Primary Blog - Just random shit I see and like. My friends call me Bri | ENFP-A | 23 | My writing blog is psyched2b | MASTERLIST | Side note: if you ever (EVER) need/want someone to talk to, feel free to reach out to me!
You're curled under the covers, screen glowing in your face, finger mid-scroll. Clark shifts beside you, already in his usual sleeping position: one arm tucked under his head, the other reaching for you blindly like a sleepy sea creature.
"Baby," he mumbles, voice low and warm from sleep. "Put the phone down."
"In a sec," you murmur. "Just one more thing."
“Mhm.” He doesn’t believe you. He never does.
Instead of arguing, he does what he always does — rolls over slowly and wraps himself around you like a human weighted blanket. Big chest pressed to your back. One leg thrown over yours. A soft kiss behind your ear.
“Five more minutes,” you promise.
Clark lets out the smallest dramatic sigh. “That’s what you said twelve scrolls ago.”
You snort. “Are you counting now?”
“Yes,” he says. “Because I’m being ignored. Neglected. Replaced by a tiny glowing rectangle.”
He nuzzles into your neck like a needy puppy. “I’m cold. And alone. And possibly dying.”
“You’re 6'4" and 200 pounds of cuddle,” you giggle, leaning into him.
“Exactly,” he says, smug now. “You’re lucky I haven’t suffocated you with affection yet.”
With that, he gently but firmly grabs your phone and sets it on the nightstand. The room dims immediately, leaving only the soft yellow hue of your bedside lamp.
“Hey!” you whine.
“No more blue light, sweetheart. It’s time for cuddles.”
And then he tucks you into him. Tight. Chin over your shoulder, arms around your belly, one hand petting slow, sleepy circles into your hip.
“See?” he whispers. “Way better than doomscrolling.”
You huff, but you’re already melting. The warmth of him, the rhythm of his breath, the safety of his arms — it’s your favorite place on Earth.
“You’re annoying,” you mumble, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.
“I’m Mr. Bedtime,” he corrects, smiling against your skin.
You roll your eyes. “That’s not a thing.”
“It is now.”
And before you can argue, he whispers:
“Sleep, baby. I’ve got you.”
You fall asleep five minutes later. Phone forgotten. Heart full. Clark already snoring softly into your hair like the big bedtime menace he is.
pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x journalist!reader
summary: he’s soft. earnest. 6’4 of midwestern guilt and golden retriever loyalty. and he looks at you like you invented the sun. you’re fine. everything’s fine. it’s just friends-with-benefits. you're not a thing. but clark? clark has always been there. warm, steady, irritatingly soft. indulging your commitment-phobic nonsense with quiet patience and those unfairly good dimples. until suddenly—he’s not. listen to the playlist here!
word count: 11.2k (jesus christ, i am so sorry)
content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv sex, they freak NASTY in this one, dom/sub undertones, soft dom!clark, sub!reader, brat/brat taming, oral (fem!receiving), marathon sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, shower sex, eye contact, mentions of bdsm and handcuffs, light marking kink, nipple play, protected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), then unprotected sex, rough sex, riding, mentions of sex toys, clark picks the reader up, mentions of reader's hair, commitment issues, situationship survivor!clark, ungodly amounts of yearning and denial, angst, happy ending
It doesn’t start with sex.
It starts with Clark.
Which is to say: it starts with Metropolis’s biggest, most overgrown corn-fed boy scout, who gets flustered every time you swear, who says things like “gosh” and “what the hay” without a trace of irony, and who you once watched spend ten full minutes trying to politely decline a street hotdog but the vendor just “looked so hopeful.”
You met him on your third and a half day at the Daily Planet.
He spilled coffee on you. A full cup. Right down the front of your blazer. Frothy iced caramel latte catastrophe. He panicked immediately—rushed through an apology so fast you barely caught the words—then offered, in complete earnestness, to dry-clean your coat. Not send it to the dry cleaner. Do it himself. Like it was the gentlemanly thing to do. You just stared at him, dripping, blinking. “Are you okay?” you asked, because someone had to.
He nodded—too fast—then proceeded to trip over the recycling bin just trying to get you napkins.
You’ve been friends ever since.
It’s not the cleanest origin story.
But over time, somehow, Clark became your person.
Not in the “call-at-3-a.m.-while-sobbing” kind of way (that’s Jimmy), or the “bring-wine-and-insult-your-evil-ex” kind of way (also Jimmy).
But in a steadier, quieter way. You write your little articles; he helps edit them. You fight with your sources on the sidewalk; he bakes them apology muffins the day after to make sure they don't contact Perry. You cover Metropolis politics like it’s trench warfare, and he smiles across the bullpen at you like you’re doing God’s work even when you're calling the mayor a “power-drunk thumb in a trench coat and a receding hairline you can see from space.”
He’s your constant. Steady and reliable and always five degrees too soft for this world.
Which is exactly why it doesn’t make sense.
Why, one night, it all… shifts.
.
You’re soaked.
Not in the steamy, sexy way. Not even in the Charli-XCX-Spring-Breakers kind of soaked.
Just: wet. Unpleasantly. In that half-drenched, trench-foot, what-is-my-life kind of way.
The weather app lied again (seriously, Metropolis Weather has one job), and your jacket is now suctioned to your body like a bad ex. Your boots have crossed the line from “water-resistant” to a really bad “Swamp Thing cosplay,” and your tote—home to your press pass and a sad little Tupperware of soggy couscous—is dripping like it’s auditioning for a plumbing ad.
So when Clark offers his place—soft-voiced, ever-accommodating, all that big dumb golden retriever energy—you say yes.
Not because you’re weak. Please.
Because he lives closer.
Logistically. Geographically.
(Okay, maybe emotionally, too, but you’ll unpack that when your socks aren’t squelching like a really bad porno.)
So now you’re in his apartment. Standing in the entryway. Leaving a trail of water on his hardwood floors while he gently, gently hands you a towel and fiddles with the thermostat and says things like, “You’re going to catch a cold if you don’t change out of those clothes.”
And you, being the self-possessed adult that you are, snort and say, “Thank you, Mom.”
Clark blushes.
Actually blushes. Like a cartoon character. Like a man who has never, in his life, imagined someone undressing in his home, which is hilarious, given that you’ve seen the size of his arms.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant… yeah. You’re soaked.”
His place smells like cinnamon and laundry detergent. There’s a candle burning on the kitchen counter—one of those $9.99 specials from Bath & Body Works. You imagine him in the store, earnestly reading the label on something called "Warm Vanilla Sugar" while the cashier tries to upsell him on a five-for-fifteen deal.
The image makes your lips curl. Your mascara's halfway down your cheekbones, your calves are cramping from the walk, and you should really, really, really just go take a hot shower and crash on his couch.
Instead, you look at him.
And he’s looking back.
Not like most men do—not the bar-stool inventory of what you are and aren’t. Not a scan. Not a question. More like a memory. Like he’s already filed you away in some quietly treasured part of his brain and he’s just taking the time to make sure the details are right. Like you are known.
You don’t think. You don’t make a plan. You just move.
Step forward. Grab the lapels of his flannel like it owes you money. Pull him down. Kiss him.
It’s not graceful. Not choreographed. You catch his chin at a weird angle, and your nose bumps into his, and the kiss lands too sharp, too fast. Like you’re trying to stun him. Like you’re trying to win a fight.
But then, he exhales.
And he melts. Not urgently. Not hungrily. Just… fully.
Like this is the thing he’s been waiting on for months, and now that it’s finally happening, he’s scared to spook it. His hands hover for a beat, like he’s making sure it’s real, and then one comes to rest lightly on your waist—tentative, patient. The other curls around your jaw with all the softness of a man who has no business being this gentle.
You break the kiss first, of course.
Because you always break things first.
When you look at him, he's staring at you like you invented language. Like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so they hover awkwardly at your sides, respectful, warm, and shaking just a little.
Which is when the panic crashes in.
He’s not supposed to look at you like that. Like you hung the stars. Like he knows you. Like he loves you.
Because if he does. If he really, truly does. Then eventually, he’ll stop.
They always stop.
People love you in the beginning. They love your bite, your snark, the way you know which part of a politician's background are most incriminating. They love the thrill of earning your attention. They love that you make them work for it. But eventually, the charm fades. The sharp edges cut a little too deep.
You forget to text back. You overshare. You undershare. You get tired. You get real.
And they get bored.
You’ve never wanted to risk that with Clark. He’s been yours—just yours, in the safe way—for too long.
You step back like the floor might collapse under you.
Put space. Just… anything between your body and the soft burn of his flannel. Try not to think about how fucking warm he was. “Shit—uh. You don’t have to say anything,” you blurt, voice too fast, too thin. “We can pretend it didn’t happen. Go back to normal. That’s fine.”
Clark’s brows knit, not in offense, just concern. He doesn’t look hurt. He looks… steady. Like he expected this part. “Are you sure?”
The way he asks it is soft. Unhurried. Like it’s not some ultimatum. Like it’s okay if you're not sure.
You open your mouth. Close it. Swallow.
“I just—” You press your fingers to your temple, like maybe that might just reorganize your entire internal filing system. “You know I don’t do relationships.”
“I know,” he says, without hesitation.
You study him—really study him—like you’re trying to find the catch. Some hint of disappointment or wounded ego. But it isn’t there.
He reaches up slowly and tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear, his touch feather-light. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”
You blink. “Even if I’m the one who kissed you?”
Clark smiles, just barely. “Especially then.”
His hand lingers near your cheek, but he doesn’t push. He’s patient in that maddening, disarming way. Waiting, always, for you to meet him halfway.
“Whatever you want,” he says again, quiet. “I’m good with that.”
You stare at him. “You’re really not gonna argue?”
“Nope.”
“Not gonna psychoanalyze me? Tell me I’m avoidant or emotionally stunted or terrified of my own vulnerability?”
He huffs a small laugh. “Already did. Long time ago.”
Your lips twitch despite yourself. “And?”
He shrugs, like it’s the easiest truth in the world. “You’re complicated. But you care. A lot. More than you let people see.”
And damn it, you hate how much that lands. How much he lands. You hate that he’s always been able to see through you, gently, without ever demanding more than you could give. And you hate—more than anything, more than all of that—how badly you want to kiss him again.
So you do.
Maybe to prove a point. Maybe to blow it all up before it can settle. Maybe because you’re already in too deep and part of you is tired of pretending you’re not.
You didn’t plan for it to go further. You didn’t plan anything, really.
But your hands slide up into the open collar of his flannel, and he stumbles a little as you back him into the bookshelf. His glasses tilt when your fingers brush his temple, and you pull them off carefully, gently, like they’re the only thing tethering you both to whatever was before.
His eyes are wide. His mouth already parted. And when he looks up at you like this—flushed, breathless, undone—you think, mine.
And it’s terrifying.
Because it means it’s real.
It happened.
God.
It happened.
.
You strip him out of that worn flannel with a kind of sick, obsessive care. Button by button, like you were unwrapping a gift, like you were unearthing something you’d been searching for in every bad date, every failed talking stage, every mediocre bar makeout that had ever left you cold.
His flannel hit the floor. He doesn't say a word.
Not until you settle into his lap, thighs on either side of his. Then—quietly, like he wasn’t sure if it was okay to want anything—he says, “You… you don’t have to be gentle. Just, just in case. So you know.”
But you are. Because he is.
Because even now, even with your mouth to his, your hands fisted in his curls, his hands stay light on your hips. Like he doesn't want to take more than you’d give. Like he's still giving you the option to leave.
He makes a sound when your hips tilted forward. Not a groan, not exactly. Something deeper. A noise from his chest, halfway between a gasp and a plea. You kiss more of it out of him, mouths clumsy and desperate, fingers scrabbling at the hem of his undershirt, and it feels like breathing.
His breath's caught between his teeth when you rip a condom wrapper in between yours, slotting it onto him with shaking, shaking hands and trying not think about how he's probably the biggest you've ever had.
Lord have mercy.
You ride him like your life depends on it.
You get a thigh cramp halfway through—let out an annoyed groan and tried to keep going—and he, sweet, precious idiot that he is, sits up and says your name like it hurt. Voice quivering like he wants to stop, wants to help, wants to make sure you're okay.
Absolutely no way in hell you wanted that to happen.
“Clark,” you hissed. “Chill. I'm okay, dude. I’m fine.”
“Okay,” he said, dazed, grinning. “Just—didn’t want you to get hurt. I mean. You’re, uh. You were very intense. Just now.”
“Yeah, well, you’re the one with the dick that's slowly rearranging my guts,” you mutter, and he laughs so hard his shoulders shook.
And worse—goddamn it, worse—he looks at you the whole time.
No games. No posing. Just Clark. Holding your hips with those hands—god, those hands, unfairly big and warm and steady—and looking up at you like he meant it.
You’d told him once, over shitty fries past midnight on the curb at McDonald's, that you didn’t trust men who made eye contact during sex. Called it performative. Manipulative.
“Like they’re trying to Jedi mind-trick you into thinking it’s love,” you’d scoffed, and he'd gone quiet in that way he does, not sulking, just thinking. But that he was filing it away.
So of course—of course—when you're bare above him, hair a mess, mascara still clinging to your cheekbones, all vulnerable and exposed and teetering over the edge because his dick was doing wonderful, amazing things to your insides and making you melt—
He looks up at you with that open, earnest face and asks, softly:
“Do you want me to close my eyes?”
You freeze. Like an absolute idiot. Like prey.
And you say no.
"No."
Never.
He nods. “Okay.”
Then he kissed the inside of your wrist—just because it was there—and you lost ten entire emotional minutes and your grip on reality, grinding down on him like your life depended on it.
You come so hard you forgot your name.
Forget what you were supposed to be protecting yourself from. Forget every lie you’ve ever told yourself about the depth of your feelings for him.
It was insane. Deranged.
(Perfect.)
Later, three orgasms later, you collapse over him in a ridiculous heap of limbs and half-dressed post-coital delirium, forehead pressed to his shoulder, chest still heaving.
And he whispered something into your hair—something low and steady and not quite the word love, but so close it that it scraped through your head.
Then he hums.
You don’t recognize it at first—just the vibration under your cheek, the low murmur of a tune, warm and unassuming. You’re half-asleep, boneless, and not fully aware he's still inside of you, pulsing, your fingers curled around his neck.
But you listen.
“You humming Dolly right now?” you murmur, voice hoarse.
Clark hums a little louder. “‘Here You Come Again.’” Then, almost shy, “She’s good. What?”
You groan into his chest. “You absolute dork.”
“I like her,” he says, defensive. “She’s smart. You know she gave away, like, a million books to—wait, are you laughing?”
You are. Full-on giggling into his shoulder now. Giddy and too full and sore in all the best ways.
.
And you really don't mean to keep it going in the morning, let alone in the shower.
Truly.
You're just trying to get clean.
Wash off the evidence of the night before—sweat and come and a whole life’s worth of repressed emotional distress—but then, Clark steps in right behind you, warm and quiet and too gentle.
And suddenly it was over for you. Just absolutely fucking over.
He offers to join, sheepish and bashful, eyes flicking away like he hadn’t just had his face between your thighs just a few hours ago. “Just to save water,” he says. “'Cause of the environment… and all that.”
And sure, Clark. You absolute liar. The environment.
Except the second he steps in behind you—naked, dripping wet, glasses still off so he looked all boyish and wreckable—your resolve crumples like wet newspaper.
He reaches around you for the body wash and that was your downfall. Arm flexing around your waist, that goddamn baritone rumble in your ear as he asks, “This one okay?”
Like you're supposed to just—what? function when his voice was doing that thing? That was supposed to be okay?
But then his hands are on your hips—steady, huge—and you tilt your head back just enough to graze his jaw. He flinches. Or maybe you do. And before either of you could process it, your palm's flat against the tile and Clark was slowly pressing himself against your back.
“Okay?” he asks, voice a little too hoarse, a little too human.
You nod. “Yeah. Just—don’t be sweet about it.”
“But I'm always sweet about it,” he mumbles, and then he was, dragging a hand up your stomach, brushing your wet hair off your neck, mouthing at the base of your spine like he was making a wish.
He moves inside you slow.
Like he means it. Like he thinks he’d scare you off if he went too fast. And it was disgusting, really, how good it felt. How intimate all of this was.
Your knees nearly buckle. You have to brace yourself with both palms on the glass, forehead pressed against fogged-up safety plastic, biting down on your own goddamn fist to keep from crying out his name like something from a romance novel.
(You still did, eventually. He made sure of that when he pressed one large hand up against your stomach so you can feel him, really feel him, and another down your front, rubbing at your clit like it was a lifeline until you saw stars.)
When it was over—when your legs were jelly and your throat was raw and your spine was doing that post-orgasm melt thing—you turn to rinse the shampoo out of your hair, and he just… helped. Without you even having to say anything.
He lathers it for you, clement and thorough, massaging your scalp. His cheeks are pink. His mouth is pink. You think about biting him. Maybe.
But instead, you let yourself lean into his chest while the water poured down over both of you, and you didn’t speak, because if you spoke, it would become too real.
So, you just let him wash your back.
He didn’t ask you to stay.
You didn’t ask if he wanted you to.
But when you wander out of the bedroom ten minutes later—half-wet, flushed, wearing his old Central Kansas A&M hoodie like it hadn’t just been folded neatly in a drawer—you find him in the kitchen, humming again.
Making pancakes.
“You want blueberries in yours?” he asks, like he didn’t have his dick in you in the shower ten minutes ago.
And you—traumatized, horny, emotionally compromised—you say, “Sure."
Then, because your brain has finally rebooted just enough to return to its default defense mechanism:
“Also, we need to talk.”
Clark pauses mid-pour, then turns around, spatula still in hand. “Okay,” he says, unbothered. His voice is calm, casual. Like you didn’t almost combust from having maybe, four—no, five or six orgasms in his arms over the past twelve hours.
You cross your arms over your chest, over his sweatshirt. “Last night—and this morning was great. I mean, objectively. A solid eight out of ten. No complaints.”
He looks amused. “Only eight?”
“I’m leaving room for improvement,” you say, defensive. “But I just want to be clear again that this isn’t… this isn’t a thing.”
Clark nods. “Okay.”
You squint at him. “You’re not going to ask what I mean by that?”
“Well,” he says, lips twitching, “I—uh, I figured I’d let you finish your prepared statement first.”
You gape at him. “I knew I was giving Perry's press conference energy.”
“You’re even holding your coffee like a mic.”
You glance down. You are. Damn it.
He walks over, sets your pancake on the table next to you, and then settles into the armchair across from the couch. His legs are way too long. He has to fold them a little awkwardly, which should be goofy, but somehow only makes him look more like someone who could carry you up a mountain and apologize for the inconvenience while doing it.
You sip your coffee. Clear your throat. “So. Ground rules.”
He raises his brows. “Rules?”
“Yes. Rules. Guidelines. Frameworks for how this… goes.”
Clark tilts his head. “You mean for… us?”
“No, for NATO,” you deadpan. “Yes, us.”
He tries to cover a laugh with a sip of his own mug, but you see the dimple twitch. Smug bastard.
You forge ahead. “Okay. Rule one: this is casual. Very casual. Like… like ‘you can sleep with other people’ casual.”
Clark nods, slow. Thoughtful. “Do you want to sleep with other people?”
“No,” you admit. Then scowl. “But I want to have the option.”
“Right,” he says, nodding. “The illusion of freedom.”
“Exactly. Wait—"
He’s smiling at you now. Soft and fond and dangerously amused.
You plow on. “Whatever. Rule two: no romantic stuff. No dates. No—like—Valentine’s Day cards or surprise cupcakes or, God forbid, foot rubs.”
“You’re really against foot rubs?”
“I just think they set a tone.”
Clark looks at his plate. “What if I just make you pancakes sometimes?”
You narrow your eyes. “Pancakes are a gray area. I'm only allowing it this time."
“Noted.”
You tuck your feet under you. “Rule three: no falling in love.”
He looks up.
There’s a pause. A beat of silence so thick it fills the whole room.
You add, quickly, “I know that sounds dramatic, but I’ve seen what love does to people, and it’s terrifying. They lose brain cells. They post Instagram captions like ‘my forever’ with sparkly emojis. They start making weird couple TikToks where they throw cheese slices at each other’s heads. I can’t be part of that kind of ecosystem. I'm lactose intolerant."
Clark’s smiling again. Not in the ha ha you’re sooooo funny way. In the I think you’re the best thing to ever happen to me way, which is very much against the rules.
“Are you even taking this seriously?” you demand.
“I am,” he says, clearly lying. “You’re very intimidating.”
You roll your eyes and gesture wildly. “I’m just saying! I don’t want this to become something that implodes because I—God, because I can’t remember your favorite pizza topping one day and suddenly we’re—we're not friends anymore and splitting custody of houseplants and fucking Cat is stuck writing a gossip column about it.”
Clark chuckles. A pause. “well, for the record? My favorite pizza topping is mushrooms.”
You wrinkle your nose. “That’s a red flag.”
“You’re the one writing up a treaty before brunch.”
“Exactly,” you say, triumphant. “See? We’re incompatible.”
Clark leans forward slightly.
The sunlight from the window cuts across his glasses, but you can still see his eyes, warm and impossibly blue, locked on yours like you’re the only person in Metropolis who matters. “I think you’re scared,” he says gently. “Which is okay. I just want you to know… I’m not going anywhere. Rules or not.”
And that—
God. That should not make your eyes burn the way it does.
You shake your head, fast. “Don’t say stuff like that. It’s dangerous. You’ll trick me into liking you more.”
“I’m just being honest.”
“Well, stop.”
He raises a brow. “What do I do if I want to kiss you?”
You freeze.
Your heart does a complicated backflip-kick into your ribs.
“...well, that's allowed,” you mutter.
He smiles again, dimple sinking deep.
And then, because he’s a menace with zero self-preservation, he leans in.
You meet him halfway.
