"The sex tells the story, so it never felt gratuitous to me. The sex is character development. The sex is what is moving this relationship forward, and watching it change over time."
ă S.B x Arranged Marriage! Reader
ă Angst // SLOW BURN // one sided relationship // happy ending!
ăAn arranged marriage kept them under the same roof, but years of quiet indifference left them strangers in their own home. When Sirius finally shows a new, unexpected vulnerability, Y/N must decide whether to trust himâor let the distance between them become permanent.
ă8.3k
ăRequest: ashdreams2023
ăTaglist: @littlemadamred @raiweasley @iluvhrj @hoeforlifee @a1ienmush @pottermagiczz
ăA/N: i apologize for how long this took but i absolutely loved this angsty little piece <3
Much love, Saige
[masterlist]
The Black family had always been bound by blood, but Sirius Black had long since learned that blood was a chain, not a comfort.
He had escaped its pull once â stormed out of Grimmauld Place at sixteen, slammed the door behind him, and sworn never to return. But the irony of fate, as it often did, found its way back to him years later in the form of a signature on parchment.
An arranged marriage.
A peace offering.
A way, his motherâs letter had said, to ârestore the Black familyâs dignity.â
Heâd laughed when he first read it; a dry, humorless sound that didnât reach his eyes. He had no reason to humor her, no reason to involve himself with the ghosts of his lineage. But the war was ending, the Order was quieter now, and his defiance had dulled with exhaustion. Somewhere between the funerals and the rebuilding, he had stopped fighting everything on sight.
So when the proposal came, a match arranged years ago by family tradition, meant to bind the Black name to another ârespectableâ pure-blood house, Sirius didnât tear it up. He didnât even scoff.
He simply signed.
And thatâs how he met you.
You werenât cruel. You werenât vain. You werenât anything the Blacks had been known for. That, perhaps, was the problem. You were polite, careful, quiet â an echo in a house that had once been full of shouting.
The wedding was small, the kind that left more whispers than memories. Sirius had shown up late, smelling faintly of smoke and expensive cologne. Youâd worn a soft gray gown that your mother said was âunderstated but elegant.â
He hadnât said you looked beautiful.
He hadnât said anything at all.
Now, months later, Grimmauld Place was too big for two people who barely spoke.
You slept in the same bed. You ate the same dinners. You smiled at the same guests who came to call â old friends, new acquaintances, members of the Order who congratulated you both with a knowing grin. You called him husband in public, the word tasting foreign every time. He called you wife with that easy charm of his, voice smooth enough to make anyone believe he meant it.
But behind closed doors, it was different.
There were nights he reached for you, only because it was expected â because you were his wife, and he was your husband, and that was what married people did. His hands were always gentle, his kisses practiced. But they were never for you. They were obligations wrapped in warmth. When he turned away afterward, falling asleep without a word, you lay awake staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster.
It wasnât hatred that lingered between you. It was something worse â indifference.
He treated you kindly, almost too kindly, as though afraid to bruise a fragile thing. He asked about your day, but not because he wanted to know. He complimented your dress at dinner parties, but only when someone else might overhear. He never yelled. He never scowled. He never cared enough to.
And yet, somehow, you couldnât bring yourself to despise him.
Because sometimes, in the smallest, most fleeting moments.. you caught glimpses of the man beneath the distance. The way his voice softened when he spoke of James. The quiet grief in his eyes when he thought no one noticed. The way he always made sure you walked on the inside of the pavement when you went out together, as if protecting you was a reflex he couldnât suppress.
Those tiny fragments of tenderness were enough to keep hope alive â a cruel, fragile thing that refused to die.
You had been married six months when the silence began to feel heavier than the walls around you. You tried to fill it; with books, with chores, with conversation. Youâd talk about the garden you wanted to plant, or the stray cat that came to the window sometimes. Sirius would nod, half-listening, and then disappear into his study.
He was always disappearing.
Sometimes, youâd hear the low murmur of his voice from that room â old friends, most likely. Sometimes Remus, sometimes Order business. You never asked. You werenât sure if it was your place.
You had stopped expecting warmth. You simply learned to exist in the spaces between his life and yours.
Until one evening, something shifted; not enough to change anything, but enough to make you notice.
It was late, the fire low and the house quiet. Sirius came in from the cold, shaking snow from his hair, his shoulders dusted with frost. You were reading by the hearth, blanket wrapped around your legs, when he paused at the doorway. For a brief moment, he just looked at you â as if seeing you properly for the first time. The flicker of recognition in his gray eyes startled you.
âYouâre still up,â he said, voice rough from the cold.
You nodded. âCouldnât sleep.â
He hesitated, then moved closer to the fire. You watched the light play across his features â the tired eyes, the faint scar along his jaw, the weight he carried like a shadow. He smelled faintly of smoke and winter.
For once, the silence didnât feel entirely unbearable.
âYou should rest,â he murmured after a while. âItâs late.â
âSo should you,â you replied quietly.
He almost smiled. Almost.
And then, as quickly as the moment had come, it passed. He turned away, retreating toward the stairs.
âGoodnight, wife,â he said, not looking back.
You closed your book, heart aching at how easily the word wife could sound so empty.
âGoodnight, husband,â you whispered into the quiet.
And though he didnât hear you, you wished â more than anything â that he had.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
You began to take notice of some little things first.
The way Sirius preferred his tea â black, no sugar. The way he leaned back in his chair when he read, one ankle crossed over his knee. The music he sometimes played in the study, low and scratchy, old records of Muggle rock bands he mustâve picked up in his wilder years.
You didnât know when exactly you started trying to please him.
Maybe it was the silence, heavy and constant, pressing against your ribs. Maybe it was the small ache that came from watching him laugh at something Remus said, a laugh that never seemed to belong to you.
So, you started small.
You brewed his tea the way he liked it â dark, strong. When you brought it to his study, he barely glanced up from his parchment. âThanks,â he muttered absently, taking the cup without looking at you.
He didnât notice the way youâd taken the time to warm the mug beforehand.
Next came dinner. You asked Kreacher to prepare things Sirius liked â roast chicken, potatoes, buttery rolls, dishes that made him nostalgic for the meals at the Pottersâ home, before everything went wrong.
When you called him to the table, he was late. You waited, watching the food cool until finally his footsteps echoed down the hall.
âThis looks good,â he said with a faint smile, taking his seat. You smiled back, foolishly relieved. But halfway through the meal, you realized he wasnât really tasting it. He was just⊠eating. Like it was habit, like you couldâve served anything and he wouldnât have noticed the difference.
Still, you tried again.
You found a record he might like â one of those old Muggle albums with a guitar riff he always hummed under his breath. One evening, while he sat by the fire with a book, you put it on quietly.
His head lifted a little, gray eyes flicking to you, something almost surprised in them.
âThis is⊠good,â he said softly.
You smiled, heart thudding. âI thought youâd like it.â
He nodded, the faintest curve of his mouth there for only a second. And then he went back to reading.
The record spun on, filling the empty house with the sound of something that used to mean freedom. You sat nearby, pretending to read too, though your eyes stayed on him instead. Watching the way his thumb traced the edge of the page, the way his hair fell into his eyes, the way he seemed entirely untouched by the effort youâd made.
You werenât expecting gratitude. You werenât even expecting affection. You just wanted something â a flicker of interest, a trace of awareness that you were trying to reach him. But he stayed the same, polite and distant.
It was almost worse than anger.
A few nights later, you wore something new. A soft dress in a color heâd once mentioned liking, a passing remark months ago that had somehow stayed with you. You joined him for dinner again, nerves making your hands shake slightly as you poured the wine.
He didnât seem to notice.
His eyes skimmed over you with the same detached politeness he offered anyone else. He asked how your day had been. You told him about the book you were reading. He nodded. That was all.
The next morning, you woke before him. He was lying on his side, turned away, hair messy against the pillow. The light from the window traced the line of his back beneath the sheets. You stared for a long moment, wondering what it might be like to reach out â to touch him just because you wanted to, not because it was expected.
But you didnât.
Instead, you slipped quietly out of bed, dressing in silence, pretending that the ache in your chest wasnât growing heavier by the day.
Later that week, you overheard him talking to Remus in the study. You hadnât meant to listen, you were passing by, tray in hand, but his voice caught your attention.
âSheâs been⊠different lately,â Sirius said, tone uncertain. âDoing things I like. Playing old records. Cooking things I used to eat with James.â
Remusâs voice was low, thoughtful. âSheâs trying, Sirius.â
âI donât know why,â Sirius admitted after a pause. âWe both know what this is. I didnât ask forââ He stopped, exhaling. âShe deserves someone who looks at her properly. I canât force that.â
Your heart sank before he even finished. You moved away before you could hear Remusâs reply, blinking hard against the sting behind your eyes.
That night, you said nothing at dinner. Neither did he.
When he reached across the table to refill your glass, his hand brushed yours by accident. He looked up, startled â and for a moment, you thought you saw something flicker in his expression, something softer than pity, something almost human.
But then it was gone. He drew back, clearing his throat. âYouâre quiet tonight,â he said.
âIâm just tired,â you answered, forcing a small smile.
He nodded, as if that explained everything.
Later, when you lay beside him in the dark, listening to the faint sound of his breathing, you wondered if heâd ever notice you for more than the space you occupied â if there was ever going to be a day when being his wife didnât feel like pretending to be someone elseâs ghost.
And though you didnât mean to, you whispered it into the night anyway.
âI wish youâd see me.â
He didnât stir.
But in his sleep, Sirius shifted just slightly closer, his hand brushing yours beneath the sheets â unaware, unintentional, but enough to make your eyes sting all over again.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
For the first time in months, Sirius noticed you. Maybe it was because of the humility Remus gave him in conversation that night, or the small whispers of prayer from you that slipped into his mind as he slept beside you.
But he didn't see you properly, not the way a man notices a woman heâs in love with â but in fleeting, unguarded moments that slipped past his defenses before he could reason them away.
It started in the mornings.
Heâd come downstairs to find you already awake, hair pinned back neatly, sunlight falling across your face as you poured tea. Youâd glance up when you heard him, offering that same quiet smile â the one heâd always taken for politeness. But lately, he realized, it wasnât polite at all. It was gentle. Earnest. Real.
He didnât know when heâd stopped believing sincerity could exist in his world.
âGood morning,â you said one day, voice soft.
âMorning,â he replied automatically, rubbing the back of his neck. He hesitated before taking his cup. âYouâre up early.â
âI wanted to watch the sunrise,â you said. âItâs clear today.â
He nodded, pretending he didnât notice how peaceful you looked in that light, like you belonged to something he could never quite touch. He turned away before it could mean anything.
But it did.
He caught himself watching you sometimes. At dinner. In the garden. When you passed him a dish and your fingers brushed. There was no reason for it â no desire, no spark he could name. Just a strange, quiet awareness that had begun to unsettle him.
Heâd been trying not to think about what Remus had said the other day.
âSheâs trying, Sirius.â
He hadnât meant to sound cold, but he knew he had. He hadnât wanted a wife. He hadnât wanted this. But now that he had it â now that you were here, so careful, so patient â something in him began to shift.
It made him uncomfortable.
Guilt had a way of doing that.
He started noticing details heâd missed before.
How you always tucked your hands into your sleeves when you were nervous. How you hummed softly while reading. How you looked up when he entered a room, like you were waiting for something â even if you didnât expect it to come.
You never asked for more. Never demanded affection. You simply existed quietly beside him, filling the house with the sound of someone who was trying not to disturb.
He caught himself wondering what it would take to make you smile, really smile. Not the one you gave for the sake of peace, but something that reached your eyes. And then heâd curse himself for caring, because he wasnât supposed to.
Not like that.
One evening, he came home earlier than usual. You were sitting on the floor by the fireplace, legs folded beneath you, an open book in your lap. You looked up, startled, when you saw him.
âOh,â you said, standing too quickly. âYouâre home early.â
He gave a small shrug, shedding his coat. âThought Iâd give Kreacher the night off from cursing me.â
You smiled faintly. âHe does seem to enjoy that.â
For the first time, Sirius chuckled â a real, genuine sound. You blinked, as though you hadnât heard it before. Maybe you hadnât.
He moved closer, leaning against the mantel. âWhat are you reading?â
You showed him the cover. âSomething Muggle. A novel about second chances.â
He tilted his head. âDo they get one?â
âIâm not sure yet.â You looked down, tracing the page. âBut I hope they do.â
Something about that, the quiet longing in your tone, stuck with him. He nodded slowly, eyes lingering on you longer than they should have.
You turned back to your book, pretending not to notice.
The next day, he found himself in Diagon Alley without a plan. Heâd meant to pick up parchment and ink. Somehow, he ended up in a small shop that sold both Muggle and wizarding books. He wasnât sure why he was there, but when he saw a display of novels near the window, his hand moved before his mind caught up.
He bought one. A simple paperback â something about a woman who wanted to be seen.
That night, he left it on the armchair beside your favorite reading spot. He didnât say a word. You didnât mention it either, but the next morning, he noticed the book was gone â and a small vase of fresh flowers sat on his desk in return.
Neither of you acknowledged the exchange. You didnât need to. It was the first unspoken language youâd shared since your wedding day.
After that, things changed in subtle ways.
Sirius lingered at breakfast a little longer. You waited up for him a little later. Conversations stretched a bit past formality. Once, his hand brushed yours as he handed you a cup, and instead of pulling away, he let the contact linger â a second too long, not enough to be called affection, but enough to make you look up.
He didnât say anything. Neither did you.
That night, he couldnât sleep.
He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to your breathing beside him. He thought about your whisper from nights before â the one heâd half-heard in the dark, soft and almost broken.
I wish youâd see me.
He hadnât meant to hear it. Heâd been half-asleep, mind adrift. But heâd heard it, and it stayed with him.
He turned slightly, looking at you in the faint moonlight. Your back was to him, shoulders rising and falling in steady rhythm. You looked peaceful. He wondered if you ever dreamt of something better. Someone better.
He reached out, hesitated, then gently brushed a loose strand of hair from your face.
You stirred slightly but didnât wake.
âMaybe I do see you,â he whispered.
It wasnât quite true yet, but it was closer than yesterday.
He lay back, eyes open in the dark, wondering what it meant that he finally cared.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The first thing you noticed was how quiet youâd become.
Not the ordinary kind of quiet that had defined your marriage since the beginning â the polite, companionable silence of two people pretending they were fine. No, this was different. This was the sort of quiet that pressed down like a fog, heavy and endless, swallowing the edges of every word you tried to say.
It wasnât that youâd stopped trying overnight. It was more like the effort had finally worn you thin.
There had been hope, once. Little, foolish hope â fragile as spun glass. Youâd let it grow in secret, fed by small gestures and half-seconds of warmth. The book he left for you, the soft look in his eyes that night by the fire, the way he said good morning with something almost tender behind it. You had clung to those moments like a lifeline.
But days turned into weeks, and the small warmth faded back into routine. He was kind, yes. Always kind. He would hold the door for you, ask after your day, pour you wine at dinner. But kindness wasnât closeness. It wasnât love. It wasnât seeing you.
And maybe, you thought one evening as you brushed your hair in the mirror, maybe it never would be.
You stared at your reflection â the strands falling neatly around your shoulders, the gown youâd chosen carefully because you knew he liked the color blue. You looked⊠fine. Ordinary. Unremarkable. You wondered if that was what he saw when he looked at you â something decent, polite, unmemorable.
The sound of the front door opening echoed faintly through the hall. Sirius was home.
You straightened instinctively, brushing invisible wrinkles from your dress. It was pathetic, this reflex, the way your body still wanted to impress him, even when your heart knew better.
He came in, shaking off his coat, smelling faintly of the outside â cold air, tobacco, a trace of something smoky. His hair was mussed, his expression tired.
âYouâre home late,â you said softly.
âOrder meeting,â he replied, voice distracted. He glanced at you briefly, then away again. âYou didnât have to wait up.â
âI wasnât,â you lied.
He nodded absently, already halfway to the stairs. âLong day. Iâll see you in the morning.â
You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught. You just nodded, watching him disappear up the steps. The ache that followed was familiar -- dull, patient, merciless.
That night, when you joined him in bed, he was already asleep. Or pretending to be. You lay on your side, facing away from him, and realized you hadnât really been touched, truly touched, in weeks. Not since that last night heâd reached for you out of obligation. Not since youâd stopped pretending it meant something.
Something inside you broke quietly, the way glass breaks under water â soundless, invisible, absolute.
The next morning, you didnât make his tea.
You didnât wait for him at breakfast or join him in the study. You spent the day in the garden instead, sleeves rolled up, hands in the dirt. The cold bit at your fingers, but the ache was grounding â honest in a way nothing else in that house was.
When Sirius passed by the window that afternoon, he paused. You were kneeling by the rosebushes, brushing soil from your palms, the faintest trace of color in your cheeks. He hadnât seen you like that before â not the quiet, graceful figure who filled his house like furniture, but someone alive. Someone else.
He almost stepped outside. Almost. But the uncertainty stopped him, as it always did. He told himself you wanted space. He told himself you looked content. He told himself a dozen things to make the hesitation easier.
You didnât see him watching. You didnât care if he did.
By evening, you were exhausted â not from work, but from feeling. You had spent so long trying to be good, to be patient, to deserve his attention. And for what? The house still echoed the same way it always had.
When you came in for dinner, Sirius was at the table, a glass of wine in hand. He looked up, startled â maybe because you hadnât joined him in the morning, maybe because you hadnât waited.
âYou were gone all day,â he said.
You nodded, sitting down without meeting his gaze. âI needed air.â
âSomething wrong?â
You gave a faint laugh, bitter and soft. âYouâd notice?â
The question hung in the air. He frowned slightly, not defensive, just lost. âOf course I would.â
You looked at him then, really looked, and realized how tired he seemed. The faint lines around his eyes, the weight in his shoulders. You used to think that if he looked at you like that, youâd feel closer to him. But all it did now was make you feel smaller.
âI donât think you would,â you said finally. âNot really.â
He opened his mouth, but no words came.
You stood before he could find them, gathering your plate. âIâm going to bed.â
âYou havenât eaten,â he said quietly.
âIâm not hungry.â
Your footsteps echoed on the stairs, steady, final.
In your room, you undressed in silence. The mirror reflected someone you didnât recognize anymore â someone whoâd tried so hard to become what he might want that sheâd forgotten who she was before.
You thought of the girl youâd been before the marriage, the one who still believed in love, in choices, in warmth that came freely instead of being earned. You wondered if sheâd hate you now.
Sirius didnât come up right away. He sat alone at the table long after the candles burned down, your words replaying in his mind. Youâd notice?
It wasnât an accusation â it was too soft for that. It was worse. It was the sound of someone who had given up.
When he finally came to bed, you were already asleep, or at least pretending to be. He hesitated at the doorway, looking at you the way one looks at something fragile, afraid to touch it.
He wanted to say something. Anything. But he didnât know where to start. So instead, he sat at the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands.
You opened your eyes then, just barely â enough to see the shape of him in the dark, hunched and lost.
He didnât see you looking.
And for the first time, you didnât feel the urge to comfort him. You just closed your eyes again, letting the distance settle like dust between you.
Maybe it was too late.
Maybe heâd finally started to notice, but youâd already run out of hope to give.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
Sirius woke to an empty bed.
The sheets beside him were still faintly warm, the faint indentation of your body visible against the linen, but you were gone. The house was quiet in that thick, unsettling way that meant something had shifted. It wasnât the usual morning silence â the calm, habitual hush that came before the day began. No. This was absence.
He sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. The space between you felt wider now, heavy with things unsaid.
It wasnât that he hadnât noticed you pulling away. He had, in the way one notices a draft under a door, or a missing sound theyâd long since tuned out. It had started small: the empty teacup that used to wait for him on the desk, the soft hums that no longer filled the corridor, the way your chair at dinner was often left empty, replaced by a polite note on parchment: Ate earlier. Donât wait up.
He told himself it was nothing.
That you needed space.
That it was better this way.
But now, standing alone in the kitchen, with no trace of your quiet domestic presence, Sirius felt something sharp twist in his chest â not guilt exactly, not yet, but something close to it.
You had always been there, he realized.
In the rhythm of the house, the steadiness of each day. In the way the curtains were drawn back each morning to let in light. In the quiet meals that appeared when he forgot to eat. In the peace that existed despite him â despite his ghosts, despite the coldness heâd let settle between you.
You hadnât asked for much. Youâd never demanded affection or comfort or truth. Youâd just stayed. That was what made it worse.
He remembered your voice at dinner, low and tired.
âYouâd notice?â
He had no answer for it then. He still didnât.
Because the truth was simple: he hadnât.
Heâd built walls long before your marriage, and heâd let you live behind them like a polite stranger, all under the pretense of sparing you â as if indifference was a kindness.
But when had it turned into cruelty? When had he become his own familyâs ghost story, a man who could not love the person heâd vowed to protect?
By midday, Sirius found himself pacing the halls. He told himself he was looking for a book, but his eyes kept catching on traces of you instead.
A ribbon left on the windowsill.
A half-read novel by the chair.
A faint scent of lavender that lingered on the air.
He followed it into the garden.
You were there, kneeling among the rosebushes again, wearing that worn cardigan he always thought was too big for you. Your hair was loose today, a few strands caught by the wind. You looked⊠peaceful, he thought. And that was what scared him most.
âDidnât think you liked the cold,â he said quietly.
You turned your head slightly, but not enough to meet his eyes. âItâs better than sitting inside.â
He hesitated at the doorway, hands deep in his pockets. âYou shouldâve woken me.â
âI didnât see the point.â
The words were soft, but they hit harder than anything she could have shouted.
He wanted to say something, anything, but his throat tightened. So instead, he watched as you stood, brushing dirt from your palms. There was no anger in you, no spark left to fight with. Just quiet exhaustion.
âY/N,â he started, but you were already walking past him toward the house.
âIâll have dinner ready later,â you said.
And then, after a pause: âYou donât have to join me if youâre busy.â
He turned to watch you go, a strange panic settling in his chest.
For months heâd thought this distance was safety â that as long as you were polite and calm, things were fine. But now he realized how silence could rot a home faster than any fight ever could.
That evening, he didnât go out. He sat by the fire instead, alone, his mind restless. The house felt too large without you moving through it. Too hollow.
He thought about the little things youâd done â all the things heâd dismissed without a second glance. The dinners that had been for him. The music that had been his. The small, thoughtful gestures that had gone unnoticed because heâd decided they didnât matter.
How many had there been?
How many times had he looked at you and chosen not to see?
He thought of you sitting across from him at dinner, wearing that blue dress â the one that had made him pause for a heartbeat before looking away. Youâd looked beautiful that night. He hadnât said a word.
A low ache formed in his chest. Regret, sharp and unfamiliar.
When the clock struck ten, he went upstairs. The door to your room, your room now, he realized, was closed. A line had been drawn, silently but surely.
He knocked once.
âY/N?â
Silence.
He almost turned away, but then your voice came, quiet and careful: âYes?â
âI⊠wanted to say goodnight.â
There was a pause, long enough for him to feel foolish. Then: âGoodnight, Sirius.â
No bitterness. No warmth. Just polite distance, the same tone heâd used with you for months.
He closed his eyes, hand still resting against the door.
He had no one to blame but himself.
Later, lying awake in the dark, he couldnât shake the thought that this was how people left you. Not in anger or grief â but by degrees. Slowly, quietly, until one day you looked up and realized they werenât waiting for you anymore.
And maybe that was what scared him most of all.
Because for the first time since your wedding day, Sirius realized he didnât want you to leave.
Not the version of you who sat across from him like a stranger, but the one who had tried â the one whoâd smiled at him in the sunlight and hoped heâd look back.
Heâd missed her.
Heâd missed you.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The air in Grimmauld Place had grown thick with silence. Not the cold, angry kind that follows a fight, but the kind that grows quietly, like dust settling on things left untouched.
You had stopped trying to fill the void between you and Sirius. The effort had become too exhausting, and each attempt had been met with the same soft, polite indifference that had slowly chipped away at your hope.
Heâd always been civil, even kind at times. That was the worst part. Sirius wasnât cruel. He just wasnât there.
He sat across from you at dinner most nights, eating quietly, sometimes talking about work or things that didnât matter. And youâd nod, smile faintly, sip your wine, and tell yourself you were fine with that. Because if you didnât, you might shatter.
Lately, though, youâd begun to fade in your own home. You dressed simply, you spoke less. The fire in you, that quiet but persistent desire to be seen had dimmed.
You woke one morning before him, lying in bed staring at the ceiling. His arm was draped across your waist, heavy and absent, like muscle memory rather than affection. He looked peaceful, and you almost envied that.
You slipped out from beneath his arm carefully, dressing in silence. You didnât bother with your hair the way you used to, nor with the perfume he once called ânice.â
You made breakfast. For both of you, as always. But you didnât wait for him to join. You ate quietly by the window while the sky outside stayed pale and sleepy.
When he finally came down, shirt half-buttoned, hair a mess, you barely looked up.
âMorning,â he said, voice still low from sleep.
âMorning,â you murmured, setting your cup down.
He hesitated. Normally, youâd have smiled â asked about his plans, tried to make conversation. Instead, you stood, placed your cup in the sink, and said, âIâll be out for a while.â
When you returned, he was often gone, sometimes at headquarters, sometimes out with James or Remus. When he was home, the two of you exchanged words out of habit more than desire.
He noticed the shift, but he didnât know what to do with it.
Heâd catch you humming softly while cleaning the sitting room, only to stop when he entered. You no longer asked him if he wanted tea, or if heâd eaten. You didnât press your hand against his arm in passing. You didnât fill the silence with pleasantries.
Youâd gone quiet.
And somehow, that silence was louder than anything heâd ever heard.
One evening, he found you in the study, seated by the fire. You didnât look up as he entered. Your book was open, but your eyes werenât moving across the page.
He lingered by the door, watching you for a long moment. The firelight made your features soft, tired, distant. You looked⊠older. Not in years, but in weariness.
âYouâve been out a lot lately,â he said finally.
âI have.â
âEverything alright?â
You nodded once. âYes.â
He waited for more, but nothing came.
âY/N,â he said, softer this time. âDid I do something?â
You blinked, finally looking at him. âDo something?â
He shifted, uneasy under your calm tone. âYouâre⊠different.â
You closed your book gently, setting it aside. âIâve stopped trying, Sirius.â
His brow creased. âTrying what?â
âTo be someone you might notice.â
He froze, lips parting, but you went on before he could speak.
âIâve spent months trying to make this⊠marriage something more than a name on paper. I tried to make you comfortable, to be kind, to be what I thought you wanted. But itâs exhausting trying to be chosen by someone who never wanted you to begin with.â
He exhaled slowly, guilt flickering across his face, but you werenât finished.
âI donât blame you,â you continued, voice trembling despite your effort to keep it steady. âYou didnât ask for this either. I know that. But I canât keep pretending that this life doesnât ache. I canât keep setting a place for you in my heart when youâve never once stepped inside it.â
Siriusâs throat worked around words he couldnât form.
You stood, smoothing the front of your skirt. âYou donât need to say anything. Iâm not angry. Iâm just⊠tired.â
And with that, you left him in the flickering firelight, the faint scent of your lavender soap fading in the air.
That night, he couldnât sleep.
He lay awake staring at the ceiling, the same way you had that morning. The bed felt too large, too quiet. For the first time, he realized he hadnât actually seen you in weeks. Not really.
He thought of the mornings you used to hum while setting out breakfast, the gentle curve of your smile when he came home late. He thought of your perfume, the way it lingered on his robes even when he didnât notice.
Heâd taken it all for granted.
Now, all that warmth had goneâand the house felt like what it truly was: cold stone and obligation.
And Sirius Black, who had once sworn he would never be like the rest of his family, realized with a sick twist in his chest that he had become exactly like them.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
Sirius returned home one late afternoon, the sound of the front door closing softly behind him. He didnât slam it, didnât curse under his breath about the endless creak of the hinges like he usually did.
There was something quieter about him. Something careful.
You noticed it first in the way his boots didnât drag against the floors; how his voice, when he greeted you, didnât echo through the hall like an afterthought.
âEvening,â he said from the doorway of the drawing room.
You looked up from the book in your lap, blinking at him. âEvening.â
He hesitated before stepping in. You could tell immediately that something was differentâhe didnât move with the same restless energy, that constant need to fill the silence. Instead, he seemed almost⊠hesitant.
He looked at you as though seeing you properly for the first time in a long while.
âI saw you walking back from the market earlier,â he said after a pause. âDid you... buy flowers?â
Your brow furrowed slightly. âYes. Just a few.â
âI havenât seen flowers in the house for months,â he murmured, glancing toward the vase on the mantle. The lilacs were small, delicate, the faintest trace of life against the gloom of Grimmauld Place.
You didnât answer.
Sirius shifted, running a hand through his hair. âThey look nice,â he said softly.
You nodded. âThank you.â
The silence stretched thin between you, full of unspoken things.
Over the next few days, you noticed little things, small shifts that didnât make sense.
The breakfast dishes were washed before you came downstairs one morning. He started leaving earlier, but returned at more reasonable hours. He no longer reeked of smoke and firewhisky. He lingered near the kitchen sometimes, asking if you needed help.
It wasnât much. But it was something.
And you didnât know what to do with that.
You had built your own armor, piece by piece. Indifference had become your refuge. Now, suddenly, he was showing cracks in his own, and you couldnât decide whether to look through them or turn away.
One afternoon, you were in the library, dusting shelves half-heartedly when he appeared in the doorway again.
He stood there a moment, arms crossed loosely, watching you. âYou still clean in here?â
âSomeone has to,â you replied, voice even.
He smiled faintly. âSuppose thatâs true.â
You turned back to the shelves. His footsteps approached slowly until he stood beside you, close enough that you could smell the faint scent of his cologne â something he hadnât worn in so long.
âYou know,â he said quietly, âthis house never feels alive unless youâre in it.â
You froze, your hand pausing mid-wipe.
It was the sort of thing he mightâve said once, offhandedly charmingâ but this time, it sounded earnest.
You didnât look at him. âYou donât have to say things like that, Sirius.â
âIâm not saying it because I have to.â
You swallowed. âThen why now?â
He hesitated, and for a moment you thought he wouldnât answer. Then, softly:
âBecause Iâve been a fool. And I donât think I realized how much until you stopped looking at me.â
Your breath caught. Slowly, you turned to face him. His expression was unreadable â no smirk, no easy charm. Just quiet sincerity that unnerved you more than anything.
âI didnât think you wanted me to look at you,â you said carefully.
âI didnât know what I wanted,â he admitted, voice low. âBut I do know that this house feels colder without you in it. Thatâs not nothing.â
You stared at him, unsure what to believe. His words sounded genuine, but youâd built too much of yourself around disappointment to trust the warmth too quickly.
So you said nothing.
After a long moment, he nodded once, as if accepting that. âAlright,â he murmured. âIâll give you space.â
And then he left â quietly, like a ghost who knew better than to haunt too loudly.
That night, you lay in bed on your side, staring at the wall. Sirius came in late but sober, moving carefully so as not to disturb you.
You pretended to be asleep.
You felt the mattress dip as he settled beside you. Then, for the first time in months, his hand hovered uncertainly over your back. It didnât touch â but it stayed there, as though he wanted to bridge the distance but didnât yet feel entitled to.
And strangely, you found yourself listening to his breathing.
You didnât move. You didnât speak. But somewhere deep inside, something fragile stirred, a flicker of something that was not yet forgiveness, but not entirely indifference either.
In the morning, he was gone again, but the lilacs had been replaced with new ones.
And on the kitchen counter sat a folded note in Siriusâs handwriting:
âI know I canât undo the years I wasted. But Iâm here now. For whatever thatâs worth.â
You stared at it for a long time, unsure whether to smile or cry.
Because after all this time, you werenât sure if it was worth anything at all â or if it might finally be the start of something real.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
The house had been quieter lately, but not empty, more like the air had shifted into something waiting.
You could feel it every time Sirius walked into a room â the tentative calm that followed him, like he was trying not to disturb something fragile.
It was strange to witness. For years, youâd grown used to the thunder of his presence: the loud laughter that filled corridors, the careless charm, the weight of his footsteps echoing off stone floors. Now, that recklessness had been replaced by patience.
You didnât know what to do with patience.
You decided to test it. Not cruelly, not to punish him â but to see if the new calm he wore so carefully was real, or just another mood that would pass like all the others.
It began with breakfast.
You rose early, as always, and made tea. You didnât expect him to join you â he rarely did â but halfway through your toast, you heard him coming down the stairs.
He looked surprised to see you still at the table. You normally finished before he ever appeared.
âMorning,â he said gently.
âMorning.â
He hesitated, then gestured toward the seat across from you. âMind if IâŠ?â
You nodded once. âGo ahead.â
He poured himself tea, quiet and careful, and when he reached for the sugar, you noticed something: heâd started taking three spoonful's.
You blinked. âYou like it sweet now?â
He glanced up, a faint smile tugging at his lips. âTrying to be less predictable.â
You huffed a soft, unexpected laugh â small, but real. And he looked almost startled by it.
The silence that followed wasnât sharp this time. It was calm, like two people finally learning how to breathe in the same space.
You began noticing him more after that, not as the man youâd built from memory, but as someone different.
Heâd fix little things around the house: oil a hinge, mend a loose latch, clean the old family frames that had gathered dust. Youâd walk into a room to find him standing quietly, sleeves rolled up, hair falling over his face, muttering at stubborn screws or paint chips.
You didnât speak much, but you lingered.
One evening, you caught him in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, trying to cook. The air smelled faintly of garlic and smoke. He looked up when you entered, eyes widening slightly.
âIâm aware this looks like a crime scene,â he said, motioning to the pan.
You leaned against the counter. âThatâs one word for it.â
âRemus swore I could make pasta,â he muttered, poking it with the spoon like it had personally offended him.
âRemus has too much faith.â
Sirius laughed, properly laughed, and it startled you. It wasnât loud or wild like before; it was softer, almost shy. He rubbed the back of his neck. âYou could always show me how itâs actually done.â
You tilted your head. âYouâd let me?â
âIâd beg you, if thatâs what it takes.â
So you did. You took the spoon from his hand, brushing fingers by accident, and tried not to think about how that tiny contact made something flicker in your chest.
The nights that followed were calmer. You still slept with space between you, but it didnât feel like a void anymore.
Sometimes, youâd find him reading in bed when you came in. Heâd glance up, offer a quiet âgoodnight,â and youâd answer without the cold edge that used to linger on your tongue.
There were no grand gestures, no sudden declarations. Just small moments that began to stitch themselves into the rhythm of your days.
One afternoon, you found yourself walking with him into the garden. The sun had made a rare appearance through the London haze, and Sirius looked almost younger in the light.
He paused beside the lilacs youâd planted, crouching slightly to touch a leaf.
âTheyâre surviving,â he said, almost to himself.
âTheyâre resilient,â you murmured. âI think they learned to adapt to this place.â
He glanced at you then, eyes soft. âYouâre talking about the flowers, or yourself?â
You felt your throat tighten, but you didnât look away. âBoth, maybe.â
His smile faltered into something sad and fond. âYou shouldnât have had to adapt to me.â
You didnât answer right away. The breeze rustled the lilacs. âPeople do what they must.â
He looked like he wanted to say more, but he didnât. Instead, he stood beside you in the sunlight until the moment felt whole again.
That night, you stood at the vanity brushing your hair. Sirius sat on the edge of the bed behind you, quiet, hands clasped between his knees.
You met his gaze in the mirror for a second â long enough to see hesitation in his eyes.
He rose slowly, stepping behind you. His reflection hovered close, uncertain.
âMay I?â he asked, nodding toward the brush in your hand.
Your heart stuttered. You hesitated, then passed it to him.
He began to brush through your hair carefully, gently, as if afraid you might break if he pressed too hard. His touch was slow, deliberate, reverent in a way that made your chest ache.
It wasnât intimate in the usual sense. It was quiet, almost sacred.
When he was done, he set the brush down and said softly, âYou deserve more than what Iâve given you.â
You swallowed hard, unsure what to say. âMaybe,â you murmured. âBut Iâm still here, arenât I?â
His breath caught. You stood, brushing past him gently, and slipped into bed.
For the first time in years, when he followed, you didnât turn away.
You werenât ready to believe in him fully. Not yet. But you no longer flinched from the hope that maybe, just maybe, he was trying.
And for now, that was enough.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
It had been weeks since Siriusâs quiet transformation began, and though the walls of Grimmauld Place still loomed heavy with its shadows, something in the air had shifted entirely.
You felt it every time he was near, that almost-electric awareness, the ache of something unspoken sitting just beneath the surface. Youâd begun to move around each other like magnets, careful not to touch, careful not to draw too close, because you both knew what might happen if you did.
But tonight, the restraint frayed.
The storm outside had rolled in quietly, the kind that hummed low through the walls, making the lamps flicker and the air hum. You were in the study, pretending to read, the sound of rain tapping against the window.
Sirius stood by the fireplace, half in shadow, his shirt sleeves rolled, the amber glow cutting along his jaw. You could feel his eyes on you â not the absent kind of looking he used to do, but something heavy and searching.
You turned a page you didnât read. âYouâre staring.â
He didnât deny it. âYouâve changed.â
âSo have you.â
He smiled faintly, but it wasnât playful. âNot enough, maybe.â
You looked up then, meeting his gaze. There it was â the weight of years spent circling one another, all the longing and exhaustion and quiet affection tangled into something that finally demanded to be seen.
âWhy now?â you asked softly. âWhy only start trying when I finally stopped?â
Sirius took a slow step closer, then another, his voice low. âBecause I was afraid of wanting something I didnât think I could have.â
âAnd what is it you want now?â
He was close enough for you to feel the warmth radiating off him, the scent of rain and smoke in his clothes. He looked down at you, his voice barely above a whisper.
âYou,â he said. âBut not the way I was supposed to. The way I do now.â
Something inside you cracked â a quiet, fragile thing that had been holding everything in place for years. You rose slowly from your chair, and suddenly, the space between you was gone.
He reached out first, fingers brushing against your jaw as if asking permission. When you didnât pull away, he cupped your face fully, thumb tracing the edge of your cheek.
âYou shouldnât look at me like that,â you whispered.
âLike what?â
âLike you mean it.â
âI do,â he said, and then he kissed you.
It wasnât gentle at first, it was desperate, all the years of silence and unspoken words breaking open in one sharp exhale.
His hands tangled in your hair, your fingers caught against his collar, and you kissed him back like youâd been waiting a lifetime to remember how. Lips parted, tongues grazing each others teeth in rushed decisions, hands gripping each other as if never needing anything more in the world.
The storm outside cracked loud against the windows, but neither of you moved from each other.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathless.
âI donât deserve this,â he murmured.
âThen earn it,â you said, voice trembling but sure.
Something in him broke at that , you felt it in the way he kissed you again, slower this time, as though memorizing the taste of forgiveness. His hands slid around your waist, drawing you closer until you could feel the steady, heavy beat of his heart against yours.
You didnât think. You didnât need to. You just let yourself fall into the warmth youâd both been starving for.
The book slipped forgotten to the floor. The fire cracked and flared. His lips found yours again and again, hungry, reverent, lingering â each kiss more certain than the last, each breath a confession he couldnât speak aloud.
When you finally broke apart, neither of you spoke for a long moment. His thumb traced your bottom lip, still swollen from the kiss, and he smiled faintly.
âI think,â he said softly, âthis is the first time this house has ever felt alive.â
You pressed your forehead against his chest, closing your eyes as his arms came around you.
For the first time, there was no distance left to bridge.
And in that quiet, storm-lit room, the two of you finally let the walls crumble â not in anger or obligation, but in something that felt dangerously close to love.
when remus and sirius have a really bad argument, sirius tries to initiate something sexual because he canât stand listening to remus yell at him. he asks remus to be rough, to take his anger out on him, and remus goes along with it at first because heâs still furious.
but halfway through, remus realizes sirius isnât doing this because he wants sex. heâs doing it because he thinks he deserves to be punished.
so remus stops. he just lies down beside him and pulls him close, pressing soft kisses to his forehead and cheeks while sirius looks completely confused.
and remus tells him that arguments arenât punishments. that people who love each other are allowed to be angry with each other. that fighting is supposed to help them understand each other better, not hurt each other.
because thatâs what sirius learned growing up that conflict means pain, that love has to be earned back through suffering and remus wants him to know that with him, it never will
Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Virginity loss. Creampie. Daddy kink. Girthy, unspecified age gap. Exhibitionism if you squint. Oral (m! and f! receiving). Breeding kink. Assplay. Intercrural sex. Soft dom!Joel. DD/lg dynamics and the use of anatomical terminology to describe various body partsâdonât like, donât read.
Note: âLovinâ, Touchinâ, Squeezinââ is a song by Journey đșđ»
Another note: All characters involved in this story are adults. Reader is described as having grown up in isolation, without access to formal education, and as such, her understanding of the human body and sexual reproduction is limited. This is not a reflection of her intelligence or her ability to learn the topics.
Word count: 18.0k
Surely, it hurt.
It had to.
Whatever was happening in the confines of the bedroom next to yours, the woman didnât sound like she was having fun. A sharp cry had startled you out of your sleep, only slightly muffled by the cabinâs walls, and when you were awake, you heard all of it. Everything.
âTommy.â The voice rose, pitchy and shrill. âPleeease!â
It sounded as if someone were begging for their life, frankly; the responding male groan was near-deafening. The quick, hollow thumps against the wall picked up, and before you could even begin to wonder at what that was from, you heard Tommy Millerâs voice rejoin in turn:
âYou fuckinâ love it, donât ya, baby?â
No, clearly, your wife is in pain.
You couldnât believe what you were hearing with your own two ears; you and Joel had come to visit for the weekend, since the two of you lived a little ways away from Jackson and the balmy summer weather was too good not to travel. It wasnât all that often you got to see Joelâs only living family, but whenever you did, it was fun. Tommy, his brother, and Maria really seemed to suit one another, and you relished any opportunity to be around other people. You didnât get very much of that with Joel.
He was technically your closest, and oldest, neighbor.
Since your grandmother had passed some years back, he had taken it upon himself to care for you. At first, itâd been just a matter of stopping by every now and then to make sure you were fed, safe, and content, but that had morphed slowly over time to you moving into his place. Taking up residence in his little two-bedroom abode out in the middle of nowhere, and becoming something like a friend to him. A pet, a plaything, a wardâyou werenât totally sure what to call your relationship to Joel, seeing as though youâd never been anything to any man before.
You rushed over to his bed now, no hesitation stalling your limbs as you tore off his sheets in a state of panic:
âJoel!â
The man lay there, motionless. His big, broad, black-and-silver speckled chest rose up and down, again and again.
Joel always slept heavy as shit. He wore boxers and nothing more, which you were used to seeing by now.
And you felt such a singular familiarity with him after all this time that you didnât think twice to climb into the bed, right on top of him. This was just Joel, after all.
Round, brown eyes flew open as soon as you did.
âFuckinâ shââ he started, voice thick with sleep.
âJoel, hurry!â you hissed. Straddling his hips, grabbing at his bare shoulders and shaking them as hard as you could. âT-Tommyâs hurtinâ Maria! We need to help.â
A low groan sounded in Joelâs throatânot entirely unlike the one that youâd heard from his brother through the wall, you thought for half a momentâand shortly, a set of hands landed on your waist. They squeezed you tight.
And, just as it seemed they were about to lift and nudge you sideways, you bore down. Insistent, and frowning.
âJust listen! Right now. Please, Joel, I-Iâm serious.â
You were pleading with him now, unable to contain the fear in your tone as you clamped a hand over his mouth.
Honestly, you probably didnât even need to do thatâthe room was dead quiet, save for the sounds of you and Joelâs breathing, the soft whistle of the wind, thenâ
âOhhhh, fuck me! Tommy, itâsâshit!â Maria whimpered.
âYou asked for it, baby. Wanted me poundinâ ya, huh?â
Tommyâs words seemed to bounce off of every surface in the room with a grating, nauseating turn. It made your eyes widen, and your palm press even tighter to Joel.
âSee?! HeâHeâs hittinâ her! We gotta gââ
Joel groaned again. Louder, and more pointed this time.
You hadnât realized it, but your thighs were holding pretty hard, too. Your groin was aligned perfectly with Joelâs, your weight was sinking down, and that touch was concentrated. If there had been any room to consider your current spot, you couldâve sworn you felt aâŠlump?
âFuck,â Joel gritted through his teeth. Finally lifting you off him, and wincing as he did, he sat up. He met your gaze with a sharp, stern, and bewildered sort of look.
âWhatââ he panted, ââare ya talkinâ about, darlinâ?â
âDonât you hear it?â
âYes. Yes, I do.â
You blinked.
âSoâŠgo!â
âWhat?â
âStop âem.â
âFrom what?â
âFightinâ, Joel!â
Now, it was his turn to blink.
He waited several seconds, then continued.
âBabygirl, Tommy and Maria ainâtâŠainât havinâ no fight.â
For a while, you had only to stare back at him, confused.
The ride home was awkward.
Joel could feel it in his bones, beneath his skin, itching from within the deepest recesses of his body: that morning had changed things. For you and for him.
What he had come to suspect for the longest timeâand what had only made sense, since the one, lone soul youâd known all your life until him had been your grandmotherâwas true. You didnât know what sex was, or what it did.
Joel swallowed thickly, pretending not to be conscious of the warmth on his back. Your arms snug around him. Your cheek resting gently against the cotton duck fabric of his jacket while the two of you rode on horseback to get home, and a pout the size of Texas no doubt marring your pretty face. Youâd been cross with him all that day.
âVenison and cornbread for supper. How âbout it?â He tried supplying his tone with some playful inflection, hoping to entice with the promise of your favorite meal.
Clearly, though, he would need to try harder.
You shrugged against him.
âFine by me.â
Joel knew that tone. Could probably pinpoint with surgical precision what you were feeling before the emotion even rose to your eyes. He couldnât see you now, but he could feel the frustration bleeding through your words. Being treated as if you were too young, too innocent, too dumb to be told this hurt, plain and simple.
He wrestled with this thought the whole way home, then trudging into the cabin that youâd been sharing for months. You strode ahead, steps brisk and decided, and you peeled off your long, light cardigan without a care in the world. You kicked off your boots and set them beside the rest of his in the mud room. Joel followed you, softly.
He set his hands on his hips after toeing off his own Luccheses, watching you and not knowing what to say.
Then you turned to face him.
The cough was both reflexive and immediate. Joel had never seenâhell, itâd been years since anybody, but thisâŠthis was even worse, more jarring than he everâŠ
He forced his gaze away in a blink. He coughed again.
âSweetie,â Joel started, low. âI think your, uhââ
âWill you just tell me?â you snapped. You threw your hands up, as if sick of having had to hold your tongue this long. âWhatever was going on. With Tommy and Maria. I know you think IâmâŠIâmâŠyoung, or whatever, but, Joel, I am a full grown adult!â Another pause just long enough for you to gnaw at your bottom lip and cross your arms. Bad, bad move for Joelâs resolve. âAinât like itâs my fault I was born after outbreak and never learned.â
You were right.
Joel shouldnât have been so narrow-minded.
Still, that didnât change the fact that you were wearing what looked to be the most slight, translucent fucking frock of all time. Something short and sweet and swept up in a sea of white tulle: you couldâve been modeling for a wedding night lingerie specialty line, bare as you were.
He mustâve missed it under your sweater. Not turned his head to meet your eyes or your ensemble that morning before you climbed up on the horse behind him and set out. Joel knew heâd never seen thisâŠthing once before.
Your tits practically spilled out of the top. Your arms remained crossed, and you eyed him with a wary look.
âWell?â you said.
âWell,â Joel repeated, still floundering for words. âWhâWell, yâknow, IâŠsee, IâveâIâve beenâŠâSâalways beenâŠâ
Shit.
He was tongue-tied.
More helpless than a fish trying to ride a bike.
And, like a teenager with an untimely boner growing in his jeansâeven though, at his age, Joel couldnât get bricked that quick if his life depended on itâhe shuffled away. Sidestepped you in the hallway and made a beeline for the kitchen, where he could feel an odd stir start to take root in his lower half. He cursed the half-cocked mass in his pants and sincerely hoped it wouldnât interfere with what he knew he needed to do now.
âIâllâŠIâll explain it, sweet pea. While we cook, OK?â
âAlright.â You started trailing behind him slowly.
You didnât sound convinced. Joel wasnât remotely disposed for the conversation awaiting him in the kitchen, or having to look you head-on while half your body was on display to him. You didnât seem to see it.
