camp counselor!Joel Miller x f!reader | 3.4K | read on AO3
Summary: Joel Miller, the new head counselor at Camp Happy Trail, makes sure this summer will be one you won't forget.
WARNINGS: 18+ Only! No outbreak AU. '80s AU. Think Camp Crystal Lake vibes w/o the murders. Set in 1980. Mention of another p-boi. Mention of semi-public sex. Accidental voyeurism. Fingering. Auralism. F!masturbation. Joel is a bully AND has a big 🍆. Kissing. Breast/nipple play. One spank. F!oral. Unprotected piv. Creampie. Mention of pregnancy (not reader). Cheating. Secret fmf threesome (makes sense in context). M!oral. Cum swallowing. Reader is early-to-mid-twenties, able bodied, with breasts and vagina, but otherwise undescribed. Feel free to imagine Game Joel or Show Joel.
Adriana's note: another little thing in my wips for a few weeks, and I really wanted to have it out by the end of summer. This was inspired by a fantasy an idea of Joel in 1980s short shorts (this look should definitely make a comeback)
dividers by @/strangergraphics-archive 👑
JOEL MILLER MASTERLIST | FULL MASTERLIST
SUMMER 1980
You love your summer job as counselor at Camp Happy Trail. You love being outdoors, helping the campers with swimming, canoeing, hiking, learning about nature. You’ve looked forward to it every summer since high school.
This year is different. There’s a new head counselor in town, and he’s trouble in the form of Joel Miller.
He’s tall, broad, graying, and stern. His dark brown eyes apprise every counselor in front of him as the group gathers on the camp’s front lawn two weeks before opening day. He goes over the rules and expectations of all staff members. You pay attention even though it’s the same old drill: no fucking around during working hours, make sure the campers are safe at all times, please report injuries and have them sent to the nurses station, et cetera. You could recite the rules by heart.
Only one thing has you concerned.
You raise your hand to speak. Joel glances over at you but continues talking, stressing the importance of keeping away from drugs and alcohol during the next two weeks, especially once the campers come on opening day. You know all that. Still, you wait with your hand raised until Joel sighs, giving you time to speak.
“What happened to Frankie?”
Joel tries really hard not to roll his eyes. “Francisco Morales won’t be here to help us set up. He’ll be here on the camp’s opening day.” He snorts, arms crossed as he eyes you up and down. “What, is he your boyfriend or somethin’?”
“No..” you reply, unable to stop the embarrassment from creeping up your spine. Of course you and Frankie hadn’t set any firm definitions about what you are, but the past two years you’ve spent here have also been spent by fucking him in the woods during early morning hikes, blowing him in the storage shed, and sneaking him into your cabin to have him go down on you all night.
You have his number, but there’s been no answer when you’ve called before driving up to the campsite. You wonder what’s keeping him from being here.
Piper, the girl you’ve hated since you’ve been counselors together these past few years, shoots a smug look your way as the meeting is adjourned, and she walks off with Joel’s arm around her waist. She glances over her shoulder at you, giving you the finger.
She’s just jealous because Frankie chose you over her two years ago. She hasn’t let you alone in peace since.
Joel is a hard task master. At dawn he has the counselors up and jogging through the trail in the woods and chopping firewood before breakfast. Swim safety is in the afternoon when the heat is at its worst, the air humid with the scent of sunblock and stagnant lake water. At the very least you’re given some time to lay out in the sun afterward, drying off on the warm boards of the dock.
Back at the cabins only two people are unaccounted for – Piper and Joel. The other counselors make crude guesses as to where they are and what they’re doing. You’re elected to go and find them before it gets dark. Piper has dinner duty and Maya refuses to do all the cooking alone.
Slipping on your jean shorts, your towel slung over your shoulders to catch the water droplets from your still-damp hair, you set out in search of Joel and Piper.
The sun is just starting to set when you find them in a thick copse of trees near the edge of the forest, Piper pressed against a tree as Joel’s fingering her, his hand down the front of her red bikini bottom as he plunges inside her, head bent close to her ear, muttering dirty things. You stop, half-hidden by the trees as you watch them, your own pussy growing wet just bearing witness. You know you should turn and leave, forget you ever saw this, just tell the others that Piper and Joel are coming back soon.
But you’re frozen to the spot, watching them in the secrecy of the woods, your own hand ghosting over your clothed clit, imagining what Joel’s thick, rough fingers must feel like.
There’s a sharp snap of a twig that echoes in the air, causing Piper and Joel to quickly part. You’re already hurrying down the path, shame and lust heating your cheeks.
Everyone is split up in pairs, the counselor bunks only small enough to house two comfortably, and unfortunately Joel assigns you and Piper together. You tell yourself it’ll just be a couple months and most days will be too busy for you to have to deal with her very much.
Piper grabs the top bunk before you have a chance to claim it. But once you’re settled in the bottom, she makes you switch back after she finds a spiderweb too close to the ceiling.
But even your nights can’t be peaceful. Joel sneaks in after lights out, and you have to endure the soft giggles and moans coming from the bunk below you. The entire bed frame rocks with Joel’s thrusts as he fucks your bunkmate.
Great, just great.
They make no effort to hide whatever’s going on between them. His hand is permanently on her ass, barely clothed in the camp counselor uniform shorts, his entire paw covering her ass cheek. The others don’t notice or don’t care, too caught up in their own romantic entanglements.
It only makes you miss Frankie more. Out here in the woods you have no way of contacting him except through the main office line, but Joel stands right in front of anyone who wants to call home, dials the number on the rotary phone, and waits with arms crossed as the call is made. Nobody does personal calls while he’s in charge.
You try to keep yourself busy with helping get the camp ready. The grass near the cabins is maintained, repairs are made to the buildings themselves (which Joel oversees, and you can’t help but to check him out a little while he’s fixing the sign above the infirmary – he looks too good with a hammer), checking that the generators are working properly, and that the electrical system and water pressure are good.
There’s so much to do that by the time you climb up into your bunk you fall asleep as soon as your head hits the pillow.
The only thing that could possibly wake you is Joel fucking Piper in the bunk below yours.
Joel’s grunts and groans, paired with Piper’s moaning and gasping, keep you awake. You lose count of how many rounds they go, the entire bed bunk frame shaking with their movements. And at one point you can’t help it as your fingers travel beneath your sleep shorts, finding your wet pussy and tracing your slit. Two fingers fit inside you easily as you lift your legs to get comfortable. Closing your eyes you start fucking yourself on your hand, imagining Joel’s fingers inside of you instead of yours.
You’re trying desperately to keep your whimpering to a minimum but you doubt they’ll hear you over their own sounds. Your fingers match the pace of Joel’s thrusts, though you imagine his cock is a lot bigger than your two fingers combined. And the way he’s been fucking Piper for almost an hour solidifies the fact that his stamina is good.
Your fingers glide over your clit, circling and swiping, your hips arching up as you chase the friction you so desperately need for your release as you listen to Piper’s moans and Joel’s increasing grunts. Eyes squeezed tight you plunge your fingers as deep as you can, timing it just right with Piper’s final, momentous scream. You try to keep as quiet as possible as your release coats your hand, clit throbbing, legs quaking.
Joel corners you after breakfast the next morning, barring you from following the others to the field where a soccer match was planned. Instead he drags you to the boat shed. You hate it there. It’s dusty and cramped and there are cobwebs in the corners.
“What’s wrong?” you ask, your heart in your throat as Joel peers down at you, something unreadable in his deep brown eyes.
“What’s wrong?” he mimics you. “You think I don’t know you were gettin’ yourself off to me and Piper last night?”
The blood drains from your face, leaving you cold. “Wh-what?”
“Stop actin’ innocent. You weren’t exactly quiet. Piper was laughin’ at you, sayin’ you’re a lonely little virgin.”
“I’m not a virgin,” you tell him tersely.
“Really?” Joel’s voice is full of derision. “Prove it.”
The blood drains from your face. “H-how?”
“You’re a smart girl. You know how.” But just to be mean he explains it in detail. “How about you bend over–” he slaps the hull of a nearby canoe and puts his hand on your lower back, pressuring you towards it. “--pull those pretty little short-shorts down and let me check for myself.”
“You’re not serious,” you sputter.
“You afraid or somethin’?” he smirks.
You’re not afraid per se. But you’re definitely wet enough so that he’ll tease you if he finds out. “Of course not,” you stand up to him boldly.
He looks amused by this, and the way he cups his bulge in his own shorts shows he’s more than a little turned on. Your eyes drop down to where his thick cock is hardening under the skin-tight fabric.
With determination in your eyes, you’re certain of yourself when you reach up and grab Joel by the nape of his neck, kissing him. His eyes go wide at the initial shock of surprise, but then they close, a deep and satisfied growl in his chest as he kisses you back, his tongue slipping past your lips. Your gasp turns into a soft moan as his large paw on your lower back presses you closer to him, rubbing his hard-on against you.
“I bet this pussy’s already soaked,” he mutters, finally breaking from the kiss to nip at your neck. “But first..” he pulls away, a devilish look in his eye. “Lift up that shirt, honey, and lemme see those pretty titties.”
You scoff despite the fact that you are indeed soaked, but you’re already this far in. You might as well go all the way. You lift up your shirt, your white lacy bra on full display. Joel’s big meaty hands pull down the cups, palming your tits with his rough bare hands, bouncing them in his palms. “Look at these.. you gonna lemme suck ‘em?”
Fuck. This isn’t going how you expected but you can’t complain. You nod and he immediately pulls you close, picking you up and pinning you against the canoe as he takes your nipple in his mouth, groaning, using his free hand to pinch your other nipple. “So sweet,” he groans, releasing off you with a wet pop before sucking on the other.
“Joel!” you gasp, a fresh wave of wetness seeping through your underwear.
“Don’t worry, I’m gettin’ there,” he mumbles, helping you shimmy out of your shorts and pressing you forward against the boat. He lands a quick spank across your ass cheek, chuckling at the way your flesh jiggles and the sound of your yelp. Then he spreads your cheeks wide. “Look at that.. pretty as the mornin’ dew..” He kneels down and laps at your honey, making you moan. Almost too late you catch yourself, muffling your own sounds with your palm.
His large, rough hand trails down your spine, keeping you in place as the thick head of his cock slides through your folds, collecting your wetness and teasing you as he slides between your cheeks. You mewl in protest as he chuckles. “Maybe you’re right, maybe you’re not a virgin. Not the way you’re actin’ so greedy for my cock. Well darlin’, take it..”
He eases into you, using shallow thrusts and you can’t help but exhale, the rush of breath leaving you in surprise before he angles you down, sliding in to the hilt. “You’re full of me now,” he grunts out, holding steady to your hips. “God damn, tighter than a nun’s asshole.”
Your walls flutter around him with each stroke, your hands bracing you against the smooth wood of the upturned canoe. You whimper in time with each smooth thrust. Each time Joel bottoms out you feel it deep in your belly, probably deeper than anyone’s ever gone.
“Wish you could see how you’re soakin’ me,” Joel grunts, giving a few quick thrusts to let you hear the sound of your sloppy pussy. “How do you like it, darlin’? You want me to make a mess of you inside, or do you need me to pull out and shove this cock down your throat so you can swallow my load?”
“I-inside,” you pant. “I have an IUD.”
“That’s a relief,” Joel mutters, speeding up, one big hand wrapping around your front to tickle your clit. “C’mon, baby, need you to come on my cock before I bust inside you..”
He slows down just enough for you to work your way up to it, the heat building in your belly and your core, moaning at the way he lifts your hips to meet each thrust, sweat gathering at your temples. “Joel,” you whine, thinking of nothing but the way he’s fucking and filling and stretching your cunt. With an expertly angled thrust home you fall apart, moaning his name as you squeeze around him, and he picks up the pace, slamming into you until he swells inside you, his hot cum painting your walls. His cock is still twitching in the aftershocks when he finally releases his grip on your hips and pulls out of you. You quickly shove your underwear and shorts back on to catch his leavings already starting to leak out.
“Smart girl, bein’ on birth control,” Joel mutters, stuffing himself back into his own shorts. “I wish Piper was responsible like that.”
You school your features into nonchalance after you pull your shirt back down. There’s a little stab of guilt when you realize you’ve just fucked your bunkmate’s boyfriend.. even if she is a bitch. “What do you mean?” you ask innocently.
He reddens, as if he shouldn’t have spoken. “You’re sworn to secrecy, alright? Piper’s pregnant.”
“What?” Joel immediately clamps his hand over your mouth. He still smells like sex.
“Shut. Up,” he warns. “If I find out you told anyone else you’re packin’ your bags and goin’ home. Understand?”
You nod and whisper “Yes,” when he removes his hand. “It’s yours?”
He scoffs. “She says so. Still– not a peep. Got it?”
Piper becomes grumpy when Joel’s visits make an abrupt stop. But she’s no bitchier than usual, likely trying to get back into Joel’s good graces. Little does she know he’s only stopped coming to her because he’s taken up fucking you instead – in the storage shed, in the empty cots in the infirmary, the walk-in pantry in the kitchen. He maintains the position that he doesn’t like you very much while you’re in front of the others, sometimes giving you tasks you have to complete on your own – with the sole purpose of finding you to hook up.
The last night before the campers are due, everyone lets loose. Couples sneak off into the woods with sleeping bags and sinful intentions, some stay on the pier by the lake, drinking and laughing.
You’re the only one who’s made it to your bunk at an appropriate hour, wanting a full night’s rest before the big day. But your sleep is interrupted when Joel and Piper come in, slamming the door behind them, all over each other, kissing and giggling. With a silent groan you put your pillow over your head, already expecting to drown out the noises they’re about to make, which are going to keep you up all night.
They’re in the bottom bunk, a little quieter now that their mouths are busy. But soon there’s that familiar rocking rhythm and the sound of Piper’s moans and squeals, coming to a crescendo. Once again Joel’s stamina is off the charts. You’re in the middle of pleasuring yourself, two fingers shoved as deep as you can go, when everything stops and you hear Joel murmuring. There’s a creak as he gets out of the bunk, and Piper giggles as he positions her facing away. Now Joel’s eye level with your bunk and you gasp as you come face to face with him. He winks at you.
“What do you think you’re doing?” you whisper as quietly as you can.
“She caught up with me. I couldn’t shake her,” he explains just as softly. “Don’t leave me hangin’, sweetheart. Bring that pretty pussy to my face.”
Without hesitating you lift up your nightdress, scooting to the edge of the bed, thighs spread around Joel’s face as he fucks into Piper – oblivious to everything going on – in the bottom bunk. He’s got his dick buried in her while he’s eating you out. You’ve never experienced anything hotter.
You hear Piper’s staccato cries as Joel pounds into her from behind, his own moans humming through your flesh, heightening your arousal, your clit standing at attention between Joel’s lips, his mustache tickling your soft skin. You already know you’re going to come when your legs start shaking, toes curling at the waves of pressure building up in your very core.
“Joel!” you try to whisper as softly as possible. “Joel!.. I’m gonna come!”
He only smacks harder into Piper, her own cries louder than yours. “Come for me,” he whispers back, the tip of his tongue giving one teasing swirl around your pearl before he dives back in. Your back arches off the bed, lightning shooting through your veins as your cunt pulses, drenching Joel’s mouth as you come. He groans, licking up every drop, watching you through his lashes. “Good girl,” he whispers, backing off when you become too sensitive, his lips warm on your inner thigh, stubble scratching at your soft skin as he pulls off of Piper, turning her around so she’s sucking him off.
You hear her moaning and sighing, gagging on his cock. Meanwhile Joel lazily fingers you, scissoring his digits inside your sloppy pussy, his eyes black and glossy while Piper deep-throats him. Your fingers card through his hair as you ignore the softening of your heart in seeing him so tame and vulnerable.
Your name is on his lips but he moans Piper just in the nick of time, his breaths growing unsteady as he comes close to the end, getting ready to bust in Piper’s mouth. You take his head in your cupped hands. “Come, Joel.. give her what she wants,” you whisper. He groans, his thrusts getting sloppy as he fucks his girlfriend’s throat, stilling at last, his features tensing then relaxing as Piper gasps softly, swallowing his thick load.
The next day Joel treats you the same as he always has. Everyone’s minds are on the Opening Day festivities ahead, even if some of the counselors look like they’ve only had a couple hours’ sleep. You’re bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, not just because of last night, but because you’re genuinely excited for summer camp to officially begin.
The campers hurry out of the stuffy buses and onto the rolling green grass, toting duffel bags, wearing the gold and blue camp tees and ball caps, eager for their summer to begin. Everyone is assigned to a counselor, and as soon as your group is ready you start to lead them to their cabin. You have a full day ahead: a quick icebreaker so everyone can become acquainted, a scavenger hunt that will enable the kids to work as a team, then a game of capture the flag, then lunch. You have your day cut out for you, and in the back of your mind you wonder if you’ll cross paths with Joel again..
Your thoughts are interrupted by someone shouting back at the buses. All the counselors turn to look, surprise written on their faces as they find one more latecomer to Camp Happy Trail.
Frankie Morales, adjusting the Standard Oil cap on his head, dark curls already sticking to the sweat on his neck, hurries off the last bus. His royal blue camp tee clings to his torso like sin, accentuating his broad frame. You’re speechless when he reaches you, putting his arms around you and lifting you off the ground before landing a big kiss on your lips. The campers are grossed out, giggling and making faces.
When he pulls away, cupping your face in his hands, you can feel everyone’s eyes on you, just as shocked as you are to see him finally arrive. “I missed you, babe,” he says, planting one more kiss on your forehead. “So what have I missed?”
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You've had all sorts of people come into your beauty parlor but Joel Miller, the old man that treats haircutting in the same wavelength as teeth pulling, just might be your favorite client.
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warnings: no outbreak/modern setting, hairdresser!reader, reader is afab, old man!joel, age gap (joel's early 60s, reader's age is not specified apart from being a lot younger), brief sarah cameo, little bit of erotic massages, requited unrequited love, smut, joel's got it bad, pet names galore, untimely erections, improper use of a backwash unit, oral (m receiving), dirty talk, unprotected piv, size kink, praise kink, joel miller's monster cock, fingering (f receiving), pussy/cock pronouns, cowgirl, creampie, fluff and smut, kind of sugar daddy vibes if you squint.
rating: 18+.
word count: 6.7k.
fox says: hi friends, thank you for reading! this is based off of this request by the incredible @time-for-my-weekly-spanking ! ive been a hairdresser for almost a decade now but i'm not north american and let me tell you... it was quite the challenge to translate the proper vocabulary into english, i've never noticed how much i could never do my own job in an english-speaking country because i have no idea what anything is called lmao but i had fun writing this and i hope you guys enjoy it as well!!
also available on archiveofourown.
You don't do walk-ins. Your clients know and understand this, most of them booking their appointments weeks in advance but, when Sarah first came into your salon while dragging her sixty year old father by the hand like a stubborn toddler, you couldn't find it in yourself to turn them away.
“He's been cutting his own hair for years.” She tells you as the both of you coax Joel to sit down in your chair, a scowl on his face, his entire back taut.
“And I do a damn fine job.” He grumbles, but Sarah just waves him off.
“His eyesight ain't what it used to be, I'm surprised he hasn't snipped his own ear off just yet.”
Joel gives her an affronted grunt that yanks a laugh out of you. His hair is styled back, as if he'd just pushed it away from his face with a little bit of styling mousse and the way it sticks out of the sides is clear that he does it to hide the choppy cut, the curls at the nape of his neck doing wonders to hide just how uneven it is. His broad back stiffens when you run your hands through his hair, the curls catching on your fingers; it's clear that he's uncomfortable, but you're not certain if it's just because he's in a beauty salon rather than a barber shop or something else entirely.
“I could just clean it up a little.” You say, your hands resting on his shoulders for a moment before you pull away. “We don't need to change the haircut, I can just make sure it's even, give you a fresh canvas for you to muck up at home when you decide to cut it yourself again.”
He doesn't laugh, not really, but his lips twitch under his mustache and his eyes seem lighter somehow, which you take as a good sign; Sarah isn't a helicopter daughter — and thank God for that —, choosing instead to sit in a corner with her nose buried in her phone while you work. Joel is tense at first, sitting straight as a rod in your chair and then barely lowering himself into the backwash unit, his head tilted halfway up in a position that you know water is going to pour down his back the second you turn the faucet on. So, you pull the trick that your old boss, a lady with bleached blond hair that was three stories high and a voice rougher than gravel, had taught you: The scalp massage.
It's not something you do often considering that the bent position you're in while shampooing a client's hair kills your back at the end of the day, but you take your time with Joel. You apply just a little bit of pressure with the pads of your fingers, mindful of your nails, running clock-wise circles from the top of his head to his temples, grinning to yourself at the way he stiffens even more before his entire body melts against the porcelain basin, the hands folded over his lap clutching his reading glasses tightly as you work him over, shampooing and moisturizing his hair, tugging and rubbing until he's all but asleep.
Joel Miller becomes a fixture at your beauty parlor after that. You don't have a lot of male clients, your entire salon mostly avoiding booking appointments for men after one too many creeps but Joel is the exception you can't stop yourself from making: He comes in every twenty days 'just for a trim', even if he wears his hair on the longer side and doesn't really need trimming that often. He also starts buying a stupid amount of haircare products once you mentioned you earn a small commission off of every sale, always leaving the salon with a new beard oil or hair moisturizer or curl defining cream that you know he'll never wear on his own. The girls you work with start teasing you about your not-so-secret admirer and, while you laugh and roll your eyes at them, your stomach still burns with something that is not embarrassment. Truth is, you find Joel to be quite dreamy.
The girls don't agree with you— Too old, too weathered, with a daughter whose age is closer to yours than yours is to his but they don't see him the way you do: The way his impossibly broad shoulders relax when he sees you, the shy smile he gives when you welcome him to your chair, the soft sigh he exhales the moment your fingers touch his scalp. Joel Miller is a man built on contradictions: His hair is soft when his frown is prickly, his body language skittish when his words are warm, his brutish hands gentle whenever he shakes yours in goodbye: You found the handshake odd at first, as if you were sealing a business deal rather than saying goodbye to the man whose hair you've just spent the last forty minutes intimately touching, but you've come to appreciate that small moment. The only time your touch is reciprocated, the couple of seconds where his large hand engulfs yours and his warmth involves you in a way that lingers far beyond the handshake.
Maybe you're the one that is the not-so-secret admirer, in the end. You look forward to his appointments, terribly saddened by the few occasions in which he had to cancel, and it has very little to do with the easy money you make off of him.
He's usually your last customer of the day, and you're pretty sure that it's because he likes it when it's just the two of you. Joel seems more comfortable like that, more prone to talking about himself when your ears are the only ones listening— You learn that he's the single father of two daughters, Sarah and Ellie, and that he tried to retire a couple of years ago but got so antsy he had to go back to work. He owns a contracting company with his brother and, with his old age, he's taken the admin duties while his brother and a couple of guys take on the manual labor. He enjoys cooking and woodcarving and he lives on the other side of town— Sarah's apartment is close to the salon, and while he makes it seem that he only comes in to get a haircut whenever he's visiting, you get the feeling that it's not exactly true. And while you share just as many details of your personal life with him, the relationship has always been strictly professional.
It all changes on a rainy January Tuesday.
Joel comes in as your last customer as usual, but this time he's about fifteen minutes late, which is unusual for the man that is always so punctual. He's more disheveled than you’ve ever seen him, his hair is in disarray, curls undone and sticking everywhere; he's in black sweatpants, a t-shirt and the jacket he doesn’t seem to ever take off, but the ensemble is still something you've never seen before: He's always in jeans and some sort of button down or flannel, his sleeves rolled up and his boots shiny, like he takes good care of it. It's always casual but calculated, like he actually put in some effort before leaving the house.
“I'm so sorry, sweetheart.” He says as a greeting, shoving an iced coffee towards you— The coffee is a newish and welcome addition, even if Joel grumbles about how caffeine so late in the day is bad for you, he always shows up with pink-tinted cheeks and the iced caramel latte he knows you enjoy. “Had to drive the kid to the airport and traffic was crazy, ended up not havin' time to go back home to get dressed. Am I too late?”
“No, you're fine.” You smile, taking a sip of your coffee as he shakes off the remains of the pouring rain from his coat before sitting in your chair. Your late policy means you shouldn't be taking in the appointment: The salon has a maximum of ten minutes of tardiness but even if you tell yourself that you're breaking policy simply because he's the last client you have today, it truly is because he is Joel, and you'd let him run you over with his car if he wanted to.
You go through the motions as you usually do: Placing the towel over his shoulders — the larger ones, always, because the regular size doesn't fit him properly —, and then the bright pink cape — which you always pick for him because you think it's funny of see a man that size wrapped in a bat-like pink cape — before clipping his sideburns and the nape of his neck; the scruff on his cheeks is on the longer side today, but you don't touch them. You like him with a beard, and you often pretend to forget about it unless he specifically asks for a trim of his facial hair too. By the time the two of you make it to the shampooing station, Joel's already halfway through his tale of Sarah's out-of-state girl's trip for a friend's birthday and how it's the first time she's taking a long trip without him. It's cute, the way he talks about her as if she's just a teenager even though you know she's a grown woman, the way he voices his worries to you and then finishes a sentence with ‘didn't say that to her, of course’, as if he's apologizing for his over-protectiveness to her through you.