And it’s soft this time. Sweeter. Slower. No rain, no adrenaline, just his hand cradling your jaw and your fingers twisted in the hem of his t-shirt like you’re trying to anchor yourself to something real.
.
It's been months now of your little arrangement. And you're already destroyed by the time he even speaks.
Not because he’s touched you yet. Not really. He’s just there, mouth warm against the inside of your thigh, hands stroking the back of your knees like you’re something delicate. Something precious.
Which is so fucked. You are not precious.
You told him that that, breathless and still shirtless and sitting on his kitchen counter at midnight while he gently fed you the leftover peach cobbler Martha left for the two of you straight from the fridge.
He just nodded. Wiped away the crumb left on the edge of your lip. Said, “Okay.”
And then he kissed the inside of your wrist again and said, “You’re still allowed to want things, you know.”
Which is—god, so not fair.
Now he’s between your legs, kissing a line up your thigh like he’s praying. He’s been taking his time. Like the goal isn’t to get you off, but to study you. Like he’s memorizing the exact way your breath catches and the little twitch of your fingers every time he licks just close enough to your center, but not quite.
You’re panting. Whimpering. Biting your lip so hard you’re pretty sure you taste blood.
And he’s grinning. Not cocky—just happy. Which is so much, so much worse.
“You’re staring at me again,” you breathe.
Clark hums, kissing just below your hip. “I just like looking at you.”
“That’s crazy,” you whisper. “You’re crazy.”
“Probably.” He kisses your navel. “Do you want me to stop?”
You whine. You actually whine. You feel like you've just set feminism back by centuries. “No.”
“Didn’t think so,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your skin. And then, because he’s the devil in a button-up: “You know, the way you objectify me is honestly very inappropriate. I’m not just a—just a piece of meat, you know.”
You bark out a laugh, head tipping back against the pillow. “So bad news, you're actually a mountain of meat, man.”
“See? Objectified.” He presses a kiss just below your ribs. “Reduced to my—”kiss“—ridiculous shoulders—”kiss“—and tragic dimples—”kiss“—and stupidly proportionate thighs—”
“I didn’t say anything about your thighs—”
“Oh, but I think you were thinking it.”
You giggle, delirious. Drunk on this man. “God, shut up and fuck me.”
Clark goes still.
Not awkwardly—this isn’t early-days Clark, the one who used to stammer when you wore red lipstick when you came over and knocked over his own coffee trying to offer you a napkin.
This Clark—the one under you now, hands broad and firm against your thighs, spine pressed into the worn couch like it’s the only thing keeping him from rising into the sky—this Clark is different.
He’s grown into himself. Into this. Into you.
Not cocky, not exactly. But assured in a way that makes your stomach clench and your mouth go dry. You’ve seen it happen slowly. Like the sunrise—you didn’t notice until the whole room was full of it.
This Clark doesn't flinch when you flirt, doesn’t panic when your mouth goes sharp or your eyes go guarded. He just… waits. He sees it all. Lets you burn yourself out. And then lays a hand on your cheek like you’re made of something precious.
Still, he doesn’t move.
And that’s what sets you off.
You squirm, shifting your weight in his lap, irritated now. “What?”
He looks up at you, his jaw tight, hands still splayed over your thighs like he doesn’t know whether to hold on or let go. There’s something in his eyes, sharp, patient, impossibly tender, and it makes your chest ache in a way you refuse to name.
“You really want that?” he asks, voice low.
You roll your eyes. “You think I climbed onto your face to do taxes?”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Your stomach flips. You hate when he does this. Gets all serious and calm and measured while you’re flailing, clearly two seconds away from combusting. You cross your arms over your chest—petulant, defensive. “Clark.”
“You say stuff like that,” he murmurs, one hand dragging up the back of your thigh, “but then you pull back like I’ve asked for your soul.”
You glare at him. “I’m not pulling back.”
He lifts a brow. “You haven’t even kissed me yet.”
You scowl. “I was about to, but you’re being annoying.”
His smile is crooked, lazy, maddening. “Yeah? Gonna punish me for it?”
Your heart skips. You hate that you love it when he talks like that. You hate that he’s right—that you’re the one drawing lines in the sand and then pretending you don’t care when he steps over them.
You lean down, hover over his mouth. “I swear to god, if you don’t do something soon, I’m walking out that door.”
He catches your jaw in one hand, gentle but firm. “You won’t.”
“Watch me.”
His thumb drags over your bottom lip. Lets it pop out just a bit, so you can feel the way the wetness drips over your chin. “You always say that. You never do.”
Your breath stutters. Your spine goes stiff. You hate how much he knows you. You hate that he’s always so calm about it, so damn tender, even when he’s calling you out.
“I’m not just a warm body, you know,” he says after a beat, the faintest furrow between his brows. “If that’s what you wanted, you should’ve picked someone who doesn’t look at you like I do.”
You blink. “And how is that?”
Clark tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours. “Like I actually see you.”
You hate him for that. A little.
But you kiss him anyway.
Hard. Sharp. Like a warning.
And then he flips you—effortless, smooth, like it doesn’t take more than a breath. One of his hands pins your wrists above your head. The other trails slow up the curve of your thigh. His mouth finds your neck, and you gasp—not in surprise, but because it’s too much. He’s too much.
“You keep asking me to take you apart,” he murmurs against your skin, “but you never let me show you what it actually means.”
“Oh my god,” you groan, shivering under him. “You are so fucking—”
“What?” he interrupts, dragging his mouth back up to yours. “Soft? Serious? A buzzkill?”
You don’t respond. You’re too busy squirming, too busy arching into him, because he’s right. Again.
“Too bad,” he murmurs, smiling like a secret. “You don’t get to run the show tonight.”
And you're already clawing at his back by the time he finally pushes in. And god, fuck, it’s—
He’s so much. Too much. Even now, even after months of attempting to get used to him, after a minimum of one hour of foreplay every time, hours spent fingering you open and devouring you whole and it still makes your spine tingle in the best way possible. The push and pull of it every time, the struggle, the way he looks at you so, so proudly when he's bottomed out and your smiling from under him like you've just won the lottery.
You make a sound—something small, strangled, "Clark."—and he doesn’t shush you this time.
He smiles.
“There it is,” he murmurs. “Now we’re being honest.”
.
Then one day, Clark cancels a lunch.
That’s it. That’s all. Not the end of the world.
He texts you a sweet apology. Too many words, as always, classic Clark, something about a lead on some money laundering story and “I’ll bring dinner to make up for it, promise, anything you want, even that overpriced pasta from the place with the weird chairs.” He adds three emojis. Two are completely nonsensical (a chicken and a rain cloud?). One is a little heart. You stare at it longer than you should.
You text back something breezy. Casual. “You’re the one missing out on my lunchtime TedTalk about corrupt city councilmen and their tragic toupees.”
He doesn’t respond until hours later. Just a thumbs-up emoji.
You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you don’t care.
.
Then it happens again.
This time, you're already standing outside the Planet, coffee lukewarm, watching a construction crew down the block try to maneuver scaffolding around a new billboard. It’s another Superman PSA—third this month. Something about disaster preparedness and blood drives. His cape’s caught mid-whip, expression noble and inhumanly calm. You roll your eyes, but your stomach tugs a little. Something about the stillness in his posture—it looks almost familiar.
Your phone rings.
Clark.
You answer with a smirk, trying to make it light. “Should I be worried you’ve joined a pyramid scheme? Please tell me you’re not selling supplements.”
There’s a pause, then his voice, warm but ragged around the edges: “I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can I explain later?”
You make some offhand joke about mafia debt collectors and say, “No worries,” even as your stomach twists.
He sounds tired. Tired in a way Clark never really gets. You’re the one who burns out, who rants and paces and flirts with deadline-induced breakdowns. He’s the one who shows up with coffee and an extra pen. Always.
But now his voice has this roughness to it. Frayed edges. Like he’s trying not to breathe too hard into the receiver. Like he just ran here. Or ran away from somewhere.
“Are you okay?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.
Another pause. “Yeah,” he says, and he softens, like he always does when he hears your voice. “I will be.”
.
By week three, he’s dodging plans like it’s his new hobby. You’re not hurt, obviously. You’re busy too. You have other friends. You go to bars. You flirt with bartenders you’ll never text back. You have a whole life outside of this whole thing with Clark.
It’s not a relationship. It’s just a thing. A nice, dependable, sometimes pantsless thing.
That’s all.
But still, there’s this night.
You’re at your apartment. There’s an old movie playing, something black and white and miserable, and Clark was supposed to be here an hour ago.
You’d ordered his favorite takeout. You’d even found that dumb craft soda he likes, the one that tastes vaguely like melted gummy worms. You told yourself you just wanted someone to share the noodles with.
He doesn’t show.
No call. No text.
You sit through the entire movie. Alone.
And when your phone finally buzzes—close to midnight, just his name and a short, “I’m so sorry. Can we talk soon?”— you stare at it for a long moment.
Then you flip your phone over, face-down.
And in the dark, you think, Shit. This is how it starts. The distance. The shift. The slow pulling away.
You’ve done it to people before.
You just never thought you’d be on the receiving end.
Not from him.
Not from Clark.
.
Around 11:30, you open Twitter out of boredom. You don’t cry. That would imply something was wrong. That you were hurt. You’re not. Obviously.
You’re just a little annoyed.
And maybe, just mayb, you’re thinking about how Clark used to be your safest person. Your sure thing. Your just-text-me, just-call-me, just-walk-right-in-without-knocking guy.
And now he’s something else. Something slippery. Something you have to squint at sideways to understand.
Your thumb scrolls through the usual mess. Politicians being embarrassing, memes you’re already tired of, some half-hearted discourse about whether the Metropolis skyline is over-designed or “delightfully optimistic.”
Then: a video clip.
No sound. Just shaky phone footage.
A blur of red and blue moving fast—streaking through the air over Hobbs Bay, pulling someone from a collapsed scaffolding, leaving behind a wake of stunned bystanders and bent steel.
You pause. Watch it again. Retweets piling up.
BREAKING: Superman saves construction worker after scaffolding collapse.
You stare at it for a second longer than you mean to, then snort under your breath.
Must be nice, you think. Some people get rescued. Some other unlucky fuckers just get ghosted.
.
The message comes on a Thursday. One of those weirdly warm spring evenings when Metropolis smells like asphalt and deli grease and the last ten years of your bad decisions.
Hey. You free tonight?
You stare at it for a moment too long. Thumb hovering.
Then:
yeah. yours?
A pause.
If you want.
God, he’s infuriating. Polite even now. Careful with you, like you’re made of something breakable. Like you haven’t already cracked half a dozen times this month alone.
Still, you go.
.
It’s not tense at first. It’s easy. Familiar.
Clark opens the door wearing one of those threadbare t-shirts that should be illegal, sleeves barely containing his biceps, neckline just a little too stretched from use. His hair’s damp. There’s flour on his cheek.
“You baked?” you ask, stepping past him before he can do that thing where he tries to gauge your mood like a barometer.
He shrugs. “Felt like it.”
There’s banana bread cooling on the counter. Two plates. One knife. He’s already sliced yours and left the end piece—your favorite—on the left, like always.
You want to be mad. Or suspicious. Or anything that would make this easier to navigate. But it’s hard to keep your footing when he’s being like this. Soft. Normal. Like he didn’t flake three times last month. Like you hadn’t spent the last few nights half-dressed and overthinking on your bathroom floor
But them again, you could never really resist him for that long.
So maybe it’s no surprise that your dress ends up pooled around your ankles. The lamp’s still on. Your mouths are moving like they’ve done this a hundred times—because you have, but it's not enough, will never be enough—and you’re both pretending it’s still casual. Still nothing.
Except it doesn’t feel like nothing.
And then Clark pulls back.
Not sharply. Not like he’s been burned. More like he just remembered something, which, again, not unusual. You’ve seen that look before. That oh shit look.
But tonight, he doesn’t immediately jump up.
He doesn’t mutter something about needing to check in with Perry or help Lois edit her headline.
He just… stares at you.
And not in the usual way, not with those soft, soft eyes like you’re something he stumbled across in a field and decided to treasure. He looks—serious. Scared, even. His hand is still on your hip, but his other is twitching slightly at his side like it doesn’t know what to do with itself.
“We need to talk,” he says.
You still have one shoe on. You don’t even remember kicking the other off.
You blink at him. “I—what?”
He licks his lips. His glasses are smudged. He doesn’t take them off.
“Something’s been—there’s something that I need to tell you,” he says, slower now, like he’s rehearsing this in real time and trying not to panic.
And that—that is when your stomach drops.
Because you know this script. You’ve seen this scene. The music swells, the camera pans in, the guy who smells like safety and Sunday mornings says he “needs to talk,” and then boom. Heartbreak, cut to black, roll credits.
You hold up a hand before he can say anything else. “Wait. Just… don’t. Yet.”
Clark pauses. He blinks at you.
“Look,” you say, backing up a step, scanning the room like you’re looking for your dignity. “If this is about how I’ve been kind of, I don’t know, evasive or inconsistent or, like, deeply emotionally unavailable, I just want to say — I know. Okay? You don’t have to do this so gently.”
His face twists. “What?”
“You’re trying to break things off,” you continue, steamrolling him, your voice way too steady for the freefall happening inside your chest. “And I get it. I do. You’ve been pulling away for weeks, you disappear all the time, you don’t sleep anymore, you look like you’ve been hit by a truck most days, which I assumed was just bad reporting hours, but who knows, maybe it’s metaphorical.”
Clark tries again. “I’m not—”
“It’s fine,” you say, voice louder now. “It’s fine if you met someone. You don’t have to pretend it’s not happening.”
“I didn’t—”
“You’re allowed to outgrow this. Me. Whatever this is.”
Your dress is still on the floor, and you suddenly want it back on like it’s armor. You crouch to grab it, clumsy with urgency, your hands all wrong.
“I should’ve seen it coming. You were too good to last. Guys like you don’t stick around for girls like me.”
“Hey,” he says sharply, stepping forward, but you back away before he can reach you.
“Don’t,” you say, holding your dress to your chest like a shield. “Don’t be nice to me about it.”
Clark runs both hands through his hair. He looks like he’s short-circuiting. “You’re not even letting me—I’m not trying to end this with you.”
You stare at him, lips parted.
He’s breathing hard now. His glasses are askew. His shirt’s wrinkled, and his jaw is clenched like he’s holding something back with both hands.
“I was going to tell you something,” he says, voice raw. “Something real. Something I’ve never told anyone who didn’t already know.”
You freeze.
Because that doesn’t sound like cheating.
That sounds like confession.
“What,” you whisper, suddenly breathless. “Like a dark secret? You have a kid? You’re actually married? Are you part of a mafia? Are you—Oh my God. Are you a stripper?”
“What?” he blurts, completely thrown.
“I don’t know, Clark!” your voice spikes, hands flying up. “What the hell could you possibly say right now that starts with ‘we need to talk’ and isn’t a relationship guillotine?”
His eyes flick to the window. Just for a second. A glance, like instinct. And then right back to you.
And for the first time, you see it.
The quiet panic. The way his entire body is buzzing like a live wire under skin.
Like he’s not scared of you. He’s scared for you.
But it’s too late. You’ve already built the wall and bricked yourself in.
You grab your dress, yanking it on with the dignity of a raccoon being evicted from a trash can. Somewhere behind you, Clark says your name again, gentle, like a bruise he’s afraid to touch. You ignore it.
Instead, you just start collecting your things like a squirrel in crisis.
Because—and this is humiliating—you’ve essentially moved into his place over the last year in the slowest, most passive-aggressive way possible. Not officially. Not “hey, should we get you some keys?” But enough that the signs are there.
Enough that you now have to do this, which is to say the break-up equivalent of packing a go-bag in the middle of a fire drill.
You grab the mug with the faded “Central City Gazette Student Press 2013” logo you refuse to drink out of at home because it’s chipped, but which you do drink out of here, because Clark always makes tea the right way — hot, strong, too much honey. You grab the copy of Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow you stole from his shelf three months ago and meant to pretend was yours all along. The sweatshirt he “forgot” you left here, that you “forgot” he noticed you wore to bed six times in a row.
You jam it all into your work tote like it’s a goddamn body bag.
Then there are the smaller things. The stupid things.
The half-used notepad from a city council meeting where someone tried to blame vigilante-induced infrastructure damage on solar panels. The disposable camera from that one weekend in Smallville — the one you never developed because the idea of seeing his parents smile at you felt too dangerous, too much like you might belong there.
And then you eye the drawer next to his bed. Your drawer, to get that clear, which was never explicitly claimed but which somehow holds one (1) pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs, two (2) half-empty bottles of lube, and three (3) protein bars, one of which is probably from last fiscal year. You shove it all into your bag, zipper groaning like a sad, sad accordion.
Clark’s still standing near the window, looking bewildered. Like he walked into the scene five minutes late and can’t tell who started the fire.
“Wait—are you leaving? You don’t have to—just—can we talk? Please?”
You don’t look at him.
Instead, you gesture vaguely at your bag. “This is just me doing a quick inventory of my terrible judgment. Don’t mind me.”
“Can you stop for two seconds and just let me—”
“Clark,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter than you meant it to. “It’s okay.”
It isn’t. But you’re trying to win the emotional Olympics in the “cool and detached” category, and you’re not about to blow it with something as devastating as eye contact.
You sling the bag over your shoulder and pause by the door.
You consider saying something devastating and poetic. Something from Hamlet, maybe. You’ve always liked the line about cutting love out with a knife and it still bleeding. But instead, you give him a big, fake smile and an inexplicable hand up, like a contestant leaving Rupaul's Drag Race in disgrace.
“No harm, no foul,” you say. “Tell whoever you're seeing that I say hi.”
And then you leave.
.
You are, in every measurable way, unwell.
You don’t call it a breakup.
That would imply there was something official to break. That you were ever really together. That there was something solid under your feet to begin with, instead of months of teasing the edge, hovering over the line like two people too chicken to admit they’d already crossed it.
So, no. Not a breakup.
Just—a recalibration. A pause. A hot minute.
You say this to Jimmy, who narrows his eyes and says, “You’re holding a spoon like a murder weapon right now, so I’m gonna circle back on the ‘hot’ part of that minute.”
You even say it to the woman at the corner bodega—the one who always gave Clark an extra packet of honey for his tea and once slipped you a protein bar when you looked particularly anemic on a deadline.
She glances up from restocking the gum and says, “He’s okay? The tall guy? With the glasses and the very... polite shoulders?”
You blink. “Sorry, what?”
“He always said thank you. For the bag. Like, sincerely.” She squints at you. “You were good together.”
You make a sound of vague agreement and exit before she asks if you want your usual. (You do. But the idea of holding a wrap in your hands right now makes your stomach lurch.)
You take your PTO. Two weeks. You don’t tell anyone where you’re going, mostly because you’re not going anywhere. You lie in bed. You eat cereal out of a mug. You watch a three-hour documentary about the collapse of a bridge in Gotham and cry when a random city engineer says, “We tried our best, but it wasn’t enough.”
You don't let yourself think about that… that stupid drawer by Clark’s bed.
Or the banana bread.
Because there is banana bread.
It shows up on your doorstep the morning of Day Three, wrapped in wax paper and still warm. No note. Just a faint imprint where a palm must’ve rested on the foil, like he wasn’t sure if he should knock. You don’t bring it inside right away.
You stare at it. Then the door. Then back at the bread like it might explode.
Eventually, you take it in. Set it on the counter. Eat half of it standing over the sink with your fingers, because you don’t trust yourself to not drop it.
He texts you the next day. Just your name. Then a minute later: Just wanted to check in. Hope you’re doing okay.
You stare at the dots blinking at the bottom of the screen until they disappear.
You don’t answer.
He calls a few times, a few days later. Your phone lights up with his name, and you let it ring out. Not because you’re angry—okay, maybe you are, a little—but because you know the sound of his voice will wreck you. Because if he says your name in that soft, patient, Clark way, you’ll crack like a fucking fault line.
He doesn't leave a voicemai any of the times l. Just hangs up.
(You spend the rest of the night clutching a throw pillow to your stomach like it’s a life raft.)
You tell yourself this is temporary. You’ll get it together tomorrow.
And then tomorrow happens.
And then the next day.
And then—on the seventh day, like Jesus, you rise.
Kind of.
You pull on the ugliest hoodie you own, some too-large sweatpants with a questionable stain, and a pair of knockoff Crocs. Your hair is doing something that technically defies gravity, and you haven’t worn deodorant since Tuesday. Your soul is gone. Your standards are lower. All that remains is one singular thought:
Hotdog.
.
Which is how you find yourself under the flickering fluorescent lights of a 7/11 at 1:42 a.m., perched on the curb out front like a feral raccoon, holding a lukewarm hotdog in one hand and a Red Bull in the other, actively disassociating while Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You plays through a tinny outdoor speaker with all the emotional resonance of a dying Roomba.
You stare off into the distance.
Which is, of course, exactly when Clark walks up.
You see him in your periphery first. Hear the crunch of gravel, the telltale weight of his sneakers.
“No,” you say, out loud. “No. No. Absolutely not.”
Clark stops short. “Hi,” he says, voice soft. A little nervous.
You hold up the hotdog like a loaded gun. “Turn around.”
“I—”
“I swear to god, Clark.” You don’t even look at him. “I am mentally and spiritually clinging to life by the barest thread, and if you say something kind to me right now, I will vomit on the pavement.”
He nods. Raises both hands. “Okay. Not saying anything.”
You stare at him. His flannel is wrinkled. His hair’s sticking up at the back. There’s a scuff on his glasses like he’s been rubbing at them all day.
Goddammit. He looks like home.
You turn your burning eyes back to the pavement and try to focus on your dinner. Try to remember how this whole dignity thing works.
“Why are you here,” you say finally, flat.
He swallows. “Because I needed to see you. Because I’ve been calling, and—”
“Right,” you cut in. “The calls. That I didn’t answer. On purpose.”
“I know.”
“And you took that as a challenge?”