You were as innocent and clueless as the moment youâd bat your lashes at him in the half light of the bedroom that morning, straddling his hips, and replying to his last quip by saying, âIf they ainât fightinâ, what are they doinâ?â
âWho gave you that dress, anyway?â
Joel retrieved the meat from the ice box, setting it out to let it thaw while you and him prepped the rest of the meal. Across the room, you were already grabbing some of the ingredients youâd need: flour, cornmeal, sugar, salt
âMaria,â you answered, simply. âShe let me have whatever clothes of hers I wanted. âSânice, ainât it?â
âIt looks like something youâd wear on your honeymoon.â
After turning to preheat the oven, Joel sidled up beside you. His gaze affixed itself to the counter through pure force of will, though in his periphery, he caught sight of the outline of your breasts. He tore open a bag of sugar.
Then you turned to him, voice rising a little:
âWhatâs a honeymoon?â
Joel couldnât help it; he had to meet your eyes lifting to find his. Inside them, he saw genuine curiosity brimming.
Innocence, too.
âJust a, uhâŠtrip that folks would take right after their wedding,â he said, before clearing his throat. âVacation.â
âOh.â
For a brief space of time, silence settled into the grooves and bumps of that slightly uncomfortable realizationâwhat the world was like before it all splintered apartâand neither one of you tried to speak. You worked nimble fingers over the dry ingredients, Joel cracked eggs one by one, and together, you made relatively quick work of readying the cornbread mixture for baking. It was easy.
Stupidly, Joel thought that he might be off the hook in terms of not having to discuss the mechanics of marriage and sex to you then, when you piped up again.
âSo this is what Iâd be wearinâ after gettinâ hitched? LikeâŠlike Tommy and Maria did?â You licked sugar off your thumb before sliding the tray to him, and he took it.
âYeah. I meanâŠâ
Joel opened the oven door, and more carefully than he probably needed to do, pushed the baking dish inside it.
ââŠnot immediately.â
When he had, you were right back beside him.
âDoinâ whatever we heard this morning, you think?â
The curiosity in your tone was unmistakable. Perhaps emboldened by the plain look of discomfort that was twisting his every feature, you could say it more freely.
Having sex, of course.
Why the hell hadnât your grandma bothered to tell you?
âYes,â Joel replied, stiff as anything. âThatâsâŠpart of it.â
âHow much of it?â
âWellââ
âAnd whyâd it sound like Maria was in pain?â
âBaby, thatâthat ainât any real pain, I prââ
âShe was screaminâ, Joel! Really hollerinâ.â
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
He absolutely hated this.
With you pressed up beside him, eyes wide and glossy and shimmering with intrigue, his cock half-hard in his jeans and his mind thrumming with that constant, paralyzing thoughtââI promised I would keep her safe, not completely obliterate her innocence like thisââhe balked. He took a step away from you and shook his head, like something had just rocked him to his core.
Your brows pinched.
âSo then, what were theyââ
ââcanât do this right now, sweetheart. âMâsorry.â
Joelâs whole chest seemed to cave with his sigh: the kind that reminded him how old he was, how naĂŻve you were, and how wrong it would be if he gave you the wrong impression of sex. Make you afraid of it, or averse to it.
âWe can go back to Jackson. Have one of them teachers in the schools explain it to you much better than I ever could.â Joel was walking to the pantry now, resealed food items cradled haphazardly in his arms. He didnât slow.
And, before he had even gotten the chance to open the door, much to his shock and sheer, unmitigated dismay, he heard your voice again. Behind him, as defiant as ever.
âWhatever, Joel.â
Your voice was hard; he could feel the eye roll baked in. Then you stalked past him, straight for the living room.
Stomping ahead, and calling over your shoulder, you said: âIf you wonât tell me, Iâll just ask some other guy to explain. Maybe the boys my age wonât be such prudes!â
It was the closest youâd ever gotten to downright bratty in your life. Joel had only to stand there, arms full of various powdered fixings and his jaw gone partly lax. He stared at your back, gaze following you as you went over to the den. You flopped onto the old and weathered sofa.
He dropped whatever he was holding then.
With something red-hot and ugly beginning to pool in his gut, mind reeling from the words youâd just spoken to him, Joel acted without thinking. Footsteps echoed.
âDarlinâ.â
He wouldnât get angry.
âSweetheart. SwâHey. Look at me.â
That simply wasnât in his nature. He loved you too much.
You turned to face him in your seat, and this time, Joel didnât feign not to see you. Half-naked as you were, pert nipples poking through your dress and chest rising and falling in fast, shallow breaths, you looked like a dream.
So what if he couldnât be with you how he wanted?
He could teach you, and that would be enough.
Joel tugged you back up onto your feet.
âFine. You wanna learn about sex?â
As soon as he said it, your eyes went wider. A heat must have spread from your cheeks all the way down to your toes and strangled your tongue as it did, because all you could do was close and unclose your mouth, repeatedly.
How fast that brave, no-bullshit attitude was to disappear, Joel thought idly. He wanted to smile.
You didnât even know what sex was, and still, as if by instinct, you knew that that word meant something.
It made you shift on your feet, toes curling.
âI, umâŠâ
Huh.
âWhat?â
âItâs justâŠâ you went on, sounding uncertain.
âBaby, if you canât even stomach the word, Iâd say weâd be better off saving this conversation for another day.â
That made you tense up again.
As if heâd just shocked you with a live wire, muscles jumping and skull surely shaking a, no, Joel, I can stomach it fine, I promise, you cut right back in.
Eyes lifting to his, bottom lip no longer snagged between your teeth, and then with your body lowering, slow, back down to take a seat on the sofa, you finally forced it out.
âJoel, IâI want you to teach me how to fuck. Really, I do.â
Well, shit.
Joel reckoned that had âpretty pleaseâ beat all to hell.
Your words damn near knocked him sideways.
It was all the man could do to keep from keeling straight over and croaking on the spotâhe had to get away from you, if only by a couple extra feet. He shuffled back. Stood at the center of the living room with his feet planted firmly in place, then tilted his head to you.
âAnd just where did you learn that word, young lady?â
Paternal condescension came too easy to him.
Joel blinked hard to keep his face in check.
You shrugged before him. Hummed back.
âDunno. âSâwhat Maria said, right?â you replied, eyes locking with his. âMoaninâ, âFuck me, Tommy, pleeeâââ
âThatâs enough.â Joel held his hand up to stop you.
What was he going to do with you? Gaze glittering bright, lips parted, practically careening over the edge of your seat to hear the rest, while simultaneously looking terrified to learn for certain. You knew some words, but not other ones. You had an innocence and an obscenity bound up inside you at once. Joel was afraid to touch it.
âIf Iâm teachinâ you a thingâŠâ he resumed, slow, stance widening where he stood and arms folding. âI mean one thing, sugar, weâre only using the clinical terms, yâhear?â
Joel scarcely had the words to describe the depth of his own emotion and what he felt toward you; he knew heâd need to keep someâŠdistance when discussing this subject. Making his jargon dry, unappealing, and scientific seemed like the best way of doing that.
âAlright,â you said, tucking your legs underneath you.
Another beat of silence.
Another ripe, strangled breath slicing through his teeth.
âOKâŠâ Joel went on, trying his best not to grimace. âHas anyone talked to you about the, uhâŠbirds and the bees?â
âYou mean dicks and vaginas?â
âHey.â
Joel choked.
His hand scrubbed down his face in an almost vicious way, and he had to shield his stubbled mouth with his palm, for fear of another less-polite sound tumbling out.
Sat on the couch, you wore a faint, smug little smile.
âSorry. Penises and vaginas,â you corrected yourself.
Again, Joel was blinking furiously, but now his index finger was lifting, too, pointing at you: âThin ice, kid.â
You werenât going to make this easy on him, clearly. Whether you were aware of the reasons why, or knew just how to wield your power over him was a separate question. Either way, Joel would need to keep moving.
So, pretending to clear a cough from his throat again, he went on. Recovering the grit to his voice, and scowling:
âYes. Penises and vaginas. Pretty simple stuff, really.â
You raised your brows. Joel ignored it.
âPole goes in the hole, andââ
âHowâs it fit?â you cut in.
âWhat?â
Joelâs frown deepened. You sat straighter in your seat.
âI meanâŠevery time Iâve seen one, itâs, umâŠwormy.â
Wormy?
âWormy?â Joel returned immediately, in disbelief.
And he couldnât contain the next, which all but launched itself off his tongue: âYouâveâYouâve seen a dick before?â
âPenis, Joel.â
âPenis.â
He sucked in a breath to try and calm himself, but the effort, evidently, was for nothing. He was near-seething.
You peered up at him.
âJust yours,â you said. A little sheepish. âOnce or twice.â
Joel let the breath out. His mouth tightened.
âYouâveââ Then he stopped himself. The question was stupid; of course, youâd caught glimpses of him naked before. That was inevitable living in a house this small.
Before you could even try to apologize, he pressed on.
âOK, well, whatâsâŠwhat the hellâs âwormyâ mean?â
âI dunno. Just, like, squishy and pink, I guess.â
âThatâsââ Another brief pause. Joel had to steel himself right. âWell, hon, it doesnât stay like that. ItâŠIt gets hard, when a man feels good. Helps him fit inside the woman.â
Not terrible.
Not perfect, but not terrible.
You perked up where you sat, and it was in that moment that Joel realized that his joints ached. His legs burned. The forearms crossed over his chest had unconsciously constricted tighter to the point that it was getting a little tough to breathe, so he released his hold. His hands fell to his sides at the same time you stood up in front of him
Damn that smile of yours.
Damn those gleaming eyes.
âCan you show me how?â you asked softly.
Your gaze trailed to his crotch, and Joel could feel it like a real, bona fide weight sinking him. It was curious. Sweet.
âThat ainât right,â was Joelâs first instinct, which he said.
Even faced with the stern, stormy exterior of a man no less than several decades your senior, though, you didnât seem deterred by those words. If anything, it made the little tilt in your lips kick higher. You smiled lightly at him.
âHow come?â you asked. âItâs just teachinâ, Joel.â
Too easy.
Joel swallowed and shook his head.
âNo. Sweetheart, teachinâs a whole other beast fromâŠfrom me showinâ you what I mean. You gotta know that.â
Still, his eyes were glossing over, and a haze was settling over his mind like a mist in the sky just before the break of dawn. His limbs felt heavy, and his tongue went dry.
You were too fucking sly and sweet for your own good.
As if on cue, you drew closer to meet him where he stood. The hem of your dress shifted and swayed, barely long enough to scrape the tops of your thighs. Joel couldnât bear to look higher, so he just stared at your legs. Scrambling like hell to come up with an excuse as to why heâd need to leave the room in less than a second, he wasnât remotely prepared for what you ventured next.
You took the hem in your hands, and you lifted it.
Not just an inch or two but ten, easily, all the way until the fabric was touching your navel. The move exposed your entire lower half to him, and Joel found himself ogling a pair of bright, white, matching underwear.
Before he could move, you tilted your hips. As if showing him a new bump or bruiseâwhich you often liked to do whenever you were hurt and needed attentionâyou said:
âJoel, look.â
He did.
He almost had to.
Old and awful and ashamed as he was, he couldnât keep his eyes away. They were unblinking and ravenous, soaking in your form like a hunter surveying its next meal
Then you shifted on your delicate, socked feet.
âHow âbout me? Can you show it on me?â you whispered.
Joel didnât have the bandwidth to mince words right now
Teachinâ, touchinâ, lovinâ, squeezinââhe had that craving.
One look between your legs and the man wouldâve died on the spot if you told him. That was how needy he was.
Your fingers wavered a little when you didnât hear a response. Joel was too busy eyeing you and trying not to drool, but the sight of you starting to lower your skirt snapped him out of it. He placed his hands on your waist.
âWait.â Then, realizing how abrupt and sharp that sounded, he paused. He tried softening his tone a little. âSorry. I mean. YouâŠyou want me to show ya, sweetie?â
Finally, his gaze slid up to meet yours.
You were watching him closely.
âIf thatâsâŠOK,â you said.
Well, shit.
Nothing would make him happier.
Still, fighting his base instincts, and just narrowly managing to keep his hold steady, Joel reeled it in.
Every thick, callused finger splayed across your sides was practically humming with primal energy; all the same, his love outweighed the lust. He lowered his voice to only the gentlest of tones and asked you, point-blank:
âIs that OK with you? Do you want me to teach you?â
Waves of chill bumps seemed to answer first: your skin, your eyes, your smile, every breath betraying that eager, nervous need. Then your grip moving from your dress. One hand clasping around his wrist and nudging it in.
You nodded.
You let him brush one sweaty palm across your skin.
Joel lowered without thinking. Sinking to the floor, onto his knees, felt like exactly what he needed to do, and he didnât give a shit if it pulverized his joints beyond repair.
âRight here?â he breathed, now level with your heat.
Wooden floorboards creaked under his weight, and the air swelled thick and warm where he knelt. Sunlight streamed through the windows, bathing the space in a dreamlike sort of haze. Joel inhaled through his nose and almost pitched forward; you hummed your soft assent.
You didnât know what you were doing then.
By what remaining, fraying thread of resolve the man possessed, Joel stopped himself before he went too far.
He blinked fast and moved his hands to your hips, just below where you were holding your dressâs hem for him.
Clinical.
Educational.
Fucking academic was what this would be.
âAnyone ever teach you about her?â Joel asked gently.
A ringing in his ears succeeded that question, louder than anything heâd ever experienced, and he looked up at you. You stared down at him, and one bat of your eyes was all it took to remind him heâd have to take this slow.
âHer?â you murmured.
âYeah. Her.â
Joel wished his hands werenât so big, seeing how easy it was to move his thumb: his palm glided across the slope of your tender mound, and in no time at all, he had a thick, callused pad stroking you over your panties. It traced your seam carefullyâcautiously, like a single wrong move might wind up losing you to him foreverâand then he searched your face. He swallowed, watching the features contort the slightest, slightest bit in yours.
Your breath hitched, and you whimpered.
You spread your thighs a little more.
âPrivate parts haveâŠpronouns?â
That thumb swiped up. It grazed a tiny bud beneath cotton, and in under a second, your lips were twitching again. Your hips stirred, as if beyond your conscious control, and Joel eased off of you. He nodded his head.
ââSâcalled a âvulva,â baby.â Then his palm cupped it. Holding you in place, repeating: clinical, educational, academic like a broken refrain in his mind, over and over again. âThis whole thing. Pronouns make it a little more personal, yâknow? But can you repeat that word for me?â
âVulva.â
The word was foreign on your tongue. You didnât seem acquainted with the taste or the feel, and that forced a tiny line of worry between your eyebrows. Joel went on.
âJust like that, baby. Good. Reckon itâs best you learn about you before we take on any other stuff, for now.â Holding your heat like a weight in his hand, he crooked his fingers, and the pads grazed a smooth, clothed orifice. âNow whatâs this called? You already said it.â
âTheâŠum, vagina.â With a smidge more confidence, you still balked when his index and middle fingers prodded the fabric. That was all he needed for itâtwo tips poised above that tight, tender hole through the cotton of your underwear, and Joel could sense how acutely you felt it.
You shifted on your feet and let out a sharper noise. You clapped a hand to his shoulder and squeezed it, shortly.
Inundated as he was with desire, Joel kept a firm grip over his self-control. His touch retracted from your heat.
âY-Yeah. Iâm fine. I just feelâŠâ
A beat passed, and it seemed you were looking for words
âIs it normal? I feel a littleâŠweird, andâŠandâŠâ
Still searching. Joel was watching you closely, puzzled.
âYeah, darlinâ? What feels weird? Talk to me.â
At length, the internal foray ended, and you had only to clamp your other palm onto his shoulder, holding tight with both hands and letting your hem drop down again.
A sigh escaped you.
âJoel, IâmâŠIâm justâŠsticky down there.â
You said it, and at the same time, your thighs clenched.
Joel was no longer touching between your legs, but the gesture, along with your half-whispered, half-whimpered words nearly sucked him back in all over again. His head spun. His fingers were practically aching with need, wanting to tug your panties down and show you that this was a good thing, but, as before, restraint stopped him.
Instead, he nodded up at you.
With your palms pressing hard and your body positioned over himâtowering, compared to his obeisant kneelingâJoel could only be sweet. Understanding. Softly coaxing.
âYeah? Wanna show me, sweet pea?â
It took some more effort after that. Cajoling, for one thing, but also assuring you that the sticky, wet feeling you got between your thighs wasnât something to hide but a perfectly normal, natural bodily function of yours. That it helped facilitate the act of sex, as a matter of fact.
âMeans sheâs happy,â Joel said, watching as you peeled your panties downâvery nearly hearing the tacky sound.
Sure enough, the truth came to light. Quite literally, he was proven right with a pool of something thick and crystalline collected at the gusset of your undies; the stuff stretched in a half-dozen strings from the fabric to your drooling cunt, bared to him and pulsing with heat.
Clinical.
Educational.
Fucking academâ
âIt hurts, Joel,â you said.
âHurts?â Joel blinked once. âWhereâs itââ
Suddenly, you were rubbing two fingers between your folds in a crude sort of way. Your underwear was in a puddle at your feet, and your free hand was back at the hem of your dress, lifting it slightly. Joelâs eyes widened.
âRightâRight here. It aches. Make it go away, please.â
âBabyââ
âPlease, Joel. You said you would teach me, right?â
He did, of course.
He just never thought itâd include touching you half-nude
Leaning in on his knees, pretending he wasnât decades your senior, chock-full of grays, and a man who had sworn to your grandmother that he would keep you safe. Ensuring you would be taken care of. Surely, that promise encompassed the perils of men and their darkest intentions, yet, here he was. Basking in your glow, reveling in the heat, sleek, and that fucking scent.
His lips were the first to give way.
They seemed to act of their own volition as they sank in to press a kiss between your ownâlower, and wetter, but still your lips all the sameâand they didnât hesitate. They formed an âoâ directly over your throbbing clit and kissed.
Your stomach clenched in response. Your hips stuttered.
The hand that was clutching your dress jerked to Joelâs salt-and-pepper locks and made a fist, tight as anything.
âJoel,â you whined.
âJoel,â you pleaded.
âJoelâ became the quietest, most plaintive refrain in a matter of seconds, with that old, lined, and weathered mouth latching onto your little nub and suckling her in.
Joel pulled off with a wet pop. He didnât waste time.
âThatâs your clitoris, sweetheart.â Hooded, hazy brown eyes drifted up to meet yours, while your legs trembled around his head. âSensitive, ainât she? Say âclitâ for me.â
Your jaw was slack.
Short, shallow gasps were working their way in and out of your lungs while it seemed you were trying to recover some semblance of propriety, but all that came out was:
âJoelâŠohâŠohâŠâ
ââClit,â baby. Say it back.â
Maybe that was mean. Hell, it definitely was.
Here you were, fighting to make sense of the wild, shocky feeling spiraling up from that tiny bundle of nerves, and he was making you talk your way through it. The smallest grin twitched at the corners of his lips, though he worked hard not to let it show too obviously.
He squeezed one of your thighs and forged on, soft.
âHowâs about it? Got lots more ground to cover.â
You swallowed, finally blinking back at him.
âClâClit. Can you kiss it again, please?â
And Joel did: to reward you, but also to contain the laughter that was no doubt about to be bubbling to the surface if he didnât make use of that mouth of his, fast.
He kissed your clit like heâd done before, smiling against slick, sopping wet flesh and loving on it gently. He licked a ring around the hood and was about to use the tip to lift it upâto really hit your pleasure point and make you squirmâwhen another thought possessed him. Another step, another lesson, another far-too-tempting-to-resist spot where he might continue this campaign of erudition
âEver heard of a thing called a âg-spot,â baby?â Joel said.
You shook your head no.
With your hips tilted toward him and his head in the way, the fabric of your dress hadnât slid down much since youâd let go, but all the same, Joel lifted a hand to grip the hem of it. He coaxed your fingers down while he did.
âWatch as you do it. I want you to put those pretty fingers to use, try and find that place. Can you do that?â
âWhere?â
âInside you.â
âBut Iâwhy?â
âFeels good, trust me.â
Your brows knit in that familiar way; Joel could fall apart with just one look at it. He didnât press, even when your fingers fumbled down your tummy and made a pass through your legsâcompletely unaware of what those digits were meant to do and simply wanting to try. Perhaps youâd hoped to replicate the sensation heâd given you, too, or you wouldnât have moved so quickly.
Swiftly slicking up your fingertips and toying, but making a face when it seemed like you couldnât feel quite the same thing as you had before, you peered down at him.
âIn here?â Your index hovered over a wet, dripping hole.
âRight there, baby. Push it in fâme if you can, alright?â
When you did, Joel had a front row seat; physically, he was no more than five or six inches away while you slid your small, trembling finger through the soaked band of muscle, but it felt like he was in you for the whole thing. Ogling the spectacle of your tight and untouched virgin cunt stretching, then hugging that little digit, before you whimpered and keened his name, was unlike anything heâd ever felt. He knelt between your legs and observed with all the outward practiced detachment of a doctor, though inside, he felt like every inch of him was on fire.
âItâs tight,â you whimpered.
âI know, honey, I knââ
âI donât like it.â
Right as your wrist flicked back to remove that finger, pussy stuffed too full and not in a good way, youâd evidently decided, Joel leapt to act. He didnât even decide so much as he simply listened to your cries.
It hurts, youâd whined above him, Oh, Joel, please.
Suddenly, his thumb was rubbing your clit to dull the ache. Before your index could slide out, his own pushed in alongside it, coaxing that tight, wet ring to stretch with the heft and grit of his hand. Decades of experience preceded him, which made him confident in his words of assurance thenâeven when you grimaced and groaned.
âYouâre OK,â Joel mumbled, nodding when you winced. âYouâre alright, just stings a little beinâ stretched, huh?â
âY-You said it would feel good,â you keened, mournful.
Clearly trying to buck that uncomfortable feeling, you moved back. You stumbled, as your ankles were still trapped within your panties, and Joel had to catch you.
You were close to the sofa; he nudged you toward it, swift enough that he didnât need to move his hand and simply guided you onto the wide, cushioned armrest. Your feet kicked off the cotton, and in a second, you were sittingâstraddlingâthat spot. Joel stepped even closer.
His finger sank another inch, and you looked fit to be tied
âI said, I donâtââ you started, sharp.
ââknow where it is. Lemme help you.â
Joel had another half-minute, maybe. Laying sprawled out like you were, still impaled by his finger and yours, you clearly werenât a fan of this feeling and would be shoving him off at any second. Heâd have to be quick.
So, steeling himself and standing over you on the couch, he pushed in. To the knuckle. His pointer finger was big and warm and ribbed all over with little calluses, and it probably felt like a hot poker was forcing its way inside of your too-tight cunt beside your index, but Joel kept at it. Your muscles pulsed again, a tiny line or two of moisture crawling down his palm with the excess of your desire leaking out, and you grit your teeth. Your heels dug into the couch, and just when it appeared youâd had enough, he felt it. The tip of that probing digit brushed the place.
It was spongy and slick. Solid, but not without some give
Touching it made you squirm worse than anything.
Or, better might be a more accurate assessment.
âOh, baby,â Joel said, relief flooding his tone as he saw it. âThatâs the spot, ainât it? Thatâs that special spot, there.â
Your reply was a light grunt when he stroked it again.
It was like you werenât quite sure how to answer for itâyour body, however, gave its resounding approbation when your walls bore down again and squeezed him.
Clearly, this wasnât a pained hug. You wanted more.
âRemember what we call this spot, sweetheart?â
Syrup practically dripped from every syllable, and Joel didnât refrain from leaning in. Pressing his forehead to yours, bracing his free hand against the sofa cushion behind you, the old man worked his finger back and forth. He dragged your smaller one with it, and he grinned when a hoarse little cry leapt out of your throat.
That wasnât an answer, unfortunately.
Joel held the couch even harder and sawed his finger in and out, grazing that special place with every movement.
âCâmon, darlinâ, I know you ainât forgot it already.â
Your pussy was as full as it had ever been and making wet, squelching sounds each time that your finger and his moved through it. Clearly, your mind wasnât firing on all cylinders, simply soaking in the sensations as you whined, moaned, and rutted your hips. Just precious.
Joel wasnât letting you off that easy, though.
Still stroking, still petting that sensitive flesh, he went on:
âIs this what we call yourâŠclit, honey? Is that what it is?â
Without warning, he pushed a second finger inside, and you hissed. Your own index slid out instinctively, and as if knowing the rest of it by heart, you started rubbing that sweet, pulsing, needy nub like your life depended on it.
âN-N-No, thisâthis is it,â you stuttered. Overcome with the wishing and waitingâwanting to show him what youâd learned, as wellâyou were keen. âThis is my clit.â
Pleasure mustâve bloomed through your lower half when you said it, because your next words were swallowed up in a strangled moan. You tried lifting your hips instead, seeming to say to him: âSee? Iâm really learning, Joel.â
A grin sabotaged his face, and he couldnât contain the urge; Joel leaned in and kissed your forehead. He tilted his chin to steal a glance where you were touching yourself, seeing how urgent those little circles were getting to be, and he couldnât help but feel a sense of awe. Pride. He halted his ministrations just long enough to take a seat on the old couch and pull you into his lap.
Now cradling you, placing sporadic and comforting kisses along your hairline as he returned his fingers to your heat, Joel felt he couldâve melted between the cushions with just one whimper from your lipsâthat was how thoroughly youâd softened him already. He loved it.
âVery good, baby, thatâs your clit.â His thumb covered yours easily and helped it draw little lemniscates over the bud, which made you squirm on top of him. You bit down on your bottom lip when he scissored his fingers inside you. Then he curled them and brushed that place again. âAnd whatâs this, sweetie? Remember what we call her?â
Your brow furrowed.
Clearly, you were trying to think while the pleasure mounted and spiraled. You tilted your chin to him.
âItâsâŠItâs my g-spot, right?â you ventured softly.
âExactly right,â Joel cooed in your ear.
As if to reward you for it, he curled his fingers and tapped that sensitive, special spot over and over again, knowing just what kind of effect it would have on you then. Your breath hitched, and your reflexes sent you lurching toward his chest. You clawed at his t-shirt.
Joel was certain heâd never seen something so goddamn endearing in his life. His smile widened, and he hugged you to him even tighter, not wanting to lose sight of you for even a second. Your legs trembled around his hand.
He nuzzled your cheek.
âThatâs it. Good girl.â
Another clench.
âDaddyâs girl.â
And, as soon as he said the words, your chest heaved. Be it a breath, a whimper, a moan, your whole frame shook with the movement, and suddenly you were peering up at him through your lashes and staring, all glossy-eyed.
âWh-What?â you stammered.
One more plunge of his fingers, and you keened. You looked bewildered, beleaguered, practically bursting at the seams and having only to meet his gaze and squeeze
You were close.
Joel could hear it.
âDaddy?â you repeated, breaths ragged.
Of course, youâd never heard that one before. Joel just nodded his head and let you bask in itâthat feeling of wild curiosity. Perhaps not everything would compute.
He could teach you, but you might not get it just yet.
Seeing this look, and sensing how close you were to your climax, Joel leaned close and kissed your temple before murmuring, low: âYeah. âMânot your old man, but thatâs another word folks like to use sometimes. If you like it, then thatâs all itâs gotta be. Our own little special thing.â
Your fingers tightened at his collar, like a wave was overtaking your body and you couldnât control it.
âIâI donât know. It kindaâŠsorta feelsâŠâ
âWhat? You got a funny feelinâ, baby?â
You nodded.
His fingers had been stretching and pumping and pushing all kinds of fiery sensations inside that tiny space, feeling wet muscles contract around himâit didnât surprise him in the least that you needed some extra time to come. You didnât even know what it was.
âThatâs an orgasm, honey. âSâa good thing. Real good feelinâ, if you just let it build and build for a little bit loââ
âWanna stop,â you hiccuped. âFeels like Iâm gonna pee.â
Joel had to hide a grin behind a bevy of kisses. He kept cradling you, kept fingering your soaked pussy with all the soft, practiced resolve of a man much gentler than heâd ever known himself to be. You werenât pushing him away; he wouldnât force you toward it. He just wanted to guide you to a path that would give you replete pleasure.
Hell, maybe he could even get you to squirt.
âYouâre not gonna pee,â Joel assured you gently. âEven if you did, I wouldnât care. You know your pleasureâs the most important thing, right? âSâwhy Iâm here, baby.â
It seemed to strike you at almost the same moment it did him: this was not only for you, but about you. More than a step above simple pedagogy, Joel was trying to make sure you understood all the inner-workings of sex.
âThatâs makinâ love, yâknow? Takinâ somebodyâs pleasure into your hands and treatinâ them right. Makinâ itâŠgood.â
âMakinâ love,â you repeated, just like youâd done for every other term heâd taught you that day. You drew in a breath
And, at the same time that Joelâs movements slowed with his speechâfingers pumping slower, deeper, to make your insides all but strangle him with just how good it made you feelâsomething stirred in him, too. Hell, it was the first real movement heâd had in ages.
Decades, maybe.
Thank the stage of life that he was in, his lack of access to peri-geriatric care, or his blasted uncooperative cock, but the man hadnât had a real, bona fide erection in a long time. Heâd figured that that would help keep his urges at bay while he was teaching you these things.
Now he was almost fully hard in his jeans. You were about to finish all over his fingers, and then what?
âDaddy,â you whimpered. Your feet kicked and inadvertently brushed over the bulge in his pants. âFaster, please. IâI think that feels even better fâme.â
Joel couldnât have you see it, or feel it, or know exactly what you were doing to him and think that you were in some way responsible for helping out with the rest. No, he wouldnât allow that. This wasnât about him getting off.
He slid your body back. He slotted his own, head-first, between your legs and dove in. Out of sight, he started to grind his lower half into the sofa, but only after youâd taken hold of his hair and rocked your hips into his face.
Thatâs it.
This is for you.
âDaddyâs gonna take real good care of her,â Joel said, as if finishing the thoughts that were brewing in his head. âYou just lie back anâ close your eyes. Soak it all in, OK?â
And you did.
When he reared back and spit on your pussy, smeared it in with his fingers and panted again, just for good measure, âWhatâs the word for all this, baby? What do we call her?â, you raggedly answered. You told him that it was your vulva, and then you moaned so loudly that Joel thought it might blow his eardrums out. He rutted his denim-clad cock into the couch and kept going. Pleasure spiraled from some of the furthest recesses of his gut, and he dragged his warm, wet, silver-stubbled mouth up your slit, glistening with saliva and your own arousal.
âSmart girl,â Joel murmured appreciatively. Licking lines around your clit, before dropping a quick kiss over it. âAnd whatâs this little button called, baby? It feel good?â
You replied by digging your heels into the couch first, head lolling back on the armrest. Then, light as anything:
âMy clit. ItâIt feels so good when you do that, Daddy.â
âWhen Daddy kisses her and licks on her some?â
âGives me thatâŠfunny feelinâ all over again.â
Joel could say the same for himself. Something tightened in his balls, right as he humped the cushion with a little more force, and then he knew it, without a shadow of a doubtâthat old, worn, once-dysfunctional member of his was now engorged with blood and stiff. He could probably fuck his fist once and blow his load.
He tried to ignore it.
He pushed two fingers to the rim of your cunt, feeling tender, taut flesh bar his entry again, and he worked his way through it. Delicate as ever, your hole spread for him.
âAnd this?â he asked.
You told him.
He slid in deeper, and before he could even inquire after that ridged, sensitive wall of your insides, you stuttered:
âTh-That oneâs my g-spot, Daddy. ThatâsâThatâsââ
Joel sucked your throbbing clit between his lips and flicked the tip of his tongue, just as his fingers curved in.
âThat feels good, Daddy, please.â
Your pussy pulsed against him; it wet his silver beard in streaks and left him groaning between your legs, dry-humping the old couch like he was an animal in heat.
He was much, much too old for you.
This was just a learning experience.
One measly orgasm and then heâdâ
âFaster, faster, Daddy. P-P-Please.â
Joel pistoned his fingers and flicked his tongue and sucked mercilessly on that little nub until you squealed.
âLet it happen, baby. Come for Daddy,â he beckoned.
âCome? Where?â
âHere.â
And with that, Joel crooked his fingers one last time and made you finish on his tongue. You didnât squirt, but your whole body convulsed, and you kicked your feet and made those pretty little whiney sounds and pulled his hairâas if you were stunned by whatever was happening to your body, your thighs clenched around his head and damn near yanked out half the grays. Joel kept licking and fingering and mumbling sweet nothings all the while
Pretty girl.
Precious girl.
Daddyâs girlâyou were everything, everything to him.
Heat flooded his jeans, and he didnât even realize it.
It took him more than a couple seconds; heâd just finished lapping up the last of your release and was trying to catch his breath, panting and blinking and savoring your taste, when that recognition dawned.
The man had reached his peak entirely untouched.
Sticky and warm, trickling down his front, it went quietly.
Joel swallowed and propped himself up on an elbow, meeting your gaze with a hot and semi-hooded stare.
He needed to clean up. He needed to get out of there.
Suddenly, you reached for him, fingers outstretched.
âDaddy.â
It sounded so sweetâstill as innocent as ever.
You had no fucking idea how badly he wanted you now. How much he hated himself for even taking as much as he had. But he did, and nothing else would take it back.
He really, really needed to go.
âAre we gonna make love now?â Your smile was crooked.
Joel sat up. His mind was clear. Conscience was fucked.
He shook his head as he wiped his mouth of you.
âNo. We arenât,â he answered, pushing to stand.
He turned before you could see the spot in his jeans. Before you could protest, he hardened his voice out of necessity and, already striding from the couch, said:
âLessonâs over. Put on your underwear, sweetheart.â
The look you gave him then couldâve broken him in two. It was raw and soft and hurt, clearly. You blinked a little faster as you sat up, dress falling back down to cover your modesty and everything the two of you had done.
âButââ
âDonât talk back to me, neither,â Joel forged on, despising every syllable coming out of his mouth. He was already at the threshold of the room and turning away. âWhatever happened today was teachinâ, remember?â
You blinked again, eyes glossier than a moment before.
You rocked back on your heels and tried to stand, but Joel was already retreating. He pursed his lips together, throat clearing and the most flimsy, pathetic veneer of paternal concern working to stabilize his tone. It failed.
âB-But, Daddy, IâI thoughtââ
His voice audibly cracked when he curtailed your speech.
âAinât nothing, honey.â He shook his head against the lie. âThis was wrong. If you wanna pout and whine âbout it, best head into your room, âcause I donât wanna hear it.â
That made your lip curl in surprise. Soft, muted fury.
You made a fist at your side as he turned on his heel.
And, though he tried moving fastâpretending to shrug off the moment and trudge his way out through the door like nothing had happenedâhe evidently couldnât make it quick enough. Over his shoulder, he heard your voice.
Having just made it onto the porch and felt the warmth of the outdoors on his skin, it was as faint as anything. A slight breeze, along with the crushing weight of knowing how badly he was fucking this up, greeted him swiftly, but not before your words reached him. Joel swallowed.
That hurt just about as bad as anything heâd ever felt.
He knew he was wrong, especially hearing you sob:
âDaddy, please come back.â
Your body was abuzz from head to toe.
Anticipation was one thing, and hatred was anotherâboth feelings seemed to be at war within you constantly.
Though, really, you didnât hate Joel, and judging by the way things had panned out lately, you likely never could. A week had passed since your little âlessonâ with the man, and nothing had ever made you feel so shaken. Or lonely.
One moment being the most precious thing in a personâs eyes, only to fall from that staggering height to nothing. Joel had up and left and brushed you to the wayside, leaving you to clench your fists and kick and cry like a child throwing a fit. But you werenât. You were a full-grown adult trying to learn what sex meant, and damn if you didnât feel the sting of being abandoned so easily.
You wanted to hate him more than anything else.
You wished with every fiber in your being not to need a man like him, but you did. It confused you, particularly during moments like these when youâd sneak off to his bedroom in the early morning hoursâheâd offered to take you fishing that day, and youâd declined. Now you were in this cabin alone, sifting through all his jackets, flannels, and chambray shirts hanging in the closet and hoping youâd locate one that smelled the most like him.
One you could get off with, maybe.
âOw,â you murmured presently, having hit your knee on the little hickory nightstand before clambering into bed.
You slid the long-sleeve on. You shuffled forward for a pillow, then grabbed it. Following the same four or five steps youâd been replicating since That Dayâseeking identical pleasure and failing spectacularly each timeâyou stuffed the big, bulky, feather-filled cushion between your thighs and pressed on. You let your eyes droop shut.
Good girl.
Daddyâs girl.
âSâwhat you are, right? All miâ
You pivoted and gripped the footboard, bracing your knees even harder against the bed. So what if you needed to wear his shirts and reminisce on all the delicious, filthy words heâd spoken to you just days ago? It wasnât like you were wailing for the guyâs attention.
That would have been embarrassing. Sad, and all-too predictable for a girl who had been raised without the influence of a male all her lifeâweepy and needy wasnât what you hoped to emulate. You wanted to be tough and self-sufficient, just like it appeared Joel had always been.
You wanted to eat, sleep, read and write and cry yourself to sleep whenever you needed it, alone, so long as it meant you wouldnât have to feel what you had back then, rejected by someone else. That, more than anything, made you realize how dependent you truly were.
This wasnât working.
After five minutes humping at a pillow like your clit was on fire, you didnât feel a thing. Well, other than defeat.
âYouâve gotta be kidding me.â You tugged Joelâs shirt tighter around you, blew out a breath, and leaned back.
Your eyes scanned the roomâfor what, you werenât sure.
Youâd been in here plenty of times before, whether you were cleaning or doing Joelâs laundry or whatever the case may have been, so your surroundings were familiar: old, five-drawer dresser across the way, stacks of quilts that shouldâve been shelved ages ago, little trinkets here and there, a canteen hanging off the side of a ladder back chair, and then a desk, wide and shining and empty.
Finely ground specks of pine littered the surface of it.
This was where Joel did his woodworking. Off to the side, a partway-whittled bucking bronc stood, aloof.
You rose from the bed and walked to it.
Maybeâmost likelyâyou were stupid. Joel had all but told you this to your face. Your fingers were small and helpless, and they couldnât reach nearly close enough to where you needed them; they didnât know what to touch.
What if you justâŠ
Your brain didnât get the chance to finish that thought. Your body acted first, and time sped up as soon as it did.
Before you knew itâand damn, were you so, so stupidâyou had a hand on a tool. Vaguely recalling the name, some quarter-inch straight chisel or other, you held it up. Set it down. Shook your head, like this was the single dumbest idea youâd had in your life, then took it again.
You grabbed it and examined the handle briefly.
It was wooden and rounded, maybe three inches in diameter. Five inches long. You hadnât the faintest idea as to what the appropriate size for aâŠsubstitute should be, or what the real deal even looked like, for that matter. All you knew was that man parts were hard, and probably much longer than any one of your fingers. You sat up on the woodworking stool and slid the chisel between the tails of Joelâs worn, buttoned shirt.
You were wet. That was the byproduct of thinking of him and humping a pillow mercilessly, plus brushing your fingers through your folds a few times that morning.
But you were tight, too. As if trying to stick your finger through a concrete wall, your walls wouldnât budge an inch. If anything, the more you tried it, the more your body started clamming up and shutting anything out. You held the tool upright in your fist, tried sinking down, and, in a too-quick move, damn near slip-n-slided your silly, virginal rear end off the chair and onto the floor. You clamped your legs together and let out a wretched sigh.
âJustâŠgoâŠinside,â you pleaded helplessly. Missing Joelâs thick, callused fingers and wishing he wasnât such a dick, you tried thinking of him. Attempted imagining his voice.
âHey, sweetheart?â
Then the bedroom door flew open.
Your hand released, and immediately, you jumped in place. Out of habit, your palms slammed on the table, like, I have nothing to hide, and you made a pass for the half-finished horse figurine. You grabbed it thoughtlessly.
Right as you flipped the thing upside down, pretending to study the base and looking for anything to fix your gaze on, Joel walked in. His footfalls echoed behind you.
A light touch grazed the nape of your neck.
âHi, baby.â
âHi, Daddy.â
It slid out without you thinking, like that was natural.
You tried covering it up as quick as you could anyhow.
Turning to face him, chisel still trapped between your thighs, and wearing nothing but the shirt on your back which also happened to be his, you held your arms out.
For the first time in a week, you smiled at him.
Joel hugged you after you set his latest creation down, and you could feel how surprised he was in that embrace. You hadnât gone near him in days, and the last things youâd said to him, apart from, âNo, thanksâ when heâd asked you to tag along on his fishing trip that morning, had been, âWhateverâ and âLeave me alone.â
You were bratty and full of anger. Who could blame you?
Now you were back to being his pet, or at least behaving like it. Joel seemed to heave the smallest sigh of relief as he stroked your head, kissed the crown of it, and rubbed your back. Told you all about the trout that heâd caught and the bear tracks he found, the sights he wished youâd been there to see and the flowers that he picked for you.
âSittinâ in a jug in the kitchen if you wanna see âem,â Joel said, eyes glittering as he stroked your cheek. He really did seem to miss touching. âLupines, just like you like.â
You tilted your face away from his fingers, smile tight.
âThank you, Joel. I appreciate that.â
And, although the words, along with the slight movement away from his touch, were likely more than enough to clue him into the fact that you were still cageyâmaybe turn a weaker man away from you, discouragedâJoel just stood straighter. Hooked his thumbs through his belt loops and surveyed the table out in front of you.
âIâll clean the fish. You sit back, sniff them pretty flowers I picked ya, and afterward, Iâll show you how to whittle. Howâs that sound?â The man wore an easy look. Underneath several decades of wrinkles, you could make out an expression that was lighthearted and jovial still.
You had a wood chisel about one inch shy of your pussy.
With that in mind, you shook your head and pressed on:
âI wanna try learninâ on my own first. Thatâs what Iâve been doing, sittinâ here and admiring your handiwork.â
Lie.
âGet started in the kitchen, and Iâll be out in a little bit. Wanna try the, umâŠpush-cut technique I read about.â
Whatever that fucking means.
Youâd heard Joel mention it maybe once.
In reality, you simply needed an excuse to get him out of your hair so he wouldnât notice that you werenât wearing pants underneath that oversized long-sleeve shirt of his.
âWell, shoot, I can show you that right now, sweetie.â
Before you could protest his kindness, Joel bent over you, over the table, and reached for a coffee can full of loose materials. He took what seemed like a regular knife
If looks could kill, the man wouldâve dropped on the spot.
Your body sagged a little in your seat, and you crossed your thighs tighter to make sure that the tiny metal-and-wood gadget in between them wouldnât budge an inch.
Joel held his project up to the light.
âSeeâŠwhatever you do, you gotta keep a real tight grip on the base. Like this.â He demonstrated by holding the flared bottom of the woodblock. âWrist is always steady.â
Just shoot you in the head.
Wondering if tetanus might not be a legitimate concern in the event that the rusted chisel nicked your skin, you sat in stiffened silence. You listened to Joel wax poetic on finding the grain, saw how invested he was in sharing all the things he knew about his beloved hobby, and felt his palm fall next to yours on the table. He nudged you playfully, and the warmth of that touch made it hard not to remember. Just a week ago, the two of you together.
Then nothing.
âThis was wrong.â
âWanna try it out yourself?â
Joel was still standing over you, still smiling, and the look on his face as he held out that mini cottonwood figurine made you want to say yes. You lifted your hand to take it.
Then Joel glanced down, grin stretching wider still.
âGonna wanna use the quarter-inch straight chisel, hon. Why donât you take that out from in between your legs and hand it over to me?â he pressed. He didnât blink.
For a second, your world stood still.
Your breath hitched in your throat.
Meanwhile, Joelâs was flowing easy. He extended his free hand out to you, crooking his fingers in a âgive itâ motion.
You didnât thinkâprobably couldnât have done it anyway. Your eyes were glazed, and your heart was thrumming at at least a hundred beats per minute while you unstuck your legs from the seat. Numbly, you parted your thighs.
You pried the little chisel out of place and held it, shaky.
Joelâs expression above you was bafflingly calm. Like this was an everyday occurrence, he just took the tool that youâd retrieved for him, and then he turned it in his hands. Gave you a once-over that seemed curious.
Amused, even.
âIâm sorry,â you spit out. âItâsâŠItâs gross, I know. Iâmââ
âânot mad at you, darlinâ. Ainât a thing to be sorry for.â
Joel shook his head, and in that low, rasping drawl, you sensed more than just an effort to console. His words were slow, like he was spoon-feeding you honey, and affection bled through every note. He focused on you.
His expression softened even more, if that were possible.
âIâm sorry,â he said. âIâm sorry, darlinâ. This is my fault.â
You stood.
You didnât wait for him to tell you not to go, and you moved to leave. More than halfway across the room, you only stopped when he stepped in front of you, hands out.
Pleading with you gently.
âBabyââ
âStop calling me that!â you snapped, all rancor and heat. âQuit callinâ me sweetheart, and honey, and darlinâ, and whatever other name you thinkâll make this all OK again.â
You could barely think having him this close to you, but you went on anyway: âWouldnât hear one word of that when you left me alone last week. We did what we did, and then you made me feel like I did something wrong!â
Joelâs expression splintered on hearing that. Above you, it was clear that there was a pain behind itâhe wanted to reach out and touch youâbut he had to control himself. Instead, he swallowed the big lump and shook his head.
âWasnât nothinââŠnothinâ wrong that you did,â he croaked.
âWas it?â you said, voice cracking in the same way. âBecause you havenât been able to look at me all week, and every time it feels like we might talk, you just leave.â
ââCause I was in the wrong. I shouldnât have done any of those things andâŠand stolen your innocence from you.â
âBut I asked you to!â
âDonât make no difference. âMâtoo old, and I shouldnâtââ
ââleave me to feel like Iâm an idiot!â
âYouâre notââ
âLike Iâm broken and useless and stupid.â
You probably couldâve talked until you were blue in the face, and Joelâs expression only wouldâve grown more distraught. He ran a hand through curls of black and gray and seemed to be making a concerted effort not to let his fingers shake as he did. He faltered in front of you.
He felt for his breast pocket, brows bunching together.
âBaby, you gottaâŠâ He stopped himself shortly. Swallowed like something got stuck in his throat. âBelieve me, ainât none of that true. Wasnât nothinâ you didâand you shouldnât feel like you need to be usinâ my woodworking tools, neitherâŠShould be somethinââŠreal.â
You couldnât read his expression at the last.
Still, you knew what you hoped it meant.
âSo show me,â you said. âTeach me.â
Your voice was weak. His lowered.
âYou know why I canât do that.â
Every spot, scar, and wrinkle gracing those weathered, middle-aged features seemed to harden at once. He wore a stern look, like a fatherâs, and didnât budge when you reached out to touch. Just lifted a hand to his chest.
And, sliding something small out of his breast pocket:
âI stopped into town. Got you this.â
A little hand-held mirror.
You took it.
What for?
And you asked him that.
Watched Joel shift from foot to foot as you held it up.
The look in his eyes should have been answer enough. They told you, without prevarication, what this mirror was for. It was up to you to make sense of it yourself.
You took a seat on the bed.
Joelâs bed, big, broad, and soft as a cloud, made for the perfect space to do this. You didnât have to think about it.
âLike this?â you asked him.
Joel stiffened where he stood. The moment you leaned back and set your heels apart on the bedâfacing him directly, with nothing but his shirttails keeping you covered thenâhe scrubbed a hand down his beard.
He stared no lower than your collarbone.
You sat the mirror between your legs.
âNot here,â Joel said, jaw clenched.
The glass was rounded with a handle.
Perfect for holding it an inch away fromâ
âBaby,â Joel cut in, a little more choked. âI meant alone.â
âThen go.â
You were tired of feeling spinelessâsomething naĂŻve and meek and incapable of doing things on her own. Guilty as Joel may have felt, it didnât change the fact that you had needs, same as him. If he didnât want to see this, so be it.
You lifted the ends of your shirt to take a look at yourself.
The mirror was propped up on the comforter, affording you a near-perfect view of what had made you curious.
She was pretty. Plush. Simple.
Youâd never gotten a glimpse at her from an angle like this, but with one look, you realized why the female form had held so many captive for as long as the human race existed. You had powerâreal, tangible powerâinside it.
Joelâs mind seemed to mirror your every thought to a T.