Joel falls oddly silent after the first wash, his voice cutting itself halfway through a sentence as you rinse away the shampoo, his once closed eyes snapping open. He shifts a little, one of his hands flying downwards as you fill up your hand with shampoo again and your eyes drift to follow the movement, your stomach dropping in the split second in which you think he's touching himself. He's not, not really, his hand closed into a tight fist and carefully placed over his crotch in a poor attempt at concealing a very impressive hard-on that tents through the pink cape. His eyes flit to yours, the two of you making eye contact for just a second before your hand overflows with the mint-scented shampoo.
You work in silence, biting down on your bottom lip to hide the giddy smile that threatens to show.
Normally, if it were any other man on Earth, you would've been disgusted by it— Or annoyed, at the very least, but you're not. You take your time with the scalp massage, rubbing your fingers against him slower, more teasingly this time, doing your best to remain as professional as you can while having fun with it. Joel's entire face is bright red and his eyes are shut tight, but he doesn't seem as uncomfortable as he was before, his breath catching when your fingers dip close to his temple. You're not supposed to use your nails, you know it can be quite uncomfortable for some people but you can't help the way you allow yourself to scratch softly as his scalp, his mouth parting slightly at the sensation.
Joel doesn't look you in the eyes when you walk him back to the chair, which is not uncommon for him, but the air is electrified and you look away as he tries to readjust himself; the cape does nothing to hide his erection, though, and you know the imagine will be ingrained in your mind for a long time.
The two of you are silent throughout the entire haircut, with Joel shuffling in his chair every so often, clearly uncomfortable, and it makes your job at evening out the ends just a tad harder— You're not certain it's completely even by the time you're done, your hands shaky and your mind entirely distracted by him but the curls hide it well; if he never shows up again, you won't ever know if it's because of the uneven cut or because of the ten or so minutes he spent rock hard at your shampooing station. He seems a little more relaxed by the time you're removing the cape from his neck, his face still flushed red but at least his cock is down.
It's almost as if the Universe is conspiring against you, the rain pouring twice as hard by the time Joel finishes up his payment — with an extra 25% tip and a beard shampoo that you're certain he'll never use —, the two of you standing awkwardly by the door for a moment.
“Can I drive you home?” Joel asks all of a sudden, hands shoved inside the pockets of his carhartt jacket. “The rain ain't gon' let up soon.”
You open your mouth, ready to politely decline: Despite your crush, Joel is still someone you don't know that well and you're not certain you want him to know your address or to be inside his car for so long. But he blinks at you with his big brown eyes, shoulders drawn tight as if he's bracing himself for a rejection and suddenly you simply can't think of a single reason as to why you shouldn't take a chance. And, in the end, it was better than getting home late and sopping wet after taking the bus under a thunderstorm.
“Okay.” You nod, your smile broadening when he smiles back. “I would love that, actually.”
Joel's car is old, a large red pick up truck that he clearly uses for work, dirt on its tires and sides. He opens the door for you and helps you climb in, large hands respectfully wrapped around your waist when he hoists you up. You're a little shy when giving him your address, afraid he'll be annoyed by how far it is but Joel simply nods and turns on the radio, an old rock song coming through.
You sip your coffee, which is not as iced anymore by this point, sharing it with Joel every so often. He takes the cup between red lights, and you don't miss the way he twists and turns the cup to make sure his lips touch the exact spot where your lipstick has stained it— It makes desire simmer low but constant in your belly, his own lips staining with a soft shade of red.
By the time his truck pulls up into your driveway, the rain is somehow worse than it'd been before. The two of you sit in silence for a moment as you gather the courage to leave the warmth of the truck's cabin, and Joel hums to the song on the radio as if he didn't mind you stalling at all.
“Do you want to come inside?” You ask, and while the question might seem innocent enough, you can't get the outline of his hard cock from your mind. “I mean— It's just… It's dangerous for you to drive home in the dark while it's raining hard like that— I mean, uh, not hard, I—”
You burst into a fit of giggles, hating yourself from even bringing the word up. Joel closes his eyes, his face going pale before he blushes so hard his face is almost purple.
“I'm sorry for that. I…” He stops, visibly unsure of how to finish the sentence. “I'm sorry.”
“Don't be.” You say, softly, and Joel's eyes finally snap to yours as if he can't believe what you just said. “Just come inside, Joel.”
“Okay.” His voice is so low it's almost a whisper, gruff in a way that flies straight through your spine. “If you're sure.”
You don't dignify him with an answer, instead simply hopping out of the truck and rushing to your front door, hoping he'll follow.
Your house is small and in a somewhat sketchy neighborhood, a little messy and full of mismatched secondhand furniture and you're a little embarrassed as you shrug off your coat but Joel doesn't seem to mind, his intense gaze focused solely on you. You're suddenly acutely aware of how sweaty you are after a whole day of working on your feet.
“Make yourself at home.” You tell him, hopping around the room to collect the shoes that are scattered near your couch. “Do you mind if I take a quick shower?”
“Take your time.” Joel drops down on your couch, his hands rubbing his own knees. “How about I order us some food in the meantime? You must be hungry. Any allergies?”
“Sounds good.” You connect your phone to the bluetooth speaker on top of the coffee table, scrolling through your playlists as fast as you can to pick out anything that might be of his taste. “No allergies, no.”
Joel seems entirely at home in your cramped couch, his long legs stretched as he scrolls through the cellphone which he holds comically away from his face, too stubborn to put on the glasses you know he wears— You’ve seen them in his hands or hanging from the collar of his flannel but he never puts them on around you.
You try to be fast with your shower, but you still take the time to exfoliate and shave and moisturize every bit of your body. The clothing is a problem all on its own: You want to look pretty, but you're home after work and you can't simply show up to your living room super dressed up. All of your nice pajamas are a little too skimpy and, since you already invited him in, you don't want to walk out half-naked either— Sure, you are throwing yourself at him, but you still would like to pretend that you are not. In the end, you decide on putting on your prettiest lingerie and then covering it with a pair of comfortable shorts and the only oversized shirt you own that isn't torn or stained, an old Van Halen shirt that you mostly use only in the gym nowadays.
All your worries melt away when you pad back into the living room and Joel drinks you in; he's standing by your fridge, analyzing the thousand polaroids pinned to it. He looks at you like you're the only woman in the world, his darkened gaze going from your thighs to your chest to your face.
“Nice shirt.”
“Thank you.” You tug the hem of the shirt a little, self conscious even though you love the way he looks at you.
Joel clears his throat, his eyes snapping away from you to the square white box on top of the kitchen counter. “I ordered pizza. Reckon it was the safe choice, I dunno what you like to eat.”
“Pizza's great. I'm not fussy.” You rifle through your purse, and Joel frowns when you pull out the bills from the tip he gave you earlier. “How much was it?”
“What're you doin'?”
“Paying my share of the food?” You offer him the crumpled bills, but Joel crosses his arms over his chest.
“You ain't payin', are you crazy?”
“Joel, with the obscene amount you tip me, I could probably pay for the whole meal.”
“Use it to buy somethin' pretty for yourself.” He simply waves you off. “Go sit, we should eat before it gets cold.”
You want to make a sugar daddy joke but you're so flustered by the whole ordeal that you simply smile and do as you're told; you're not used to things like that, men opening doors and offering to pay and being so gentle with you— Most of your past boyfriends were nice enough, but never went above and beyond to make you feel special in the way Joel does.
You eat on the couch, pizza box perched on the coffee table and mismatching plates balancing on your legs but Joel doesn't seem to mind, leaning across the couch to refill your wine glass — and isn't that fancy, having an actual bottle of wine with your food rather than the boxed stuff you usually buy? — whenever it starts to run low, his own glass tucked on the ground near his feet.
The conversation flows easily, easier than it usually does at work when there are too many interested eyes and ears on the two of you. Joel seems more at ease too, his face flushed from the wine and brown eyes gleaming under the warm light of your living room. Your feet end up on his lap somehow, the TV playing a movie you're not exactly paying attention to: Despite how much you try to seem relaxed, you are incredibly aware of Joel's imposing presence by your side, quietly watching the screen with the prescription glasses he finally perched on his nose when you first offered to turn on Netflix. His large, calloused hand rests on top of your feet, not moving at first, just holding onto you.
And then his thumb slides down, pressing softly against the arch of your foot. Your eyelids flutter, the dull pain from an entire day on your feet evaporating as he rubs against your skin, applying just enough pressure to have you melting into the couch. You don't remember the last time you've been so relaxed, especially around someone that is virtually a stranger, but you close your eyes and lean your head back against the cushions and do your best to keep the little moans trying to escape trapped behind your teeth.
The first time you feel it, it's just a soft bristle on the bridge of your foot, so feathery light that you think it must've been a breeze. And then you feel it again, the soft and scratchy tingle of Joel's beard on the inside of your ankle. You don't say anything and neither does he, his lips traveling a little higher, pressing a small kiss to your shin. Joel's nose runs upwards ever-so-slightly, bumping against your knee.
“This okay?”
You nod, a little embarrassed that just a couple of small pecks were enough to get your body thrumming. You feel Joel's lips twist into a smile as he turns his head to kiss the inside of your knee.
“I gotta hear you say the words, sweetheart.”
“Yes, Joel.” You breathe out. “More than okay.”
He moves slowly up your body, and you giggle at the small grunt Joel gives as he twists, kneeling on the couch so he can run a line of open mouthed kisses up your leg, his aquiline nose brushing over your clothed mound before he started mouthing at the band of your shorts, pushing your shirt up so he could pepper kisses up your stomach all the way to your sternum; he doesn't touch your breasts, and the only touch to your pussy was the brief brushing of his nose, but you feel your entire body already on fire, legs falling apart so his hips could fit between yours before Joel finally presses his lips to yours.
He tastes of wine and remnants of pizza but the only thing you can focus on is the weight of his body on top of yours, his mouth moving against yours with experienced precision, one arm next to your head holding most of his weight while the other roams your ribs underneath your shirt. You giggle and squirm when his fingers ghost a particularly tickly spot, and Joel pulls back to watch your reaction, a soft smile on his face.
“I've been wanting to do that since the day we met.” He admits, his graying curls falling over his forehead. You reach up, pulling it backwards, unable to keep the smile off of your lips.
“I got a lot more that I've been wanting to do to you, old man.”
“Minx.” Joel gasps, but you can tell he's not offended by it, free hand wrapping at the nape of your neck before he pulls you up until the both of you are seated, your thighs straddling his lap.
Joel holds you close as the two of you kiss, your hips grinding down against him, your chest pressed against his as his hands roam from your back to your ass, grabbing handfuls of it as he dictates the pace but, no matter how slow or fast or rough you go, he doesn't seem to get past half-mast. It is as if he can sense the inquisitive tilt of your hips, head falling back against the couch as his hands knead your ass cheeks.
“ 'M real sorry, darlin'.” He says, redness crawling up his thick neck. “It just— It takes 'im a minute sometimes.”
A shiver runs down your spine when you realize that the him he's talking about is his own cock— You have never had anyone speak like that before, and although you expect to find it weird, you can feel yourself get wetter.
“Maybe we should move this to my bathroom.” You tease with a small smile, trying to ease the tension he clearly feels. “Let me wash your hair again and he'll wake right up.”
He groans, leaning forward to hide his face in the crook of your shoulder. You take pity on him, your nails raking through his hair before you lean back just enough to face him.
“We don't have to do anything tonight, Joel.”
“I want to.” Joel answers immediately, fingers flexing against your skin. “I want you— Fuck, darlin', you have no idea how much I want you.”
You press a kiss to his cheek. “Let me help, then.”
Joel watches you curiously as you climb from his lap, his legs parting automatically as you settle on your knees in front of him. His meaty hands flex, but he keeps them to his sides, mouth opening and then closing as if he's swallowing down whatever it is that he was about to say. You start slowly pressing soft kisses to the tent in his sweats that, while not as big as the one you'd seen earlier, it is still more than you thought it should be; you cup him through his clothes, warm and heavy, before sliding his pants down to his ankles. Joel shifts, toeing the sweatpants off just eager enough to make you chuckle, the fabric bunching as it gets caught on his left shoe.
He's only half-hard still, cock heavy laying against his right thigh, twitching in the night air— You take him in your hand, pumping him slowly, but all you can focus on his how big he is: Thick and long and uncut, bigger than any cock you've ever seen and you don't think there is any way he can grow any bigger once it's fully hard. You’re tempted to just swallow him at once but you don’t, holding him upright as you place soft kisses to Joel’s inner thighs, making your way upwards until the tip of your nose brushes against his balls— Joel jolts, just a little, but his legs spread a little more and you take that as a sign. You start with kitten licks, your hand still pumping his cock as you run tongue your over his balls; the noise that comes out of his mouth is almost painful, somewhere between a grunt and a gasp. You switch directions then, placing small kisses at the base of his cock— Joel looks wrecked just from those simple touches, his hands fisted by his sides, his eyes dark with desire as he looks down on you.
“So fuckin’ pretty like that.” He breathes out, his hands pulling your hair away from your face, holding it in a makeshift ponytail— Joel doesn’t use it to guide your movements though, letting you explore him freely without the hair getting in the way. “Wish you could see yer’self.”
“Maybe next time I’ll let you take a picture.” You say as you circle the head of his cock with your tongue. Joel moans, his grip tightening in your hair and you can feel his cock twitch under your touch, hardening under your ministrations. You lick a fat stripe from the base up to the tip, following along the vein on the underside of his shaft, suckling on the head; you can taste his precum, salty and a little shy, but he’s far more responsive than you expected.
“C’mon darlin’.” Joel goads you. “Take ‘im in. I know it’s big, but you can do it.”
Your lips quiver as you hold back your smile, your mouth slowly sinking onto him; you’re able to take about two thirds of his cock before it hits the back of your throat and you pull back slightly, breathing through your nose as you pump whatever part of him you can’t fit inside your mouth. It’s quite the stretch, drool pooling in your mouth and dribbling down the sides, and your core pulses as you think about how it’ll feel inside of you.
“Fuck, there you go— Such a good girl f’me.” You find a pace that is comfortable for you, the weight of his cock on your tongue, the saltiness and warmth of his velvety skin making your eyes roll to the back of your head.
He somehow grows fatter in your mouth, thicker and heavier than before. You take him as deep as you can, only pulling away when you feel his cockhead hitting your throat, and Joel whines every time. You can see he’s trying to behave, the hand not holding your hair fisting the couch, straining as he tries to stop from thrusting into your mouth, which you are thankful for— While you don’t mind a little bit of throat fucking, you’re quite intimidated by how big he is.
“C’mere.” Joel begs, tugging on your hair for the first time as he pulls you away from his cock. “Take those shorts off and sit on my lap.”
His words send a thrill of desire down your chest, your skin feeling warm and tight all over as you climb on top of him, your shins bracketing his thighs. You’re still in your oversized shirt, the hem coming down to the top of your thighs but you shiver when Joel’s now hard cock bumps against your wet cunt. You tug at his shirt just as Joel pulls you in for a kiss and the both of you chuckle at the clumsiness, his cotton shirt half tangled with his limbs; Joel separates himself from you just enough to yank his shirt off, the clothing falling somewhere behind the couch before he’s dragging his lips back to yours.
You have never been with a man who really likes to kiss before— For most of your partners, kissing was just a means to an end, just a pitstop before getting to the foreplay but Joel takes his time with it, making out like you’re teenagers, his hands exploring every bit of your body underneath your shirt. It leaves you aching, your hips rutting against him, little needy whines escaping your throat.
“Need something, sweetheart?” He has the gall to smile against your skin, his mouth trailing off from your lips down to your jawline.
“Your cock.” You answer, throwing your head back so he could keep kissing the column of your throat.
Finally, finally, Joel’s hand trails down between your legs. The pads of his fingers trace your clit and your labia, stroking softly as if he’s mapping you out, spreading the wetness that has been leaking out of you and dripping down onto his shaft.
“I don’t think yer ready for ‘im.” Joel mumbles against the hollow of your throat, his southern accent heavier than you’ve ever heard it. The tip of his middle finger teases your entrance, circling without pushing in and you buck your hips down, mewling when his finger sinks inside of you. Even his fingers are thick and you chase after the stretch, your torso leaning so far back that you need to grab onto his shoulders not to fall over.
“Give me another one.” You all but beg. Joel leans back on the couch, one hand between your legs, the other holding you by the small of your back and you clench around his finger when you realize he pulled back so he could watch as he plunges his ring finger into you. You already feel so full your mouth waters thinking just how his cock is going to feel, how Joel is going to stretch you enough that you’ll be reminded of him every time you move.
He fingers you slowly with precise, careful movements, his eyes never leaving your cunt and you keen every time he pushes his fingers to the hilt, his palm kneading against your clit. By the time Joel’s third finger slips inside you’re so wet the squelching sounds drown out your moans, your legs burning from how you bounce against him, fucking yourself on his fingers.
“Fuck,” You moan, hips bucking faster as you try to chase your orgasm, your pussy clenching him so tight that Joel moans. “Joel— Please, I’m gonna—”
A whine falls out of your lips when Joel abruptly pulls his hand away, your slick dripping down his wrist. He holds eye contact as he licks his own fingers clean and you clench around nothing, your body thrumming with desire and annoyance at being denied your peak.
“I want you to come on my cock.” He says, but the glint in his eyes tell you that it’s more than that— He wants to tease you, drive you to the edge of madness and be the one in control of your pleasure. Joel takes hold of himself, rubbing the tip of his cock against you and you gasp when it bumps into your sensitive clit. Everything feels heightened after your denied orgasm and you lift a little bit, wanting nothing more than just to sink on top of him. You start slowly, the hand that isn’t holding his own cock steady kneading the fat of your hip as you take him inside. It’s a lot, even just the head of his cock being thick enough to hurt, and you pause when he’s just a couple of inches deep. Joel kisses the soft flesh underneath your chin, his breathing deep and ragged, and you can tell he’s trying to control himself.
“I’m sorry—” You breathe out and try to sink a little more. “I didn’t think you’d be this big— Fuck, that hard on at my shampooing station was just a half chub, wasn’t it?”
Joel chuckles, his grip tightening on you. “Don’t apologize. I know it’s a lot, darlin’. Just take your time, you’re doin’ so good f’me.”
You clench around him at his words and the both of you groan in unison, Joel holding you so tight you know you’ll have bruises in the morning. You take another inch and his cock hits the exact spot inside of you that makes you see stars; you come just like that, your cunt spasming around him, your fingernails digging into his shoulders. It’s never happened before, you don’t think you have ever come from penetration alone, especially one where neither of you are properly moving but the fresh wave of wetness that comes from it and the way your knees give out makes you sink on top of him all the way down to the hilt.
You think you’d scream if you had any air left in your lungs. Joel makes a pained sound, something between a groan and a whine, his teeth digging into the soft spot between your neck and your shoulder.
“Goddamn it, did you just come?” There is a hint of wonder in his voice and you giggle, a little embarrassed. You moan and squeeze him again, unable to form any coherent words.
You hold him close, eyes shut, your nails raking through his hair. You’ve never been this full before, not even with your largest toy, and it burns and hurts and it’s fucking incredible all at the same time. You give your hips a little rock, testing the waters, but Joel stops your movements.
“Fuck, gimme a second, here.” He mumbles into your shoulder. “You’re just— So fuckin’ tight—” Joel kisses your shoulder and your neck, his mustache tickling your overheated skin. “Perfect f’me, takin’ me so well, such a good girl.”
“Can I move?” You barely recognize your own voice, breathy and lost in pleasure and desire. “Please, Joel, I need to feel you.”
His hands move from your hips to knead your ass and that is all the answer you need. You start slow, a little back and forth and some circles, trying to get used to the sheer size of him but you pick up the pace quickly, head thrown back as you fuck yourself on him. Joel is a lot more vocal than you expected him to be, moaning and groaning with every thrust, talking about how you’re a good girl and how you were made for him. It’s easy to get lost in it, his string of praises egging you on, the sound of your body colliding against his reverberating through the room.
His hand finds your clit, not rubbing but simply holding steady, and every time you move up and down his fingers press against your clit just right and suddenly you’re shifting your position, subconsciously trying to rut against his hand. You don’t think you can come twice, but the way his cock keeps pushing against the perfect spot inside of you makes you crack, your second orgasm coursing through you like lightning. Your muscles lock as you moan, pussy clenching hard around Joel’s cock and he comes just as you’re regaining your breath, thick ropes of cum filling you inside— You’re so full from his cock and his come that it pushes against your belly.
Joel rubs your back when you settle against his chest, exhausted. You can feel his cock softening inside of you, his spend and your slick dribbling down over his balls.
“You did so good f’me.” Joel whispers against your ear. “I knew you’d be perfect the first time I saw you.”
“Is that why you kept coming back to the salon?” You ask, head slumped on his shoulder, trying to hide the disappointment in your voice.
“Yes and no.” He answers, rubbing his cheek against your temple. “Knew I wanted to take ya on a date, but I would never have the courage to ask— You’re too young and sweet for a bitter old man like me. So I settled for the haircut, yeah, but I wouldn’t come back if I didn’t think you’re good at what you do.”
You hum at his words, your stomach fluttering at the idea of going on a date with Joel. You didn’t expect him to be actually interested in anything other than sex, and you smile against his neck.
“I would’ve said yes.” You whisper, your fingers flexing against his chest. “If you had asked me out.”
Joel’s muscles stiffen underneath you and you panic, thinking that maybe you’ve just said the wrong thing and that he’s not interested now that he got what he wanted, but he speaks before you can figure out a way of taking your words back.
“And now? Would you still say yes to that date?”
“Especially now.” You giggle, the words coming out a little too fast. “With a dick like that, I’d be crazy to say no.”
His chest rumbles with laughter, and from your position you can’t see his face but you watch in real time as his chest and neck turn red with embarrassment.
“How about tomorrow, then?” His voice is a little shy, rough and low. “Can I take you out for breakfast?”
“Only if you spend the night.”
Joel turns his head then, pressing a kiss to the bridge of your nose.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way, sweetheart.”
He keeps coming back for his trims, always your last appointment of the day, always with some sort of sweet treat or coffee or flowers. He tips generously and rolls his eyes when you say that he has boyfriend privileges now and doesn’t need to pay. But he never leaves the salon alone.
And neither do you.
general taglist: @itsafullmoon @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @hopecomesbacktolife @rosharanfiction @shadowqueen2024 @ess-evo @trulyourslola @keylimebeag (i also tagged some peeps who seemed to be interested in this but no pressure!!)
summary: Joel loses all his self control when you accidentally wear his flannel instead of your boyfriend Tommy’s.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, soft dom!Joel, unspecified age gap, fingering, praise kink, use of pet names
a/n: I wrote this so quick but now I lwk feel bad for Tommy oops
wc: 2.4k
As the early morning sun creeps along the floorboards of the bedroom, you turn in the sheets. “Tommy?” you mumble sleepily when you find his side of the bed empty.
You stretch out, adjusting your eyes to the light as you scan the room. The house is quiet, and you remember now that he told you he had to leave early this morning. You sigh, for once you have no errands to run and no patrol to get ready for; you have yourself a free morning, but Tommy isn’t here to enjoy that with you.
Throwing the sheet off you, you feel a chill against your skin so you pad over to the dresser, taking out one of Tommy’s flannels. You wrap it around you, appreciating the warmth, the softness, and just how snuggly it feels against your skin. You don’t remember ever seeing Tommy wear this, but you recognize it, so naturally the thought leaves your mind as you exit the bedroom and head downstairs in search of breakfast.
"Mornin'," he grumbles, his back to you as he washes dishes in the sink. You pause in the doorway when you realize that you aren’t in fact home alone.
“Joel. Hi.” The hesitation is clear in your voice. Why is he here?
“Don’t mind me; we were out of anything good to eat. Tommy said I could call by here and raid the fridge.”
“Right, of course.” You fiddle awkwardly with your sleeve, unsure what to say, and even though he hasn’t turned to look at you yet, you feel a little exposed dressed in nothing but his brother’s shirt.
Joel fascinates you. He’s significantly older; he’s quiet, never says much, and he always radiates a grumpy energy that keeps you on edge whenever you are around him. But you can’t deny that when you are in the same room, especially when it’s just you and him, there’s a feeling that washes over you that fills your belly with butterflies.
If you were truly honest with yourself, you’d admit that you’re drawn to him; there’s an all-consuming attraction to the older Miller brother that you know is so wrong, and yet you can’t seem to stop. You care deeply about Tommy; what you have with him is good, it’s nice, but sometimes you find yourself wishing for more than that.
There are even nights when you fall asleep beside Tommy and dream of Joel instead. You wake up in the middle of the night, an overwhelming ache between your legs that even when Tommy attempts to relieve, you find yourself closing your eyes and imagining it’s his brother inside you instead. Of course it makes you feel bad; the guilt often eats away at you, and yet every day the craving for Joel only grows and leaves you desperate to know if he feels anything for you too.
Walking over to the cupboard beside Joel, you search for something to ease the pang of hunger in your tummy. In the corner of your eye you notice him glance towards you, pausing his movements at the sink as you feel his eyes examining you. You try to ignore him, turning away as you pad over to the opposite counter.
“What are ya doing?” His voice breaks through the tension. Can he feel it too?
“Making pancakes.”
He scoffs. “No, I mean… why are ya wearing that?”
You look over your shoulder, narrowing your eyes at him. “What do you mean?”
You watch him carefully as he allows his eyes to fall down your body, drinking you in as he leans back against the counter, the bob in his throat noticeable as he swallows.