Clark exhales slowly. He takes a tentative step closer.
“I’ve tried everything else,” he says.
You roll your eyes. “Maybe that’s because you’re not supposed to fix this. Maybe this is just what it is now.”
“That’s not what I want.”
You shrug. “And? Sometimes we don’t get what we want. That’s life. Welcome.”
He’s quiet. Long enough that you glance sideways and catch him staring at you with a look you can’t name. Doesn’t defend himself. Just stands there, quiet, while a beat-up minivan idles past the edge of the lot and the Whitney Houston outro fades into static. And you’re just about to tell him to cut it out—whatever this whole tortured-eyes, kicked-puppy thing is—when he steps forward.
One arm wraps around your waist.
And then—
You are no longer on the ground.
You shriek like a B-movie scream queen, clutching your 7/11 hotdog in its sad foil wrapper like it might save your life. “WHAT THE FUCK,” you yell. “WHAT—ARE YOU KIDDING ME—WHAT IS HAPPENING.”
“I’m sorry!” Clark yells over the wind.
“ARE YOU—IS THIS YOU?! ARE YOU—”
“Yeah!” he shouts. “Hi! Surprise!”
“SUPERMAN?!”
“…Yes!” he calls back, cringing midair.
“YOU’RE SUPERMAN?!”
Clark doesn’t answer that. Just… grimaces. Flying sideways. His arm tightening around your waist like he’s half-expecting you to elbow him in the ribs and wriggle free.
You might, honestly. As soon as your brain catches up. You’re only just vaguely aware of your Croc flying off somewhere over a used car dealership.
“My toothbrush is still at your apartment!” you shriek.
“I know!”
“I HAVE A TOOTHBRUSH AT SUPERMAN’S APARTMENT!”
“I know! That’s why I—listen, I panicked! You weren’t picking up! You blocked me on like, four platforms—”
“I BLOCKED YOU BECAUSE I THOUGHT YOU WERE GHOSTING ME FOR ANOTHER GIRL, NOT MOONLIGHTING AS A NATIONAL TREASURE.”
The wind roars past your ears. Your teeth are chattering. You’re barely holding onto the last few shreds of coherence. And Clark—no, Superman, apparently—he’s not even breaking a sweat.
“You couldn’t have called?” you snap.
“I did!”
“WITH WHAT, MORSE CODE?”
“I showed up at your apartment!”
“With a cape, Kent?!”
“No! No, the cape’s new—look, I didn’t know what else to do. You wouldn’t talk to me. Jimmy said you took PTO and haven’t left your apartment in four days and I just—I needed you to see me. To listen.”
You make an inhuman noise, somewhere between a wail and a curse. “So your solution was to airlift me like a stolen asset out of a CIA bunker?!”
“I checked to make sure no one was looking!”
“YOU TOOK ME HOSTAGE.”
“I swept the parking lot, I swear! The cameras at 7/11 are fake, and there was one guy but he was busy dropping a Big Gulp.”
You blink at him. Wind in your eyes. A foot still bare. There’s an onion from your hotdog stuck to your shirt. Your heart does a slow, brutal somersault.
“…Okay,” you breathe. “Okay, so this is real.”
“It’s real,” he says.
“Like, capital-R Real.”
“Yeah.”
You shake your head once, sharp. “Jesus Christ.”
And then something in you quiets. Something that’s been vibrating with panic for days—for weeks—sputters out like the end of a bad engine. You’re too tired to scream again. You’re too wrung-out to cry.
So you just say, quietly: “I'm sorry. For not listening. Or giving you the time to explain. But, what the fuck, dude.”
Clark swallows. His eyes flick to your mouth, then away. He nods—once.
“I didn’t want to lie to you,” he says again, quieter now. “I hated it. Every second of it.”
His breath fogs slightly in the night air. He still won’t quite meet your eyes.
“I thought I could keep it separate. You and… that part of me. I thought if I just kept my head down and made you pancakes and let you call me out when I forgot to text back, it’d be enough.”
He runs a hand through his hair, still wind-tossed from flight. “But then it wasn’t. Because I started… I don’t know, noticing stuff. Like the way you always get a little mean when you’re scared. Or how you never remember to lock your front door but you’ll glare at me for refusing to jaywalk. And every time I had to run off and I saw the look on your face—I wanted to tell you. I almost told you, like, like, forty darn times.”
His voice cracks a little. He’s still not looking at you.
“I kept thinking, if I say it out loud, you’ll leave. Or worse—you’ll stay, but only because you think you owe me something. Because I have the suit. Because I can lift a building. But I don’t want you to be impressed by me. I just want you to look at me the way you used to. Like I’m just… Clark.”
He laughs, sudden and shaky. “God, I sound insane.”
You say nothing. You’re not breathing very well.
And then, softly, finally, like he’s pushing it out before he loses the nerve: “I love you. Not in a heroic, save-the-day kind of way. Just—I love you. I think I’ve been in love with you since you made me help you tail that councilman with the suspicious hair plugs. And you made fun of me the whole time, but you still brought snacks.”
He swallows. “I don’t need anything from you. I just wanted you to know.”
The wind whips gently around you both now, slower, softer. Like the world has dialed down to listen in.
Clark hovers easily in place, arms strong around you, careful and warm, like he’s afraid you’ll wriggle free again and drop straight through the clouds.
He’s flushed. Nervous. He looks like he’s trying to prepare for every possible version of the moment after this. Every soft or horrible thing you might say. Every joke you might make to dodge the weight of it. Every silence.
You lean back a little to look at him.
And then, honestly, you just kiss him.
Because it’s easier than saying the whole thing. Easier than listing every moment that’s led to this, every reason you tried not to fall for him and did anyway.
The time he walked (not flew) across the city in the rain because you forgot your keys.
The fact that he never interrupts when you’re spiraling, just waits it out, steady and warm and right there.
The way he let you drag him into that adult store and joked around and made him blush with the pink handcuffs, and then he bought them for you anyway.
The banana bread.
“I love you too, you idiot.”
His whole face crumples. And then he laughs, messy and relieved and a little helpless, like he wasn’t expecting you to say it back. Like he wasn’t hoping.
“You do?”
You nod, eyes stinging. “Yeah. In every kind of way.”
And Clark—not Superman, Clark Kent, the world’s most ridiculous man, the guy you’ve known and kissed and run from and found again—leans in and kisses you silly again.
.
You’re still smiling when he stumbles through your front door with you in his arms.
Not gracefully. Not like some poised, soap-opera seduction —more like the two of you crash through the threshold like a couple of drunk fucking idiots who forgot how to use their limbs. You reach back and slap the door shut, barely catching the knob, breathless from altitude and adrenaline and everything that’s been boiling under your skin for months.
Clark kicks over your shoe rack by accident. It topples over with a loud bang and suddenly, all your shoes are on the floor.
“Sorry,” he says, half-choking on a grin, already pressing you to the wall. “I’ll—clean that up—later—”
You cut him off with your mouth. Sloppy, desperate. Fingers tangling in his curls, tugging just to feel him gasp against you. You can feel the way he hardens close to you, and you're really, really liking where this is going.
It’s not like you didn’t know he was strong.
You’ve seen his biceps. You’ve felt the hand at your back steady you when a cab came too close. You’ve watched him shoulder his way through panicked crowds, through chaos, through life, always quietly making space for you.
But this is different.
This is him holding your entire body like you weigh nothing. Like physics doesn't apply to you anymore. Like his hands were made to carry you and his mouth was made to ruin you.
“Clark,” you gasp, because you don’t know what else to say. Your hoodie’s already halfway up your torso. His hands are under it, up your ribs, one squeezing your thigh like he’s staking a claim and the other splayed wide across your spine. “You’re—fuck—”
“I know,” he pants, nosing down your throat, licking into the hollow like he’s starving for it. “I know, baby. You’re—God, you’re actually killing me.”
He lifts you—actually lifts you—like you’re nothing, just sweeps you up with one arm under your ass and carries you toward the bedroom, leaving a trail of your jacket, your hotdog wrapper, and one of your slippers behind.
You claw at his shirt, frantic, trying to get it off. Buttons ping off somewhere near the kitchen island and you both flinch, then laugh again, dizzy with it.
He drops you on the bed and follows fast, crawling over you, shedding the remains of his flannel and undershirt like he’s being hunted for it.
"Fuck, fuck—take this off," and yank off your hoodie and he groans at the sight, like the skin of your chest is some sort of a revelation, like he hasn’t had it memorized since the first time he saw you in a tank top at work and forgot what day it was.
His mouth is everywhere. On your collarbone, your shoulder, between your breasts.
Hot and open and eager, tongue twisting ruthlessly around your nipples. He’s making sounds now, those broken, happy little gasps like he’s surprised every time you let him touch you again.
You’re squirming under him, soaked and breathless, tugging at the waistband of his pants like it might save your life.
“I am gonna ruin you,” you manage to say. "Baby, let me fucking ruin you."
Clark laughs again, the kind of laugh that goes straight to your core, deep and bright and boyish, and then he flips you effortlessly onto your stomach, pushing your thighs apart with his knee, dragging his mouth down your spine like he’s tracing poetry there.
“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, low and smug. “Get in line, pretty girl.”
He pushes into you with one smooth, slow thrust, so much of him, too much, your jaw goes slack, and he just stays there for a moment, his hand curled over yours, forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder.
“I love you.”
Your breath stutters.
He doesn’t give you time to recover, emotionally or physically. Doesn’t let you laugh it off or throw up your usual wall of flippant sarcasm. He kisses your shoulder again, hips moving deeper, more purposeful.
You twist beneath him, trying to turn over because as much as you love doggy, you can't bear to not look at him right now.
But his hand presses gently between your shoulder blades, grounding you. “Wait,” he murmurs, and you freeze. You’re still so full of him you can barely think. “Just let me—can I just—”
He grinds forward, pushing all eight inches of him inside, and you choke on a moan. You’ve never heard him like this. Not just desperate, not just lost in it — but open.
“I love you when you’re mean,” he pants, voice fraying around the edges. “I love you when you roll your eyes at me in meetings and mutter under your breath during interviews. I love you, God, you're so tight," another thrust. "—when you wear those socks with the tiny dogs on them and try to pretend you’re not soft.”
You turn your head, mouth parted, eyes wide. “Clark—”
He leans down, kisses your cheek, your temple, the place behind your ear that makes your thighs shake.
“I love you when you’re being impossible. When you steal my flannels. When you pretend you don’t care. When you kissed me for the first time and then gave me a whole spiel about it.”
“Stop—”
“I love you,” he says again, brokenly this time, like it’s being torn out of him. “I love you even when I’m scared you’ll leave. Even if this is all I get.”
You turn fully this time, eyes glassy, fingers curling around the back of his neck to drag him in.
And you kiss him.
Hard.
Hungry.
Grateful.
“I love you,” you whisper against his mouth. “I love you, you wonderful, wonderful man.”
Clark lets out a sound that’s not quite a laugh and not quite a sob.
Then he flips you under him and fucks you like it’s a promise.
You say it again when you come the second time, breathless, high-pitched, hands clutching at his shoulders, and again when he follows with a low, shuddering groan, spilling into you like he’s got nowhere else he’d rather be.
.
The car smells like spearmint gum and way, way too much coffee. Clark’s got one hand on the wheel and the other laced through yours like it’s always been there. Which, lately, it has.
You’re about halfway to Smallville.
“So,” you say, tapping his knuckles with your thumb. “How many embarrassing baby photos am I being subjected to this time? Just give me a ballpark.”
Clark chuckles. His dimples show. “Oh, uh… probably all of them. Again."
You groan. “Even the corn maze one?”
“There are multiple corn maze ones,” he corrects gently. “There’s one where I’m dressed as a scarecrow.”
You stare at him.
He nods solemnly. “With face paint.”
“Oh my God,” you wheeze, turning toward the window. “I don’t know if I’m emotionally prepared for that.”
“Don’t worry,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Ma loves you. You could commit tax fraud in front of her and she’d ask if you wanted seconds.”
You snort. “That’s very comforting.”
He shrugs, smiling again. “It’s true. She already set up the guest room.”
You blink at him.
“…The guest room?”
A pause. Clark glances over. “Well, I didn’t want to assume we’d—uh—share a bed. With my parents in the house.”
You raise a brow. “Clark. We had sex in a supply closet at the Planet.”
“That was—okay, yes—but that was under different circumstances.”
“We are dating.”
“I know.”
You lean your head back against the seat, grinning. “You’re so weird.”
“You love it,” he mutters, cheeks pink.
You do.
God, you do. You love him.
It still sneaks up on you sometimes. The clarity of it. The quiet, persistent fact of Clark Kent: the man who once made you blueberry pancakes the morning after you nearly ran out on him, who kissed your wrist like it meant something, who never—not once—looked away. Who told you he was Superman in the middle of a 7/11 parking lot, like some fucking lunatic.
And now here you are. In his car. On the way to meet his parents.
Officially.
Not just as the girl who sleeps over sometimes. Not as the coworker who won’t stop pretending she doesn’t care. Not as the idiot who thought she could get away with loving him and not doing anything about it.
No. Now, you’re his girlfriend.
Which means this is real. Which means you’re going to their farmhouse in Smallville. And Martha is probably going to offer you pie. And Jonathan is probably going to show you Clark’s fifth grade spelling bee trophy like it’s the most precious thing in the world.
Which should terrify you.
(And maybe it does, a little.)
But mostly—mostly it feels like the best thing you’ve ever said yes to.
Clark clears his throat. “Hey.”
You turn.
He’s watching you with that expression again. That soft, unguarded, ruined look like he still can’t believe you’re real. It’s so sincere it nearly undoes you.
“I’m really glad you’re coming,” he says. Quietly.
You look at him. You squeeze his hand back.
“Me too, Michigan.”
His ears go a little red. “Don’t call me that.”
“Oh? I thought you liked when I objectify you by state.”
“I like it slightly less when it happens in front of a rest stop attendant while you’re holding beef jerky and winking at me. And when it's the wrong state."
You smirk. “Not my fault you were born with that jawline and a humiliation kink.”
Clark coughs through a laugh. “God help me.”
He reaches across the console, dragging his thumb lightly over the inside of your wrist. The same spot he kissed that night. The one you think might still hum a little under your skin.
You let your head fall against his shoulder, smile tucked into your cheek.
“Wake me when we’re ten minutes out?”
“You sure?” he murmurs, already lowering the volume on the radio.
“Mhm.” You close your eyes. “I gotta mentally prepare myself for the scarecrow photos.”
You feel the press of his lips against your knuckles. Gentle. Familiar.
“You’re gonna be fine,” he says. “They love you, you know that. I do too."
Description: When Clark gets poisoned with sex pollen, he tries everything in his power to stay away from you. Until he ends up crashing into your living room, and you have a god on his knees, with your name in his mouth and your body at his will.
Tags/warnings: smut, established relationship, clark is sorry, he gets freaky with his powers, consent kink, breaks you and worships you at the same time, begging, praising, hovering (yes hovering👀), so much dirty talk (he’s feral but sweet), overstimulation.
Note: Guess who watched superman today and got a new man to obsess about🙂↕️ honestly I don’t even know what took over me when I wrote this but all I can say is go ahead, live your best life and enjoy the sweet filth 🫶🏼
archive / masterlist
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You wake up with a loud crash coming from your living room. You jolt upright from your bed as you hear glass shatter, sprinting toward the noise. You curse as your body, only covered by Clark’s giant shirt, gets hit with the crisp midnight air as wind gushed through your apartment like a hurricane just passed by.
A figure stood where your glass door used to be, leaning weakly on what was left of the frame. You turned on the lamp next to you, illuminating your boyfriend’s stumbling body.
“Clark!?” you exclaim, confused by his abrupt arrival.
He doesn’t look up, just stands there against the frame, chest heaving, fists clenched. Like he is barely holding himself together.
Worry washes your features, something must be really wrong. You start making way over to him, but as soon as you take a step forward he puts a warning hand in front of him.
“Stop! Don’t move,” his deep voice comes out strangled, like he’s been screaming for hours. “Don’t come closer… please. Just–just stay there.”
He keeps his hand up to stop you, panting heavily as he swallowed to try to soothe his dry throat. He slowly looks up, and groans when he meets your eyes. His pupils are blown wide, dry lips parted, his breath ragged like he’s been flying across the globe. His usually perfect wavy hair is now flat, messy, sticking to his sweaty forehead.
“I didn’t want to come here,” he whines. “I–I didn’t want you to see me like this.”
“What happened to you?” You ask from your spot, fighting the urge to run to his aid.
“I’ve been infected,” he chokes out, and your brows furrow more. “Some kind of … alien pollen. It hit me out there. I flew straight into it and fuck ... It’s messing with my head, my body, I…”
He suddenly turns away, pacing in small frantic circles on your balcony like he’s trying to shake something off. His hands tremble as he fights to not make eye contact, like just looking at you hurts.
“What do you need? D-do you have the antidote?” You ask, scared as hell. He never acts like this.
He just shakes his head first with a bitter laugh, only to nod frantically afterwards.
God, if only you knew.
“I tried to wait it out,” he groans, fists now in his hair. “I swear I did, my love, I locked myself away for hours … tried to fly as far as I could but I kept turning back because I could smell you.”
Your breath catches in your throat, somehow understanding what this was about.
“I can smell you, sweetheart. Even from across the city … I can hear you breathing … your heartbeat. I didn’t want to hurt you but right now I have you in front of me and I can see–dammit … I’m sorry–“
He stumbles backward like he’s ashamed of himself, like he can’t even look at you.
“You know can’t turn it off,” he whispers. “I never mean to look, I swear, but I can see you now. Everything.”
Of course you know what he means. You know he can see right past his giant shirt covering your body. And the guilt on his face is gutting. He looks like he’s trying to claw his own powers out of his skin.
“Clark… it’s okay. You don’t have to explain, ”you step forward, slowly, gently. “It’s not like we haven’t–“
“No you don’t get it!” He snaps, his voice booming through your walls so loud you were sure everyone on the block heard him. He instantly feels worse with the way you flinched to his volume. “S-sorry darling … you just don’t get it … you have no idea what it’s like to smell you and know how soft you are, how warm. My instincts are going crazy. I just need to be inside you … I need to touch you, mark you, fill you up until I can’t think straight,” he just rambles, eyes raking through your body.
You take a deep breath, his words making you clench your thighs together and he noticed. Of course you’ve had sex before. You know what he sounds like when he’s needy. But this? This is feral. You’ve never seen him like this.
But you’re willing to do anything to help him. Always.
“Clark… you don’t even have to ask,” you speak softly, your own eyes darkening with desire.
He shakes his head. You don’t even understand the amount of restraint he’s having right now.
“I do … I always do. Especially now. Because I’m not going to touch you like I should. I’m not going to make it about you. I’m going to use you. Because you’re the only one who can fix me … you are the antidote and I hate it. I hate that I can’t even think straight unless I’m inside you … I need you so bad, darling, I’m shaking–“ He cries, an actual tear comes out his desperate eyes.
You’re watching a god fall apart in front of you.
Because of you.
You finally cross the space left, and he doesn’t stop you this time. You grab his face between your hands, and kiss him without hesitation. His arms immediately cling to your frame, cold hands slipping under your shirt to roam every inch of your warm skin.
You moan into his lips, when you taste the salty tears on his face. His hands land on your ass, and he squeezes hard, bruising, making you squeal. He immediately pulls back, apologizing. Like he still can’t let himself go.
“I love you, I’m sorry–” he blurts out immediately, hands soothing the skin he pinched while he fought the urge to do it again, harder. “God I love you … and I would never hurt you. Never. I swore I’d never touch you like this. Unless you asked me to. Unless you wanted me to. So please … tell me you want this too. Say yes, or I’ll leave. I swear I will.”
He nods, frantically, like he’s trying to convince himself more than he’s trying to convince you.
“I’ll leave if you tell me to,” he breathes. “I’ll fly through a mountain. I’ll bury myself in the ocean. Just don’t say yes unless you want this. I’m barely holding on– if you say it, I won’t be able to stop.”
You want him. God you always want him.
The way he keeps asking makes you want him even more. Even if he’s not your Clark now. Even if he won’t take care of you like he always does. Even if you can’t breathe or move after. Because you love him too.
“I want it,” you whisper against his lips, nodding. “I want you. You need me? Use me. Take all you want … I can take it.”
It’s over.
The moment you say yes there’s no going back. He lunges forward, tightening his grip on you as he lifts you off the ground to fly you towards the wall, knocking the lamp when your back hit the wall, leaving you both in complete darkness. Only the moonlight left to shine over his hungry eyes.
His massive hand cradles the back of your head to protect it from the hit, while the other tears off your shirt like he needs your skin on his or he’ll die. Your panties don’t even last two seconds before they fly away too.
His lips hit yours. Tongue desperate, hands everywhere, so large, so shaky, everywhere at once. He groans into your mouth like a man dying of thirst finally tasting water.
“Thank you,” he gasps between kisses. “Thank you sweetheart … I’m so sorry I can’t help you first … but I need you … I need to feel you inside, please just let me…”
He knows it hurts you when he doesn’t prepare you properly, when he doesn’t make you cum at least twice on his fingers before he fucks you …but he can’t right now. Not when he can smell how soaked you are already, not when he swears it’s dripping on the carpet.
“Do it,” you pant, hungry for him. “Clark just do it … please.”
He doubts only for a second, and then without thinking he rips the suit. Literally tears it at the waist, tugging it to get rid of it completely. He’ll care about that later.
Right now he is just muscle in front of you.
His painful cock springs up, and he presses himself to you with a wet slap, your back hitting the wall again. Your pussy throbs at how impossibly huge he is over your stomach.
You’ve had him before. You’ve barely made it. You still want him to rearrange your guts.
“Feel that?” he groans. “That’s what you do to me, that’s what’s been driving me insane all day, darling.”