His gaze had tripped from your neck to your shoulders, down your stomach and toward your center. Once it landed on open, dripping folds, it was like they froze him.
Rooting the stubborn, stern, frowning old man into place, your pussy worked like a spell. That knowledge alone was enough to send your muscles pulsing for him.
For yourself, you corrected.
Your pleasure came first.
âBabyâŠâ Joel trailed off.
He stared, and he sulked, right as your middle and ring fingers teased a line up your aching slit. You were so wet that the most featherlight of touches got them soaked.
Joel swallowed again, bracing both hands on his hips.
âDarlinâââ
âWhat did I say about names, Daddy?â you cut in. You teased him with the D-word at the same time you found your clit, and a ripple of pleasure pulsed through you. âDonât talk sweet if youâre not gonna treat me like it.â
You surprised yourself with just how steady you spoke. Similarly, Joel seemed to be stunned himself. He took a step forward so that heâd be stood at the foot of the bed.
ââMâalways sweet on you,â he mumbled. ââŠainât I?â
âMaybe when you feel like it,â you countered.
You made a messy circle with your fingers.
Then another, and another, and another. Sensations rose sharp and hot, further heightened by eyes on your body.
âWhen you need it,â Joel rebutted once more.
His voice was stern. Underneath it, though, a tortured man was trying to claw his way out. Fighting for control.
Losing the battle momentarily, he leaned in.
Hands still on his hips, eyes still glued between your legs, in an act that you wouldâve deemed crude were it done just about anywhere else, Joel bent forward and spit.
A glob of saliva landed squarely between your fingers, almost too perfect for you to believe after youâd seen it.
But then you felt it: warm moisture mixing with yours, motions circling faster and faster around that little bud, Joelâs gaze growing even more intent as he watched you.
There was a frown on his face, but he was crumbling.
âWant Daddy to be sweet on you, huh? Is that it?â
The answer he received came in the form of your fingers sliding between your desperate, clenching, needy walls.
One inch.
One measly inch, and then they stopped.
That was all you could fit inside. You whimpered, shrill.
âDaddy, âsâtoo tight. Canât go any deeper.â
âAnâ what did I teach you âbout squeezinâ? âBout keepinâ her nice anâ wet so the stretch ainât so painful goinâ in?â
That line of questioning was pointless, clearly.
You were drenched. Your legs were spread, revealing a wet, drooling pussy practically soaking straight through his comforter. The fingers youâd tried to push in wriggled
Joel grabbed the mirror.
âWhatâs this for?â
With your fingertips otherwise occupied, the man was free to thumb at your clit while holding the mirror to it. Your hips bucked instinctively, and it was like you could hear the arousal trickling out of you. Joelâs eyes slid up.
âWell?â
So this was a review, apparently.
You babbled, âMy clitâs forâfor makinâ me feel good.â
âAnâ where else can you do that?â
âHere.â
Again, your fingers tried to slide in to locate your g-spot, but the effort was fruitless. Your hole was as tight as anything, and you simply didnât have the grit to get it in.
âHere?â
So Joel did it for you.
With one thick, sure finger, he split your digits apart and entered your pussy pushing in between them. Languidly.
He held the mirror with more force, sawing the finger of his other hand back and forth to coax you open. To no oneâs surprise, it was an easier go. Though one of Joelâs was almost as thick as the two of your own, this stretch was good. The pleasure it elicited made your jaw slacken.
And, just as a gasp left your lips, Joel put the mirror down. He reached for the back of your neck and, angling your chin to your chest, made you watch your reflection.
With the mirror resting between your legs, you had a front row seat to see it all: Joelâs finger dragging in and out, a tiny, gaping âoâ in its wake, your arousal trailing it.
Heâd done this before, but it was your first time watching
You loved it.
You loved how lewd it looked with this big, coarse, liver-spotted hand flexing back and forth, making a finger disappear and reappear outside your pussy over and over again. You relished the sight of your juices trickling down his palm and wrist. You adored the grip at the nape of your neck, how Joel kneeled into the bed and lowered his mouth beside your ear, telling you the filthiest of things while he fingered you. âMissed her Daddy, didnât she?â and âThatâs it, open fâmeâ made you dizziest.
Then Joel told you to strip down.
Your fingers trembled with the buttons of your shirtâluckily, youâd only done three or fourâand you got it off. You shrugged the thing behind you while Joel added a second finger, and you spread your thighs even wider.
It was a tight fit without his tongue to help. Whimpering and whining and murmuring, âDaddy, please,â you made the sting evident, and that was when he started petting your g-spot. At the same time, to your surprise, Joel leaned down and took one of your nipples in his mouth.
The pleasure together was mind-numbing. Joel licked and sucked while his fingers drove in relentlessly; his tongue lapped over that hard, pebbled flesh and smeared the skin all over with saliva. He panted.
âThis isâŠanother spot,â he managed raggedly.
Another lick. Another loud, wet pop of his lips.
Your pussy clenched so tight around his fingers you feared you might cut off the circulation, and you moaned
Erogenous zones, Joel muttered against you.
And what a gift it was to be toldâshownâwhere to find your pleasure. To have the doors thrown open wide and nudged inside that special, private place with the help of someone else. Perhaps the act wasnât so much a loss of control on Joelâs part, but simply that: giving. You hoped he didnât feel guilty again, and could enjoy this with you.
A minute later, you were watching yourself come undone
Trembling, fluttering, pulsing around Joelâs fingers while he sucked your nipple between his teeth, like he was feasting on you, you were inundated with ecstasy.
A shrill, pleasured shriek starved you breathless. Spit leaked and dribbled down your chin. The sight of your pussy getting stuffed with Joelâs fingers, at the same time he practically tongue-bathed your chest within an inch of his life, drove you wild beyond all understanding.
You pawed at him the second that your orgasm receded.
âM-More, Daddy,â you whimpered, greedy. âPlease.â
No making sense of it then: you were desperate.
Beside you, Joel was sucking in deep, shuddering breaths and blinking furiously, as if trying to clear his field of vision or shake his head of some ugly thought.
You touched his chest, and he lurched backward.
He was doing it again.
âJoelââ you tried his name, gentle.
âIâI canât.â He shook his head. âWe gotta stop.â
âBut you donât wanna. Youâre just sayinâ that now.â
You were out of breath, panting on the bed, and you realized then with some embarrassment that you were completely naked. Joel was clothed. He started to stand.
The old man had a look on his strained, weathered face like heâd witnessed fifteen wars firsthand. He braced a hand against a bedpost, clenching his jaw, and when your hand reached out to touch him again, he balked.
Groaned.
You mustâve nicked him someplace painful, inadvertently
Glancing down, you saw your hand atop a denim mound.
That hadnât been your intention. Youâd meant to grab at his belt loops and pull him close, help him see that he wouldnât be doing you wrong, but your palm had landed on his crotch instead. You werenât sure what this meant, but you couldnât help but recall the noise heâd made when you straddled him early that morning at Tommyâs place. It sounded eerily familiarâand you really hoped you hadnât fucked things up and hurt Joel in some way.
âIâm sorry!â you squeaked, yanking your hand back. âIâmâ Iâ I didnât mean to, I promise. Did I hurt you, Daddy?â
âGoââ Joel swallowed. Turned. âGo to your room, baby.â
Your heart sank.
Youâd run him off again.
How many times would it take for this to be enough? When would you not be messing things up so pitifully?
You sniffled at the same time Joel took a step away.
His back was facing you, and his gait was unsteady.
Just as you started to slide off the bed, about to scamper off naked and humiliated, you stopped.
Joel halted where he stood, torso folding in slightly.
âDaddy!â you cried.
Before you knew it, you were in front of him. Hugging him. Trying to fit your arms around that thick, sturdy waist and babbling incoherently, something to the effect of, âAre you alright?â and, âIâm sorry, Iâm sorry, Iâm sorry!â
Something poked your stomach.
The reason that you werenât able to fit your wrists around his back, you swiftly realized, was that something was standing at a perpendicular angle from Joelâs lower half.
You pulled back. You stared.
Joel was already hastening to shove the appendage away, but you saw it, clear as day: all of that was him.
He mustâve tugged it out of his jeans in the split-second that heâd been turned, hissing through his teeth and saying some words you were half-certain you werenât allowed to repeat. Now Joel was fisting the thing, all thick and angry and pink, like it were something bad.
For some reason, the sight made your mouth water.
âDaddy?â And it was more a breath than a question.
Joelâs expression hardened, same as it had earlierâonly this time, there was a tinge of pain behind it. He grunted.
âDarlinâ,â he said, stern. âThis is a grown man problem. Donât want you havinâ to deal with none of it fâme, OK?â
âBut Iâm grown, too.â
You said it without thinking.
It was like a primal drive cut in, and your mind spun.
Your fingers trembled by your sides, and when you stole a look at Joel, you saw him eyeing you steadily. Chest rising and falling in shallow breaths and teeth grinding.
âSweetheartââ he started to warn.
âCan I touch him? JustâŠjust a little.â
Your voice was soft as you asked him.
Your movements were slow as you approachedâyou didnât touch until Joel had breathed a fierce sound through his nose and jerked his chin once. Assent.
It was as if he were actively trying to deter you.
And it wouldnât workâyou were reaching out.
Your fingers curled around flesh that was hard and warm, and intrigue blossomed from the tips of your toes to the lips that wanted to grin at the feeling. Your eyes peered down, and you saw it, plain as anything: thisâŠthing in your grip was dense. Long. Veiny. Flushed. And rigid.
It amazed you just how big the flesh could swell, and how hard it had gone underneath your touch. Holding him like you might a length of rope, you couldnât even reach your middle finger to your thumbâthat was how thick he was. You probably shouldâve been frightened by the size, but instead, you found yourself admiring him. Ogling one small, shiny pearl of moisture sitting atop the rounded end and feeling your mouth start to water again.
Joel let out another rumbling sound.
He pried you off by your wrist.
âThere. You touched âim.â
âDaddyâsâŠpenis, right?â
You knew that heâd taught you the word before already; you just liked the way his pupils dilated when you said it.
And, sure enough, Joelâs irises were swallowed up.
His throat bobbed. He put a hand on his zipper.
âYeah. Now Daddy needs to take care of âim.â
He took a load off in the easy chair behind him, collapsing with a sigh. You didnât follow at first.
You just watched, enrapt, while Joel planted his feet wide on the floor and fisted his length, eyeing you close.
A grown manâs problem.
Not yours. Not now.
âCanât even stay hard,â Joel said suddenly. Humorless. âTakes me moreân an hour on a good day. Thatâs why I say itâs a problem for me, not a little thing like yourself.â
That made you bristle.
You stepped closer. ââLittle thingâ?â
âYou know what I mean. Donât got nothinâ to do with your beinâ a full adultâwhich you areâbut your experience. Years you got under your belt.â And in a semi-ironic gesture, Joel hooked a thumb through a denim loop and tugged his jeans lower, exposing more of himself to you.
Spit burned in your throat going down. It was the most infuriating thing; knowing your body was just as good and ready as his, but because Joel deemed you littleâŠ
You walked to where he was and got on your knees. Kneeling, you saw the man tense and sit up taller.
âThat wasnât no invitation, sweetheartââ
âI want you to treat me like Iâm grown.â
And really, that was all you could say.
No amount of pleading eyes or pawing, needy hands, fingers curling into fists and demanding in a shrill voice, âTreat me as an equal, Joelâ would ever accomplish what you managed with the uttering of those nine little words.
For the first time, Joel looked like he understood.
Leaning forward, squeezing the base of his length in one hand and cupping your face with the other, he hummed.
âThat what you want?â Thumbing at your cheek.
You nodded. You softened under that touch.
âCâmere, baby.â
Câmere.
Come to daddy.
The next thing you felt was a set of lips on yours; Joel kissed you gently. His mouth was warm and soft and tender beyond all comprehension, drawing you to him and tasting you by turns. Heat fluttered low in your belly, and before the rest of your body could even fully respond to it, he was pulling back. His lips shone, red and swollen.
Smiling.
ââSâwhat I wanted to do this whole time,â he murmured, sounding a little bit sheepish as he said it. âShouldâve been the first thing I didâthatâs how real folks do it.â
Frankly, you were too light-headed to reply.
You nodded airily, jaw hanging slack.
âNow whereâs my sweet girl?â
That you could answer without words. So you did.
Letting Joel capture your lips again, setting your hands on either one of his denim-clad thighs and rising off your heels. Kissing him, and feeling the vibrations of a groan.
Hearing him stroke himself faster, then pulling from him.
Gaping.
âYâknow what made him so hard, baby?â Joel asked you, expression going a bit more lax while he rubbed himself. Evidently, whatever he was doing felt good. âTell Daddy.â
So he was still in teaching mode.
Your spit was practically leaking out in strings at either side of your mouth, but you managed to steel yourself.
âA-Arousal,â you stammered. Swallowing. âYour penis gets big whenever youâre aroused, uh, seeinâ something.â
âAnd what did Daddy see?â
Your face heated.
âWellâŠâ
Joel drew closer, eyes bright and glistening.
âYou can tell me, darlinâ.â
Another beat.
âMe?â
Very good, baby seemed to shine in every blink of that honeyed gaze, and Joel bent forward to kiss the tip of your nose, then your cheek. You preened under his touch.
âThatâs right. You made Daddy so hard,â he murmured.
Trapped between wanting to curl up on Joelâs lap and soak in all his praise and actually hoping to learn another lesson, you let him take the lead. You tilted your chin with the beckoning of his forefinger and thumb, and you squeezed his legs harder, toes curling underneath you.
In his fist, Joelâs length was ruddy-looking and flushed. The little bead of liquid at the tip had grown even bigger, but the sight was fleeting. At the next possible opening, Joel slid his palm up and over that end and stroked it rapidly. He smeared the moisture over his dick and, peering down at you with an almost curious look, widened the spread of his legs. He shifted closer.
âIâm an old man,â he said, a little deflated. Shaking his length near your face. âHe donâtâŠstay hard for very long.â
You swallowed.
You watched Joel continue to pump himself, but it was clear those motions were slowing. His member was beginning to soften in his hold, sagging at the tip.
âDaddyâŠâ you whined. You didnât like to see him sad.
âCouple kisses from your pretty lips might wake âim up, though. Could yaâŠCould ya do that fâme, hon? Kiss âim?â
You didnât think twiceâyou treated it just like you did with his mouth before. You bent down and kissed him right on the thick, glistening head, all round and pink.
Joel groaned.
He cursed again.
âThatâs it, baby,â he praised you, voice strained.
You were starting to get the sense that certain grunts of painâor what sounded like them to your earsâwere really more bound up in pleasure. Because of this, you went on, quietly, âThat feel OK, Daddy? ThatâŠbetter?â
âTen times better,â Joel hissed through his teeth. Releasing his hold on your face to grip the armrest. âThatâThatâs what Daddy likes. Little game of lollipop, huh?â
You cocked a brow at him.
Joel chuckled, ââSâwhat itâs like, right? Lickinâ a lollipop.â
Hearing that, you couldnât keep your lips from twitching.
Okay. Lollipop.
That made it more fun.
When Joel held his big, still partly flaccid length out to you again, you acted even quicker. You kissed his tip, and then, not needing to map it out, you pressed your lips to the side, the base, someplace near the thatch of black of gray hair by his tummy, peppering pecks. It was a game.
And your old man seemed to be enjoying it thoroughly, as his hips jerked with every other movement of your mouth. You stuck out your tongue and licked a stripe, and you heard a low, prolonged growl peel out of him.
âThatâs it, sweetheart. Thatâs a good fuckinâ girl.â
You licked the warm, gummy flesh again and relished the taste. That texture, frustrating as it may have been for Joel, was tantalizing all the same. You reached up and replaced Joelâs hand with yours, and strangely, you loved the feel of his dick all soft and wormy beneath your fist.
Your old man.
You peered up and met with scars, slightly sagging skin, silver-flecked hairs, a wide, bushy trail that spanned all the way to his navel over a heaping mound of muscle and fat. Joel was thick, and he showed his years through every inch of his body. Words couldnât begin to describe how much you loved that, and how feral it made you feel.
Parting your lips, about to stick out your tongue to give him another long, wet, and tender lick, Joel stopped you.
He twitched in your palm.
âBaby, how âbout you put Daddyâs penis in your mouth?â
He said it so softâso ragged and broken and wanting, by the sound of itâthat you almost froze on the spot. Spit smeared your lips and down your chin, falling in little droplets onto his jeans every now and then, and your mouth hovered over the head of him. Your eyes rounded.
âLikeâŠLike this?â you stammered. Lowering.
You took his tip between your lips; it started out with a kiss, just suckling the edge, but then, swiftly, your mouth opened up around him and stretched. Your jaw ached to accommodate his girth, and with just one inch, you felt the sting of what seemed like ten. You gagged, not used to that sensation, and your head jerked back by instinct.
You expected Joel to be put offâirritated, even.
But when you turned a coy look his way, you were surprised to find his eyes heavy-lidded and glazed. Expression as limp as everâhis member stirring stiffer near your lips and between your fingers, simultaneouslyâhe watched you. He nodded. He sucked in half a breath
And when he spoke again, it was like he really was in pain
âHoneyâŠâ Dick swelling nearly to full-size in your fist. Hand moving from the armrest to lay flat on the crown of your head, a little shaky. âDarlinâ, IâmâIâmâ I canât last.â
You were about to question that, confused as to how one little suck of your mouth could make him so squirmish all of a sudden, but then Joelâs other hand was moving, too.
This one reached lower.
It shoved his pants and boxers down, almost to the point of the fabric pushing past his thighs, and then you saw it.
More squishy stuff.
It wasnâtâŠpart of Joelâs dick per se but rather sat at the base. Hairy and round and plush in a funny-looking duo.
âYâknow whatâs in there, baby?â Joel murmured.
You had no idea. You said as much in a shrug.
That made Joel stiffen more, teeth flashing.
A soft chuckle, âGuess we never got to that part, huh?â
For a second, you were puzzled. In the next, you were being lifted to your feet. You mightâve stumbled, except Joel picked you up and carried you all the way to the bed.
You landed with a soft thud and saw Joel undressing before youâd even regained your bearings. As with most things he did, the man was relatively slow-moving and careful, but there was a grit and a resolve just the same.
He unbuttoned his flannel shirt and didnât unglue his gaze from you once. He kicked off his boots, toed off his socks, and when he got to his boxers and jeans, he put a hand on one of the closest bedposts and paused, briefly.
âBaby.â
You were lying sprawled out over the bedspread, naked, with Joel standing off to the side, eyes as ravenous and wild as you had ever seen them. At the same time, it looked like the man had just swallowed a cup of nails.
He leaned closer, and you did the same, crawling over.
âYeah? What is it, Daââ
âWe donât gotta do nothinâ you donât wanna do, OK?â Joel cut in over you. Cupping your cheek in one hand. âHell, we can stop this right now. Save yourâyour, uh, first time for somebody a little more suited to you inââ
Now it was your turn to interject, eyes rolling at him.
âIf you say âageâ one more goddamn time, JoelâŠâ
And it made you giggle, partly because you werenât often in the habit of cussing, but also because of the look that was suffusing Joelâs whole face as you said it: the guilt.
You could tell that it was still tearing him up, knowing how that wide, yawning chasm of decades wedged between you two wouldnât close no matter what he did. Fingers gripping the bedpost like a vise, eyes studying you by turns, and his underwear and pants all but bursting around the strain of his dick, he lookedâŠ
ââscared,â you finished presently. Tugging on his jeans. âIsnât it my job to be freaking out? This thingâs colossal.â
Youâd helped him strip completely nude, watching him kick off the fabric at his feet and climb into bed beside you, and there was a granule of truth to what you said.
What were you going to do with it? Would it even fit?
Then Joel was on top; fear dissolved into laughter.
âHey!â you hissed around short, gasping shrieks.
âThatâs a big word,â Joel mused, barely having to move a muscle against your writhing and squirming. ââColossal.ââ
âYouâve got a big dick.â
âBaby.â
âSorry. Penis, I mean.â
Above you, Joel had only to shake his head and scrunch his noseâwith his length hard and bobbing between your bodies, there was certainly no sense in denying it.
Still pinning you with his weight, he slid you both up the mattress. He nudged your head onto a pillow. Once comfortable, safe, and secure, and only then, did you feel him start to shift. You glanced between your legs.
His shaft was heavy. It stretched all the way from your pubic bone to your belly button and then well past it by an inch or three-and-a-half. Your presence was like a pebble beside a pillar; this walking, talking wall of fur and muscle couldnât be outstripped by anything, it seemed.
Joel stroked your cheek with his knuckles, at the same time watching moisture from that tip wet your tummy.
âYâknowâŠâ he trailed off, low. âYâknow how this goes?â
You did, sort of.
Your brain flashed back to the noises stifled behind cabin walls; Joelâs fingers plunging in and out of you; tongue dragging circles, telling you it was best to be wet and stretched, to make sure there was plenty of room for it.
Not a quarter-inch straight chisel, a finger, or a tongue.
Not even just the tip.
âAll of it goes in?â you asked him, gaze flickering up.
âAll of it.â
Joelâs hips canted once forward, then once going back.
Then again, in a sawing motion, as if to show you.
âDaddy goes inâŠâ Another undulation. ââŠanâ out.â
Over the course of all your time observing Joel, youâd come to realize that the man reverted to modes of teaching when he was worried; concealing his nerves became a game part-detachment, part-pragmatism.
You saw it now as he shifted his hips in demonstration, simulating sex with his length dragging back and forth across your belly. His brow knit, and he held your gaze.
ââFore he canâŠâfore he can move, or anything, Daddyâs gotta stretch your little hole out for him. Get her ready.â
âLike you did with your fingers?â you supplied helpfully.
Joel winced.
âWell, aâa little like that.â And he paused to consider his words. âExcept, uhâŠDaddyâs gonna stretch you a bit bigger. Tougher. When he goes in for the first time, he mightâŠwell, thereâs this stretch of skin he mightâŠrip.â
âRip?â You raised your head off of the pillow, voice taut.
Joel tried talking you down, both literally and figuratively.
âAinât that bad, I-I donât think. You might not even have it. Thereâs just this thing inside of some womenâa little tissue, I sâposeâcalled a hymen. Might break the first time you have sex, andâand with everything else⊠stretchinâ, yâknow, if it hurts, you just talk to me, OK?â
You nodded, âOK.â
Joel lined himself up.
He gripped his length and angled it. Shifted on his knees.
Swiped the head through your folds a couple of times and made you shiverâwas this supposed to be painful? You liked him there, and you tried relishing the feeling. Being wet, and sensitive, and spread with your legs wide open to Joel, you felt as vulnerable as youâd ever been.
You wanted to get the hurt over with.
âPut it in,â you urged, soft. âGo on.â
Joelâs lips twitched overhead. A light chuckle rumbled through him, and he continued the languorous strokes.
âAinât that simple,â he mumbled back. âIt ainâtâŠpolite.â
For what?
You were about to ask him as much, when Joel slid the flushed, leaking head of his dick from just grazing and bumping your slit to tapping directlyâpoking your clit. Smearing that pearlescent liquid from the little hole at the end to your throbbing bundle of nerves. You gasped.
Pleasure blossomed from that site. Joel tapped the head againâgentle, but insistentâand sparks ignited across your lower half. Your hips jerked, and you let out a whine.
âThatâs why, darlinâ,â Joel answered your wordless query. He smiled, sliding his dick back and forth between your thighs, over your trembling, glistening mound. âOnly polite to knock on the door before he comes inside.â
And if you werenât almost shaking in fear, you wouldnât have hesitated to roll your eyes. Told the old, beaming man with his length poised over your pussy he was corny and not funny at all, yâknow that? But instead, you just mirrored his grin, all crooked, soft, and indolent, and you leaned in to kiss him. You wrapped legs around his hips.
You trusted him.
Yet another confirmation of it came when Joel cradled the back of your head and kissed you deeper, sweetly, and then dragged his lips from your mouth to either one of your cheeks, your nose, your chin. Peppering kisses.
Trying to distract from what was forthcoming, maybe.
âJust look at me,â Joel murmured, drawing back and meeting your eyes. âLook at Daddy now, alright, baby?â
You did.
You nodded.
Joel pressed his hips forward, andâ
âFuck!â You swore under your breath.
It stung. No side-stepping the pain, the push of Joelâs length a mere quarter-inch inside stretched the rim of your pussy to what felt like maximum capacity. You dug your heels in his ass, and at the same time it felt like that thrust was going to halt where it was, you grit your teeth.
âKeep going. Please,â you begged him.
Joel groaned. His whole body shook.
âBaby, this pussyâs so fuckinâ tight.â
You mustâve felt like a fist to himâwhether that was a good thing or a bad thing was yet to be decided, as the manâs mouth fell open, and a string of curses flew out. His hips stuttered, like he couldnât bear the feeling, and then his hand lifted to stroke your cheek. His thumb trembled down the cusp of your jaw as his throat bobbed
âOhâŠoh, honey. Canât hurt ya, little one,â he said, choked
âYou wonât. I want it,â you murmured back.
As if to affirm that statement, your walls clenched around his tip and sucked him deeper. Maybe a half-inch.
Once sheathed almost past his throbbing, leaking head, Joel seemed to grow even more delirious. He opened and closed his mouth, gray stubble shining from the faint lamplight of his woodworking station across the room, and you thought heâd never looked sweeter. Or needier.
You snaked your arms around his neck just as you felt your body begin to leak more moisture down his length. One soft, minuscule squelch where Joelâs most intimate part and yours molded together, mixing juices, and you could almost taste him on your tongueâfeel him swelling bigger and harder pointing in toward your belly.
âRight here, Daddy,â you breathed, voice shrill from how badly you wanted him. âShowâShow me where it goes.â
You shouldâve known that tapping into Joelâs pedagogical side wouldâve stopped him on a dime.
And it did.
He blinked.
Eyes already clouded with lust and need, he swallowed.
âY-Yeah?â He leaned closer and blanketed your body.
You nodded at him sweetly, spreading your thighs.
âPlease, Daddy. Teach me how to be a big girl.â
Your words might as well have knocked him sideways. The man heaved the longest, lowest groan through his teeth, and muscles ticked on both sides of his mouth.
He liked that a lot.
Heâd give you exactly what you needed now.
And, in short order, that was what he didâlowering his head, capturing your lips, kissing you sweetly and savoring your taste, he relished you. Pleasured you. Braced his elbows on either side of your head on the pillow and sucked in a breath and then slid in, finally.
âOpen for Daddy,â he said, without pretense or pause.
No equivocation to his movements now, he drove deep. Your body followed as if by instinct, blooming around the intrusion and letting him in. It hurt; like you already knew, there was no sense in pretending as if it wouldnât sting, but Joel was there through every second of it. Caring for you, kissing you, sawing that big, slippery member of his in and telling you, gently, âThis is where Daddy belongs.â
âInâIn my tummy, Daddy. Can feel âim in my tummy.â
âYeah? Show me where.â
Joelâs hand moved under yours, swiftly guided to your stomach. His gaze shone with pride when you started drawing little circles over your belly button, all while his length was plunging in and out of your wet, needy hole.
You felt a bulge under the skin, and he felt it, too. Whatever hymen you had was probably split in half.
âSee Daddy there? All up in your guts?â
You did. You whimpered, âUh-huh.â
Then, somehow, the man sank even deeperâwhat once felt like it was teasing at your tummy touched your lungs.
Joel let out a strangled sound.
âFeelâFeel Daddy here?â
As soon as you answered yes, Joel rocked his hips forward to make sure he hit that spot again. It made stars fly before your eyes, not unlike the way youâd felt when he was knuckle-deep stroking your g-spot, but you could tell that this place was different, too. Your toes curled in anticipation, and your walls pulsed around him.
You liked it, not only for the feeling, but the meaning of it.
Something more significant lurked under the surface.
âYour cervix,â Joel said, voice thin and near hoarse.
Another stab of his pelvis, and your mind went dizzy with the pleasureâsilly as it was, it also scared you, so you hugged Joelâs neck and nodded your head, âCer-vix.â
âYou know whereâŠbabies come from, right, hon?â
That question stumped you for a second.
Slowly, you shook your head at him.
And, like the time not long ago when youâd told Joel you wanted to be a big girl, this admission seemed to leave a lasting impression, too. Above you, Joel continued to roll his hips in fast, shallow thrusts and stretch your pussy out with it, prodding at your cervix in every movement.
âWell, thisâthis is what I was gettinâ at, darlinâ.â
Another beat. Another thrust and a groan.
Joel had just managed to steel himself when he went on:
âThe birds and the bees, I mean. This isâŠit. This isâŠâ
Making love.
MakingâŠ
Joel didnât even need to finish his thought, but he reached down anyhow. Feeling for the soft, squishy globes attached to the base of himself, between his legs, he ghosted fingertips over them and stifled a grunt.
âIn here, âsâwhere a man stores semen. Thatâsââ
âThe stuff that makes babies, right, Daddy?â
The pieces fell into place without him having to say another thing. The jostling of your body underneath him, pussy taking him deep with every stroke, how Joel would grunt and groan and pant in keening desperation, âOh, sweetheart, thatâs just what Daddy likes. Keep goinâ,â it only surprised you how long it had taken for you to see it.
Instinct clouded your sense; you said it without thinking:
âWant it in me, Daddy.â
Joel choked.
Oh.
At the same moment, your walls reflexively clenched, and your fingers wound through the dark, sweat-dampened curls at the nape of his neck. Inhaling a whiff of his aftershave and his natural scent, you felt something stir within you. You couldnât name it.
You couldnât place that primal need or why you craved him in you, pulsing out however much of that seed his body could give. It was as simple and as insistent as breathing; your pussy enveloped his length from root to tip and gave it a squeeze like your walls were trying to milk him. Joelâs body responded in kind, and he groaned.
ââMâsorry, Daddy,â you squeaked. âI didnât mean to.â
âYou want Daddy to make a baby in your belly?â
Joelâs mouth was hovering less than an inch away from your own, and the look on his face was that of a man starved. His thrusts slowed. Hard, hot flesh twitched inside you and sank all the way in until you squirmed.
This gruff man, this tough man, this caretaker and wellspring of kindness and warmth. Protection since the day heâd entered your life. And now he was buried to the hilt, hips digging into yours, and he was smoothing a hand over your cheek. Seeming to be waging an internal war, he swallowed and held your hip with his other hand.
âDonâtâDonât answer that,â he rejoined, hoarse.
âPlease, Daddy. Please,â you whimpered back.
In an exploratory move, you reached to lick at his bottom lip. After that, his chin, down the plane of prickly silver stubble and then around his mouth, like you couldnât get enough of the man. It felt natural; you lifted your hips and raised your eyes to him at the same time, begging.
You didnât need to ask. Joel didnât need to speak again.
But after taking a look deep in your eyes and feeling you hug himâtug him in, both between your arms and your thighsâit became readily apparent his resolve was shot.
His hips drew back and rocked forward.
His tip nudged your special spot, and you both groaned.
No further teaching or talking was needed from that point forward; you and Joel seemed both to operate on instinct, with your bodies making all of the requisite decisions to keep moving. Joel slipped his arms under your body and held you tight, pressed himself as near as he could while he drilled you into the bed and pushed you closer and closer to your peak. His length swelled and throbbed, and the whole time through, he couldnât take his eyes off your face to watch what his movements were doing. Always âmy girl,â âmy darlinâ,â or âmy sweet, precious babyâ as his pubic bone bumped your clit and he cradled you to him. The bed creaked underneath the weight of each thrust, and before you knew it, your moans were increasing in pitch. Your body tightened.
Joelâs did the same, and with the tight, wet suction of your pussy all but cutting off the circulation to his dick, neither one of you had much say in what followed afterâropes of warmth coated your walls with every pulsation of his length, and euphoria seized you from head to toe.
How long it lasted, or how long Joel remained buried in your aching heat was anyoneâs guess. All you knew was that when you re-opened your eyes on recovering from your pleasure, Joel was watching you. Thick, sticky warmth stuffed you to the brim before starting to leak outâand, evidently, your old man loved that feeling, as he couldnât keep a grin from spreading across his face.
Cheeks glowing, eyes bright, and smile mirroring your own, it was clear he wasnât going anywhere this time. Joel held you closer, then pressed a kiss to your cheek.
A/N: I don't know how to write short smutty blurbs anymore, you guys. I swear I always try, but then I want some background or I feel like I need to add plot where there doesn't need to be any đ This was not meant to be this long. But here we are! (I also worked some more on mean king this weekend, hoping to get the next chapter out soon!)
Summary: Princess Y/n is a bit of a brat, but her knight doesn't mind much. Based on this prompt: insatiable princess fucking herself dumb on her bed moaning his name x desperate knight listening to her get off but isnât allowed to watch
Word Count: 6.7k
Warning: Sexual content (masturbation, auditory voyeurism, erotic sexual denial, tease and denial)
The thing about Princess Y/n, Harry had long ago decided, was that she was a brat. Spoiled, pushy, entitled, shameless, and she never got into trouble for anything she did, mostly because he never told anyone about the things she did when no one else was around. As annoying as she could be, heâd never betray her trust. And as the knight who stood guard over her, he knew far more than he should. Probably more than anyone else knew.
By day, he followed her around, keeping a respectful distance while also being close enough that he could protect her from anyone who got too near or intended to harm her. But by night, things always got a little⊠tense. She saw to it that they were.
The knight was sworn to uphold his duty as her protector and guard, and so he did it without complaint. Day in and day out, he put up with her obnoxious attitude and ever-shifting moods. Some might say that Harry even liked it, despite the constant look of contempt on his face.
There were several reasons why Harry liked being Princess Y/nâs on-duty guard. The first was that when the king called the calvary together for battle, the princess had insisted to her father that only Harry could watch over her properly, that she trusted no one else and because she always got what she wanted, the king allowed Harry to continue his station at the castle as the princessâs full-time guardian and protector. Being Y/nâs watcher was far better work than going into battle and getting oneâs head chopped off, he thought. The second reason he liked being around the princess was that, as rude as she could be, she was entertaining. He enjoyed the unnecessary drama she caused, though he couldnât tell you why he did. The third and most important reason was something heâd never tell anyone. It was because he was in love with her. And that third reason probably explained the second reason, but Harry didnât try to think too deeply about that.
They were in the square that day. The princess had wanted to go shopping, and so Harry went with her, as was his duty. He stood about three feet back as he watched Y/n speak with some nobleman who he thought was standing a little too close for his liking. He shifted, hand on his belt, and narrowed his eyes at the man in his finely tailored getup. Y/n laughed and then casually looked over her shoulder, meeting Harryâs gaze and grinned. He knew the look. She was about to cause trouble again.
When she looked back at the man, she slid her arm into his, and they began to walk toward the fountain together. Harry swallowed and kept his usual distance, though now his attention and his focus were heightened. He would only allow this man to get as close as he was for just a little longer before he stepped in to intervene. And the princess knew that.
The moment they reached the fountain, Harry understood she had chosen the spot on purpose. Because the square was busy enough to make a scene risky, open enough that he could not very well drag her away without causing one himself, and close enough that he had an unobstructed view of the nobleman hovering at her side like a buzzing fly. The square around them was full of life and people milling about. And right in front of him, Princess Y/n was setting a trap, and only Harry was privy to what she was doing.
She paused at the fountainâs edge and pulled a coin from the little silk purse hanging at her wrist. The nobleman leaned closer, smiling as though heâd been granted some great intimacy. Harryâs posture drew tight as he watched.
Y/n turned the coin over between two fingers, glanced at the water, then bent slightly at the waist to toss it in, pressing her palm against the stone. It was hardly enough of a movement to warrant concern. Hardly enough for anyone to think she might fall. But she knew what she was doing, and the man next to her played right into her plan.
The nobleman shifted, his hands landed at her hips in a mockery of helpfulness, fingers spreading over the curve of her waist as though he had any right in the world.
And Harry, without much thought, moved before the coin had finished breaking the water. âStep away from her.â
His voice cut cleanly through the noise of the square, causing a few passersby to turn into spectators, slowing their steps to watch the performance.
The nobleman startled and removed his hands, though not quickly enough to satisfy Harry. Y/n straightened and turned, looking between them with a bright expression, waiting for the fire she started to be put out by her knight. Once again.
The man recovered himself with a forced smile. âThe princess has asked me to accompany her.â
Harry stopped just in front of him, close enough now that the nobleman had to tip his chin up a fraction to maintain eye contact.
âI am the one accompanying her,â Harry said evenly. âAnd she did not ask you to place your hands on her.â
A flush rose in the manâs face. âI meant no offense, Sir Harry.â
âAnd yet you offend.â
The nobleman blinked, glancing at Y/n. âI was only⊠assisting.â
Harry flashed a look at Y/n. She was watching with open amusement, one gloved hand still laid flat over the fountainâs stone lip, as if this were all some private entertainment arranged solely for her. Which, he supposed, it was as this was her doing.
He looked back at the man. âYou may leave now. She doesn't require your assistance.â
The nobleman puffed himself up then, offended now that there were more sets of eyes drifting their way, bits of attention catching on the edge of the confrontation. âYou overstep yourself, knight.â
Harry stepped closer, then, only half a pace, but it was enough. Enough for the nobleman to acknowledge the warning in his posture. Enough for him to notice Harryâs hand settling on the hilt of his sheathed sword.
âI guard her,â Harry said quietly, dangerously. âAnd I have reason to believe your intentions are not honorable. This is your last warning.â
The man looked at Harryâs hand, then at his face, searching perhaps for bluff, for hesitation, for some sign this might still be argued into a victory he could save face with. But there was no victory for the nobleman here. Even the princessesâs expression told him that much.
The look on his face soured. He gave Y/n a stiff bow that she did not bother returning with any sincerity, then turned on his heel and disappeared into the gathering crowd of onlookers.
Harry watched until the nobleman was fully swallowed by the movement of the square before he let his hand fall from his sword. Beside him, Y/n hummed in satisfaction and slid her arm through his as if nothing at all had happened. As if he had not spent the last minute imagining several deeply inappropriate ways he could use his sword on that nobleman.
âOh, Harry,â she said, laughter tucked warm inside her voice, âthere you go again, scaring off men needlessly.â
He kept his gaze on the square, posture straight, expression fixed into cool indifference, something he had spent years perfecting around her. âIt was not needless.â
Her fingers tightened more snugly around his arm. âYou looked ready to kill him.â
âHe put his hands on you.â
âThat is hardly a crime.â
âIt was uninvited.â
That made her smile widen. He didn't need to look at her to know it was there.
She tipped her head, looking up at him. âAnd here I thought my guard was simply meant to be doing his duty.â
âI was.â
âMm.â She let the sound linger. âYour duty does not include scaring away every man who speaks to me.â
Harry swallowed, not answering this time, eyes still shifting over the faces of the people in the square. That, more than any defense he could have made, seemed to amuse her.
They began to walk again at an unhurried pace, his stride even with hers. The people whoâd been watching went back to their business as Y/n leaned into him just slightly, not enough for anyone else to notice, but just enough that he had no chance of not feeling the warmth of her against his arm.
âUnless,â she said lightly, âI am meant to think you were jealous.â
His face stayed composed. âI am not jealous, Princess.â
She laughed softly, but there was an undercurrent of wickedness lying just beneath. âLiar.â
Harry exhaled through his nose and kept scanning the square, though every instinct he possessed was fixed on the woman at his side. And she knew it just as well as he did. Theyâd been at this for long enough to know what they were doing.
After a moment, she sighed with exaggerated disappointment. âWell. Whether it was jealousy or simply your usual impossible temperament, I cannot let it go unanswered.â
At that, his shoulders went subtly rigid, and he inhaled a heavier breath, already knowing what she meant.
Her thumb brushed over the sleeve at his forearm, a tiny hidden stroke no one else would notice. âYou know what happens now.â
His throat bobbed as he forced a swallow. âPrincess,â he said carefully, a warning that never once worked on her.
She only leaned closer, her mouth near enough that he caught the scent of her perfume. âYou have been very possessive today, Sir Harry,â she murmured. âAnd since you insist on behaving so badly, I suppose you shall have to be punished tonight.â
He tensed his jaw, glancing down at her briefly and already imagining the scene in his head, knowing what was coming.
She drew back just enough to look up and meet his eyes. Her expression was full of false innocence and glittering mischief. âTonight, youâll stand guard inside my room, facing the door until I tell you otherwise.â
Harryâs cold features remained steady, but inside him, something hot and terrible turned over. Theyâd done this before. In fact, it had turned into a somewhat frequent punishment, if it could be called that. More like a tease. A forbidden fruit dangled just behind him, not allowed to look at it, or taste, or touch. He would only be allowed to listen and yearn while he stood with his cock hard and throbbing.
Y/n smiled and patted his arm, delighted with herself, and guided him farther into the square as though she had not just ruined him with a single sentence. And Harry, who would have followed her into hell itself if she asked, walked beside her in silence and began, already, imagining what sort of cruelty his princess would conjure up this time.
Harry stood near the center of the princessesâs room as she moved farther in without a word. She drifted through her room leisurely, as though this were any other night and not one carefully arranged to test the limits of his self-command.
Her chambers were as excessive as the princess herself. The ceilings soared overhead, tall windows framed the darkening sky, their long curtains stirred by a soft draft, beeswax candles burned in silver stands, mixing their warm sweetness with her perfume and the powdery lavender tucked into the linens by her maids. At the far end of the room stood her vast, canopied bed. Silk and feathers and secrets⊠Harry had imagined himself in it before, but heâd never allow himself to break his oath. He knew better than to risk it.
He stood with his hands clasped behind his back and watched her cross to the mirror. She took her time removing her gloves, peeling each finger free with excessive care before laying them on the dressing table. Then came the outer layer of her gown, the decorative sash first, then the jeweled pins at her shoulders. She hadnât said a single word yet, nor had she looked at him. That was part of the game too. She knew he was watching. Knew his eyes would track every movement but heâd look away the moment she told him to.
Only after she had shrugged the heavier layer from her shoulders did she glance at him through the mirror. Harryâs expression was just as stoic as always, and Y/n smiled.
The lighter fabric beneath clung more closely when she moved, tracing the line of her back and waist before falling loose again. Almost indecent. Almost sheer, but not quite. Just enough to let him know she was thinking very carefully about what she was doing to him.
He hated how willingly he let her tease him this way, but still, he indulged in the sight of her while he had the chance. Because soon heâd be left with the view of the heavy oak doors and the sound of her doing things very unbecoming of a princess.
She crossed to the armoire, the huge carved thing nearly as tall as the posters on her bed, and drew it open. Inside hung silks and velvet and lace in creams and jewel tones, garments fit for a spoiled rich princess. She slid her fingers along them as though considering her choices, though Harry knew it was all just a show.
From one shelf she grabbed a thin folded fabric, then draped it over her arm, and from another she selected something smaller, which disappeared into her hand before he could make out what it was.
She closed the armoire and moved to the low chest of drawers beside it, the one tucked half out of sight near the bed. Harry swallowed as he watched her smile to herself and pull the top drawer open slowly. He knew better than to let his mind linger on what she kept there. He already knew in part that it was filled with things she kept secret. She looked back at him over her shoulder with a smirk that had no business appearing so innocent on her face as she reached inside.
She drew out two small objects and turned them over in her hands, as though they were no more scandalous than a comb or a ribbon. But if anyone had seen what Harry was, theyâd be scandalized. Theyâd avert their eyes in shock that the princess had possession of such sordid things.
âYouâre staring,â she said.
âI am observing my surroundings, Princess.â
A soft laugh escaped her. âOf course you are. Obedient. Observant. PossessiveâŠâ She turned and looked at him, eyes sharp. âMaybe one day youâll be brave enough to act on it. To forgo your orders and your oath and give in.â
Harry kept his mouth pressed together as he stood there, heart pounding. If he broke his command, his oath, heâd regret it, but heâd certainly enjoy it while it lasted. His fear was that heâd lose his post with her if he ever gave in to his desires. If he ever gave in to her.
She set one item on the bed and kept the other in hand as she pressed her knee into the soft blankets of her bed. The mattress dipped as the gauze curtains shifted around her. He watched as she climbed in, palms and knees pressed delicately into the down, her eyes on his with the slope of her throat exposed, the bare skin newly revealed where her earlier layers no longer concealed her as thoroughly.
Harry held himself still. Even if she was trying to tempt him, trying to get him to slip up, he would not.
âYou were very bold today,â she said, running one fingertip over the bedcover beside her. âPutting your hand on your sword in the middle of the square. All that just for me?â
âHe put his hands on you.â
âAnd you frightened him away for it.â
He blinked, looking at the item in her hand. âThat was the intention.â
Her mouth curved. âJealous, then.â
âNo.â The lie came too quickly. They both knew it was lie.
Y/n sat back and smiled. âYou do make this easy.â
Harry kept his hands locked behind his back. The picture of focus and rigidity. A man with the strength to resist his desires.
Her eyes flicked over his face, reading everything he would never say aloud. âThat is enough.â She smiled playfully. âTake your place, Sir Harry. Face the doors.â
And because she had asked it of him, because she was his princess and his ruin, he obeyed, turning away to remove his gaze from her.
The doors stood tall and immovable before him with elegantly carved panels. A simple thing of wood and iron. Something he could fix his attention on, something that did not move, did not breathe, did not tempt.
Behind him, though, she began, and he took a breath, readying himself for the torture that was to come. He heard her sigh, then heard the whisper of silk sliding behind him, her last layers coming off, leaving her bare. He was already imagining the sweetest and prettiest thing spread out on her silk bed, only feet away, watching his back with a sly grin on her face.
Harry drew in another slow breath through his nose, held it, then released it carefully. An attempt to calm his racing heart and delay the inevitable rise of heat to his groin.
The bed shifted beneath her weight with a low creak, then a breath pushed from her mouth. The sound was soft at first, as if she were settling into the moment, tasting it, readying herself for what she was about to do.
âComfortable?â she asked sweetly.
âYes, Princess.â
She hummed. âYou donât sound comfortable.â
âThat is irrelevant.â
A breathy laugh drifted across the room. âMm. Always so proper. So outwardly detached⊠Yet I wonder what goes on in that head of yours.â
There was another shift of fabric and Harry fixed his gaze harder on the door. To the iron handle. The grain of the wood. A small imperfection near the lower panel where time had worn the polish.
âIt would be very easy, you know,â she said after a moment, voice quieter now, closer to something intimate. âTo turn around.â
His jaw set. âI will not.â
âNo?â There was a gentle lilt in her tone, coaxing. âNot even a little peek?â
âNo.â
Behind him, she shifted again. The bed creaked softly in response, followed by a quiet, almost thoughtful exhale.
âI know⊠But I do wonder,â she mused, âhow long it would take.â
Harry closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again, forcing his focus back to the door. âFor what, Princess?â
âFor you to forget your duty.â
âI will not forget. You have told me to face the door, and that is what I shall do.â
Her voice softened, threading something warmer through the teasing. âYouâve thought about it. Disobeying. Taking a look. TouchingâŠâ
Harry inhaled through his nose, chest rising and falling a little harder just as she made a small noise. Pleasure and need, barely a sound, but a breath in, then easing out again.
âYou could,â she continued. âNo one would know. The door is closed. The other guards are posted outside and they canât hear. If I told you to turn and watch, would you?â
Harry swallowed. He didnât know how he survived her teasing, in truth. She drove him mad.
âIf you commanded it, then I would do as I was told.â
âMmmâŠâ she moaned. âBut I want to see you break your orders.â
âMy duty is not conditional.â
âBut,â she said, a hint of laughter slipping through, âyou wish you could.â
âI only wish to do as you tell me.â
âLiar. I know you wish you could see this.â
She shifted behind him again. Movement and fabric. A quiet rhythm beginning and then a soft gasp. Harryâs breath grew heavier, and he fixed his eyes on the polish of the wood, steadying himself.
âYou are cruel to me, Princess,â he said, voice low.
âAm I?â she replied, pleased.
Another breath left her, slipping free, a little shaky. He realized while she was performing, there was lust in the sound. Whatever she was doing, it felt good for her.
Harryâs fingers curled slightly against his palms, skin heating under his regimental garb.
âYouâre listening very closely,â she said lightly.
âI am standing guard.â
âOf course you are.â Her breath shuttered. âKeep listening. Want you to hear it all.â
The rhythm behind him shifted again, just enough to break whatever fragile composure he had managed to reconstruct.
âHarryâŠâ she moaned his name.