“Joel?”
“That’s mine.”
“What?”
He nods towards you. “That’s mine.”
Your heart rate rises a little then, your eyes going wide as you realize what he means, and you pull the material further around you.
“I… I don't—" You laugh nervously, the redness creeping up your neck and into your cheeks. “But I found it in Tommy's room?”
“Well, I don’t know what to tell ya, sweetheart, but that’s my shirt.”
“No. No. This is Tommy’s. I’ve seen him wear this.” You haven't; you’re just scrambling to convince yourself that this isn’t happening.
“You’re mistaken. I’d even been looking for that this mornin'. Guess I left it here when I came over the other night.”
“Oh… I’m sorry.”
He tilts his head to the side, a smirk appearing on his lips as he pushes himself off the counter, taking a step closer towards you. "Ya trying to tease me, is that it?”
You blink, your mouth going dry as you try to process what he just said. “What? No, of course not.”
“I think you are. Want to torture me, don’t ya?”
You swallow. “I swear, I didn’t realize."
"Relax, don’t worry; it looks fuckin' good on ya."
You look away, trying to suppress the way he’s making you blush. “Joel…”
"Yeahhhh." His voice deepens then. “Say that again; I like hearing my name on your lips."
You meet his eyes, his words starting to take effect between your thighs. "Don't," you warn. This isn’t happening; he can’t be saying these things.
He takes another step towards you. You feel somewhat intimidated, small even, and yet you want him to continue; you want him as close as possible.
“What?” He asks. “Shouldn’t I say that? Jesus, you’re so innocent it’s adorable.”
“I should go change.” You say quietly and yet make no effort to move.
He ignores you. “Wearing anything underneath?”
“Stop.” His eyes drop down, noticing the rapid rise and fall of your chest.
“Why? Just tell me.”
You swallow again. Don’t do it. “…just panties.”
"Shit, darlin’. You've got my imagination goin' crazy.”
“That’s enough.”
“Fine.” He holds his hands up. “But if I see you wearing it again, I’ll have no choice but to take it off you myself.”
“You wouldn’t do that.” You smile, almost daring him.
“Wouldn’t I?”
“What about Tommy?”
“What about him?”
He makes the final steps towards you then, his hand coming to your waist, guiding you back until you're trapped between his broad frame and the counter. You try to speak, but nothing comes out.
"God, look at ya, such a sweet thing. All flustered, pretending like you don’t want this just as much as I do.” His lips hover above yours. “I’ve seen the way ya look at me… ya just too scared to admit that it’s me you want, not him.”
“He’s your brother, Joel.”
“Quiet.” His finger comes to rest on your parted lips to shush you. Slowly he inserts his finger into your mouth, your lips instinctively closing around it to suck. His eyes turn black then, and he pushes his hips into you, letting you feel what you’re doing to him before he withdraws his finger from your mouth with a pop. “We all desire things we probably shouldn't; that’s why it’s so hard to resist.”
“I can resist you.”
"No, ya can’t. If ya could you’d have left already.”
He’s right. You want this; you're aching for him to touch you.
He doesn’t take his eyes off yours as you feel him reach up between your bodies, his fingers fiddling with the buttons torturously slow until the fabric falls open. He waits a second, a smug grin on his lips before his eyes flick down to take in the sight before him.
“Fuuuuck, you’re so beautiful.” He bites his lip. “If you were mine…” he groans with a shake of his head. “I love my brother, but he doesn’t know how to treat ya right; he doesn’t know how to do the things only I could do to ya.”
The need for him between your legs is becoming overwhelming now; this might be so wrong, but it feels so right.
He reaches up, his finger stroking over your cheek, tracing down your jaw, your neck, until it grazes down over your nipple, making your breath hitch. He pauses there, his tongue dipping out to wet his bottom lip.
"More," you whisper.
“Patience, I’ll give ya more, don’t worry.”
His hand travels further down your body, over your tummy, and finally between your legs and over the damp lace.
“Jesus Christ," he pants. “You’re soaked, sweetheart.”
You move your hips against his fingers, desperately seeking more.
“Let’s get these off.” He pulls at the flimsy material, peeling it down your legs until you're completely bared to him.
He swipes a finger through your juices, up to your clit, applying just the right amount of pressure to make your lips part and your head tip back.
“He doesn't get you this wet, does he?”
"Please,”
“He doesn't have ya fuckin' beggin'."
He teases you, brushing over your clit again and again, watching the way your body grinds against his hand and the way you pant his name.
“Don’t stop,”
He leans in to kiss you, pushing your mouth open with his tongue as he finally inserts a finger inside your tight walls. You cry out between kisses, the intrusion deeper than anticipated, especially when he adds a second.
“Good girl, doing so well for me.”
He knows it’s not going to take long; he can tell by the way you’re rutting against him, your whimper steadily getting louder as his fingers thrust quicker.
"Like it, huh?”
You nod.
“Wish it was my cock filling this tight pussy up instead?”
You nod. “Mmmh, I need you, Joel.”
“All in good time, baby girl.”
Then you hear it: the key in the front door.
“Someone’s here!” You panic, reaching down to grip his hand in an attempt to stop him, but he doesn’t let up.
He shakes his head, refusing to give in until you give him what he wants. “Almost there, just a little more.”
You hear the front door swing open as his free hand comes up to cover your mouth. “Don’t make a fuckin’ sound.”
“Hey, I’m home!” Shit. It’s Tommy.
By some miracle, something takes Tommy straight upstairs instead of the few steps into the kitchen, and relief washes over you as Joel continues to drive you towards your orgasm.
He leans in, pressing his bulge into your thigh, his lips tickling your skin as he whispers into your ear, “Cum for me.”
On his command, you grip his bicep so hard as your body begins to jolt violently against him, his palm successfully muffling your moans as he watches you fall apart around his fingers.
He doesn’t stop until he can see you can take no more, finally pulling away from you as Tommy's footsteps begin to descend down the stairs.
Tommy calls out for you again as you scramble to button up the flannel. You turn your back to his voice, hoping he won’t see how flushed your face is when he comes in.
Then you feel it, your boyfriend's hand smoothing along your back as he brushes past you, kissing your cheek in the process, and you hear Joel clear his throat on the other side of the room.
“Heyyyy, you okay?” Tommy asks.
“Mmmh.” You smile, but don’t meet his eyes as the guilt courses through you.
“You look a little flustered; are you coming down with something?”
“Yeah… maybe. I think I’ll go shower and freshen up.”
He tilts his head, trying to get you to look at him, but you don’t. “Want me to join you?” He winks.
“No.” It comes out too fast. Suspicious even.
Tommy frowns. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.”
The growl of his stomach quickly turns his attention to food, and he turns to Joel. "Have you eaten yet, brother?”
You catch Joel’s eye then, watching as he brings his fingers to his mouth, slowly licking those that were just deep inside you moments ago, low hums escaping him as he tastes you.
“Yeah, just finished up.”
He says it so casually, and you can’t help but think how cruel you both are; Tommy doesn’t deserve this.
Yet despite the guilt, the way Joel still refuses to take his eyes off you starts to stir something inside of you all over again, and you worry that if you don’t leave the room now, it’ll become obvious.
"Wait." Tommy grabs your sleeve as you move away from him, and he frowns at you. “Baby, that’s Joel’s.”
“What?”
He laughs. “You’re wearing Joel’s shirt.”
You look down. “Oh…” you giggle nervously. “Silly me.” Before he can say anything else, you quickly leave the room and run upstairs towards the bathroom to wash away the evidence.
Exiting the bathroom, you fail to see Joel standing right outside until you bump into his chest. You look up at him, a startled look on your face as once again those dark hazel eyes search yours.
“Here.” You whisper, holding out the offending garment that caused all this.
"Keep it," he grunts.
“Are you crazy? I’m not sure Tommy would be too happy about that.”
His jaw tightens. “I’m not sure he’d be too happy if he knew I just made you cum in his own goddamn kitchen whilst he looked for you upstairs.”
You look away, the blush creeping back in. He reaches into his back pocket. "You keep that and I keep these.” You both look down to see your panties scrunched up in his palm.
You shake your head, pushing the shirt against his chest. “You can keep them, but we can never do this again.”
His nostrils flare as he takes your hand, pulling you into the bedroom you share with Tommy, pushing you back against the door.
“What are you—" His lips cut you off, his tongue pushing into your mouth as he grinds his hips into you.
You whimper softly before pushing him back hard, desperate for air. “I mean it, never again.”
"Ya don’t get to tell me I can keep your underwear like some fuckin' souvenir and then tell me never again.” He growls quietly. "Friday. He’s on patrol the entire night, and he’s taking Ellie with him. Come by my place once the sun goes down.”
"No.”
“Excuse me?”
“This isn’t right!”
“I won’t tell ya again. Friday. I’ll be waiting.”
He brushes past you then, opening the door and leaving the room as you stand there breathless and so wound up. You hear him run downstairs, casually saying goodbye to his brother as you stand there wondering what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into.
Dark fic — please mind the warnings and skip if it’s not your thing!
Warnings and Tags: Explicit, +18, MDNI, heavy-explicit language, fake identity trope, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, mixed-dubcon-noncon-ish, canon-typical violence, obsessive!Acacius, possessive!Acacius, Empress!Reader (we can say reader is kinda dark too), pussy slap, thigh slap, lots of slapping (Marcus is hot af when he's angry), creampie, dark themes, overstimulation, unspecified age gap, choking, dirty-dark thoughts, rough sex, forced orgasms (many), squirting, threats, ancient rome, oral sex -m- receiving-, deep-throating, size kink (the general is glorious!), hand job, fingering, rough oral sex -f- receiving, hair-pulling, internal angst, roman-era, power-play, rough nipple play, dominance, descriptions and mentions of battle wounds/blood, food and alcohol consumption, forbidden-desire, cheating, breeding kink, cum eating, shameless smut (sorry not sorry), degradation, unprotected piv sex, multiple orgasms, denial of feelings, brothel, sex workers, blood, mention of death, cursing, swearing, angst, mention of gladiators.
W.C: 13,5k (thick plot, worth it) latin terms appear with translations for clarity.
Summary: Your husband couldn’t give you an heir, but the general-the one who’s watched, wanted, and would burn the Empire to put one in you, calls you peccatum dulce, the sweetest sin he’d damn himself for… and tonight, he will taste every drop.
Author's Note: Hey everyone! You probably know my love for the general... I have to admit, even I surprised myself writing this; been working on it for weeks! This is my very first one-shot & dark fic attempt, written for the lovely @tateypots’ Naughty or Nice challenge, I had Marcus Acacius x fake identity (naughty). Hope you enjoy!
Also, huge thanks to @arcane-fox for beta-ing and for all the support and kind feedbacks 💋 If you haven’t checked out her fics yet, you’re missing out, go check them!
ao3 link - angel's masterlist
some sins are sweeter when they’re stolen
He knew it was a sin long before it ever felt sweet.
Rome had rules for everything; bloodlines, marriages, women like her. Rules Marcus Acacius had enforced with an iron hand. He had watched men die for breaking lesser ones. He had never questioned them.
Until her.
She belonged to Rome.
That was the problem. Rome took what it wanted the same way it always had — without asking, without mercy. Her father had bled for the empire. The empire had answered by claiming his daughter, crowning her, binding her to a throne that did not love her back.
Marcus understood that kind of cruelty. He had lived by it. He had survived it.
He did not begin wanting her the way men were taught to want women.
It began as a fracture.
A quiet disruption in discipline — the kind that lingered long after battles were won and orders obeyed. She would enter the hall draped in gold and restraint, crowned and beyond his reach, and something in him would harden with the unbearable certainty that she was misplaced.
An Empress bound to a man who could not see what stood before him.
Marcus told himself it was loyalty that kept his gaze steady, his expression carved from stone. He told himself it was duty that tightened his jaw when her husband failed to claim her as he should have—failed to give Rome what it demanded. The whispers came anyway.
They crept through the streets, through the barracks, through the mouths of men who bled for a ruler they no longer respected. Fools with wine on their breath and laughter too loud, speaking of a marriage left cold, of an emperor young in years but broken where it mattered most.
Rome was patient with madness.
It was not patient with weakness.
Marcus heard the rumors and felt something dark coil in his chest — not because they spoke of her with vulgar curiosity, but because the truth beneath the words rang too clear. She was left unfulfilled. Unmarked. A womb denied its purpose by a man unfit to claim it.
And of all the places those whispers took root, the barracks were the most dangerous.
Men who lived with blood on their hands and wine on their tongues did not temper their words. They sharpened them. What began as murmurs in the streets turned into laughter among soldiers — crude, fearless, spoken by men who believed steel and loyalty placed them beyond consequence.
It was there, among armor and stone and the stink of sweat, that Rome’s ugliest truths were spoken aloud.
“They say she sleeps alone,” one of the legionaries snorted, leaning back against the stone wall.
“What kind of emperor leaves his own bed cold?”
“They say he doesn’t share his chamber with her at all.”
“Then who does?” another snorted.
A pause. A look exchanged.
“Not women,” someone muttered.
Laughter followed; uneasy, sharp-edged.
“Funny how his concubines see more of him than his own wife.”
“Gods above. Imagine that. An Empress untouched.”
Another scoffed.
“Untouched by her husband, you mean.”
A third voice chimed in, uglier, louder.
“If she were mine,” he said with a grin, “I’d never leave the space between her legs.”
The laughter came first — then the sighs, slow and hungry.
“Maybe he cannot,” someone else scoffed. “All that power, all that gold… and still not man enough.”
“Seems like our Empress deserves a true man’s cock,” he said, grabbing his own balls in a joking gesture.
They laughed harder at that.
Another legionary chimed in, mockingly thoughtful. “You ever see a fruit kept too long out of reach?” He chuckled. “Makes you wonder how sweet she must taste.”
More laughter — low, ugly, unchecked.
That was when the air changed.
Marcus had not spoken.
The men noticed too late — the sudden silence, the way the sound seemed to die in their throats.
“General—” one of them started.
Marcus crossed the space between them in two strides.
His fist struck without warning.
The legionary hit the ground hard, teeth clattering against stone. Someone shouted. Someone tried to pull Marcus back.
It did not help.
He hit him again. And again. And again.
Not in rage.
In correction.
The laughter was gone now. Replaced by screams, by pleading, by the sickening sound of flesh meeting stone.
When Marcus finally stood, his knuckles were red. His breath was steady.
The man on the ground did not move.
Months ago, that same legionary had bled on a battlefield at his general’s command — for Rome, for glory, for discipline.
Now he bled again, not for war, but for forgetting what should never have been spoken aloud.
No one spoke.
Marcus looked at the rest of them — eyes cold, voice low.
“Speak of her again,” he said, calm as a drawn blade, “and I will bury you beside him.”
No one doubted him.
YOU
The palace was quiet, but the quiet offered no comfort.
It only gave your thoughts room to breathe — and they were merciless.
They called you Empress, but the word felt hollow when you were alone. A title did not warm the bed. It did not silence the questions. It did not stop the way people looked at you when they thought you weren’t paying attention. You had learned how to read those looks. You knew what they meant.
No one ever said it aloud, but you felt it anyway.
No child. No heir.
You had begun counting time differently. Not in days or seasons, but in glances. In how long silence stretched after certain conversations. In how often your name was spoken with careful restraint. You wondered when concern would turn to calculation. When patience would give way to necessity.
You told yourself not to think about it but the thought lived under your skin. It hummed there, constant and low. What if this was enough to make you disposable? What if love, vows, loyalty, none of it mattered without proof?
The shame was the worst part. It crept in quietly, uninvited. It asked questions you didn’t know how to answer. Is it you? Is your body the failure? You hated yourself for thinking it, but you thought it anyway. Because no one else would ask the question for you. Because if they did, the answer would destroy everything.
You sat in silk and gold, surrounded by guards and slaves, and had never felt more alone. You were not afraid of death, not really. You were afraid of being erased. Of being remembered only as a mistake that didn’t produce a future.
That was why the thought came to you at night. The one you tried to push away. The one that made your chest tighten with guilt and relief all at once. A wrong solution. A dangerous one. But a solution nonetheless.
You told yourself it was survival.
You told yourself it was not desire.
You told yourself you had no choice.
And the most terrifying part was this: somewhere deep down, you were no longer sure that was a lie.
They had told you duty first.
Your father had said it without softness, without pause. Rome’s future rested on your shoulders. Becoming Empress was an honor few women were ever given.
Do not forget what you owe the city. Do not shame me. Do not stain our name.
He had been a legatus once — a man who understood command. He gave you to the Emperor the same way he had given soldiers to war. No counsel. No comfort. Only orders.
Stand straight. Obey. Endure.
He never told you how to survive.
Now the one thing he feared most was unfolding.
Your husband could not touch you. Not in any way that mattered. He had taken your virginity on your wedding night with the care of a man fulfilling a task he did not want. Minutes. No tenderness. No heat. Nothing that lingered. Since then, two imperial years had passed — and there was no heir.
The Senate’s concern had become Rome’s favorite whisper. At festivals, eyes lingered too long. Smiles sharpened. Fertility was questioned openly, because in Rome it always was. Men were never at fault.
Women bore the shame.
You bore it in silence.
The concubines came and went from his chambers at night. Quietly. Frequently. Everyone knew. No one called it betrayal. You were expected to accept it as part of the crown.
You felt like something set aside. An object waiting to fail.
And you were done waiting.
You decided to do the thing you had never imagined yourself capable of. Not out of desire — not at first — but necessity. You needed an heir. Immediately. Each passing month tightened the noose. You would not be discarded because of his weakness. You had given everything to this marriage. You had earned that title. And if he could not secure your future, you would.
There was nothing wrong with that. You told yourself so until the words felt solid.
You were not like him. Prostitutes and slaves were not an option. You would have to see them again. Remember them. Risk recognition. You needed someone who would disappear the moment it was done.
Gladiators.
Not merely slaves of war, but men forged in blood and survival. Their names did not matter—where they came from mattered even less. What drew you was their strength, their presence, the hunger that lived beneath scarred skin. It unsettled you in ways your husband never had.
You were tired of indifference.
Tired of being touched like an obligation, a duty performed for appearances alone. Your body wanted proof it was still alive—that it mattered, that it could still answer to something fierce and undeniable.
If it took one, or many, it would not matter. You would continue until life took hold within you. That was the only measure that counted. It was reckless—perhaps even suicidal—but you knew the truth: to remain as you were was a slower kind of death.
You prepared carefully.
Loyal slaves. Silent men and women who owed you more than their lives. You trusted them to guard this secret until the grave, because in Rome, silence was often the most valuable currency of all.
You moved quickly because you had to. Every delay brought you closer to ruin.
You told yourself you deserved this. That there was no sin in protecting what was yours. That Rome had taken enough from you already.
And so, in the darkest hour of the night, you came willingly.
The villa had always been a refuge.
Long before the crown. Before the marriage. Before Rome decided what you were worth. It stood beyond the city’s reach — not abandoned, not forgotten, simply untouched by the noise of power. Stone walls warmed by the sun. Olive trees old enough to remember silence.
It belonged to the only person you had ever trusted without reservation.
Agrippa.
A friend chosen, not assigned. Someone who had never asked anything of you except honesty. Over the years, it had become the one place where you were not watched. Where you could breathe without measuring every word.
The slaves there were not strangers. They had known you since you were younger, softer, unnamed by titles. They did not call you Empress when no one was listening. They called you by your name. They guarded your secrets with the same loyalty they guarded the house itself.
You trusted them with your life.
That trust was not blind. It had been earned. Years of silence. Years of discretion. They had seen you arrive shaken, leave steadier. Had learned when to ask nothing at all.
This was why you chose this place.
No corridors filled with echoes.
No guards who belonged to him.
No eyes trained to report every movement.
Here, nothing was expected of you.
The villa did not judge. It did not whisper. It simply opened its doors the way it always had — like it understood why you were here.
Your most-trusted slave, the one who had dressed you since before the crown, who knew when to ask nothing, watched you in the lamplight and did not flinch. Her voice stayed low. Practical. Loyal.
“This is not recklessness, Your Highness,” she said, fastening the last pin with steady hands. “It is survival.”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. She had seen Rome sharpen its knives around you for months. Heard the whispers grow bold. Watched concubines pass your door at night while you learned to breathe quietly.
“A gladiator is the cleanest choice,” she continued, as if weighing grain or silver. “His body is not his own. It never was.” A pause. “And the arena will take him soon enough. There will be no witness left to trouble you.”
She met your eyes then — unafraid, certain.
“For a man like that, being chosen by a noblewoman is not shame,” she said softly. “It is reward. A memory he will carry like armor.” Her mouth curved, just barely. “If he survives long enough to remember it.”
Your throat tightened.
“He will not refuse,” she added. “Why would he? One night in a woman’s bed is more than most of them are ever given.” She adjusted your tunic, reverent now. “He will not know who you are,” she said quietly, as if this were the simplest thing in the world. “Only that you are a matron of rank. Nothing more.”
A memory he will carry like armor…
For him, perhaps.
But for you? Would it be regret, or the first narrow opening toward something long denied?
You drew a slow breath, the weight of the choice settling not on your shoulders, but deep in your bones. “Very well,” you said at last; the words leaving your lips like an order that would shape the rest of your life. “Bring the gladiator to the chamber at once..”
The slave inclined her head and withdrew in silence.
With that small motion, what had been contemplated became inevitable.
MARCUS
The Lupanaria (the roman brothel) was alive with noise, warm and heavy with incense and oil, the faint echo of harp strings winding through the corridors—music reserved only for the victorious General of Rome and his closest commanders. Torches flickered along the walls, casting gold and shadow over the polished floors, over men laughing too loudly, leaning too close to the women who moved with practiced grace — the best courtesans, the youngest and most beautiful, each one a temptation perfectly honed for eyes that lingered.
Some of Marcus’ legates indulged in these women, entwined in fleeting embraces, hands wandering where they ought not, celebrating victory in the indulgent ways Rome allowed. Soft moans and gasps floated through the hall, punctuated by the sharp slap of skin on skin, the subtle catch of breath, the occasional clink of wine cups forgotten in hands that were busy elsewhere.
Marcus observed it all with detached precision. Every glance, every touch, every sly smile noted and catalogued and yet none of it reached him. A goblet of wine rested in his hand, raised and lowered more out of habit than desire. He drank, felt the burn slide down his throat, welcomed it for a moment — anything to quiet the unrest coiled beneath his ribs. Platters were brought, rich with meat and fruit, and he ate just enough to satisfy appearances, chewing without tasting.
But the hunger remained.
Not the kind that gnawed at the stomach.
This one lived deeper, sharp, insistent, impossible to feed.
He was not here. Not in this chaos. Not in the fleeting pleasures of men too easily satisfied. His body sat among them, armored and whole, but his mind was elsewhere.
Because all around him, bodies writhed and cried out in delight, but his attention — the sharp, relentless edge of it; rested on: one thought. One memory. One obsession.
You.
Victory had brought him back to Rome in white, gold and blood. The city had roared his name as if it belonged to it. The legions had marched. The Senate had watched. Jupiter’s temple had waited.
And the Emperor, drunk, as he so often was, had fumbled.
The laurel crown slipped from his grasp, clattering against marble in a sound far too loud for something so sacred. A careless fracture in ceremony. Murmurs rippled through the senators. Courtiers stilled. Rome itself seemed to hold its breath.
And then you moved.
The Empress.
Disapproval had flickered across your face — quick, restrained, unmistakable — before grace took over. You bent without hesitation, silk and gold folding around you as you retrieved the fallen wreath as if correcting a minor inconvenience rather than saving an Emperor from humiliation.
Marcus remembered how he had dropped to one knee at once, bowing his head toward you. Not in submission—never that—but in recognition.
You stepped closer. Too close.
Your fingers brushed the white of his armor as you lifted the laurel, your breath quickening despite yourself. When you placed the crown upon his head without meeting his eyes, a flicker of irritation crossed his features—brief, instinctive. Without thinking, he reached up and caught your hand, stopping you before you could withdraw.
Behind you, the emperor was stirring, being steadied by slaves but neither of you noticed. In that moment, the world had narrowed. There was no crowd, no court, no throne, no witnesses. There was only you.
He leaned down—just enough. Barely. Deliberately.
His lips met your knuckles in the shadow between ceremony and transgression, the kiss lingering longer than protocol demanded, tracing your skin with intent rather than reverence.
He remembered the way you stiffened.
The almost imperceptible shiver that betrayed you.
The quick swallow of breath.
A soft, startled gasp.
Your reaction was written plainly across your face, and that alone drew a dark, knowing smile from him.
He had let his mouth linger a fraction longer, savoring the heat of your reaction, the way your composure fractured beneath the smallest touch. For one suspended instant — amid cheers, laughter, and the thunder of Rome’s approval — there had been nothing but you.
Only the way your body answered him.
Only the way your eyes flickered up before snapping away.
The memory curved his mouth now, slow and private.
And then something ugly coiled in his chest.
Because in all the years you had stood within arm’s reach of one another — banquets, ceremonies, the Colosseum, victory feasts — there had never been contact. Not once. No accidental brush. No stolen closeness. Nothing that could be claimed.
That moment had been the first.
And after it, nothing else had ever truly left his mind.
The war had lasted three months. Three months of marching, killing, bleeding. He had been wounded more than once — cut, torn, soaked through — but none of it had tested him the way distance from you had.
