. “You first.”

You don’t answer – can’t, not with the way you’re taking him, but he hears your moan of assent. It vibrates through him, makes his eyes beneath the blindfold slam shut. He uses every trick he’s got, remembers everything he’s learned about what you like, and when he begins to feel the quick rock of your hips against his tongue, he knows he has you.

But you have him, too.

The tension in your body shatters just as he gives in: he practically feels turned inside out by the force of it, by the sheer pleasure of filling your mouth as you come apart on his tongue. The back of your throat teases at him as you swallow, making lightning spark behind his eyelids.

You finally let him fall from your mouth: a final flash of your tongue over the head of his cock makes him jerk and you whisper a quiet “sorry”.

“No ‘sorry’.” He shakes his head as you clamber off him. “You’re fuckin’ perfect.”

A soft laugh as he feels you stretching over him, fingers at his wrist, loosening the scarf. “Hardly.”

You begin to untie his other wrist; he uses his freed hand to push the blindfold up his forehead, then draw his knuckles along your jaw. “Said what I said.”

“I think –” you smile at him as you pull the knot loose – “you might be easy to please.”

“Nah.” He slides his arm around you, guiding you down to him. You tuck yourself into his side, cheek resting on his chest, and he gently kisses the crown of your head. “Just know what I got.”

#wordywarriorreads #fic rec #goodwithcheese #coy #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut

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