He shut his eyes and swallowed. âYes, Princess.â
She answered with another soft inhale, then his name was breathed into the air again. Her tone was warmer, less playful now. He knew it was only a matter of time before she lost control of the sounds she made at all. Before she was moaning his name like he was the one there in her bed, fucking her and not the phallus-shaped wand she liked to use on herself.
The sounds she made began to settle low in his chest, warmth spreading fast to his stomach and then crawling lower, taking hold of his cock. Never had he been reduced to a panting, leaking mess without being touched before. Only with her. His spoiled princess.
âIf you could see this,â she whispered. âJust once, you wouldnât be able to resist again.â
âNo.â His voice came out rougher now.
She made a soft sound. âYou are too good, knight. Too obedient.â
The bed creaked again, a little louder this time, followed by a breath that broke unevenly before smoothing out to a soft hiss.
âOne day you will lose this fight. It will be so sweet to see you give in.â
Harry exhaled slowly, forcing the tension back into something he could barely contain. He stood facing the door, every muscle locked in place, every sense betraying him, every thought circling the same impossible desire, but still, he obeyed.
The next sound she made wasnât soft at all. It slipped out of her like something she couldnât hold any longer, a breath breaking into a needy, open-mouthed moan that echoed off the high ceilings. The shift in tone alone was enough to make Harryâs spine go rigid, his shoulders pulling tighter as if he could physically brace himself against it.
There was no mistaking it now. He could hear that she was fully lost in it. Completely taken by lust and pleasure.
The bed creaked again, more insistently this time, the rhythm no longer tentative. He could practically imagine her hand moving, wrapped around the wand, fucking herself as she stared at his back. Then it was wet, the softest claps of sound came from her bed as she thrust the thing into herself in smooth strokes. Or maybe she was humping it over her pillow, bouncing her little cunt on the wand, legs spread as she lifted and lowered. Both images were equally enticing.
Harry squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his jaw as the unmistakable slick sound reached him, timed with her panting breaths. His mind betrayed him, painting the picture he was forbidden to see⊠his princess spread open on her silk sheets, fingers glistening, that damned wand tucked deep inside of her.
âHarryâŠâ she breathed again, and this time his name dragged, stretched thin with want. âCan you hear me? Hear the way I get so wet for you.â
âPrincessâŠâ He warned, not wanting to play into it too much but still hopelessly wishing he could see it with his own eyes.
âHarry⊠my big knight⊠Tell me you hear me.â
âYes,â he said, though the word felt tight in his throat. He blinked hard as his cock swelled against his trousers.
âGood.â A shaky inhale. âThen listen to it properly.â
Of course he was listening properly. He wouldnât have been able to ignore any of it even if he tried. Not when it was her behind him, naked, hot, wet, with his name on her tongue.
âIâve got my fingers on myselfâoh! On my clitâŠâ she moaned. âBut if it were your fingers...â A soft, breathy laugh followed, almost embarrassed at how easily the words came now. âI know youâd take your time⊠Youâd take such good care of me.â
His hand twitched behind his back, and he huffed through his nose. If he were ever permitted to touch her that way, he would take care of her. Heâd explore every part and have her coming over and over again before he even allowed himself the pleasure to come. Heâd force orgasm after orgasm from her just so he could see it and hear her begging for mercy, but just as she never seemed to let up with him, he wouldnât let up either. Heâd have her bawling and exhausted by the time he was done with her.
âYour hands are so big,â she went on, almost thoughtfully, though her breathing kept catching. âIâd get your palm all wet... I keep thinking about how youâd fill me too⊠how youâd stretch me properly. Just your fingersâŠâ
Harry shut his eyes hard again, a quiet, controlled inhale doing nothing to cool the throbbing of his heavy cock. Heâd already imagined his hand wet with her many times. Heâd see to it that she made a mess⊠He scolded himself for humoring those thoughts, even if hidden only in his head.
âI would notââ
âYou would,â she cut in softly, almost lazily, though her voice trembled. âYou just wonât admit it.â
The wet sounds grew louder. Faster.
âAnd thisââ she continued, breath rising, âthis little wandâŠâ A faint hum of pleasure vibrated through her words. âIt barely does it for me.â
He swallowed. He could imagine her fully. See every crevice, every bend, the soft skin on her hips, the way her belly would quiver the closer she got. Her pretty breasts⊠Heâd never seen her naked, but he knew she would be pretty. He knew sheâd bring him to his knees if he ever saw her like that.
âOhâŠâ she panted, almost sweetly. âItâs hitting deepââ Her voice broke into an unrestrained gasp. âOh my god, HarryâŠâ A small mewl fell from her as the slushy sound of her cunt wrapped around the wand reached his ears once again. âBut you would stuff me so full, wouldnât you, knight? Youâd show me what it really felt like to be with a manâŠâ
His composure cracked just slightly as his head dipped forward a fraction, breath deepening. But this was the way. Sometimes she did it fast, other times she took so much time getting herself off heâd get dizzy from need. He was on the verge right then. Goosebumps scattering over his skin as he checked his urge to pull his cock out and pump himself.
Behind him, the pace picked up. The bed answered with a louder creak, the canopy swaying faintly as it shifted with her movements. Her breathing turned uneven, little gasps breaking through with increasing frequency, each one sharper than the last.
âOh, yessssâŠâ she said, broken. âMy pussy is so wet... For you.â
He clutched his hands tight, resisting his urges, refusing to break.
âPlease,â she pressed, voice slipping into something almost delirious. âOh, my god⊠It feels so good.â
Harry shifted his weight, subtle but necessary, his stance tightening as the pressure became impossible to ignore. His arms moved from behind his back without thought, settling in front of him, one hand pressing briefly against the front of his trousers before stilling again like heâd burned himself.
Behind him, she laughed softly when she saw it.
âThere it is,â she breathed. âYou want it. How big has your cock grown?â
âI am maintaining my post,â he said, though his voice had lost its edge of control.
âAs you always do,â she whispered, but there was no bite in it anymore. Only heat.
The rhythm on the bed turned frantic, the princess losing all of her composure. Her sounds spilled freely now⊠moans, gasps, broken little cries of his name threaded through it all. The slick, insistent noise of her movements filled the space between them, wrapping around him, dragging him deeper into something he could no longer pretend he wasnât part of.
âHarryââ she gasped, louder now, desperate. âMmmâŠâ
His eyes snapped shut again as he palmed at his cock before clasping his hands into fists and forcing them back to his side.
âIâd let you do anything if you broke your duty,â she rambled on. âYou could have me however you like.â Her voice broke into a sharp cry. âWhichever hole you wanted. All of them. Oh⊠stuff me and fuck me so good I never need this wand again.â
His breath stuttered as his dick twitched. He could feel himself leaking at his tip. His body stiff as a board as the princess fucked herself with a thing that he knew wasnât giving her the kind of pleasure he could.
The bed knocked lightly against the wall, and she cried outâloud, uncontrolled, her voice echoing.
âPleaseâplease break itâfuck me raw and come inside of me⊠let me feel itâŠâ
He groaned. She still hadnât given the proper command for him to do any different, so he wouldnât. Even if she was begging him to break his duty, he would need her words to say it plainly before he did anything but stare at the door.
âI wonât.â
But now his hand moved back into place over his crotch, pressed harder, grip tightening through the fabric, betraying him completely as he rubbed over himself. His neck strained to keep facing the door, and he let out a quiet, broken gasp of his own.
She was too far gone to care. Her words dissolved into cracked sounds, breath rising and falling frantically as she chased something just out of reach for him to see. The rhythm stammered, then surged, faster, sloppier, the slick sounds turning almost frantic. And the moans coming from her were obscene. Like tiny whimpered noises, hot breaths, soft hisses, whiny panting gasps.
âHarry⊠Oh, HarryâYesss! Mmm!â
Then he heard her shatter. A sharp, choked cry tore from her as the bed creaked loudly beneath her, the movement abrupt and uncoordinated as pleasure overtook her completely. He let out a moan just as he heard the canopy rustling, the mattress shifting hard under her as she rode it out, breath coming in ragged, gasping pulls.
He pressed his free palm to the door, head dropped as he worked his thickened cock over his pants the best he could. He wouldnât come like this, but it gave him relief, nonetheless. It would have to do until he could take a break and finally have his own release.
Harry stood frozen, every muscle locked, except for the hand still pressed tight and smoothing at the front of his trousers. He was so hard he could feel the swollen ridges of his head and down the length of his shaft, even over the fabric. His head bowed just slightly as he fought for control that felt like it was slipping through his fingers.
When her breaths slowed and the slick sounds evaporated as she came down, he bit into his lip and straightened himself back out, hands shaky as he pulled them behind his back, even though his dick was leaking and pulsing with need.
She moaned and then laughed. He heard fabric sliding, heard her breaths, and then her feet hitting the ground. He swallowed, wishing he could just look, but he would not. Not until she told him. Not until she commanded it.
Then he felt her hand on the back of his arm as she came in next to him. âOh, you poor thing. That must hurt.â
He swallowed, keeping his eyes on the door in front of him. When he didnât respond, she chuckled and slid in front of him, leaning her back against the door. He still didnât look, but he could tell sheâd put on her robe.
âStand at ease, Sir Harry. That is your command now. You may look if you wish. Youâve kept your duty well.â
He flitted his eyes down over her. The thin silk robe barely covered much, nor did it hide the swell of her breasts and the peak of her nipples under it. Y/n smiled as soon as she saw where his gaze caught, then lifted a hand and cupped his cheek gently, her palm warm against skin that already felt too hot, too tight, too alive. Her thumb stroked along the sharp line of his cheekbone.
âYou are all flushed,â she said, amused and almost sweet. âWarm.â Her mouth quirked up. âI think that was punishment enough, donât you?â
Harry nodded. It was the safest thing he could do. His throat had gone dry, and he did not trust his own voice not to betray him if he tried to answer properly. Even now, with her robe on and the game apparently doneâfor nowâhe could feel his restraint like something physical under his skin, pulled so taut it hurt.
Her eyes glittered when she saw him choose silence over speech.
âYes,â she said softly, as though confirming something to herself. âThatâs what I thought.â
She kept her hand at his face a moment longer, looking him over with that infuriating, intimate attention of hers, as if she enjoyed seeing all the places where discipline failed to conceal what she had done to him. Harry met her gaze because he could do that much, because now she had allowed it, because she stood directly in front of him and he had no command to disobey in looking. But meeting her eyes was scarcely easier than staring at the door had been.
There was too much triumph in her expression. Too much certainty that she knew exactly what lived in him at that moment.
Then she tilted her head and said in a brighter, lighter tone, âOne day, Iâll see you losing your control. You cannot keep denying yourself forever, good knight.â
A rough sound left him before he could smooth it away, almost a grunt, almost a laugh. He blinked and managed to speak, âI will never disobey the princessâs command.â
Y/n clicked her tongue at him. âAlways the same answer,â she said. âDuty, duty, duty.â Her fingers slipped from his cheek and began a slow path downward, gliding over the front of his garb, tracing the embroidered edge near his collar, then down the center of his chest with no hurry at all. âYou hide behind it all so well.â
He could feel her hand through the fabric. The drag of her palm, the press of her fingertips, the warmth of her skin carried through linen and leather and all the useless layers meant for modesty and protection and rank. None of them did a damn thing. Not against her. Even if he appeared unbothered.
She stopped with her hand splayed over his heart, then she hummed, pleased, because of course she felt it. The pounding. The wild, humiliating force of it that he simply could not control. He had faced battle lines with a steadier pulse than this. He had stood bloodied and half-blind in rain and mud with calmer breath than he had now, with her in her silk robe against the door, her hand over his chest, smiling like she had discovered some private little miracle beneath his ribs.
âMy,â she said. âThe way your heart is pounding...â
He clenched his jaw, eyes dropping to her palm and then sliding back up to look at her face.
She leaned in a touch more, pressing her palm more firmly over his heart as if to test whether it could beat any harder. âItâs almost as though you care,â she said.
âI do care, princess. You know I do.â
Her expression softened, the mischief still there, the delight still there, but touched now by something quieter. Something sweeter now. Then she smiled again and slid her hand from his chest down to the belt at his waist, not enough to be considered a mercy, but enough to make him inhale sharply and set every muscle in his body on edge.
âThis is why I keep you,â she said softly.
Harry stared down at her. She was infuriating and beautiful, and he didnât know which was truly worse. She scraped the nails of two fingers lightly against the center of his belt, then let her hand fall away before his control could splinter further.
âBe grateful,â she said, stepping around him at last. âI am in a merciful mood tonight.â
Harry turned his head to follow her with his eyes. She crossed back toward the bed, thin silk flowing around her legs, one hand gathering the robe closer though she knew perfectly well it hid very little. She glanced over her shoulder and found him still watching.
âGo on,â she said. âBrood. Glower. Stand there and convince yourself this is all beneath your dignity.â
A tiny smile tugged, unwilling, at the corner of his mouth, and she saw it. Her brows lifted.
âThere,â she said, delighted. âProof that you enjoy it. Aside from that big hard-on youâre suffering with.â She glanced down at his crotch.
He gave a slow exhale through his nose. âI apologize, Princess. It is improper, but I am not able to control it when youââ
âWhen I⊠what?â she laughed, turning away again. âWhen I get off and moan your name while you listen? Yes, I know. But it would be awfully disappointing if you didnât get hard. If you truly didnât care. That would hurt my feelings.â
This was a game to her, and to him too in many ways. A contest made of duty and temptation, command and obedience, honed every time she smiled at another man just to see Harry intervene, every time she ordered him to stand facing a door while she ruined him by inches from the other side of his discipline. A private war fought in the space between what she commanded and what he ached to do.
One day, one of them would lose.
Either Harry would finally break, turn at the wrong moment, reach for her without permission, let want outrun honor and drag duty down with it⊠Or she would tire of winning by rule, summon him to her bedside with that same spoiled little smile, and command him not to look away again.
Y/n settled herself against the pillows and reached for a book from the table beside her, as though she had not just spent the evening torturing him for sport. âCome. Read to me.â
He inclined his head and moved toward her. It was not typical for a royal knight to read books as part of his guard duty, but for Harry, nothing about his post with Y/n was typical. But that was part of what made it so fun.
Secretly, he loved reading to her. Liked the way sheâd cuddle into her pillow and blink her pretty eyes up at him and smile as he spoke the words on the page in his deep, slow drone. Loved watching her eyelids grow heavy and the way her breath would even out before she fell asleep.
He settled into the cushioned chair next to her bed, and she rolled to her side to face him as he reached for the book. He opened it, flipping to the page where theyâd left off from the night before, and cleared his throat.
âChapter Seven,â he said, as Y/nâs lashes lowered and her smile turned small and satisfied against the pillow, her eyes on him as he began to read.
And even if heâd been left with an unquenchable thirst for the young woman lying in her bed next to where he sat, he felt more than fulfilled just to be there with her at all. To be at her beck and call, to read books to her at night, to listen while she pleased herself in hopes of making him break. He would take whatever closeness and whatever cruelty she gave him and ask for nothing more.
. .
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Thank you for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like đ
to contrast that i also have a request for a veryy subby harry hahaha
đ Miss *
Summary: Harry goes to an exclusive, members only BDSM event to explore his lack of submission.
CW: Heavy mature themes (BDSM play, Sub!Harry, orgasm denial, begging, p in v sex, cursing)
Word count: 3.3k
Sub!Harry x fem!reader
A/N: Do not interact if not 18+. Thank you to the Anon who suggested this! Read at your own risk đ€ Harry in a collar, so hot!! His own collar?? Even hotter!!
Harry was usual the dominant one in the relationship. He naturally took control due to his confident demeanor and emotional intelligence. Harry lead best by caring for others but when it was his turn to be cared for â he struggled with the power exchange of letting go and being vulnerable. Harry knew how beneficial it could be to let someone else take that control. Maybe heâd finally understand the other side of submission through connection and intimacy.
Harry watched as a woman in a black leather, clad outfit hit a man with a flogger. She was masked, firmly delivered blow after blow to the manâs backside. Each time the man yelped in pain, Harry felt a fire build deep inside of him. Ethically, he hated the idea of someone getting hurt but the man seemed to be enjoying himself.
Harry didnât watch the scene for long, wandering to another and another. He watched intensely, each building a small fire in the pit of his stomach. When he finished his drink, Harry drew his attention to a small, red lit room with nobody preoccupied inside. He stepped in, quietly taking in the space. There was a low bed and multiple toys â gags, collars and whips on a small table. Harry picture himself in a dominant role easily, it was the submissive role that he had trouble with.
Just as he was about to leave, the door closed softly behind him.
âWhat are you doing in here?â Harry heard a feminine voice ask from behind him. He turned, his eyes immersed into a wide gape as he saw the woman standing before him. She wore a black, lace bodysuit that was tucked into a leather, tight skirt. Her high boots drew attention to her long legs. She was a pretty sight for sore eyes. Her long hair cascaded down her shoulders, covering her breasts that peaked through the lace.
âSorry, I â, uhm⊠I just wandered in here,â Harry admitted after a few seconds.
âAre you looking to be dominated?â The simple question caught Harry off guard. It snapped him back into reality. A reality that he wasnât so familiar with. He let the silence fall between them, he noticed how her gaze took in his figure.
âI uh, I want someone else to take control, so yeah.â He explained carefully, his fist balled as if he was admitting something that was wrong.
âWhy?â She kept her distance but moved throughout the room, near the table to busy herself with her familiar tools.
Harry thought for a moment, his gaze followed her. âI guess to feel⊠cared for,â he replied simply. âIâm usually the dominant one and Iâ I need to feel the other side of it. Iâm in the position where Iâm always in control and I need to â,â
âYou need to let go,â she spoke up.
Harry nods, âyes.â
âDo you want me to help you with that?â Her tone was cautious, gentle almost.
Harry took in her body once more, silently wishing he had more to drink. âYes,â he confirmed. Then, it began.
âGet on your kneeâs,â she barked out. Harry blinked at her for a split second before he slowly dropped to his knees. His long, brown curls fell into his face. He remained with his hands in his lap. His head stared down at the concrete floor.
âThis is your first time submitting?â Her voice was laced with honey, sweet and sultry.
âYes,â
âIâll explain my rules then, weâll get started.â She stalked over to him in the middle of the room. She held something in her hands but Harry couldnât make it out due to the low lighting and poor positioning.
âYou will call me miss, you will only speak when spoken too unless you need to use your safe word. Do you have a safe word?â
âNo, miss.â He said, clearing his throat. âYou may choose for me, miss.â
Y/N would never admit it but a warmth ran through her veins. A small smirk of approval was sat on her lips.
âRed,â she said, clear as day. âRed will be your safe word. Do I have your consent to touch you?â
âYes, miss.â
âDo I have your consent to inflict pain?â
âYesâŠMiss,â Harry noticeably hesitated.
âI anticipate there will be more pleasure than pain,â she said to help calm his nerves. âWe will start slow. I would like to put this collar around your neck, it will signify that youâre mine. Once the collar is around your neck, the scene will begin.â She explained. âDo you have any questionâs?â
âNo, miss.â
The woman rounded him, opened the heavy leather collar and locked it around his neck. Harry visibly gulped at the sight tightness in a whole new form. It wasnât uncomfortable but noticeable. She stood in front of him, taking his new look in.
âLook up at me,â she demanded. Harry did so with a small smirk. His green eyes had darken and the bulge in his trousers grew. Y/N walked back to the table, grabbed some of her tools.
âStand,â she demanded. Her eyes instantly fell to the tight material around his crotch. With his chest already bare, she examined his tattoos for a moment. When Harry stood, her fingers went to his chin.
âBe a good boy and open up,â her voice still carried a soft tone. In her hand was a ring gag, used to restrict the closure of his mouth. She placed it between his teeth, securing it behind his head. Next, she bounded his hands with a tight, soft ribbon material. Her fingers brushed along his abdomen, noting how goosebumps formed on his skin and the way his breathing became more pronounced, the moth on his abdomen rising and falling.
Her fingers unbuttoned his trousers, yanking them down with a sudden force. She instructed him to step out of them before she began to step back. She took in his modified look, it was strikingly suited for him.
âKneel,â she commanded once again. âIâm going to start with my hands then Iâll use my other tools. You are allowed to make noise but do not talk back. Remember your safe word. Your single job is to submit and feel,â she explained before stepping towards him. Her hands pressed flush against his chest, fanned out over his shoulders and biceps.
Harry shuttered at the sight contact. Y/N dragged her hands down to his bound, checking the tightness before she lead him to raise his arms above his head. âRelax your breathing, in through your nose and out your mouth.â Harry followed her instructions, steady his breath. Her fingers traced his collarbone next, down his firm chest to his taut nipples. Her fingers brushed over them both, twisted them at the same time.
âUgh,â an audible noise came from Harry which caused her to smirk. She didnât want to lower herself further so a new instruction came. âLay down on the bed, back against the mattress.â Harry followed, laying down against the firm material. Y/N stalked over a second later, straddling his waistline. She anchored his hands above his head. She could feel how hard he was under her, it only wanted her to shock him more. She leaned down, wrapped her lips around his nipple. She didnât lick or suck but instead bite down enough for a mixture of pain and pleasure. Harry hissed out, a pretty sound filled the air as his miss soothed the red area with her tongue.
Her hips rolled against his hardened cock, lips pressed to kiss skin as she trailed further down with her kisses. They were gentle, far from the shock she gave him previously.
âMm, you feel rather⊠restricted,â her small hand slipped into the material of his underwear, pulling at the head of his cock. Precum coated her fingers, her body shifted so she was beside him. Her hands tugged at the material of his boxer briefs. His hard cock stood straight up against the air, dying for attention. After his underwear was discarded, her body shifted off the bed. She walked back to her table of tools and grabbed the flogger.
âI want you to count when I tell you,â she explained. The leather material ran up his leg, a small gulp escaped Harry. âKeep your eyes on the ceiling, donât look at me. If you disobey, Iâll take your sight from you and youâll receive a punishment, understand?â
âYes, miss.â Seconds later, the flogger made a wick sound as she hit the small hairs that stood up on his bare thigh. Another moan escaped Harry as he counted out. He fought to keep his eyes centered on the ceiling. Y/N trailed the flogger up and down his skin before hitting the same abused area by his hard cock. Harry groaned out again, his chest rising and falling. âTwo,â he forced out, whimpering softly.
âSuch pretty noises your making for me,â she whispered. âDoes that feel good? I can see your cock twitching, aching for contact.â
âYes, miss, please.â
âBegging, now? Hm,â she smirked. âWhat a beautiful sight,â her flogger made contact right above his naval, shocking him again. He shuttered out, his hips jerked up. âThree,â he gulped, moving his head to look at her.
âM-More,â he begged.
âDid I say you could demand things?â Her voice grew louder, more serious. The flogger made contact again in the same spot but harder, more painful. âBe a good boy, let me hear those pretty sounds,â the leather dragged down to his pubic hair, up his hardest and rubbed against the tip of his cock. The material was new and felt cool against his skin. He moaned out instantly.
âGood boy, so responsive.â Y/N hummed softly, walking away and setting the flogger down on the table. She grabbed a blindfold, covering his sight with it seconds later.
âIâm going to cover your eyes and take whatâs mine now,â she whispered out. âDo I have your consent still?â
âYes miss,â he said, clear as day.
Y/N didnât usual end scenes by fucking but she couldnât help herself. The whole time, her core was aching for a man she barely knew. âKeep your hands above your head, remember Iâm the one in control.â She eased back over his waist but this time, the contact was skin to skin. Her warm, wet vulva brushed against his hard cock. Harry groaned out, she could feel his heart race as she supported herself with her hands on his chest.
âJust feel,â she whispered before linking their bodies together. An audible gasp of pleasure escape both of their lips. Y/N rolled her hips against him, fully taking his cock inside her.
âSuch a perfect toy,â she moaned out, her palms flat against his chest to help her with the movement. Y/N didnât hold back, basking in the pleasure that she controlled herself. She used him as a toy, a tool rather than for the sake of his own pleasure.
Harry was struggling not to curse, to say a thing as she worked against him to find her own pleasure. He fought the restraints, needing to hold her, to anchor her but he was in no position to do so. Their moans filled the air, the scent of sex and the sound of their skin colliding together heightened the pleasure building in his lower abdomen.
Y/N worked her hips faster, gripping the skin on his chest with her nails. âFuck, so good.â She moaned out, âIâm going to cum all over your cock and leave you begging for me,â she told him.
Thatâs exactly what she did, using him to gain an earth shaking orgasm which almost sent him over the edge. Her moans alone were torturous. Suddenly, the cool air hit him in ways he never could imagine as she left his body. Y/N climbed off and began to slowly walk away. Her back turned away from him as she collected herself.
âMiss,â he called out, sounding so desperate. âPlease miss, please let me cum.â After a few seconds, she turned towards him, a smirk on her lips.
âI suppose,â she picked up the flogger again. She knew he was overly sensitive which would bring him to brink of his orgasm. âYouâve been such a good, little toy for me.â She stalked towards him, the flogger made a loud noise as it hit his navel, Harry groaned out.
âMiss, I need too. It hurts so bad,â he begged, whining at her. âPlease, miss.â Y/N watched as he became slightly restless. She bared the flogger down again, closer to his pubic bone. He let out an audible, loud moan as the flogger slowly drifted up his shaft, massaging the overly sensitive tip of his cock. As she trailed the flogger down again, teasing him â he let out a low groan, white liquid oozed out of him, onto his abdomen as he finally reached his orgasm. He thrashed around, moaning out in pleasure. Y/N let his orgasm course through him before setting the flogger down.
âYouâve been a really good boy,â she praised him. âTake a few deep breaths then I will untie you,â she explained. In the meantime, she walked to grab a warm, damp washcloth. She cleaned his abdomen and soft shaft in one go. Harry remained in position until she gave him the order.
âYou may put your hands down.â He rested his aching arms down over his stomach, focusing on his breathing. First, Y/N undid the gag from his mouth, letting his jaw relax. Y/N took off the blindfold next then moved to his hands, unwrapping them. Last thing was the leather collar.
âStand,â she said softly, she took a good look at him â completely ruined and utterly beautiful. His hair was a mess and with his face visible, Harry smirked. He was in utter shock that he could fully submit to her.
Y/N reached around and took the collar off of his neck. Harry instantly grabbed her wrist, not violently but firm.
âNext time,â his gaze poured into hers intensively. âIâm the dominant.â He promised before walking a few steps to grab his discarded clothes. âAre you always here?â He spoke up as he clothed himself, making more of a conversation.
âYes,â she blinked, a little caught off guard by his tone.
âGood,â he smirked, âyouâll be seeing more of me,â he promised before he headed for the door. âYou make such beautiful rules⊠I canât wait to watch you break them all for me.â With that, he was gone.
originally posted on patreon as a one-shot, then later turned into a series
MAIN MASTERLIST
older!harry | dad's friend!harry
Summary: Your hyper sexual tendencies get you into a lot of trouble. You're trying to be good, but you never seem to be able to shut off the voice in your head that keeps telling you that you need attention from unavailable men. When you set your sights on Harry, your dad's friend, you have no idea what you're getting yourself into.
Word Count: 9.1k
Warning: Inspection k!nk, rough blow job, humiliation k!nk, anxious attachment and validation/attention seeking behavior, unresolved neglect, d0m/sub behavior, smut, forbidden relationship, spitting, nipple play, + Harry's quite a lot older.
. .
You couldn't say exactly what was wrong with you. Maybe you really were the insufferable attention seeker your dad always said you were. You knew you needed to screw your head on straight, but you didn't know how. Seeking older, married, off-limits men seemed to make you feel better. Temporarily, at least. Was it because your dad was so cold and you were certain he didn't love you? Was it because your mother would rather drink and shop, and sleep her life away than spend any time with you? Was it because you liked the drama, the fallout, the fight, the tears?
You stared at Harry, your dad's friend, sitting at the table, just off the lake dock, drinking his third beer as he chatted with the guys. But you saw his eyes on you when your dad wasn't looking. You saw all your dad's friends' eyes on you. But Harry's were the only ones you were interested in. The lakehouse was one of your favorite spots to be. You could escape reality while drinking alcohol and wearing bikinis all day. Your dad hadnât wanted you tagging along but you wore him down like always, nagging, needling, whining⊠until he gave in, rolling his eyes and told you to keep busy and not ruin his guysâ weekend.
Well, he should have known better. Certainly, there was a reason he didn't love you after all. Ruining things was kind of your go-to specialty. And right now, you wanted Harry to ruin you. He was the kind of man who could set you straight. At least he wasn't married.
You pushed up from the edge of the dock where you'd been sunning, and sauntered toward the table, just shy of the zone where your dad would bark. On your way to the cooler, you gave Harry a small, private smile, then bent for a beer and let him have the view. Tits, ass, whatever he chose to take. You just needed his eyes on you.
The first swallow of cold ale carved a clean line down your throat as you stood right where Harry could watch. He glanced, but not too long. You tossed him another look, then drifted toward the cedar-and-stone house, slipped through the sliding doors, and let the air-conditioning lift the heat from your skin.
Even as your sweat began to dry, you were still heated from all the inappropriate thoughts about Harry. His arms were strong and tattooed, his shoulders were broad, he was tall, big hands⊠There wasn't a single thing you could find about him that wasn't appealing. He was even a little bit boorish, which you loved. You wouldn't call him mean, but he definitely wasn't nice. He'd never been rude to you, but you'd let him if he wanted.
And best of all, you were positive he had a huge cock. You'd seen the bulky line of him after pulling himself out of the lake, the way he plucked his shorts away from the heavy lump that swayed in his navy swim shorts. Plus, there was no way a man like that wasn't nicely endowed. You wanted to see it for yourself, though.
You took another drink of your beer, your forearms pressed over the granite kitchen island, just as Mark walked in and set his dark eyes all over your skin before he walked behind you. Rolling your eyes, you took another swig and turned around, propping your elbows on the island behind yourself to look at him. "Like the color green. Or you just like my ass?"
He laughed and reached into the fridge to grab out a few more of the special beers. The ones that didn't go in the cooler because they were too expensive to sit amongst the common lagers and ales that sat drowning in water and ice in the Igloo cooler. "You got some mouth on you, Y/n."
"I saw you lookin'. Don't pretend you weren't. If Darius finds out, he'd probably kill you, though."
"If your dad finds out what?" Harry's voice cut through from the sliding door as he stepped inside, eyes on Mark. There was tension.
"Nothin'."
"He was looking at my ass," you smirked and then took another drink of your beer.
"She's right. Darius'll kill you. So will I. Go back outside, Mark."
Mark scoffed and gestured toward you. "I wasn't looking at her ass, Harry. She's just a kid. Why wouldâ"
"I'm 23. Full-grown woman," you corrected.
Both Harry and Mark looked at you and laughed. You rolled your eyes. Harry kept his sight on you as he spoke. "Go outside, Mark, before you do anything stupid."
You licked your lips and grinned at Harry, swaying your hips just a little as you shifted. His eyes grazed your thighs before he stepped in front of you, jaw set hard.
"Don't be playin' with Mark. He's going through a lot right now."
"I know. Poor thing," you mock-pouted. "Heard his wife left him. Probably desperate to get laid. That's why he was staring at me."
"You need to behave, Y/n. You're lookin' for trouble." Harry glanced out the window then back at you.
You fluttered, your lashes innocently. "Hmm⊠Not looking for trouble. Honest. Not from Mark anyway."
He shook his head and sucked at the front of his teeth like what you'd said was unbelievable. But you think he got the hint. "God help me."
And just like that, he walked away. Left you standing there in the air-conditioned kitchen as he stepped back out to the patio with his friends. All boring older men his age who he knew couldn't entertain him the way you could if he just let you.
.
The wifi sucked at the lakehouse. That was one of the only things you hated about the place. The rest was kind of magical. You sat on the balcony off of your room, a joint perched between your fingers as you watched the sun slip down, and one by one, your dad and his friends began to come inside. Bedtime for the old men. But that meant go-time for you.
Patting out your joint, you stepped back inside your room and checked yourself in the mirror. Your button-up shirt was unbuttoned, nothing underneath. You grinned and felt your nerves ramp up as you tiptoed from your room, down the hallway to the one off the shared bathroom. Harry's room.
None of the men had made it upstairs yet. You could hear them all down in the kitchen still. Once again, the thrill of doing something you knew you shouldn't was too big to pull back from. Just one night with Harry would cure you. Definitely.
His room was dark when you stepped inside and closed the door behind yourself. The rush of what you were doing made your heart race as you climbed into his bed and pulled the shirt off, dropping it onto the floor next. You turned your head to inhale the pillow he'd used the night before.
It was like a dopamine hit to your brain. Harry always smelled good, and now, lying in the bed, he'd soon be coming to⊠your insides were churning, and your skin was prickling with heat.
Look, you knew you were ridiculous. You knew it was dumb. But you really didn't care. You should have cared. You should have gone to therapy instead of going to older, unavailable men to fill in the gaps of whatever it was that was missing in you. But for you, rational thought rarely won. For better or worse. You were a walking disaster.
When footsteps began to hit the stairs and deep voices laughed and lulled, doors opened, and then closed, you pulled his blankets over your head and bit your lip in anticipation. You had a feeling he was going to kick you out of his room. Tell you that you needed help and that you were barking up the wrong tree or something like that.
The moment his door opened, you held your breath. You heard his footsteps, the door closing behind him, then locking. When the light came on, you could see it slip through the edges of the blanket, and then everything went silent. You slowly inhaled and blinked your eyes against the dark of the blankets over you and tried to listen for any single noise, but there was nothing. Not a footstep, nor a breath. Was he playing a game? There was no way he didn't notice the clear outline of your body under his blankets, and there was no way he didn't know it was you.
Just before you were about to pull the covers from your face to find out what was going on, all of the blankets were suddenly ripped from you and pulled to the floor, cold air hitting your bare skin. You gasped and sat up to see him standing at the end of the bed, an unreadable expression on his face as he trailed his eyes down your nude figure sitting right in the spot he would be sleeping.
He pressed his lips together tight and nodded before he crossed to the side of the bed to casually plug his cellphone in to charge it. You blinked, confused, and shifted to sit with your legs tucked under your thighs as you watched him. Why wasn't he giving you some kind of reaction?
"UmâŠ" You said thinly. "You gonna say something?"
He slid his gaze to yours, and he sniffed before he sat at the edge of the bed and began to remove his shoes. "What do you want me to say?"
Shaking your head, you frowned. "I don't know. I thought it'd be funny. Maybe make you laugh."
He pushed out a laugh, but it was missing its edge of humor. "Funny? This is you being funny, Y/n?"
"WellâŠ" You looked down at your lap and suddenly felt like escaping. You could just grab your shirt and dash back to your room, pretend you'd never done it.
"Well, what?"
"I don't know. I don't know why I did it."
"Not every day a man steps into his room to find a naked girl in his bed. Worse when it's his friend's daughter."
Biting your lip hard, you lifted an arm to cover your breasts and hook your fingers over your upper arm, suddenly not feeling like your usual bold self. Harry's reaction had not been what you'd expected at all. You were used to an extreme response. But this?
He brought a hand up and pulled at your lip, voice soft. "Don't bite it. Make yourself bleed."
You blinked slowly, eyes on his as you parted your lips where he pulled and grabbed his wrist, pushing your lips over his thumb and sucking around it. It was automatic when you did it. He didn't pull away.
"Fuck me," he muttered under his breath. But it came out sounding less like a man excited and more like a man with a conundrum.
You laved your tongue all around and moaned softly, pushing and then pulling your lips over his digit as he watched you. Shifting your hips, you scooted closer to him, his thumb still in your mouth. And you thought maybe it was just that easy. Show him how nasty you could be right off and he'd give in.
But he moved away and stood, your hand falling to your lap. He bent and grabbed the blankets, tossing them back over the bottom of the mattress. You watched him pull his wallet from his back pocket and place it on the dresser, with his back to you. You had no idea what was going on. But he wasn't kicking you out. Yet.
You were honestly used to one of two reactions from men when you pulled this kind of shitânot that you'd done this exact thing before, but still.
Men would either respond with a lot of enthusiasm in favor of getting to fuck you, or they'd freak out and leave (or tell you to leave).
Of course, your actual "body count" was not nearly as high as that makes it seem. You were no virgin, but you were also not really a "bop" either. Well, maybe you were a little bit, but you preferred thinking of yourself as a lover girl, really. Just a girl looking to be loved. Looking for something real, but probably in all the wrong places.
He turned to face you, bracing his hands against the edge of the dresser behind him. "Why are you here?"
You tipped your chin up to make it look like you had more confidence than you did, given that you were naked, in his bed, uninvited.
"I just wanted to see what would happen."
"To see what would happen," he repeated. You watched him nod and drag his eyes down your body to where your feet were tucked under your bottom.
"I think I already know what you want. But I need you to tell me first. Otherwise, you'll return to your room. This isn't a game. Tell me why you're here."
You swallowed and put your palms on your knees. "To see if I could get you to..."
He waited to let you finish your thought but when you didn't, he did it for you. "To see if you could get me to⊠what? Look at you? Pay attention to you?"
You nodded, your throat tightening. "Yeah. I wanted you to like me."
He huffed a quiet laugh. "You think I don't like you?"
Right then, you really wished you had some clothes on. "Hard to really tell."
He shook his head and looked up at the ceiling. "If I didn't like you, you would not be sitting here right now."
It was pathetic but the edge of your lip nudged upward at that admission. So he did like you. At least enough to keep you sitting on his bed, naked.
"Tell me why you're here."
God, you were so out of your depth with Harry. You slowly inhaled and sank your nails into the skin on the outside of your knee. "I wanted attention. Your attention specifically."
"Attention. Okay. Well, you got it. You realize I'm not much younger than your dad."
"I know. I just⊠like you."
He laughed and pushed away from the dresser, stepping next to the bed closer to you. "I can see that. Not very wise, though. Is it?"
You shook your head, looking up at him through your lashes.
"No, it's not." He blew out a slow breath. âHow much have you had to drink?â
âNothing since dinner. Iâm not even tipsy. Well, I smoked a half joint before I came in here.â
His eyes stayed on yours long enough to make you feel naked in a different way. âA joint? And now you're sitting here without any clothes on in my bed? Your dad would be very disappointed in you.â He glanced at the door, then back to you.
Your heart thudded as you let out a humorless laugh. âHe won't ever know unless you say something. Besides, he doesn't care about me anyway. Mom either.â
Harry reached down and took your chin between his thumb and middle finger, palm cradling the underside. "Darius doesn't give you enough attention? Is that what this is? You're desperate for someone to take care of you?"
You nodded, chin padded by his palm as you rounded your eyes on his. You reached up to grab his forearm, but he tsk'd at you and moved his hand away. "Hands back in your lap. You want attention from me, then we're doing this my way. Is that clear?"
"Yes," you spoke in a whisper.
"Good." His mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile he didnât want to have, but you saw it. "Few rules first." He stepped away, moving toward the door to double-check that he'd locked it before he returned to your side next to the bed.
"You'll listen to me. You keep your voice down. If I say stop, you stop. That door stays locked until I unlock it. You'll go back to your room when I say. And in the morning, you are polite and distant, and you donât make me a liar in front of your dad."
You nodded too fast, blinking your eyes as you swallowed.
âUnderstood?â
âYes,â you said, throat tight. âI can do that.â
He lifted a hand toward your face, and you leaned into it. His knuckles skimmed your jaw, the heat of his palm cupping your cheek. The careful way he touched you made your bravado feel small and your want feel enormous.
âThere can be no loud noises coming from you, much as I'd like to hear it,â he said. âAre you able to keep yourself quiet?â
âYes,â you said plainly. You hoped you could.
"Good, because one peep too loud and you're out of here. I'm not risking my relationship with your dad so some spoiled, bored girl can get her kicks and play out her twisted fantasy on an older man. We're both adults here, Y/n. Let's call it what it is."
You frowned, brows pinching together.
"What? Did you think this was gonna turn into a love story? Honey, this is what you get when you play around with people you shouldn't."
You turned your gaze toward the edge of the room, your heart thundering so loud you could hear it in your ears. You just wanted to find a man to love you at the end of the day, but you knew the way you went about it was all wrong. The kind of men you went after weren't fit for that. Harry wasn't going to be your knight in shining armour and sweep you away to his city penthouse and take care of every want and need you had.
"I know," you said, your voice hollow like the space inside of you that you so desperately wanted filled.
The bed dipped when he sat down. "Hey. Look at me, Y/n."
Blinking, you shifted your gaze back to his. His clear rules were making you confront yourself in a way you didn't usually need to, and you felt very outmatched for it.
"Where'd all your sass go? Hm? Don't tell me you're this easy to break."
"I don't⊠Most men don't care about rules. I'm used to justâŠ" You shook your head, picking at your nails in your lap.
"Most men? How many?"
"What?"
He raised his brows. "How often do you do shit like this?"
"Well, not like⊠all the time. Like a few."
"You usually go for older men?"
You nodded.
"Right. So this is a pattern. You could have picked any of the guys here this weekend, and you'd have been satisfied. Mark would probably already be fucking you if you'd picked his room."
"No. I didn't want anyone else. That's why I came here."
"And you're used to men not giving a damn about the consequences. Thought I'd be easy to seduce, didn't you?"
Shaking your head quickly, you spoke. "No. I honestly thought you'd just kick me out."
He tilted his head, a slow grin pulling at his lips. "You did all this thinking I was just gonna send you out of here? You like being humiliated, Y/n?"
You shrugged. "Just for attention. Even if you just yelled at me and told me to get out, that would've been fine. Take what I can get."
He blinked, eyes shifting between yours. "That's kind of fucked up. You realize that, right?"
You pushed out a breath of a laugh, embarrassed, and looked back down at your lap. "I know. I have issues that I should probably work out in therapy."
He slid his palm over your knee, and you flicked your gaze back to his. "Probably? Baby, this is a whole shit sandwich you got goin' on here."
You laughed, a little too loud, and covered your mouth quickly, eyes wide.
"ShhâŠ" he smiled, shaking his head in disbelief. "Get on your tummy. Tush up."
Your face went hot immediately, and every inch of flesh burned as your vision went bleary from the sudden shift in his demeanor and the drop in his voice. But you quickly did as he said, moving to your side and then lowering your tummy to the mattress. You kept your neck turned so you could see him in your peripheral. He didn't move at first, but you could hear his breath.
It felt like minutes that he sat there and just stared at your backside. Like he needed to make sure he was ready for it himself. But when he finally touched you, a big hand pressing at your low back and tracing upward along your spine, you smiled and sighed a soft moan.
"Jesus, Y/n." His hand paused at your shoulder blade. "Acting like you never get touched. Need it that bad?"
You breathed out and nodded into the crook of your arm. You didn't want him to stop touching you. However he wanted to do it, you'd be happy. You just needed it.
He shifted, his hands pressing flat into the mattress on either side of your waist as he leaned over you, his voice next to your ear. "Bet you like to be spanked, don't you? Like to get smacked around just to feel a man's hands on you? Like it rough?"
You nodded, your eyes pressing toward the limn of your vision so you could see the outline of his face over you.
"Not happening tonight. Too much noise. Understood?"
You nodded again. "Mmhm."
When he pushed away, he didn't move far. He pulled your hands down and placed them on your tailbone. "Keep these here."
You threaded your fingers together to hold your hands still as he moved behind you. A shift of fabric, the bed tipped under his weight and then lifted when he stood. He was taking off his shirt. Maybe everything, you weren't sure.
He turned on the lamp on the side table and then walked across the room to shut off the overhead light. Then you saw him grab his cellphone. A few moments passed before you heard the sound of white noise coming from his phone. The pulse of waves and the soft lapping of water receding from a shoreline. The constant, gentle drone of sound that could drown out small noises while putting someone to sleep. Only tonight, the white noise wasn't for sleeping. It would serve as a disguise.
With your hands still exactly where he put them, you turned your head to see him walking toward a small suitcase on the other side of the bed. He'd removed his shirt and his jeans, but was still wearing a pair of black boxer briefs that hugged his thighs and glutes tightly. He pulled something from his suitcase that you couldn't see before he stepped around to the bedside table, and you turned your head again to watch as he laid down two condoms. Two.
"I'm on birth control," you said, your eyes following his movements.
"Oh, I'm sure you are, honey."
And that was all he said before he was kneeing back up onto the bed behind you, his hands moving up the backs of your thighs and pressing them apart. You squeezed your eyes closed, feeling more exposed and naked than you ever had.
Then he was touching you with purpose. His hands sliding over your skin and around the curve of your ass before he squeezed and pulled. You could hear his breath as he went. The warm span of his palm and fingers wrapped your sides and then he pinched gently. You rocked your hips and moaned softly.
"You let men fuck you without condoms?"
You swallowed. "Sometimes. Not usually."
"Is that why you told me you're on birth control? Want my cock bare?"
You nodded and lifted your head to look back at him, but your hands, being where they were, made it difficult to turn. "I'd let you."
"Lie down."
You lay back into the position you'd been in and waited. He took your hips and lifted gently and you heard him inhale through his teeth before his thumbs found your labia and he pulled. "Looks pretty. Would love to fuck you raw, but I don't think that's a good idea tonight."
Tonight. There it was again. Your heart beat picked up faster at just the idea. Not tonight, but perhaps another. Not that that was what he meant, but the way he said itâŠ
His fingers prodded and pulled at your folds slowly. It was strange to be scrutinized so closely like that. You felt cool air hit your skin before his lips pressed against your pussy and you moaned, turning your mouth down into the blankets to muffle the sound.
"Good girl. You do know how to listen." He squeezed your ass again and yanked you up further, bottom higher in the air, knees digging into the mattress, before he shifted and you felt his thighs line up with the back of yours. You immediately rocked back against him and felt the line of him pressing into you.
He let you rub yourself against him, your hips pressing, swaying against him as you whimpered like an idiot into the blanket. His hands were light on your hips as you moved, like he enjoyed watching you do it. And given how hard he was under his briefs, you figured he did.
He pushed out something that could have been considered a moan when he tightened his grip on you and then rutted forward, his big dick pressing harder against your ass. But then he pulled back, and you felt his fingers on your crease again, sliding them through, up and down.
"Knew this ass would be cute."
The sudden press of two of his fingers inside of you had you gasping as you rolled against him. He groaned quietly and began to finger you with one of his hands, his other holding your hip loosely so you could still push back onto his digits.
"There you go. Fuck my fingers, honey."
You arched harder, letting your body rear back and shift forward so you could keep sinking down onto his fingers. The white noise coming from his phone did a good job of covering up the gushy, wet sounds your pussy made as you rocked. But then he moved again, his fingers were gone, and the mattress dipped.
"Sit up."
You released your hands and scrambled up quickly to face him, and he laughed at how obedient you were. He stepped onto the floor to the edge of the bed and pointed. "On your back, head at the edge here."
You moved right away, scooting your bottom until you were where he wanted you, head slightly hanging from the mattress, throat exposed. You looked up at him and just saw his tall frame, upside down, standing over you as he pulled his cock from his briefs. Long and thick⊠just like you knew it would be. You reached for him, but he swatted your hand away.
"Hands down by your side for now."
You pressed your arms to your sides and balled your fists tight as he grabbed your throat and bent enough that he could smear his tip against your chin and then your lips. You opened your mouth wide, and he huffed a quiet laugh.
"Love the enthusiasm. Stick out your tongue."
You jutted your tongue out as he reached over you, and his hands found your breasts for a quick squeeze before he took his cock in one palm and tapped it to your tongue. He ran his dick along your tongue and passed your lips a few times, wetting himself with your saliva.
He started off slow like that. Gently pushing in, not too far, and dragging himself back. He held his base as he went, working into you until you felt more relaxed with the angle and his girth before he snapped his hips down and thrust in past your gag reflex.
He chuckled darkly when he did it again, and you gurgled. His crown curved into your throat as he gasped and you swallowed around him with a quiet sputter. But you were determined to give him what he wanted and be the best you could be. Only when he moaned and reached forward to squeeze your nipples did you feel like it was a job well done. He liked it. You were making him feel good.
You'd had a couple of men fuck your face before and do it rough. You didn't mind because it felt like a reward when someone was enjoying your body. If he was having a good time, then so were you. And the small gasps coming from Harry, the salty precome dripping down your throat, the pulse in his thick vein, the way he was pinching your nipples⊠You felt like you were on your way to winning first prize.
"Fuck⊠That's itâŠ"
Your face was numb, your throat was raw, saliva dripped down your temples and into your ears and hair, your eyes were blurry, and you could hardly breathe⊠But you were being enjoyed and that's all you wanted. It turned you on more than anything else.