Pain had never frightened him.
Death had never tempted him to stop.
What had kept him moving was not Rome.
Not glory.
It was you.
The thought of your face.
Of your figure moving through silk and light.
Of your smile — restrained, careful — and the soft sound of your jewelry when you inclined your head.
Of standing close enough to feel your presence.
Of knowing that when the laurel was placed upon his head, it would be you before him — close enough to feel, real, breathing — even if you stood beside the Emperor, even if you were never truly his.
That certainty had carried him through fire and steel. It had sharpened his blade, steadied his hand. He had cut down enemies with your image fixed behind his eyes, every strike a promise to return victorious.
And the truth had been better than anything he had dared to imagine. You had placed the laurel upon his head with your own hands. He had wished it had never happened.
Wished he had bled out on some distant battlefield, lungs filling with blood, vision darkening — anything but that single moment of your touch. Because it had not soothed him. It had not passed.
It had fed the fire.
What already burned inside him had been given breath, and now it raged — uncontrollable, merciless.
He feared himself after that.
Feared the way his thoughts returned to you without permission. Feared how nothing could contain the hunger once it had taken root. Not discipline. Not war. Not distance. Every night since, he had come here, drowning himself in noise and bodies, trying to smother you beneath sensation.
He had taken women — dozens of them. Touched, tasted, indulged. Skin against skin. Heat and sound and need.
And none of it mattered.
Because not one of them felt the way you had.
Not one mouth, one hand, one body had ever carried the same feeling. None of them made his blood tighten the way it had when your fingers brushed his armor, when your breath had stuttered beneath his mouth.
They were distractions. Empty vessels.
He wanted you alone.
There was a dark, unquenchable flame coiled in him now — something ancient and violent, something that could not be reasoned with. No woman in Rome could douse it. No indulgence could blunt its edge.
Only you could.
And that was impossible.
The realization made his jaw tighten.
He was lost in it when a hand brushed against his thigh.
One of the girls leaned closer, eyes bright with practiced hunger, lips curved in a knowing smile. “Allow me to pleasure you, General,” she murmured, fingers teasing at the edge of his tunic, brushing the straps of his armor as if they were an invitation.
His reaction was immediate.
Marcus’s hand shot up, fingers tangling in her hair, yanking her back with brutal efficiency. Not cruel — controlled. Final.
“No,” he growled. “Not tonight.”
His voice cut through the music, sharper than he intended. Movement stilled around them. Some of the dancers froze. Others glanced over, startled, surprised. He did not look at them.
He was already on his feet, rising to his full height, armor still secured to his body. Only then did he realize he had never bothered to remove it. Had come here armored like a man expecting battle.
Instinct had brought him here — not desire. The part of him that sought control. To neutralize the threat.
And it had failed.
Logic had no hold on him now. Only the dark fire dictated his movement.
He crossed the room and pulled aside the curtain, letting the cool night air strike his face. He drew in a breath that did nothing to steady him.
“General, sir.”
He did not turn. “Leave me.”
“Sir — it concerns the Empress.”
He spun so fast the man flinched, stumbling back a step.
Marcus’s gaze was a blade. Cold. Focused. Lethal.
The legionary swallowed hard and leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. The words reached Marcus’s ear; and the world seemed to stop.
His eyes widened.
His heartbeat slammed against his ribs.
Blood no longer coursed through his veins — it roared.
Rage flooded him, pure and absolute, burning away restraint, drowning reason in its wake.
Not the kind of anger that shouted.
The kind that decided.
Anger did not arrive alone.
It came layered — rage, fury, something older and sharper than either. The kind that did not shout. The kind that moved.
Anger makes men do brutal things.
Most men break under it. They lose control.
Marcus had never been most men.
When he was angry, bodies fell. Hundreds of them. Sometimes for strategy. Sometimes simply to feel the tension leave his hands. He had never feared what anger could turn him into. Anyone who did was a fool.
They had called him many things over the years — a bull of a man, a monster, a butcher, a lion-slayer, a merciless warrior. All of it true. His name alone silenced rooms, made legions hesitate, forced even senators to measure their words.
Even the Emperor.
The one man Marcus had killed a thousand times in fantasy and never once in reality.
The only man he truly wanted dead — and could not touch.
It had not always been this way.
Once, Marcus had been loyal. After victories, he rested. He drank. He took women without attachment and left them without regret. Slaves, courtesans, noble daughters — even his wives. None of them stayed with him, and none were meant to. Desire had been simple then. As easy as breathing. Meaningless.
After becoming a widower for the second time, even pleasure had lost its pull. Women became tools. Distractions. Nothing reached him anymore.
Then the old Emperor died.
Then his son ascended the throne.
And as if that insult were not enough, the young, inexperienced ruler decided to marry.
The day his bride -you- was brought into Rome, carried in ceremony, displayed in the Colosseum like spoils: Marcus felt something unfamiliar bloom in his chest.
He had seen beauty before. Many times. Women of every station, every nation. Had possessed it. Had forgotten it. Some were prettier. Softer. Easier.
None of them mattered.
You did.
And it had nothing to do with beauty.
It was the way you smiled without knowing who was watching. The way silk moved with you, the way your hair caught the light. Your hands. Your expressions. Your lashes. Your eyes. Your voice. The quiet weight of your presence when you stood still.
Gods help him — it was as if you had been shaped to undo him. A siren placed in his path to dull his reason and sharpen his hunger.
From the moment he truly looked at you, everything in him burned. Not gently. Not slowly.
He imagined you stripped of the gold-embroidered imperial stola, the heavy layers of silk and status peeled away. Not out of tenderness — out of need. Out of obsession. He wanted to know what was beneath the crown, beneath the restraint. Wanted to know what you would do if you understood who stood before you.
If you would reject him.
Or obey.
More than once, he had imagined cutting the Emperor down where he stood — spilling him across the marble, taking you while your husband’s blood was still warm on his hands. The thought had almost made him smile.
But it was not the Emperor this time. Not the distant enemy. Not even the wounds of battle that had stirred him like this.
He had not felt this fury when the Emperor touched you with ceremony but no care.
Not when he gripped your arm too tightly.
Not even on your wedding night, when duty had forced Marcus to look away.
Not on the Field of Mars. Not when his sword cut men down.
This was different.
This was tonight.
Because of what had been whispered into his ear.
Because of what you had chosen.
Tonight, you had decided. One night. One stranger man. Not for pleasure — but for an heir.
How dare you.
Not because you wanted someone else.
But because you were willing to turn yourself into a function.
Marcus did not yell.
He did not strike.
He did not shatter anything.
He mounted his horse.
Hooves rang against stone as he tore through the sleeping streets, iron striking marble, the sound echoing through the dark like a warning. The city blurred around him — torches, walls, shadows — as he drove the animal harder, faster, as if speed itself could outrun the fury boiling in his blood.
The night wind cut against his face. It did nothing to cool him. He rode like a man racing fate. Like a man already too late.
The anger did not consume him.
It focused him.
He turned it into opportunity.
The fire that had burned in him for months, years. The hunger no woman, no conquest, no victory had ever quieted…
Tonight, it had purpose.
And that purpose was you.
With that single, reckless choice, you had dared to decide the fate of both yourself and him.
The villa gates burst open to the sound of hooves.
Four riders cut through the dark, cloaks snapping, armor catching torchlight in sharp flashes of bronze and steel. The courtyard froze — breath held, instincts flaring all at once.
Agrippa Varro, the villa’s owner, stepped forward before sense could stop him. His wife’s fingers clenched around his arm, nails biting through fabric. Panic flickered across both their faces.
Then recognition struck.
Marcus dismounted in a single, fluid motion.
He struck the stone like a verdict, his caligae (sandal) ringing against marble, cloak snapping behind him — rage held in check by iron discipline.
“General,” Agrippa said hoarsely.
So did everyone else.
Marcus did not acknowledge the greeting.
His gaze swept the courtyard with open contempt, as if their very presence offended him. Slaves lowered their eyes. Guards stiffened, unsure whether to move or disappear.
“Where is she?” he asked.
Nothing more.
They knew who he meant.
They did not know how he knew — and none of them dared ask.
Marcus turned slightly, his voice cold and precise. “Seal the villa,” he said. “No one leaves. No one enters. If I see a single unfamiliar face after this moment, I will assume it is an enemy.”
That was enough.
Agrippa stiffened. He exchanged a stunned glance with his wife — a silent, frantic question passing between them. This was not what they had expected. They had thought Marcus would demand explanations, invoke the Emperor’s name, perhaps even insist the Empress be escorted away at once. That he would stop this. That he would restore order.
Instead, he had sealed the villa.
At his signal, a slave stepped forward — the one Marcus chose with a glance alone. The man bowed deeply, fear etched into every movement, and turned to lead the way inside. Through the atrium (the central open area of a villa). Past marble columns and flickering shadows. Toward the inner chambers.
Marcus followed, his dark cloak cutting through the space behind him, his stride sharp, restless, violent in its restraint.
He understood the moment he crossed the threshold.
The preparation.
The hush.
And the man being brought toward the inner rooms.
The gladiator was bare-chested beneath his cloak, skin scarred, muscles tight with readiness. A mask already covered his face — bronze and leather shaped into the visage of Mars, god of war. Not waiting. Being delivered.
Marcus moved. Three steps.That was all it took.
He seized the man by the shoulder and drove him backward, shoving him hard enough to send him staggering out of the passage. Marcus’s hand closed around the mask — not ripping it away, but gripping it firmly, deliberately, asserting ownership with the smallest motion.
“Take him,” Marcus said, voice low and absolute. “Return him to his cell.”
The slaves hesitated, caught between their loyalty to their empress and the fear of the man - the general - standing before them.
Marcus lifted his gaze. That was it.
Just as they had brought him, they seized the gladiator and pulled him away in silence. Sandals scraped against the stone, the sound thinning as it vanished into the corridors.
Seconds later, he was gone.
Marcus stayed where he was a moment longer than necessary. The mask still rested in his hand—heavy and cold.
He turned it slowly, then slipped it onto his face with ease. The straps tightened, and the world around him grew narrow. His breath echoed inside the bronze mask, louder than he had anticipated.
Only then did he focus on the slaves lingering at the edges of the room.
“You,” he said calmly, lifting his hand, waving in a gesture. “Come here. Help me take off my armor.”
YOU
The cup tasted like punishment.
Your slave said it was necessary. The medicus nodded beside her, solemn and useless, murmuring about warmth and balance, about coaxing life where Rome insisted it should exist. You drank because they told you it might help. Because for two years now, everyone had been trying to help you conceive.
As if the problem were that simple.
As if herbs and whispered prayers could make up for the truth — that nothing had ever truly been planted there.
You swallowed and winced. Bitter. Sharp. You tipped wine into the cup without hesitation, watching the dark red soften the brew’s sickly color, then drank again. Better. Warmer. Almost convincing.
You set the cup aside and reached for the mask.
Venus.
The choice had made you laugh earlier — quietly, without humor. Love. Fertility. Desire. The goddess Rome pretended ruled women’s bodies. You allowed your slave to tie it carefully, as if silk could hide more than your face. As if you could tuck your unease behind it and borrow courage for one night.
You wore a simple tunic — thin silk that caught the light and gave more than it took. No excess. No titles. No imperial weight. Only a necklace at your throat, earrings brushing your neck when you moved. The back of the tunic lay open, skin exposed down your spine, held together by a delicate chain that traced your waist like a promise.
You looked deliberate. Not innocent. Not ashamed.
Achingly, dangerously compelling — the kind of beauty that demanded attention without begging for it.
With the Venus mask and your bare, unguarded form, you were dizzying. As if the world were witnessing the birth of the goddess all over again. Any man would have gone to his knees.
That was the point.
The mask erased your name. The man who came would not know who you were — only that you were noble, that you had chosen him. To him, you would be no different from the other patrician women who sought a night of secrecy and indulgence. Rome was full of them. Their intentions were usually simple.
Yours were not.
This was not lust. It was necessity. You were the Empress. You commanded armies, bent senators to your will, ruled without question. As long as your husband never learned of this night, what crime was there? What fault?
You could live with that.
You had to.
You drew in a breath — and froze.
Voices. Footsteps.
Too soon.
You hadn’t given the signal.
Your slave’s head snapped toward the door, tension rippling through her body. The room felt suddenly smaller, the air too tight. You hesitated — just long enough to almost stop this. Almost.
Then you lifted your hand and nodded.
It was done.
You turned your back to the door. You did not want to see him enter. Not yet. You wrapped your fingers around the wine cup, grounding yourself in its weight, its cold edge biting into your palm.
The door opened.
Silence followed.
Not the heavy, anticipatory hush you had expected — but something sharper. Wrong. Your slaves shifted behind you. One of them stiffened, breath catching audibly.
That was strange.
You put the cup aside and turned.
The man stood alone.
No escort. No guards. No ceremony. Just him — filling the chamber as if it had been built for his presence. The mask hid his face, but his gaze found you immediately, unflinching, intent.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. Silk. Shadow. Breath.
He wore the mask of Mars, fierce and unyielding, its sharp edges hiding his face but not the fire in his gaze. You met him through your Venus mask, delicate and ethereal, yet your eyes betrayed no hesitation.
Then he stepped forward.
Unhurried. Certain.
Your slave moved at once, placing herself between you, chin lifted in practiced authority.
“You will not approach the lady unless she permits it.”
He did not even look at her.
He shoved her aside with one efficient motion — not violent, not gentle. As if she were simply in the way.
Your breath caught, sharp and instinctive.
“Stop,” you commanded, voice firm despite the tremor beneath it.
He didn’t.
His eyes never left you.
Your slave rushed forward again — and this time, he caught her by the throat. Not crushing. Just enough. Enough to make the room lock in place.
Shock hit you. “Enough!” Your voice cut through the room. “Do you even know what you do? Who you presume yourself to be?” you demanded, anger flaring.
He released her with a shove and straightened.
“Leave,” he said.
The voice came from behind the mask — low, controlled.
Something in it struck you like a memory you hadn’t known you were keeping. You had heard that voice before. Across marble halls. Over the roar of crowds. Calm amid blood and ceremony alike.
“All of you. Leave us. Now.”
Your heart stuttered. “That’s not possible,” you whispered.
He reached up and removed the mask. For a heartbeat, your world narrowed to the sharp outline of his face, suddenly revealed by the flickering torchlight. His brown eyes caught the glow — familiar, burning, unmistakable.
Shock slammed through you, and you instinctively stumbled back, heart hammering. “General Acacius,” you breathed, voice trembling.
The room tilted.
Without taking his eyes off you, he barked, “Out! Now!”
No one argued.
They fled as if chased, sandals slapping stone, silk whispering panic. The door shut with a final, echoing thud.
You were alone with him.
Your pulse thundered. Shame crawled up your spine, tangled with fear, fury — and something far worse. You stood frozen, unable to decide what you felt.
He crossed the remaining distance and stopped. Bare-chested. Powerful. Built like the statues that lined the atrium — only warmer. Breathing. Real. You had never seen him without armor before.
The sight stole the air from your lungs.
His gaze followed yours. Lingered.
“H-how? You shouldn’t be here,” you said hoarsely.
“I could say the same of you, your highness,” he replied evenly.
He reached up and removed your mask, fingers deft as the ties came undone. Your hair fell loose, and you dropped your gaze without thinking, embarrassment burning across your cheeks.
His hand didn’t withdraw.
Instead, his thumb slipped beneath your chin and lifted it, slow and insistent, until you had no choice but to look at him.
He paused there, unmoving. Just for a moment.
Not surprise.
Not softness.
His eyes locked onto yours, dark and unblinking, as if he were stripping you bare with nothing but his gaze. As if he were seeing past flesh and silk and title, down to something exposed and dangerous beneath.
Something tighter settled into his expression.
Like a man realizing the blade he’d been circling was sharper than he remembered.
His jaw locked. His eyes darkened further, tracking every breath, every flicker of hesitation on your face with an intensity that made your skin prickle. As if seeing you fully — unmasked, unguarded — had cost him something he hadn’t meant to give.
Instinctively, he leaned closer.
Not enough to touch.
Enough to threaten it.
His attention dipped — briefly, deliberately — to your mouth. The space between you shrank, heavy with intention. Panic flared in your chest, and you tried to turn your face away, the hunger in his eyes suddenly too much, too ruinous to meet.
“This was a mistake,” you said, the words tight, fragile.
His thumb remained beneath your chin, unyielding.
“It would have been,” he replied quietly, eyes never leaving yours, “if I hadn’t come.”
You tried to pull away. He didn’t let you. “What- Let go of me.”
“You’re tired of being treated like an object,” he growled. “And yet… here you are. Playing with fire, little Empress… do you not understand what you risk?”
How dare he.
“You wouldn’t understand,” you snapped. “If you’re here to lecture me on honor—”
“I understand perfectly,” he said. “I didn’t come here to lecture you or protect your husband’s honor. Or your father’s.”
“Then why?” you demanded.
He released you.
“Because what you desire,” he said slowly, eyes fixed on your face, unblinking, “you shall never receive from one unworthy of you.”
Your breath caught. You could scarcely believe your ears — that he would suggest such a thing.
“I am not letting you give yourself to a man who will forget you before dawn.”
The words landed like a blow.
“Acacius—” Your hand rose to your chest as you stepped back. “How— why—no.”
He surged forward, presence overwhelming, breath warm against your skin.
Not kind. Not gentle. Predatory.
“You still don’t see it,” he said, voice dark with fury and something far more dangerous beneath it.
“I have burned for you,” he continued, each word forged tight with restraint. “For years. In my thoughts. In my sleep. In every battle, it was your face that kept me standing.” Your eyes widened, disbelief clawing at your mind, your ears betraying you. “And you dare think,” he went on, quiet but vicious, voice like steel coiled around fire, “that I would stand aside while you reduce yourself to a mere vessel? While you let some nameless body be used to bear an heir? As if that were all you were made for?” Your breath shuddered. “And gods help me,” he added, jaw clenched, “as if I would ever allow that.”
Something twisted low in your body at the words. Heat flared where there should have been only fear. Only shame.
You hated yourself for it.
Because beneath the humiliation, beneath the danger of him standing there, claiming space and certainty alike, your body betrayed you — answering his fury with a treacherous spark of want.
And that frightened you more than anything else.
His hands came to your shoulders — firm, unyielding — halting you where you stood. He forced you to look at him.
“How could you lower yourself so?” he asked quietly. Not shouting. Judgment was colder than fury. “How could you make yourself lesser than what you are?”
“What is this insolence—” you began.
“Insolence?” His mouth twisted, humorless. “And what of your audacity?”
Your heart thundered. “You speak as though—” Your voice wavered. “Do you claim an attachment to me beyond duty?” Your eyes searched his. “Is this love, then… General?”
A sound escaped him, not laughter, but close enough to mock it. “Love?” he echoed softly. “A small word. A thin one.”
His grip shifted. One hand rose, pushing your hair back to bare your throat. His palm settled there — possessive, overwhelming by its sheer weight alone. “Do not profane what I bear by naming it love,” he murmured.
You shivered.
His thumb brushed the pulse at your neck, deliberate. He felt its frantic beat. A faint, dangerous curve touched his mouth.
“I have imagined this,” he confessed quietly. “My hands upon you. Your composure breaking. Your will bending.”
“Stop,” you whispered. “Please."
“You tremble,” he observed calmly. “Good.”
His large hand closed around your throat—not in haste, but with intent. Beneath his palm, the fragile give of your neck was unmistakable, a reminder of how easily you could be broken if he wished. The awareness made his clothed manhood twitch.
“Acacius,” you gasped. “You’re hurting me.”
His head tilted, eyes intent, studying you like a creature caught between fear and the instinct to run.
“This,” he said quietly, tightening just enough to make his meaning clear, “is restraint.”
Then — slowly, deliberately — he released you.
“This ends here.” The instant his hold loosened, you turned and moved for the door — swift, desperate, unthinking.
He caught you with ease from behind. “We haven’t even begun.” He growled, pulling you hard against him, his arms locking around you from the back. You struggled, twisting, trying to break free — but it was impossible.
Gods, this was wrong.
All of it was wrong.
“Y–You…” Your voice faltered. “I… we can’t. my husband trusts you. If this is ever heard—”
He cut you off without raising his voice.
“Curse your husband,” he said. “Abi in infernum. (Let him burn.)"
The vulgarity of his words shocked you — the sheer irreverence of it — and yet, beneath the fear, something else flared, sharp and unwelcome. Through the layers of cloth, you felt his hardness pressing insistently against your arse. Your breath hitched, heart racing, caught between alarm and a thrill you did not want to name.
He buried his face into your hair, pressing his nose along the curve of your ear, nudging the soft lobe aside as he inhaled you like a man tasting something forbidden. His tongue traced your warm, soft skin, slow and deliberate, tasting the faint essence of jasmine that lingered there.
The scrape of his beard brushed your neck — rough, unmistakably male — and the sensation sent an involuntary shiver through you. Your pulse leapt beneath his mouth, traitorous, loud. The heat of him so close made your chest tighten, made your knees feel unsteady, as if your body were responding before your mind could catch up.
A low sound escaped him — not laughter, not quite. Something closer to satisfaction. The kind that lingered beneath the surface, like the hum of a predator savoring its prey.
You struggled again, twisting in his arms, trying to break free.
Again, his arms caught you like iron traps, locking around your waist, pulling you back against him. You struggled, but he didn’t even flinch.
“Let go — Acacius, please—”
His breath grazed your ear, low and steady, but with a sharp edge hidden underneath.
“Resist me once more," he whispered, his voice low and edged with steel,
“and I will drag you into the atrium. I will have you there. Before my men, before Agrippa and his wife, before the slaves.”
You froze completely. “Don’t,” you breathed, the word barely more than air. “Please… do not.”
“Then be still,” he said simply.
Not a plea. Not a warning.
A command.
He pressed closer. You could feel the weight of his threat in every inch of his control.
“This can be something we both enjoy…” he said, voice velvet and venom, “...or it can be just for me. But either way — you’re not getting away. Decide.”
His hand found the back of your tunic, fisting the fabric without hesitation.
The cloth tore from your shoulders in one brutal motion—the gold-chained garment draped across your back giving way all at once. Something snapped—a delicate chain, perhaps—and a rain of jeweled ornaments scattered across the floor, clattering sharply.
“I’ve wanted you for a long time,” he said, his voice thick, deliberate. “You have lived in my thoughts,” he admitted. “In ways the gods would condemn.”
A breath.
“Now... you're mine to cherish.”
Another pause.
“And to ruin, if I choose.”
He pulled the silk from your shivering body slowly — not to savor, but to claim.
The fabric slipped to the floor like a secret undone. He stared.
Not just at your body.
At your skin.
The way it caught the lamplight. The way it rose and fell with every panicked breath. The way it wasn’t meant for anyone else but him.
His hands — calloused from war, scarred from blade and bone — hovered for a moment before finally landing on your waist.
You inhaled sharply.
Not pain.
Not fear.
The sheer weight of his presence.
You still hadn’t turned to face him.
You stood rooted where you were, breath shallow, afraid of what you might see if you did. Afraid of what it would confirm.
His hands moved over your hips, along your sides — slow, deliberate, not wandering but learning, as if committing the shape of you to memory.
“Soft,” he murmured, almost to himself. “As I imagined.”
His touch rose, restrained yet inevitable — tracing your back, your shoulders, his fingers brushing the line of your collarbones with a strange reverence, like a prayer unwrapped rather than spoken.
“He does not deserve this,” he whispered.
He leaned closer, his breath warming your jaw, close enough that you felt it without daring to turn.
“You were never his.”
His fingers went to the knot at his hip.
Unhurried. Deliberate.
The subligaculum (a kind of underwear) loosened with a soft sound, linen slipping free of its tension. The fabric fell, forgotten, at his feet.
Your breath caught You felt it then — the shift.
Not in the room.
In him.
When he straightened, the space he occupied felt suddenly dangerous, as though the air itself bent around his will. He stood with the stillness of a statue before motion — all potential, all threat.
You turned your face away instinctively, shame and something far worse tightening your chest.
He noticed.
The corner of his mouth curved — not in amusement, but in something colder.
“Tell me,” he said, almost idly, “the man you call husband… does he even touch you now? He can’t give you what you need, can he?”
You stiffened, spine straightening despite yourself.
“Do not speak of him with such disrespect,” you said sharply.
He gave a short, incredulous laugh, sharp as a blade.
“How loyal. So dutiful,” he added, voice dark with contempt. “So Roman.”
His eyes flicked toward you, catching your movement — a glance heavy with anger, with disbelief. You looked away instinctively, heat and shame twisting with a dangerous curiosity deep in your chest.
He noticed.
His mouth curled — not a smile, but something sharper, crueler, predatory.
“Yet here you are,” he continued, voice low, dripping with scorn. “Sneaking off to a borrowed villa. Choosing a gladiator to do what your precious… husband cannot.”
Your chest tightened. “That’s not—”
His tone snapped. “You wanted him to put an heir in you.”
Silence slammed between you.
In a single motion, his hand fisted in your hair and yanked you around to face him. Enough to make your breath catch.
You were too close now.
Too exposed.
Your gaze dropped before you could stop yourself — and your throat went dry.
“Like what you see, my Empress?”
He leaned in, forcing your chin up with two fingers.
“I’m willing to bet,” he said, voice rough with satisfaction, “that whatever you endured in that cold bed of yours never came close to this.”