He’s not even pretending anymore, his cock is throbbing, massive, already leaking. He aligns himself between your soaked folds, rutting the tip against your pussy a few times like he’s lost control of his body entirely. You moan at the friction. Every nerve ending screaming.
You know he’s gonna wreck you. You weren’t ready. But at the same time you’ve never been more ready.
He grabs your thigh and lifts it against the wall, before whispering against your lips. “I’m sorry…”
He pushes his hips forward, and when he finally slides home with a snap … raw, hard, you let out a strangled scream.
One long, broken sound, high pitched and helpless, because he stretches you brutally, all at once, bottoming out with a growl. An actual growl. Like he finally felt some type of relief since he got hit with the pollen.
You fight back a cry, lunging forward to bite his shoulder. He starts fucking you into the wall as he whispers ‘I love you’ ‘thank you’ ‘sorry’ like some sort of chant. Like it’s the only thing keeping him rooted to the version of him that is still careful with you when you have sex.
Your breath leaves you in a gasp, your bare back against the cold plaster, legs around his waist, and arms clinging to his biceps for dear life. All you can do is moan as you get adjusted to his unfairly thick cock slamming in and out of you.
“Just like that … you’re taking me so well,” he pants. “You can do it, sweetheart … you’re doing so good … fuck, you were made for this … made for me.”
His hands grip your thighs. He fucks you like he’s possessed, no rhythm, no thought into it, just deep, hard thrusts that hit something devastating every time, shaking the wall with every slam of his hips.
And the whole time, he keeps whimpering into your neck.
“I love you … I’m sorry … I love you …I’m gonna ruin you …I need it…”
You think you’re about to white out when the room starts moving, but you quickly realize what’s happening.
He’s lifting your bodies off the ground.
Still fucking you.
Going up as much as your ceiling allowed him too. He pins you high on the wall when his head touches the roof, like gravity doesn’t apply anymore. It never does, not to you, not to him.
So now you’re fucking hovering. Literally. Unable to do anything but take it.
And you feel him like never before. A complete moaning mess. Nails dragging down his back, mouth open in shock as you look down to the floor. Your whole body is a live wire, and he’s fucking you like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.
His cock twitches inside you. He’s already close. Has been since he walked through that window. But he’s holding it, fighting it, because he needs to stay inside. Needs to keep taking. You can’t.
“Fuck Clark … I’m gonna–“
“Yes? do it … darling please, you’re doing so well. I’ve got you … cum all over this cock baby I got you.”
Your body breaks before you can breathe. Your first climax of the night hits hard, clenching down on him, while you pant into his chest. Your whole body goes limp and he feels it.
He fucks you through it. Rough thrusts with his hand stroking your back and the other wrapped under your thighs. He keeps thanking you as his cock splits you open over and over.
“I wanna give you everything,” he groans, voice cracking. “Fill you up, stuff you full of me … Can I? Please? Let me finish inside you …. let me have you–“
“Yes, yes, fill me up,” you blurt out, still seeing stars.
He slams in once more and chokes, hips locked, whole body shuddering as he comes with a moan so broken it feels like it came from his soul. He shakes as he fills you, mouth pressed to your neck.
He doesn’t pull out yet. He holds you there, trembling, pressed against the wall like he knows you’ll fall if he loosens his grip.
Even after the first wave passes, after the groans, the shaking, the desperate I love you’s, he holds you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this planet.
“…Are you okay?”
You just nod, breathless, a blissed out smile in your face. He smiles too. And then, slowly, he lowers you back down to the floor.
But he’s not soft for long. He doesn’t even give you a minute to recover. He can’t. The second round starts before the first one even finishes sinking in.
You’re still trembling in his arms, leaking down your thighs, whimpering his name into the crook of his neck. And he’s still inside you. Still painfully hard.
Still needing you.
“One more, please. Just–just one more,” he begs. “Let me have you again. Please, darling I need it.”
“Take it Clark, take all you need,” you nod, absolutely wrecked.
But what’s a few more rounds with your unearthly strong boyfriend?
He melts.
You usually go multiple rounds, but he’s softer, he gives you downtime, even brings you water in between orgasms. But right now he can’t believe the way he fucked you and you still let him have more. But he needs more. The pollen is fogging his brain.
He finally pulls out, just to set you down on the floor. The second your back hits the rug, he’s on top of you again. And god he’s heavy. Solid. He doesn’t even hold his weight like he usually does because all he’s thinking about is fucking you senseless.
He buries himself deep again, groaning, cursing under his breath. You close your eyes, nails digging the carpet, back arching when you feel him deeper from this angle. You pant small whines from the feeling.
“Shhh … don’t–“ he coos, he wants to be slow, but he can’t. His hips snap hard without even thinking. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart … so good for me… just need one more.”
You know it’s not just one more. And he fucking knows that too.
None of you cares.
“You’re so wet … so perfect” he groans, the filthy sound gushing loudly every time he thrusted. “I didn’t even give you time to come down … didn’t even let you breathe and you still take me so well”
He praises. Worships. He looks down to where your bodies meet, and he sees right through your skin. He can see his huge cock filling you with every thrust. He can see your walls clenching around him. And he looses it.
You’re suddenly running out of air when he presses his chest to yours, pining you tighter to the floor with his body as he pushes harder. And you feel all of him. The broadness of his chest against your ribs. The strain of his thighs bracketing yours. His cock still buried deep, rock hard.
You hit his bicep with your hand first, but he’s not paying attention, he’s too caught up on the way your pussy takes him to notice.
It’s not smooth. Not rhythmic. Just sharp, ragged thrusts that hit you so hard your body jerks on impact, tits bouncing, nails clawing at his back as he crushes you into the floor with every rut of his hips.
Your head starts spinning.
“Clark,” you choke out, hitting his bicep again. “I can’t–can’t breathe…”
His head finally snaps at you, eyes going wide. He lifts up a bit, but he doesn’t pull out, he just … can’t.
You finally gasp for air as he shushes you softly, tucking away the hair sticking to your sweaty forehead.
“I’m sorry … I can’t … can’t stop. I tried, I swear I tried,” his forehead presses to yours, without crushing you alive this time.
His hips don’t stop moving. You pant between moans. You’re close again, you can feel it.
“It’s okay, you’re just … you’re so big …so heavy.”
“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I’m sorry, I know. I just … I don’t want to let you go–”
“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t let me go.”
His expression breaks. Because he knows. And you know. He’s not really letting you go. Not all the way. He’s still pressing his weight into you, even as he tries not to. Because he needs to. Because letting go means losing you, even just for a second.
He doesn’t know what takes over him, he grabs your hands and pins them above your head. Watching you sob, moan, eyes rolling back, skin already bruising in multiple places by his grip. He’s not like this. He should be apologizing. Begging. But you just feel so damn good.
And you like it, god you love it.
“I–I love it when you fuck me like this,” you confess, voice barely above a whisper, dumb smile on your face as he hits that spot repeatedly. “I just- I can’t…”
“I know darling, I know … just a little more,” he groans. “One more please. You can take it …you’re doing so good.” He soothes, but he can’t slow down, not when you’re clenching him like that.
He picks up the pace.
“C-Clark … please, I’m gonna-“
“I’ve got you, darling …I’ve got you, let yourself go for me.”
You see white this time. You’re not even moaning anymore. Just gasping. Twitching. Letting him take what he needs because you want to. Because this is Clark, your Clark, and you’d give him your whole body a thousand times if he needed it.
And he does.
He fucks you like you’re his last breath.
Even after you’re wrecked, limp, twitching … he keeps going.
You don’t even remember the next time he finishes. Or the time after that. Or where it happened. Your body is a mess, trembling and raw and wet and full. Marked. Praised.
All while he keeps saying, “Just one more … just let me stay inside you a little longer… please sweetheart, I’m still hard I know you can take it … this is the last time I promise…”
Again and again. You’ve never heard him lie so much before.
Yet still, with your hair splayed, legs shaking, literal tears leaking from the corners of your eyes from the pleasure, the pain, the strain, the goddamn pollen he pumps into your body every time he comes…
You are having the time of your life being drunk on his cock.
“Fuck me harder.”
You beg, even when you can’t feel it anymore. Maybe that’s why you need it harder … deeper.
And because you knew that once he came back to normal he wouldn’t fuck you like this again. And he makes sure to let you know.
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry I’m hurting you. I just need you so fucking much … I love you I love you I love you—”
You just nod, because it hurts embarrassingly good.
You lose count of how many times he comes in total. How many times you come. You only know time’s passed when the sky starts to lighten outside your broken window, and Clark is rocking into you so slowly it’s more like he’s just holding you in place, his mouth pressed to your shoulder, whispering thank you with every lazy thrust.
By the time he finally slows down, finally wears the substance out of his body after dumping it all inside you … you can’t move. You’re limp in his arms, boneless and dripping and his.
Your bed feels incredibly soft in contrast to all the spots he fucked you on last night.
You’re draped across his chest, tracing the muscles under his bare skin. His fingers are in your hair. Barely moving, just tracing small patterns. Soothing you like he didn’t cause all the pain in your body.
You’re still trembling a little. Just from… after. Your body’s still echoing with everything he gave you. Everything he took.
Worth it.
Clark kisses your temple. He hasn’t stopped kissing you every few minutes. It’s like he’s trying to apologize without saying it. Like he’s trying to prove that he’s still the man you love, the man who flinches when he bumps your head by accident, who picks you flowers and gets flustered when you kiss him in public. The one who always put you first in bed.
Not the one who just broke the sound barrier flying to your apartment because his cock told him to.
“…I broke your window,” he finally breaks the silence, a chuckle makes his chest vibrate against your ear.
“Clark … you broke a lot more than my window.”
You both start giggling … glowing. Your throat hurts, you’re sore, probably can’t even walk today or the whole week, and somehow, it feels like the safest place on Earth.
“I love you,” he whispers. “So much.”
“I know,” you whisper back. “You said it like 87 times while destroying me.”
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I created a blog dedicated to Superman, where I’ll be posting my writing for him from now on 🫶🏼 so if you wanna check it out, go to -> @404superman
Feedback and sharing is always appreciated, thank you so much for reading <3
The first nine chapters of Freely Given are now up on AO3!
Nell, a nurse from Chicago, has lived her life by careful plans and quiet routines—until a chance meeting on a train introduces her to Morpheus, the Dream of the Endless. What begins as a strange dream or two grows into something more: fleeting moments in libraries not of this world, glimpses of the cosmic in the everyday, and a connection neither quite understands but neither wants to lose.
From awkward first meetings and dry wit to dream libraries, gentle honesty, and an Endless trying (and failing) to blend in, this is a slow-burn exploration of choice, connection, and what it means to truly be seen.
“You are not a disaster,” he said quietly, his formal cadence softening despite himself.
“The fault was mine. I was… elsewhere.”
If you like found family, emotional awkwardness, and romance that unfolds between dream and waking, I’d love for you to give this one a read.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Summary: Marcus made a vow. And he won't stop, til death.
Pairing: General Marcus Acacius x F!Reader (No name, confirmed age, ethnicity or physical description of reader. It’s you, bub.)
Word Count: 6k
Scoville Smut Rating:🌶️🌶️🌶️ “You tell me I’m doing well, and then, you try to kill me.”
Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.
Warnings/Triggers: Unprotected PIV (wrap up, folks!)/blood & wounds/fighting/mentions of death/that breast plate/Marcus isn't a gentle man/probably loads of historical inaccuracies, but fuck it, we ball/the name of the village is made up. The rest are real places/Marcus uses a Latin pet name for Reader.
NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ.☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.
I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.
Author’s Note: Yeah. Do I even need to explain this? Hoo boy... 🫠
MAIN MASTERLIST | MARCUS ACACIUS MASTERLIST
Enjoy! 🖤
The thunderous hooves on the ground pelt with speed, each beat a desperate drum echoing through the fertile plains.
Gritting his teeth, Acacius blazes ahead of his men, driven by a singular, burning need to reach his home.
Located a few miles north of Capua, nestled in the lush expanse of Campania, near the banks of the Volturno River, lies the small village of Pons Agrorum. His village - and it's on fire.
Smoke billows into the sky, black and thick, casting a dark pall over the once serene landscape. The scent of burning wood and crops assaults his senses as he nears, the heat of the flames palpable even from a distance.
Shouts and screams reach his ears, the cries of his people caught in the chaos.
His heart races, a foreboding drumbeat of fear and fury. The flames lick at the thatched roofs, reducing homes to ashes.
Villagers run in all directions, some attempting to douse the fires with buckets of water drawn from the Volturno, others fleeing in terror with what little they can carry.
The livestock, panicked by the inferno, add to the cacophony with their frantic bleating and lowing.
He charges into the heart of the village, his men following closely behind.
"To the wells!" he commands, his voice a deep bark of authority. "Form a chain and get water to the fires! Save who you can!"
Leaping from his horse, he scans the burning village, his eyes searching for familiar faces, particularly one - yours.
"Where is she?!" he roars, grabbing a passing villager by the shoulders, shaking him for answers.
The man, eyes wide with terror and face smeared with soot, stammers incoherently, too shaken to provide a coherent response.
"General," another voice cuts through the chaos. He turns to see his trusted lieutenant, a grim determination etched on his face. "We'll find her. Lead your men. We'll find her."
Acacius nods, reluctantly releasing the terrified villager. His duty to his people and his need to find you pull him in opposing directions, but he knows he must act.
With a last, desperate glance toward the heart of the flames, he joins his men in their frantic efforts to save what remains of Pons Agrorum.
Buckets of water pass hand-to-hand in a desperate bid to quell the fire, the villagers and soldiers working side-by-side. He barks orders, his voice hoarse from the smoke, but his mind is never far from you.
Each time he catches sight of a ghostly figure through the haze, his heart leaps with hope, only to crash into despair when it isn’t you.
Amid the chaos, the village elder approaches, his face etched with cinder and worry.
"General, the fires - they started too suddenly. Too strategically. This was no accident."
Acacius’s blood runs cold at the implication, his fist tightening around the handle of his sword sheathed on his hip until it blisters.
"An attack? Who would dare?"
"Enemies of Rome, or enemies of yours," the elder replies gravely. “We were unprepared.”
“We must save the village." Acacius declares.
"No, General, it’s gone.” The elder affirms ruefully.
He knows the man is right, it's too late. It’s all gone.
“Get to the river, we have men there waiting." Acacius’s voice is firm, unwavering, a command that brooks no argument.
The flames rage around them, consuming everything in their path. The village of Pons Agrorum, once a tranquil, farming haven, is now a hellscape of roaring fire and falling timbers.
The smell of smoke and burning wood fills the air, mixing with the acrid stench of charred flesh from those who couldn’t escape the attack.
"But General!" his lieutenant protests, desperation in his eyes. The younger man looks around at the chaos, the villagers' panicked faces, and the menacing wall of fire advancing on them. "We can't just leave it to burn!"
"I said away!" the General bellows, his voice cutting through the clamour like a blade.
There is no time for sentiment, no time for debate. The village is lost, but its people can still be saved. General Acacius mounts his horse, his face a mask of grim determination.
He spurs his steed into a gallop, heading straight through the flames. His heart pounds in his chest with urgency. The heat is intense, searing his exposed skin on his arms and legs. He leans low over his horse's neck, urging it forward with all the speed it can muster.
The flames leap and dance, a chaotic ballet of destruction. Sparks fly, and the air is thick with choking ash. He navigates the narrow lanes of the village, his eyes scanning for any sign of survivors, for any trace of you.
He has to find you, and he will. One way or another.
His mind is a whirl of thoughts - memories of happier times, fears of what he might find, and the relentless drive to keep moving forward.
A burning beam crashes down ahead, sending a shower of embers into the air. The horse rears, and the General pulls hard on the reins, guiding it harshly around the obstacle.
The animal's hooves strike the ground with a furious rhythm, each beat a testament to its strength and endurance.
As he rides, he shouts to those he passes, "Get to safety! Head to the river! Now!" His chest wheezes from the smoke, but he forces the words out, knowing they’re the villagers' best chance of survival. Some are already moving in that direction, helping the elderly and the children.
He reaches the heart of the village, where the flames are fiercest. His home - or what was once his home - is a blazing pyre just beyond it, the roof collapsing in a shower of sparks. His eyes scan the area desperately.
He yells your name over and over, a relentless howl as he circles, panic sweeping through him that you could be in there.
A figure stumbles from the smoke, a young boy, coughing and covered in ash. The General swings down from his horse, rushing to the child's side.
"Where is she, boy?" he demands, recognising the boy as one of your learned students. Kneeling to his level, Acacius’s eyes are intense and pleading. “Tell me!”
"I-I don't know, General," the boy stammers, tears cutting paths through the grime on his face. "She was here, b-but then... the fire... everyone scattered. They came so quickly."
Acacius’s heart sinks, but he can't afford to give in to despair. He lifts the boy onto the horse.
"Hold on tight," he instructs, his voice gentler now. "Ride to the river, stay with the others. Go!"
He gives the horse a slap on the flank, sending it galloping away with the boy clinging to its mane. Turning back to the inferno, he squares his shoulders, ready to plunge back into the fray.
He cannot rest until he knows your fate, cannot stop until he’s done everything in his power to find you. He won’t stop til death.
The chaos of the burning village surrounds him, a relentless roar of flames and the cries of panicked villagers. In the midst of the smoke, he suddenly hears something piercing through the clamour - the fierce howls and screeches of combat.
The sound is unmistakable, a brutal clash of steel and the raw, guttural noises of a struggle.
His heart skips a beat as he follows the cacophony, pushing through the thick, choking veil that swirls around him. With his sword drawn, every instinct on high alert, he navigates the smoky haze with grim determination.
Through the blur of smog and flame, he catches sight of you, finally. All the tendons in his body unfurl like opening petals welcoming the rain, and for a moment, he can breathe clearly. You stand at the centre of a small clearing, the fire creating an eerie backdrop around you.
The smoke billows and shifts, casting strange, flickering shadows. You wield your sword with a grace and ferocity that seems almost otherworldly, reminiscent of the Goddess Minerva herself.
Your movements are wild and untamed like a jackal, a fierce dance of survival as you battle not one, but two soldiers who are attacking you relentlessly.
He recognizes your stubbornness, your refusal to abandon the village even as it burns around you. It’s exactly like you to stay and fight, to stand against overwhelming odds even if they’re stacked against you.
But you’re lithe in your taunting, your strikes purposeful and determined. He almost pities the men as they face off against your blazing emanation, but then Acacius strides forward, the smoke and heat singeing the hairs on his skin barely registering against the single-minded drive that propels him toward you.
With a powerful thrust, he drives his steel into the nearest soldier, the blade cutting through sticky flesh with a sickening ease. The man crumples to the ground, his own battle ended swiftly. Without hesitation, he grabs you by the arm, swinging you around to face him.
His eyes, fierce and determined, meet yours through the smoky veil.
Your eyes, once glowing with the fire of combat, soften with relief as they lock with his. For a fleeting moment, amidst the chaos and destruction, there is a brief, profound connection.
Your voice is barely a whisper, but it carries a world of emotion.
"Marcus..."
His name on your lips is both a balm and a torment, a reminder of everything that has been lost and everything that still remains.
Without another word, or tearing his eyes from yours, he lunges forward, driving his sword into the abdomen of the remaining soldier coming up behind you, with a swift, decisive motion. The man falls, defeated.
“Took you long enough,” you gasp, unable to comprehend that he’s really here and not an apparition of some madness that’s gripped you.
In the next breath, Marcus pulls you close. His giant hands cradle your face, his touch a mix of desperation and longing.
Time seems to slow as he closes the gap between you, his lips crashing onto yours in a fierce, passionate tussle. The flames around you, the smoke, the cries of the dying village - all fade into the background.
You respond with equal passion, your hands gripping his broad shoulders as if to anchor yourself to this moment, your tongue sliding into his mouth as both your swords clatter to the ground forgotten.
“Did you think me dead, amata?” (Beloved) He husks, mouth sweeping against yours.
“No. You’re far too stubborn for that.” You smirk.
The urgency in his grip is unmistakable, his hand firmly wrapped around yours. The village is a discord of chaos as more enemy soldiers, their armour clanking and boots pounding, charge toward the burning settlement.
The air is stifling now with more smoke of destruction, and the ground beneath your feet seems to tremble with each approaching step.
“Come, we have to go!” He hisses urgently at you.
Scooping up your swords, you flee together, his grip ironclad around your hand. Acacius practically drags you along, your feet barely touching the stone as he hurries you through the tumultuous grounds.
The flames cast a hellish glow, illuminating the desperation in his obsidian eyes and the grim determination etched into his weathered features.
The path to the river is a winding one, filled with the frantic movements of fleeing villagers. You stumble and almost fall several times, but he never loosens his hold.
The escape route is treacherous, fraught with the dangers of both the fire and the encroaching soldiers. Yet, despite the overwhelming circumstances, his focus remains unwavering.
Finally, you reach the riverbank where a small flotilla of boats is waiting. The boats, hastily prepared and overcrowded, bob nervously in the water. The surviving villagers are already aboard, their faces ashen and anxious as they glance nervously over their shoulders.
Acacius guides you to step on board before helping to push the boat out into the water with his men.
He wades through the shallows and jumps in when the oars pick up the slack.
The sound of splashing and the murmur of worried voices fill the air as the boats begin to glide away faster from the shore, and you take one last look at your home, burnt entirely to the ground.
Later, as night falls and the river’s calm offers a fleeting sense of respite, you find yourselves miles away on the riverbank, isolated from the immediate danger, but far from safe.
Acacius sits hunched over a small fire, its flickering light casting long shadows across his face. A small encampment has been erected, more of his men gathering and tending to the villagers.
Marcus has completed several rounds of the camp, ensuring that his men are attending to the needs of everyone's safety and managing the logistical bedlam that follows such a disaster.
Now, he sits alone, slightly apart from the activity.
His posture is rigid, weighted with the gravity of the night’s events. The once fiery intensity of his gaze has turned to a sombre focus as he stares out at the tiny flames. Thick eyebrows pulled together in a long, contemplative frown.