Harry pulled out, his chest was heaving and he cursed under his breath. "Goddamn, Y/n."
You blinked tears from your eyes and moved your head to look up at him, still upside down from your vantage point. He walked around to the other side of the bed and you followed with your eyes as far as you could until you felt his hands on your ankles, pulling you to lie lengthwise on the bed before he climbed between your legs and pulled your thighs over his shoulders.
"Fuck, babyâŠ"
Then his mouth was on you, soft, hot, wet⊠His tongue drew silent lines up and down your center before he sucked at your clit. You lifted your hips sharply with a gasp, throwing your arm across your mouth to keep as quiet as possible.
He moaned into your pussy and pressed in harder with his lips and tongue. But it was the way he slid the tip of his tongue quickly back and forth on your bud that made it hard to stop the noises from falling out of your mouth.
You reached down to stuff your fingers into his thick hair and rolled your hips up against his mouth. He didn't let up, and he didn't make you put your hands down. It was heaven being eaten out by Harry. It was like being loved on, which was something you craved constantly. Most men skipped foreplay with you because they figured you were just a slut who didn't need that kind of thing. But of course, you never asked for it because you figured they were at least partly right.
"MmmmâŠ" you moaned, mouth closed as your spine bowed from the bed. Harry pulled away and spat over your pussy and then looked up at you.
"Never seen a girl get this wet before," he said as he slid three fingers flat on your clit to rub his saliva in with your slick arousal. He kept his eyes on you as he rubbed your pussy, and then he reached up to your tit, wiping your wetness on your nipple and then then thumbing over your peak. He pushed his mouth against your hip and moaned before he sat back, pressing the insides of your knees further apart, pupils drawing through the space of your pussy and everything between your legs.
You moaned quietly and blinked up at him, your hands drifting up to your breasts as you lifted your hips in a silent plea.
"Shit." He shook his head and sighed. "Gonna want more of this." He traced his palms up your thigh and to your hips. "Which is dangerous. But I need to hear you beg til you're crying." He smoothed his hands around to your hips and then under to your ass as he squeezed. "Wanna take you over my knee and spank you when you make a mistake, when you mouth off. Can't do any of that here, can we?"
You swallowed and shook your head, a whisper of a no coming out as you lifted your hips again, impatient.
"Fuck. Hold on."
He reached over you, his strong arm stretching to the bedside table where he grabbed his phone and a condom. He laid the condom on your tummy and fiddled with his phone until you heard it ringing, speaker phone on. He put his finger up to his lips to signal for you to be quiet the moment a woman answered.
"Hi, handsome."
"Hey. Got a sec?"
"Sure, what's up?"
You blinked and pushed yourself up by your elbows as Harry laid the phone down next to your hip, glancing at you before he plucked up the condom and tore it open.
"Hate to do this on the phone, but it couldn't wait." He laid the rubber over his tip and began to roll it down as he continued speaking. "Can't see you anymore. Something came up and wouldn't be right to drag this out any longer. Really sorry."
"Wait. You're breaking up with me? What happened?"
"What happened is that something came up. I really am sorry. I just wanted to let you know before we took it any further. Okay?"
When the condom was rolled down as far as it could reach, he scooted closer to you and lay his cock over your tummy.
"Harry, I don't get it."
"Nothing to get. No hard feelings. I wish you luck."
He reached down and ended the call, the white noise returning with a soft crashing wave, and then he looked down at you, your brows pinched together.
"You had a girlfriend? I thought you were single?"
"She wasn't a girlfriend. Just someone I was seeing casually. Wasn't serious."
"So, why'd you end it with her if it was casual?" Your heart was racing.
He pushed out a laugh and dragged his hands to the underside of your thighs. "It was a courtesy. Was gonna break it off anyway. Least I could do was be a gentleman about it and break up with her before I fuck someone else. Shoulda done it before I laid my hands on you, but kinda forgot she existed there for a bit."
You smiled, a small laugh puffing from your lips. "You could've just texted. That's usually all the courtesy I get from men, and then they block me so I can't call back. Woulda made that a lot easier."
He stared at you blankly and ran his hands up your thighs to your hips. "You haven't been getting treated right, Y/n. Breaking up over text is for cowards. Not my style."
You bit your lip and ran your palms over your tits, pressing them together gently. It made you feel special that he broke up with some woman while he was there with you, sliding a condom onto his dick, fucked up as it was. "You're a lot nicer than I thought you'd be."
The smirk that worked its way up on his mouth was almost villainous as he brushed his tip through your crease and pressed it just to your opening. "Is that what that was? Nice?"
"Well⊠yeah. Wasn't it?"
He breathed out a laugh and shook his head. "Was it nice of me when I made you choke on my cock before the call?"
You opened your mouth, but your response was cut off when he pushed himself in past your tight muscle, your insides opening up for his cock as he went. Inhaling sharply, you reached to close your hands around his biceps as he nudged deep into you.
"But you liked it. That's all that matters to you, isn't it? Like taking men from other women. Spoiled brat behavior."
You whined quietly, your mouth still opened wide as he forced himself in further, taking the back of your knees and pushing your legs apart for him.
"Think she'd agree it's nice that I'm fucking a cute young thing with a pretty, wet pussy just minutes after breaking it off with her?" He spoke low, rocking into you. "Feels really fucking nice," he moaned under his breath. "But this is far from nice, Y/n."
You puffed out a breath, and he reached down, taking your breast into his palm, squeezing. "She loves nice guys, but you? You don't want a nice guy, do you?"
You blinked, shaking your head, the breath of a no falling out of your mouth as he pushed himself in and dragged back, your insides splitting apart for him when he drilled down into you. It was hard to answer the question when he was plunging in the way he was, when he had you bent in half under him, one hand gripping tight under your knee and the other over your tit to hold you in place.
"Hm? Tell me. You want a nice guy, Y/n? Or are you lookin' for someone to sort you out? Someone to fix you?" He spoke quietly as he fucked into you, pushing his dick to the hilt every time he bottomed out.
"Hnnhhâ" You wobbled out some kind of noise and gasped. "Yes⊠Fff⊠Need to be fixed."
He moaned, hips pumping into you harder, making the bed creak under your back. He slowed his thrusts, and the mattress springs went silent again. You watched his eyes flutter shut and his mouth drop open as he released your breast and placed his hand back to the underside of your knee, holding your legs apart. He dipped his hips shallowly, and you were so wet that the sound of his cock dragging in and out of you couldn't be disguised by the white noise coming from his phone. But he kept going.
When he opened his eyes again and looked down at you, the expression on his face was tight, pained. You'd seen that look on men before. When they were getting lost in lust. Lost in the way you felt around them. He panted a breath as he pushed his big dick deep into your tummy and ground down on your pelvis. You both inhaled, your body clinging snugly around him.
"Oh, baby. Shame I can't fuck your brains out like you need me to. Hear all those pathetic noises you want to make, turn you into a slobbering little mess on your knees for me."
"I want it, pleaseâŠ" You moaned, stretching your neck out as you gushed around his thrusting dick. Suddenly, his palm was on your mouth, stopping the noise from escaping further. He rutted into you hard, your body jolting.
"What did I say? You want to go back to your room?"
You shook your head, eyes wide on him, his hand still covering your entire mouth.
"No? If you want to stay here, then you need to be good and keep quiet. Let me work, and you just lie here for me. Should be really easy for you."
Easy? You'd hardly call it easy. Harry's girth pushing into your guts, his strong, solid body, tattooed arms and chest, wicked green eyes, the way he was speaking to you⊠You pinched your eyes closed and moaned, damp, into his palm when he drove in deep.
Then you felt him squeezing at your cheeks, and you opened your eyes to look up at him just as he slid his thumb past your lips. You sucked around it as he pumped his cock into you slowly, being careful not to move too fast or make too much noise.
"Know how hard this is for me? Having to be gentle with you like thisâŠ"
You laved your tongue over his thumb and moaned, his dick nudging to your end. You wanted his lips on yours. You wanted to know what he'd be like with his tongue against your mouth, sliding softly over you. One kiss from him and you'd never ask for anything else again.
"Knowing you like it a little rough, just like I do. Knowing you need something I can't give you right now."
You whimpered around his thumb and he hissed when he bottomed out, stuffing his entire length into you and feeling the tight squeeze of you pulling him in. "Sucking my thumb like a proper baby, aren't you?"
There was a time when he just thought you were an innocent young woman. It had been easy to ignore how cute you were when he met you just after you turned 20 years old, his friend's daughter with sweet eyes and a nice ass under your jeans. He wasn't interested in innocent and cute, especially not when you were Darius's daughter. And especially not when you were so damn young.
But then, as time went on, he started to notice your attitude. The comments you'd make when he'd stop by to see his friend. The way Darius would yell at you and you'd roll your eyes at him but then smile at Harry with a kind of sultry smirk that had blood rushing through his veins. Eventually, it became clear that you weren't so innocent. You were seeking something risky, and Harry certainly couldn't get involved with any of that. So he kept his distance.
Until that night when he walked into his room and saw you naked in his bed⊠pretty tits, soft hips, dirty grin on your face. He should have kicked you out, like you thought he'd do. He should have sent you on your way and pretended it never happened. But there was something about you that he needed to uncover, and right then, as he was balls deep inside of your warm pussy, he knew he was fucked cause he was thinking with his dick and not his head.
It was a terrible idea to give in to you, but he couldn't seem to help himself. You'd been a bratty temptress earlier, and now here you were all pliable and submissive, needy. You had something he'd been missing in the women he'd dated over the last few years. It wasn't easy to find a woman who liked what he did. A little punishment. A little guidance. He'd pretty much given up, resigning himself to vanilla sex, which was still fun, but didn't fulfill his deeper desires.
"Christ. What am I gonna do with you, hm?" He drilled down into you, hips pasted to yours as you sucked his thumb into your mouth with a whine.
Suddenly, he pulled out, rearing back, and pressed both of his hands down on the bed by your hips, your legs falling flat. You watched him drop his head, shoulders rising and falling heavy like he was trying to recharge himself. Slowly, he lifted his eyes to yours, green irises nearly hidden under blown-out pupils.
He sat back and grabbed your calf, lifting your leg, and used his opposite hand to squeeze your ass, fingers pinching into your skin with a painful bite. You pressed your lips flat to stop the yelp from falling into the room, and he smiled at your restraint.
"Good fucking girl."
Good fucking girl⊠You would have purred if it were possible. He'd been mixing in little drops of praise between scolding words. You rolled your eyes to the back of your head at the praise and moaned, mouth still closed. Then he let go and his hands were on your hips and then your breasts, fingers pinching your nipples, rolling them between the pads of his fingers and you arched your back from the bed with a gasp.
When he moved over you, he ran his tongue along the edge of a nipple before he pulled it into his mouth, a hand on your other one, pinching. He sucked your bud softly, wetting, tongue swirling, and then you felt the sharp nip. You wiggled, and your hands flew to his hair.
"Harry, fuckâŠ" You breathed his name into the room, focusing really hard to keep your voice quiet.
He moaned against your breast and went harder before he moved his mouth to the other side. The room was spinning as he pinched and sucked. But every time you felt his teeth graze your nipple, everything halted, and your vision blurred.
You couldn't stop rolling your hips up into him. It was involuntary, the way you needed more and more. Little whimpers bubbled from your mouth when he lifted his lips and began to dot wet kisses up to your clavicle, along the column of your neck and then⊠oh god⊠when his lips pressed over yours, you grasped onto the back of his neck with both hands and wrapped your thighs around his waist to get him closer.
He grunted, tongue sliding against yours as he closed his mouth over your lips softly. When he plunged his cock back into you, thick head bullying its way through your little opening, it felt different than before with his lips on yours. Like everything you needed. He thrusted in, pelvis grinding against your clit, and you moaned into his mouth.
"Oh, you like that, don't you?" He murmured against your mouth with a smile as he buried in as far as he could go. "God⊠You just need someone to take care of you."
You nodded, lips brushing his, still clinging tight to him as your thighs began to shake. He lifted his face to look down at you. "This is a disaster in the making," he said, shaking his head. "Open your mouth, Y/n."
When you opened your mouth and stuck your tongue out for him, he groaned softly at your obedience. He grinned and dipped down, licking your tongue, before you felt his saliva sliding into your mouth. Then he was kissing you again, making you swallow his spit.
You felt one of his hands smooth down your side to your hip and squeeze to hold you still, his other sliding under your neck as he worked his mouth against yours. He felt so good on you like that⊠his body pressed to yours, cock slid deep, pelvis pressed to your clit, lips smearing against yoursâŠ
Your insides were twisting, pulsing, gushing with every dip, every lap of his tongue. The muscles in your body began to tense as your orgasm slowly swelled in your tummy. And Harry seemed to notice it. He kept his pace and moaned, the bed squeaking quietly under the weight of his thrusts. But he didn't stop because your grip felt so good around him, tightly squeezing in little pulses that were making his cock throb.
And then your body gave in completely, limbs shaking, loud moan that he captured with his mouth, pussy shuddering and spasming around him with every wave of pleasure that leaked through your guts. Your nails carved the smallest little half moons into the nape of his neck as he pumped his hips, working you through it all the way until you went limp.
When it was safe, he pulled away to look down at your face, eyes closed, lips parted. He moved his hand around to brush his knuckles on your cheek. "Did good for me, Y/n. Gonna flip you over, okay?"
You knocked your head up and down, fluttering your eyes opened slowly as he moved, cock slipping out of you, his warm body lifting away. It felt so gentle the way he helped you to your tummy, hands gripping at your hips and waist and carefully laying you down flat as he whispered to you how pretty you were when you were coming, how good you'd done. Your heart was kicking hard in your chest at his words and the way his hands were holding you.
Then he squeezed the round of your ass and pulled you apart before you felt his cock dragging into you with a tight push. He inhaled as he went, lifting your hips up just enough that he could angle himself down into you properly and fuck into you a little harder. The plap of his skin against yours filled the room, and his moans were slowly getting deeper, breathier. You felt him faltering, hips jerking, breaths jagged.
He pressed a hand to the back of your neck and worked into you in deep, languid strokes. "Fuck baby⊠I'm coming⊠fuckâŠ"
He slid his hand around to the front of your throat, lowered his chest to your back, and pressed his lips to the curve of where your neck and shoulder met as he pumped into his condom, cock throbbing heavy against your walls. You moaned into the blanket, a smile on your face. His release was your prize.
When he relaxed over you, he slowly kissed the skin at the back of your neck, and the weight of him pressed you hard into the mattress. You sighed, content. The sound of white noise from his phone filled the room again as you both quieted.
You could feel his heart pounding against your back, your own heartbeat racing with his. Your body felt like melty, gooey happiness as you closed your eyes and felt him lift off of you. He didn't kick you out of his bed and send you back to your room like you thought he might, which would have been totally fine given the circumstances. Instead, he slowly flipped you over, hands sliding over your skin before he wiped a clean t-shirt between your legs and then shut off the bedside lamp, pulled you into his arms, and let you drift off to sleep against his chest.
.
"Y/n. Wake up, honey."
You blinked your eyes open slowly and saw the shadow of Harry just above you. The room was still dark, and you had no idea what time it was or what time you'd fallen asleep as he shifted next to you.
"Gotta get you back to your room. Before Darius wakes up. Come on. Sit up."
You nodded, eyes fluttering shut and then open. He pulled your shirt over your back, helping you slide your arms inside, and then buttoned up the front for you. You were pulled to your feet, an arm sweeping around your low back to hold you upright before he walked you to your room quietly.
When he lowered you to your bed, you held tight to his forearms. "Gotta let go, Y/n. Can't have anyone seeing us."
You blinked up at him in the dark, suddenly aware that this was probably the last time you'd ever get to see him like that, and you sat up. "Harry, don't leave."
He sat down next to you. "I have to. You promised me you'd be good. Now let go."
"This is it, isn't it? Got what you wanted and now you're done with me."
"I shouldn't have even touched you, Y/n. But I did." He reached up to your face, thumb running gently over your cheekbone as you kept your hand gripped on his forearm. "And I should end it here. But I don't think I'm done with you yet."
You lifted to your knees, hands reaching up to his face. "Really? Don't lie to me."
He placed his big hands on your thighs and slid them up under your shirt to your hips. "Really, Y/n. Trust me. We'll talk about this later, okay? But your dad gets up early, and if he sees me in here with you, then there will be no later for us."
You wrapped your arms around his neck and grinned so wide your cheeks started to hurt when he had to peel you off with a huff. He gave your bottom the softest swat and spoke quietly into your ear, be good, before he got up and walked out of your room, closing the door behind him.
.
You rolled over to see the bright sun shining through your balcony doors and stretched your limbs. It was after 11 am so you were positive all the men were already up. You sat up and grinned, squealing quietly to yourself, throwing your body back down to the bed as you kicked your feet when you remembered Harry's promise of "later".
But you also remembered your promise to himâAnd in the morning, you are polite and distant, and you donât make me a liar in front of your dad.
When you finally made your way downstairs in your little pink bikini, you could hear their voices in the kitchen. Taking a breath, you stepped in, eyes sweeping over everyone before you opened the fridge and pulled out a carton of orange juice to pour a glass for yourself.
"It's almost noon, Y/n. Do you really have nothing better to do than sleep the day away?" Your dad spoke.
You took a long drink of orange juice and put the carton away before you turned to look at your dad and sighed dramatically. "No. I don't. You guys are all boring, and WiFi barely works. My choices are limited to sleeping, drinking, and lying out by the lake."
"Just like your mother," his words cut through to your bones, and he laughed, looking at the other men.
Everyone laughed. Except Harry. You glanced at him quickly before quietly putting your glass into the sink and stepping past them to go outside.
âBeer's in the cooler, ready to go if you want one now. Or... later,â Harry said, casual. But nothing about it was casual. You understood it was an attempt to quell your dad's harsh words for you.
With your fingers on the sliding door handle, you turned to look at him and blinked, flicking your gaze to the other men and then back to Harry.
âLater,â you said, a small smile pulling at your mouth. âIâll come grab it when Iâm thirsty.â
You slid the door open and stepped into the wash of sun, the menâs voices dissolving into background noise. Outside, it was only the lake and the heat on your skin, but your insides churned with the sound of his voice. Later. It was a promise you were already restless to keep.
. .
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Summary : Itâs been four years since youâve married the general Acacius. Four years of loneliness because of war. But when he comes back to Rome, heâs pushing you away, thinking itâs the best solution to protect you from himâor so he thought.
Marcus Acacius x younger!reader/f!reader
Warnings : sexism, mentions of patriarchal norms, mentions of war and violence, blood, injury, dagger, arranged marriage, age gap (reader is 20), angst, no y/n, reader has hair and wears dresses
Words : 8,7K
A/N : thank you so much for the 100 followers !!! Iâm so thankful and happy, many people seem to enjoy my fics. I received many private messages that really touched me. To thank you, Iâve decided to write about our favourite general Marcus since the fic with Joel seems to have been well received (and I shouldnât say it but Iâm working on something else đ«Ł)
+ "Puella" means girl or young woman, but if used in a patronizing or dismissive way, it could carry a condescending tone. Sometimes used in a way that implies immaturity or inferiority.
â.âàŒșđ€àŒ»â.â
Four years.Â
Four years had passed since you saw the great General Marcus Acacius for the first and last time of your life. Chance or aim, in both circumstances, it was in his hands that your fate was sealed on your wedding day. A political alliance. It had seemed like just another arrangement, one among many. A lineage, they said. A duty. You hadnât even had the chance to know him before that fateful day. Before that, you had only glimpsed him from a distance, his presence like a looming shadow. Distant but always hovering just outside your reach. But even then, you had no idea what he would mean for your lifeâor you should say loneliness.
Your father had died when you were young, leaving your mother to raise you. She, a cold, calculating woman, had married him for status. Despite her frigid exterior, she had been a loving mother, doing her best to ensure you received an education that many women of your class could only dream of. Yet, her obsession with control and perfection left you feeling isolated. You had excelled in learning, but in a world that valued women more for their beauty and breeding than their intellect, it wasnât enough. You knew the Empire would never accept a woman with an education, a woman who could think for herselfâworse a woman with an opinion. And so, suitors bypassed you. Your education, your intellect, became your curse. What use was a well-educated woman in the marriage market when men wanted docility, not independence ? For years, you endured loneliness, your worth seemingly reduced to the absence of a proposal. But in Rome, things get known very quickly. The pressure of your single status weighed on you, and the whispers of society only grew louder. It felt like an impossible situation to escape.
Four years of persistent loneliness. He was a man of war, a name spoken in hushed tones across the Empire. The wedding ceremony had been hasty, almost mechanical. And that night, as you sat alone, abandoned on your wedding night, you felt a pang of bitterness in your heart. He had left. His absence, though predictable, stung all the same. Why had you ever expected anything different ? Why had you foolishly imagined that on the one night that was supposed to be yours, he would remain ? That he would offer you even a sliver of attention ? The truth was, neither of you wanted this union. An union born not of love, but of political necessity. You were a stranger to him, and he to you. His absence didnât hurt because he was gone. It hurt because his presence had never been there in the first place.Â
Four years of silence, of him never returning, of him never acknowledging your existence beyond the formality of a political union. You had been marry to a complete stranger who seemed to drift further away from you every day. You had been left in his villa, forced to navigate a life that was foreign to you. What did it mean to be a wife to a man who had never truly been yours ? At first, you had wondered what kind of manânow husband, if you could even call him thatâwas he ? How did he live off the battlefield, off the horrors of war, off the atrocities of his title.
You searched for signs, clues, anything that might reveal his true nature. But there was nothing. Nothing never came, nothing never showed. He never sent you any letter. What little news you had of him came from outsiders, but it was scarce. The thought of the General not returning had already crossed your mind, what would you become ? A widow at just twenty. How sad. His villa was cold and impersonal. But sometimes you spent time in his bedroom, as if some sort of connection was going to be made that way. The room was surprisingly small, sparsely decorated, and quite dark. What caught your attention, however, was his bed; vast and very wide. You vaguely remembered his physique after so many years, but you remembered his broad shoulders, dominating almost the whole room when you walked down the aisle.
Four years of pressure. The social pressure of being the wife of Rome's most respected General. During those years you had noticed the looks of envy and jealousy from the other women. If only they knew what your life truly was. They only saw the outward status of being the General's wife. They didn't know that this title was a prison, not a privilege. A tragic curse that had woven itself into the fabric of your fate, binding your heart to a life of endless longing, where love was a distant star forever hidden behind the clouds of duty and silence. The men, saw you as a prize to be claimed, not as a woman with a voice. Your worth was measured in your marriage, in your connections, not in who you were. They were predators watching their prey, ready to pounce on you at the slightest bit of bad news. Repugnant, hypocritical and absurd. Their insalubrious, almost perverse side made you sick.Â
Four years since you became a woman. You had grown but not in the way you had once hoped, but in ways you had never imagined. You became a real woman. Not by choice, but by necessity. You were only sixteen when you married the General. You were so young, innocent, inexperienced, naive. Since he left, you had learned more than you ever thought possible. You had learned to live without love, without even the hope of affection. You had learned to fill the silence of your nights with your thoughts, to distract yourself from the aching void of your life. Your mother, your only role model, had failed you. She had abandoned you to this cold, solitary existence. Leaving you to wander through the empty hallways of the villa. Searching for something, anything that would give you purpose.
You had become the wife of Romeâs most respected general, but in truth, you were little more than a shadow. Your role was to be a wife, to bear children, to play the part society had given you. But you were more than that, werenât you ? You had learned to think, to question, and yet, in this life, thinking was not something a woman was allowed to do. And so, you carried on, pretending to be the perfect wife, the dutiful woman. But deep inside, you knew you could never live up to the expectations placed upon you. And as much as you tried to bury your discontent, it always resurfaced, the weight of your life pressing down on you with every passing day.
Four years.Â
And today, after all these years, the General was finally returning to Rome.
You stood far from the Imperial Palace, out of sight of the bewildered crowd outside, cheering the General's glorious arrival. The two emperors at the top of the stairs were watching with a winning smile the rise of the man who had once again enlarged their Empire. They had offered you to welcome your husband, but such a reunionâwhich you could almost called meetingâwas best held in private, far from any pressure or unwelcome glances. So, you waited patiently in the central atrium, dreading his arrival. You felt the anxiety consume every cell of your body. Then suddenly, in the darkness of the setting day, the General appeared. He strode confidently forward, oblivious to the stares cast by his servants and slaves. But when his gaze landed on you, he slowed down. His eyebrows furrowed and you rose from the chair youâd been sitting on, letting him observe you more easily.Â
âGeneral.â You greeted him as he stood still, continuing to scrutinize you intently.Â
His hands clenched behind his back, the weight of war still pressing against his shoulders. Yet, when his eyes found yours, something else burned within himâsomething just as dangerous. His gaze, fierce and unwavering, held you captive, as if the battlefield had shifted, and you were now the center of his war. It was a look that consumed, devoured, seared through the space between them. A fire of longing, rage, and restraint all at once. His jaw tightened, his breath slowed, but his eyesâhis burning gazeânever wavered. It was as if he was holding back an inferno, as if you were the one thing in this world he could not afford to want. You should have looked away. Should have fought against the heat creeping up your spine. But it was impossible. His stare was a touch without contact, a whisper without sound. Marcus seemed satisfied with what he saw. You could feel your heart trying to get out of your chest as he watched the woman you had become. You blinked and looked at his torso. He was dressed in bright white, contrasting with his matte skin, which made him stand out even more tan. He exuded a symbol of honor, and the gold details that adorned his armor indicated his high status. Your observation was cut short by him clearing his throat, you raised your head suddenly.Â
It had been four years. Four years since he had last seen herâthe woman they had bound to him in name alone. Back then, you had been little more than a stranger, a girl with downcast eyes and quiet steps, a mere formality before he had turned and marched off to war. But now⊠now you were standing before him, and you were not the girl he had left behind. His breath stilled, his world narrowing to the space between them. It wasnât your posture, now poised with a grace that demanded acknowledgment. It wasnât the way the candlelight traced the curve of your cheek, nor the way the years had shaped you into someone striking. It was your eyes. They met his without any hesitation; steady and unreadable. No longer wide with uncertainty, no longer seeking permission to exist in his presence. They held stories he had never been there to witness, strength forged in his absence. They belonged to a woman who had learned to stand on her own, without the name she had been forced to take, without the man who had never been there. And for the first time, he truly saw you. Not as an obligation. Not as the quiet girl he had left behind. But as something untouchable, something dangerously real.Â
Something he had never been prepared for. Â
âI'm exhausted and need rest for tomorrow night. It seems to me you are capable of being left alone. Good evening.â He didn't even give you time to reply as he left, his shoulder brushing yours as he headed for his room. You blinked, realizing you had held your breath.Â
â.âàŒșđ€àŒ»â.â
All the most influent and powerful people were gathered at the Palace this evening to celebrate the General's return, but above all his success. One more conquest for the glory of Rome. You had opted for a delicate green stola, embroidered with brilliant gold details. Your hair was pulled back into a bun, fixed with a gold pin. The journey had passed in a heavy silence, as if you could almost hear the thoughts of the General beside you. Since his arrival last night, you hadn't spoken to him, and he hadn't sought any contact with you, not even a simple compliment.
When you entered, all eyes were on you. You observed the same jealous glances from women. However, the men's misplaced and disturbing glances no longer seemed to appear because of the man standing behind you. Placing his hand on the small of your back, he was pushing you forward into the room. The warmth of his touch seeped through the layers of fabric, lingering like an ember against your skin. And then, just as suddenly, it was gone. Leaving behind a whisper of heat, chased away by the creeping chill of his absence. Turning your head in his direction, he shifted to announce that he had to talk to senators, telling you to go and get yourself a drink. You obeyed. It wasn't appropriate for a woman to attend such discussions, and you knew it. But what bothered you was not the societal exclusion you suffered because of your gender, but the fact that the General was certainly using these discussions as an excuse to avoid being alone in your presence.Â
Marcus had no interest in talking to these men, each more corrupt than the last. Coming back from war, he had only one desire : rest. But duty called again. He couldn't bear to be in your presence, and what annoyed him even more was the fact that he couldn't explain why. Yet Marcus preferred to flee, get as far away from you as possible. There was something in your eyes that unraveled him, a quiet power that left him unsteady. But last night, when you rose to greet him, even the sound of your voice unsettled him, like a whispered temptation. And then, again, your eyes. That spark. It flickered with an allure he couldnât name, pulling him toward you with a force as inevitable as the shepherdâs star guiding a lost soul through the abyss of night.
Yet, he dared not follow. That light could be an illusion, a sirenâs call meant to lure him to ruin. He told himself it was a danger he must resist. He could not let himself get close. He could not afford this mistake. He just couldn't. Because, in the end he would hurt you. You became everything he could desireâworse everything he needed. You were a beautiful woman, seem too clever for your own good and he felt like standing at the edge of something dangerous.Â
Everything seemed so much easier when he left you at the altar.Â
And yet, all evening, his gaze kept returning to you. He couldnât help it. You drifted through the room like a shadow, untouched by the warmth of conversation, unmoved by the lively murmurs of the other women. Instead, you lingered at the edges, watching the world pass you by, detached yet entirely present. Wherever he went, whatever group he entertained, there was always a remark, a knowing glance, a murmured congratulations, a question too bold to be polite. He brushed them off, let them roll past him like waves against stone, but still, their words clung to the corners of his mind.
By the time he had made his final rounds, exhaustion settled deep in his bones. Tomorrow would be relentless. Meetings, obligations, a mountain of responsibilities that left no room for pointless indulgences like this wretched feast. He had no reason to linger. When he scanned the room one last time, he didnât see you. A strange unease coiled in his chest. It was foolish, irrational. You couldn't have gone far. Then, a draft, a sliver of night air slipping through the open balcony doors. His heart beat once, hard. He wasted no time. And there you were. Just as he had expected. Your back was to him, your figure framed by the moonlight as you leaned against the balustrade, your gaze lost in the vast darkness of the imperial gardens. The night stretched before you, heavy, endless, and for a fleeting moment, he wondered were you searching for something in the abyss, or simply waiting for it to swallow you whole ?
The soft breeze that had risen carried away the fabrics you were wearing, a warm blast of air caressing Marcusâs cheeks. One of your locks had fell from your bun, and the way it tickled the nape of your neck was a bewitching sight for the General. The way you held yourself, making your body curve- but he came to his senses, remembering why he was looking for you. You could hear his heavy footsteps behind you. It had to be him, but you refused to turn around. So, still in dead silence, he settled down next to you, imitating your position. His scent came first to your nostrils, then out of the corner of your eye you could catch a glimpse of your proximity. Your gaze remained fixed on the basins as you felt his cold gaze on you. He couldn't look away, trying to memorize your profile in his mind, as if you were going to disappear at any moment.
âIt's getting late.â He broke the silence in a husky voice.Â
You didn't move.
âI've got a lot of work tomorrow. We should go home.â He continued in a harsher tone.Â
You turned your head slowly in his direction, keeping a neutral expression on your face. âAfter ignoring me all night, the only time you acknowledge my presence is to order me home ?â
The General's eyes turned dark. He didn't like your tone nor your provocation. He straightened up, towering you with his body. âIt is not about that-âÂ
âIt is not ? Then what is it about, General ? You can't ignore me and think I'm not going to blame you.â
He was surprised by your answer. He didn't spend time with many women, but none of them would dare, even think of talking like that to their husband. He could feel the patience evaporating from his body at your attitude and couldn't help but sigh loudly. You imitated his position and crossed your arms, revealing a defensive feeling he didn't like at all. âYou are my wife. You are supposed to obey me.â
You let out a scoff at his remark, shaking your head. How dare he use that argument after four years without even considering you as such. âYou have no right to tell me what to do, General.â
âI am your husband. I donât know what youâve been up to for those four years. But from now on you will learn to listen to me and submit like any wife should do.âÂ
âI am not a child anymore !â You threw your arms down in frustration.
âI know ! And that's the problem!â He shouted.
You took a step back, the air between you thick with the tension you could no longer bear. His presence was looming. But it was your own breath that betrayed you, shaky, uneven, as though it carried the weight of your surrender. Without meeting his eyes, you turned your head just enough to avoid the intensity of his gaze, the words hanging in the silence like a fragile thread. âYou're right. It's getting late.â You murmured, your voice barely audible, soft with the resignation that had crept into your heart. The fight drained from you, leaving only the bitter taste of defeat. The struggle, the back-and-forth, it wasnât worth it anymore. He had won. Turning away, heading home, felt like the only escapeâan act of survival, a way to dodge the storm brewing in his eyes.
â.âàŒșđ€àŒ»â.â
Since that night on the balcony, Marcus had avoided you entirely. He rose early, just before the sun, to eat a quick breakfast in solitude, careful to keep from sitting with you. Always, there was an excuse, a meeting, a task, a reason to leave the domus and avoid crossing your path. And when night fell, he came home late, long after you had retreated to your room, as if by some unspoken rule, he could no longer share the same space with you. He hadnât liked the way you had spoken to him. The soft defiance in your words had stung him more than he cared to admit. But when he had reached for your eyes, only to see you turn away from him, he understood he was the one to blame.Â
It was too late. Â
As he had feared, he had ended up hurting you. It seemed that was the only thing he was truly capable of. Killing, hurting, and being violent. Giving him something as delicate as you had been a fundamental mistake. He was a man of war, scarred and hardened by his past. He could not afford to show weakness. The walls he had built over the years were not just to protect him; they were to shield others from the damage he could cause. He was a weapon, a force of destruction, and he could never lower his guard. He had always lived alone. He had never tolerated the presence of another in his home, especially not a woman. It was safer this way. For your own good, he had to stay away. Keep his distance, to protect you from the inevitable harm he would bring. He was a brute, violent and bitter. If it wasnât his words that would hurt you, then it would be his hands. And that, he could never forgive himself for. Â
One evening as he returned from a long and exhausting day, thinking that you were certainly already asleep, Marcus walked unconcernedly to his office. But then, as he entered the room, his gaze fell on you. On tiptoe, you reached for a book when you noticed his presence. You stopped your action and quickly retrieved the books you had placed on his desk into your hands.Â
âI was planning to leaveâ You explained, not wishing to find yourself in the same room as him.Â
But just as you were about to leave, you stumbled into the carpet, causing you to topple forward. Spontaneously, Marcus took a step forward, stretching out his arm to catch you. But you were quicker than him and caught yourself on his desk. However, when your hand met the furniture, you let out a cry of pain. Marcus watched as you suddenly withdraw your hand, which was now bloody red. You looked down at your trembling palm, dropping the books from your other hand. Your face grimaced from the pain as you took your wrist in hand, squeezing it to try to stop the tingling of your cut. The General's gaze shifted from your hand to his desk on which lay a dagger, now also dyed with a touch of red. He approached you but before he could take your hand in his, you pulled away, letting your noisy breathing be heard.Â
âI'm fine.â You said through your clenched teeth, trying to make him believe that you could take care of your wound on your own. But you should have known that he wouldn't let it go. He was one of Rome's greatest generals after all, thus he was used to wounds.Â
âCome here.â He ordered, positioning himself in front of you so you couldn't run away.Â
âI told you-âÂ
âDon't make me repeat myself.â Again, that harsh tone, the unmistakable edge of rising anger in his voice. You could feel the weight of his restraint, the way he fought against the urge to snap, to lose control the way he had before. There was a flicker of hesitation in your eyes as you met his gaze, weighing your options in the silence between you. He held out his hand, and before you even realized it, your feet moved forward, as if your body knew what your mind couldnât decide. He gripped your wrist with a force that sent a jolt through you, pulling you closer with brutal efficiency. A low groan escaped your lips at the contact, the animosity of his touch sending a sharp reminder of his power. His eyes flicked down to the cut, a flash of something unreadable passing through them. And then, softly, almost in contradiction to his actions, he whispered an apology. Â
âSit.â He ordered; the command sharp but not unkind. Â
You sighed, a sound that seemed too loud in the tense air, which made him growl. He turned to pull something from the drawer. When he returned, he held a small bottle and a white cloth in his massive hands, his movements almost mechanical. Without a word, he set a second chair in front of you and sat down, never once meeting your gaze, though you could feel the tension in him. Your eyes lingered on his every gesture, tracing the carefulness of his movements. And though he knew you were watching; he couldnât bring himself to look back. The silence was heavy, yet somehow, his restraint felt like a battle in itself. One he fought quietly, desperately.
Taking a breath, he reached for your hand. It felt so small, so delicate in his grasp. His fingers were rough, but there was an unexpected gentleness as he inspected your wound. It wasnât deep, just enough to draw blood. Enough to make his brow furrow in concentration. He placed the back of your hand on his thigh, the warmth of his body seeping into your skin, and dripped the liquid from the bottle onto the cloth. His focus was entirely on you now. Though his gaze remained fixed on the task at hand, not daring to look up. And in that stillness, you could feel the struggle within him to keep his distance, to remain untouched by whatever was rising between you both.Â
âIt may sting, I warn you.â And without giving you time to retract, he passed the cloth over your wound.Â
âIt burns !â You cried, quickly withdrawing your hand.Â
âI warned you-â
âNo. You said it would sting.â You spat as he clicked his tongue in frustration, looking at you through his lashes.
You clenched your jaw, silently offering your hand back to him. He resumed, his movements steady, as if the silence between you both spoke louder than anything else. When the fabric met your palm again, a low groan escaped your throat, the sting of the cloth against your wound causing you to clutch the fabric of your tunic with your other hand. He looked up, his eyes meeting yours with a second, with an almost apologetic glance. Yet, he couldnât suppress a satisfied smile at your discomfort which caused your unwilling submission. If only you knew how much he had endured all these years. Stretching his arm, he rested the back of his hand on your thigh, the pressure solid and deliberate. Â
âSqueeze it.â
You narrowed your eyes at him, refusing to give in, holding your ground. But when the now-pink cloth brushed against your bruised skin, you couldn't help it, your hand shot out, gripping his hand tightly, squeezing with a force that betrayed your pain. Without a word, Marcus quickly resumed his task, focusing entirely on the wound, not sparing you a glance. Your eyes shut tight, and a small wrinkle formed between your brows. He smiled faintly, as if the sight of you, vulnerable yet defiant, pleased him more than it should. He tried to be gentle, not wanting to hurt you further. Every time he applied pressure to your wound, your hand squeezed his a little tighter.
Once he finished, you opened your eyes and without a word, withdraw your hand from his, your fingers trembling slightly from the intensity of the moment. He slid his palm along your thigh, quickly squeezing it before pulling his hand away. As Marcus got up to put his things in order, you stayed seated, still reeling from the unexpected tenderness of his gesture. You cleared your throat, trying to steady yourself, and then, in one swift motion, stood up. Without saying a word, you turned and left the room, the books you had come for forgotten in your haste. Â
â.âàŒșđ€àŒ»â.â
The days that followed were filled with little moments between you. Marcus took his time in the morning so that when he finished breakfast, you would appear in front of him. You would wait a few more minutes before going to bed, like that night in his office. He would start wandering around the gardens when you came out of them. You would never put the books you borrowed from him in the right place. He would leave you the figs the maids brought him from the market, and you would leave him the pomegranate seeds you had meticulously removed from the fruit. And with each seed he would put in his mouth, he would think of you. The unspoken longing to devour you, a desire he dares not confess. In the quiet of the moment, he feels your gentle heart, soft against the bitterness of his words. Yet neither of you spoke to the other. The silence still echoing through the walls of the villa. A silence that wasn't empty but filled with answers. He was screaming, suffocating, suffering. But he was beautiful. Beautiful because he made sense in a way that only the two of you could understand.Â
This evening, you found yourself invited to a meal at one of the senators' domus, surrounded by politicians and their wives. The General sat beside you, engaged in conversation with the men next to him, his attention fully directed toward them. But as his head turned away, you couldn't help but steal a glance at him. You were so rarely this close. Your eyes traced his side profile, a study in sharp angles and quiet strength, so noble it seemed as if it had been sculpted in stone. His nose, proud and commanding, was shaped like that of an eagleâmajestic, a symbol of his power, his unyielding dominance. You couldnât help but follow the line of his jaw, sharply defined, down to the strength of his neck, where veins pulsed with a vitality that matched his presence. Your tongue brushed over your lips, though you didnât even realize you had done it, so captivated by him.
As he moved his hands while responding to a question, your gaze fell to them. They were so large. So strong. You had noticed before how small your own hands seemed when placed next to his, but tonight, you couldnât look away. They were mesmerizing. Agile and dexterous, his hands spoke more than his words ever could. Despite the countless battles they had endured, there was a gentleness to them. They were immense, yet somehow comforting. You recalled, almost involuntarily, how those same hands had once enveloped your wrist. Their grip firm but tender. You tried, for a fleeting second, to recall the feel of his touch on your thigh. The warmth, the subtle power in his proximity. But it had been too long, too much time had passed, and the memory now seemed distant, slipping through your mind like sand between your fingers.Â
âPuella ?â One of the senators called out to you.Â
You suddenly lifted your head in his direction, choosing silence over confrontation, unwilling to let the way he had addressed you escalate the tension. A smile forced its way onto your lips, though it felt stiff, almost out of place. Marcus glanced at you from the corner of his eye, sensing the subtle shift in your demeanor, the quiet disapproval that lingered between you. It would be a lie to say he didnât care, but he was well aware of the fine line he had to walk. He knew better than to challenge the authority of one of the senators.
âOne of your little forgetful moments, I presume ?,â He scoffs, glancing at the General on your right. âTell me, I heard you were interested in politics ?â He asked with a false innocent tone, letting appeared on his lips a witty smile.Â
You felt the General tense up, but you didn't pay any attention, "Yes. Since I was very young actually," You tried to look confident, letting him feign a certain self-confidence you didn't possess.
You stood upright, head held high, as the senators around you all burst out laughing, some of the women following too. You frowned, "I told you so !" Cried one as if it was the most surprising news they'd ever heard until now.
"You know, itâs not usual for a woman like... well, like you." Said one of the women at the end of the table, her cheeks rosy with alcohol.
"How can you let this happen my friend ?" Another addressed the General directly.Â
He didnât even flinch. The comments came and went, unchallenged, unaddressed. He said nothing. Offering no defense, no protection. Marcus knew exactly how this would unfold, so he straightened his posture, smoothly steering the conversation elsewhere, his focus never once drifting toward you. You told yourself you didnât need his reassurance. But a disapproving glance, or just a flicker of acknowledgment, would have been enough to settle the storm inside you. He didnât even offer you that. The women beside you, exchanged knowing glances and whispers. Their judgment clear in the way their eyes flicked to you, sharp and uninviting. You didnât dare meet their gazes, choosing instead to fix your attention on the glass of wine before you.
â.âàŒșđ€àŒ»â.â
"Why did you not stand up for me ?" Were the first words out of your mouth once back in yourâhis villa.Â
The first words since that evening in his office, the first words since all those gestures, the first words since his heavy silences, and the first since he allowed those people to make fun of you. They hung in the air, charged with everything unspoken. Every second had felt like a thousand. And now, with those few words, you were breaking the silence that had stretched between you both, but it didnât ease the tension. If anything, it made the gap between you even wider.
"I beg your pardon ?" The General turned to you.Â
"You heard me. You let them speak without interrupting." You positioned yourself directly in front of him, closing the distance between you until he had no choice but to meet your bitter gaze.
"What did you want me to say ?"
You frowned, "You're supposed to be my husband, General. You're supposed to protect me, defend me and assure me."
"Isn't that what I'm doing already ?" He crossed his arms over his chest as you let out a sneer, you felt animosity building inside you.Â
"No ! You let them talk about me like I was an idiot ! Doesn't it bother you that they talk about me, your wife, like that ?"Â
You let yourself be swept away by the flood of emotions, while the General remained unnervingly still, as if untouched.
âMaybe theyâre right.â He added, his tone dry, void of any warmth, signaling that he wasnât in the mood for a fight tonight.Â
His words struck deep, sharper than any physical wound, sinking into your chest like a dagger. It felt worse than the cut on your palm. His words were as bitter as pomegranates, leaving a sour taste in your mouth. You parted your lips, ready to speak, but before you could form a response, you closed your mouth again, the words choking in your throat. You clenched your jaw, fixing him with a hard, burning stare. Letting the humiliation radiating from you. He raised an eyebrow, almost daring you to retort, his gaze expectant. But instead, you turned your back to him, and walked away, heading for your room. He watched you disappear into the shadows, the sway of your hips a silent defiance in the stillness of the night.Â
Once out of sight, he turned his head, staring at the floor before muttering to himself as he started walking. He could still feel the anger burning in his chest, his eyes dark and his jaw set. The argument reverberated in his mind. Each word rekindling the embers of his irritation. As he passed the massive table in the center of the room, his blood boiled with a final burst of uncontrollable rage. With a brutal gesture, he thrust his hands under the heavy, carved wooden tabletop and, with disproportionate force, toppled it over. The table flew violently across the room and crashed against the wall. The silence that followed was oppressive. Marcus, short of breath, stared for a moment at the mess he had just made, his fists still clenched. Then, without another word, he turned and left the room. Leaving behind the chaos of his anger. That night he had trouble falling asleep, remembering the words he had said to you. How stupid he had been. Maybe he was made for that after all. Maybe he was just good at being a heartless brute. Maybe he was only capable of hurting you.Â
â.âàŒșđ€àŒ»â.â
He was even angrier now. Weeks had passed without a single sign of life from you. He searched for you. His eyes scanning every corner of the villa, but you were nowhere to be found. Remorse gnawed him from the inside, relentless and consuming. He let himself be swallowed by the torturous silence you had cast upon him. Marcus was going mad. You appeared in every corner of his mind, but when he looked closer, you always disappeared. He thought he could hear your voice echoing through the hallways near your room, or imagined he could smell your scent wafting through the gardens, amidst the fragrance of all the flowers, hoping to run into you there. But despite everything, he refused to apologize. He had to wait. He had hurt you, and he understood you needed time. But his patience was running thin.
Sometimes, late at night, he would stand outside your bedroom door, his heart racing as he silently begged you to come out so he could reassure himself that you were still there. When the hope of seeing you faded, he would press his ear to the door, hoping to catch even the faintest sound of your breathing. Yet every time, there was nothing. As if you knew he was there, standing behind your door, and you deliberately chose silence. Finally, he overheard the maids talking about how you would leave very early in the mornings, just before he awoke, and return only after he had left the domus. Marcus was offended. The humiliation settled deep in his chest like a stone. Suddenly he stopped. He stopped searching for you, stopped waiting outside your door, stopped calling for you, stopped pleading. The silence between you both had grown too thick, too suffocating for him to bear, and he let it swallow him whole.Â
You entered the Imperial Palace dressed in a deep, ruby red, almost crimson. A rich, intoxicating shade of red that mirrored the one worn by the General as you walked through the grand doors. Once again, the emperors had insisted on your presence at their lavish gathering, and tonight promised to be a long night of debauchery. Without sparing him a glance, you quickly distanced yourself from the General, making your way toward a group of women he vaguely recognized. From where he stood, he watched you. The way your lips moved when you spoke, the delicate gesture of your hands as they lifted in the air, the soft strands of your hair brushing the nape of your neck with each movement. A pang of jealousy gripped him as he watched those women at your side, the one who had the privilege of your attention, your thoughts. But deep down, Marcus knew it wasnât his right to feel this way. He had no right to claim you. He deserved your indifference, even if it tore him apart.Â
Marcus watched the various couples around him, a growing sense of regret weighing heavily on him. The way men stayed close to their wives. He had long believed it to be the other way around, that it was the women who clung to their husbands. But tonight, the General realized just how wrong he had been. It wasn't this senator's wife who clung to her husband; it was him who desperately sought contact with her. The way their arms intertwined was almost instinctive, as if it were a need they couldnât live without. She remained patient while he spoke with others, her hand discreetly pinching his arm as if to remind him of something, of their bond. They were almost one, their connection so fluid, so intertwined. She needed him, but it was clear, he needed her even more. Marcus looked away, unable to bear the sight any longer, so unfamiliar to him.Â
The time crawled painfully slow. Marcus wasnât in the mood to talk to anyone. His mind wandered, constantly searching for a way to approach you, to break the silence between you, without risking your anger or your indifference. Then he saw you. No longer with a group of women. You were now with a man he didnât recognize. You were close, too close. Closer than you had ever been with him. His jaw tightened, but he made no move to intervene. You didnât need him to disrupt your conversation. This man was certainly giving you the attention you had lacked since you and Marcus stopped speaking. The General poured himself another glass of wine, nearly draining the first one in a single gulp. But no matter how hard he tried to distract himself, his eyes kept falling on your figure. And every time, he clutched his glass a little tighter.