You swallowed. Hard.
He smiled then — slow, predatory.
“That’s what I thought.”
His grip in your hair tightened just enough to sting.
“Turn not your eyes,” he growled. “There is no retreat now — not that you would want one.”
Your eyes dropped again — and this time, you couldn’t stop the sound that escaped.
“Oh gods…”
Marcus stilled. Then, slowly, deliberately, he tilted your chin up.
His mouth was a breath away from yours when he whispered:
“Forget your gods. They can’t hear you now.”
He caught you by the shoulders again, firm, cruel, and pressed you down so that you sank onto your knees before him.
Your breath left you in a sharp gasp, your eyes widened, your entire body stunned from his hot, throbbing manhood resting against your face.
It stole your vision. Your thoughts.
You barely registered the general’s face above you, only the way his mouth curved; slow, knowing as he took in your stunned silence.
Dear gods.
He was a lot bigger than you had expected. And the raw scent, that was out in full force, made your head swim from how much it was overwhelming your nostrils. This wasn’t the first time you’d seen a man’s penis…
But this?
Even believing it was real strained the limits of your mind.
Marcus stood before you without shame, without hesitation — a figure carved for war rather than worship. Solid. Towering. Dangerous.
Both his presence and his scent roused something primordial within you, awakening your womanhood as though answering an unspoken mating call, older than reason, deeper than will.
Your husband had never looked like this, and his manhood had never stirred you the way this did.
Marcus was twice his age, and yet somehow felt carved from something far older — something primal. Thick muscle shaped his frame, not the ornamental strength of noblemen, but the hardened body of a man who had fought, bled, and survived.
Scars traced him like history written into flesh.
This body did not ask.
It took.
The comparison came unbidden; cruel and undeniable. Your husband could not stand beside this. Would not dare.
You hated the way your insides clenched at the thought, nipples drewing tight.
Hated the way your mouth went dry.
Hated how something deep and traitorous inside you whispered, slow and reverent:
This is what a true man looks like.
Marcus watched you with something darker than satisfaction. Amusement, maybe. Possession. Victory.
You hadn’t even touched him yet, but your breath had already gone shallow, your lips parting without permission.
You were an Empress.
And yet here you were, kneeling, breath shaky, mouth parted, stunned by the sight in front of you… and even more so by the fact that you wanted it.
A flicker of shame curled in your stomach.
Then—
Fingers in your hair.
Firm.
Unforgiving.
“You’ve made me wait long enough,” Marcus growled. He tilted your face up, the heat in his eyes enough to scorch you from the inside out. “Don’t pretend you don’t want this now.”
Your heart pounded. You should’ve pulled back. Should’ve spoken. Should’ve run.
Instead, you just stared, breath hitched, mind blank, pride forgotten.
And Marcus, with a dark, crooked smile, leaned in just close enough to whisper: “Be a good girl now, regina mea.(my queen)”
His grip turned unforgiving as he guided you forward, stealing your breath as he forced you to take him — relentless, claiming, leaving no room for hesitation.
Your pupils shrank to the size of mere dots at the abrupt action. Your gag reflex was suddenly suppressed as you found yourself in the middle of deepthroating the man’s cock out of nowhere.
Your entire body trembled, instinctively trying to pull back, desperate to get some air. But the firm grip on your head held you in place. All you could do was focus on steadying your breathing, drawing in air through your nostrils. Hoping that you would be able to satisfy him with your tongue.
Gods, the taste was even stronger than the smell. Yet not once you get the feeling of wanting to gag or wretch from it. As a matter of fact, a small part of you found the thing to be… actually quite pleasant.
A low, guttural sound tore from Marcus’s chest; something feral, raw and you didn’t know why it made your own chest tighten the way it did. But it did.
The sound went straight through you, settling somewhere deep, igniting something you had spent far too long denying. Fervently licking the underside of his shaft to the best of your abilities while he drilled and slammed his massive length to the very back of your throat. Even with all of that, you couldn’t stop yourself from bringing a hand to between your thighs. Slipping two of your fingers into your burning, soaked core, plunging them, knuckles deep, into your wet cunt like a shameless whore.
This was unreal.
You — the illustrious, proud Empress of Rome. A woman raised on silk and ceremony. A woman who had built her entire existence around dignity, status, and control.
And yet here you were.
Kneeling.
Fingering yourself while the general of Rome used your mouth like it was some type of sexual relief toy.
And the gods help you — you didn’t care.
Not about titles.
Not about appearances.
Not even about the husband who hadn’t touched you in months.
All you could feel was the heat curling low in your belly. The ache. The burning awareness of how long you’d gone without being wanted like this.
You were shaking — not from shame, but from need. From the way your body responded despite everything your mind screamed you should remember.
His fingers loosened suddenly.
Not in kindness — in choice.
He let go of your hair with the same calm a beast might show just before pouncing again.
And just like that, he slipped free from your mouth with a wet sound.
You gasped — at the absence, the shock, the unbearable heat still coiled low in your belly.
Saliva clung to your lips — slick, messy, warm with the unmistakable blend of your spit and his precum — trailing down the corner of your mouth in a slow, shameful line. Your chest heaved, rapid and uneven, rising with every shallow breath you couldn’t quite catch.
“This wet,” he murmured, reaching for your hand, observing your soaked fingers. “Just from sucking my cock?” His thumb circled over the mess, slow and cruel. “So eager,” he mused darkly, “and yet so unfulfilled.” He leaned in, voice brushing your ear like a blade.
“Is this how royalty trembles? From the taste of a man made of war?”
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “You needy little whore.” You opened your mouth to speak — maybe to deny, maybe to beg — but he brought your fingers to his lips first. And sucked. A low growl rumbled in his chest.
“Sweeter than honey,” he muttered against your skin — but there was no reverence in it. Only hunger.
His hand tightened suddenly around your waist, and before you could speak — even breathe — he hoisted you into his arms like you weighed nothing.
Not gentle. Not loving.
Like you were something stolen. You gasped, instinctively grabbing at his shoulders. He didn’t even glance at you.
His voice, when it came, was lower than before. Rougher.
“I’ll carve my legacy into your womb, seed by seed, until there is no part of you untouched by me.”
Then he leaned in, lips brushing your ear, voice a slow venom.
“But first… I want the source.”
A pause. A breath. A cruel smile.
“You think I’d be satisfied with a little taste?”
Another growl — deeper now.
“I want to drown in it.”
And with that, he threw you onto the bed — hard enough to make the mattress protest, the silks twist beneath you.
You barely had time to blink before he was already on top of you, eyes burning like a man gone feral.
“Let’s see,” he rasped, his hungry eyes trailing down your body. “If the rest of you tastes as good as your shame, regina mea.”
It wasn’t just a word — it was a growl, raw.
Your throat grew dry under his ravenous gaze. Your whole body shivered under the weight of it. Every hair on your arms stood on end, your throat went dry, and your pulse raced.
His large, rough hands gripped your thighs, yanking you closer with a force that made your heart pound. The sheer power behind his pull sent your head spinning, every part of your body instantly alert to his dominance. You struggled instinctively, but the iron‑tight grip left you rooted in place, your legs locking in tension.
He smacked the side of your thigh, hard and sudden. “Would you have me drag you to the atrium?” he thundered, his voice low and commanding, vibrating with fury. You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “Then be still, and resist me not,” he growled, teeth clenched, and you obeyed.
With his strong hands, he spread your knees like splitting a fig in two and buried his head between them. His heated breath reached your wet folds before his mouth did and you bit your lower lip at the sensation. A sound came from his nose, Gods, he was… inhaling the scent of your arousal, a low, satisfied sound escaped him. Looking at him through your spread legs was terrifying, yet strangely intriguing. Your heart was pounding wildly as you thought about what he would do next.
His hands hungrily grabbed at your arse leaving red marks on them while his warm tongue fiddled around inside you. He licked, tasting your juices, nudging your clit with the tip of his tongue. You were wet, but not wet enough to his liking. Marcus wanted you swollen and dripping. Shock and pleasure fused and swept through your entire body, you clawed frantically for something to hold onto, something you could sink your fingers into. But with his grip tight around your hips, his head was just out of reach—far for you to grasp—so you dug your fingers into the sheets instead, your back arching. His hungry mouth found your clitoris and he sucked on it till it grew bigger. You felt your body heating up and your cunt getting even more wet at this forceful stimulation. Relentlessly, his tongue went deeper inside, licking over you with the wide, flat surface of his tongue, exulting in your strangled moan that he felt vibrating against his tongue, lips, and ears.
You hadn’t known that such pleasure-such a sensation-could even be real. You felt as though you were losing your mind from it. You clapped both hands over your mouth, pressing hard, not to stifle a scream, but to keep what remained of your sanity intact. Marcus heard your muffled scream and lifted his head. His tongue, coated with your wetness, traced his lips in a measured, deliberate motion, eyes never leaving you. Then he slapped, struck your hand aside and seized your wrists, yanking your hands away from your mouth.. “Do not dare to silence yourself,” he growled. “Find your voice,” he said. “Let me hear you."
Then he parted you with his thick fingers, swirled his tongue over and over, and you jerked and shook, thighs falling open shamelessly, wantonly, your hips moving instinctively, desperately to urge him closer and deeper. “Ooooohhhh! Please!” You screamed, “Oh gods, oh gods!”
He growled, pulling your hips closer to his mouth so he could go deeper, his mouth devouring you as you felt curls of his hair brushing against your thighs, his lapping and sucking producing slick, sinful sounds that only served to drive you further wild.
"Gods, please," You reached and yanked his head closer sharply, fingers tangled in his partly gray curls, nails scraping against his scalp. Your thighs were shaking, you felt hot and cold all over. He loved the way you scratched at him, how you shivered against him. His hard cock was dripping, straining so painfully.
Marcus’s grip tightened, followed by a sharp blow on your arse that tore a cry from you, digging his thick fingers deep into your core.
His beard prickled your folds so deliciously, his nose rubbed against your clit. He pushed his tongue deep into you again and sucked while fucking you with his fingers. You cried out, sobbing, and he felt more slickness leaking from you, felt your swollen flesh pulse under his tongue. He gripped your thigh with one hand and your arse with the other, holding you fast as he lapped up your juices greedily, groaning and growling in pleasure at the taste of your sweet honey. A broken sound slipped from you, caught somewhere between a sob and a cry, and it only seemed to drive him on. He hummed, sucked ruthlessly, the pleasure wasn’t only yours at the sweet violence of your response, your body bucking and your wetness on his lips and chin. “Rather sweet,” he said against you as he licked and sucked, punctuating his words with the curl of his tongue, with its flicks and flutters. He spoke no more for a long while, dedicating his tongue only to worshiping you and ruining you. It’s enchanting how you squirmed and wriggled, losing all grace and propriety, letting the façade you wore fall away completely in the face of you need for him. Never before had he wanted to ruin a woman the way he wanted you.
No other woman had ever drawn such a response from him, never stirred this depth of feeling or hunger—and the realization unsettled him. It made him wonder how it was possible that you alone could provoke something so fierce, so consuming, that even he had not known it existed.
The wet sounds of his tongue gliding over you filled the chamber now, faintly echoing beyond the door. Anyone outside, if listening carefully, might catch the echoes. Your moans intertwined with his low, throaty grunts and the sharp, wet smacks of his movements, merging into a dark, intoxicating rhythm—a melody of sin, fierce and unbridled, wild and consuming, each sound deliberate, like a man savoring a feast.
You didn't know how many times you came.
After a while, too much pleasure clouded your brain, and you forgot to count. Your heart beat wildly and you gasped for breath as if your whole body were melting in his arms. But all this time, his hands never loosened its grip, his mouth never left your folds. When he said he wanted to drown, he wasn’t jesting, he really seemed like he wanted to drown in your juices. You felt the sweat trailing down your back, it was as if you were slowly coming back to yourself, drifting down from some distant height. The world settled into focus again. Then you lifted your head and looked at him. But he was not yet finished with you.
Twice you peeked, and twice he drank your pleasure from you, dipping his tongue in to lap at you, avoiding your sensitive spots until you were ready for him again.
Once again, you peaked, suddenly this time, heat flaring in your belly and rushing under your skin, your cunt fluttering around his tongue and your thighs trembling against his face, your core is pulsing. Your brain had gone numb, your senses had gone numb, you only later noticed the tears streaming down your cheeks. You did not know whether you were crying from rapture, or because another man had given you this incredible intensity, or because such pleasure existed at all and you had been denied it for so long—deprived of it by your husband. You did not know which of these truths had broken you open. All you knew was that what had just been done to you—forced though it was—had filled you with an overwhelming, undeniable delight.
Marcus sit up on the bed and lifted his hand, crooking two fingers in a silent summons. “Rise,” he said. “Come closer.”
You obeyed, even as your knees trembled beneath you, crawling across the bed toward him. Drawn forward against your own will, compelled by the unspoken certainty of his command, you moved on—each measured inch an unacknowledged surrender, felt not in thought but in bone and blood.
His beard and jaw still bore the trace of your arousal, catching the light in a way that made your throat tighten. His lips were swollen now, darkened with heat and breath—and for the first time in your life, a man’s mouth held you spellbound.
You swallowed hard as your eyes lingered on his lips. The desire to kiss him rose sudden and unbidden, startling in its intensity. How had you never seen it before—how dangerously compelling they were, how they promised not tenderness, but conquest?
“Clean it,” he said, fixing you with a piercing stare. You blinked, meeting his gaze. When you hesitated, his hand reached behind your head, fingers closing in your hair. “Use that pretty tongue of yours,” he murmured darkly. “Taste yourself on me."
With a firm pull, he drew you closer, guiding you toward him.
You leaned closer, drawn by something you could no longer name. Slowly, tentatively, you traced the line of his jaw with your tongue, tasting the salt of him there, and your heady essence, then brushed your lips against his mouth. Your breath caught. You wanted to kiss him—no, you needed to—and the realization unfurled inside you, inescapable, undoing you far more than his touch ever had.
“Acacius,” you murmured, the plea barely a sound.
You wanted to know the taste of him, to feel his breath mingle with yours, to dream of his tongue—eloquent and dangerous, as if it had always known how to take what it desired.
For a heartbeat, he did not move. Then his hand came up, firm, stopping you just short of his lips. His fingers closed around your chin, tilting your face up, not unkindly—but decisively.
“No,” he said quietly, eyes dark and intent. He held you there a moment longer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath, before easing you back—control reasserted without another word.
You fell back against the bed, breath uneven, while he rose to his feet. He crossed the room and poured himself a measure of wine from the decanter. You watched him as he drank, his back to you. The way he had denied you—that single, deliberate refusal—had left a sharp edge of anger beneath your skin. Still, you would not look desperate. You would not look like a supplicant.
“You taste better with wine,” he said, dismissing your situation entirely. "Your husband never gave you this kind of pleasure it seems. I can see it in your pretty face.”
You lowered your gaze at once.
“Damn fool,” he snarled. “Such a crime to leave such ambrosia untasted. Ah, regina mea, I could drink of your cunt forever and never be thirsty,” he said, lifting his cup to you.
He took another slow, deliberate sip, savoring it, while you studied him, trying to pierce the reason behind the refusal of his lips.
You bit your lower lip. “Does the general,” you asked, voice cold, measured, “never kiss the whores he fucks?”
For a single heartbeat, your question struck its mark. The man who had been all hunger and shadow faltered, something unreadable flashing across his face—cornered, exposed. You had reached him where it mattered. But the moment was brief. He mastered himself just as quickly, the mask sliding back into place, control reclaimed as if it had never slipped at all.
“You presume too much.” He laughed—low, unbothered, almost amused. His eyes slid over you slowly before lifting to meet yours, draining the cup in one swallow. “Besides, I haven’t fucked you yet.” As he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes never left you—still sprawled on the bed, exposed to his gaze. There was nothing hidden in the hunger there. He set the cup aside and began to walk back toward you.
Your heart leapt into your throat. Under the weight of his wolfish-stare alone, your pulse betrayed you, every step he took tightening the air between you.
Your eyes betrayed you, lingering where they should not—on his manhood, veins raised like living marble beneath the skin, carrying a promise of strength that needed no name to be understood, mirroring the same restrained power that defined the rest of his body.
There was an ease to him that had nothing to do with innocence—an assurance born of familiarity, of having learned bodies as thoroughly as battlefields. You wondered if it was merely the discipline of a soldier, or something more intimate. Not strength alone, but experience—the kind earned in shadows and silence, in nights that left their mark. The way he held himself suggested a man who had known desire well, and had never been ruled by it.
Your walls clenched around nothing.
By that time, you were blushing deeply as you watched the him positioned himself before you. Spreading your legs as his erection was looking full and firm with lust and arousal, precum leaking from his tip. If you didn’t know any better, you could’ve sworn that the length actually grew in size from a few mere moments ago. As he looked at you darkly, a sharp mix of excitement and unease tightened in your chest. You knew that in mere moments, you would be fucked by the general of Rome.
You had to admit—you had never imagined that the man who would take you, who would claim you like this, would be him. And yet… perhaps this was better than some nameless gladiator you had never known. Wasn’t it?
“So,” Marcus asked, a slow, taunting curve to his mouth, “you wish to be kissed, do you?” His gaze held yours, dark and knowing. “By the very man you were trying to flee from only moments ago?”
You felt the tip start to poke at your entrance. You bit your bottom lip as you watched the fat bulbous tip, followed by his thick inches slowly slide their way inside of you. A moan slipped from your lips as your eyes fluttered shut, your breath betraying you before words could. Marcus’s hand came up, slapped your cunt, drawing a sharp squeak from you before you could stop it. “Answer me,” he growled.
“Yes—” you cried, the word tearing free before you could stop it. “Yes, I wish you to kiss me,” you breathed, your body arching beneath him, caught between need and surrender.
He grinned, a slow, predatory curve to his lips. “Then,” he said, voice low and sharp, “you’ll have to earn it.”
Your mind swirled, trying to grasp the meaning behind his words. Before you could decide, his hands grabbed at your waist, you glanced up at him and was met with him giving you a playful smile— right before slamming the rest of his length in with one vicious thrust.
“Oh GODS!” You cried as your whole world went white. Your mind exploded from intense pain, pleasure and fullness, crashing against your entire body. Your mouth agape in a choked cry, nothing coming out at that very moment.
A sharp, surprised grunt left him, taken aback by just how tight you were. Your grip on him was like a python’s, quivering and quaking all around. Were he a lesser man, he would have likely reached his climax almost immediately, all because of you beneath him. Not even the virgin courtesan from the lupanaria could match the level of tightness you were exuding. It was both impressive and intoxicating—you felt divine. His eyes darkened, pupils dilating, every fiber of him alive with sensation. He had never felt this way with any woman before—not even close.
For a heartbeat, the predator faltered, undone by the inevitability of your hold. Yet almost instantly, he recovered—lips curling into a dangerous, possessive smile, muscles taut with restrained hunger. Even as he regained his composure, the knowledge lingered: you had claimed him, and it thrilled him in ways no other had.
His first thrust was sudden and merciless, sharp as a tearing bandage. You cried out at the shocking fullness, your body jolting into a haze of overwhelming, mind-numbing pleasure. “Ahhhh...oohhh...Gods!"
His big hand wrapped around your throat, slapping your arse with the other, “Not your gods… you’ll scream my name,” He grunted as he began to move inside you, his grip on your throat not lessening for a second. The slaps on your arse and cunt kept coming, over and over, raw and relentless, as he fucked you too hard, too deep, with no intention of slowing down. Your screams weren’t enough to stop him—if anything, they only seemed to please him, driving him to thrust deeper and deeper until you felt his balls slamming against your arse cheeks.
By the time he found a steady rhythm, you were reduced to breathless moans and sharp cries, the kind that belonged to a woman utterly claimed. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, while your legs jerked and bucked helplessly at his sides under the relentless force of him.
The heavy, rhythmic impact of your bodies colliding echoed through the room, mingling with the sounds spilling from your lips—noises you had never imagined yourself capable of making. Each slam, each gasp, carried a wild, almost shameful intensity, and still, you found yourself utterly unable to stop it.
The more he slammed himself into you, the more your mind fried and your insides churned from his glorious length.
Marcus treated you more like a shameless filthy whore than a woman—or, hell, even a human at that. Yet the very idea of being fucked this way didn’t feel as shocking or unappealing as you had first imagined.
For a moment, the pleasure threatened to overwhelm you, and you squeezed your eyes shut—but his hand on your neck shook you insistently.
“Look at me,” he commanded, and you obeyed, meeting his dark, unyielding gaze as your bodies moved together.
“Now… scream my name.”
He thrust again, harder, more brutal this time. You gasped, trying to resist, but the sound escaped anyway, “Marcus!”
Every soul in the atrium—and likely throughout the villa—must have heard you. In that instant, you understood exactly what he had meant when he said “earn it.”
He thrust once more. “Louder. Declare me… in full..”
Slapping your arse with both hands, he kept you in place as he pumped into you with great speed. You screamed, almost sobbing, each name rising higher than the last, “Marcus! Justus! Acacius!”
A dark, satisfied laugh escaped him, thick with possession and hunger.
“Well done… let everyone know who claims you. Let them hear who fucks you,” he growled, eyes blazing, every muscle in his body taut with the knowledge that you were his—claimed, shattered, and entirely under his control.
His large hand moved over your bouncing breasts, squeezing with rough insistence, fingers pinching your nipples sharply. The other slid down your stomach, teasing the cleft between your thighs in perfect rhythm with each thrust.
Before you realized it, you found yourself cumming, your body was overtaken, a shattering wave of pleasure ripping through you. A high, desperate cry escaped your lips as your body shuddered, your juices spilled, slicking both of you, toes curling against his back in the intensity of it all.
Marcus grunted, caught off guard by the tightness of your folds gripping him. Squeezing him down as if you were attempting to wring his cock out for his seed. There was something almost… old in it, a dark thrill he hadn’t known he’d missed.
Yet he did not slow, did not relent. Every movement drove deeper, claiming you fully, and still he drew endless satisfaction from your body, unyielding, relentless, and wholly possessed by the sensation of you.
“Marcus! W-Wait!” you cried, eyes wide at his resumed thrusting. “I-I'm still—have mercy, please!”
You couldn’t even finish the sentence. A cry of pleasure tore from your throat as your body shook through another climax, Marcus deliberately dragging it out with long, deep strokes. His hands found your bouncing breasts once more, taking one into his mouth while teasing the other, his tongue hungry and brutal as he suckled, before letting go of your nipple with a loud, wet pop that echoed briefly through the chamber. You could not tell whether he meant to rouse you further, or if he was simply indulging in the pleasure of it himself.
Somehow, your legs had slid up onto the bed without you even noticing; Marcus’s strong arms lifted them higher, wrapping them around his waist, guiding you instinctively while you clutched his head close to him with what little willpower you could muster.
Your screams grew louder, more urgent, every second feeding his predatory hunger.
It didn’t take long before another wave overtook you, leaving your legs trembling, breath broken, the world narrowing to sensation alone.
Then he paused.
For a fleeting moment, you thought it was mercy.
It wasn’t.
You were still trembling, utterly sated and almost dazed, struggling to open your eyes. You felt him lift you slightly, and beneath your hips he placed something soft—perhaps a pillow—so that your hips were raised, your rear arched. Ah… you realized, even in the haze of pleasure, that this was the method used to increase the chance of conception, a knowledge that sent a shiver through you in spite of yourself.
After adjusting your position, he resumed his relentless thrusting, one arm sliding under you to wrap firmly around your waist. His movements grew harder, faster, each stroke a brutal claim on your body.
You were utterly lost in your storm of delight, unable to notice how deeply trapped you were in his dominating mating press. His chest pressed flush against your voluptuous frame, every motion scorching, possessive, unyielding.
His hips began to snap faster, a clear, primal signal that he was nearing his own climax, and you could feel the heat radiating from him through every curve of your body. The intensity was overwhelming, your senses consumed by him—by the force, the control, and the fierce, inescapable pleasure he was giving you.
By the gods.
Your form was exquisite, a decadence beyond reckoning. He had not foreseen this, not even in himself — the way desire sank its hooks so deep it threatened to consume him whole. You knew nothing of the divinity of your own flesh, nor of how completely it ensnared him, he simply couldn’t get enough of you.
Marcus pressed his lips fiercely against your neck, lingering there with brutal intent. You felt the force of his mouth, the demanding pull, then the sharp pressure of his teeth sinking just enough to make you gasp. A raw moan tore from your throat, unbidden, as his hold on you tightened. You were crushed under the weight of his thick form—yet you did not care in the slightest.
With a sudden, powerful downward thrust, he poured every ounce of force into his hips, movements primal and unrelenting. A seasoned military man, far older than your husband yet giving you pleasures he never could, he grunted low in satisfaction, each sound vibrating against your neck as he reached his climax in one brutal sweep. You felt every guttural murmur, every shiver of release, his essence filling you so well. Your eyes rolled back, and a shameless cry of pure bliss tore from your lips as you were filled with the general’s thick seed. He pressed your body down against the pillow beneath your hips, lifting your rear high, angling you perfectly—as if to ensure every last drop of his breeding was swallowed by your womb.
You both remained still, his lingering warmth and the last aftershocks of ecstasy circulating within you. Your eyes met as Marcus inclined his face toward yours; his features were damp with sweat, dark curls clinging to his brow and catching the lamplight with a faint sheen. His brown eyes glinted like polished bronze in the low glow of the chamber, steady and intent. You were locked there together, wrapped in the haze of post-climax heat, and even now he remained hard, filling you completely—an exquisite fullness.