Your dress is in tatters, dirty and stained with blood, though you’re certain it’s not your own. The blood, dark and drying, mingles with the smoky grime that covers your skin.
You sit beside him, exhausted and bruised. He looks equally worse for wear: filthy, reeking of sweat, blood, and charcoal, the aftermath etched into every line of his face.
He looks at you with a dark, brooding intensity, his eyes catching the firelight as he asks in a low, ominous voice, “Who was it?”
You shift uncomfortably, the weight of the truth heavy on your shoulders.
“Paladias,” you finally admit, the name carrying a sharp edge of pain and fear. “Revenge, for the death of his son, by your sword in Rome.”
The name elicits a visible reaction from him; his nostrils flare, his jaw tightens. Anger and determination flash across his aquiline face.
“I swear by this night, I will kill him. I will end his bloodline,” he vows, the words coming out with a fierce, snarled conviction.
You reach out and place a hand on his sculpted shoulder, trying to calm the storm of rage that seems to be brewing inside him.
“You will,” you agree, your voice soft but firm. “You will make him suffer. It will be slow, legendary. But not tonight. You need to rest, Marcus. Your victory in Rome has exhausted you.”
He looks at you, golden embers reflecting in his weary eyes, and for a moment, the anger is tempered by a flicker of doubt and fatigue. The realisation that revenge will have to wait settles in, if only because survival demands it.
His shoulders slump slightly, and he nods, the anger momentarily giving way to a need for rest, to gather himself - to plot with a clear head.
The fire crackles softly as the night grows darker. The two of you sit in silence, the only sounds from the occasional crackle of the fire and the distant murmurs of the river’s gentle lapping against the boats.
You collect water in a small clay bowl as Marcus heads inside the tent. The water is cool and clear, a stark contrast to the heat and grime of the day.
You tear at the hem of your dress, the fabric giving way easily under your determined fingers. The strip of cloth is rough and uneven, but it will serve its purpose.
You join him inside and you soak the torn fabric in the water, watching as it darkens and absorbs the liquid. The coolness of the water seeps into the cloth, and you wring it out slightly before turning to Marcus.
He sits quietly, his back against the camp bed, his eyes following your movements with a mixture of gratitude and exhaustion.
“Let me see,” you say softly, your voice barely more than a whisper in the hushed silence of the shelter.
He shifts slightly, allowing you better access to the wounds that still mar and weep on his skin, fresh from his fight only a few days ago in the capital.
“You need not fuss. They’ll heal.” He says.
“Let me.” You insist.
Gently, you press the damp cloth against a particularly nasty cut on his bicep. He winces slightly, but doesn’t pull away. The water cleanses the wound, washing away the dirt and dried blood.
You work methodically, moving from one injury to the next, the cool cloth providing some relief from the pain.
When you finally finish, the bowl of water is murky with crimson and dirt, the cloth stained and tattered. You sit back, surveying your work.
The wounds are clean now, and though they still look painful, you know that you’ve done what you can to help them seal over.
Marcus reaches out, his fingers brushing against your cheek.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. His touch is gentle, a stark contrast to the hardness of his warrior exterior.
"Take this off," you say softly, your fingers brushing over the rough surface of his breastplate.
The metal is cool to the touch, juxtaposed to the heat of his bronzed skin beneath. He looks at you, a silent question in his eyes, but he complies without a word. His hands move to the buckles, undoing them with simple ease.
The breastplate comes away with a soft clink, revealing the expanse of his stacked chest.
His skin is dirty, smudged with soot and streaked with dried sweat. The muscles beneath are taut and well-defined, if not a little paunchy around his waist; a testament to the countless battles he’s fought and the rigorous training he endures to stay sharp.
The sheen of sweat catches the dim light, highlighting every ridge and contour.
With the barrier of armour removed, he seems more vulnerable, the weight of the day’s events sinking into the tension in his body.
You reach for the bowl of water again, soaking the cloth anew, and gently press it to his chest, wiping away the grime.
Marcus flinches slightly at the initial contact, the coolness of the water a slight shock to the heat of his skin, yet a welcome reprieve. But he soon relaxes, letting out a slow breath as you work.
Your fingers glide through his hair. Wisps of ash fall from the curls, delicate particles that highlight the toll of the fire and the stress of battle. His hair, usually a rich, commanding chestnut shade, is now streaked with a darker mercury at his temples
He looks tired, a weariness etched deeply into the lines of his face. Despite the fatigue that clings to him, there remains a savage spark in his eyes, a reminder of the undying spirit that drives him.
He fights with the unyielding energy of a young buck, each movement a blend of seasoned skill and determined resolve.
But you notice the subtle signs of his ageing and exhaustion - the slight creaking in his knees as he moves, the faint groans that escape him when he stands or shifts, and the way he clutches his back with a grimace of pain.
These unspoken signals speak volumes about his condition that was once peak. He’s a warrior whose strength and resilience are still formidable, but the relentless pace of battle and the burden of command are taking their toll.
As you continue to tend to him, the weight of these observations brings a poignant clarity. He’s a man who has dedicated his life to the fight, who has borne the brunt and weight of leadership that you’re certain he never sought, even if he never admits it.
Yet, the toll of his experiences are becoming more apparent, underscoring a reality that he cannot escape.
Marcus soon stops your ministrations, your hand captured inside his large palm against his chest. You feel the thrum of his steady heartbeat under your fingertips.
He breaks the stillness with a soft, almost reflective tone. "You stood your ground."
You look at him, the light of the outside fire dancing dreamily in your eyes at him, just as you did wielding that sword earlier in the village.
A small, weary smile tugs at the corners of your lips. "I was taught by the best," you reply, your voice tinged with both pride and mirth. "Til death," you add, your voice firm and resolute.
He holds your gaze, his expression softening with a mixture of admiration and affection.
"Til death," he echoes, the words carrying a deep resonance between you as he squeezes your hand.
You remember the first time he taught you to wield a sword. It was a hot, dusty afternoon, the kind where the sun beat down relentlessly and the air shimmered with heat.
The sword had felt impossibly heavy in your hands, the weight of it pulling your arm down despite your best efforts.
Your laughter had echoed through the training grounds, light and carefree, a jubilant divergence to the seriousness of the task at hand. The sword had clanged to the stone cobble, and you’d laughed even harder, your arm shaking from the effort.
He’d smiled at you, a rare softness in his eyes, before stepping behind you. With his arms on yours, he guided your movements, his presence solid and reassuring.
Pressed up tightly behind you, you twisted your body as you swung it through the air, his voice a steady murmur in your ear, instructing, encouraging - distracting.
It took months of practice for you to move with the sword alone, to glide with it as if it were an extension of your own body. The training was gruelling, each jab and thrust demanding more precision and strength. But under his tutelage, you improved, slowly but surely.
He was patient, yet firm, pushing you to your limits and beyond. Knowing you could take everything he had to impart, for your life depended on it.
The day he took you on in earnest, you knew it was a turning point. Marcus came at you with his sword, his strikes swift and sure. When the blade nicked your arm and drew blood, it was a wake-up call, a sharp reminder of the seriousness of the lessons.
You had to know how to protect yourself from men like him - skilled, determined and relentless.
But you also knew that he was not like all men.
Under the armour and leather, the battle cries and the claret splashed across his face, he was a different man. Soft and pliant, he had a way of moulding himself around you, submitting to your touch.
He had made it clear that his heart was yours, and in return, yours was his. It was this bond that kept him going through the battles, through the gruelling spars in the roaring amphitheatres, and the endless marches to claim territories for gilded leaders he didn’t care much for.
Emerging victorious wasn't just about glory or duty; it was about returning to you.
Each time he went to war, the thought of you waiting for him kept him strong, gave him the resolve to fight with every ounce of his being.
You guided his sword with every swing. You brokered his clever and swift steps, whispered the resolve he needed in his ear to get up off the floor, spit out the blood and to keep fighting.
And each time he returned, it was with the unyielding determination to hold you in his arms again.
He would never stop, never relent, not until death took him. That was his vow to you, then and forever. And even then, he’d promised he would still find you in the afterlife.
Marcus leans in and presses a kiss onto your lips, the taste of dried blood mingling with the salt of grime and dust.
His tongue, warm and wet, fills your mouth as he tastes you, a mixture of urgency and intimacy in each tender caress.
"Touch me," you whimper against his lips, your voice a desperate plea in the stillness of the night.
The words hang in the air between you, laden with emotion and need. His eyes, dark and richly intense, search yours for a moment in the dim glow of the fire, as if seeking permission, assurance - control.
His fingers, roughened by years of wielding a sword, move to cradle your face, his touch gentle and tender despite his hulking frame.
The warmth of his hand sends a shiver down your spine, and you lean into his palm, your eyes closing as you savour the sensation.
His thumb brushes over your cheek, wiping away a smudge of dirt.
"Please," you murmur, your lips barely an inch from his. "I need to feel you."
The proximity, the anticipation, is almost too much to bear as it increasingly throbs heavy and pinching between your legs.
“Here, in the dirt?” he questions, his voice deep and full of a hunger that needs to be satiated. “You want me to fuck you raw into the ground?”
“Yes.” You breathe, your fingers twisting around the roots of his curls.
He bends and breaks arching into the mild pain as you seize him in your grip, your want thudding all over your body that you’re certain he can hear it.
“Fuck me, Marcus,” you urge.
His lips capture yours in a kiss that is both biting and searing in its savagery. His other hand moves to your back, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between your bodies.
The kiss deepens, his tongue seeking yours, and you respond eagerly, swallowing it down.
His hands begin to grapple, pressing down your arms, gripping across your back, feeling the contours of your body. Grabbing and pawing, sending sparks of electricity through you, igniting a fire that’s been smouldering beneath the surface since he returned through the flames to you.
You arch into him, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer still.
The urgency in his movements mirrors your own. His hands travel lower, finding the hem of your dress. With a single, swift motion, he pulls the fabric up, yanking and tearing it from you.
The cool air against your bare flesh is a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his own body. You pull at his subligarium, your fingers trembling as you fumble with the leather straps. The urgency in your movements palpable, each pull and twist driven by desperation to get to him.
The skirt falls away in a rush, exposing his battered body beneath. The weariness and bruises from the recent battle are stark and raw, a visible testament to the cost of his relentless struggle.
You pause to run your fingers over an angry purple contusion on his hip above the fuzz of his pubic bone, and he looks down to follow your trail.
“Marcus…” you whimper at the sight of it.
“I’m okay, amata. I’m here.” He reassures.
Then in a snap, and a growl lodged from between his teeth, he has you beneath him with a force so quick and hard that the smack of the ground against your back winds you.
The breath is knocked from your lungs, but the pain is quickly overtaken by the raw intensity of the moment. His eyes blaze with a primal hunger, and his teeth sink into the skin of your throat, sending a jolt of both pleasure and agony through your body as he sucks the skin there.
You can feel his breath, hot and heavy, against your ear as he speaks, his voice a low growl. "You drive me mad," he whispers, the words a mix of accusation and adoration.
His grip on you is firm, almost bruising, but it's the intensity of his need that leaves you breathless.
His body presses against yours, crushing you with every inch of him, taut with restrained power. The weight of him is both grounding and electrifying, each shift and movement sending shivers of anticipation through you.
His lips find yours again, the kiss demanding, as if he’s trying to consume you, to merge your very being with his own.
You respond with equal fervour, your body arching up to meet him, your legs wrapping around his waist in an effort to bring him closer still.
The ground beneath you rubs hard and unforgiving, but it only adds to the wildness of it all as you feel the dirt stick to your skin in rough clumps. Your senses are overwhelmed - his scent, a mix of sweat and earth; the taste of his lips, salty and urgent - the feel of his muscles rippling under your touch.
His cock is already dripping when you find it, sticky in your hand as you pump the hard, swollen length - each stroke eliciting a soft groan from his lips as they curl over his teeth.
Shudders shooting down his spine as you run over the glistening head. The sensation of his arousal, hot and slick against your palm, sends a thrill through your body, heightening your own need.
His eyes, dark with desire, lock onto yours, the intensity of his gaze making your breath catch.
He leans in, capturing your lips in another searing kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth with a devout desperation. You respond eagerly, your hand continuing its pumping rhythm, feeling him throb with each motion.
With a soft growl, he breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against yours as he takes a moment to catch his breath.
"Take it," he whispers, his voice hoarse with longing.
His hand moves to your hip, gripping you firmly as he positions himself at your entrance, pooling with your own slick.
The anticipation is almost unbearable, the air thick with tension. His other hand guides his cock, aligning himself with a precision born of countless nights together.
You can feel the heat of him, the promise of what’s to come as he slides through your soaked folds.
And then, in one powerful thrust, he enters you, the suddenness and intensity drawing a cry from your lips. The feeling is overwhelming, a perfect blend of ecstasy and pinch as he stretches you wide and fills you completely.
Your body arches instinctively, a raw, visceral reaction to the primal depth of his penetration as he bottoms out.
“Fuck,” he grunts. Marcus pauses for a moment, allowing you both to savour the sensation, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your ear.
His grip on your hip tightens, fingers digging into your bones as he begins to move.
Each stroke is deliberate, powerful, driving deeper and deeper, pushing you closer to the edge with every shunt. He’s relentless, caging - feral. Unable to hold back as he growls, slamming into you.
The urgency of his movements are a wild, untamed energy that leaves no room for hesitation or retreat. You can but cling onto him.
Your hands clutch at his back, nails raking across his skin breaking it, leaving trails of jagged red welts in their wake.
Your tongues clash, the taste of him intoxicating; a reminder of everything you share, everything he takes and gives with heated passion.
His hand moves from your hip to your breast, fingers pinching your nipple, palm groping and kneading, sending jolts of pleasure through you. You scratch deeper making him hiss louder.
You tug at his hair and bite at his shoulder, until he takes your wrists and puts them above your head. His full weight presses down on them as he fucks you deeper into the ground.
His teeth leave marks in your skin, indents in your shoulders, your neck, your cheek. The scruff of his beard burns, the hook of his nose digs in below your eye socket as his hips drill into you mercilessly.
Heavy, wet slaps of his cock inside you ring out around the tent. You can feel yourself gushing around him already as he brushes up against that spot deep inside that pulls your belly tight and makes your clit ache deliciously.
It's almost unbearable the way he pulls you apart like this. How he can rip you open and climb inside your skin, blood running through the same veins that knit you together.
He releases one of your wrists, his hand moving to your waist, gripping you tightly as he positions himself. The rhythm he sets is relentless, each thrust driving you closer to the edge of oblivion.
He laves over the bite marks with his tongue as you gasp out, clutching onto him as you sense the ground shift from beneath you - the oncoming ascension of your orgasm glittering around your vision.
Marcus reaches in between your bodies and swipes his fingers across your clit. You cry out as the sparks shoot up your spine and your legs bow and tremor.
"Squeeze me, like that," he pants into your face as you grunt and mewl, sinking your grip into whatever skin you can find, scratching, biting, drawing blood.
"Fuck this cunt feels so good, amata!” he pants, his breath like warm rain against your face, drowning you.
Guiding you as you hold onto him, feeling every contour and texture of his thick cock ploughing deeper into you. A blend of urgency and need, his touch brings you to the brink of overwhelming pleasure.
“You’re almost there, give it to me!” He commands, sweat dripping down his forehead and pelting onto your chin.
It comes in relentless waves, crashing over you, leaving you dizzy and disoriented. Each surge of sensation pulls you deeper into the frenzy, an almost chaotic dance of need and desire that consumes you entirely.
“Come! Come on this fucking cock!” He growls.
With a final, powerful thrust, he pushes you over the edge fully, your body convulsing in ecstasy.
His name is a ragged cry on your lips, the sound lost in the intensity of the moment.
He follows moments later, his own release a powerful, shuddering wave of heavy, thick pumps into your swollen cunt that leaves him trembling above you.
For a long moment, you remain like that, bodies entwined, breaths mingling, hearts beating in unison as Marcus softens inside you.
The fire casts a gentle glow over you as you stroke through his hair, his cheek pressed to your breast. The warmth shared between you is a stark contrast to the cool night air seeping into the tent.
He presses a tender kiss to your forehead and you look up into his eyes. They hold a fierce, protective fire, tempered with a profound awe that’s reserved solely for you.
The same eyes that command legions and inspire fear in adversaries now soften under the weight of his love for you.
Marcus Acacius is a revered and fierce general in all of Rome, a figure so formidable that even the emperor would hold some hesitation in his presence. His reputation is one of unwavering strength and relentless, brute resolve, a warrior whose name alone can turn the tide of battles.
Yet, with you, he’s transformed - a savage, blood lusty animal tamed by the gentle force of your returned affection.
He’s killed for you and he’ll do it again, just to feel that squeeze of your pussy around his cock as you milk him dry, hear that groan of his name fall from your lips as you beg him for more.
In your presence, his ferocity is subdued, replaced by a docile tenderness that reveals a side of him that few are ever privileged to see.
His once unyielding exterior, hardened by years of conflict and command, now yields to the command of his heart as he gazes at you here beneath him in the dirt.
You're his sanctuary, the calm in the storm of his unpredictable life.
“Til death,” Marcus whispers to you.
His gaze slackens as he looks at you, and you feel the weight of his vow once more.
This man, who has fought so many battles, who has faced countless dangers, has chosen to bind his fate with yours.
You press your forehead against his and repeat it like ink under your skin.
"Til death.”
Thanks so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed this story and I'd appreciate a re-blog so others can enjoy it too. And I'd love to hear your thoughts, as always! Thankies! 🖤
MAIN MASTERLIST | MARCUS ACACIUS MASTERLIST
**This is a re-creation of my original post/story on my old deactivated blog, therefore the links on the old post will no longer work. This is the most up to date version.**
"Hands in the hair of someone named marcus" | part ii
Marcus Acacius x f!reader
previous part
Summary: the cursed blood of Geta and Caracalla runs through your veins sealing your fate. However, General Acacius is willing to fight for you and you become his most important reason to live.
w.c: 6k.
Warnings: angst, smut (if you could call it that), power imbalance, violence, fluff.
a/n: Thank you so much for the love you gave to the first part of this one (I could cry). I literally loved General Acacius so much and he deserves better and all the flowers. With this part I don't know if a third one is necessary, so I hope you like it and enjoy it! Remember, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. Happy reading. 💌
| dividers by @/saradika-graphics |
by the way, I'm working on some requests, I haven't forgotten about you. I'm just really busy. 🤞✨
“You make it sound so simple,” you murmured, your voice soft but laced with deep worry
Marcus smiled faintly, the corner of his lips lifting in a way that made your heart burst. “Love doesn’t erase chaos, my lady,” he said, his tone carrying the weight of years spent in timeless battles. “But it gives you something to dream of”
The peace you had found in Marcus words and presence, was fleeting as a storm passing by during a summer day. The soothing protections you felt under his stare was shattered the moment Geta and Caracalla noticed your absence.
Despite them not being as much loved as you by the people. Servants’ loyalty fell on them and it was a matter of time for them to find the truth intentions behind the demeanor of the beloved General Acacius.
You barely had time to breathe before the heavy doors to the villa burst open, and there they were, Geta and Caracalla, flanked by their guards. Their faces were twisted with fury, their regal demeanor replaced by a feral madness that made your blood run cold.
There you were back the palace, locking gazes with the man your brothers had promised you to. And you barely had time to breathe before there was blood was dripping from the fallen gladiator who had been won the battle in the arena.
Yours felt in your ears, the rush, the bombing and the guilt.
Your hand was a fake prize for a foolish man dreaming of his freedom. Dreaming of belonging to the most powerful family of the empire.
You were speechless, so it was Acacius who stood by your side as a personal armored guard, swearing to protect you from the cruel madness your brothers had descended into.
"Do you think I do not love you, sister?" Geta asked, with a tone that sent shivers down your spine. "I wouldn't allow a man like that to marry you" he said referring to the now lifeless gladiator laying on the floor.
Geta walked closer to you, in a swift moment he raised his hand to caress your face, but before he could even reach your skin. Marcus stepped in front of you, defying the emperor
Geta froze, his hand lingering midair as Marcus placed himself between the two of you. The tension in the air was suffocating, the once-roaring crowd now silenced by the audacity of Marcus’s actions.
"Step aside, General," Geta hissed, his voice dripping with menace, though his expression betrayed a flicker of disbelief.
Marcus met his gaze with unflinching resolve. "With all due respect, Emperor, I will not."
Geta’s eyes narrowed, his nostrils flaring as he took a step closer, his face inches from Marcus’s. "You dare defy me?”
Marcus did not waver. "I swore an oath to serve Rome, and that includes its people. Your sister above all. She is not yours to intimidate, Emperor."
The crowd murmured in hushed tones, the audacity of the general spreading like wildfire among them. Caracalla rose from his seat, his expression one of cold calculation as he descended the steps toward the scene.
"Kill him," Caracalla shouted, his eyes burned with anger.
Geta ignored him, his focus locked solely on Marcus. "You think your rank protects you, General Acacius?”
Marcus’s jaw tightened, but he spoke with measured restraint. "I think my loyalty to Rome and its empire is unwavering. But I will not stand by and allow cruelty you bring to your sister.”
The words struck a nerve. Geta’s lips curled into a bitter smile as he finally dropped his hand, though his eyes never left Marcus. "Bold words, General," he said, stepping back. "Perhaps too bold for a man whose future depends on my goodwill."
He turned to the crowd, spreading his arms as if to dismiss the tension. "Let it be known," he declared, his voice echoing across the arena, "that my sister is under my protection. Any man who wishes to court her must prove his worth, not just to her, but to Rome."
His gaze flickered back to Marcus; his smile venomous. "Are you willing to stake your life on this, General? To face the arena in her name?"
Marcus did not hesitate. "I am."
The arena erupted in chaos, the crowd roaring with approval at the prospect of a new fight. Geta’s smile widened as he leaned closer to Marcus, his voice low enough for only the two of you to hear.