Then someone approached him, and he forced himself to listen, trying to focus on the words being spoken. But he couldn't care less. He knew he had to maintain his distance, just as he had done for weeksâor almost. But when the man beside you casually brushed his fingers against your shoulder, whispering something in your ear, Marcus could feel something inside him snap.
That was it.
He apologized to the person next to him, abandoning his glass of wine on the banquet table as his steps toward you became almost mechanical. His heart pounded, and each stride he took felt heavier than the last. He couldnât let this happen. Not here, not now, and certainly not in front of all these people. You had every right to ignore him, to turn your back on him in public or private. But this. This closeness with another man ? It was unacceptable. It wasnât a matter of duty anymore, or the image he needed to maintain. It was primal, instinctual. He couldn't stand another minute of this.
You were supposed to be by his side. Where he needed you.Â
His pulse raced as he tried to keep his composure, to avoid causing a scene or drawing unwanted attention. With a calm that only barely masked the fury seeping through him, Marcus placed his hand firmly on your shoulder, possessive and commanding. Surprised, you turned to him, eyes wide, not fully understanding his sudden action. But his gaze was locked on the man in front of you, burning with silent aggression. The other man didnât flinch, unaffected, but Marcus was determined. He wanted to make sure he felt the threat hanging in the air.
"Enough." His voice was thick with restraint, rough and edged. His eyebrows furrowed deeply, a sign of just how tightly his control was slipping.
Your breath caught in your throat as you felt the shift in the atmosphere, the tension growing around you. You had to act fast. Apologizing to the man, you grabbed Marcusâ forearm, tugging him away from the scene and pulling him into the dark, quiet refuge of the imperial gardens. Once out of sight, you released your grip, turning to face him. The pale moonlight illuminated his tanned skin, casting shadows that deepened the lines on his face, making him appear even more untouchable. But there was no way avoiding what had just happened. What he had just done. The way his gaze had shifted from that cold indifference to something sharper. The tension in his voice. The possessiveness that had suddenly flared up.Â
Weeks of silence between you, of him distancing himself, and now he acted as though he could claim you whenever he wished. His sudden impulsiveness rattled you. Part of youâa part you hatedâhad felt a strange, almost delighted thrill at seeing that crack in his mask. Seeing him lose that grip he always had over his emotions. He had been so cold, so distant for so long, yet now he had the audacity to act as if he could control you. As if you belonged to him. You stood there in the dim light, emotions swirling inside you, at war with yourself.
You were angry, yes. But you were also confused. Part of you wanted an explanation, but you already knew what his response would be. Deflecting, denying, refusing to acknowledge the truth of what just happened. It would always be this way with him, wouldnât it ? Walls so high you could never break through, a fortress so impenetrable that even your desire to understand him, to reach him, would only cause you pain. And yet, as always, you would keep trying. Because no matter how much he hurt you, no matter how much he pushed you away, you were still compelled to try.
His fists were clenched, he knew what was coming. "Why ?"
"Why what ?" He kept a calm tone despite his previous anger, but his eyes gave him away. You approached him, crossing that distance you always left between you.Â
"You had no trouble ignoring me for weeks, but tonight..." A lump formed in your throat, "tonight you act as if it bothers you that someone is actually paying attention to my presence. I am not one of your trophy, General."
Marcus didn't answer right away, unable to look you in the eye. His silence was heavy, but then he murmured softly, "Because it bothers me."You froze. He was finally admitting what he felt. A fragment of truth he had never dared speak. This revelation had the same effect as a torrent of waves carrying you far out to sea, stirring and shaking you in every direction. But Marcus couldn't bear the softness of your gaze weighing down on him. He felt exposed, disoriented. His head seemed to be spinning, but not because of the wine. He hated feeling vulnerable. Godsâhe had no right to. As a general, he had the duty to display courage and self-assurance. But tonight, he wasn't on the battlefield.
Tonight, he was facing you. And surprisingly it seemed far more complicated than any battles he had in his life, all the deaths on his conscience, all the blood that had spilled were nothing compared to you. The great General, who had conquered kingdoms and crushed rebellions without hesitation, now stood before the one battlefield he feared the mostâhis wife. You were no enemy, yet you were the first to shake his resolve. No sword nor spear could wound him as deeply as your silence had. No siege could break him like the way your eyes searched for answers he could not give. He had faced death, had laughed in the face of men who swore to end him, yet before you, he felt small, unarmored. For the first time, war did not rage around himâit raged within. You were the greatest battle of his life, not to be conquered, but to be understood. And for the first time, he did not know if he was ready to fight.Â
Immediately he looked away and added more coldly, "But that doesn't change anything."
But you refused to let him get away with it; you were ready to take the risk. You put your hand on his arm, forcing him to face you. "Of course it does.â
The atmosphere was heavy. Too much left unsaid, too many accumulated feelings. For the first time in months, you were speaking to each other with such honesty, even if it was in anger. You were close, too close. Marcus' gaze slid over your soft lips before he abruptly turned his head away, forcing himself to step back.Â
"You should leave."
But you didnât.Â
The silence was burning like the desire that kept growing in his heart. The General had turned away, but he was tense, like a wild beast ready to pounce. His fists still clenched, his gaze hard and his shoulders stiff. You weren't moving. And yet you should. But you weren't moving. Instead, you reached out and silently grabbed his wrist. A simple gesture, but one that had the effect of a thunderclap. Marcus in turn felt swept along in this torrent of waves that he couldn't control, and he hated it. He hated himself right now. He hated how you succeeded to destroy those walls.Â
"Tell me it doesn't matter... Tell me what you did tonight doesn't matter, and I will go."Â
He said nothing. Letting his silence answering for him. You moved a little closer to him, until you felt the warmth of his body. He remained frozen. Unable to move. Unable to flee. His brown eyes burned with the weight of unspoken torment. Brimmed with frustration that crackles in its depths, a storm restrained behind the prison of his lashes. Desire, raw and unrelenting, smoldered beneath the surface. An unbearable ache. A war between pride and yearning. His eyes, once steady as a soldierâs blade, now betrayed him. His armor, once impenetrable, felt fragile beneath the weight of your presence. He feared lowering his guard. Feared that if he let you in, he would hurt you once more with the sharp edges of his own restraint. And yet, the distance between you was an agony he could no longer bear. To hold you was risking breaking you, but to stay away was to break himself.
"Marcus..." you murmured.Â
He looked up at you. It was the first time you had ever called him by his first name. You had always kept a certain distance. Since the first day when he had returned. That very first time when you had called him by his title. Not his name. His title. He never thought he would enjoy the sound of his name coming out of your mouth. The satisfaction of hearing it roll off your tongue, caressing your lips just to smack him in the face. He had spent months keeping his distance, pretending that this marriage was just a political alliance, refusing to admit that you had taken a place in his mind, in his body, maybe even in his heart. You were the first and last thing on his mind every day.
That evening in his office, he had let himself get carried away but hadn't regretted just for once his gesture. The way his hand gripped your upper thigh with a quiet desperation, a touch that burned like a sin whispered in the dark. It was neither gentle nor cruel, but something far more dangerousâan unspoken confession, a plea he could not voice. His fingers pressed into your skin as if trying to anchor himself, torn between the damnation of holding on and the salvation of letting go. That moment of intimacy had soothed him, leaving him in the days that followed with an intrepid desire to consume you like the seeds of the pomegranate. Letting your juices spill all over his hands and lips.Â
Tonight, there was no escape.Â
In a sudden, almost brutal gesture, Marcus grabbed the back of your neck and kissed you. The kiss wasn't soft or gentle. It was overflowing with anger, desire, everything he held back for too long. You didn't try to resist him, you responded to his kiss with the same feverish intensity. There was no hesitation, no space for second thoughts. You had enough of these games, these pretenses. Your fingers clung to his tunic, as if anchoring yourself to the moment, terrifies he might retreat into the shadows once more. But he didn't. Not this time. His grip was firm, his mouth insistent, devouring the distance that had long kept you apart. The line had been crossed, and there was no turning backâonly the ruinous, intoxicating fall into each other.
Summary : You were sent to Rome as a symbol, a marriage forged not from love, but from politics. He was the Empire's golden General, already tethered to someone else. But Marcus Acacius keeps his heart locked behind duty and old scars. But from now on, you are his wife in name, a stranger in his bed, learning that silence can be more painful than cruelty.
Marcus Acacius x f!reader
Warnings : historical themes and patriarchal dynamics, arranged mariage, mentions of politics, smut, cold behavior, age gap ? (not really mentioned or important), infidelity, emotional neglect, toxic relationships, manipulation, slow burn, secret relationship, angst (each chapter will have warnings !)
Summary : Torn from your coastal homeland to seal an imperial alliance, in a wedding crafted for power, not love, you vow to fulfill your duty and perhaps find something more. But on your wedding night, you discover a colder truth: Marcusâs body is yours, but his heart is somewhere else. Still, you are determined to prove your worth, to decode his silence, and to uncover the man behind the armor.
Marcus Acacius x f!reader
Warnings : arranged marriage, mentions of politics, smut, cold behavior, age gap ? (not really mentioned or important), infidelity (towards reader), secret relationship, no y/n
Words : 5,8K
A/N : alright first part of the request ! Thanks again @negrita2345 for your excellent idea, hope you'll like it. Kind of anxious bcs I hope itâs good, I mean in the way you imagined it. Anyway if you have a better title, I'll take it lol. Anyway not much of angst but we need to start slow and setting the context
masterlist | next chapter
â.âàŒșđ€àŒ»â.â
The olive groves whispered like priests in prayers, swaying beneath the salt-heavy breeze that rose from the sea. From your terrace, the horizon gleamed, a stretch of molten silver where sky met water, endless and unreachable. White sails drifted across it like wandering souls: merchants, imperial messengers, galleys bearing soldiers with polished helmets and unseen orders.Â
But today, the wind carried no peace. It was too quiet. Something had shifted, you could feel it long before anyone spoke it aloud.Â
The household moved with unnatural quiet, servants murmured behind closed doors and hurried theirs steps as though silence might shield them from whatever was coming. Your father had not touched his breakfast. And you motherâyour serene and inscrutable motherâsat rigid at the head of the table, her fingers endlessly smoothing the same fold in her silk robe, over and over, as of the repetition might erase the tremble in her hands.Â
When a servant found you in the gardens and bowed deeply, announcing with careful reverence that your presence was requested in the atrium, your feet already knew where to carry you. The click of your sandals echoed off sun-warmed stone as you passed under the colonnade. It smelled faintly of crushed herbs and old parchment, your fatherâs scent, the scent of duty and legacy.Â
Then you saw them, your father stood as though carved from granite: arms behind his back, posture impeccable, chin lifted with imperial resolve. His face was unreadable, but not empty, no. There was something behind his eyes, calculation, or maybe regret. Your mother was seated beside him, her back stiff but her gaze soft, resting not on you, but the floor.Â
Two imperial envoys flanked the far pillars. Strangers in gleaming bronze, with helms tucked beneath their arms and scroll slung at their side. Their armor shone like mirrors, catching shards of sunlight that danced across the walls. One of the scrolls had a seal on, a red wax pressed with the mark of an eagle glinted like fresh blood.Â
Your heart stuttered once in your chest. Not fear, not quite. Just the cold certainty that your life was about to be unmade. You stepped forward, voice calm and practiced. The same voice you would use at your fatherâs side while translating foreign decrees and entertaining Roman governors at the harvest feasts.Â
âYou summoned me, Father ?â
He did not look at you right away, instead, he dismissed the nearby servants with a flick of his fingers. Only when the last one bowed out the room, did he extend one hand toward the envoy. The scroll was handed over in a heavy silence, consuming a part of your soul.
You watched the wax break under your fatherâs thumb, a clean sound, like a lock opening. He read aloud, his voice loud and clear, âBy order of the Roman Emperor, and with the blessing of the Senate, a marriage is hereby decreedâŠâ He continued, but the words grew distant. Your ears filled with the sound of your own blood.Â
A marriage ?Â
You felt the floor tilt slightly under your feet, your stomach tightening as though braced for an all and your head spinning. Your breath snagged in your chest as you looked around for somethingâyour motherâs eyes, the sea, anything steadyâbut the stone walls began to feel too close.
Still, you did not speak. You took a breath, deep like diving into cold water, and moved to your motherâs side. Her hand reached instinctively for yours, but you remained still.Â
Your fatherâs voice dropped in tone, âYou have been chosen.â
You had always known this day would eventually come. But you never imagined it would happen like thisâŠ. Not so early.
Your knees bent beneath you, and you let yourself fall beside your mother. You looked straight ahead, heart beating heavily, like a drum echoing down a long and empty corridor. You let the silence stretch until you had the strength to speak.
âTo whom ?â you dared to ask because not asking would have felt like a surrender.Â
Your father eyes finally met yours, âGeneral Marcus Acacius,â he read, âa man held in highest favor by the Emperor himself.â
Each word struck with brutal precision. Marcus Acacius. A name carved into the bones of the Empire. You had heard it before, whispered with reverence by soldiers passing through your fatherâs court. Stories of battlefield valor, of loyalty, of a man more iron than flesh. You had never seen his face, but now his name felt heavier than gold.Â
Your throat tightened. Rome. You were being sent to Rome. Your lips parted, but no sound emerged. You pressed them together again, holding in the cry that threatened to escape, just a crack in something old and unspoken.Â
Your mother stood then, as if stirred by some silent storm. âAretas,â she said, her voice urgent. âThe General-â
â-is a man of honorâ, your father interrupted sharply, giving her a warning look. âAnd this is not a request.â
âAretas,â your mother hissed, stepping toward him, voice sharp with fear and something dangerously close to rage âYou would send your own daughter like a sacrifice ? Offering her like some- some tribute to the Gods of war ?!âÂ
Your father turned his head slowly, his jaw clenched tight. âMind your words.â
âShe is too young !â your mother snapped, the tremble in her voice now pushed aside by fury. âShe still walks barefoot in the garden. Still sleeps with the shutters open to hear the sea. You promised she would have a say, that there would be time-â
â-I promised,â your father cut in, louder now, âthat she would be protected. That she would have a future.â
âShe is not livestock to be bargained for land and influence !â
âShe is the daughter of this house !â Aretas barked, the echo of his voice crashing against the walls, as one of the envoys shifted uncomfortably, âShe bears my name and my blood. And that blood will mean something in Rome. Do you think I have not considered what this will cost her ?â he turned away as if the sight of you was too much. âwhat it will cost me ?!â
Your mother pressed her fingers to her temple, massaging them as she tries to steady herself. Then she looked at him again, her voice aching. âShe was meant to be more than thisâŠâ she whispered as a cried escape her throat, âmeant to choose who she loved.â
âShe was born into a world where we do not get to choose,â your father replied calmer now, but his voice sounded like a man bearing the weight of a boulder no one else could see. âNot you. Not I. And not her.â
Your motherâs voice cracked, âYou would give her to a man she has never met.â
âI would give her to a man who commands the loyalty of Rome. A man the Emperor trusts himself.â He glanced at you finally, âA man who will keep her alive and safe.â
âAnd what of her heart ?! What of her joy ?â
âMother-â you tried to calm her down.
Your father looked away. âShe will learn without it.â
She turned back to you and grasped your hand tightly, and this time, you let her. Her fingers trembled. âYou do not have to accept this,â she whispered. âYou are not a piece on the board.â
But you were. You had always been. And you knew it.
You rose slowly, gently letting go of her hand, and walked to the terrace again. The sea stretched before you, wide and glittering and full of vanished sails, the scent of salt stung your nose. A warm wind lifted the hem of your gown. You remembered running through those olive trees, chasing shadows between the rows. You remembered laughing, barefoot and free, before anyone asked anything of you.
You closed your eyes and then you nodded. âI will go,â you simply said.
Your mother gasped loudly, like something inside her had crumpled. She turned away, pressing her fingers to her lips.
You stood still, facing the horizon. âI will do my duty,â you whispered.
That was the beginning. The moment the Empire reached across the water and placed its claim upon your life.
â.âàŒșđ€àŒ»â.â
The marriage was held beneath a sky as blue as tempered steel, Romeâs finest stage set for politics disguised as ceremony. Marble gods stared down from their pedestals, unmoved by the dayâs union. Senators stood in rings of gold-threaded togas, murmuring among themselves like old crows. Red petals were scattered over the flagstones, crushed underfoot like drops of blood. Every detail had been carved and calculated with purpose.Â
Not for love, but for the Empire.
The Forum itself had been cleared, roped off by imperial guard. Lictors lined the periphery, their fasces polished, gleaming in the sun. A choir of flutes and lyres played from the steps of the temple, slow and solemn, not joyful but dignified, like the funeral of your freedom.
And yet, when you looked down the aisle, past the priests and the marble gods, you saw only him. He stood like he had been carved into place by fate, a figure of stoic poise and discipline. He wore the ceremonial breastplate of a General; gold and leather laced over his chest like armor made for myth. A dark crimson cloak draped over one shoulder, clasped with the mark of the Emperorâs seal.
He was taller than you had imagined, broader too. There was a steadiness to him that unnerved you. Not exactly stillness but what seems to be contained power. His face was carved from shadow and sunlight, jaw squared, and eyes the cold color of rain-smoothed stone. A thin scar curved along the left side of his jaw, not disfiguring, but sharp, like a signature. And those eyes, when they finally found yours, held no flicker of joy, no welcome. They were grounded, unreadableâeverything but empty.
You had expected indifference, arrogance, perhaps. But what you found was something far more dangerous. Intrigue. He inclined his head in a silent greeting, a soldierâs nod; respectful and impossibly formal. Not a smile, not a spark. But not disdain either. Your breath caught when he looked at you, like a man preparing for a siege. And yet, something in you shifted. Not in fear, not even in disappointment, maybe⊠fascination ?
Your gown swept the marble behind you; white silk, embroidered with silver and copper threads in the style of your homeland, a small rebellion your mother had insisted on preserving. The veil shimmered behind you like mist, long and soft. At your side, your father walked stiffly, his expressions carved into diplomacy. He held your arm like he held his blade, firmly, not quite gently. Then, he had to leave you, let go of your arm and give you to the stranger you were about to marry. The man that would now take care of you.
The altar was lined with fresh-cut laurel and pomegranate. The priest chanted the sacred rites. Your name, and his, spoken aloud and you did not even know the sound of his voice. Yet, your fingers touched when the rings were passed, and that single brush of skin sent a whisper of something electric up your spine.Â
His palm was cold. Yours trembled once. He did not look at you, not directly. But you saw his jaw tighten, like he had felt it too, and did not know what to do with all that knowledge. You wondered, absurdly, if he was nervous. The rings were slipped on, and the oaths exchanged, a scribe to the side of the altar wrote everything down on a parchment.Â
And then, it was done. The General slowly bowed his head to you, like a man offering deference. As if you were a queen or at least something close enough to one. You barely breathed and then, without ceremony he stepped closer and pressed a kiss to the corner of your lips. It was not a kiss of a lover, nor even a husband. It was warm, brief, controlled, a brush of lips against your mouthâsoft as breath and gone before your body could register it fully. It felt more like a vow than anything spoken aloud, enough to give the impression of a real kiss to anyone in the room. A promise, you told yourself, or at least, the possibility of one.
When he pulled back, his face remained unreadable, but his eyes lingered just a second longer than necessary. Your pulse caught and something in your chest uncoiled, just slightly.
He offered you his arm and you took it, not because you had to, but because in that moment you wanted to. The applause rose behind you, Rome roaring her approval. The marriage had ended not in intimacy but in spectacle. Trumpets blared, laurel wreaths were raised, a sea of dignitaries, senators, Generals and foreign envoys surged toward the newlyweds like waves crashing. Rome really knew how to honor herself with grandeur.Â
You followed the Generalânow your husbandâthrough the ceremonyâs afterbirth, your arm still looped lightly around his. His pace faltered, but he did not speak, not a word since the vow. He only nodded to those who saluted him, eyes scanning the crowd like a commander in unfamiliar terrain; polite, present but unreachable.Â
He escorted you up the steps of the banquet hall, a domed, opulent chamber overflowing with gold-threaded cushions and garlands of flame-colored flowers. Long tables were set with silver bowls of figs and honey-glazed. Musicians played a slow, elegant melody that failed to cover the growing thrum of conversation and political hunger. You were sat beside him on the raised dais. He poured your wine without being asked, a gesture so rehearsed it barely felt real.Â
âIs everything alright ?â he asked at last. His voice was low and measured, like someone asking after a guest, not their wife.
You looked at him, studying the face everyone in Rome revered; hard lines, eyes like winter stone, no warmth and no cruelty. He had done nothing wrong, but he also had done nothing at all.Â
âI am fine.â
He gave you a short nod, then returned to scanning the room. You sat in silence for another few minutes, listening to the rustle of silk, the laughter of people who knew how to perform joy. Rome was a chorus of masks, and you had not yet found your own. Suddenly you could not breathe under the weight of it all, the crowd, the wine, the stifling future curling around your throat like incense.Â
âI need a moment.â You murmured.
The General turned slightly, âDo you want me to come with you ?â
You hesitated when you thought you saw a hint of concern in his eyes, until you realized it was more impatience. As if he was waiting for you to leave in a hurry and that you will not ask him to follow you. His question, actually, was not a question, just an illusion of goodwill. âNo. I will manage alone.â
You slipped away down one of the side corridors, grateful no one stopped you. The quiet found you quickly, pressed between the walls and the cool hush of shadow. You exhaled as your footsteps slowed. And then, you saw her. She stood beside a bronze basin, one hand lightly skimming the waterâs surface, she had the posture of someone who belonged to every palace she ever entered. The low torchlight painted her in gold and shadow. The gown she wore was violetânot just beautiful, but deliberate. Imperial.
You had never seen her face before, even not during the ceremony, or at least you thought so. There were so many people today, that, you had not even been able to talk to your own mother since the ring around your finger sealed your future. The woman was older than you and impossibly poised, the kind of woman whose presence made others instinctively stand straighter. A circlet of hammered gold rested in her hair.Â
âOh,â she said, her lips curling into the beginnings of a smile, a kind expression on her face as she turned to see you. âYou needed a moment too ?â
You paused, just outside the doorway, unsure if you were intruding. âYes,â you said. âThe hall is... a storm.â
She gave a quiet laugh. âThat is a generous word for it.â
Her voice was soft but assuredâa voice trained in courtrooms, or perhaps something even older. She stepped slightly away from the basin and folded her hands loosely before her. âI watched you, during the ceremony,â she continued gently. âYou carried yourself well. I remember my own weddingâŠmy knees would not stop shaking.â She adds with a chuckle. There was no bitterness in her tone. Only memory.
âThank you,â you said, your voice more honest than you had expected. âI had no training in how to marry a stranger.â
She tilted her head. âNo one has. Not really.â
There was a quiet, companionable moment. And in it, something settled. Her gaze on you, curious, thoughtful, without a hint of superiority. Just as you began to ask somethingâanything, out of instinct more than strategyâfootsteps clicked at the far end of the corridor. A servant appeared in a rush, breath shallow, eyes darting between you both.
âDominaââ the girl began, before catching herself. âMarâ the banquet awaits your return.â
You turned your head, but not before seeing her expression falter, just for a flicker. Not shame, just the lightning-fast reflex of someone used to secrecy.Â
Her smile then returned effortlessly. âOf course,â she said, with a nod. âThank you.â
The servant bowed and backed away quickly. The still unknown woman looked at you again, her voice calm. âIt is never truly your night, is it ? Not in Rome. Every moment belongs to someone else.â
You did not know what to say. Her eyes searched yours, not intrusively, but with a strange gentleness. âI hope,â she said softly, âthat he will be kind to you.â
And then she turned, leaving you in silence, the scent of myrrh and rose trailing after her like a veil. You stood alone for a long minute, your breath lodged somewhere between your ribs.Â
â.âàŒșđ€àŒ»â.â
The villa was quiet now, the revelers long since departed. Torchlight flickered along the walls of your new chambers. Servants had come and gone, laying out fruit, wine, flowers. Silk robed folded neatly, oils on the table and perfumed water in basins in which you had bathed and dried your hair with trembling fingers.
The door closed behind him without a sound. You had been sitting by the windowâwatching the night spill over the city like ink. The moon hung heavy and indifferent as its rays reflected off your skin, a strange shade of blueâthe silk robe clinging to your skin still damp from the bath, the scent of rose oil ghosting over your collarbones. You did not look up at first, you had imagined this moment so many ways that the real thing felt too fragile to meet head-on.
But when you turned, you saw him.
He stood there in the glow of the fire, freshly changed into a dark linen tunic. His formal armor was gone, replaced by something quieter, more intimate, though the presence he carried made the room feel no less like a battlefield. He was⊠handsome, yesâstriking, even. The sculpted kind of man you only ever saw carved into stone. His brows furrowed as if in thought, or perhaps weariness, and his eyes watched you like a soldier scanning a map before a march.Â
Still, you could not help the way your heart stuttered when he finally stepped closer. âMy lord,â you said, quieter than you meant to.
At that, he tilted his head slightly. A single dark brow lifted, not unkindly, more like curiosity. âYou may call me Marcus,â he said, his voice low and even. âWe are husband and wife now. No need for titles in private.â
There was a careful courtesy in the way he said it. Not warm. Not cold. Like a gate held half open, daring you to enter but offering no welcome.
You nodded once, unsure it that was kindness or obligation. âMarcus,â you repeated, tasting the name.Â
He crossed the room with military precision as you rose to your feet slowly, smoothing the folds of your robe with shaking hands. And for a long moment, silence stretched between you like a blade unsheathed but not yet used. He wasted no time in catching your eye and slipped into the sheets of theâyour sharing bed.
âYou are not what I expected,â you murmured before you could stop yourself, moving unconsciously in his direction.
That made him pause. âNo ?â
You shook your head. âYou are⊠quieter.â
A breath of something like amusement crossed his face, not quite a smile, but the ghost of it. âMost Generals are quieter after the wedding than before it,â he said dryly.
That startled a soft laugh from you; small, nervous. He turned his face then, as if your reaction had caught him off guard. He looked at the wall, then the floor, anywhere but at you.
You studied him.
There was something about the way he carried himself. The way his fingers flexed once at his sides and then stilled again, that felt like he could control fire. And it drew you. Even now, even as you knew this was not a love story, maybe not yet, or maybe neverâbut you were drawn to him.
After this evening at his side, you had expected nothing from a man like him. Still, as you sat across from him at the imperial banquetâsmiling politely, answering questions from governors and senators who barely remembered your nameâyou could not help glancing at him in those small, unguarded moments.Â
Marcus Acacius was every inch the legend you had heard of: carved from silence, shaped by discipline. His posture never faltered, even when seated, and his replies were devoid of warmth. But what struck you most was the restraint in his gaze, like there was something caged behind those irises. And yet, when his eyes landed on you, even briefly, something changed.Â
A flicker, gone before it could fully become a thought. A hesitation, as if there was a war behind those eyes that had nothing to do with you. You did not flatter yourself into thinking he was pleased by the match. No one truly was. This was not a marriage woven of love or even desire. It was strategy, diplomacy, obedience. A bargain between Empires, in which you were the treaty dressed in white.Â
But you were determined to be more than that. You had promised yourselfâthere, on the terrace of your homeland, when the sails of your old life disappeared behind youâthat you would not enter this marriage meekly. You would do your duty, yes. But more than that: you would try to love. You would give this cold stone the warmth of yours hands, even if it never warmed in return.Â
He had barely spoken to you since the ceremony. A bow. A glance. He had offered his arm but not his voice. You watched him, not as an infatuated girlâyou were not that foolishâbut as a woman determined to understand the man she had been given to.Â
There was something in him, you were sure of it. A kind of tension, as if every movement was measured to avoid some fault. And it made you wonder what lay buried under all that discipline ? Even the greatest Generals were made of flesh, even marble could cracked under pressure.Â
You wantedâneededâto know who he was when the armor came off. And tonight, in the hush that followed the ceremony⊠you would begin to try.
âI will not force you,â he said suddenly, voice tight. âIf you would prefer to wait, I-â
âI do not want to wait,â you said, before you could give yourself time to retreat. âThis is our wedding night. I would rather⊠not be alone.â
He looked at you then. âVery well,â he said simply.
You sat on the edge of the bed, near his feet, leaving just enough space between you to preserve modesty, and just enough closeness to feel the tension like a thread drawn taut between your bodies. The room was dim, lit only by candles flickering near the carved columns. Somewhere beyond the walls, musicians still played for the last drunk guests, but their music had thinned, like it was too hesitating.
For a moment he grimaces, a faint tightening around his eyes, as if settling into something that did not quite fit. You turned your face fully toward him now, unsure whether to speak, unsure whether silence would offend or comfort. When he adjusted his posture and leaned back a little, his gaze slid toward you again, and then, down.Â
Your robe clung faintly to your skin in places that left much to the imagination, thin and delicate, the firelight made suggestions of the shape beneath it. You had not meant it to be seductive, but you had not stopped it either. His eyes lingered, no longer guarded. After all he was a General, not a monk.Â
A muscle in his jaw tightened, his hand curled, crumpling the sheet at his side. You bit your lower lip, almost without realizing it, heart thudding. You had imagined wanting from him, but it was just a thought. Maybe something you could use to reach him.Â
Just for a breath, he looked at you not as duty, but as a woman.Â
And something flickered across is expression, as if torn between distance and desireâno, worse; as if he had fought the feeling and already lost.
You took a breath that trembled in your chest and let the courage carry you forward. Slowlyâalmost reverentlyâyou crawled across the sheets, each movement delicate. The soft rustle of fabric beneath your knees was the only sound as you were now on all fours, looking at him directly in the eye. You kept your hungry eyes fixed on him, searching his face for any kind of reaction. He was statuesque in the low light, his expression unreadable once again, though his body seemed to betray him as you could feel his already hard cock beneath the sheets, which made you smirk.
A flush of warmth spread through your chest as you did not know how to begin. You straddled him gently, your thighs sliding over his, your breath hitching as your bodies aligned. His eyes flickered open, and for a moment, just a moment, there was something thereânot desire, not affection, but⊠permission. And, you could work with that.
You stood over him with your arms embedded in the mattress, you leaned down and placed a soft kiss on the corner of his mouthâa quiet echo of the one he had given you at the altar, but his lips did not move, they did not even flinched.Â
Undeterred, you continued. A kiss on his cheek, then another along the edge of his jaw, yet another just below his ear, a trail down the column of his throat. You felt him shift beneath you, a ripple of muscle and restraint. A sound escaped him, almost a sigh, but muted. His hands came hesitantly to your hips, trying to push you away carefully. But, you rocked your hips once, lightlyâtesting, and his grip tightenedâmore by instinct, like a simple reflex butâpressed your body a little closer to his.Â
You smiled faintly and rose, looking only at him with a burning desire, slowly peeling back the sheet between you. His eyes snapped open with surprise, maybe a quiet resistance ? His hands slid over your thighs and he closed once again his eyes, taking a deep breath. You did not pause anyway. Your hands moved with a confidence you did not quite feel, lifting the hem of your robe and slipping it over your head. Revealing your warm and naked body to him, as the air kissed your bare nipples. You saw his gaze moving over you, and for a breathless heartbeat, you felt seen.Â
But then, suddenly, it was gone. His eyes drifted to the side, unfocused and his jaw clenched. You tried not to falter.Â
He leaned back against the headboard as you settled atop him again, you took advantage of this moment to lift yourself gently and removed the covers that had separated your bodies until then. He looked at you with intrigue, certainly not expecting such gesture and ardor from you. Then, lifting the edge of his tunic to free him, you licked your lips impatiently. His cock was rock hardâthick and readyâbut he barely reacted to your touch. No smirk, no words, no heat in his eyes.Â
Still, you guided his fat cock to your entrance, offering a last glanceâa silent plea to meet you there, even if it is just for a moment. You sank down, gasping at the stretch, your body trembling as he filled you completely. Slowly you took him inch by inch, your breath breaking into gasps as your body stretched to accommodate him. Just too much at once, a new world splitting open inside you and your moan broke the silence like a confession.
He grunted softly beneath you, but you moved anyway, riding slowly. As he spread your walls, you let out a loud moan, scrunching up your face from the slight pain. Your hands braced on his broad shoulders and your breath mingled with the scent of his skin. You bit your lip, letting soft sounds escape, trying to give yourself fully. He was so deep inside you, you could feel his cock in your stomach, and the sensation was just delicious, you could not stop yourself anymore.
He let out a few careless whimpers, as your hands found support on his broad shoulders, allowing you to keep your balance and find a rhythm that suited your desires. You bit your lower lip and moaned once more, his hands shyly roaming your body as you surrendered yourself completely to him, leaving no room for hesitation. Suddenly he frowned and sighed through his nostrils, then look at youâproperlyâjust once, a long and unreadable gaze.Â
Your hands clenched at his shoulders, as he made no move to guide you through it. So you set another rhythm, slowerârolling your hips to feel every inch of him inside you. Your hands found his chest to steady yourself, and your thighs trembled with the effort. His hands left your body and found the sheets beside him. You let go and tried to make him want you again, but it was as if he had barricaded himself in, letting you use his body as you pleased. You leaned in, trying to draw him back, but he moved his head slightly, preventing you from kissing him or even making contact with his skin.
The warmth between your legs grew and you began to ride him with growing confidence, chasing something unspoken between you. You tried to catch his eyes, but he was not looking at you anymore. His head tilted back; eyes closed, lips parted slightly in some imagined reverie. Your fingers traced along his collarbone, but he did not stir. It was as if he was unable to face the sight of your body on his.Â
Still straddling him, your movements reduced to a fragile rhythm. Not for pleasure anymore, but for your dignity. To convince yourself there was still something happening between your bodies. But he was limp beneath your touch, his body remains inside yours, but something in him was⊠gone. You looked down at him, pleading, and saw the furrow between his brows, the ways his lips seemed to mouth something you could not decipher.Â
You slow to a stop and stay still atop him, your breathing uneven and shallow from the thrum of something colder uncoiling inside you. The rise and fall of his chest beneath you were distant, absent. His hands no longer held you, his eyes had closed again, retreating into some private place far from where your skin met his.Â
And then, the question tumbled from your lips before you could bury it. âAm IâŠâ you paused, voice tight, ânot doing it right ?â
The words hung in the air between you like a mist that refused to lift. He opened his eyes and looked directly at you. Not at your body, your mouth or your hands, even less the place where you were joined. But at your eyes, like a man stepping into a memory he had not meant to find.Â
There was no irritation in his expression, no hunger. Just softness, and what seems like pity. And that, somehow, was worse. His voice was almost careful when he responded, âNo. You are alright.â
But he did not say what it was. Your fingers, unsure, rested on his chest where his heartbeat barely stirred beneath your palm. You leaned forward slightly, a whisper of movement, your voice fragile now. âI can try something else, if you want.â A thread of hope knotted tight in your chest. âIf you tell me what pleases you, I-I can tryâŠâ
For a moment, silence. Then a quiet breath and a small shake of his head. âI am just tired,â he murmured. âThat is all.â
Just tired.Â
That simple.Â
That final.Â
You stayed there, frozen in that moment, as if stillness might hold something togetherâwhatever this was supposed to be. But the thread between you had already slackened. A tender, desperate intimacy folded into something formal. As though your body had become just another offering to be endured.Â
He shifted, gentlyânot urgentlyâadjusting the blanket, reaching for the edge of the sheet. You took the silent cue, sliding off him with grace you barely possessed in that moment, pulling the cover over yourself in one practiced motion. You turned away so he would not see your face, because you were not sure what expression you wore.
Marcus settled back into the mattress with the weary composure of a soldier finished with duty. His arm fell across his chest and his eyes shut again, for good this time. You lay beside him a long while, watching the gold-leafed ceiling flicker with candlelight. Somewhere beyond the walls, music still played.Â
You slipped from the bed, eventually, quiet as the dying flame of the candle next to you, and walked barefoot to the far end of the room. You wrapped yourself in the nearest robe, not for modesty, but for armor. You settled back into bed beside him, leaving as much distance as possible before closing your eyes. And just as you felt yourself drift off into a deep sleep, a solitary tear escaped your eye.
summary: you wear Marcusâs gold laurel crown while he worships you.
pairing: Marcus Acacius x afab wife!reader
warnings: 18+ mdni. smut. body worship. basically, treating you like the Goddess that you are. feels. praising. oral sex (f). fingering. cream pie. i'm sure there are inaccuracies so just don't pay them any mind. reader is abled bodied. no y/n. no beta. w.c: 1.6k
an: so i had this thot the first time i saw Marcus and i haven't been the same since.
Marcus plots the Emperor's commands despite the incessant regret that sours his stomach. His army of men slay soldiers and pillage towns. There is savagery wherever he looks. As he's aged, he's become callous to the bloodshed, no longer the feral ravenous beast he once was.
Finding you warming his bed is a sight bestowed to the Gods, he thinks.
His body aches, muscles sore from weeks on the battlefield, but the moment he sees you, all his pain vanishes. His white and gold armor rests against the foot of the bed; signs of war have no place in this sanctuary.
You beckon Marcus in the silence of his bedroom, lit only by candles that make the room glow an ethereal hue, while your supple body is wrapped in his cream-colored sheets like a bouquet. Your fingers find his as he climbs into the bed, interlocking like vines along a lattice as he lies beside you. He rests his laurel-crowned head on your lap like a child longing for warmth and compassion.
Marcus gazes up at you, his other half in this forsaken world, his goddess.
"You did well today." You praise, smiling down at him, remembering how regal he looked in the golden diadem as he gave another victorious speech to the crowd.
Marcus hums as you run your fingers around the golden leaves and through his curls. He allows himself to rest in your divine embrace, if only for a moment. Your heavenly harmony soothed his worn, remorseful soul.
"I do it all for you, my Lady." the General purrs, tenderly lifting your hand to kiss your knuckles.
Marcus's white tunic shifts as he rises to his knees and plucks the crown from his head. His curls bounce with the movement before he places the crown atop your own.
You timidly raise your hands, feeling the intricate design and the solid gold leaves as the crown sits heavy on your head, but he looks at you with awe.
"I've never seen such beauty in all my days." Marcus compliments like a man staring at the sunrise for the first time.
You were the shining beacon that kept him sane during the days of war, and he would make sure you knew the effect you had on him.
"My Empress," Marcus gently tugs the sheets, dragging the cotton down your body. He relishes your voluptuous form with a soft groan. "It's been too long since I gazed upon you." The skin at the corner of his eyes crinkles as he trails his gaze from the tips of your toes to your gilded halo.
His hands burn. He flexes them at his sides as he hungers to feel your tenderness, warmth, and compassion. "My goddess."
Your face flames as your lashes flutter to the sheets, overwhelmed by Marcus' adoration. If he only knew that you'd happily drown in the wake of his love. Â
A solid finger lifts your chin to meet his sober stare. "Do me the honor of watching me pour my devotion upon you."
A lithe gasp falls from your lips as he drops his hand and lightly cups your breasts. Worn and calloused, the hands of a known killer, though he's always so gentle with you, your nipples pucker as he skims each bud with delicate circles.
Your lips part with a gasp, chasing his hands when he withdraws. He chuckles at your panting breaths. "Do not fret. There is still much time to ravish you."
His mustache tickles your skin as he leans and sucks your left breast into his mouth. Tounging the pert bud, he brings succulent pleasure to the surface and a soft cry from your lips. He massages the right with expertise, kneading and pinching, knowing exactly how much pressure to apply until he has you squirming.
He strives to leave no spot unclaimed. He's a man of his word; nothing can stop him once he's begun. Stone walls and fleets of men wielding swords and canons cannot stop him.
Soft lips trace under the arc of your breasts before moving to your ribs. A mischievous tongue darts out at the curves, tasting the thin layer of salt on your skin.
"I'd sail across the ocean for you." he professes; the timbre of his voice is as deep as the sea.
A barrage of kisses presses to your waist and the softness that you carry. Marcus's stormy beard lightly grazes your skin as he makes his ascent, leaving pebbles in its wake.
"I'd fight my own army to get to you."
Your fingers card through his locks as he settles between your thighs, making room for himself and pushing your legs apart. He hooks them over his broad shoulders with a devilish smirk. A wry tongue licks a straight line from your pulsing opening to the crux of your mound, making you tug his hair with a wanton mewl.
Marcus stills, like a predator, having just sunk its claws into prey, and presses his scarred, aquiline nose into the soft curls that top your mound. His nostrils flare as your heady scent invades his senses. A low growl rumbles from his chest as he lowers his head, watching you from under his lashes. His once enchanted eyes have now become slivers of torrid black as he latches his teeth into your fleshy mound. Â
You cry out from the impish bite, hips unconsciously grinding toward your lover as he unlocks his jaw and finally smothers your cunt with his mouth.
Your nerves sizzle from the immoral embrace as his tongue dances over your clit. Nimble fingers trace your sticky petals, dipping in and out of your hole, drawing more blood to fill your already throbbing folds. Your heart beats in time with the pounding of your lower half as Marcus takes his time to worship you.
"Seems my Lady enjoys my touch." He purrsâ a slick, shiny grin plastered on his face.
Your body bends, curving sharply like a bow aimed and waiting for the charge. Marcus keeps you primed like the General he strived for ages to become. "Tonight, you will not want," he claims, notching two fingers at the opening of your core.
He holds your fiery stare as he presses into your soaked channel. Your head lolls, and your eyes flutter like butterflies as his thick digits widen your velvet passage.
"Always so good to me." Marcus coos, curiously curling his touch along the hidden ridges deep inside. His cock aches, soaking the sheets with his pearly spend, desperate to be inside you. "Letting me adore and worship as I please."
You want to hold him in your arms and repeat every word he praises back to him in a whisper, but Marcus is a man of his word; tonight is about you and only you.
His shoulders stop your legs from closing as a violent wave of pleasure rolls over you. A wicked laugh rumbles from the man as he suckles your inner thigh. "So close, my Lady. I can feel it." Marcus works his fingers in and out, driving you to the edge, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.
Slick, drenched kisses stain your skin, another sign of his devotion, as your limbs tangle even more with the stoic man. His rough hands easily hold you down as you wriggle in his grip. Your breathing escalates, and blood pulses in your ears as the eager desire to come consumes you.
"Yes, my Love, take what I give you," Marcus begs, thrusting his weeping cock against the bed in time with his fingers, working you higher and higher.
Marcus wraps his lips around your clit, suckling and swirling the tiny bud until you're chanting his name. He tortuously hooks his fingers onto the spot behind your clit, forcing you to swell and explode into a mass of sparkling particles.
The moment your eyes blink open, having floated back down from your glorious high and into the comfort of Marcus' bed, he notches his cock at your creamy opening and thrusts himself to the hilt.
Your jaw drops with a silent cry. It's devastating and empyreal but your body welcomes him home like always.
"Her embrace is so warm and tight. Like how I dreamt on all those lonely nights", Marcus groans, dropping his head to your shoulder.
The image of Marcus touching himself in the darkness of his tent after a day of savagery makes your cunt quiver. The power you hold over this man is not to be taken lightly.
As you become one, your breasts press against his broad, dewy chest as he blankets your smaller frame and pushes you into the mattress with every cant of his hips, driving his length into the deepest depths.
Crescent moons pepper his freckled back as he shows you sights you've never seen, eliciting his name from your lips with a broken, gasping prayer. Your hold tightens around his bouldering shoulders, his thrusts gaining immense strength as the end closes in, shoving you up the bed.
Marcus noses your cheek, drawing your attention from the blissful heaven. "My Love," his hands encompass your face, from chin to temple, so cautiously, like he's holding a newborn. "I've never experienced such wonders than when I am inside you."
He continues to rock you in the safety of his arms and his bed, hurrying his thrusts when your eyes roll and your limbs become stiff. Marcus wants to meet the Gods with you and feel the rapture and glory as they carry you off into the heavens as one.
Marcus growls with bared teeth as he comes; his spine flexes as he spills his seed and fills you to the brim. He doesn't stop thrusting until his come is leaking onto the sheets, and your folds can no longer hold his offering.
You are his temple, and he will worship until the day he falls.
feel free to scream at me -> đ
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summary: Lucilla arranged a wedding between you and General Acacius to protect you from Emperor Geta. Acacius doesn't love you but he has swore to protect you.
w.c: 12k>
warnings: power imbalance, age gap, arranged marriage, creep man, suicide attempt, smut, fluff, and angst.
a/n: this is a mix of two requests! I lost one of the requests in my asks so if you see it, please feel free to yell at me haha there is it! đ I wanted to say sorry for taking so long on this, but I made the choice to mix both because I didn't have the time to write separately and I didn't want to make you wait anymore, don't hate me, please.
| dividers by @/saradika-graphics |
There were blurry reminiscent of the life you once had. It wasnât very different from the one you had now, but it wasnât the same either.
The empire seemed at peace back in the day, the sun caressed your skin with the tenderness of a loving mother touch, but now it burnt your skin as if you had been set in a fire.
You remembered your grandfather death.
You recalled your uncleâs death in the arena.
Maximus death, and with him the dream of Rome died, swapping the peace of the empire away.
You recalled a brother. He was your twin, and you remembered loving him.
Lucius.
Your mother had sent him away under sacred protection, with Comodousâs death, he was the next emperor in line.
But you had stay here. After all you were a woman and your blood didnât have the value running through your veins.
You had been forced to live with the faded memories of Lucius's blue eyes, those that mirrored your own somehow, the ones that used to gleam with the particular mischief of a kid. Now, they haunted your dreams like ghosts, a reminder of the bond torn apart by politics and promises of protection.
Each day in the palace felt like a gilded cage rusted by the passage of time, where the air was thick with deceit, and every word spoken seemed laced with hidden agendas. Emperor Getaâs obsession with you had made life unbearable. His attention was suffocating, his gaze lingering too long, his presence a constant reminder of your vulnerability as a woman in the imperial court.
Under his and his brother rules.
And when your mother and the council proposed your marriage to General Acacius, you had resisted. Marriage was meant to be a union of love, not a transaction of protection. That what you were told by her when you were a kid. Yet, as Getaâs obsession grew more unhinged, and whispers of his plans to claim you as his own wife reached your ears, you knew there was no choice.
Lucilla braided your hair, the same way she had been doing it since you were a kid. Her touch was gentle, but her face displayed her worry. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and the occasional quiver in her fingers spoke of the weight they carried on her hands, not just as your mother but as a woman who had maneuvered through the treacherous politics of the empire her entire life.
"My sweet girl," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper as she tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "I know this is not the life you would have chosen. If I could take your pain and bear it myself, I would."
You turned to look at her, meeting her gaze through the reflection in the mirror. Her eyes, though still fierce, carried a shadow of regret that seemed etched into her very soul. For a moment, you werenât the daughter of a woman which fate as empress, had been stolen, you were just a child looking for comfort in your motherâs arms.
"But you canât," you said, your voice trembling as you tried to hold back the emotions threatening to spill over. "You sent Lucius away, and you kept me here. You say itâs for my protection, but sometimes it feels like Iâve been sacrificed for a safety itâs not real.â
Lucillaâs hands paused in your hair. Her reflection in the mirror faltered, the weight of your words cutting deep. "I sent Lucius away because he was a target," she said, her voice breaking slightly. "I thought once he was older enough, one day he would reclaim what is rightfully his. But you... I couldnât send you away, too. I couldnât lose both of you."
"Instead, you bound me to this place," you said, unable to stop the bitterness in your tone. "To a life I didnât choose, to a marriage that will feel like another cage."
Lucilla moved to face you, her hands resting on your shoulders. "Acacius is a good man," she said firmly. "He may not have been the man of your dreams, but he is a man who will protect you. And I swear to you, I chose him because I saw something in him. Something that told me he would be more than just a shield for youâ
Her words hung heavy in the air, and you didnât respond. Deep down, you knew she believed she was doing the right thing, but it didnât make the ache in your chest any less sharp.
âI wish I was deadâ you whispered to yourself only.
The wedding day arrived cloaked in grandeur, yet it felt suffocatingly hollow. The palace was adorned with gold and crimson, every corner lit by the soft glow of countless lamps. Musicians played melodies meant to celebrate unity, but their music tortured your aching heart. Guests gathered in their finery; faces painted with polite smiles masking their true thoughts. You stood at the heart of it all, draped in a gown of ivory silk embroidered with golden threads, a symbol of wealth and duty, not love.