“I know why you didn’t want to kiss me,” you breathed, chest rising and falling beneath his arms as he held you tightly. His eyes, still misted from climax, sharpened on you. “Because there’s a saying,” you breathed, voice trembling, “that the bond of love is sealed on the lips—osculum vinculum amoris est. You fear realizing you’re in love with me, and prefer to surrender to desire instead… don’t you, General?"
He smirked. “Ah… clever little empress. Speaking of lips and love—daring to have me confess to something that does not exist, testing me, even while you lie beneath me.”
As if to prove his own words true, as if to demonstrate that no such feeling held power over him, his finger traced the line of your jaw. His eyes burned as his lips brushed yours, barely there, a calculated tease rather than a claim. His thumb followed, skimming your lower lip, coaxing it apart in silent invitation, controlled and measured.
For a fleeting moment, hesitation crossed his face. You felt it—knew it instinctively—as though a single kiss would cost him something he was not yet willing to surrender. And gods, how you wanted it. You wanted his mouth on yours, wanted to taste him, craved his lips with a hunger sharper than anything you had ever known.
But he did not give in. His jaw tightened, that familiar hard line returning as his posture straightened, discipline snapping back into place. He withdrew, composure intact, leaving the space between you charged and aching—while your lips still burned with the memory of what he had almost allowed.
You remained pressed together, the heat between you slowly ebbing as he finally softened within you. He held you steady as he withdrew, still warm, leaving behind only the faintest trace of his seed as it slid down your arse and soaked into the sheets below.
His grip stayed firm beneath your hips as he pressed you back against the bed, his palm settling briefly between your breasts, grounding you there. “Do not move,” he said, already rising.
You could not have moved even if you wished to—your legs and pelvis numb, every muscle aching, as though the great columns of the temple of Jupiter had collapsed upon you and left you buried beneath their weight. And yet… you were happy. Grateful. Still, as his body lifted away, a quiet ache settled in your chest. You already missed the crushing warmth of him, the way his solid, muscled body, had held you down.
Marcus adjusted you with practiced ease, one arm steady at your hips while his gaze lingered on the marks already blooming across your skin—faint now, darker by morning. His fingers brushed your lips, slow and deliberate, tracing them as if committing their shape to memory… and then, just as slowly, he withdrew his hand. Your eyes met.
He turned away first. Whatever thought had crossed his mind, he abandoned it.
You gathered yourself on one elbow, breath unsteady. “If you do not kiss me now,” you said quietly, unable to hide the hope in your voice, “you may never have another chance, General.”
He was already reaching for his garment, the distance returning with every movement. The moment he left the chamber, he would be unreachable again—so you pressed on, hopeful and daring all at once.
Despite your exhaustion, you smiled, a quiet challenge in your eyes. “Even if you were to seize the chance,” you said softly, testing him, “do not imagine I would make it easy for you.”
He paused at the door, glancing back with a slow, knowing smile. As if you weren’t already mine,” he drawled. “Tell me, my lady. Where does this confidence come from? Or is it simply defiance you wear so prettily? If I choose to take what I desire, there is no wall in Rome, no name, no vow that could bar my way."
He turned and left the chamber, the door closing behind him and sealing you in silence. Alone at last, you drew a slow, unsteady breath, his seed floating deep within your insides, his scent clinging to your skin—while his final words seemed to echo in the quiet, lingering as insistently as he did.
You knew you would see him again—at every ceremony, every banquet, every festival where Rome displayed its splendor. From across marble halls and torchlit courts, your gazes would meet, a silent acknowledgment, a greeting meant for no one else. At each triumphant return from war, he would stand before the city as its conqueror, and you would stand beside another man as his wife—an ornament of Rome, a symbol, a possession.
Yet your body, your longing, even your heart, belonged elsewhere. They belonged to him—quietly, secretly, like a truth spoken only in whispers. And they would remain so, hidden beneath silk and ceremony, until the seeds he had sown within you took root and blossomed into a son, an heir growing silently in the shadows of empire.
Summary: Pedro is all yours after the Super Bowl ends.
Pairing: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader
Tags: bf!pedro; drabble; established relationship; oneshot
Warnings: +18 content; MDNI; smut; cum; nudity; inappropriate language
A/n: first of all: LATINO POWER! second: I LOVE MY BOYFRIEND, HE LOOKED SO HANDSOME AND HOT IN THAT WHITE OUTFIT. Im happy that Pedro participated in this show that's so important for the Latino people, it means so much to us! I'm so proud of my roots and it's so good to have someone like Bad Bunny and Pedro using their influence to speak out in such dark times as this. I couldn't be more proud and grateful for the greatest halftime show ever! I love you Benito and I fucking love you Pedro! About this little fanfic, it's just a passionate rambling of mine. This man deserves all the love in the world and as long as I'm alive he will be loved and desired in all my stories! And last but not least: ICE OUT! AND FUCK YOU TRUMP!
Word count: 689
Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl performance had been historic, featuring some of the biggest Latin celebrities of the moment.
And of course, Pedro Pascal was there.
Your man looks radiant: his curls loose and moisturized by Coco, his eyes shining with emotion, the first buttons of his shirt undone, revealing the skin you had left flushed the night before. Pedro is so shy that you can tell exactly how nervous he is, and at the same time how happy he is to be there. He films and takes pictures of everything, thinking about how much you’ll love seeing it all once he gets home. And when he does arrive, he’s still buzzing with adrenaline from having taken part in something so important.
You wrap your arms tightly around him and scatter kisses across his face, so proud of the man you chose to spend the rest of your life with. He is one of a kind in every sense: the most loving, the kindest, the most empathetic. You met at a political protest, and from that day on, you never let go of each other.
It felt like a meeting of souls.
Even though he is famous and you are just an anonymous person, Pedro has never made you feel less important. There was nothing you didn’t know, nothing that ever made you feel absent from his life. Even when you couldn’t be with him in moments like that, he always made a point of returning to you as soon as possible. Like now, in his bedroom, city lights reflecting over his bare chest. You trace invisible lines with your fingers along the small marks on his neck left by time.
He is entirely beautiful from head to toe.
His hands rest slowly on your hips, a crooked smile forming the familiar dimples on his lightly shaved skin. You smile back and brush a curl away from his forehead before he leans down to kiss you. His kiss is unhurried, his warm tongue exploring your mouth as the two of you roll naked across the bed, him leaving you on top. His slightly calloused hands slide along your back as you straddle him and feel him fit inside you.
Bracing yourself against his chest, you take control, moving exactly the way he likes. Pedro is completely submissive to you, letting you do whatever you want and placing your pleasure above everything else. Watching your body overtaken by desire is his greatest pleasure, listening to your breaths, your moans, the furrow of your brow when you’re getting close. His loving gaze admires your body, sculpted perfectly for him, your hips moving in a constant rhythm, your long hair—his favorite—falling in layers down your back.
He loves the rosy hue that spreads across the apples of your cheeks and your lips, left damp from their shared kisses, as the sexual act goes on.
When you open your eyes, he knows, telepathically, that you’re close, and sensing your exhaustion, he switches positions.
Pedro sinks into you, gripping your hips firmly with one hand while the other cups your cheek, keeping your eyes locked on his. He likes fucking you while looking into your eyes, diving into the deep glow of your dilated irises. It excites him even more; his cock feels heavier between his legs, and he nearly cries out when you wrap your legs around his hips and tighten around him in response to his movements.
That’s enough for him. Pedro rushes to kiss you, and you both cum at the same time, the kiss breaking as a rough moan spills from his mouth against yours. You smile, breathing hard, your fingers tangling in the curls at the nape of his neck while he drags his nose along your cheek and buries his face in your neck.
Pedro feels undone and lets out a nasal laugh. He wishes he had lasted longer, if it weren’t for how overstimulated he was.
He breathes hot and heavy against your skin, then lifts his face again, meeting your satisfied smile.
“I got you.” you murmur. He smiles and presses a languid kiss to your mouth.
clint flood x sex worker! female reader || one-shot || ao3 link
summary: By day, you’re a waitress, crushing hard on your handsome regular. By night, you’re a call girl. When Clint unwittingly books you for an evening, your two worlds collide.
non-smut tags: grief. romance. eventual sweetness. afab reader. late night heart-to-heart. banter. no y/n. age gap (early 30s reader). girldad Clint. takes place after Freaky Tales. moved to present day so they have phones. money troubles. mentions of infidelity (not Clint or reader). some body insecurity. reader’s physical appearance not described beyond some hair. reader can walk and kneel. smut tags: nervous, tender Clint who gets filthy as hell when his walls come down. mutual masturbation. excessive dirty talk. Clint likes to watch, and he’s kinda obsessed with your thighs. Clint orders you around. brief spanking. praise. pussy pronouns. cock pronouns. big dick Clint, and he’s got some tattoos. pet names (“gorgeous”, “baby”). not not a blowjob. spoiler alert he cums on your pussy.
wc: 16.2K 🫣
author's note: Freaky Tales is my favorite PP movie, so I've been wanting to write Clint for ages. This fic builds up slowly and steadily to the dirtiest smut I've ever written. The diner-core and themes of grief were influenced in part by @mcthsman’s Toska. so was the pussy slap. Check out Toska out first if you haven’t already - it’s fantastic.
MDNI banners by @\cafekitsune, dividers by @\saradika-graphics
You made up stories about all your regulars at the diner.
The punk kids who always paid with change, for instance. You guessed they were in love with each other but scared to admit it. And the girls who liked milkshakes and wrote lyrics on their napkins – they were an up-and-coming rap duo, about to get big. The tall guys who came in hungry and filled up the corner booth? They had to be second-stringers for the Oakland A’s.
And then there was him. The handsome father. He came by every day at 2:15, right at the start of your shift. Silvering hair, scar on his cheek, and those dark, sad eyes. You knew there was a story behind them.
He only ever ordered a black coffee for himself, and a sliced-up banana for the baby. He always said thank you. You liked those thank yous. His voice was full, and it sounded kind, but you tried not to notice. And you tried not to notice the slant of his shoulders, or his big, thick hands, because the left one always wore a silver ring.
Handsome Guy was married. Of course he was.
“You can still daydream, though. It’s not cheating if it’s in your imagination.”
This advice came from your shift-mate. Casey was a decade younger than you, but you were in the same year at Mill College. She never made you feel behind for it, and she’d gotten you the job at the diner. During the lulls, the two of you did problem sets together.
At the moment, there wasn’t much homework getting done. Handsome Guy had just pulled up, and Casey was craning over the counter to stare at him through the window.
“He’s in his leather jacket today,” she said. “Somebody should outlaw that thing. And he drives some kind of blue vintage Chevy.” She wiggled her eyebrows at you. “The seats in those cars go all the way back.”
Your brain conjured an image of your legs on either side of Handsome’s hips, those big hands of his on your waist. Your skin grew warm.
“Stop putting impure thoughts in my head. We have a whole shift to get through.”
Casey grinned. “I’m not allowed to notice a customer’s car? What’s so impure about that?”
You busied yourself putting on a fresh pot of coffee. Handsome never complained, but you didn’t want to charge him for boiled-down sludge. The bell over the door tinkled, and Casey let out a sigh.
“Damn,” she said. “Have you seen his butt? Why can’t he sit in my section, just one time?”
“You really want one of your four-tops taken up by a banana and a coffee? Twenty-five percent of $5.50 is, like, a dollar.”
“He tips twenty-five percent? My friend. Homewreck him.”
“Yeah, that’ll end well.”
“When it all goes down in flames, it’ll be a good distraction from finals.”
You felt a twinge of panic. Finals only mattered if you could scrape together the spring semester’s tuition.
“Funny,” you managed.
You dodged Casey’s eye. She was strapped for cash too, but it wasn’t the same. Her parents would cover her if she came up short.
You retrieved the highchair from the back room and made for Handsome’s table. He always sat in the same booth by the window. His daughter had big, curious eyes, and she gurgled as you came near, wrapping her tiny hand around one of Handsome’s fingers.
You bit back a smile and set up the highchair. Handsome glanced up at you, and something in his gaze softened.
“Thank you,” he said.
You liked the slow way he had of talking. It felt like all of his attention was here, like he never skipped over one thought to try and reach the next.
“No problem,” you said. “Coffee?”
He nodded. “Thanks.”
“It’s brewing. And the banana?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“Anything else?”
He always said no, but today he hesitated.
“How come don’t you wear a name tag?” he asked.
What?
“Oh,” you said. “I always forget it. And it’s not like the food tastes any different if you know my name.”
Handsome moved his head, not exactly a yes or a no. He didn’t say anything. Was he asking for your name? Why did he want to know?
He was such a solid man, and up close, it was hard to keep your thoughts in a line. Those eyes of his were too damn warm.
Maybe he was waiting for you to leave. You’d been lingering for way too long, hadn’t you?
You tucked your pen behind your ear.
“I should go get your coffee.”
“Okay,” he said. “Thank –”
“Thank me? You said that already.”
The comment fell out before you could stop it, and you cursed yourself for breaking your customer service mask. Whatever ideas you had about Handsome, they were just that – ideas. He always paid in cash, so you didn’t even know his name, let alone whether he’d share your sense of humor. Chances were he’d decide you were a bitch, and you’d lose your measly $1.10 in tips.
But Handsome didn’t seem to mind. Something playful spread across his face, an expression you’d never seen him wear before.
“Okay,” he said. “I take it back.”
“You what?”
“I take it back. No thank you for you.”
You failed to hold back a surprised grin.
“Ungrateful bastard.”
Handsome lifted an eyebrow. “You talk like that to all of your customers?”
Was he… flirting with you?
You glanced at his hand before you could think better of it. Still married.
Handsome followed your eyes, and his body went rigid. He moved his left hand to his lap and stared at the table.
It wasn’t your problem that he was married. You weren’t going to let yourself feel bad for clocking him, no matter how ashamed he looked at getting caught.
So what if he was hot? The man couldn’t even cut up a banana on his own.
“Coffee will be right out,” you said.
Handsome nodded at the table, and you made for the counter. Casey’s eyebrows were in the sky by the time you got back.
“Don’t look now, but Hot Dad totally watched you walk away,” she said. “What the hell did you say to him?”
“Nothing,” you said.
You glanced up at Handsome. Your eyes met, and his gaze dropped to his phone. He chewed his lip as he typed, like he was guilty about something. Probably texting his wife.
You sighed. You knew it wasn’t that big of a deal – plenty of married guys flirted, and there was nothing necessarily wrong with checking out other women. It wasn’t like Handsome had asked for your number. A few years ago, you would have shrugged all this off.
A few years ago, you hadn’t realized just how many guys were cheaters. You’d liked Handsome more when he was a fantasy, when you could tell yourself he was better than the rest of them.
You untied your apron.
“I’m going to take my fifteen.”
Casey’s brow furrowed.
“Really? We just started.”
“Yeah, I need a minute. Mind covering my table? It’s just the banana and coffee. He takes it black, usually one refill.”
“You don’t have to ask me twice.”
You thanked Casey, grabbed your cigarettes from the break room, and lit up outside. The buzz of nicotine woke you up, and you scolded yourself for taking your break so soon. The evening rush was terrible on Fridays, and now you’d have to marathon through it.
Your phone vibrated in your pocket. A notification from Illicit.
As escort services went, Illicit was bare bones. They didn’t run background checks on their clients. They didn’t schedule your meetups for you. But the cut they took was tiny, and at least they logged the locations of your dates.
You’d signed up as a last resort a few months ago, when a perfect storm of rent increase, car repairs, and an ER bill had cleaned through what little you had set aside for tuition. There was nobody you could have asked for help – you’d followed your ex out to California, and he was long gone now, living with the girl he’d said you were crazy for worrying about.
Stop. You didn’t need to be thinking about him today. The whole thing with Handsome had just gotten under your skin.
The message was from a new client, a guy who’d been reaching out on and off for weeks, without ever scheduling a date. For the last few days, he’d been radio silent. You’d thought he’d changed his mind.
Maybe something had changed it back, because a green check mark had appeared beside the guy’s name. He’d put money into his Illicit account. You clicked on the message.
Clint: I know it’s been a while, but I still want to meet you. Have you got any time tonight?
Clint: 10:00? For two hours?
You hesitated. Your shift ended right at ten.
Clint: I’ll pay double. If we don’t do tonight, I’m going to chicken out again.
Double pay. You couldn’t turn it down. Even if Clint wanted something awful in exchange, it probably wouldn’t be twice as bad as the average.
Angel: Ok. If 11 works, I can make it.
It had been impossible to choose the perfect call girl name, so you’d let the alphabet decide. Angel hadn’t been a bad pick, in the end. It seemed to send the right message.
Clint took a moment to respond.
You knew what was coming. The haggling. Some guys were open about it – asking to pay half now and half later, like you’d try harder if you had to earn it. That wasn’t too common. Most of the time, the men would just ask you to remind them the price, like it wasn’t listed clearly on your profile.
You never backed down, but you hated the implicit challenge – that you couldn’t be really worth what you charged.
Your phone buzzed again.
Clint F. sent you $500.00 – “11 it is.”
Well, fuck. He’d even tipped double – 25% of double.
Clint: Did you get it?
Angel: I did. Thanks. Not a lot of clients pay up front, and I hate having to chase them down about it.
Clint: I get it.
Clint: Is the tip good?
Angel: You’re good. Thank you.
Clint: You said that already.
Clint: I’ll send over my address. I’m near Lake Merritt. I can pick you up from the BART station there.
Illicit only tracked home addresses. Your gut said you could trust Clint, but that wasn’t enough to get you into his car. If your fantasies about Handsome were any sign, you weren’t exactly the best judge of character.
Besides, you didn’t live far from the lake. You’d probably be able to walk.
Angel: That’s okay. I’ll come to you.
Your phone buzzed again, and you checked the address. Sure enough, you and Clint were neighbors. Go figure.
You took a final, long drag of your cigarette. Five hundred dollars, and a client who seemed kind of decent. There had to be some sort of catch.
It was already 10:15 by the time you got back to your studio, and by then you reeked of fry oil. You turned up the shower to scalding and got to work scrubbing away the smell.
When you went out as Angel, you didn’t use your normal shampoo and conditioner. Everything she wore was scented like roses. All you had to do was inhale, and you’d feel like somebody else.
You needed the reminder. Angel was sexy in a way that you weren’t. She was nice. She never forgot to moisturize, and she was always freshly waxed. When she put on lingerie, she didn’t stare at herself in the mirror, finding all the places it dug in too tight and gapped too loose.
It didn’t come easily to you. You’d never really thought of yourself as sexy, or even especially beautiful. Not that you were ugly – with a little bit of effort, and the right makeup, you could make yourself pretty enough. But every girl could do that. You weren’t anything special.
When you first signed up for Illicit, you’d actually thought it would make you more confident. Your body was a commodity. It had to be valuable. But to most of your clients, all women’s bodies were commodities. You felt wanted sometimes, sure, but never desired.
You reached for the rose shampoo.
It was empty. Damn it.
You couldn’t wear mismatched scents – it would drive you crazy. You’d have to use only the everyday stuff. Citrus wasn’t as sexy, but maybe you’d get lucky and Clint would have a tangerine fetish.
You put the empty bottle back – you’d remember to chuck it tomorrow, really – and finished washing up.
It was always chaos getting ready in your studio. The room was tiny, and you’d never really set it up well. You knew you had it in you. You’d kept a good home when you were married. Maybe it was this place – this dark little go-between. It just didn’t feel like home.
Your dresser was jammed up against your bed, and it did double duty as a desk. You found your blow dryer on top of it, the cord half-buried by a stack of lecture notes. You worked it free, then sifted through your lingerie drawer.
Nothing extreme tonight. Exhausted as you were, you wouldn’t have the confidence to pull off a corset. You slid on mesh panties and a matching balconette. The bra was minimal enough to be comfortable, even if it didn’t push your cleavage up in the way your clients liked.
Hair and makeup was next – nothing heavy, the kind of “good girl” look that a man would expect from somebody named Angel.
10:46. You had a little bit of time. Clint had shelled out five hundred dollars. Maybe he deserved the fantasy.
You wriggled into a garter belt and a dark set of thigh-highs. The belt dug into your stomach, and the stockings got runs so fast that you hated wearing them, but they helped you feel a bit more like Angel.
Better. You kept the rest simple. It wouldn’t be on for long. Little black dress with a low-cut neck, and tall, heeled boots.
You looked too obviously like a hooker to walk around like this. You pulled your go-to coverup from your closet – a giant canvas coat, the one your ex had left behind – and threw it on over the dress.
In two and a half hours, you could go back to being you.
Walking up to a date was the part you hated most, and tonight was no exception. What if Clint had friends over? What if he hadn’t read the hard limits section of your profile?
You distracted yourself by studying Clint’s house. It was a two-story Victorian, but according to his instructions, he only lived downstairs. An old blue car sat in the driveway, and you were reminded for a moment of Handsome.
God, this had been a long day.
You stepped onto the porch and checked the time. 11:08. You set a two-hour timer and took off your coat. You rearranged your face into Angel’s. Then you knocked on the door.
It opened at once, and a ringing sound filled your ears.
Handsome stood on the other side.
What?
What was going on? Did you have the wrong house?
Handsome met your eyes, and his face went slack.
Some part of your brain noticed that he looked especially good tonight, in a tight dark sweater that stretched around his chest and arms. His hair was combed back, and he’d done something to his beard to make it all point the same way.
He was dressed up for something. No. Wait. Was he dressed up for you?
Were you the something?
Handsome looked from your face to your dress, and quickly back.
“Angel?” he said. “Are you… are you Angel?”
That voice didn’t belong here. It shouldn’t be saying that name. Static crawled up beneath your skin.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He’d messaged you while he was still in the diner, hadn’t he? How had he known who you were?
“You are,” he said. “Aren’t you? You’re her?”
Handsome’s eyes were wide. He took a step back, and for a moment he looked as horrified as you were.
The realization cut through to quiet your panic. If Handsome had planned this, he sure wasn’t acting like it. Your pulse began to slow, and you found your voice.
“You didn’t know?”
Handsome gave you an incredulous look.
“Does it seem like I knew?”
It didn’t. It really didn’t. Maybe he was lying, but you remembered how bad he’d been at hiding his ring in the diner. He didn’t seem the type to pull it off. You took in a deep breath. This wasn’t a trick. It was only a bizarre coincidence. You could deal with that.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “How did this happen? How are you her?”
Something about his spiral put you at ease. Clint, if that really was his name, didn’t have the upper hand. That meant it was up for grabs. You got to decide what happened next.
You looked into Clint’s eyes, and finally got a handle on what was happening. Clint was Handsome, and Handsome was a dick. He’d invited a call girl over so he could cheat on his wife. What had he said? It had to happen tonight? Was she out of town or something?
It didn’t really matter. Maybe you could care that Handsome was married, but you’d come here tonight to be Angel. Angel didn’t get to care that Clint was married.
“Everything is going to be fine,” you said. “I’ll never say a word about this. And if you don’t want to see me again, just get your coffee an hour earlier. I don’t clock in until 2.”
Clint nodded slowly. Some of the wildness faded from his eyes, and you thought you saw sorrow there again.
“You know what time I come in?”
“Clint. You come in almost every day, and you have the silliest order of all time. Do you not have coffee and bananas at home? Of course I remember you.”
You were mouthing off way too much – more than Angel would have – but the line was too blurry, and your blood was too hot. You couldn’t think straight if you were also trying to behave.
At least Clint seemed to have a thick skin. The edge of his mouth pulled upward.
“Fair enough,” he said.
He didn’t interrupt further, and you took another breath.
“So you and I are fine, moving forward. The only question left is what to do about tonight. I can go home, and Illicit can find you somebody else. They won’t refund your tip, but…” you had to say it. “But I can send you the extra $100, considering the circumstances.”
“Keep it,” he said. “It only seems fair. I put you out of work tonight, didn’t I?”
“Not necessarily,” you said.
Clint’s brow furrowed, and you hesitated for a moment. If you stopped talking now, you could accept his tip and head home early.
But another $400 sat on the table. You didn’t want to help Clint cheat, but if you left here tonight, that was two more meetups you’d have to do, and those guys wouldn’t be any better.
They definitely wouldn’t be better looking.
No. You couldn’t think like that. This was a job. This wasn’t a chance to get with Handsome. The guy you’d imagined didn’t exist.
“This isn’t what I expected,” you said. “But I don’t actually think it’s a big deal. Yes, we know each other, but not particularly well, and what happens here tonight will stay here. If you want to go through with our original plan, I’m fine with that, too.”
“You are?”
“I am. I’d actually prefer it.”
Clint fell quiet. He braced himself on the doorway and studied your face.
A strange feeling stirred inside your stomach. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Clint was too good-looking. His face was too honest. When you looked back at him, it was hard not to only see Handsome.
Clint took a breath, and for the first time since his panicked once-over, his eyes dipped below your neck. He took in your exposed cleavage, and became very still. His gaze lingered on your hips, where the slinky fabric held close to your curves. His eyes found the bare skin of your thighs, and he made a soft noise. His throat bobbed.
Heat burned beneath your skin. He was such a big man. He’d always seemed so stoic in the diner. But here, tonight, he made no effort to hide all the ways he was affected.