"Then prepare yourself, Acacius," he whispered. "Because I will make sure this fight is the hardest battle of your life."
He turned and strode away, Caracalla following closely behind. Marcus remained still, his shoulders rigid as the crowd cheered for the fight to come.
You reached out, your hand brushing his arm. "Marcus," you whispered, your voice trembling.
He turned to you, his expression softening for the briefest moment. "Do not fear, my lady," he said, his voice steady. "I will win. For you."
Your heart ached at the weight of his words, but before you could respond, he stepped away, his focus already on the battle ahead.
The days passed in agonizing silence, and ahead to the battle at the coliseum, you were confined to your quarters, guarded closely by your brother’s guards. Two of the were stood just outside your door as a warning, even beyond all that, as a reminder of the power Geta and Caracalla held over you.
You hadn’t had news of Marcus since the day you parted ways after he told your brothers he was going to fight for you at the Arena. The fear and worry consumed you, and even your own servants met with a soft indifference and dismissal. It was as if the world had conspired to separate you from the one person who had fought to protect you. You spent your days pacing the confines of your chamber, that now felt suffocating.
You imagined Marcus alone, preparing for the fight under the oppressive gaze of your brothers. Was he thinking of you? Did he share the same fear that gripped your heart? Or was he steadfast in his resolve, his mind fixed solely on the battle to come?
Would he have regretted it?
Not bearing the questions anymore, you got up from your bed determined to break your brothers’ orders and persuade the only desire fueling flames in your heart.
The moon hung low in the sky, its light spilling into your chambers as you slipped through the doorway, your heart pounding in your chest. The guards outside had been lured away with a clever diversion, and you moved quickly, draped in a simple cloak that hid your identity.
You held your breath, waiting, but the guards remained oblivious.
Wrapping a cloak tightly around your shoulders, you slipped into the corridor, moving swiftly but silently. The villa seemed to be a labyrinth of shadowy hallways.
The night air bit at your skin as you reached the courtyard. The sound of the guards’ boots echoing in the distance urged you forward, and with grace, you mounted the horse, urging it into a gallop toward Marcus’s quarters at the edge of the city.
The journey was risky. The streets of Rome were alive even at this hour, the echoes of revelry and the whispers of the approaching battle filling the air. You kept your hood low, your heart racing with every shadow that moved.
Finally, you arrived at his villa. It was modest compared to the luxuriousness of the imperial palace, but it was guarded nonetheless. Two soldiers stood at the entrance, their posture rigid. You dismounted, your steps purposeful as you approached them.
“I need to see him,” you said, your voice firm despite the tremor of fear beneath it.
The guards exchanged a glance, their hesitation palpable once they noticed who you were. “The general has ordered no visitors, my lady.” one of them said.
“I am not a visitor,” you countered, your voice rising slightly. “Will you stand in my way?”
They hesitated, but something in your tone made them step aside.
“I’ll take you with him” one of them offered.
You nodded. The guard gestured for you to follow, leading you through the dimly lit villa. You kept your hood low, your heart pounding in your chest. Every creak of the floorboards and every distant sound made your pulse quicken, but you refused to let fear deter you.
“This way, my lady,” the guard whispered, stopping at the end of a long hallway. “His quarters are just beyond this door.”
You nodded, slipping a small pouch of coins into his hand. “Thank you,” you said softly.
He bowed his head. “I wish you both the best.”
As the guard retreated, you turned to the door. Your hand trembled as it hovered over the handle, the weight of the past days pressing heavily on your shoulders. You took a steadying breath and pushed the door open.
The room was warm, lit only by the glow of a hearth. Marcus sat at a sturdy wooden table, poring over a map with a furrowed brow. His armor was laid in the table beside him, the metal gleaming in the firelight. The sight of him dressed in a white tunic, so strong, made your chest tighten with longing.
The sound of the door closing behind you drew his attention. His head snapped up, and for a moment, his expression was unreadable. Then his features softened, his brow relaxing as recognition dawned.
“My lady,” he said, rising to his feet. “What are you doing here?”
“I couldn’t stay away,” you said, your voice thick with emotion as you stepped closer. “I had to see you.”
His gaze flickered to the door behind you, his shoulders tensing. “You shouldn’t have come. If your brothers-”
“I don’t care what they think,” you interrupted, your voice trembling with resolve. “I needed to see you. To know you’re well.”
His expression softened, and he reached out, his hands settling on your shoulders. “You took an enormous risk coming here. If they find out-”
“I don’t care,” you interrupted, your hands gripping the front of his tunic. “I couldn’t bear another moment without you. Tomorrow feels like a lifetime away from seeing you again.”
Marcus’s gaze darkened with an emotion you couldn’t quite place, and his hands slid down your arms, pulling you closer. “You’ve always been braver than I deserve,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “But you shouldn’t have to be.”
He leaned down, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was both tender and desperate, as though he needed to memorize the feel of you. The weight of the world melted away in that moment, leaving only the two of you and the quiet hum of the night.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. You were the closest thing he had to touch the moon that shine over you with his own hands, his heart felt at ease at the thought of you and now that he was looking directly at you, he felt alive and braver than ever.
“Tomorrow, I’ll fight for you and for us,” he said, his voice resolute. “And I’ll win. I swear it.”
His words were a solemn vow, carrying the weight of his love and his unyielding strength of power. The warmth of his breath mingled with yours, and for a moment, the universe seemed to hold its breath, the stars outside aligning for the two of you.
“Marcus,” you whispered, “You’re everything to me. I don’t care about their rules or their power. All I care about is you.”
His lips curved into a faint smile; a softness rarely seen breaking through the stoicism that often cloaked him. “Then you’ve already given me the strength I need,” he replied, his hands sliding from your arms to cradle your face. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, as if memorizing the feel of your skin beneath his calloused touch could save him from his duties and just sacred himself to serve and adore you.
“I’ll return to you,” he said, the conviction in his tone leaving no room for doubt. “No force in this world could keep me away.”
The sheer intensity of his gaze sent shivers through you, and you found yourself leaning into him, finding solace in his unwavering presence. “I’ll be waiting,” you promised, capturing his lips in a desperate attempt to feel like he wouldn't die for you in the arena.
You didn't want to become the wife of a dead husband; you didn't want Marcus to die for you. You just wanted him and all the love he had to offer.
Marcus deepened the kiss, his hand pressing against the small of your back to hold you closer, as if he too feared the distance that tomorrow might bring. His other hand cradled your face with a gentleness that contrasted the ferocity of his actions. For a moment, time seemed to halt, the world outside fading into oblivion. It was just the two of you, locked in an embrace that spoke of love, desperation, and promises yet to be written.
“Acacius” you whispered, feeling the fire burning inside you.
Marcus’s name on your lips was a melody he never wanted to stop hearing. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours, his breath mingling with yours as though he couldn’t bear even a whisper of space between you. The fire you felt inside was reflected in his gaze, a raw, unyielding passion, tempered by the tenderness of a man who loved you more than life itself.
"Say it again," he murmured, his voice low, rough, as if your words were the only thing grounding him.
“Acacius,” you repeated, your voice trembling at the feeling of his hands roaming all over your body as a delicate map of Roma itself, the same Acacius had sworn to serve and protect.
His hands traced your skin with reverence, as if he were mapping the contours of not just your body, but your very soul. Each touch was delicate, as though he were imprinting his essence into every inch of you, claiming you in the most intimate way possible.
"Your name," he breathed, his lips brushing against your ear, "is the only thing I need to hear. The only thing that matters." His voice was like a caress, both tender and desperate.
You closed your eyes, feeling the warmth of his breath on your neck, of his touch, the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your palm. “And I, you," you whispered back, your hands exploring the firm planes of his chest, his heart beating in sync with yours.
His actions hit a chord inside you that you didn’t know existed. The weight of his promises and devotion, the depth of his feelings, was overwhelming. You leaned closer, wrapping your arms around him, needing to feel him against you, to feel that he was real.
"I need you, Marcus," you whispered, your lips grazing his jaw, trembling with the depth of your words. "I need you to come back to me. Please, don’t let anything happen to you."
He pulled you into him, his hands framing your face as he kissed you, slowly, deeply, pouring all of his promises into the kiss. "I swear it," he breathed against your lips, his hands sliding down your body, his touch fierce with resolve. "I will come back. No matter what. I swear it on the gods and on my heart."
With those words, he kissed you again, and in that kiss, you could taste the sweet desperation, the love, the unspoken promises. And as the world outside faded away, you knew that nothing would ever be the same again. He was yours, and you were his. And nothing, not even fate itself, could break that bond.
“Lay on the bed” he ordered, softly. Still caressing your jaw and neck with the touch of his lips on you.
Under the spell he seemed to have you under, you obeyed him, lying down carefully on his bed, not breaking the gaze between the two of you. He came towards you, with a look that seemed to burn you, but with love and adoration, to which you could give yourself without thinking of the consequences.
With his body over yours, he kept looking down at you as if you were the greatest treasure in this empire. His lips drew maps over you, on your cheeks, on your lips, on your neck. When his hands rested on your breasts, it felt like the air in your lungs didn't know where to go. The feeling was something you hadn't experienced, but you wanted to dive into it.
His fingers worked with your dress, leaving you completely bare under his stare. You turned your head to the side, embarrassed to be seen this way, but he with his fingers held your jaw, delicately.
“You’re the most beautiful woman, my lady” he whispered, kissing your lips, as his hands returned to your breasts, eliciting whimpers from your mouth.
His lips began to move down from your lips to your chest, planting kisses on where your heart was beating rapidly for him and the love you felt. Then, he delicately grabbed one of your nipples with his mouth, savoring the way your body reacted under his actions, your back arched for him, and his hands caressed your waist, trying to hold you in place.
Under him, under his actions, but not under his possession.
“Acacius” you moaned, softly. The way he was making you feel was something foreign to you, something you thought you would never feel.
His hand travelled up to your lips, his thumb tracing delicate patterns on your lips, as you kiss it with the same intention despite the fire burning inside you, your mind felt void and your body felt limb under Marcus orders.
With his hand on your lips, his detached from your breast, planting kisses down, leaving a hot patch down until he reached your stomach.
“God…” you whispered faintly.
His hands intertwined yours in attempt to hold you, as he kept kissing down your stomach, going even lower, until you could feel his breath where you needed him the most.
"I want to give you all I have," Marcus whispered, “But tonight I cannot.”
Before you could even respond, you felt his lips on your thighs, soft and delicate working up on you. Your breathing seemed to catch, until he reached the place where you needed him most.
Releasing a long sigh, your body seemed to gave up to him “Acaius...yes, just there.” you murmured faintly.
His lips seemed to know every part of you and nothing ever felt as good as it felt now. Your back arched as his mouth seemed to be taking you to the stars. In every kiss, in every touch, in every foreign sensation that was becoming familiar.
Acacius was starved, hungry for you. “You taste like heaven, my lady” he murmured.
Your hands let go of his, reaching up to his curls, bringing him even more impossibly close. You could feel his breath on you and how his tongue worked to please you.
Before you could even cry out, he detached his lips from your cunt, grabbing your mouth with his fiercely. His hands roamed over you, pulling you closer to him, as if he couldn’t get enough. Your legs instinctively crossed around his middle, anchoring him to you, and for a moment, the world outside seemed so distant, so unimportant. It was just the two of you, entwined in a way that made everything else fade away.
His lips left yours for a moment, trailing soft kisses down your neck as he whispered sweet things to you, his voice hushed and filled with the kind of devotion that left your heart racing.
“I’m sorry my lady, I shouldn’t have- “
“I’m yours,” you interrupted, locking your gaze with his.
His eyes softened as he gazed down at you, his hands now resting gently on your waist.
“And I’m yours” he murmured against your skin, his breath warm against the delicate curve of your neck. “Every part of me, every breath, belongs to you.”
“I want this” you reassured.
“And I do want this too, my lady. But after I win, after I marry you. I will take you with no fear inside me.” He replied. There was no need for more words; everything had already been said. The love, the longing, the passion was there.
With a final kiss, Marcus slowly pulled away, his forehead resting against yours once more. "I'll be back for you," he whispered, his voice heavy with emotion. "I swear it."
And you, holding him in your arms, closed your eyes, trusting him, knowing that no matter what, you would always find your way back to each other.
You gazed into Marcus’s eyes, your heart still racing from the intensity of the moment, but his words pulled you back to reality. There was no escaping what tomorrow would bring.
"Rest?" you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "How can I, knowing what you're about to face?"
Marcus smiled, his expression softening with a warmth that made your heart swell. “Because, my lady, you need your strength for the days ahead. And because I promised you I would return.” He gently brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary. "Sleep, knowing that I am fighting for you. For us."
Your throat tightened as you nodded, unwilling to argue any longer. You needed to let him go, if only for a short while. You kissed him one last time, a lingering promise between you both, before pulling away reluctantly.
"I'll be waiting for you," you said, your voice steady despite the storm inside your chest. "I know you'll win.”
With a final, lingering look, Marcus kissed your lips for the last time. “Go back to the palace before they find out you are gone.”
You nodded, your heart heavy with the weight of his words. The reality of the situation hit you all at once—tomorrow would change everything. Marcus’s life hung in the balance, and there was nothing you could do but wait and trust in him.
“I’ll go back,” you whispered, pulling away from his embrace reluctantly. The cold air of the room seemed to hit you all at once, and the walls felt smaller, enclosing around you as you stepped away.
Reluctantly, you turned to leave. The door closed behind you with a quiet click, and the silence that followed felt like a weight pressing down on you. Every step away from him was a struggle, but you had to return to your brothers' watchful eyes, to the prison of the palace where they kept you safe, yes, but at what cost?
The night felt endless as you made your way back, every sound magnified in the stillness. You slipped inside your quarters, the shadows of the room wrapping around you like a cloak.
The dawn arrived far too quickly, casting a pale light through the narrow windows of your room. The silence of the early morning felt suffocating, the weight of the coming day settling over you like a thick fog. You lay still, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling, unable to summon the strength to rise.
What if he doesn't make it out alive?
The day of the fight arrived, the arena packed with eager spectators. The air buzzed with excitement and bloodlust as the crowd roared for their favorite gladiators. You sat in the imperial box, your heart pounding in your chest as you watched Marcus step into the arena, his armor gleaming in the midday sun.
He looked up at you, his gaze steady and unwavering. For a moment, it was as if the crowd didn’t exist, as if the two of you were the only ones in the world.
Geta leaned toward you, a wicked grin on his face. “Enjoy the show, dear sister. It may be the last time you see him standing.”
You ignored him, your eyes fixed on Marcus as the gates to the arena opened, and his opponents emerged.
Two gladiators, seasoned and ruthless, stalked toward him, their weapons glinting menacingly. The crowd erupted in cheers, their voices deafening as the fight began.
Geta's smug expression faltered as the fight progressed. Caracalla leaned forward, his lips pressed into a thin line. They had underestimated Marcus. He wasn’t just their general; he was a force of nature, unrelenting and unyielding.
Your heart raced with every clash of swords, every grunt of exertion. When one opponent fell, another rose to take his place. It was as though they were testing Marcus, pushing him to his limits, but he didn’t falter.
A particularly vicious challenger came at him with a spear, forcing Marcus to dodge and roll. The crowd gasped, and your breath caught in your throat as the blade skimmed his armor, drawing a shallow line of blood.
“Do you see how much he bleeds for you, sister?” Geta’s voice was low, meant only for you to hear.
You didn’t answer, your eyes glued to Marcus. His movements slowed for a brief moment as he wiped the sweat and blood from his brow, but when he straightened, his resolve burned brighter than ever. He caught your gaze, and in that instant, it was as if the rest of the arena disappeared.
He fought for you, for the life you both longed for.
The final opponent stepped forward, a hulking brute armed with a massive sword. The crowd fell into a hushed silence, the tension thick in the air.
“Come on, Acacius,” you whispered under your breath, gripping the fabric of your gown so tightly your knuckles turned white.
The battle was brutal, each strike echoing through the arena like a drumbeat. Marcus moved with precision and strategy, using his smaller size and quicker reflexes to outmaneuver his opponent. The fight dragged on, the brute’s strength clashing against Marcus’s endurance.
Then, with a burst of speed, Marcus ducked under a wide swing and plunged his sword into the man’s side. The brute fell to his knees, and the crowd erupted in deafening cheers.
Marcus stood over his fallen opponent, his chest heaving, his armor streaked with blood. The herald stepped forward, announcing his victory to the roaring masses.
Geta scowled, his hand tightening around the armrest of his throne. “So, he wins,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
Marcus turned to face the royal dais; his sword lowered but his gaze unwavering. “Emperor Geta, Emperor Caracalla” he called out, his voice carrying across the arena. “I have won this fight, as promised. Now I claim my prize, your sister as my wife.”
The crowd fell silent, awaiting Geta’s response. He rose from his seat, his face a mask of reluctant acceptance. “Very well, General Acacius,” he said, his tone clipped. “You have proven your worth. Take her.”
The silence that followed Geta's words felt like an eternity, heavy with the weight of what had just been declared. The air was thick with anticipation, and every eye in the Colosseum seemed to be on you. You stood there, still in the royal box, your heart pounding against your ribs as the realization hit you. Marcus had won, but the price was not just his life, it was your freedom.
Freedom was wherever he was.
You had been raised to understand the weight of loyalty, of duty, of family. But the fire that had burned between you and Marcus, the undeniable connection, had created a chasm between you and your brothers’ demands.
With each step Marcus took toward you, you could feel the eyes of the crowd on you, the pressure mounting as Geta’s scowl deepened.
“Don’t make me regret this, General Acacius.” Geta sneered as Marcus reached the steps, his voice laced with venom.
“I will not,” Marcus replied, his voice low. He climbed the steps of the royal box, his eyes never leaving you. When he reached you, he extended a hand toward you, strong and yet gentle, as if offering you not just a way out, but a promise of something more.
“Come with me, my lady.” he said softly, his voice breaking through the tumultuous emotions swirling inside you.
You hesitated for a moment, looking between your brothers and Marcus. Caracalla’s gaze was colder than ever, while Geta’s expression was twisted with frustration. It was clear neither of them had wanted this outcome. But they had given their approval, and now, there was nothing left for you but to make your choice.
Without a word, you placed your hand in Marcus’s. His grip was firm and reassuring as he helped you down from the royal box and onto the arena floor. The crowd erupted into cheers, their admiration for the general evident, but all you could hear was the steady beat of your heart.
“I do,” you whispered, the weight of everything, your family, your duty, your past, melting away under the intensity of his gaze.
“Do you truly wish to be mine, my lady?” Marcus asked, his voice a mix of challenge and tenderness as he gazed down at you, his hand still holding yours.
The days following the battle were a whirlwind of preparations, but not the kind you had ever imagined. While the Colosseum was still abuzz with the echoes of Marcus’s victory, the grand celebration your brothers had envisioned was coming. Servants ran through the villa, gathering flowers, arranging fine fabrics, and preparing for the grand ceremony that would take place the following day. But amidst all the anticipation, Marcus had quietly arranged something more personal, a moment just for the two of you, away from the expectations, away from the people, and away from the watchful eyes of the world.
A ceremony where only the two of you would be able to be part of.
No witnesses, but only the eyes of God.
The morning sunlight poured into the room, illuminating the soft hues of your garments as the servants busied themselves around you, adjusting folds and fastening clasps. You stood still, gazing out the window as they worked, your thoughts swirling between the ceremony last night and the new reality of soon-to-be Marcus’s wife.
The quiet hum of their chatter stopped abruptly, drawing your attention to the doorway. Marcus stepped in, his eyes locking onto yours with a look that seemed to quiet everything around you. He was dressed simply, not in the regal finery expected of a groom, but in a dark tunic that spoke more to his strength than his status.
His presence commanding yet calm. The servants turned to greet him, bowing their heads respectfully.
“May I have a moment with my lady?” he asked, his voice steady but kind.
The servants exchanged glances, then nodded, bowing their heads again before retreating from the room. As the door closed behind them, Marcus crossed the space to you, his steps unhurried.
“You seem a vision of grace this morning,” he murmured, his eyes taking in the sight of you.
You turned to face him, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “You flatter me, my general.”
His hand reached out, fingers brushing against the fabric of your dress. “It seems they left a task unfinished,” he said softly, gesturing to the loose lace at the back of your gown.
Before you could respond, Marcus stepped behind you, his hands deftly taking the lace and beginning to knot it. His touch was gentle, yet firm, the brush of his knuckles against your back sending shivers down your spine.
“There,” he said, his voice lower now, almost a whisper. “Perfect.”
His hands lingered for a moment before he leaned forward, pressing a tender kiss to your shoulder, where the silk of your dress met your skin. The warmth of his lips lingered, leaving your heart pounding.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured against your skin, his breath sending a thrill through you.
You turned slightly, your gaze meeting his. “Marcus…” you started, but the words seemed to fail you.
He straightened, his expression softening as he cupped your cheek with one hand. "Are you ready?" He asked gently.
You nodded, though your heart beat faster at the thought of what he had planned. “What are we doing?” you asked, curiosity stirring within you.
With a smile, Marcus held out his hand, the familiar strength and tenderness in his grip making your heart swell. "Come with me," he said softly, leading you out of the room and down the hallway, away from the bustle of servants and preparations.
You followed him through the villa’s quiet halls, your feet barely making a sound on the marble floors. Finally, you reached the private garden at the rear of the villa, a secluded spot surrounded by towering columns and vines heavy with flowers. The air here was cooler, calmer, and the scent of blooming jasmine filled the air.
This was where he had chosen to steal a moment for the two of you, where there would be no prying eyes, no expectations, just you and him.
"Acacius, what are we doing here?" you asked, your voice filled with wonder.
He turned to face you, his eyes shining with something deeper than just love, a sense of peace, perhaps, or gratitude. “Before we stand in front of everyone tomorrow, I wanted to share this moment with you.” he said, his tone low and sincere.