As you walked towards Acacius, flanked by your mother, the room blurred, as if it wasnât truly real. The man awaiting you at the altar stood tall and composed, his features carved from stone. Acacius wore a ceremonial armor, the white and gold catching the light, but his expression was unreadable. His eyes met yours, steady and unyielding, and for a fleeting moment, you wondered what he truly thought of all this.
The vows were spoken. His voice was deep, calm, and detached. When he slipped the ring onto your finger, his touch was light, almost hesitant. There was no tenderness, no sign of warmth. Only duty. The ceremony ended with applause that echoed in the vast chamber, but the sound felt distant. You were bound now, not by love, but by necessity.
Emperor Geta would stop his courting towards you.
Later that evening, you found yourself alone with him in your new chambers. The fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across the walls. You sat at the edge of the bed, your hands folded tightly in your lap, while Acacius stood near the window, his back to you. He seemed restless, as if the weight of his armor had been replaced by the burden of this union.
"You donât have to speak to me if you donât wish to," you said quietly, breaking the silence. Your voice was steadier than you expected, though your heart raced. "I know this wasnât your choice any more than it was mine."
He turned then, his gaze settling on you. For a moment, his cold exterior softened, though only slightly. "It wasnât," he admitted, his tone measured, as if he were weighing every word. "But it was necessary. Your mother asked me."
His honesty stung, even if it wasnât unexpected. You nodded, unable to meet his eyes. "My mother,â you echoed, her title feeling heavy in your mouth.
Acacius sighed and ran a hand through his hair, the movement breaking his usual composed demeanor. "This isnât what I imagined for my life either," he said, his voice quieter now. "But Iâve sworn to protect you, and I will. Even if this arrangement feels..." He paused, searching for the right word. "Unnatural."
"Unnatural," you repeated with a bitter smile. "What a lovely way to describe a marriage."
His jaw tightened at your sarcasm, but he didnât respond. Instead, he crossed the room, stopping a few steps away from you. His presence was imposing, yet his movements were deliberate, careful, as if he were afraid of overwhelming you.
"I will do my duty," he said finally, his voice firm but not unkind. "And I will honor you as my wife. But I canât pretend to feel something that isnât there.â
His words were a knife, cutting through the fragile hope you hadnât even realized youâd been clinging to. You swallowed hard and nodded, keeping your gaze fixed on your hands.
"If you need anything, you only have to ask. Iâll be in my chambers." he said. And then he was gone, leaving you alone in the vast, empty room.
That night, you lay awake, staring at the ceiling, the weight of your new reality pressing down on you. Acaciusâs words echoed in your mind, and though they werenât cruel, they felt colder than any rejection. You couldnât blame him, not really. But that didnât make it hurt any less.
You wished you could close your eyes and be anywhere else. In the gardens with your brother, in the safety of Luciusâs protection, or even in the quiet stillness of a life unbound by imperial chains. But instead, you were here, in this gilded cage, with a husband who was as much a stranger as the walls around you.
The following days were a blur of formality and silence. Acacius remained distant but civil, his actions guided more by duty than emotion. He escorted you through the palace when required, his hand resting lightly on your arm but never lingering. At meals, he was polite, engaging in conversations when prompted but offering little more than what was necessary. You were a pair in appearance, but the gulf between you was undeniable.
Lucilla watched it all silently. She offered no commentary, but her concerned glances betrayed her thoughts. Her belief that Acacius was the right choice remained unwavering, yet even she couldnât deny the strain in your union.
One evening, after the dayâs obligations had ended, you returned to your chambers to find Acacius standing by the window. He was in his tunic, having removed the heavy armor that seemed to weigh him down as much as the marriage itself. His posture was stiff, his shoulders tense as he gazed out into the fading light of dusk.
âDo you regret this?â you asked softly, breaking the silence. The question had been clawing at you for days, and you couldnât keep it bottled up any longer.
Acacius turned to you; his expression unreadable. âRegret isnât the right word,â he said after a pause. âThis wasnât what I wanted, but itâs the path Iâve chosen. I will honor it.â
You crossed the room, stopping a few paces from him. âYou speak of honor as if itâs enough to make this work,â you said, your voice trembling slightly. âBut what about us? Are we just to coexist in silence, fulfilling obligations without ever truly living?â
His brow furrowed, and for a moment, his cold demeanor cracked. âDo you think this is easy for me?â he asked, his tone sharper than you expected. âI didnât ask for this any more than you did. But Iâm trying. Iâm doing everything I can to give you the life you deserve.â
âThe life I deserve?â you echoed, anger bubbling to the surface. âI deserve a life where Iâm not a pawn, where my choices matter. I deserve a marriage built on something more than duty.â
Acacius looked away, his jaw tightening. âAnd yet, here we are,â he said quietly. âBound by something neither of us chose.â
Silence hung between you, heavy and suffocating. You turned away, wrapping your arms around yourself as you tried to hold back the tears threatening to spill. âI didnât ask for this,â you whispered, more to yourself than to him.
âI know,â Acacius said, his voice softening. You felt his presence behind you, and a moment later, his hand rested lightly on your shoulder. âI canât change what brought us here, but I can promise you this; I will protect you. Always.â
âWhy do you donât like me as a person?â you asked, unable to meet his gaze
Acaciusâs hand froze on your shoulder, and for a moment, he didnât respond. The weight of your words hung in the air; unspoken questions laced with vulnerability. Slowly, you turned to face him, your arms still wrapped around yourself as if shielding your heart from the answer you feared.
âWhy donât you like me as a person?â you repeated, your voice trembling. âIs it because you didnât choose this? Because Iâm nothing more than an obligation to you?â
Acaciusâs jaw tightened, his eyes searching yours as if debating whether to speak the truth or spare you further pain. Finally, he exhaled deeply, stepping back to create some space between you. His hand fell to his side, the warmth of his touch fading.
âItâs not that I donât like you,â he began, his voice low and measured, as if choosing his words with care. âYouâre intelligent, strong-willed, and far braver than anyone gives you credit for. But... this isnât about you. It never was.â
Your stomach twisted, the pit forming at his words. âWhat do you mean?â you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.
He turned away, running a hand through his dark hair as he stared out of the window. âYour mother,â he said finally, the words falling like stones. âI... I loved her.â
The breath caught in your throat, your chest tightening as if the room had suddenly closed in on you. âWhat?â you managed to choke out, disbelief coloring your tone.
Acacius turned back to you, his expression a mixture of regret and resignation. âLucilla. I loved her long before any of this. Long before Commodus fell, before your world became this mess of alliances and power struggles. But she...â He hesitated, his gaze softening.
âAsked you to marry her daughter because of Getaâs courtesyâ you ended his sentence. You felt disgusted by his confession and guilty for destroying the chances of your mother and Lucilla of being happy together.
Acacius's eyes widened slightly at your words, but he didnât deny them. Instead, he looked at you with a mixture of shame and helplessness, as though he carried the weight of his choices like chains he could never cast off. âIt was more than just Geta,â he said quietly. âLucilla believedâshe hopedâthat this union would keep you safe from him. And I thought... I thought I could do that for her.â
You stepped back, your heart pounding. The walls of the room seemed to close in, suffocating you under the weight of his confession. âAnd in doing so, you destroyed any chance you both might have had for happiness,â you said, your voice trembling. âBecause of you, she sacrificed everythingâfor what? To tie me to a man who doesnât even want me.â
âHey,â Acacius said quickly, stepping closer, but you held up a hand, stopping him in his tracks.
âDonât,â you said, your voice breaking. âDonât try to justify it. You will never love me, and now I know why. Because all you see in me is her shadow.â
âNo.â His voice was firm now, his eyes blazing with an intensity that startled you. âYouâre wrong. I never wanted this to be about her, and I never wanted you to think I see you as anything less than who you are. But I canât bury my feelings, and I canât undo the choices we made.â
Your stomach churned with anger, disgust and despair. âDo you even realize what youâve done?â you demanded. âYouâve tied me to a life I never wanted, a life where Iâll always wonder if I was just a piece in someone elseâs plan. Iâm always trapped in the middle of something.â
The tears you had been holding back finally broke free, spilling down your cheeks as sobs wracked your body. The weight of Acaciusâs confession, of everything you had endured, crushed you, and the walls of the room seemed to close in around you.
âI canât do this,â you said, your voice trembling, thick with emotion. âI canât stay here.â
âPlease,â Acacius began, his tone urgent as he stepped toward you, his hand outstretched. But you recoiled, shaking your head fiercely.
âDonât!â you cried, your voice cracking. âDonât come near me! Donât tell me itâs going to be okay when nothing ever is. Youâre just another person whoâs used me, another person who doesnât see me.â
The rawness of your words hung in the air, and for a moment, Acacius froze, his face etched with a mixture of pain and helplessness. But you couldnât bear to look at him any longer. The walls of the room blurred as your tears continued to fall, and you turned abruptly, your feet moving before your mind could catch up.
You fled the room, your sobs echoing in the empty corridors as you ran blindly through the villa. Servants and guards turned to look at you, startled by the sight of their lady in such distress, but you ignored them. You needed to get away, away from Acacius, away from the suffocating weight of expectations, away from everything.
Eventually, you found yourself in the gardens, the cool night air biting at your skin. The sky above was scattered with stars, their distant light doing little to ease the turmoil within you. You collapsed onto a stone bench, your arms wrapping around yourself as you cried, the sound of your grief swallowed by the rustling of the trees.
You had tried so hard to find a place in this world, to make peace with the life forced upon you. But tonight, every fragile piece of that illusion had shattered, leaving you adrift in a sea of uncertainty and pain.
As your sobs subsided, a cold breeze swept through the garden, chilling you to the bone. For a brief moment, you thought of Acacius, of the way his eyes had softened when he spoke, of the regret laced in his voice.
But the anger and betrayal still burned too brightly within you to let those thoughts linger.
The cool night air stung your cheeks as you sprinted through the gardens, past the rows of manicured hedges and marble statues. The villa loomed behind you, its walls suffocating even at a distance. Your lungs burned, your heart hammering against your ribs, but you didnât stop. You couldnât. You didnât know where you were goingâonly that it had to be far away from Acacius, from the weight of his confession, from the life you no longer recognized as your own.
Your feet carried you to the outer grounds of the villa, where the shadows grew darker, the torchlight dimmer. The muffled sound of distant voices reached your ears, guards patrolling the perimeter, but you veered away from them, toward the narrow dirt path that led to the forest. The trees ahead beckoned like a sanctuary, their darkness promising solitude.
You barely noticed the snap of a twig behind you until a voice cut through the silence.
Before you could gather your thoughts, you heard soft footsteps approaching once more. Your heart lurched. "Acacius?" you called out tentatively, but when the figure stepped into the moonlight, your breath caught.
It wasnât Acacius.
It was Geta.
He stood there, his face shadowed yet unmistakably troubled. The smugness on his face was characteristic but still you couldnât name his expression you couldnât place what he was feeling, desperation? Anguish? The way his chest rose and fell told you heâd been running, as if chasing you had been his sole purpose.
âEmperor Geta? wha-what are you doing here?â you demanded, your voice shaking, not with fear but with a volatile mixture of emotions you couldnât quite name.
âI was on my way to pay a visit to our beloved Generalâ he answered, his sinister smile still on his face, "I must admit," he said, stepping closer, his tone dripping with false amusement, "I didnât expect to find you wandering out here all alone. What would dear Acacius think, hmm? Leaving his precious wife unguarded in the dead of night?"
Your heart pounded harder now, but for an entirely different reason.
Geta took another step toward you, and you fought the urge to recoil. The air between you felt suffocating, charged with a tension that made your skin crawl.
"Youâre drunk, emperor" you said sharply, hoping to mask the fear creeping into your voice. "Go back to the palace, Geta.â
But he only laughed, a cold, hollow sound. "Oh, Iâm perfectly sober," he said, his eyes narrowing. "And I think itâs time we had a little... talk, you and I.â
âWhat more could you possibly want from me, Emperor?â
His eyes met yours, and for the first time, they werenât cold or calculating. They were raw, bare, and filled with an emotion that made your stomach churn.
âYou,â he said, the word barely above a whisper.
Your blood froze. âWhat?â
âIâve loved you,â he said, his voice trembling. âFor as long as I can remember. And Iâve hated myself for it, but I couldnât stop. Not even when I tried to keep my distance. Not even when I told myself it was wrong.â
The ground seemed to shift beneath your feet. This was a nightmareâa fever dream born of the turmoil of the night. It had to be.
âNo,â you said, shaking your head vehemently. âNo, you canâtâyou donât mean that.â
âI do,â he said, stepping closer, though he didnât reach for you. âIâve tried to bury it; to pretend I could be the dutiful emperor everyone thought I was. But every time I see you, every time I hear your voice...â He broke off, his hands clenching into fists. âIt is like I am set on fire.â
âIââ you started, but words failed you.
Geta took another step forward, his desperation palpable. âDo you see now?â he asked, his voice softer but no less intense. âIâve only ever seen you as mine.â
âStop,â you said, your voice trembling as you raised a hand to keep him at bay. âJust stop. Whatever you think this is, whatever you feelâitâs wrong.â
He froze at your words, his face twisting with a mixture of pain and defiance. âWrong?â he repeated, his voice cracking. âHow can it be wrong when itâs the only thing Iâve ever been certain of?â
âBecause I donât feel the same!â you shouted, your tears spilling over now. âI will never feel the same. Iâm married.â
Geta flinched at your words as though youâd struck him. His face, already a storm of emotions, darkened further. âMarried,â he spat, his voice low and bitter. âTo a man who will never truly see you. A man who cannot love you the way I do.â
Your chest tightened as anger began to bubble within you, momentarily overpowering the fear and confusion. âLove?â you repeated, your voice trembling. âThis isnât love, Geta. Whatever you think this is, itâs twisted. Youâve turned me into some...some object to claim, a possession to own!â
His jaw clenched, and his hands balled into fists at his sides. âI have done nothing but love you,â he said through gritted teeth. âWhen no one else cared about your happiness, when they made you a pawn in their schemes, I thought of you. Always.â
âThen why didnât you stop it?â you demanded, stepping forward despite yourself. âWhy didnât you, with all your power, say something? Do something? If you loved me so much, why didnât you fight for me?â
Getaâs gaze faltered for the briefest moment, a crack in his otherwise unyielding façade. âBecause I couldnât,â he admitted, his voice quieter now. âBecause to love you openly would have been to destroy you. You think I donât know how they look at me? How they whisper? They already call me unfit to rule, unstable. If they knew how I felt, they would have turned their wrath on you.â
âThatâs not love,â you said, shaking your head, your voice breaking. âLove doesnât hide in shadows. It doesnât tear someone apart from the inside. It doesnât...â You trailed off, pressing a trembling hand to your mouth as sobs threatened to escape. âIt doesnât feel like this.â
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence was deafening, broken only by the distant rustle of leaves in the night wind.
âI didnât want this,â Geta finally said, his voice almost a whisper. âI never wanted to hurt you. But watching you with him, knowing youâre his...â His voice cracked, and he took a shaky breath. âItâs killing me.â
âIâm not yours,â you said firmly, the words sharper than you intended. âIâll never be yours.â
Getaâs face hardened at that, the softness of his confession replaced by something colder, more dangerous. âWeâll see,â he said quietly, his tone chilling in its calmness. âThe gods have a way of changing fatesâ
The sound of hooves pounding the earth broke through the tension that had built between you and Geta. The rhythmic thundering grew louder, and you instinctively turned toward the noise, your heart racing in your chest.
Acacius appeared from the shadows, his silhouette cutting through the night as he rode forward, leading a group of horses. His eyes immediately locked on you, and in an instant, his expression shiftedâdarkening, as though a storm had formed within him. When his gaze flicked to Geta, the atmosphere around them changed.
Geta remained still, but his eyes narrowed. He knew exactly who had arrived. A low tension crackled in the air, like two opposing forces on the verge of collision.
âEmperor Geta,â Acacius said sharply, his voice hard, his stance unwavering. His hand instinctively tightened on the reins of his horse as if it were a weapon, a subtle warning. âIt is too late for you to be out in the middle of the nightâ
For a moment, Geta didn't respond. The intensity of his stare met Acaciusâ head-on, the challenge in his eyes unmistakable. But Acacius didnât flinch. His presence was commanding, and even Geta, in his turmoil, could sense the shift.
You stepped back slightly, the weight of the situation dawning on you. The conflict between these two men was palpable, and it made the ground beneath your feet feel unsteady. Your heart pounded, not just from fear, but from something deeper, more painful. The realization that you were now caught between these two men who seemed to hold pieces of your life in their hands.
Getaâs lips curled slightly in a sardonic smile, though there was an edge to it. Â âI bet is too late to pay a visit to our beloved general"
Acacius ignored the provocation, his eyes now focused solely on you, his voice softening. âAre you all right?â he asked, though it was laced with an undertone of concern, almost as though he was afraid to hear the answer.
You could feel your chest tighten as Acaciusâs eyes met yours, the concern in his voice stirring something deep inside of you, something vulnerable. You wanted to say something, anything to ease the tension, but the words wouldnât come. Your emotions were a storm, a swirl of anger, fear, and confusion that made it impossible to think clearly.
Before you could respond, Getaâs voice cut through the moment like a knife. âDoes he really care, or is this just about keeping control? Do you really think heâs here for you?â He sneered, stepping forward as if trying to push Acacius out of the space between you. âOr is it just the idea of you that he wants to control, the power that comes with your bloodline?â
The truth was beyond the obsession Geta had towards you, there was fear. He was aware your blood belonged to the realm, so you werenât a lover he wanted to possess but a treat he wanted to eliminate. Â
You werenât just a woman who caught his eye; you were the reminder of the power he feared losing. Your existence in the realm, your connection to the throne, made you a target in his mind. His twisted love for you wasnât love, it was a deep-seated need to control, to erase what he couldnât possess or manipulate.
Your marriage to the General of Rome put you in a place where you could go back to ruling the empire.
Acacius stood tall, his eyes still fixed on Geta, the tension between them thick enough to choke the air around you. His expression was hard, his jaw clenched with quiet fury, but it was the protective energy that radiated from him that caught your attention. He wasnât going to let this spiral any further.
"Whatever matter you think needs discussing, Geta," Acacius began, his voice steady but firm, "it can wait until tomorrow. Not tonight. Not in the presence of my wife."
The words were sharp, final. There was a strength in them that sent a clear message, a line that Geta could not cross. Acaciusâs gaze never wavered as he took a step forward, a silent challenge to Geta, daring him to try anything more.
You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, torn between relief and dread. Acacius's words were a shield, but they didnât seem to do anything to quell the storm brewing between the two men.
Getaâs face hardened, the flicker of emotion that had passed through him earlier replaced by a steely resolve. âYour wife, Acacius,â he said, the venom in his tone unmistakable, âis a part of this empire, and the future of it is bound to her. Donât think for a second you can keep her out of this.â
Acaciusâs grip tightened on the reins of his horse, his knuckles white as he kept his stance, unwavering. âIâm not keeping her out of anything,â he said, his voice low but deadly. âBut as her husband, I will not let you use her to fuel your delusions of power.â
For a moment, the air seemed to freeze, the threat hanging between them like a sword poised to fall. But Geta, ever the strategist, knew when to back down. He held your gaze for one last moment, his expression unreadable. Then, without another word, he turned away, his posture stiff, and he strode off, leaving the two of you standing there in the quiet aftermath.
You exhaled shakily, feeling a weight lift from your chest, but it didnât last. The shadows of what had just transpired seemed to cling to you, the fear, the confusion still buzzing in your veins. Acaciusâs protection, though fiercely given, couldnât erase the uncertainty of everything that had just happened.
He turned to you then, his expression softening, though the hard edge from earlier remained in his eyes. âAre you all right?â His voice was gentle now, and the concern in his gaze pulled at your heart in a way you couldnât explain.
You nodded but soon after you moved your head, everything went completely black.
The world slowly came back into focus, the heavy weight of unconsciousness lifting from your mind like a veil being drawn aside. You blinked, the sharp light of the morning creeping through the windows, and the gentle rustle of sheets beneath you signaled you were no longer outside. You were back inside, in the cool, quiet comfort of your chambers.
Your body felt heavy, as though every muscle had been drained of energy, but the pain from the night before had faded, replaced by a strange weariness that seeped into your bones. You tried to sit up, but a soft voice stopped you before you could move.
âCareful,â Lucilla said, her tone gentle but firm. She was sitting by your bedside, her eyes fixed on you with a mixture of concern and calm reassurance. âYou need to rest.â
Your heart raced for a moment, the fragments of the nightâs events rushing back to you. Getaâs confrontation, the threat in his voice, and Acacius standing between you, the tension thick enough to choke the air. You could still feel the sharp edge of fear in your chest, but for now, you were safe.
âMotherâŠâ you whispered, your voice hoarse. âWhat happened? Is⊠is everything all right?â
Lucillaâs eyes softened, and she reached out to brush a lock of hair from your face, her touch soothing. âYou fainted, my lady. After the confrontation with the emperor, you collapsed. Acacius was frantic. He had you brought inside immediately. Heâs been by your side all night.â
Her words made your heart flutter, a strange mixture of emotions flooding you. Acacius had been there, waiting, watching over you, just as he always did. But there was something else in the air, something unspoken between you and him that neither of you could ignore.
âHe stayed with me?â you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. The thought of him there, protecting you, made something twist inside your chest.
Lucilla nodded, her expression softening. âYes. He didnât leave your side for a moment. Heâs worried about you.â
As Lucillaâs words settled into your mind, the door to your chambers creaked open. You barely had time to turn your head before Acacius stepped inside, his figure towering in the doorway. His presence seemed to fill the room, his eyes immediately locking with yours. There was a quiet intensity in his gaze, a depth of emotion you couldnât quite decipher. For a moment, it felt as though the world outside of your small room had disappeared, leaving just the two of you, caught in the stillness of the moment.
He took a step forward, but it was the way he looked at your mother that made your breath catch in your throat. The same tension you had felt between you and him last night now seemed to make sense. The raw honesty, the confession he had madeâthe admission of his feelings, the vulnerability in his voiceâwas clear in that single glance. And in that moment, something inside you recoiled.
You were a burden.
âAcaciusâŠâ you whispered, barely able to speak, your mind reeling. You could feel the panic rising inside you, suffocating, as if there was no room to breathe in his presence. Was this what you had been running from all along?
He stepped closer, his voice steady but strained. âYouâre awake,â he said quietly, almost as if he was still processing the fact. His eyes softened when they met yours, but there was a flicker of something darker behind them, something you couldnât place.
âI was worried about you,â he added, his tone still holding a thread of concern, as if your well-being was his sole focus.
You swallowed hard, your mouth dry, and for a moment, you couldnât find your voice. Lucilla, sensing the weight of the moment, quietly excused herself, leaving you and Acacius alone in the quiet of the room.
As the door clicked shut behind her, the silence between you two seemed to grow heavier, more suffocating. He took another step closer, his gaze never leaving yours, but you couldnât bring yourself to meet it fully. Every part of you screamed for distance, for space, and yet, he remained closeâtoo close.
âAcacius, Iââ you started, but the words caught in your throat. How could you put into words what you were feeling? The confusion, the fear, the overwhelming weight of it all? It wasnât just about what Geta had done or said; it was about the emotions Acacius had stirred in you, emotions you didnât know how to deal with.
You wanted to feel loved in a way your skin felt when the sun caresses your face in the midst of a cold winter.
But Acacius could never love you.
The days passed like slow, heavy drops of rain. The storm of emotions that had churned inside of you seemed to settle, but it wasnât a calm; it was the oppressive stillness before something darker took hold. Acacius remained by your side, always present, but the warmth that once ignited in your chest when you saw him, when you felt his concern, began to dim. His confession, those raw words of love for your mother, left a lingering sting that you couldnât ignore, no matter how hard you tried.
Each time you saw him, you felt a coldness creeping into your heart, like the chill of winter settling into your bones. It wasnât that you hated him, far from it, but you couldnât shake the feeling that something fundamental had broken. You had wanted to feel cherished, wanted in a way that made you feel whole, like the sun warming your skin during the harshest of winters. But instead, you felt like the shadows of something lost were all that remained.
The days blurred together as you drifted through them in a fog. The joy that once accompanied your moments with Acacius, his gaze, his touch, seemed to fade with each passing day. You were still there, still functioning, but you werenât alive in the way you had once been. You were a shadow of the person who had laughed freely, who had dreamed of a future with the man who had stood beside you through every storm.
Now, his presence only reminded you of what could never be. Every word from him felt weighted, laced with an unspoken truth you couldnât escape. He was there, yesâbut it was Lucillaâs name that seemed to linger in the air between you, a constant reminder of what could never happen.
You stopped meeting his gaze as often, your conversations clipped and polite, but distant. You couldnât pretend anymore that things were the same. You couldnât ignore the hollow feeling that had taken root inside you, gnawing at you like a slow, insidious poison.
The days felt endless. The life you had once felt for each moment, for each glance he gave you, slipped away bit by bit. You told yourself you were strong, that you would move on, that you could adapt to the life in front of you. But the spark that once filled your soul, the fire that had kept you going, was slowly being smothered. Each day without clarity, without answers, without that spark, made you more resigned, hollower.
The days blurred into weeks, and life continued its chaotic, inevitable march forward. The grandeur of Rome, its towering structures and ancient streets, became a distant backdrop to the turmoil that had taken root within you. Despite the growing tension surrounding you, your presence at the grand events of the empire remained. There were battles in the Colosseumâevents that had once stirred the blood, filled with anticipation and excitement. Now, they were merely noise, the sounds of clashing steel and roars of the crowd unable to penetrate the numbness that had taken hold of your soul.
Geta's obsession with you deepened, his presence more frequent, more invasive. His eyes never seemed to leave you, and every word he spoke, every look, was an attempt to assert control, to draw you into his tangled web of fear and power. But his attempts only felt more suffocating. You were trapped, like an animal in a gilded cage, unable to escape his watchful gaze. He wasnât interested in you as a woman; you were a symbol to him, something to manipulate, to dominate, to erase the threat you posed to his fragile claim on the empire.
Despite your growing isolation, Acacius remained at your side. His concern for you was evident, though he seemed to be walking on a thin line, careful not to overstep or push you too hard. He knew you were withdrawing, knew that something had shifted between you, but he didnât know how to reach you. He could see the distance in your eyes, the way you pulled away when he tried to comfort you. And it broke him, though he never spoke of it.
There were feelings he didnât know he was able to feel, appearing.
The battles at the Colosseum grew more brutal, the spectacle becoming more and more gruesome with each passing day. The roar of the crowd no longer thrilled you. The sight of blood, the cries of victory and deathâit all blended into a backdrop of life that felt increasingly distant, like you were watching it all from behind a veil. You were alive, yesâbut you werenât truly living.
One evening, as you sat beside Acacius in the grand hall, your hand in his, you tried to force a smile. You knew he was watching, hoping for some sign that the woman he once knew was still there. The fingers that held yours were strong, steady, but you felt a chill crawl up your spine. His warmth didnât reach you anymore. His presence, once a comfort, now felt like a reminder of everything you had lost.
"Smile," he whispered, his voice gentle, coaxing. "Just for tonight. For me."
You nodded, a small, strained smile curling at the corner of your lips. But as you smiled, something inside you felt hollow. You knew what he sawâthe facade of a woman who was still whole, still alive. But inside, you were dying. The life that once burned brightly in you had been extinguished, snuffed out by the weight of betrayal, fear, and a love that could never be returned. And as you smiled for him, you felt like an actor playing a partâfaking a life that wasnât truly yours anymore.
The crowd cheered as Acacius raised your hand, the symbol of his victory and his loyalty to Rome. But you couldnât feel the victory. You couldnât feel the joy. You just felt death. Not the death of your body, but the death of everything you had once been. The woman who dreamed, who hoped, who believed in love and light, was slipping further away with each passing day.
Acacius, for all his strength, could never reach you. You could see the worry in his eyes, the way he would glance at you when he thought you werenât looking, as if he was searching for somethingâanythingâthat would tell him you were still there. But you werenât. You were a shadow, a flicker of the woman you used to be, trapped in the space between life and death.
As the days stretched on, Getaâs obsession with you grew more dangerous. His presence became a constant reminder of your captivity, the ever-present shadow of his desire to control. He wasnât content with merely watching anymore. No, now he was making his move, pushing harder, testing boundaries. You could feel the weight of his eyes on you, even when he wasnât in the room. He was always there, lurking, waiting.
Acacius noticed it too. He saw the way you tensed whenever Geta entered the room, the way your eyes darted nervously, the way your smile faltered. He knew you were becoming a shell of the person you once were. And for the first time, Acacius found himself unsure of how to help you. He had always been your protector, your constant, but now, it felt like he was failing you.
âYou donât have to pretend for me,â he said one night, his voice rough with emotion. He reached for your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. âI see it. The distance. I see you slipping away from me, and I donât know how to fix it.â
You wanted to tell him, to let him in, but the words wouldnât come. Instead, you turned your gaze toward the distant horizon, watching the sun set behind the buildings of Rome, casting long shadows across the streets. It was a beautiful sight, but you couldnât appreciate it. The beauty of the world was lost on you now.
"Iâm sorry," you whispered, though the words didnât feel like enough. They would never be enough.
Acacius squeezed your hand tighter, as if trying to hold onto you, to keep you from slipping away entirely. But you knew, deep down, that it was already too late. You were already gone.
The days continued to stretch on, the weight of your own existence pressing down on you with each breath you took. You moved through life like a specter, haunted by your own thoughts, consumed by the shadow of everything that had transpired. The air around you felt thick, suffocating, and nothing seemed to reach you anymore.
One evening, after yet another long day of feigned smiles and empty conversations, you retreated to your chambers. You had long since stopped caring about the grand appearances, the masks you were expected to wear. In the silence of your room, the darkness that had begun to take root in your heart felt heavier than ever before. It was as though the weight of your despair had become a tangible thing, pulling you under, drowning you from the inside.
You moved toward the bath, the cool marble surface inviting you with its quiet promise of solitude. You sank into the warm water, hoping, if only for a moment, to drown out the noise inside your mind, to forget the suffocating reality that had become your life. The water enveloped you, and for a brief moment, you felt weightless, freeâfree from everything that bound you, from Geta's obsession, from the looming presence of the empire, and from the love you could never have.
But the peace was fleeting. The thoughts came rushing back, overwhelming and relentless. Acaciusâs touch, his words, his confession of love for your motherâit all swirled in your mind like a storm, too much to bear. And in that moment, something inside you snapped. You wanted it all to end. The pain. The confusion. The crushing weight of everything.
As the water rose higher, you slipped under, the coolness surrounding you like an embrace. It was quiet. So quiet. The pressure in your chest intensified, a cold finality settling in. Your body felt heavier, the world fading as you sank deeper into the water. The voices in your head quieted, the darkness enveloping you completely. And for the first time in a long while, you felt... peace.
But fate had other plans.
Just as the darkness threatened to consume you completely, a sudden hand gripped your arm, pulling you from the water with desperate force. The world rushed back in an instant, blinding, harsh, and you gasped for air, coughing, choking as water flooded your lungs.
âNo!â a familiar voice cried out, filled with fear. âDonât you dare do this!â
Your vision swam as Acaciusâs strong arms pulled you up, his face a mask of panic and determination. He moved quickly, his hands steady as he worked to lift you from the bath and cradle you against his chest. His voice was shaky, though he tried to hide it.
âStay with me,â he urged, his voice breaking as he held you close, his hands pressing against your wet skin. âPlease. Donât leave me.â
You were too weak to respond, your body trembling, your mind foggy. But his wordsâdonât leave meâcut through the haze. They echoed in your ears, but they didnât make sense. Why would he want you to stay when you were nothing more than a burden, a shadow of what you once were?
âAcaciusâŠâ you whispered weakly, your throat raw as you fought to speak. His name felt like the last thread that held you to this world. "Why...?"
His grip tightened on you, his body radiating warmth as he looked down at you, his eyes filled with desperation and anguish.
âBecause I want to love you,â he said, his voice shaking but steady with resolve. âIâve always wanted to love you. You donât have to carry all of this alone. I donât care about the empire, about the danger, or the expectations of the world. I care about you. I want to be there for youâto love you.â
His words hung in the air like an echo, reverberating through the silence that had settled between you. You wanted to believe him. You wanted to reach for that spark of hope, the promise of love he was offering, but the weight of everything you had been through, everything you had lost, held you back.
You closed your eyes, your breath still shaky, and tried to push away the wave of conflicting emotions that surged within you. Acaciusâs love, though it was sincere, felt like a distant dreamâa dream that you didnât deserve. How could you accept his love when you felt so broken, so consumed by the darkness inside of you?
âIâm so sorry,â you whispered, your voice barely audible, but filled with the depth of the regret you felt. âIâm not who you think I am. Iâve lost so much of myself...â
Acacius gently cupped your face in his hands, his touch tender and comforting, as though he were trying to steady you from the storm that raged inside of you. He was quiet for a long moment, his gaze soft but unwavering.
âYouâre not lost,â he said, his voice low but steady. âYouâre not alone, even when it feels like it. Iâm here. I will always be here, whether you believe it or not.â
The warmth of his touch seemed to seep into your skin, like a quiet promise. But even with that promise, there was still a part of you that resisted. You were drowningânot just in the water, but in the weight of your own thoughts, your own feelings. How could you possibly let yourself love again, after everything that had happened?
âI donât know how to let anyone love me anymore,â you admitted, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "Not after everything I've been through... everything that's been taken from me."
He leaned closer, his forehead resting gently against yours as his hands moved to hold you more firmly. "You donât have to figure it all out right now. Just let me be here with you, for as long as you need. You donât have to carry the world on your own anymore."
His words settled in your heart, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to breathe, to feel his presence. It wasnât a solution to all that haunted you, but it was somethingâsomething real.
âYouâre not alone, either,â you whispered, your voice still fragile but more certain than before. âI donât want to be alone, either.â
The quiet between you felt like an unspoken promise, an understanding. You didnât have all the answers, and you didnât know how to fix what was broken.
Acacius carefully lifted you in his arms, his movements gentle yet strong, as though he feared breaking you. The room was quiet, save for the sound of his steady breathing and the soft rustle of the sheets as he settled you onto the bed. His hands lingered at your sides, making sure you were comfortable, as though he couldn't bear to be too far away, even for a second.
You lay there, your body trembling from the cold of the water and the emotions that had swirled through you in such a short time. But there was a warmth now, a steadiness in the way Acacius was with you, something that grounded you amidst the chaos. His presence filled the space between the silence, and you wanted to hold onto that feeling, to keep it close as though it were the last thread that could save you from the darkness.
But even as your thoughts tangled, your voice came out soft, barely a whisper, as if afraid to disturb the fragile calm that had settled around you.
"Acacius," you said, your voice catching slightly. "Stay... please."
The words hung in the air, vulnerable and raw, and you could feel your heart beating faster as you waited for his response. You werenât sure what you were asking forâcomfort, reassurance, or simply the presence of someone who cared when everything else seemed so uncertain.
Acacius didnât speak at first. He simply moved to sit on the edge of the bed, his gaze intense, but filled with an understanding that pierced through the barriers you had built around yourself. His hand gently rested on yours, his thumb brushing over your skin in slow, soothing motions.
"Of course," he finally said, his voice a soft promise, like the calm after a storm. "Iâm not going anywhere."
He pulled the blanket over you, ensuring you were warm and comfortable, and then he settled beside you, close but not too close. His presence filled the space beside you, but there was a tenderness in the way he lay next to you, giving you the space you needed while still remaining close enough to feel his warmth, his care.
You turned your head slightly, your eyes meeting his in the dim light of the room. The vulnerability in your chest, the fear of asking for too much, made you hesitate for a moment. But then, with a shaky breath, you spoke again, this time more urgently.
"Stay with me," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "Just... for tonight. I donât want to be alone."
Acaciusâs gaze softened, his lips curling into a faint, reassuring smile. Without saying a word, he shifted closer to you, his arm slipping around you as he pulled you gently against him. His warmth enveloped you, and for the first time in a long while, you allowed yourself to rest, truly rest, without the weight of the world pressing down on you.
In that moment, as you felt his heartbeat steady against yours, the storm inside you quieted, if only for a little while. The darkness still lingered at the edges of your thoughts, but Acaciusâs presence, his steady, unyielding care, was a reminder that, for now, you didnât have to face it alone.
And so, you closed your eyes, letting the warmth of his arms around you pull you into a fragile peace, knowing that, for this one night, you were not lost.
In the days that followed, something shifted between you and Acacius. It was subtle at first, like the quiet change of seasons, but it was unmistakable. His devotion to you became more evident in every action, in every word. It wasnât just the caring gesturesâthough those were abundantâbut the way his gaze lingered on you, the way his touch seemed to convey more than words ever could. You could feel the change in the air, like the warmth of the sun breaking through the clouds.
Acacius, the loyal general, who had always been steadfast in his duties to the empire, had turned his focus entirely toward you. His thoughts, his actions, and his very presence were now centered around ensuring that you were safe, that you were cared for.
Every morning, he would bring you breakfast, a small smile on his lips as he placed the tray before you. He would sit with you, talking about the dayâs events, but his attention was always on you, his eyes soft with concern, his every movement thoughtful. If you showed signs of fatigue, he would insist on helping you with whatever you needed, no matter how small. And when the nights came, he would always stay, watching over you as you slept, keeping his promise to never let you be alone.
At times, you felt the weight of his care, the devotion he gave so freely, and it both soothed and unsettled you. The fear of being a burden gnawed at your mind, but each time you tried to withdraw, Acacius was there, offering reassurance, pulling you back from the edge.
âWhat about when you have to go into battle again?â you asked once, your voice barely above a whisper. The question had been haunting you ever since your marriage. No matter how much Acacius promised protection, he was a general firstâa soldier bound to the empireâs whims.
He hesitated, his eyes meeting yours. For a moment, the confident, stoic mask he always wore faltered, and you saw the man beneath it, a man burdened with duty and uncertainty.
âI donât know,â he admitted. âBut I will make sure youâre safe before I leave. Always.â
His honesty was disarming, and for once, it didnât feel like an empty reassurance. Still, the thought of him riding off to battle, leaving you behind in the suffocating grip of the palace, sent a shiver down your spine.
âAnd what if you donât come back?â you pressed, your voice trembling.
Acacius stepped closer, his gaze steady. âI will come back,â he said firmly. âIâve survived countless battles, and Iâll survive the next one. Because now, I have a reason to.â
His words made your breath catch, and you turned away, unwilling to let him see the tears welling in your eyes. âDonât say things like that,â you murmured. âDonât make promises you might not be able to keep.â
âIâm not making promises,â he said, his voice softer now. âIâm telling you the truth.â
You looked at him then, your emotions a whirlwind of fear, anger, and something elseâsomething you werenât ready to name. âYou make it sound so simple,â you said bitterly.
âItâs not,â he admitted, his expression unflinchingly honest. âBut Iâve faced death more times than I can count, and Iâve always fought to live. Now, I fight for you, too.â
The weight of his words settled over you, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. Finally, you broke the silence, your voice raw.
âI donât want to be the reason you donât come back.â
He reached out, hesitating for a moment before placing a hand on your shoulder. âYou wonât be,â he said. âIf anything, youâre the reason I will.â
The vulnerability in his voice was almost too much to bear. You closed your eyes, taking a shaky breath. âI donât know how to do this, Acacius,â you admitted. âI donât know how to let myself care for someone when everything in my life has been taken from me.â
He stepped closer, his hand sliding down to take yours. âYou donât have to figure it out all at once,â he said. âBut let me stay by your side while you do.â
His grip was firm yet gentle, and in that moment, you felt a flicker of something you hadnât allowed yourself to feel in years: hope.
âJust... come back,â you whispered, your voice breaking.
âI will,â he promised, his gaze unwavering. âAlways.â
And for the first time, you allowed yourself to believe him.
After the gladiatorsâ fights had concluded in the Colosseum, you and your mother, left the arena, your minds still lingering on the chaos of the day. Acacius had been by your side throughout the event, his protective presence never wavering. But you noticed something had shifted in himâthe tension in his jaw, the restlessness in his eyes, as if his mind was elsewhere. It was as though the very air around him had grown heavier.
As you made your way back to the villa, you could feel the weight of the looming battle on his shoulders. The orders from Emperor Geta and Caracalla had been clear: Acacius was to return to the front lines in two days. The idea of losing him, of seeing him walk into another battle with the same fierce determination he had shown every time, filled you with dread.
The villa felt quieter that night, the cool breeze brushing against the stone walls, but inside, the silence was almost suffocating. Acacius was pacing in his chamber, his armor now set aside, but his mind seemed far from peace. You watched him from the doorway for a moment, your heart aching as you saw him battle with his own thoughts.
"Acacius," you said softly, stepping closer.
He didnât look up right away, but when he did, his eyes seemed to carry the weight of the world. Â Â Â "Iâm sorry," he muttered. "I know you want more from me, but right now, my dutyâmy loyaltyâit demands more than I can give."
You walked toward him, the soft sound of your sandals barely reaching his ears. "You don't have to apologize," you said quietly, touching his arm. "But I can see it... you're restless. You're carrying the burden of something you shouldn't have to face alone."
He sighed deeply, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I have no choice. The orders are clear. If I don't return to battle, I dishonor my men, and if I do... I risk everything. Including you."
Your heart fluttered at his words. You moved a little closer, your voice softer now. "You don't have to risk everything alone. Iâm here, Acacius. If you need my company tonight, I will stay. I will help carry your burden, if only for this one night."
For a moment, he stood still, as if weighing your words. Then, slowly, his hands reached for you, gently pulling you closer until there was no distance left between you. The tension in his shoulders softened, but only slightly. His eyes, filled with uncertainty and longing, met yours.
"I donât deserve you.â he murmured, his voice rough.
You shook your head, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "You are more than that. You are the man who has kept me safe, and for that alone, I would follow you anywhere."
He seemed to hesitate for just a breath, then, with a sudden urgency, he kissed you. It was gentle at first, a soft press of his lips against yours, as if he were testing the waters. But the moment your lips met, everything else faded. The weight of the empire, the war, the ordersânone of it mattered in that instant. The world outside was silent, and the only thing that existed was the warmth of his kiss, the soft but undeniable spark between you.
As he pulled away slightly, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing a little faster, your hearts racing. His voice was low, almost a whisper. "Youâve made this so much harderâ
You smiled softly, your hands resting against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingers. "Maybe thatâs exactly what I want," you whispered, a playful glint in your eyes.
His lips brushed against yours again, this time more urgently, more desperately, as if the fear of losing you in the battle, or the fear of losing everything in the coming days, had driven him to this moment.
And in that kiss, you both found something you hadnât realized you were searching for. You had been lost in the chaos of the empire, in the uncertainty of what came next, but in this moment, with him, everything felt right. You werenât alone anymore.
As you pulled away from the kiss, Acacius didnât let go of you right away, his hands still resting on your shoulders, as though afraid you might slip away. His breath was uneven, his chest rising and falling in time with your own. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the world outside the villaâs walls completely forgotten.
Carefully, he brought his hands to your shoulders, traveling down your arms, at the same time your skin bristled under his touch. You had never felt this before, the mixture of nerves and lust of being touched with delicacy and love that you didn't know could exist.
He carried you to his bed gently, in slow steps without taking his gaze from your eyes that looked at him with curiosity and lost in the ecstasy of the moment.
Lust and desire.
The fabric of your dress felt suffocating against your skin and as if he had read your mind, he peeled your clothes off your skin leaving you completely exposed under his gaze. You gaped at him, half embarrassed, half impressed, then he pulled his lips back upon yours, palming your breast, as he made his way to his bed.
You chuckled as you lay there, and his face matched your smile as he continued to kiss you down your neck. The warmth of your uneven breaths mingled, enveloping you both as he quickly worked on his garments, and as soon as his clothes were removed, there was nothing to keep you apart. You curled your fingers in his hair as he kissed you all over your body for the first time. You could sense the emotions, but the intimacy and lust were like a fire in your core.
You felt Acacius' lips against your hips and angled them up for him. You were already dripping as he licked a route from your thigh to your cunt before sucking on your clit and pressing his fingers against you.
You whimpered while holding his head between your legs. His cock hardened as the sound from your lips and you clenched around his fingers. He sucked like he was hungry, forcing your legs apart till you had one calf under his shoulder. His free hand moved up your torso, grabbing your breast, as his nose rubbed against your clit. For instinct, you buried your heel into his back and dragged him closer until all he could taste was you.
He fucked you slowly, taking his time to taste your wetness on his lips before locking eyes with you. You were flustered, and your eyes shone.
"You...fuck," you whispered.
"I want you; I need you before leaving" he whispered desperately, going forward between your legs, forcing your knees up to your breasts, and plunging into you easily. You sighed and leaned forward to kiss him. Your hands were on the back of his neck, and he was on your breasts, attempting to touch you everywhere. As you both kissed, you raised your hips to fuck up into him as he drove down into you, attempting to be as cautious as possible.
You mumbled "Acacius, I love you" into his ear before he reclaimed your lips. He leaned down and sucked your nipples, lightly biting your breasts.
âIâll come back for you cara miaâ he promised, between thrusts, grinding his cock as deep as into you as it could go as you encouraged him with your moans and nails scratching down his back. Those marks would accompany the wounds of thousands of battles.
He slid his hand down to your pussy and rubbed along your clit. You fucked yourself harder on him by thrusting back against him right away.
When you came, he whispered something on your neck. You clutched around him and your hips trembled even as he continued to fuck you. Soon after, he began thrusting into you and eventually pulled out while making uneasy gasps in your shoulders. After that, the only sound in the room was the mingling of your breaths.
Acacius was nosing at your throat, promising he would come back alive to continue his life adoring you
The room was quiet, save for the soft rhythm of your breaths, which mingled together in the stillness. Time seemed to stretch, the weight of the moment settling around you like a gentle, unspoken promise.
his warm breath grazing your neck, and you felt a shiver run down your spine. His hands, still holding you with a tenderness you hadn't known before, seemed to search for something, as though memorizing the contours of your skin, tracing the lines of your jaw, your shoulders, your breath.
"Iâll come back," he murmured, his voice hushed, as though sharing a secret only meant for you. "I promise, I will come back to you. I won't leave you alone."
His lips brushed lightly against the soft skin of your throat, and you could feel the intensity of his words in that simple, delicate touch. You felt a sudden knot tighten in your chest, a mixture of longing and fear, but more than that, a deep, consuming need to believe him, to trust in the promise he was making.
"I will continue my life loving you," he continued, his voice thick with emotion, as though each word was a vow, a binding thread between you two. "When the battles are over, when the storm has passed, I'll be here and I will adore you for as long as I live."
You closed your eyes, feeling the warmth of his body pressed so closely against yours, the heat of his devotion seeping into your soul. For a brief, fleeting moment, it felt as if everything else faded awayâthe empire, the scheming, the endless pressures. It was just the two of you in that room, your hearts beating as one, a bond forged in the quiet moments when nothing else mattered.
You took a deep breath, feeling his hands gently cradle your face, his thumb brushing away the stray tear that had escaped. Your hand instinctively reached for his, holding onto him tightly as if the act itself could somehow make his promise real, could anchor him to you forever.
"I need you to come back," you whispered, the words escaping before you could stop them, your voice trembling with the weight of the truth behind them.
He pressed a kiss to your forehead, his hands steady and comforting. Then, with a soft and almost hesitant voice, Acacius finally asked, "Could you stay with me tonight? Sleep beside me."
The vulnerability in his words surprised you. Acacius had always been the strong, unshakable general, the one who carried the weight of the empire on his shoulders with unyielding resolve. But now, in the quiet of your shared space, he seemed as human as anyone, his guard lowered, his needs simple, yet profound.
Your heart gave a quiet thud in your chest, and without hesitation, you nodded. "Of course," you said softly. "Iâm not going anywhere."
His eyes softened, the slightest flicker of relief crossing his features. He led you over to the bed, the weight of the day seeming to leave him as he settled beside you. The soft rustle of the sheets was the only sound as he adjusted, his body tense but slowly relaxing as you lay beside him.
For a moment, neither of you said anything, simply sharing the same quiet space, your presence the only comfort either of you needed. But the closeness was enough. It was as though the war, the orders, the empire itself could not reach you here, in this space that was just yours and his.
"Stay with me," he whispered after a while, his voice barely audible in the stillness of the room. His hand found yours in the dark, his fingers threading through yours, a simple but grounding gesture.