“Okay,” he said quietly. He was still looking at your thighs.
It was hard to breathe when he looked at you like that.
“Okay,” he said again.
He tore his eyes back to your face and seemed to come back to himself.
“Want to come inside?”
You nodded. You were going inside with Handsome, and he still hadn’t taken off his wedding ring. Did that make this more or less fucked up?
He held open the door for you, and he let out a little huff of breath as you stepped in front of him. You could practically feel the weight of his gaze on your ass.
If you had any doubt left that Clint was married, his apartment erased it. The entryway led to an airy living room. A vintage table stood to your left, with brightly colored, mismatched chairs tucked around it. To your right, you found a long, leather sectional, decorated with a big throw made of granny squares. A wind chime dangled in the bay window, and in the lamplight you saw that the curtains around it were pink.
These decorations had not been chosen by a giant, scarred man who only ever drank black coffee. They’d been picked by the wife he was about to cheat on. It was hard not to be angry, especially when you saw signs of neglect around the place. The plants beneath the wind chime drooped yellow with overwatering, and dust had piled up around the moldings and windowsills, in all those hard-to-reach places that men never seemed to notice.
The door closed behind you. Clint held out his hand.
“Let me take your coat.”
You handed it over numbly.
There were a few rectangular patches on the walls where the paint looked a little too bright, as if pictures usually hung there and slowed the color from fading.
Had Clint taken down all the photos of his wife before you got here? But then why had he left on his wedding band?
You felt Clint’s eyes on you. He said nothing, but his body was stiff like it had been in the diner, when you’d first drawn attention to his ring.
There was a bench across from the coat closet. You sat down and unzipped your heeled boots. You expected Clint to watch as you revealed your thigh-highs, but he only stared around the room. His hand closed into a fist, then opened.
You rose to your feet.
“Here? Or the bedroom?”
“Not the bedroom.”
“Okay, then.”
You took a seat on the leather couch. Clint stayed standing.
“I haven’t done this in a long time,” he said.
He opened and closed his hand again. You felt a pang inside your chest. You knew he was being a jerk, but he just didn’t seem like one. He seemed… afraid. Maybe a part of him didn’t want to go through with this.
“We don’t have to do anything,” you said. “You can still change your mind. You paid for my time, but we can spend it however you want.”
He nodded. He took a seat on the far end of the couch. He still couldn’t seem to look at you.
“I want to do this,” he said. “I know this is the right thing to do.”
You bit your lip. You could feel yourself about to mouth off again. Angel would keep quiet, but… you looked at the sad, wilted calathea in the windowsill. Fuck it.
“Is this the right thing to do? I don’t think cheating ever really is.”
Clint’s attention snapped to you.
“Cheating?”
You gestured to his hand.
“Wedding band.” You motioned to yourself. “Hooker. Cheating. Unless you guys are poly, or have some kind of don’t-ask-don’t-tell arrangement.”
“Oh,” was all Clint said.
He looked down at his wedding band and traced his thumb over the metal. His body seemed to shrink around itself.
“I’m not cheating on my wife,” he said. His voice shook, as if he didn’t quite believe the words. “She died last year. She was murdered.”
Those sad eyes of his. Oh. Fuck. You were such an idiot.
“Oh, fuck,” you said. “I’m such an idiot.”
Clint looked up at you in surprise, and your face burned. Now you were even more of an idiot.
You should say something better. There were things you were supposed to say when someone died, weren’t there? You were sorry for his loss?
You couldn’t say that. It felt completely soulless.
But Clint had wanted company tonight – he’d wanted it badly enough to pay double. You couldn’t fix his pain, but maybe he just needed you to see it.
“I knew there was something,” you said. “I see you every day at the diner, and I knew you were hurting. I’ve thought a hundred times about how I can make it better. And then I come in here and accuse you of cheating.”
Clint gave you a strange look.
“Today,” he said. “In the diner. You disappeared, and your friend took my table. You thought I was trying to step out on my wife?”
“Um. Yes. I’m sorry.”
Clint shook his head. “I should’ve said something earlier.”
“No,” you said. “I jumped to conclusions, and it was unprofessional. I owe you an apology for acting like such a dick.”
Clint made a sound in the shape of a laugh. “That wasn’t a very professional apology.”
“It wasn’t an apology at all, I guess. But I am sorry.”
“I know,” Clint said.
You gave him a small smile. He let out a sigh.
“This isn’t going too well so far,” he said. “Is it?”
You turned to sit facing him on the couch.
“I’m here for you,” you said. “You’re the one who decides what ‘going well’ means.”
“Okay,” he said. He slid his right hand through his left.
“It might’ve been a mistake,” he said. “Trying this.”
A suspicion formed inside your mind.
“Is this the first time you’ve… since…”
“Yeah.”
Oh, God. You never would have pushed to keep tonight’s date if you’d known. Was he just going through with this because he’d spent so much money?
“Do you… Is it too weird, that it’s me? If you really think this is a mistake, we should do the refund.”
“No,” he said. “I have to do this. I have to try. Something needs to change.”
“Okay,” you said. “I’ll stay.”
“Thank you.”
His eyes dropped to his hands, and quiet stretched between you. He didn’t move toward you on the couch.
Your instincts said not to rush him, but you only had so much time. He said he wanted to do this. Maybe you could help him remember why.
“It might help if you start by telling me what you want out of tonight.”
Clint nodded at his hands.
“Alright,” he said. “I thought tonight could be a… first step. I have these moments sometimes, where I’ll get excited to… see somebody. And then it hits me, what I’m doing, that I’m excited about somebody besides Grace, and I just…”
He cut himself off. His mouth opened, but no words came out. He gestured toward his chest.
You felt an urge to wrap your arms around him, but he’d left a couch’s worth of space between you for a reason. You stayed where you were.
“It might just be too soon,” you said. “It’s okay if you aren’t ready.”
“I need to be ready,” he said. He lifted his head, and you saw that his eyes were wet. He gestured again at his chest. “It needs to not be like this anymore. I need something good that doesn’t hurt. Even if I hate myself for wanting it.”
“Hey,” you said softly. “You’re not wrong for wanting to feel better.”
“You don’t know that.”
“But you do?” you said. “We’ll have to agree to disagree.”
You were being too glib. You regretted it at once, but Clint’s mouth twitched.
He was in there somewhere, a real person, buried by emotion. If you could draw him out, get him thinking about something else, maybe he could enjoy himself.
“So you want to feel good tonight,” you said. “Is there anything specific that you want to do with me?”
Clint’s gaze dropped to the stripe of thigh between your stockings and skirt. He looked at your mouth, then back to your eyes.
“I don’t know,” he said.
Sure, he didn’t.
“You don’t know? Or you know, but you feel too guilty to ask?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “You can be kind of blunt sometimes.”
Fuck.
“Sorry. I’m not big on half-truths. I usually do a better job of being polite.”
“I didn’t say you should be. But it’s surprising for somebody named Angel.”
You hesitated, and Clint’s eyes flickered with understanding.
“Your name isn’t really Angel, is it?”
You shook your head.
“You just told me you don’t like lying!”
A tiny, incredulous grin had appeared on Clint’s face. There he was.
“This isn’t a lie,” you said. “My name is Angel. Some of the time. Come on, you’re telling me your real name is Clint?”
He blinked. “Is it not supposed to be?”
“Wait really? Your name is Clint?”
“You thought I made it up?”
“Of course I did! Guys always pick the most macho, Old Hollywood names they can think of. Rock, Leroy, Rebel… Titan.”
“You’re lying about Titan.”
“I really wish I was.”
Clint chuckled, and you found yourself smiling. He was gorgeous when he laughed.
“Sorry,” you said. “It’s not good form to talk to you about other clients.”
“I don’t want good form,” he said.
“There you go. Telling me what you want. What else?”
He paused for a moment. “What would you do if you were on a date with one of those other guys right now?”
Most other guys got right down to the main event, but you didn’t think Clint was ready for that.
“Um. Probably a blowjob?”
Clint’s eyes snapped to your lips.
“Yeah?” he said quietly. “You’d take me in your mouth?”
Oh, fuck. He really needed a license for that voice of his.
“Does that sound like something you want?” you asked. “We can go slow at first, maybe just my tongue.”
Clint’s chest swelled, and he adjusted himself inside his pants.
“Yeah,” he said. “Okay. Let’s try that.”
You got to your feet. “Do you want me to take my dress off?”
“Fuck,” Clint murmured. “I… Not yet. Yes, but it feels like too much.”
“Alright,” you said. “Keep telling me when something’s too much, okay?”
“I will.”
You walked over to his end of the couch.
Clint’s fingers pressed indents into armrest of the couch. He didn’t seem to know where to look – your face, your chest, your hands. His eyes darted to the empty wall, then back to you.
You took a step, and Clint’s knees brushed yours.
“Can you make some space?” you asked.
Clint spread his knees. You sank to the ground between them.
He felt so big up close. His bulky thighs seemed to surround you. Your hand reached out of its own accord to trace a swell of his muscle.
Clint inhaled sharply. His eyes were locked on your fingers. Slowly, you trailed your hand up the top of his leg.
“You’re so strong,” you murmured. “I can feel it.”
Clint’s brow creased, and you realized it probably sounded like a line. But it was true. What sort of life gave a man this kind of muscle? Roadwork? Construction?
But that scar on his face… the way he always paid in cash… and his massive hands, like they’d been swollen from years of impact. There was something dangerous about his strength.
Clint shifted in his seat. You let out a breath, then slid your hand farther up his leg.
Pressed on the inside of his thigh, bulging out against the denim, was the outline of his cock.
A whimper fell from your mouth before you could stop it. He was hard, and long, and straining to be released.
You looked to Clint. Was this okay with him? He was still staring at your hand.
“Should I stop?”
Clint hesitated, then shook his head.
You didn’t move.
“You promised to tell me if this was too much.”
Clint shook his head again. He wouldn’t look you in the eye. Something curled inside your stomach, the feeling that always came when you were Angel.
“It isn’t too much,” Clint said. The words were strained. “Please. Keep going.”
You brought your hand to his erection.
Clint shuddered. His cock twitched beneath your touch. The heat of him radiated out through the denim.
You gripped his shaft. Oh, God, he was big – girthy in a way that made you ache between your legs.
You glanced up at Clint. He’d gone very still. You swept your thumb over his tip.
His hand shot out and grabbed your wrist.
He closed his eyes, and his mouth made a flat, tense line.
“Clint – ”
He pushed your hand away.
“Stop,” he said. “Stop. No. Please. I can’t have you touching me.”
He dropped your hand, and you brought it to your lap.
Your throat felt tight. Clint still wouldn’t look at you.
His hands shook at his sides, and he opened and closed them into fists. It was such a strange tic of his – like his body wanted to fight something that wasn’t there.
You sat back on your heels, but didn’t say anything. If Clint was anything like you, the panic would need a second to leave his system.
Slowly, his breath evened out. He ran a hand through his hair, and his eyes found yours.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
You forced your voice to stay level.
“Don’t be. This is why you wanted a professional, right?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I suppose it is.”
He wedged his hands into his pockets, then seemed to think better of it. He took them back out.
“It isn’t you that’s the problem,” he said. “It’s not that I don’t want you.”
“You don’t have to explain.”
“It was just, the second I felt your hands – ”
“It’s okay,” you said. “I understand. It didn’t feel right.”
His brow creased. “I don’t know if it did. I couldn’t pay attention to how it felt. For years, I only ever wanted one person, and I just kept thinking… I don’t deserve to feel this without her.”
“That isn’t true,” you said.
An emotion flickered across Clint’s face. “Maybe it is.”
You could tell he believed what he was saying. There was something getting in his way – something he’d tried and failed to power through. You kept quiet and let him wrestle with it.
“You’ve got to understand,” he said hoarsely. “It was my fault.”
He always spoke slowly, but now the words seemed to weigh him down.
“The kid who shot Grace, he was trying to punish me. And he was right to want me punished. I’m… I was a bad man for a long time.”
So he was some sort of criminal – or had been. Maybe it should have worried you, but you’d known already, hadn’t you? Illicit didn’t background check its users, and it attracted a certain sort of client. Technically, you were a criminal, too.
And Clint just didn’t feel dangerous. Your gut had been right when it refused to believe he was cheating. This time, you decided to trust it.
“I don’t believe you’re a bad person,” you said.
Clint shook his head. His eyes were dark pools.
“It should’ve been me who died,” he said. “I’m not supposed to have this life. What kind of a man would I be if I enjoyed it?”
Understanding washed over you. This was the thought that was strangling him. He didn’t just miss his wife – he owed her. He couldn’t forgive himself. He couldn’t even try.
But some part of him wanted to. He’d brought you here, hadn’t he? He needed something from you tonight.
You didn’t know if you could deliver. You didn’t how to make it right. It didn’t even feel okay to hug him.
“Tell me what you want,” you said quietly.
Clint sighed.
“I want you to get up off your knees,” he said. “It feels like you’re praying to me down there.”
This was definitely not the time to crack a joke about his God-tier cock. You kept your mouth shut for once, but maybe your face betrayed you, because Clint raised an eyebrow as you got to your feet.
“Let’s take a break,” he said. “Can we do that?”
“Of course.”
He pushed up off the couch. “Good. Want me to make you a drink?”
You were behind Clint when he stepped into his kitchen, so you saw the way his shoulders relaxed. He seemed easier in here than he had in the living room. Maybe he felt better when he was doing something normal.
And his kitchen was nice – small, but tidy, with bright, warm lights and a U-shaped wraparound counter. A highchair sat at the table, and the dishrack was full of tiny pink utensils. You smiled to yourself.
“Take a seat,” Clint said.
You boosted yourself up and sat on the counter.
Clint raised an eyebrow. “I’ve got chairs.”
“I noticed. I like it up here.”
He shrugged. “Fair enough. I won’t complain about the view.”
You glanced down and realized your skirt had ridden up, so the hem only barely skimmed the top of your thighs. You didn’t pull it back down.
“It’ll take me a second to find anything to drink,” Clint said. “These days we’re only an apple juice and coffee household.”
“So you do have coffee at home,” you said. “And are those bananas I see above the fridge? What is it – do we just cut them up better at the diner?”
Clint began to riffle through the cabinets.
“I like to get out of the house,” he said. “You try having only a baby to talk to.”
“I’ve never seen you talk to anyone at the diner,” you said. “Unless you count me taking your order.”
Clint’s neck went pink, and he didn’t respond. He turned and reached up to open the high cabinet above the stove. The hem of his sweater rode up, and his undershirt lifted with it.
“Alright,” he said. “We’ve got whiskey, and we’ve got instant hot chocolate. Guest’s choice.”
Above the waistband of his jeans, his back was golden and ridged with muscle. A thick, pink scar reached down from beneath his shirt.
He glanced at you over his shoulder. “Did you hear me?”
“Um. Either is good.”
He grabbed both, then put on the kettle.
While it boiled, he leaned back against the counter. He was on the opposite end of the U, directly across from you. His gaze fell on your thigh-highs, and he didn’t look up.
“We’re supposed to be taking a break,” you said.
“We are,” he said. “But… I want you to take those off.”
“Really?” you asked.
Most guys liked to fuck you while you still had them on.
“You told me to ask for what I want,” Clint said. “I want to see your thighs. All of them.”
“In a taking-a-break way,” you said.
He grinned. “Exactly.”
Something fluttered in your stomach. You unclipped your garters and rolled the stockings down your legs. Being careful not to make new pulls, you folded them into a pile, then set it on the counter beside you.
You felt a silly need to dodge Clint’s gaze. Your stockings were armor. Without them, there was no hiding the cellulite on your legs, and in your rush tonight, you’d left stubble around one of your knees. You didn’t exactly look like you were worth a thousand dollars.
The kettle whistled. Clint didn’t move. His eyes had gone black, and he was staring at your bare skin. You crossed your legs, and his gaze followed the new sliver of thigh you revealed.
Your heart stuttered inside your chest. His focus was so singular – it did something to you. But you knew he wasn’t ready to act on it.
“Clint,” you said.
He stirred and seemed to finally hear the kettle. He switched off the heat and poured two mugs of hot chocolate. He dolloped a healthy pour of whiskey into each.
“Is that any good?” you asked.
“We’ll find out.” Clint said. He picked up both mugs and crossed the kitchen to you. “Do you want the Lakeshore Diner one, or Bluey?”
“Bluey.”
Clint handed you the mug. “Careful. It’s still hot.”
It was, but not so bad you couldn’t hold it.
“It feels good,” you said.
Clint smiled softly. “Good.”
He made space on the counter and pushed himself up to sit beside you, close enough that his leg almost brushed yours. He cradled the mug from the diner, and his hands made it look small.
You nodded to it.
“Did you pay for that, or steal it?”
Clint grinned.
“If I confess, are you gonna to turn me in?”
“I might. But I have three in my apartment, so it’s a bit of a pot/kettle situation.”
“You’re a repeat offender?” he asked. “I knew you had a dark side.”
“Streetwalking isn’t a dark enough side for you?”
Clint raised an eyebrow. “Do you actually walk the streets?”
“Um. For transportation.”
“Then we’re both streetwalkers,” he said. “You should be paying me for my time.”
“Not if you aren’t putting out, I shouldn’t.”
He let out a surprised laugh. “Fair enough.”
You traced your thumb over the handle of your mug.
“Do you want to talk about it more?” you asked. “The not-putting-out of it all?”
He shook his head. “Not right now.”
He took a sip of hot chocolate, and you followed his lead. The mixture was sweet at first, but it burned as it went down.
“Okay,” you said. “This is not as good as either whiskey or hot chocolate individually.”
“Yeah,” Clint said. “But it ain’t bad.”
You took another swallow, and heat spread out inside you. Clint’s shoulder knocked against yours.
“No,” you agreed. “This isn’t bad at all.”
Clint nodded, and silence fell between you.
You took slow sips of the hot chocolate. Clint probably thought he hadn’t made it very strong, but he was a giant man and you’d skipped dinner. You had to pace yourself.
“You smell nice,” Clint said. “You always do. Like you’re in a commercial for orange juice.”
You’d just taken a mouthful of hot chocolate, and it took all your effort not to spit it back out. You swallowed too fast, and your throat burned as you laughed.
“Is that a thing you look for in a woman? Market appeal?”
Clint had clearly watched your entire doomed swallow. A laugh sparked behind his eyes.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said. “I meant…” he waved his hand. “Happy. Like those big groves of trees they always show, and people pouring really cold glasses for little kids.”
His cheeks were pink, and he seemed to be half laughing at himself. He was kind of a dork, you realized, underneath all his muscle.
“Okay,” you said. “Thank you?”
“Anytime,” Clint said. He leaned back against the cabinets and took another sip of his drink.
He smelled like aftershave, and a bit like mothballs. You wondered when he’d last worn this sweater – you’d never seen him in it at the diner. In the corner of your eye you could see him glancing at your legs.
Your whole body was aware of him, and you weren’t sure that was a good thing. You kept your attention on your mug. Bluey stared back at you.
“Is your daughter even old enough for this show?” you asked.
Clint shrugged.
“Not really. She likes it anyway, though. Little genius. Whenever it comes on, she’ll make this ‘oo’ sound at the TV.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“What?” he said.
“Nothing. Babies make a lot of ‘oo’ sounds, don’t they?”
Clint’s mouth twitched. “It’s a real specific sound. And the ‘b-l’ noise is a hard one for toddlers to make. Something about the way they move their tongues. She’s doing her best to say ‘Bluey’. I know my girl.”
“Does she say anything else?”
“Oh, yeah. She’s got a lot of opinions. You’d like her.”
He’d thought about you two together?
“What kind of opinions?”
Clint pointed at himself. “Da.” He pointed to the door. “Go.” He repeated both gestures. “‘Da go’. And when she means business, it’s ‘Da go go’.”
“She wants you to go away?”
“Nah. She wants me to take her to new places. She’s such a curious little kid – has to pick up every leaf at the park, always reaching for whatever I eat, like she’s gotta try it. I can’t wait until she can tell me what she’s thinking.”
Clint’s voice shimmered with pride, and an absent smile played across his face. He turned and caught your eye, and your heart seemed to tumble over.
For a moment, you wished this was an ordinary date, that you had an ordinary job, that he really was ready to move on, instead of just wanting to be.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
You couldn’t tell him that. You took a sip of hot chocolate.
“Where’s your daughter tonight?”
He pointed upstairs. “Landlords. They spoil the shit out of her. How about you?”
“Do I spoil your kid?”
“No. Have you got any kids of your own?”
You shook your head no.
“Do you think you will?”
The night was starting to veer into confusing territory. You could change the subject, but… would it kill you to play along?
“I’d like to,” you said. “My ex and I wanted to have them, but it was never the right time. Now I think we just weren’t the right people.”
“For kids?” Clint asked.
“For each other.”
Clint opened his mouth, then hesitated.
“What?” you asked.
“I wanna know about you,” he said. “But I don’t know if it’s fair to keep asking. It’s not what you signed up for tonight.”
“You paid good money for this conversation,” you said. “Ask away.”
Clint frowned. “If you don’t want to answer, just tell me.”
“I will.”
“Okay,” he said. “Were you married?”
You nodded. “We were really young.”
“And…uh…”
“What happened?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know, really. I quit school to stay at home, and then he was never there. I picked fights instead of saying I missed him. He, uh, he cheated. In the end. He had been for a while.”
You swirled the dregs of your hot chocolate in your mug. “It’s all a bit of a cliché, isn’t it?”
“No,” Clint said quietly.
You glanced up at him. His brow was creased in the middle, and his eyes were dark. It would be all too easy to tip into them.
You busied yourself finishing your drink.
“It ended a while ago. It doesn’t feel so bad anymore.”
Clint didn’t press the subject, but you could feel him watching you.
“You do homework sometimes,” he said. “At the diner. Are you back in school?”
He’d noticed you doing homework?
“I am. I’m getting a degree in accounting.”
It wasn’t your favorite, but it would always pay the bills.
Clint looked at you sideways. “You don’t have the personality of an accountant.”
“What? I have the personality of a call girl?”
He snorted. “Definitely not. I don’t think call girls are supposed to tell off the guys who might be cheating.”
“I don’t make a habit of it,” you said.
“No?” Clint asked. “I’m special?”
Your face burned.
“I… I knew you before. It’s different.”
You resisted the urge to glance at Clint and focused instead on setting down your mug. “It does suck when the guys are cheating, though. I tell myself they’d just hire another girl if I didn’t do it, but that doesn’t take away the feeling that I’m hurting somebody.”
Clint fell quiet for a moment.
“I get it,” he finally said
He went to take a drink, then seemed to remember his mug was empty. He didn’t say more, and his gaze had turned inward. He traced his thumb over the knuckles of his right hand.
Was he thinking about his previous life – the bad man he claimed he’d been? The way he’d talked about his past felt so at-odds with the man sitting in front of you. But nobody was only one thing.
Clint caught you watching him.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
He hadn’t paid you to pry into his life.
“Come on,” Clint said. “I can tell that you wanna ask me something. If you don’t, I’m gonna feel bad for asking about you.”
“Okay,” you said. “For how long were you… doing other things?”
He nodded. “Almost thirty years.”
“You don’t seem old enough for that to be true.”
“The job chose me,” Clint said. “I was only a kid when I started.”
A tinge of sadness was back in his voice.
“Did you ever go to prison?” you asked.
“Twice. A long time ago.”
He searched your face, as if gauging your reaction. Was he worried about making you nervous?
“You can ask,” he said. “If you want.”
You could ask what he’d done, he meant. You wondered about it, of course. But did it really matter? He was somebody else now – a man who apparently hand-washed his daughter’s sippy cups. You’d already decided to trust him. And he was holding enough guilt as it was.
“Okay,” you said. “Did you get any prison tattoos?”
Clint looked at you in surprise. Then he began to laugh.
“That’s what you want to know?”
You shrugged.
“You’re not still doing… whatever put you in prison,” you said. “But if you got tattoos, you still have them. And you always wear long sleeves, even when it’s hot out.”
“Do I now?”
Clint was grinning at you, and your body felt warm – from the liquor, and maybe a little from all his attention. You weren’t drunk, not even buzzed, really, but your thoughts felt softer, a little safer.
“Come on,” you said. “Answer the question.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I got a few tattoos in prison. And a few outside.”
“Where are they?”
“The usual places,” he said.
“Like..?”
Clint held your eyes. He brought his hand to the inside of his forearm. Then his bicep. His chest, on the right side, where his sweater strained the most. The top of his thigh.
He hesitated, then touched the side of his stomach, right above his belt, in the place that led down to the vee of his hips.
It suddenly felt like a large portion of your insides had turned into liquid.
“Interesting,” you managed to say.
“Is it?” Clint said. His voice had gone very soft.
“You know,” you said. “I wouldn’t mind… if you wanted to show me. As a good, um, taking-a-break activity.”
Clint swallowed.
“They’ve gotten pretty old,” he said. “The tattoos. They might not be the kind of… tattoos… that you like.”
You held his gaze. “I very much doubt that.”
“Okay,” he said quietly.
He slid down from the counter and gave you a small, self-conscious smile. You felt a flutter of anticipation.
Clint pulled off his shirt, and you forgot how to breathe.
He took up more space like this – all the raw, bare strength of him, his thick middle and thicker chest, covered over by hair and crossed by scars.
And there was a softness to him, in his stomach, where he pushed out over his belt. Was this what he’d been worried about you seeing? It couldn’t be.