He reached for your hand, gently pulling you towards him. “This is our wedding, our vows,” he continued, his words soft but filled with unwavering emotion. “I don’t need the crowds to tell me I’m making the right choice. I just need you.”
A tear welled up in your eye at his words, the depth of his love and devotion overwhelming you. Marcus cupped your face with his hands, the touch warm and grounding.
“I know we can’t avoid the grand ceremony tomorrow,” he said, his voice tinged with regret. “But here, in this moment, with no one else around, I want to give you all of me. You are my heart, and I want to vow myself to you, not in front of an emperor, not before the masses, but just to you.”
With his words, Marcus dropped to one knee, the powerful general you had come to admire now humbled by love and sincerity. "I stand before you today, not as a general, not as a man of Rome, but as a man who has found his purpose in you. You are my courage, my calm, and my reason to fight for something beyond duty. I vow to protect you with my life, to honor you with my actions, and to cherish you with every breath I take. Whatever battles may come, I will face them with you by my side. From this day forward, my heart belongs to you, and you alone."
"I..." you whispered, your voice trembling as you stepped closer, your hands trembling as they reached for him. You cupped his face in your hands, your eyes searching his for any trace of doubt. But there was none. There was only a quiet strength that matched your own, a promise you could hold onto for a lifetime.
"Acacius," you breathed, and this time, it was your turn to drop to your knees before him, your heart too full to be contained. You touched his face gently, as though afraid the moment might shatter if you touched him too hard.
"I vow to you as well," you said, your voice gaining strength with each word, your heart swelling with an emotion that could no longer be contained. "I vow to stand by your side, no matter what comes. I will be your strength when you need it, your peace when the world feels too heavy. I will love you beyond all else, in every way, in every moment. You are my heart as much as I am yours, Marcus. And I will spend every day proving it to you."
Marcus took your hands in his, his thumb brushing across your skin in a gesture so simple, so intimate, that it felt like a promise in itself. "You are everything to me," he whispered. "And from now on, your protection is my biggest battle to fight.
summary: the cursed blood of Geta and Caracalla runs through your veins sealing your fate. However, the General Acacius is willing to fight for you.
w.c: 5k>
warnings: angst, violence, power imbalance,and fluff.
a/n: I had this one in my drafts but after watching gladiator ii twice. I had to finish it and write about my beloved General Acacius because he deserves it. I hope you like it. This may have a part ii depending on its performance. PLEASE DON'T BE MEAN. Reblogs and comments are always. appreciated 💌
| dividers by @/saradika-graphics |
Inhale.
Exhale.
Breathe in, breath out.
There was it, the rattle breathing inside Marcus Acacius lungs. The way life has turned out for him felt like cuts all over his skin.
Sometimes he felt he could even breath from how bloody his hands were. How dirty his name felt to his own honor. How salty his tears felt down his cheeks every night. Every time he closed his eyes at night, the screams pierced through his ears.
Mothers mourning their children.
Men mourning their wives.
Families destroyed.
All because of him.
All because he must have served those two spoiled kids so called emperors of Rome.
And he still couldn't wrap his mind around the idea of you, someone so pure and kind was cursed to share the same blood as them.
Every time he came back to the city. He witnessed on first hand, how badly you were treated by them. The laughs, the humiliation, the segregation, and how your voice had been silenced just for you to be unwillingly part of a legacy that felt like your back being split in two.
Marcus was aware of the adoration people felt for you, how your kindness had reached to every single person in the empire. People loved you, but you were nothing more than a puppet under their fingers.
And he felt pity for you.
He could see the way your eyes seemed lost in the arena, in the way your hands trembled where Geta or Caracalla looked at you with disgust when you didn't approve of the madness they had arisen under their control.
You were the opposite of them.
You were Kind.
Kind as no one had been on here for so many years. You shared the same dream of Marcus Aurelio.
An empire for the world and a refuge for those in need.
and Marcus looked at you with tenderness in his heart from afar.
Most of the time you didn't acknowledge him. He knew you weren't really fond of him or the idea of him leading armies to claim cities under the glory of Rome.
For you, he was just a general repeating the same cycle of madness.
And you didn't acknowledge him until Geta slapped you on front of him for not showing your gratitude towards him after his returning from battle.
The sting lingered on your cheek after his slap, not from the force but from the humiliation of it. The room fell silent, the tension arose like flames to the fire. Geta and Caracalla, with their arrogant disdain, seemed to punish your perceived disobedience.
But Marcus? His expression shifted, subtle, yet profound. His sharp gaze, so often unreadable, burned with an intensity that wasn’t anger but something close to defiance. He stepped forward, his towering presence demanding the attention of everyone in the room.
“Enough,” Marcus said, his voice calm and gentle, the command laced with quiet fury. The word carried weight, a warning not to be ignored. Your brothers exchanged a glance, clearly displeased but unwilling to challenge the general directly. They turned and left, leaving muttered curses in the air.
The room fell silent once again, and you found yourself standing alone with General Acacius. Your hand hovering your cheek, the skin still warm from Geta’s punishment. You didn’t look up at first, embarrassed not just by the slap but by the realization that Marcus had witnessed it. You had worked so hard to ignore him, to keep him at a distance, but now, there was no avoiding him.
“You didn’t deserve that,” he said softly, his voice a startling contrast to the authority he had wielded moments ago.
You finally raised your eyes to meet his, expecting pity but finding something else entirely different, something softer. “It doesn’t matter,” you murmured, attempting to dismiss it, but he shook his head.
“It does,” Marcus said, taking a step closer. “You shouldn’t have to endure this, least of all from them. They’re your blood”
His words hung in the air, and for the first time, you saw him not as the general who commanded armies in your brothers’ name but as a man standing apart from their cruelty. He wasn’t like them, not entirely.
And perhaps, you thought, he never had been.
Your gaze lingered on Marcus for a moment longer, his eyes searching yours as if waiting for you to say something—anything. But you couldn’t. Your throat tightened, and you turned away, moving to the window to avoid the weight of his attention.
“I don’t need your protection,” you said, though the words came out softer than you intended. “You’ve done enough by speaking against them. They will get under your skin for it.”
Marcus hesitated, his heavy footsteps echoing as he approached you. “You shouldn’t have to thank me for doing what’s right.”
His words made your chest ache. When was the last time anyone had done what was “right” for you? You stared out at the gardens beyond the window, their beauty feeling distant, unreachable. Your brothers had never cared about right or wrong, only power.
“I don’t understand you,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “You fight for them. You serve them. And yet…”
“And yet I see who they truly are,” Marcus interrupted gently. “I serve Rome, not their cruelty. There’s a difference.”
You turned to face him, his nearness almost startling. For the first time, his presence didn’t feel overwhelming. Instead, it felt… grounding. Safe. He stood tall, but his expression was open, waiting for you to respond.
“They’ll hate you for standing up for me,” you said, your tone cautious. “They don’t forgive things like that.”
“Let them hate me,” Marcus replied without hesitation. “I won’t stand by and let them treat you as they do.”
The conviction in his voice sent a shiver through you. You wanted to argue, to remind him that opposing your brothers would bring nothing but trouble, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, you found yourself studying him. His broad shoulders, the sharp lines of his face, and the way his eyes softened when they rested on you.
“I don’t need anyone fighting my battles,” you said, though even you weren’t sure if you believed it. “I’ve survived this long on my own.”
“You shouldn’t have to,” he replied, stepping closer, his voice low but steady. “You deserve better than survival.”
Your breath hitched, the weight of his words pressing against you. Before you could respond, Marcus straightened, his demeanor shifting as if sensing he had said too much. He nodded once, a gesture of respect, before stepping back.
“I should leave you to rest,” he said. “You’ve been through enough today”
Your breath caught at the sound of his voice, so steady and sincere, the words lingering in the air like a balm to your frayed nerves. You wanted to reach out, to say something and stop him, but you hesitated, unsure of what held you back.
Marcus took another step away, his broad shoulders tense, as though leaving you was harder for him than he let on. His words, though respectful, carried a tone of finality that made your heart twist.
“I’ll see you soon,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost reluctant. He bowed slightly, taking your hand in his, and kissing it as his dark eyes met yours, “My lady.”
As if his words had worked as a kind of manifesto, the “soon” came no long after.
There you were in the gardens, barefoot, with your wild hair looking at the moon shining over the town you had been forced to call it home.
Marcus could see from your posture to your void eyes when you were there in the middle of your brothers, faking enthusiasm, while inside your bones you hate with passion this torturous show.
You didn't wish to be cruel to the world but kind.
You didn't wish to see blood coming out from innocent men who had fallen prey under the hands of the cruelty of the roman empire.
And you were exhausted of seeing and hearing the cheering of people celebrating death as a spectacle.
You didn't want this to be your life but just a nightmare you were going to wake from too soon.
And now, as Marcus could see the moon reflecting on your face. He was able to see through the golden jewelry and the soft material of your dress, he could see a soul pleading to the moon to set her free.
Something must have alerted you. You turned around facing him hiding under his cloak.
"General Acacius?" You whispered, closing your eyes a bit to take his form under the soft light of the moon.
"My lady" he replied softly, with respect to his tone.
“What are you doing here?” you breathed, your voice trembled under his gaze.
He hesitated for mere seconds, his gaze intense as it locked onto yours. “I could ask you the same, my lady,” he replied, a trace of sweetness in his tone. “It seems even those closest to the emperors need to escape from time to time.”
A silence fell between you, charged with a tension that both thrilled and unsettled you. The few stolen glances you’d shared over the past days had spoken volumes, but you had never dared to hope his heart could be beating as fast as yours in your presence.
You turned around again, your back to him. "I love coming here to look at the moon. " You spoke, breaking the silence "This seems to be the only place my brothers haven't tainted yet."
"How they don't know about this place?"
"My father sent this place to be built for his only daughter." You replied, and Marcus could notice how the corners of your lips graced with a smirk, even from behind. "A place for her to be a girl."
"What do you mean?"
"You know, General. Women seem to be useless for having a voice, less for ruling an Empire. Everything I can do is stay here and feel like I own something." You hold your voice for a minute, “I’m just a statue waiting to crumble.”
Marcus didn't reply to your words and if it wasn't for the sound of his steps getting closer you would have thought he left.
You could see his outline from the corner of your eyes, the way his face had been marked by cruel events you despise. A red mark on his cheek, a few scars on his neck and for brown eyes that contrasted from his hard exterior, shinning under the same moon as yours.
"How did you find this place, General?" You asked, bow fully looking at him. You were wondering how your brothers never knew about this place but him had been the first man to find it, just after his return.
He took a brief look at you from the corners of his eyes. "I would say that something brought me here," he paused for a moment, "but it seems like it was you, my lady."
You had to hold your breath for a moment. You didn't expect such words from Marcus. He was the beloved general of Rome. But to your eyes he was still a man who had built his honor from cruelty or that was what you thought.
"I don't believe so." You replied, despite the rapid beating of your heart, you didn't want to be fooled by a man with soft brown eyes and a heart that seems to be kind. "I do not desire a man to follow me, not less one who is the puppet of the cruelty of all this cold nonsense."
"My lady…"
"Please, you may go now." you said, turning your gaze back to the moon.
Marcus didn’t leave immediately. Instead, he lingered in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the faint torchlight flickering in the hall. His hand rested on the edge of the door, his knuckles tight and pale as if he were restraining himself from saying something he would later regret.
For a moment, the only sound in the room was the crackling of the embers in the hearth. The tension between you felt almost unbearable, a quiet battle waged in silence.
“I know what you think of me,” he finally said, his voice softer now, like the hush of a secret shared in the dark. “You see a man of blood and iron, one who serves an empire that devours cities for the Glory of Rome.” He exhaled slowly, almost as if gathering the strength to continue. “You’re not wrong to think that. There are nights when I wonder if all of this is worth it, if I am worth anything beyond my sword.”
His admission struck something deep within you, though you kept your face turned toward the moon. You refused to let him see the small crack forming in your carefully constructed armor.
“Then why stay?” you asked quietly, your voice carrying an edge of challenge. “Why continue to serve a cause you doubt?”
“I stay because I must,” Marcus said without hesitation. “It is all I have known, and it is all that has been asked of me. But you…” His voice faltered, and you felt the weight of his gaze, though you didn’t dare meet it. “You are different. You are everything this empire is not, kind, unyielding. Someone like you should be the one ruling Rome, the princess.”
You chuckled at the statement “My brothers would send me to death before I’ll have the chance to sit on that throne.”
Your fingers tightened around the fabric of your dress. His words shouldn’t have this effect on you, yet they lingered, stirring something unfamiliar.
“And that is why you should go,” you said, more firmly now. “You’re talking nonsense”
Marcus took a step closer, his steps echoing faintly against the cobblestones “Perhaps I do not belong here,” he said, his tone unwavering, “but that does not mean I will walk away so easily and let this empire fall under your brother’s madness.”
You turned to him then, unable to ignore the quiet determination in his voice. His eyes, those soft brown eyes that had once seemed so dangerous, now held a sincerity you hadn’t expected. For the first time, you saw not a general, but a man, a man who carried the weight of his choices and the burden of his doubts.
“You think you can change my mind?” you asked, your tone sharp despite the unease stirring in your chest.
“No,” Marcus admitted, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “But I hope, one day, I can show you what I am talking about.”
Before you could reply, he bowed his head slightly, as a gesture of respect rather than submission, and turned to leave.
As the door closed behind him, you stood in the quiet of the garden, your heart beating fast while his words played over in your head.
The arena buzzed with the deafening roar of the crowd, their excitement spilling into the air as dust kicked up from the floor below. You sat stiffly behind Geta and Caracalla, their laughter and sharp whispers grating against your ears. This was how it always was, trapped in their own world, watching their cruelty unfold.
Today, the games were bloodier than usual, the violence more drawn out, as if they relished every clash of blades and every cry of pain. You tried to ignore the chaos, your gaze drifting to the far horizon, where freedom felt like a distant dream in the blue sky.
But then, a movement to your right drew your attention. You turned your head just slightly, your breath catching when you saw Marcus approaching. His expression was calm, unreadable, though his eyes softened ever so slightly when they met yours. Without a word, he settled into the seat next to you.
“General,” you greeted, your voice low.
“My lady,” he replied, his tone equally soft, though there was a subtle warmth in it.
For a while, neither of your spoke. The sounds of the crowd and the clash of weapons filled the silence between you, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable one.
“They love this,” Marcus finally said, his voice barely audible over the noise.
You didn’t reply, too focused on fidgeting with the material of your dress, your fingers twisting the fabric in small, anxious movements. The tension in your shoulders was noticeable, your gaze fixed on the arena below, though it was clear your mind was far from the bloodshed.
Marcus noticed. He always noticed. After a moment of hesitation, his hand moved, gentle, placing it over yours. His touch was warm, steady, and it stopped the restless motion of your fingers.
Startled, you glanced at him, your breath catching as you saw the softness in his expression. There was no judgment, no pity, only quiet reassurance. For a moment, you forgot where you were, the chaos of the arena fading into the background.
But the moment didn’t last.
“Ah, what’s this?” Geta’s voice cut through the din, sharp and mocking.
You flinched, quickly pulling your hand away as Geta turned in his seat, his eyes narrowing as he looked between you and Marcus. His lips curled into a sly grin, the kind that sent a chill down your spine.
“Well, well,” he drawled, leaning closer as if sharing a secret. “Our dear sister has caught the attention of the great general. How… intriguing.”
Marcus’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, his gaze unwavering as he stared ahead.
Geta leaned back in his seat, his grin widening as an idea seemed to spark in his mind. He turned to Caracalla, nudging him with an elbow. “Brother, I think we haven’t been too generous with our sister, have we?”
Caracalla raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? What do you suggest we could do for her?”
Geta’s grin turned wicked, his eyes gleaming with malice. “A little incentive for the games. Let the gods decide her fate.”
Your blood ran cold as you realized what he was suggesting. “Geta, don’t—”
He ignored you, standing abruptly and raising his arms to address the crowd.
“Citizens of Rome!” Geta’s voice boomed over the noise, silencing the arena. “Today, we have a special reward for our brave gladiators. A prize worthy of their strength and valor.”
Caracalla caught on quickly, his laughter echoing through the stands. “Indeed, a prize unlike any other,” he added, his voice dripping with amusement.
You shot to your feet, panic rising in your chest. “Geta, stop this!”
He turned to you, his smile cruel. “Sit down, sister. This is for the glory of Rome.”
You didn’t move, but your voice faltered, your protests drowned out by the cheers of the crowd as Geta announced his decree.
“The victor of this fight,” he declared, “shall win not only their freedom but also the hand of our beloved sister.”
The crowd erupted in applause and cheers, their excitement deafening.
Beside you, Marcus remained seated, his expression unreadable. But you could see the storm brewing in his eyes, the muscles in his jaw clenching as he processed what had just happened.
And for the first time, you saw something in him that you hadn’t before, a quiet, burning fury, one that made you wonder just how far he would go to defy your brothers.
"They offered me as a price." You whispered to Marcus who was offering his arm for you to hold, as you tried to keep your composure.
You felt humiliated.
You felt that men owned you and despised the feeling.
Marcus didn’t respond right away. His arm remained steady, extended for you to hold, a silent offer of support. His face, though unreadable, betrayed hints of a restrained anger—anger that wasn’t directed at you, but at the cruelty of your brothers, the twisted spectacle they had made of your dignity.
“They did,” he finally murmured, his voice low but firm, so only you could hear. “And they will answer for it.”
You hesitated, your hand trembling slightly before resting on his arm. The gesture was subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone else, but between the two of you, it felt like a silent pact. Marcus guided you to sit back down, his movements deliberate, as if shielding you from the prying eyes of the crowd.
“Hold your head high,” he said quietly, leaning just close enough for his words to reach you. “You are not a prize. You are a queen in all but name.”
His words, though softly spoken, struck a chord deep within you. They carried a weight that steadied the storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm you—humiliation, anger, and a raw, aching vulnerability you despised feeling. You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to sit straighter, your gaze fixed on the arena even as your chest burned with resentment.
The fight began, the clash of swords and the roar of the crowd filling the air. The gladiators fought with a ferocity that was almost unbearable to watch, knowing that your fate hung in the balance of their blades. You despised every second of it, despised the men in the arena who saw you as a reward to be claimed, despised the crowd who cheered for your subjugation, and most of all, despised your brothers for orchestrating this humiliation.
And yet, as the fight dragged on, your attention kept flickering to Marcus. He hadn’t moved, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed on the arena with an intensity that made your heart race. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, fingers tightening with every blow exchanged below.
“They cannot do this,” you whispered, your voice trembling with barely contained anger. “They cannot decide my life like this.”
“They can try,” Marcus replied, his tone like steel. “But they will not succeed.”
His words were cryptic, but there was something in his voice, a quiet, unshakable resolve that made you glance at him. For a moment, you wondered if he already had a plan, if his mind was racing with strategies to undo the cruelty your brothers had unleashed.
The fight ended abruptly, the crowd roaring as the victor emerged, bloodied but triumphant. Your stomach churned as the man was announced, his grin wide as he looked up to the podium where you sat. You felt Marcus tense beside you, his hand gripping his sword so tightly you feared it might snap.
“Don’t,” you whispered urgently, sensing the storm about to break within him. “Please, Marcus.”
But he didn’t respond, his gaze locked on the victor below. And for the first time, you wondered just how far Marcus would go, not just to defy your brothers, but to protect you from their cruelty.
The victor's triumphant roar echoed through the arena, and the crowd erupted into wild cheers. You couldn’t bear to look at the man below, his eyes alight with the promise of his prize—you. Your stomach churned with revulsion, and your breathing quickened, panic clawing at your chest.
“Come,” Marcus said quietly, his voice cutting through the noise. His hand found yours again, firm but not forceful, and this time, you didn’t hesitate to take it. The heat of his palm against yours grounded you, gave you a tether to hold onto as you stood on unsteady legs.
You didn’t wait for your brothers’ gloating remarks or the smug expressions on their faces. Without a word, you let Marcus guide you away, his presence shielding you from the leering eyes of the crowd. The noise of the arena began to fade as you descended the steps, replaced by the rapid beating of your heart.
The corridors beneath the stands were dimly lit, the cool air a welcome reprieve from the suffocating heat of the arena. You kept your gaze forward, refusing to look back, refusing to give your brothers or the victor the satisfaction of seeing your fear. But inside, you were trembling.
“Marcus,” you finally whispered, your voice breaking. “Where are we going?”
“Somewhere they can’t touch you,” he replied, his tone low and steady. His hand tightened around yours, a silent vow that he wouldn’t let you face this alone.
The two of you emerged into the open courtyard behind the arena, the setting sun casting long shadows across the stone walls. The sounds of the crowd were distant now, muffled by the heavy doors that closed behind you. You stopped walking, pulling your hand from his and turning to face him.
“They’ll come for me,” you said, your voice laced with frustration and fear. “They won’t let this stand. Geta and Caracalla—”
“They’ll have to go through me first,” Marcus interrupted, his tone sharp, his brown eyes fierce. “And I promise you, my lady, they won’t succeed.”
You stared at him, his words sinking in. He looked every bit the general now, strong, resolute, and unyielding. And yet, there was something else in his gaze, something softer that made your chest tighten. He wasn’t just protecting you out of duty or honor. There was something personal in the way he looked at you, in the way he stood so close, as though shielding you from the world.
"I can fight in the arena" he said, "for you."
You stared blankly at him, shocked at your core.
"What would you win from that? Do you want to own me like those men?" You asked.
"I do not wish to own you, my lady. You're not property. You're a free woman, and If I win, I'll become your husband and you would never have to endure those humiliations ever again."
"Just because I would be yours." You whispered, still broken at the thought of not being enough.
"You would be my wife, not my property." He clarified, "I will live and fight to keep your honor just as you deserve"
You looked away, heart pounding, his words washing over you like laurels over your skin. A part of you longed to believe him, to let his offer pull you from the grip of your family’s ambitions. But fear clung tightly, rooted in years of being nothing more than a pawn in your brothers' power games.