You squeezed his hand gently, resting your head on the pillow beside him. "Iâm not going anywhere, Acacius. Iâm here. And Iâll be here tomorrow, and the day after, no matter what happens."
The words hung in the air, simple but true, and in that moment, you both found something precious, peace in the storm, a promise without words. Acaciusâs breath slowed, his body finally releasing the tension that had held him captive for so long.
Acacius woke slowly, the gray light of early morning spilling softly into the room. For a moment, the heaviness of his reality came crashing down on himâthe orders from Geta and Caracalla, the battle that awaited him, and the uncertainty of what lay ahead. The weight was still there, pressing on his chest like an unrelenting force, refusing to let him breathe freely.
But then, he became aware of something else.
You.
Your warmth was pressed against him, your head resting on his chest, your hand lightly curled over his heart. The soft rise and fall of your breathing matched the quiet rhythm of the room, and for the first time in days, maybe even months, Acacius felt the smallest flicker of peace.
He glanced down at you, his eyes tracing the curve of your face in the gentle morning light. You looked so calm, so trusting, nestled beside him, as though you belonged there. A part of him still couldnât believe you had stayed, that you had given him this small gift of solace before he left for what could be his last battle.
Carefully, as though afraid to wake you, he lifted a hand and brushed a strand of hair from your face. His touch lingered for a moment, his fingers barely grazing your skin, and he let out a quiet sigh. How had it come to this? How had you, someone he had been ordered to protect, become the person who made him feel safe?
The thought brought a bittersweet smile to his lips. He knew he didnât deserve this, didnât deserve you. And yet, here you were, giving him the strength he hadnât even known he needed.
You stirred slightly, nuzzling closer to him in your sleep, and he froze for a moment, unsure if you were waking. But you only let out a soft sigh and settled against him once more. He couldnât help the way his arm tightened around you, holding you closer, as though he could shield you from the world for just a little while longer.
His voice was barely a whisper, more to himself than to you. "What have you done to me?"
As the minutes passed, Acacius let himself stay in that moment, letting go of the weight of his duty, if only for a little while. With you there, the storm within him seemed to quiet, and for the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to hope.
When you finally began to stir, blinking sleepily up at him, he felt his chest tighten. Your eyes met his, and though your expression was soft, he could see the worry lingering there.
"Good morning," you murmured, your voice warm and still tinged with sleep.
"Good morning," he replied, his voice lower than usual, as though the morning had stolen some of his strength.
You reached up, your fingers brushing lightly against his cheek. "You didnât sleep much, did you?"
He shook his head, his lips quirking into a faint smile. "No. But this... this helped."
You smiled at that, though it didnât quite reach your eyes. "Then let me help you more. Whatever you need, Acacius, Iâm here."
He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning into your touch as though it was the only thing keeping him steady. When he opened them again, his gaze was clear, filled with something deeper than gratitude.
"Iâll remember this," he said softly, his voice carrying a promise you didnât fully understand but felt all the same. "No matter what happens, Iâll remember."
She stood in front of the mirror longer than she should have.
Not for vanity.
Not for approval.
But because she didnât quite recognize herself in the reflection.
There was no glamour to hide behind â no layers of perfume or makeup, no carefully applied lipstick or false confidence. Just her. Bare-faced. Quiet. A girl in a soft black sweater and dark jeans, hair loosely gathered at the nape of her neck, like she was headed somewhere she wasnât sure she belonged.
The mirror didnât lie. But it didnât offer clarity either.
It just held her image while the minutes slipped past her like wind through fingers.
By the time she made it downstairs, the Bentley was already idling at the curb. Emil didnât speak when she approached. He didnât need to. He simply opened the back door, and she stepped into the hush of leather and dark-tinted glass.
The drive was quiet.
Streetlights painted golden streaks across the windows. The city was still alive in its own way â shadows moving inside restaurants, laughter echoing from late-night bars, the soft pulse of traffic far off. But none of it reached her. In that backseat, the world existed in suspension.
When they arrived at the building, Emil didnât follow her up. He didnât ask if she needed anything. He simply gave a short nod and stayed behind, like he understood that what happened above this floor was not meant to be witnessed.
She stepped into the private elevator and pressed the code Harry had left in her inbox â five digits, clean, symmetrical. It felt like unlocking something more than a floor.
The ride up was smooth, silent. Her heart beat louder than the motor.
When the doors opened, the apartment looked different.
There were no lights on this time. Only the soft glow of something burning â a candle, maybe â near the far end of the living room. The air was low-lit and warm, wrapped in shadows, everything painted in tones of smoke and dusk.
She stepped inside.
Her boots made no sound on the polished floors. The hush swallowed her whole.
He was standing by the window.
Not sitting, not lounging â just standing. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of something amber. The rain had stopped, but the windows were still damp, streaked with thin trails of water. Beyond them, the skyline shimmered â distant, jeweled, untouchable.
Harry didnât turn when she entered.
He mustâve heard the elevator, the door, the breath she took just to steady herself â but he didnât react. His body stayed still, carved out of the silence like part of the room itself.
She didnât speak either.
Not yet.
Instead, she moved slowly, closing the door behind her, letting her eyes adjust to the dim. The scent in the room was faint but deliberate â something musky, layered, dark. Not floral. Not fresh. More like time and earth and something burning low.
When she reached the edge of the living room, he finally spoke.
âI wasnât sure youâd come.â
His voice was quiet, deeper than usual. It slipped into the room like it had always belonged there.
Y/n took a breath.
âI wasnât either.â
He turned then.
Not fast. Just enough for the light to touch his face.
His hair was messier tonight. Less perfect. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves pushed up to his forearms. He didnât look polished the way he had before â not like a man presenting an image. He looked⊠tired. Real. Like someone who hadnât slept, but hadnât wanted to.
His eyes met hers, and for a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then he lifted the glass toward her slightly, not offering it, just acknowledging it.
âDrink?â
She shook her head gently. âNot yet.â
He gave a small nod, as though heâd expected that answer, and turned back toward the window.
âYou know,â he said after a while, âmost people take the money and disappear.â
She stepped closer, not enough to touch, but enough to see the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders were drawn back like he was trying to stay composed.
âIâm not most people,â she said quietly.
He glanced at her, something unreadable flickering across his face. âNo. Youâre not.â
The silence after that was full â not awkward, not strained. Just full. Like a room with no furniture but still somehow crowded.
He looked away again.
âI thought if I gave you something,â he said slowly, âyouâd take it. Use it. Go live easier. I didnât expect to think about whether you would come back.â
Her voice was softer now, almost fragile. âWhy does it matter?â
He didnât answer right away.
When he did, his voice was barely above a whisper.
âBecause I donât invite people twice.â
Y/n felt something cold and sharp twist deep inside her.
Not fear.
Recognition.
The way he spoke â not like a man playing a role, not like a seducer â but like someone who had forgotten how to let people stay. Whoâd drawn too many boundaries and now didnât remember where he kept the key.
She took another step forward.
Close enough now to see the fine lines near his eyes. The curve of his wrist where the light caught his veins. The flicker in his throat when he swallowed too hard.
âYou donât have to pretend with me,â she said.
That made him look at her fully.
And for the first time, something inside his eyes flickered â not guarded, not curated. Just a quiet, slow-breaking kind of truth.
âIâm not pretending,â he said.
And she believed him.
Because in that moment, he looked more haunted than powerful.
And sheâŠ
She didnât feel small anymore.
She felt like the only person in the room who could see him clearly.
And that was the most terrifying part.
Because beneath the designer clothing and immaculate self-control â beneath the fine bone structure and that unreadable gaze â Harry Styles was empty.
Not broken. Not sad. Not even cruel.
Just⊠hollow.
Like someone had scraped the center out of him a long time ago and he'd decided to decorate the shell instead â fill it with silence and money and expensive things that never asked questions. It was the kind of emptiness that didn't beg to be filled. It thrives in the void. Learned to shape it into a weapon.
But still, she stayed where she was.
Not because she trusted him.
But because he hadnât lied yet.
He hadnât promised her safety.
He hadnât offered love.
He hadnât used his money like a leash â not yet.
He had only told her the truth. Cold and clean.
And the truth was, that truth⊠felt better than all the fake kindness the world had ever thrown her way.
She didnât move.
Neither did he.
He just watched her. Like he was waiting to see if sheâd flinch. Waiting to see if the version of her standing there â unsmiling, uncertain, unarmed â was brave enough to stay.
âIâve lived in rooms full of people for years,â he said finally, his voice calm and even, like he was reading something off a page only he could see. âBut most of them couldnât even see me.â
He stepped closer again â but not to touch. Just to speak. Just to fill the space between them with something quieter than breath.
âThey saw the money. The name. The house. They saw what they wanted.â
His eyes flicked across her face, slow and deliberate.
âBut you... You didn't flinch when I showed you what's underneath.â
She didnât respond.
She couldn't.
Because in that moment â she realized she wasn't afraid of him.
She was afraid of what he saw in her.
Something hungry.
Something she thought sheâd buried.
Something lonely.
âI donât want you to pretend youâre okay,â he said. âNot here. Not with me.â
And then, with a voice so soft it barely touched the air:
"I want the part of you you don't show anyone. I want to watch it breathe."
It sounded like a threat.
Or maybe an invitation dressed as one.
But Y/n didnât step back.
She looked at him â truly looked â and whispered,
âAnd what do I get in return?â
A pause.
His smile was slight. But not cruel.
âYou get to be seen.â
The words hit her like a match to dry leaves.
Because it wasnât about sex. It wasnât even about power.
It was about intimacy that felt almost surgical. About being studied, yes â but not for amusement. For understanding. For ownership, maybe. But not in the way most men wanted to own.
He didnât want her to belong to him.
He wanted to belong inside the parts of her no one else had reached.
And that⊠that was far more terrifying.
He turned then, slow and smooth, and walked to the low chair across the room â a sleek velvet thing the color of blood. He sat without looking back.
The silence stretched.
When he finally spoke again, it was without command. Just expectation.
âTake off your shoes,â he said. âThen come sit at my feet.â
Not a demand. Not a bark.
Just an offering.
A door left open.
She looked at him â really looked â and for the first time, she saw something crack behind his eyes.
He wasnât playing a game.
He didnât want her body.
He wanted her obedience.
Or maybe just her presence. Undistracted. Stripped of performance.
The stillest part of herself.
She stood there for a moment longer. The weight of her choices hanging in the space between them like smoke.
Then she reached down â quietly â and untied the laces of her shoes.
One.
Then the other.
She stepped out of them with bare, careful feet.
And walked toward him.
Not because she wanted to be possessed.
But because something in her â the part sheâd never fed â was already starving.
But because something in her â the part sheâd never fed â was already starving.
So she moved without fully understanding why. Her feet sank soundlessly into the velvet rug as she walked toward him. Step by step. Slow. Measured. Eyes on his.
He didnât move.
He just sat there, in that chair that looked like it had been carved from shadow, legs spread slightly, one ringed hand resting on his knee. He didnât smile. Didnât nod. Just waited.
Her breath tightened in her chest.
She thought â this is it.
This is where the price is paid.
She lowered herself to the floor in front of him. Every motion precise. Intentional. She tucked her legs beneath her, her bare knees kissing the rug. Her hands shook slightly as they came to rest on her thighs.
He watched her. Still. Quiet. Unreadable.
The silence stretched. Became almost unbearable.
And thatâs when she moved.
Slowly, she shifted forward on her knees. Her palms braced against the floor. Her eyes dipped downward, deliberately avoiding his. She was close enough now that her breath grazed the edge of his knee. Her hands moved to his thighs, tentative. Testing.
If this is what he wanted, sheâd give it.
She wasnât afraid of sex.
She was afraid of not being enough.
She started to lean in â inch by inch â mouth parting, ready to unzip his pants. Her heart beating like a drum inside a cage.
And thenâ
His hand closed around her wrist.
Not rough. But final. Like the slam of a heavy door.
Her breath caught.
He didnât raise his voice.
He didnât need to.
âDonât.â
The word cracked across her spine like icewater.
She looked up.
His face was carved in stone. No heat. No confusion. No desire.
Only quiet disappointment.
He let go of her wrist slowly, like setting down something fragile.
âYou think I paid for this?â
She didnât answer.
Couldnât.
His voice dropped â lower, darker. A silk rope around her throat.
âI could have any girl on her knees. That costs nothing. That means nothing.â
The shame bloomed behind her ribs like something feral.
But it wasnât shame at offering.
It was shame at misunderstanding him.
He stood up suddenly â fluid, controlled â and walked away from her like sheâd never touched him. Poured himself a drink at the bar. Ice cracked in the glass like something splitting beneath the surface.
She still knelt where he left her.
âIâm not interested in bodies,â he said finally, back still turned. âIâm interested in truth.â
He took a slow sip.
âAnd you thought I was like them. All the others. You thought youâd buy your place in my world with sex.â
He turned, then.
His eyes met hers. And this time, there was something dangerous there.
Not anger. Not cruelty.
Disappointment.
It cut deeper than any insult.
âIf thatâs all you think you have to offer,â he said coldly, âyouâre not ready to stay.â
The words knocked the breath from her chest.
And yetâshe didnât move.
She sat still on her knees, frozen by something deeper than shame.
Because she realized something awful in that moment.
She had offered sex. Because she thought it was all she was allowed to give.
And for the first time in her lifeâŠ
Someone looked at that, and said: No.
Not because they didnât want her.
But because they wanted something more.
She stayed kneeling, not out of obedience, but because she didnât know how to move anymore without pretending. Her body felt unfamiliar now, her breath shallow and uneven, caught between confusion and something more dangerous â revelation. It spread through her like slow heat, not from humiliation, but from the slow realization that she had built herself around an idea of survival that didnât work in this room. Not with him.
He sat back in the chair with unshaken stillness, like he had all the time in the world to watch her come undone. His fingers tapped once against the armrest, the only sign that he was aware of the tension crackling beneath her skin.
When she finally spoke, her voice barely rose above the silence. âThen what do you want from me?â
He didnât answer right away. Instead, he looked at her as though he were studying a reflection in dark water â something distorted, something deeper than the surface allowed. And then, after a long pause that made her doubt whether he would speak at all, he leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees, his voice low and even.
âI want the parts of you no oneâs ever touched. The ones that donât have names yet. The parts you hide, even from yourself. Your silence, your resistance, the tension behind your smile. I want the version of you that doesnât perform â not for attention, not for love, not even for safety.â
His gaze didnât waver, and there was no cruelty in his tone, only that same cold precision that made everything he said sound like a blueprint rather than a threat.
âI donât need your body. I can buy flesh anywhere, and it never satisfies. What I want is something you donât even realize youâve been guarding with your life. And when you hand it to me â not because I ask, but because you choose â thatâs when Iâll decide what youâre worth.â
She wanted to look away, but his words held her in place, sharp and steady. Her heartbeat pulsed behind her ribs like a second clock, ticking louder with every breath. The floor felt colder beneath her knees now, or maybe she was just becoming aware of how exposed she truly was â not in skin, but in intention.
He reached for his glass again, took a measured sip, and then set it back down with a soft click that seemed deafening in the stillness between them. His voice, when he spoke again, was quieter, almost thoughtful.
âIâm not going to touch you tonight. Not because I donât want to. But because if I did now, Iâd just be confirming everything youâve ever believed about yourself â that youâre only valuable when youâre giving something. But the truth is, Y/n, what I want from you has nothing to do with what you give.â
Her throat tightened, and she looked down for a moment, trying to collect the pieces of herself that had splintered on the way here. She had walked into his world thinking she understood the rules, thinking she could play the game like everyone else â with submission, with sex, with quiet performance dressed up as power. But now, stripped of that illusion, she realized how naked she truly was.
He leaned back again, slow and unfazed. âIf youâre only here to be used,â he said, âyou can leave.â
But then he paused, and something flickered across his face â not emotion exactly, but interest. Curiosity, sharpened like the edge of a blade.
âBut if you stay,â he continued, âyou donât speak unless I ask you to. You donât perform. You donât give me anything. You just exist in this space with me. As you are. However messy, however silent, however still. Thatâs what I want.â
The silence that followed was louder than any demand.
She didnât move.
Not because she was afraid of him, but because she wasnât ready to face what staying meant. Not ready to see herself through his eyes, stripped of control, of rehearsed charm, of the gentle lies she told herself just to get through each day.
But she didnât leave either.
Because somewhere deep inside, in the place where her hunger lived, she knew: she hadnât come here looking for money. Not really. Not in the way sheâd told herself.
She had come here to be seen.
And for the first time in her life â someone was looking.
He watched her kneel there, a fragile, unsteady silhouette against the sharp angles of the room. The way she moved, the way her breath hitched when she realized what she thought this was â it made something inside him tighten, a slow coil of frustration and something like longing he hadnât named in years.
Heâd seen the kind of girls who threw themselves at him before he even asked, who treated his money and his touch like a transaction, a means to an end. And those girls were easy. They wanted nothing but the surface â the skin, the promises, the cheap escape from whatever broke them.
But Y/n was different. Not because she was proud or distant. Because she wasnât pretending. Because when she lowered herself at his feet, it wasnât lust or calculation driving her â it was something raw and ragged, like a silent scream buried beneath years of quiet.
He didnât want her body. He never had. He wanted what no one else dared to ask for â the truth she kept locked away, the parts she herself hadnât fully faced.
That was the currency he craved.
And that was why he stopped her the moment she crossed that line. Not because he was cruel, but because he needed to know if she understood the game sheâd stepped into.
He drank slowly, savoring the burn, letting the silence stretch between them. Watching her unravel â not out of cruelty, but because she was the first person who didnât try to mask the fracture lines.
He wanted to tear down the walls sheâd built. Not with force, but with presence. With the weight of his gaze. With the demand that she simply be â stripped of pretense, stripped of performance.
He wasnât a man who believed in easy pleasures. The fleeting touch of skin wasnât enough to fill the hollow inside him.
What he wanted was deeper. Darker. More dangerous.
He wanted her to confront the parts of herself sheâd been running from â to meet the emptiness in him, and in herself, without flinching.
That was why he told her she could leave if she wanted.
Because staying meant vulnerability she wasnât used to.
Because he wasnât a savior, or a predator.
He was something else entirely.
A man who had lost the language of love, but who understood the hunger for truth.
And maybe, in her silence, in her stillness, he found a mirror.
He sat back in the chair, his eyes never leaving her as she knelt there, quiet and unguarded. There was an honesty in her that unsettled him, like staring into a mirror cracked but refusing to break apart. It wasnât just that she hadnât flinched when heâd denied her, but the way she stayed â despite not knowing what she was staying for. It was reckless and raw, and it unsettled the careful control heâd wrapped around himself for years.
He wanted to reach out, to close the distance and pull her into some kind of clarity. But that was never how it worked. He didnât want to save her. He didnât want to claim her. He wanted her to see him â really see him â without all the usual masks and walls. And to stay, not because he told her to, but because she chose to. Because she could face the quiet darkness inside both of them and not turn away.
Her breath hitched again, soft and uneven. When she looked up, her eyes held questions he couldnât answer â not with words, but maybe with time. Maybe with presence. Maybe with the slow unraveling of everything that had ever been taught, promised, or demanded.
She was still kneeling, silent, and for the first time in a long while, he felt something like anticipation â not for lust, not for possession, but for a connection untainted by expectation.
The room held its breath with them. And for a moment, the hollow inside him felt less empty.
He watched her silently, the quiet between them thick like smoke curling in the dim light. Her breathing, uneven yet steady, was the only sound breaking the stillness. She remained on her knees, unspoken and raw, as if waiting for him to decide her fateâthough he had no intention of rushing, no script to follow, no rehearsed role to assign.
There was no seduction here, no promises wrapped in whispered lies. Just a fragile surrender to something neither fully understood yet, a shared solitude that neither had invited but both recognized. He felt the weight of her presence, heavy and fragile all at once, and it unsettled the calculated calm he wore like armor.
His mind drifted to the years spent behind walls built of silence and solitude, to the emptiness heâd tried to fill with fleeting pleasures and hollow companionships. But sheâY/nâwas different. She did not seek to escape, nor to conquer. She simply existed, bare and unguarded, and that terrified him in a way no lust or power ever could.
Slowly, he rose from the chair, his movements deliberate, closing the small distance between them. Not to touch, but to be nearer, to let her feel the weight of him without words.
âKneel,â he said quietly, his voice steady but firm.
She obeyed without hesitation.
He sat on the floor beside her, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed. The room felt smaller, the silence less oppressive.
âIâm not here to break you,â he said after a moment, âbut I want you to see whatâs already fractured.â His eyes searched hers, fierce and unyielding. âNo more masks. No more pretending.â
She nodded slowly, the vulnerability in her gaze reflecting his own.
In that suspended night, two haunted souls sat side by side, neither offering comfort nor cruelty, but something far more dangerousâtruth.
The space between them felt smaller, as if the walls themselves were closing in, folding around the two of them like a fragile secret. Y/nâs breath was steady but hesitant, a silent rhythm that matched the tension thickening the air. He didnât reach out to touch herânot yetâbut he could feel the weight of her presence, heavy and raw, a quiet defiance wrapped in vulnerability.
He broke the silence first, his voice low and rough. âThis isnât going to be easy.â
She looked up, eyes searching his face, flickering with uncertainty. âIâm not asking for easy.â
He let out a short, humorless laugh. âGood. Because itâs not about comfort or pleasure. Itâs about what happens when you stop hiding. When the cracks youâve been burying start bleeding through.â
She swallowed, biting her lip. âWhat if Iâm afraid?â
He leaned closer, eyes sharp but steady. âThen thatâs exactly why you need to stay.â
Her voice was barely above a whisper. âWhy do you want me to stay? I donât understand.â
He studied her like a book he wanted to read but was afraid to open. âBecause I see you. Not the version you show the world, but the parts you try to keep hiddenâeven from yourself. And I want to be there when those parts come undone.â
She blinked, a tremor running through her. âThat sounds⊠dangerous.â
âIt is.â His gaze didnât waver. âBut nothing worth having ever came without risk.â
She shifted slightly, the weight of his words settling over her. âIâm not sure Iâm ready.â
âMaybe you never will be,â he admitted, voice softer now. âBut Iâm here anyway. And Iâm not going anywhere.â
For a long moment, neither spoke. The silence wasnât emptyâit was charged, filled with possibilities and unspoken truths.
Finally, she whispered, âThen show me. Show me what it means to stop hiding.â
He nodded, a slow, deliberate motion. âI will. But only if you promise to be honest. With me, and with yourself.â
Her eyes met his, steady now, no longer afraid to be seen. âI promise.â
The room held its breath, and for the first time, the hollow between them felt like the beginning of something real.
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This is on wattpad (harryshousekey,) but wanted to share a bit of the chapter that freaked my friends out.
THIS IS SMUT. - Harry x OFC // From Harry's POV
Whatever Harry era you want (it's BTA harry in the book)
Vienna is a small blonde with brown eyes :)
He was literally hired to kill her. If you happen to read this psychological warfare of a book i'm writing, leave me a comment over there and we might have to kiss.
Word Count: 5,349
--
Harry Styles
Her back hit the wall with a dull thud, but she didn't flinch. She stared at me like she could kill me with a look, and hell, maybe she could. Maybe that was why I couldn't stop.
Her pulse thudded under my grip. Fast. Furious.
"Let go," she said, breathless.
"You want that?" I asked, stepping closer. Our chests nearly touched now, heat crackling in the inches between us. "Really?" I move my thigh, almost accidentally. But it wasn't.
My leg now sitting flush against her core, she glares up to me. Hate and lust seep out of her face into my body, and I soak it up willingly.
She didn't answer. Her eyes dipped to my mouth for half a second - too quick for most people to catch. But I did. I always saw her.
I let her wrists go, slow. She didn't move.
"You're a psychopath," she whispered.
"And you're still here."
Something in her snapped then. She grabbed the hem of my shirt harshly and pulled it up just barely, like it was a dare. I eye her back like I had something to prove - maybe I did. That she couldn't fight me off, couldn't pretend she didn't want this as badly as I did.
Angry hands rip the shirt over my head, inked skin now exposed to the cold hair in the house. Her nails raked down my neck as she brought her hands back down, the shirt landing somewhere in the kitchen. My hands found her waist, then her thighs - gripping, lifting, pinning. Her legs wrapped around me like it was instinct. Like this wasn't our first time losing control.
"You hate me," I muttered against her neck, working to leave marks. I love leaving marks.
She bit her own lip hard enough to draw blood. "Exactly."
It wasn't love. It wasn't forgiveness. It was rage and lust tangled up in a heated fire that burned too hot to last. And I didn't care. Not tonight. Not when I finally had her like this - furious, wild, and mine.
My hands slip under her sweater, struggling to pull it off. My sweater. The smell of me soaked the sweater and I can't apologize for the grin that spreads over my face as she throws her head back in frustration as I still work at her neck. I pull back, biting harshly where my mouth was before. The sensation pulls a gasp out of her, and I take the opportunity to get a grip at the hem of her sweater.
Her arms link around my neck for support as she lets me strip her of the warm hoodie, only unlinking to let me pull it over her head. My hand falls back on her lower back, the other throwing the sweater somewhere in the room, careless and thoughtless.
I get back to her neck, her short nails digging into my neck near my spine. I grunt at the feeling, reminding myself to let Elira get her nails done too.
Turning us around, I manage to find the bedroom we'd been sharing. The bed is unmade, sheets pulled back. Perfect.
I drop us onto the bed at the same time, crawling to hover over her and work at getting the rest of her clothes off.
My jeans feel really tight right now. Not yet, Harry.
I find her arms, loosely thrown over my body, and grab them both. Finding her wrists, I gather them in one hand to hold over her head. As much as the pain of her scratching my back feels incredible, I can't fucking focus.
She fucking whines, struggling under my grip to no avail. "Let go," she commands, voice strong despite my mouth below her ear. I pick my head up to look her in the eye, her brown eyes completely glazed over already. Through it, I still see her. She's still fighting.
I laugh at her request, "No."
She huffs, trying once again to struggle out of my hold. I really need to take her to the gym, but the struggle is kind of cute.
I suck back below her ear for a minute while she keeps fighting, leaving a mark that'll probably be purple in the morning. I smile at my own work, mentally patting myself on the back.
Finally letting her arms go back around my neck, she grips harshly once more, left hand sliding up into the base of my scalp. I try my damndest to ignore the feeling, reaching under her to easily unclasp the pretty light purple bra she has on, smirking at her when I get it first try with my left hand.
"Fucking-" I pull her bra out from under her, but leave her covered. I can't just expose her with no warning. "God, you're so cocky." She huffs, too frustrated to hold a sentence.
I grin at her, leaning down to bite the mark I left before leaning into her ear to whisper. "I know, baby."
She pushes the side of her face into the mattress, face scrunched. I take that as my cue to pull her bra off, finally taking her in. Her skin is tan for a girl who's been living on the road, and her breasts relax into her, nipples perking up in the cold air.
I have no restraint at this point. All self-control flies out the imaginary window as I grunt and lean down to take her into my mouth. She lets an untamed moan out, arching up into the sensation. I use my right hand to push her back down by the hip, making her groan in frustration.
I leave my left hand on her chest, touching her where my mouth can't. She pushes up once more, met with restraint as I keep her down, pushing on her abdomen now. "Vi," I warn, voice low, vibrating her chest.
She grunts and rolls her head to the other side, hands pulling angrily at my hair. It actually really fucking hurts. "Just fucking-" she breathes, pulling harder at my scalp. "Such a prick."
I decide not to respond, just pull her hands out and pin her wrists again. I hover over her face, giving her a warning. "Don't move them."
"Fuck off," she spits harshly. I pull my hand down to grip at her jaw, squeezing her face. She looks at me with pure hate, a feeling I revel in.
I force her to look at me, grip tight. "I'm pretty fucking busy right now, so for once on this fucking trip, behave."
I yank my hand away, going back at her other nipple, using my right hand now to keep her stimulated. It almost pisses me off every time she lets a noise out, because I'm not one for foreplay. Rather not split her in half until I can exchange her for my freedom, though.
Gripping her hips harshly, my thumbs traveling cautiously under her waistband. I'm about to ask when she brings her own hands down. The ones I explicitly said not to move. I'd be mad, but she's pulling her own pants down, revealing-
Oh, fuck.
I didn't go with her underwear shopping. Didn't wanna deal with it. Should've sucked it up, because now she's got deep red lace on, the same color as the stupidly tight dress she tried on earlier.
Without another word, she gets her pants past her ass and puts her hands back where I'd just placed them. Behaving.
She might actually make me pass out. I pull harshly at her pants, pooling them around her ankles before she flails her feet around impatiently to get them off entirely.
I exhale through my nose, trying to keep my focus, but it's really fucking difficult with her spread out beneath me like this-panting, glaring, waiting. The lace is deep red, delicate, and so goddamn unnecessary. It just proves my point. She knew this would happen.
I hook my fingers under the waistband, slow, dragging my thumbs over her hip bones, but don't pull them down yet. Instead, I tighten my grip, pressing my thumbs deep into her skin until she hisses.
"Something wrong?" I murmur, pressing my mouth to her stomach, deliberately skipping over the places I know she wants me.
"Yeah," she snaps, trying to shove her hips up. I dig my thumbs in again, keeping her firmly against the mattress.
"Problem?"
Her head jerks up, dark eyes burning. "You're a fucking tease."
I grin against her skin, letting my teeth graze her hipbone. "You just figured that out?"
Her breath stutters-just for a second-but I don't miss it. Her hands, still obedient where I left them, curl into the sheets like she's debating whether to follow my rules or claw at me again.
I nudge my nose against the edge of the lace, moving lower, but at the last second, I move back up. I drag my mouth across her ribs instead, letting my teeth scrape deliberately slow as I kiss and bite my way up to her sternum.
She groans, actually groans, head dropping back in frustration. I love that sound.
I smirk against her skin. "Something you'd like to say?"
"Yeah," she snaps, twisting against my hold. "Get the fuck on with it."
I laugh, really laugh, because she's suffering. She hates this as much as she needs it, and that makes me never want to give it to her.
I push up on my elbows, hovering inches from her mouth, so close she could kiss me if she just swallowed her fucking pride.
"You beg, I'll consider it."
Her eyes snap to mine, and for a second, I think she might slap me.
Instead, she laughs-sharp, humorless.
"You think I'd beg you for anything?"
My grin doesn't falter. "You will."
Her nostrils flare, frustration rolling off her in waves, and then-fucking finally-she moves.
Her hand lashes out, curling in my hair, yanking me down so hard I nearly lose balance. My mouth crashes into hers, violent and demanding, her teeth knocking against mine, and fuck yes.
I let her take control-for a second.
Then I take it right back.
My hands snap up, grabbing her wrists, pinning them above her head again. Her legs kick at my sides, pissed as hell, but she still locks them around me, pulling me closer.
"You're so fucking annoying," she grits against my mouth.
I bite her bottom lip hard enough to make her gasp. "And you're still underneath me."
Her head slams back against the mattress, hands tugging, testing my grip, but she's stuck.
"Harry." My name is a warning, furious and desperate.
I press my knee between her legs, just barely enough pressure. Just enough to drive her insane.
Her whole body tenses.
She stops fighting. Stops breathing.
And then she whimpers.
My smirk returns as I lean down, lips brushing her ear.
"That's close enough to begging, don't you think?"
Her breath shudders against my cheek, but her voice is still sharp, still full of venom.
"I fucking hate you."
I grind my knee against her just to hear her whimper again.
"Then hate me," I murmur. "Just keep your legs open while you do it."
Her whole body reacts before she can stop it-hips twitching up, fingers curling into fists above her head, lips parting just barely like she wants to say something but refuses to give me the satisfaction. I watch every flicker of emotion on her face, every war she fights inside herself, and I let it all sink into me. The frustration. The restraint. The push and pull of someone who hates that they want this and wants it anyway.
I keep my mouth right next to her ear, lips brushing the flushed skin, keeping her caught between every word, every inch of contact I allow. My knee stays where it is, pressing-not hard, not soft, just enough to make her ache for more. It's deliberate, calculated.
Just like everything else I do.
Her breath shudders, and I swallow down the sound, committing it to memory because fuck me, that's addictive. She's so fucking stubborn, and I want to be the one to break her. Not fully. Not in the ways that would ruin her. But enough to make her forget herself, even if just for tonight.
Her legs are locked around me, holding me to her despite the anger rolling off her skin. The heat of it burns, and I want to feel every inch.
I push lower, just barely, enough that her nails scrape at my scalp in retaliation. My jaw clenches at the sting, but I don't stop her-I let her have it, let her pull me down, let her take something back even as she loses the war.
Her voice is a whisper of a growl when she finally speaks, like she has to force the words through clenched teeth. "Let me go."
I press my lips to her jaw, soft but mocking. "Make me."
Her fingers tighten, pulling so hard it forces a breath out of me. She doesn't want soft. Doesn't want sweet. She wants to rip this from me, to tear into me the way I tear into her.
So I let her.
I release her wrists and the second I do, her hands are everywhere. She shoves at my shoulders, pushes at my chest, rolling us until I land on my back and she's straddling me, thighs tightening around my waist. Her breathing is erratic, wild, and I barely get a glimpse of her face before her hand grabs my throat.
I let out a low, dark laugh, dragging my tongue over my bottom lip as I take her in. "That all you got?"
She glares down at me, fingers flexing like she's debating whether to actually squeeze. Her nails dig in, but she won't. She knows it. I know it.
I drag my hands up her thighs, gripping them hard enough to bruise, and she inhales sharply, her body betraying her all over again.
"You fucking hate me," I remind her, pushing up just enough that our bodies align exactly how I want them to.
Her throat moves beneath her own grip as she swallows. Her jaw clenches. And then-so quiet I almost don't hear it-
"I do."
She tilts her hips forward just barely, her exhale catching in her throat, and that's it. That's my final thread snapping.
I sit up fast, one arm curling around her waist, the other tangling into her hair and pulling. She gasps, fingers tightening on my throat, but it's not a fight anymore.
Not really.
Her chest brushes mine, heat searing through every inch of fabric between us, and her breath is so close it sends a shiver down my spine.
I drag my nose against her jaw, slow, deliberate, teasing. "Then show me."
She does.
Her mouth crashes into mine, teeth and heat and desperation. Her nails scrape over my scalp as she pulls harder, hips rolling, pressing down in a way that might actually kill me. I grip her hips, forcing her down, controlling the rhythm, making her feel every second of this.
Her body shakes, just slightly, and I don't know if it's rage or anticipation. Probably both.
I pull back, just enough to bite her bottom lip, just enough to make her feel it. Her breath hitches, and she's so fucking close to losing control completely, I can feel it.
So I drag it out.
I reach between us, fingers teasing the waistband of her still-on lace, sliding under the elastic but going no further. She whines. Actually fucking whines, a noise so involuntary, so frustrated that I have to grin against her mouth.
"Oh, sweetheart," I murmur, fingers teasing lower, but not enough. Never enough. "You sound like you're begging."
She growls, low and dangerous, and I have half a second to smirk before she does something reckless. She reaches between us, grabs my wrist, and shoves my hand down exactly where she wants it.
I freeze.
Then I laugh-low, thick, dark.
"That desperate, huh?"
She glares, cheeks flushed, lips swollen. "Shut the fuck up and touch me."
And fuck me, I need to.
She's still on top of me, breathing heavy, skin burning against mine. Her nails dig into my shoulders like she's waiting for me to push back, fight her, tell her no.
I don't.
I grab her throat instead, not to choke, just to feel the way her breath stutters when my palm wraps around it. My thumb presses into the hinge of her jaw, tilting her head back, forcing her to look at me, to see me.
Her lips are parted, swollen, her pupils blown so wide there's barely any color left, and fuck, I could stay here forever-watching her, feeling her try to fight off the way her body gives in to mine.
But I have other plans.
My hand slides from her throat to her jaw, grip firm but not hard, and I drag my thumb down the slope of her bottom lip, pressing in just barely. Her tongue flicks against the pad of it, and I feel her body tremble in frustration when I don't give her anything else.
"You want something?" I taunt, knowing exactly what she wants. I want to hear her say it.
Her expression twists in pure defiance, but she doesn't move away. If anything, she leans into my touch, into my control, like she hates herself for it.
"I want you to shut the fuck up," she mutters, voice hoarse from the way she's been breathing me in like she needs it to survive.
I chuckle darkly, dragging my hand down her body, slow and possessive, feeling every inch of her before gripping her hips. I flex my fingers into her, rolling her against me, just enough friction to make her curse under her breath.
I lean in, my lips brushing her ear as I whisper, "Not happening, sweetheart."
And then, before she can throw something back at me, I move.
I flip us fast, pressing her into the mattress, letting my weight pin her down just for a second, just to make her feel it-how easy it is for me to control this, how little power she actually has. Her chest rises and falls sharply, her thighs tightening around me, but she doesn't fight. She never really fights.
She just pretends she wants to.
I pull back, sitting up on my knees between her spread legs, dragging my gaze down her body. She's a fucking sight-half-naked, flushed, her hair a wild mess around her, and she's glaring at me like she'd rather put a bullet in my head than let me keep looking at her like this.
Too fucking bad.
I take my time.
I hook my fingers under the band of her red lace underwear, snapping it against her skin before slowly-painfully slowly-dragging it down her hips, over her thighs. She shudders, a full-body tremor she tries to suppress, but I catch it. I feel it.
I smirk, watching as the lace pools at her ankles, and she kicks those off too, like she's trying to get rid of evidence.
But I'm the one committing the crime. More of a downright sin, really.
I push her thighs apart, holding them there even when she tenses like she might try to close them on instinct. She doesn't. She wouldn't dare give me that much satisfaction.
Instead, she exhales through her nose, tilting her chin up like she's daring me to do something about it.
"Oh, I plan to," I murmur, eyes locked onto hers as I lower myself down.
She stops breathing.
I can tell by the way her stomach tightens, the way her hands fist into the sheets beside her head, the way her body goes perfectly still as I settle between her thighs.
And I don't rush.
I drag my hands over the inside of her thighs, squeezing the muscle there, spreading her wider, making her feel how exposed she is. She's still glaring at me, still holding onto that last sliver of control.
I intend to take it from her.
So I drop my head and press the softest, most delicate kiss right against the inside of her knee. Then another. Then another, working my way up, each one deliberate, slow torture.
By the time I reach the crease where her thigh meets her hip, she's quivering. Not much, just a slight shake, but enough that I know she feels this everywhere.
I hover, just barely breathing against her, my mouth so close but not touching.
Her hips twitch.
She hates me for it.
"You're fucking insufferable," she breathes, voice cracking at the edges.
I grin against her skin, inhaling her scent, feeling her body tense with anticipation.
"And you're fucking impatient," I counter, my breath brushing over her most sensitive spot, watching as her thighs threaten to clamp shut before I hold them apart with both hands.
"Be good," I murmur against her. "Or I'll take my time."
She lets out a shaky, wrecked exhale, and I don't give her a second longer to process.
I lick into her slow, wide and devastating, dragging my tongue from base to peak, savoring every fucking inch of her.
She chokes on a moan.
And I?
I fucking devour her.
She tastes like sin. Like she's never let herself be touched like this-never let someone have this kind of power over her. And maybe she hasn't. Maybe that's what drives me fucking feral about it, knowing that I get to be the one to break her down, to force her body to betray her when she wants to fight me off.
I can feel her thighs trembling under my grip, every muscle coiled tight like she's about to bolt. But she doesn't. She just fists the sheets, sucking in sharp breaths like she's trying not to make a sound.
I won't fucking allow that.
I pull back just enough to drag my teeth against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, nipping, sucking-marking her, because I know it'll piss her off. She hisses, fingers twitching in the sheets. I don't acknowledge it. I just slide my tongue against her again, slow, filthy, purposeful.
Her breath catches.
I feel her hips jerk, trying to chase the sensation, and that's what does it. That's what makes me groan into her, low and possessive, because she can pretend all she wants-her body knows the fucking truth.
"You're shaking," I murmur against her, kissing her slowly, tongue flicking out just enough to tease.
She makes a frustrated sound, shoving at my shoulder with one hand, but I catch her wrist midair, pinning it down beside her. My grip tightens, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind her who's in control here.
"You wanna pretend you don't want this?" I taunt, pressing another slow, deliberate kiss against her, feeling her twitch under my mouth. "Go ahead, lie to me."
She grits her teeth, her nails digging into the sheets now that I've taken away her chance to fight me off. But she doesn't push me away again. She doesn't move at all. Her breathing is ragged, coming in short, uneven gasps, and I know she's holding back, trying so fucking hard to stay quiet.
So I change tactics.
I flatten my tongue against her clit, dragging it up in a way that makes her whole body jolt. My grip on her wrist tightens when she gasps-loud, raw, unfiltered.
There it is.
I fucking grin against her, pleased, satisfied.
Her free hand slams over her mouth.
Not a fucking chance.
I reach up, grabbing her by the wrist, pulling it away from her lips. Her eyes flash, dark and wild, like she's ready to throw hands over it. But I don't give her the chance. I pin it beside her other wrist, forcing her to be open, exposed.
"Let me hear you," I demand, lazily dragging my tongue against her again.
She whimpers. Fucking whimpers.
I nearly groan at the sound, my cock throbbing against the confines of my jeans, but I don't let up. I dip lower, tasting her, sucking, licking, devouring her in slow, calculated strokes. I want to ruin her, make her lose whatever self-control she's clinging to.
She's close already. I can tell by the way her thighs are starting to shake, how her breath is coming in short, broken little gasps.
Still, she refuses to beg.
I'll change that.
I pull back slightly, flicking my tongue right where I know she needs me, circling, teasing, denying.
She whines, actually fucking whines, and I feel her try to rock against me. I tighten my grip on her wrists. "No," I say, voice gravelly, wrecked. I press my lips against her inner thigh, nipping, sucking, teasing. "You wanna cum?" My voice is a low, deliberate murmur. "Beg for it."
She shudders. "Fuck you."
Her whole body is tense, her jaw clenched, fighting so hard not to give me what I want. So I give her another slow, devastating lick, swirling my tongue just right before pulling away again. Her body convulses. I smirk, lips ghosting against her. "Say it, darling."
She hates that I use those names, nearly degrading at this point. I can see it in her eyes, the way they darken, furious and desperate all at once. But her voice shakes when she exhales, ragged and weak.
"Fuck you." I laugh, low and dark, pressing an open-mouthed kiss against her soaked skin. "That's not what I asked for, sweetheart." And then, because I want to watch her fall apart, I pull my head away.
She fucking hates this. Hates me. I can see it in the way her lips curl back, in the sharp bite of her nails against my skin as she tries to shove me away. Like she actually thinks she has a chance.
"Get the fuck off me," she spits, her voice ragged, her body twisting beneath me.
I catch her wrists in one hand and pin them above her head. "Not a chance," I murmur, my voice rough, breathless with the way she clenches around me.
She bucks against me, her glare slicing into my skin, but all it does is make me harder. She's furious, practically trembling with it, but her body? Her body's telling a different story.
"Fuck you," she hisses, her voice breaking on the last syllable.
A slow smirk tugs at my lips. "That's the plan, sweetheart."
She jerks against me again, but it's useless. I press my forehead to hers, watching the anger flicker across her face, mixing with something else-something she doesn't want to admit.
"You're gonna come on my cock," I breathe, my grip tightening when she tries to turn her head away. "And you're gonna fucking like it."
Some point along the way, I'd lost my pants. Hovering over her heavy now almost felt like too much. I reach down onto the floor, pulling my wallet out of my pants pocket.
Breathing heavy, Vienna's chest rises under me as she gives me a frustrated, yet curious look. I pull what I'm looking for out of my wallet, and hold it in front of her face. A condom. The gold wrapper makes her grunt impatiently. "Of course you have one in your wallet-just," she shifts under me, completely stripped, "Just hurry up."
I chuckle darkly, sitting up a bit to pull my own underwear off. I'm a bit embarrassed by the small wet spot on the front as the waistband comes down-
"Jesus fucking Christ."
I snap my head back up, pushing my boxers down the rest of the way. "What?"
She rolls her head back dramatically, gesturing to my lower half. "That's not-"
I smile at her, making her attempt to slap my chest. "That's not fitting."
Shrugging, I tear open the package carefully, examining it. The last thing I need is a mini of the person I can't stand. I roll it on carefully, rubbing myself up and down her folds, sliding easy in the mess she's created.
Moaning each time I pass her sensitive spots, I look up at her to be met with a simple nod. I huff. "I need fucking words, Vi."
She sits up, eyes blown out. "Yes, fuck. Just-"
Good enough. I push foward gently. I never bothered to ask about her sex life, which I'm now regretting.
Holy Shit.
She's so tight around me I can barely breathe. Her own eyes are scrunched shut as I keep my hips slowly moving.
By the time our hips are fully together, she's glazed over, focus on the ceiling. The sight alone almost makes me come.
I grip her thigh, keeping her still as I let her adjust, every inch of her clenching me like she wasn't sure she could take it-but fuck, she was. She would.
"Breathe," I murmur, my own voice coming out rougher than I intended. My forehead presses to hers for just a second, and her breath hitches. I can feel every shaky exhale she takes against my lips.
Vienna's hands clutch at my shoulders, nails digging in like she needs something to ground herself. She's warm, tight, fuck-so tight it's almost unbearable, but I stay still, giving her a second.
Her fingers twitch. Her body squirms, adjusting. Then her lashes flutter open, and she looks at me with something between frustration and need.
"Move," she grits out.
That's all I need.
I pull back, just enough to feel the drag of her around me, then push forward again, slow and deep. She gasps, back arching slightly. I do it again, watching her face, how her lips part, how she fights every sound that threatens to escape.
"Don't-" she swallows hard, "don't look at me like that."
"Like what?" I thrust a little harder this time, feeling the way her breath stutters, the way her nails dig deeper.
"Like you're enjoying this."
I let out a dark chuckle, lowering my mouth to her ear. "I am enjoying this."
She shudders, but she doesn't deny that she is too. Her legs tighten around my waist, trying to pull me in deeper.
"Fuck, Vi," I groan, picking up the pace, my grip tightening on her hips. The sound of our bodies meeting fills the room, her strangled little moans barely contained, and it's driving me insane.
She slaps a hand over her mouth, muffling herself, but I yank it away, pinning it above her head. "Let me hear you."
She glares, like she wants to fight me on it, but then I angle my hips just right, hitting something that makes her choke on a whimper.
"Fuck, Harry-"
"There it is," I murmur, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth before dragging my lips down her throat. "Now, be a good girl and come on my cock."
Her whole body locks up beneath me, back bowing as a sharp moan leaves her lips. She clamps down so tight around me that I nearly see stars, her orgasm ripping through her so suddenly that it drags me right over the edge with her.
I bury myself deep, groaning against her sweat-slicked skin as I spill into the condom, her name slipping past my lips in a hushed, wrecked whisper.
For a moment, all I can hear is our heavy breathing, the faint creak of the bed beneath us.
Then she exhales shakily, voice hoarse. "I still fucking hate you."
I smirk against her shoulder. "I hate you too, baby."
She tries to push me off almost immediately, her body still trembling beneath me. I don't let her. Not yet.
"Get off," she grits out, attempting to wiggle free.
I catch her wrists, pinning them lightly to the bed. "Stay still."
She glares at me, but I can see the exhaustion setting in. Her muscles twitch with the aftershocks of her orgasm, her breathing still uneven. I shift off her slowly, careful as I pull out, making her suck in a sharp breath.
She winces, legs clamping shut as she rolls onto her side like she's trying to get away from me. I don't let her.
"Need to clean you up." I tell her simply, because I'm not asking.
"I can do it myself," she snaps, pushing up on shaky arms.
I grab her by the hip, keeping her in place. "You can barely move."
"Fuck off, Harry-"
I ignore her, grabbing a tissue from the bedside table and running it between her legs. She tenses, the fight still in her, but her body betrays her when she lets out the smallest sigh at the contact.
Her eyes squeeze shut, her lips pressing into a thin line as I finish, taking my time even as I know she wants to swat me away.
Once I'm done, I toss the tissue in the trash and roll onto my back beside her.
The silence is unbearable.
She shifts, pulling the blanket over herself even though I can feel the heat radiating off her skin. She doesn't look at me. I don't look at her.
For a moment, the only sound in the room is our breathing, still uneven, like neither of us has quite recovered.
Then, from downstairs, the front door creaks open.
Laughter spills into the house, too loud, too carefree.
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