"General…" you murmured, voice wavering. "If you fight for me, you put yourself in danger. And if you fall, my life will only become darker, lonelier. I don’t want your blood on my hands."
He stepped closer, his eyes steady, fierce. "I would rather risk everything than stand by while you suffer. You deserve a life where you choose, where you're loved, not used."
Your throat tightened, emotions swelling. "But if you fight and lose, you’d be at their mercy. They’d make you a symbol. A warning to anyone else who dares to defy them."
He lifted your hand, pressing it to his heart. "Then let them try," he said, his voice unyielding. "For you, my lady, I would face even the wrath of the empire."
His touch was gentle, but his resolve was unbreakable. In that moment, you realized he wasn’t just a man willing to fight for you, he was someone who saw you as more than a title, more than a sister to emperors. He saw you, truly.
“Why?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “Why would you risk this for me?”
For a moment, he hesitated, the stoic mask slipping just enough for you to catch a glimpse of the man beneath. “Because you deserve more than to be treated as a pawn in their games,” he said finally. “And because I…” He stopped himself, shaking his head as if the words were too much to say aloud. “You don’t deserve this.”
You swallowed hard, your throat tight with emotion.
"Acacius… if you truly wish to do this," you whispered, your fingers trembling in his, "then I will stand by your side, come what may."
He smiled, a rare softness breaking through his stoic exterior. "Then we’ll face them together, my lady. And if they stand in our way…" His eyes darkened, a spark of defiance glinting within them. "They’ll learn that love is a force they cannot control"
"Do you believe you could come close to loving me?" You asked, heart pounding.
His reply didn’t come from words. Instead, he squeezed your hand over his heart.
His words lingered in the air, hanging between you like the delicate balance of a fragile moment. You searched his face, his steady eyes holding yours as if daring you to see the sincerity in them. For all his strength, for all his might as a general, Marcus stood before you as something else entirely. A man laying his heart bare.
Your breath hitched as his hand moved from yours to gently cradle your cheek, his touch warm and careful, as if he feared you might pull away. You didn’t. You couldn’t. Instead, you leaned into his palm, your heart pounding so loudly you thought he must hear it.
“May I?” he murmured, his voice soft and hesitant, as though you were something precious, he was afraid to break.
You nodded, unable to speak, your eyes fluttering closed as he leaned in. His lips brushed against yours, tentative and light, testing the waters of your comfort. It was not the kiss of a conqueror or a man accustomed to taking what he wanted. It was the kiss of someone who had been waiting, who had held back his own desires out of respect for you.
The first touch was fleeting, but when he felt you relax into him, he deepened the kiss, his other hand settling on your waist to anchor you against him. The world around you faded. The distant noise of the Coliseum, the threat of your brothers, even the weight of your own fear. All that remained was the warmth of his lips, the steady beat of his heart beneath your other hand.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested gently against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet that followed. “Loving you,” he whispered again, his voice thick with emotion, “would be the easiest battle I’ve ever fought.”
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! 😭 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 wasn’t very different from the one you had now, but it wasn’t 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 uncle’s 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 Comodous’s death, he was the next emperor in line.
But you had stay here. After all you were a woman and your blood didn’t 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 Geta’s 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 Geta’s 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 weren’t the daughter of a woman which fate as empress, had been stolen, you were just a child looking for comfort in your mother’s arms.
"But you can’t," 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 it’s for my protection, but sometimes it feels like I’ve been sacrificed for a safety it’s not real.”
Lucilla’s 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 couldn’t send you away, too. I couldn’t 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 didn’t 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 you”
Her words hung heavy in the air, and you didn’t respond. Deep down, you knew she believed she was doing the right thing, but it didn’t make the ache in your chest any less sharp.
“I wish I was dead” 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 wasn’t 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 don’t have to speak to me if you don’t wish to," you said quietly, breaking the silence. Your voice was steadier than you expected, though your heart raced. "I know this wasn’t 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 wasn’t," 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 wasn’t unexpected. You nodded, unable to meet his eyes. "My mother,” 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 isn’t what I imagined for my life either," he said, his voice quieter now. "But I’ve 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 didn’t 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 can’t pretend to feel something that isn’t there.”
His words were a knife, cutting through the fragile hope you hadn’t even realized you’d been clinging to. You swallowed hard and nodded, keeping your gaze fixed on your hands.
"If you need anything, you only have to ask. I’ll 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. Acacius’s words echoed in your mind, and though they weren’t cruel, they felt colder than any rejection. You couldn’t blame him, not really. But that didn’t 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 Lucius’s 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 couldn’t deny the strain in your union.
One evening, after the day’s 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.
“Do you regret this?” you asked softly, breaking the silence. The question had been clawing at you for days, and you couldn’t keep it bottled up any longer.
Acacius turned to you; his expression unreadable. “Regret isn’t the right word,” he said after a pause. “This wasn’t what I wanted, but it’s the path I’ve chosen. I will honor it.”
You crossed the room, stopping a few paces from him. “You speak of honor as if it’s enough to make this work,” you said, your voice trembling slightly. “But what about us? Are we just to coexist in silence, fulfilling obligations without ever truly living?”
His brow furrowed, and for a moment, his cold demeanor cracked. “Do you think this is easy for me?” he asked, his tone sharper than you expected. “I didn’t ask for this any more than you did. But I’m trying. I’m doing everything I can to give you the life you deserve.”
“The life I deserve?” you echoed, anger bubbling to the surface. “I deserve a life where I’m not a pawn, where my choices matter. I deserve a marriage built on something more than duty.”
Acacius looked away, his jaw tightening. “And yet, here we are,” he said quietly. “Bound by something neither of us chose.”
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. “I didn’t ask for this,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him.
“I know,” Acacius said, his voice softening. You felt his presence behind you, and a moment later, his hand rested lightly on your shoulder. “I can’t change what brought us here, but I can promise you this; I will protect you. Always.”
“Why do you don’t like me as a person?” you asked, unable to meet his gaze
Acacius’s hand froze on your shoulder, and for a moment, he didn’t 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.
“Why don’t you like me as a person?” you repeated, your voice trembling. “Is it because you didn’t choose this? Because I’m nothing more than an obligation to you?”
Acacius’s 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.
“It’s not that I don’t like you,” he began, his voice low and measured, as if choosing his words with care. “You’re intelligent, strong-willed, and far braver than anyone gives you credit for. But... this isn’t about you. It never was.”
Your stomach twisted, the pit forming at his words. “What do you mean?” 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. “Your mother,” he said finally, the words falling like stones. “I... I loved her.”
The breath caught in your throat, your chest tightening as if the room had suddenly closed in on you. “What?” you managed to choke out, disbelief coloring your tone.
Acacius turned back to you, his expression a mixture of regret and resignation. “Lucilla. 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...” He hesitated, his gaze softening.
“Asked you to marry her daughter because of Geta’s courtesy” 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 didn’t 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. “It was more than just Geta,” he said quietly. “Lucilla believed—she hoped—that this union would keep you safe from him. And I thought... I thought I could do that for her.”
You stepped back, your heart pounding. The walls of the room seemed to close in, suffocating you under the weight of his confession. “And in doing so, you destroyed any chance you both might have had for happiness,” you said, your voice trembling. “Because of you, she sacrificed everything—for what? To tie me to a man who doesn’t even want me.”
“Hey,” Acacius said quickly, stepping closer, but you held up a hand, stopping him in his tracks.
“Don’t,” you said, your voice breaking. “Don’t try to justify it. You will never love me, and now I know why. Because all you see in me is her shadow.”
“No.” His voice was firm now, his eyes blazing with an intensity that startled you. “You’re 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 can’t bury my feelings, and I can’t undo the choices we made.”
Your stomach churned with anger, disgust and despair. “Do you even realize what you’ve done?” you demanded. “You’ve tied me to a life I never wanted, a life where I’ll always wonder if I was just a piece in someone else’s plan. I’m always trapped in the middle of something.”
The tears you had been holding back finally broke free, spilling down your cheeks as sobs wracked your body. The weight of Acacius’s confession, of everything you had endured, crushed you, and the walls of the room seemed to close in around you.
“I can’t do this,” you said, your voice trembling, thick with emotion. “I can’t stay here.”
“Please,” Acacius began, his tone urgent as he stepped toward you, his hand outstretched. But you recoiled, shaking your head fiercely.
“Don’t!” you cried, your voice cracking. “Don’t come near me! Don’t tell me it’s going to be okay when nothing ever is. You’re just another person who’s used me, another person who doesn’t see me.”
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 couldn’t 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 didn’t stop. You couldn’t. You didn’t know where you were going—only 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 wasn’t Acacius.
It was Geta.
He stood there, his face shadowed yet unmistakably troubled. The smugness on his face was characteristic but still you couldn’t name his expression you couldn’t place what he was feeling, desperation? Anguish? The way his chest rose and fell told you he’d been running, as if chasing you had been his sole purpose.
“Emperor Geta? wha-what are you doing here?” you demanded, your voice shaking, not with fear but with a volatile mixture of emotions you couldn’t quite name.
“I was on my way to pay a visit to our beloved General” he answered, his sinister smile still on his face, "I must admit," he said, stepping closer, his tone dripping with false amusement, "I didn’t 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.
"You’re drunk, emperor" you said sharply, hoping to mask the fear creeping into your voice. "Go back to the palace, Geta.”
But he only laughed, a cold, hollow sound. "Oh, I’m perfectly sober," he said, his eyes narrowing. "And I think it’s time we had a little... talk, you and I.”
“What more could you possibly want from me, Emperor?”
His eyes met yours, and for the first time, they weren’t cold or calculating. They were raw, bare, and filled with an emotion that made your stomach churn.
“You,” he said, the word barely above a whisper.
Your blood froze. “What?”
“I’ve loved you,” he said, his voice trembling. “For as long as I can remember. And I’ve hated myself for it, but I couldn’t stop. Not even when I tried to keep my distance. Not even when I told myself it was wrong.”
The ground seemed to shift beneath your feet. This was a nightmare—a fever dream born of the turmoil of the night. It had to be.
“No,” you said, shaking your head vehemently. “No, you can’t—you don’t mean that.”
“I do,” he said, stepping closer, though he didn’t reach for you. “I’ve 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...” He broke off, his hands clenching into fists. “It is like I am set on fire.”
“I—” you started, but words failed you.
Geta took another step forward, his desperation palpable. “Do you see now?” he asked, his voice softer but no less intense. “I’ve only ever seen you as mine.”
“Stop,” you said, your voice trembling as you raised a hand to keep him at bay. “Just stop. Whatever you think this is, whatever you feel—it’s wrong.”
He froze at your words, his face twisting with a mixture of pain and defiance. “Wrong?” he repeated, his voice cracking. “How can it be wrong when it’s the only thing I’ve ever been certain of?”
“Because I don’t feel the same!” you shouted, your tears spilling over now. “I will never feel the same. I’m married.”
Geta flinched at your words as though you’d struck him. His face, already a storm of emotions, darkened further. “Married,” he spat, his voice low and bitter. “To a man who will never truly see you. A man who cannot love you the way I do.”
Your chest tightened as anger began to bubble within you, momentarily overpowering the fear and confusion. “Love?” you repeated, your voice trembling. “This isn’t love, Geta. Whatever you think this is, it’s twisted. You’ve turned me into some...some object to claim, a possession to own!”
His jaw clenched, and his hands balled into fists at his sides. “I have done nothing but love you,” he said through gritted teeth. “When no one else cared about your happiness, when they made you a pawn in their schemes, I thought of you. Always.”
“Then why didn’t you stop it?” you demanded, stepping forward despite yourself. “Why didn’t you, with all your power, say something? Do something? If you loved me so much, why didn’t you fight for me?”
Geta’s gaze faltered for the briefest moment, a crack in his otherwise unyielding façade. “Because I couldn’t,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “Because to love you openly would have been to destroy you. You think I don’t 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.”
“That’s not love,” you said, shaking your head, your voice breaking. “Love doesn’t hide in shadows. It doesn’t tear someone apart from the inside. It doesn’t...” You trailed off, pressing a trembling hand to your mouth as sobs threatened to escape. “It doesn’t feel like this.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence was deafening, broken only by the distant rustle of leaves in the night wind.
“I didn’t want this,” Geta finally said, his voice almost a whisper. “I never wanted to hurt you. But watching you with him, knowing you’re his...” His voice cracked, and he took a shaky breath. “It’s killing me.”
“I’m not yours,” you said firmly, the words sharper than you intended. “I’ll never be yours.”
Geta’s face hardened at that, the softness of his confession replaced by something colder, more dangerous. “We’ll see,” he said quietly, his tone chilling in its calmness. “The gods have a way of changing fates”
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 shifted—darkening, 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.
“Emperor Geta,” 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. “It is too late for you to be out in the middle of the night”
For a moment, Geta didn't respond. The intensity of his stare met Acacius’ head-on, the challenge in his eyes unmistakable. But Acacius didn’t 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.
Geta’s lips curled slightly in a sardonic smile, though there was an edge to it. “I 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. “Are you all right?” 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 Acacius’s 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 wouldn’t come. Your emotions were a storm, a swirl of anger, fear, and confusion that made it impossible to think clearly.
Before you could respond, Geta’s voice cut through the moment like a knife. “Does he really care, or is this just about keeping control? Do you really think he’s here for you?” He sneered, stepping forward as if trying to push Acacius out of the space between you. “Or is it just the idea of you that he wants to control, the power that comes with your bloodline?”
The truth was beyond the obsession Geta had towards you, there was fear. He was aware your blood belonged to the realm, so you weren’t a lover he wanted to possess but a treat he wanted to eliminate.
You weren’t 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 wasn’t love, it was a deep-seated need to control, to erase what he couldn’t 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 wasn’t 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. Acacius’s 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 didn’t seem to do anything to quell the storm brewing between the two men.
Geta’s face hardened, the flicker of emotion that had passed through him earlier replaced by a steely resolve. “Your wife, Acacius,” he said, the venom in his tone unmistakable, “is a part of this empire, and the future of it is bound to her. Don’t think for a second you can keep her out of this.”
Acacius’s grip tightened on the reins of his horse, his knuckles white as he kept his stance, unwavering. “I’m not keeping her out of anything,” he said, his voice low but deadly. “But as her husband, I will not let you use her to fuel your delusions of power.”
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 didn’t last. The shadows of what had just transpired seemed to cling to you, the fear, the confusion still buzzing in your veins. Acacius’s protection, though fiercely given, couldn’t 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. “Are you all right?” His voice was gentle now, and the concern in his gaze pulled at your heart in a way you couldn’t 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.
“Careful,” 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. “You need to rest.”
Your heart raced for a moment, the fragments of the night’s events rushing back to you. Geta’s 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.
“Mother…” you whispered, your voice hoarse. “What happened? Is… is everything all right?”
Lucilla’s eyes softened, and she reached out to brush a lock of hair from your face, her touch soothing. “You fainted, my lady. After the confrontation with the emperor, you collapsed. Acacius was frantic. He had you brought inside immediately. He’s been by your side all night.”
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.
“He stayed with me?” 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. “Yes. He didn’t leave your side for a moment. He’s worried about you.”
As Lucilla’s 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 couldn’t 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 made—the admission of his feelings, the vulnerability in his voice—was clear in that single glance. And in that moment, something inside you recoiled.
You were a burden.
“Acacius…” 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. “You’re awake,” 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 couldn’t place.
“I was worried about you,” 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 couldn’t 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 couldn’t bring yourself to meet it fully. Every part of you screamed for distance, for space, and yet, he remained close—too close.
“Acacius, I—” 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 wasn’t just about what Geta had done or said; it was about the emotions Acacius had stirred in you, emotions you didn’t 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 wasn’t 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 couldn’t 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 wasn’t that you hated him, far from it, but you couldn’t 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 weren’t 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 couldn’t escape. He was there, yes—but it was Lucilla’s 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 couldn’t pretend anymore that things were the same. You couldn’t 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 Colosseum—events 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 wasn’t 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 didn’t 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 didn’t 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 death—it all blended into a backdrop of life that felt increasingly distant, like you were watching it all from behind a veil. You were alive, yes—but you weren’t 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 didn’t 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 saw—the 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 part—faking a life that wasn’t truly yours anymore.
The crowd cheered as Acacius raised your hand, the symbol of his victory and his loyalty to Rome. But you couldn’t feel the victory. You couldn’t 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 weren’t looking, as if he was searching for something—anything—that would tell him you were still there. But you weren’t. 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, Geta’s 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 wasn’t 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 wasn’t 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.
“You don’t have to pretend for me,” he said one night, his voice rough with emotion. He reached for your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I see it. The distance. I see you slipping away from me, and I don’t know how to fix it.”
You wanted to tell him, to let him in, but the words wouldn’t 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 couldn’t appreciate it. The beauty of the world was lost on you now.
"I’m sorry," you whispered, though the words didn’t 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, free—free 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. Acacius’s touch, his words, his confession of love for your mother—it 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.
“No!” a familiar voice cried out, filled with fear. “Don’t you dare do this!”
Your vision swam as Acacius’s 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.
“Stay with me,” he urged, his voice breaking as he held you close, his hands pressing against your wet skin. “Please. Don’t leave me.”
You were too weak to respond, your body trembling, your mind foggy. But his words—don’t leave me—cut through the haze. They echoed in your ears, but they didn’t make sense. Why would he want you to stay when you were nothing more than a burden, a shadow of what you once were?
“Acacius…” 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.
“Because I want to love you,” he said, his voice shaking but steady with resolve. “I’ve always wanted to love you. You don’t have to carry all of this alone. I don’t care about the empire, about the danger, or the expectations of the world. I care about you. I want to be there for you—to love you.”
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. Acacius’s love, though it was sincere, felt like a distant dream—a dream that you didn’t deserve. How could you accept his love when you felt so broken, so consumed by the darkness inside of you?
“I’m so sorry,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but filled with the depth of the regret you felt. “I’m not who you think I am. I’ve lost so much of myself...”
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.
“You’re not lost,” he said, his voice low but steady. “You’re not alone, even when it feels like it. I’m here. I will always be here, whether you believe it or not.”
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 drowning—not 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?
“I don’t know how to let anyone love me anymore,” 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 don’t have to figure it all out right now. Just let me be here with you, for as long as you need. You don’t 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 wasn’t a solution to all that haunted you, but it was something—something real.
“You’re not alone, either,” you whispered, your voice still fragile but more certain than before. “I don’t want to be alone, either.”
The quiet between you felt like an unspoken promise, an understanding. You didn’t have all the answers, and you didn’t 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 weren’t sure what you were asking for—comfort, reassurance, or simply the presence of someone who cared when everything else seemed so uncertain.
Acacius didn’t 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. "I’m 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 don’t want to be alone."
Acacius’s 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 Acacius’s presence, his steady, unyielding care, was a reminder that, for now, you didn’t 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 wasn’t just the caring gestures—though those were abundant—but 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 day’s 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.
“What about when you have to go into battle again?” 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 first—a soldier bound to the empire’s 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.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I will make sure you’re safe before I leave. Always.”
His honesty was disarming, and for once, it didn’t 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.
“And what if you don’t come back?” you pressed, your voice trembling.
Acacius stepped closer, his gaze steady. “I will come back,” he said firmly. “I’ve survived countless battles, and I’ll survive the next one. Because now, I have a reason to.”
His words made your breath catch, and you turned away, unwilling to let him see the tears welling in your eyes. “Don’t say things like that,” you murmured. “Don’t make promises you might not be able to keep.”
“I’m not making promises,” he said, his voice softer now. “I’m telling you the truth.”
You looked at him then, your emotions a whirlwind of fear, anger, and something else—something you weren’t ready to name. “You make it sound so simple,” you said bitterly.
“It’s not,” he admitted, his expression unflinchingly honest. “But I’ve faced death more times than I can count, and I’ve always fought to live. Now, I fight for you, too.”
The weight of his words settled over you, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. Finally, you broke the silence, your voice raw.
“I don’t want to be the reason you don’t come back.”
He reached out, hesitating for a moment before placing a hand on your shoulder. “You won’t be,” he said. “If anything, you’re the reason I will.”
The vulnerability in his voice was almost too much to bear. You closed your eyes, taking a shaky breath. “I don’t know how to do this, Acacius,” you admitted. “I don’t know how to let myself care for someone when everything in my life has been taken from me.”
He stepped closer, his hand sliding down to take yours. “You don’t have to figure it out all at once,” he said. “But let me stay by your side while you do.”
His grip was firm yet gentle, and in that moment, you felt a flicker of something you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel in years: hope.
“Just... come back,” you whispered, your voice breaking.
“I will,” he promised, his gaze unwavering. “Always.”
And for the first time, you allowed yourself to believe him.
After the gladiators’ 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 him—the 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 didn’t look up right away, but when he did, his eyes seemed to carry the weight of the world. "I’m sorry," he muttered. "I know you want more from me, but right now, my duty—my loyalty—it 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. I’m 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 don’t deserve you.” 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 orders—none 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. "You’ve made this so much harder”
You smiled softly, your hands resting against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingers. "Maybe that’s 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 hadn’t 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 weren’t alone anymore.
As you pulled away from the kiss, Acacius didn’t 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 villa’s 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.
“I’ll come back for you cara mia” 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.
"I’ll 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 away—the 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. "I’m 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. "I’m not going anywhere, Acacius. I’m here. And I’ll 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. Acacius’s 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 him—the 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 couldn’t 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 didn’t deserve this, didn’t deserve you. And yet, here you were, giving him the strength he hadn’t 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 couldn’t 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 didn’t 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 didn’t quite reach your eyes. "Then let me help you more. Whatever you need, Acacius, I’m 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.
"I’ll remember this," he said softly, his voice carrying a promise you didn’t fully understand but felt all the same. "No matter what happens, I’ll remember."
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