He felt so real, and he was so much a man – his body spoke to some animal need in yours.
“You’ve got to remember,” Clint said. “I got most of these more than twenty years ago.”
Right. The tattoos. You could see them in all the places he’d promised – fading blue ink, without color, in that old-school traditional style. A wolf’s head. A burning heart.
You gestured to a large, pinup-style portrait on his forearm. “Is that one the reason you always cover up?”
The girl was barefoot, and she wore only a high-cut swimsuit. She stood up on her toes, posing in a way that showed off a particularly thick set of thighs.
Clint grinned. “Kind of. But I don’t regret it. She’s good company.”
“I like her,” you said. “I like all of them.”
Especially the one inked above his hip – a knife, you thought, but you could only see the hilt of it.
Clint followed your gaze. “My body wasn’t like this when I got that one,” he said. “I was a cocky idiot. Didn’t really think it through.”
“No?” you murmured. You couldn’t stop looking at the knife. You traced it with your eyes until it disappeared beneath his belt.
Clint shifted his weight. “I know,” he said. “It’s –”
“Hot?”
How far did the blade go? If he fucked you tonight, the tattoo would point right to the place your bodies joined. Heat dripped into a pool between your legs. You squeezed your thighs together and forced your breath to steady.
“Fuck,” Clint whispered. “You turned on by it?”
You met his eyes, and the air around you seemed to pulse with static.
“Yeah,” you breathed. “Yes. You… you look good.”
“Me?” Clint said. “Fuck, gorgeous. Look at you.” He gestured roughly to the top of your legs.
Over the course of the conversation, you’d leaned back against the cabinets. With the hem of your dress rucked up as it was, you realized Clint had a direct line of sight to your panties.
By instinct, you shifted your legs closed.
“I didn’t say to do that,” Clint said. His voice was low and smooth all of a sudden.
You hesitated, then let your legs fall back apart. Clint’s eyes fixed on the place between them.
“Could you…?” he asked quietly.
He wasn’t looking at your face, but you nodded anyway. You took ahold of the hem of your dress and dragged it up until it sat around your hips. You took a breath, and spread your legs wide.
A low sound fell from Clint’s mouth.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “Can see your cunt right through those panties.”
Your pussy throbbed with heat.
Without lifting his eyes, Clint moved as if drawn forward and rested his palms on either side of your hips. The long rectangle of his body surrounded you.
The room fell quiet but for his breath and yours. Surely he could see what he was doing to you – the wetness that was sticking to your panties.
“Clint,” you said.
He nodded. His eyes were still glued between your legs.
“Do you want to take a break from your break?”
He nodded again.
“Good,” you said. “That’s… good. Do you know what you want to do instead?”
Maybe he’d be ready to try again with the blowjob – yes, your mouth, on that weighty cock of his.
“You’re so fucking hot,” Clint muttered.
“Um. Thank you. But that’s not exactly an answer to – ”
“I want to watch you cum,” Clint said. “I want you to be my real life porn tonight.”
“Yeah?” you breathed.
Clint nodded. He grazed his thumb along the hem of your dress.
“I want you to take this off,” he said. “And I want to have a good, long look. And then I want you to fuck yourself, and I’m gonna watch.”
Oh. Oh, yes. Arousal flooded through you, and your nipples made stiff peaks against the mesh of your bra.
Clint’s eyes traveled in a line up your body, and a slow smile spread across his face as he took in your reaction. At last he met your eyes.
“Can we do that?” he asked. “I don’t know if I’m ready to touch you.”
You managed to nod.
“We can do that.”
Clint’s mouth twitched. “Good.”
He stepped back, and you slid to the floor.
“Here?” you asked. You turned to face him.
Clint nodded. He leaned his hips the counter.
With shaky fingers, you undid your zipper. You’d taken this dress off dozens of times, but tonight somehow felt like the first.
It was hard to look at Clint again, so you focused on his hands where they held the edge of the counter. You let your dress fall to the floor, and Clint’s knuckles whitened.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
You met his eyes, and his chest rose and fell. His gaze traveled down to your mouth, to your breasts, where the shadow of your nipples pushed against your bra. It trailed over the place between your legs, down the length of your thighs and back up.
You felt a needy flicker in your core.
Clint nodded to your garter belt.
“Take that off.”
You undid the belt, and it dropped on top of your crumpled-up dress.
“Better,” Clint murmured. “You’re so fucking pretty.”
Maybe it was just that honest voice of his, but it was easy to believe that he meant what he said. For a moment you felt a strange clutch of sadness.
Clint brought a broad hand to his crotch and began to palm himself over his jeans. Oh, fuck.
“Show me your tits,” he said. “Play with them for me.”
You took off your bra, and Clint groaned when your breasts spilled free. Was he always this expressive?
You slid your hands up over your stomach – it was prickled with goosebumps – and cupped your own breasts.
Clint took in a heavy breath.
You kept your eyes on him and rolled your thumbs over your nipples. It wasn’t much, but your body was wound tight, and you shuddered at the bolt of pleasure.
“Yeah,” Clint murmured. “That’s it.”
He was stroking his erection now, and you could see it, swollen and taut against the front of his jeans.
A whimper drifted from your mouth.
Clint followed your eyes, and a knowing look spread over his face.
“You like him, huh?”
“Just… just a suggestion,” you said. “You wanted real-life porn. If you were watching porn, wouldn’t you be...”
“Go on.”
“I mean, you wanted to feel good tonight, didn’t you?”
“Uh-huh,” Clint said. He was grinning now.
“So you shouldn’t… hold back… from that.”
Clint’s grin widened, and he brought his hands to his belt.
“Okay, gorgeous,” he said. “You want a better view?”
“Please?”
“You gonna keep giving me what I want?”
“Clint,” you moaned. “That’s literally my job. Please.”
A laugh spilled from his mouth, and he began to unbuckle his belt. Anticipation pooled between your legs.
Clint shucked off his jeans, and his bare thighs slid into view. They were corded over with muscle, and some big animal was inked onto one of them. A panther, maybe, or a bear?
You didn’t look long enough to tell. You couldn’t, because Clint was wearing dark gray briefs that hugged tight to his hips. They were made of a soft, stretchy material, and the outline of his erection strained pornographically against it.
Oh, God, he was big. Even beside his massive hand. And at his tip, oh fuck, the fabric was stained dark. He was leaking already for you.
The ache between your legs was almost painful now. You acted without thinking, and slid your fingers down to relieve it.
Clint sucked in a breath. “Look at you,” he muttered. “Oh, fuck, baby. You’ve got no idea what you do to me.”
You shot a glance at his hard-on. You had some idea.
Clint seemed to follow your thoughts, and his eyes sparked with amusement.
“Yeah, okay,” he admitted. “Little tease.”
Something warm curled up inside your stomach. A small smile played around Clint’s mouth.
“Alright,” he said. “That’s enough of that. Next time you play with her, I want a better view.”
Reluctantly, you slid your fingers from your panties.
“Clean them off,” Clint said. His hand dipped into the waistband of his briefs and began to move along the outline of his cock
You didn’t move. You couldn’t. Desire throbbed in your throat, and thoughts slipped from your mind like water.
Every time Clint stroked his fist, the veins in his forearms rippled.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he said. “Put your fingers in your mouth. You can pretend it’s him if you want.”
You did as he said, tasting your own slick, and Clint made a low, approving noise. The sound seemed to shiver through your body.
Clint gestured with his chin. “Turn around for me now.”
As soon as you did, Clint let out a loud groan.
“Oh, yeah,” he muttered. “Fucking perfect body. Even hotter than I thought you’d be.”
You heard him push up from the counter. He stepped so close you could feel the heat of him, his hand hovering behind your ass. The cadence of his breath had grown heavy.
You squirmed with the need to do something, to jump forward to the main event.
You hooked your fingers in the waistband of your panties.
“Do you want me to take these off?”
“Not yet,” Clint said. “Not here. Go lie down on the couch.”
He walked behind you the whole way into the living room, then had you lie down on your stomach, with a pillow beneath your hips. The leather was cool against your skin, and the pillow tilted your pelvis up, so your soaked-through panties were on full display. You rested your cheek on your hands, and kept your eyes on Clint.
Maybe you were imagining it, but he seemed to be unraveling. He’d stopped stroking himself, and his voice was ragged now, more rasp and need than substance. His eyes slid over the length of your body.
You scanned him for any of the warning signs you’d seen before – for the tic he had with his fists. You didn’t find it, but that didn’t mean he was okay.
“This isn’t too much?” you asked. “We can stop anytime.”
You weren’t actually sure if you could stop – your core pulsed so needily that you were half-convinced you were dying – but you’d figure out how, if you had to.
Clint looked you in the eye, and shook his head no.
“Not too much,” he rasped. “Ain’t nearly enough.”
He walked up to the middle of the couch. It was hard to see him properly from this angle, so you felt the heat of him first, and then the brush of cotton. There was something firm beneath it – his erection, grazing against your hip.
It was nothing. The smallest amount of contact, and he’d probably done it on accident. But your hips still twitched, rocking up and back against nothing.
Clint grew very still.
And then you felt his hand. His touch was warm – finally, he was touching you – and he didn’t bother to be gentle. His hand slid up around your leg, and he squeezed a fistful of your thigh.
“Fuck,” he growled. “Can’t fucking help myself anymore.”
He reached up to manhandle your ass, then lifted his hand and spanked you - a hard, fast slap on each of your cheeks. His palm came down again, and this time it landed squarely between your legs, smacking you hard over the damp patch on your panties.
A hot shock of pleasure sang through your pussy, and a moan dribbled out of your mouth.
You spread your legs apart and waited for more, but Clint only stepped back. He seemed to be catching his breath.
You whined, and Clint met your eyes.
“Was that okay, gorgeous?”
You nodded. “Until you stopped.”
Clint smiled. “Yeah?”
“You realize… you realize you’re torturing me, right?”
Clint’s gaze softened. “I don’t wanna be,” he said. “You’ve got no idea how bad I want to fuck you right now.”
“Fuck,” you mumbled. “The torture continues.”
“Poor girl,” Clint murmured. He walked to your end of the couch and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.
Something was melting inside you, something important, some structural part of your mind that knew all of this was a job. You held Clint’s eye and tried to cling onto the remains of it.
“I… I understand,” you managed to say. “I only want you to do what feels good.”
“Yeah?” he said quietly. “That’s the only thing you want?”
You hesitated. He was close to you now, and his briefs were at eye-level. You were only human, after all.
Clint looked at you knowingly and took ahold of his erection.
“You wanna meet him?” he asked.
“Oh god,” you mumbled. “Please.”
Clint freed his cock, and your brain dissolved.
He had a man’s cock – long and veiny, and thick enough to split you in two. Precum leaked from its tip, and when you whimpered, it twitched in response.
“Fuck,” Clint muttered. “He likes you.”
Oh, hell, were you in trouble. There was a reason Clint wasn’t going to fuck you tonight. There was definitely a reason. Wasn’t there? Was it a good one?
Clint wrapped a hand around his shaft and began to work himself in slow, long strokes.
“Open your mouth,” he said.
You obeyed at once.
He was so girthy that you didn’t know if you’d be able to take him, especially like this, with your head crooked to the side. But fuck, you were down to try.
Clint stepped toward you. He was close now, close enough that you could lean forward if you wanted to and run your tongue over him. Your tongue slipped from your mouth, and you looked up at him, pleading.
He took a slow breath. Some emotion crossed his face, and he groaned in frustration. He reached out with his free hand and dragged his thumb over your bottom lip.
“Your mouth looks so fucking soft, gorgeous. I bet it feels even softer.”
“Please,” you whimpered. “I’ll do anything.”
“Yeah?” Clint said. “Want my cock in your mouth that bad? Or you just want your holes to be filled?”
He pushed his first two fingers between your lips. Then he added a third.
You could feel yourself leaking through your panties now, making a slick mess on your thighs.
Clint’s fingers were thick, and long, and they felt huge compared to your own. You swirled your tongue around them, and a soft noise vibrated up from your throat.
“This okay?” Clint asked.
You managed a nod. It wasn’t his cock, but it was more than you’d hoped for. You hollowed your cheeks and sucked on him.
Clint began to finger your mouth. He stroked himself with the other hand, and could almost imagine it was his shaft sliding over your tongue.
You looked from Clint’s cock to his face, and felt a rush of warmth. Despite his words, despite the crude way he was touching you, his eyes were soft, full of something like admiration.
“You’re doing so good,” he murmured. “Giving me just what I need.”
You flushed at his praise. He slid his fingers from your mouth and brought his cock to hover right beneath your mouth.
“Spit on him, baby.”
You did as he said, and he moaned softly, fisting his cock tight as he smeared your saliva along his shaft. The tip of him was angry and red, and leaking all over his fingers.
“Please,” you whispered. “Please, Clint. Just for a minute.”
He hesitated, then tapped the tip of his cock against your lips. You opened your mouth and licked up a salty drop of precum.
Clint inhaled sharply.
“Oh, fuck,” he said. “He likes you so much, baby. He’s gonna like your cunt even more.”
He stepped away, and you ached at the loss. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough.
Clint walked back down to stand behind your hips. You craned around to watch. His thick fingers slid beneath the waistband of your panties. He hesitated, and you realized he was taking in the mess on your thighs.
“Look at that,” Clint murmured. “She’s getting jealous, huh? All hot for me, and I ain’t even taken a good look.”
Desperation coiled tight inside you. You arched your hips up from the pillow, and Clint dragged your panties down. For a moment, the mesh clung to your slick. Then cool air hit your aching pussy.
You were bare before Clint. He let out a moan.
“Oh sweet girl,” he muttered. “Fuck, is she pretty.”
He pulled your panties all the way off, then got onto the couch and kneeled in between your thighs. His bare legs brushed warmth into yours.
His cock glistened between his legs. That slutty knife tattoo pointed right to his base, where Clint was wrapping his hand at this very moment. He slid his fist over his shaft and stared at your pussy.
“I want you to spread her open.”
You did as he asked and reached your arms back. The angle was awkward, and you had to face forward to do it, so you couldn’t watch Clint’s face as you pulled your folds wide for him to see.
It was enough only to hear him – the heavy groan that tore from him, and the lewd, slick rhythm of his fist on his shaft, his strokes becoming ever more frantic. A fresh wave of arousal leaked from your entrance, and Clint sucked in a breath.
“Wettest little cunt,” he said. “You been like this for me all night?”
You’d never in your life been turned on like this. Your body felt so hot, so frayed with passion, that it was all you could do to breathe. Your clit pulsed sharply, and your entrance clenched around nothing.
“Oh yeah, she wants him. That needy little hole, just needs to be fucked, huh?”
“Clint,” you gasped. “Please. I need it.”
“Turn over,” Clint gasped. “Roll over, baby. I wanna see your face.”
With some maneuvering, you adjusted to lie on your back, the pillow still propping up your hips. Clint settled back between your legs, and your whole body ached at the sight of him – broad and bare, his mouth parted and his eyes dark, and his fist working over his length.
“Oh, God,” you mumbled. “You look so good right there.”
Clint grinned. “I look good? You look fucking perfect.”
Warmth pooled inside your chest, and you felt a hazy urge to sit up, or, no, to pull Clint down, to feel the press of his body over yours. You blinked it away.
“Tell me what you want,” you said.
He answered at once.
“Touch yourself, baby. Anything you want. Make yourself cum for me.”
“I want your cock,” you complained. “Want you to give it to me.”
Clint closed his eyes for a long moment, and a breath slid out of him. His fist slowed, and you realized with a surge of arousal that he was trying not to finish.
His stomach tensed, and veins stood out in his forearms. He was close, and you felt drunk on it – this huge, gorgeous man, coming undone at only the sight of you. He made you feel perfect.
You brought both your hands to the slick between your legs, and gasped. You were so sensitive now that the slightest brush of your clit sent a ripple through your body.
Clint opened his eyes, and they flashed with appreciation.
You drew a tender circle around your clit and sighed with relief. For easier access, you spread your legs wide, hinging an ankle on the back of the couch. The pose was obscene, but you were too far gone to care – and yeah, you wanted Clint to see.
Clint let out a strangled grunt. You were spread-eagle now, your pussy just one thrust away from his cock. That tattoo on his hip quivered with tension, and you ached to trace it with your fingers, to take ahold of Clint’s base and guide him into you.
A bright knot of pleasure began to tighten inside you. You knew what you liked, and you knew you’d finish fast tonight.
Clint stared, trancelike, at your pussy. He was jerking himself even more slowly now, his fist hardly moving, and you realized he was waiting for you to catch up. It felt a little sweet, and more than a little filthy – like he needed to see what he’d done to you.
“You feel good?” he asked. “Tell me how good you feel, baby.”
“Yes,” you panted. “And no. I’d feel better with your cock inside me.”
Clint shuddered. His fist sped up again, like he couldn’t help himself anymore.
“Yeah, gorgeous? He’s a lot bigger than that needy cunt of yours. She’d have to stretch real big for him.”
“I can take it,” you breathed. You worked your fingers faster over your clit.
“That – fuck – how you like it, baby? Like your holes stretched all the way open? Want my cock so deep you can’t even breathe?”
Oh, fuck. Your legs shook with pleasure, and you slowed your fingers.
You closed your eyes and took a slow breath. Not yet.
“Don’t stop,” Clint begged. “Wanna see you.”
You held his eyes and resumed your pace on your clit. He was breathtaking, really – all tense muscle and rippling blue ink, panting now, and jerking himself fast.
“God,” you mumbled. “I wish you could cum inside me tonight.”
Clint shuddered. He grabbed one of your thighs and held on tight enough to hurt.
“Fuck,” he panted. “Oh, fuck. If you – nngh – keep talking like that, I’m gonna fucking cum.”
“Yeah?”
Clint nodded. His jaw clenched.
“Yes,” he moaned. “Oh, fuck, you’re so hot. I wanna – fuck – I want –”
“Tell me.”
“I wanna cum on your cunt,” Clint gasped.
Holy fuck. Oh, God.
“Yes,” you said. “Yes. Oh, fuck, please. Please.”
Clint’s hand sped up, and the slapping of his fist filled the room. His whole body was shaking now, and when he opened his mouth to speak, it seemed he had to strain for the words.
“Yeah? You want my cum all over her?”
He was so goddamn hot like this. You angled yourself so your pussy was right beneath him and held yourself open with your fingers.
Clint’s fingers tightened on your thigh. His chest heaved. He let out a final strangled moan, and then you felt the hot spatter of his release.
He came for a long time. His cum coated not only your pussy, but your inner thighs and low belly. It dripped down your center and ran up onto your stomach.
Clint’s breath evened out, and he looked up, dazed, at the mess that he’d made.
“Oh, yeah,” he panted. “Look at her.”
Need fogged over all your senses. You slid your fingers back between your legs, and smeared Clint’s cum over your clit.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Your cunt was made to take my cum, huh? I wanna –”
He cut himself off.
“What?” you asked. “Tell me.”
He met your eyes. “I want to take a picture,” he said. “Shouldn’t have said anything.”
An image popped into your mind of Clint, home alone, jerking himself off to a picture of your pussy – to a picture of what he’d done to your pussy.
“Fuck,” you gasped. “Do it.”
Clint stilled. “Yeah?”
“Please,” you said. “I – fuck, I’m close – I want you to. Just don’t get my face.”
“Good thing I didn’t cum there, huh?”
You moaned. “Stop – stop putting ideas in my head.”
Clint grinned. He leaned over to the end table and grabbed his phone, then aimed the camera in between your legs.
He stared at the screen, and his eyes darkened.
“Goddamn is she pretty.”
The shutter clicked, and you whimpered. You worked your clit frantically, and felt your orgasm mounting. Your hips twitched on the pillow.
Then Clint touched you. He reached out with two broad fingers, and spread your pussy open.
“There I am,” he muttered. “Dripping right into your cunt, ain’t I?”
He held the camera close, and it clicked again. Your body began to shake.
Clint trailed his fingers through the mess on your thighs, gathering up his cum on his fingers.
“Gonna put this all where it belongs,” he said. “Okay, baby? Can I give you my cum?”
Oh, fuck. Did he mean –
“Wanna fuck you with my hand,” Clint said. “Fill up this hole like she needs.”
White spots flickered on the edges of your vision.
“Please.”
Clint rumbled in approval and pushed a single, impossibly thick finger inside you. The stretch seared through you, deep and perfect.
“So soft,” Clint murmured. “So fucking tight. She’s taking it so good.”
He curled his finger upward and the pad of it found that sensitive place. He began to stroke you, pleasuring you from the inside, keeping time with your own rhythm on your clit. Tension coiled between your legs.
Clint worked in a second finger, then, without waiting, a third. He felt huge inside you – so thick it would have hurt, if you weren’t so wet.
Your toes curled. Your back arched up off the couch.
Clint held up his phone once again and centered the camera on your entrance.
“Oh, fuck, baby. Your cunt is pretty when she’s full.”
The shutter clicked, and the tension inside you snapped.
You came all at once, a thousand nerve endings dissolving into pleasure. Your thoughts fuzzed, your blood blazed, and a broken whine fell from your throat. For a moment, you thought you might be crying.
Your orgasm burnt itself out, and you collapsed, breathless on the leather. Clint slid his hand from your pussy, and you took long swallows of air as your pulse steadied. Your face was wet. You really had cried.
The strange sadness you’d felt earlier had somehow worked its way into your chest. You looked around for Clint.
He gazed back at you from the other side of the couch, his phone forgotten and his eyes soft. He leaned back in his seat, and you realized he was caught in between your legs.
He didn’t seem to mind. You’d stretched out one leg across his lap at some point, and his hand rested just beneath your knee.
“God,” you said. “You made me cum so fucking hard.”
“I saw. You looked real good doing it.”
“You… you looked real good doing it, too.”
Clint let out a low chuckle, and you felt his chest vibrate between your legs.
“I hope… I hope you’re not too attached to this pillow,” you said.
Clint grinned. “Hated it.”
You laughed. Clint’s hand slid gently down your leg.
Since when was he touching you? And since when did it feel normal?
You sighed. Your body felt so heavy now, and Clint’s hand was so very warm.
“Are you sleepy?” Clint asked, and you realized your eyes had closed.
“A little. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You should rest for a minute.”
You shook your head. “Can’t. Unprofessional.”
“I won’t tell,” Clint murmured. “You’re doing what I want tonight, and I want you to feel good. Take a break, baby.”
Baby. It felt different, hearing him say it like this, outside the heat of the moment. Good, and a little painful, right in the center of your chest.
You’d think about it later. Clint was touching you with both hands now, drawing warm lines up the side of your body.
“Okay,” you mumbled. “You win this time.”
You closed your eyes again. Then something occurred to you.
“Clint. Was this an okay first step?”
You felt his laugh more than you heard it this time.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “This was okay.”
You sank back onto the soft leather and let your mind float. The lulls between your thoughts grew longer and longer. You could feel the steady rhythm of Clint’s breath.
A sound blared from somewhere. An alarm. Your alarm?
The glow slipped from your mind, and you remembered where you were – a client’s house, and you’d burned through all the time he’d paid for.
You opened your eyes and pushed yourself up to a seat. Clint met your gaze, and his brow creased.
“My phone,” you said.
“Is it in your coat?” he asked. “I got it.”
He began pushing to his feet, untangling himself from in between your legs. Your body felt cold in all the places he’d been.
You were being ridiculous. You had to get up.
“It’s okay,” you said. “Let me.”
Clint didn’t argue. You followed the ringing to the closet and fished your phone from the pocket of your coat. You stared at the time. 1:08 AM.
“Everything good?” Clint asked.
You closed the closet door, clutching your phone in your hand. “Yeah. It’s my alarm. I’ve been here for two hours.”
Clint nodded. He glanced at your hand, then directed his words at a lamp on the end table.
“Right. We’ll get you out of here fast.”
“Okay,” you said. “Yeah.”
“There’s a bathroom down the hall where you can wash up. Towels are in the cabinet.”
“I don’t have to. You’re not a dick if you send me home like this.”
“Yeah, well. Agree to disagree.”
You had a routine for the end of your dates. Settle up, get dressed, get home, get showered. It didn’t involve going deeper into your client’s homes, and it definitely didn’t involve caring whether or not they met your eyes.
But a moment alone would be good. You could get your head on straight. You made your way down the hall, and Clint stood in silence behind you.
Beside Clint’s bathtub, there was a box of tiny rubber toys – about a million of them. You saw a pair of pastel duckies and imagined Clint, elbow-deep in suds, swimming them around for his daughter.
He hadn’t told you her name, you realized. Or his last name. He didn’t even know your first.
You looked at your reflection and understood why he’d insisted you clean up. Makeup ran in streaks down your face, and there was dried cum all over your stomach and legs.
You found a towel in the cabinet like he’d said. You ran the edge of it under the faucet, then began to wipe the mess away. Maybe he’d meant for you to take a shower, but it felt way too intimate to do that here. Not in that bathtub, not when you were already staying past your welcome.
A sharp feeling pressed up inside your chest.
You knew what this was. You felt vulnerable after sex sometimes – especially after you came. This was only hormones, and it was to be expected. You’d be perfectly fine in the morning.
The hollow feeling clutched suddenly tight inside you, and maybe you knew where it came from, but it wouldn’t go away. Tears burned behind your eyes, and your face twisted. A hoarse noise pushed up from your throat. And then the sobs came, silent and open-mouthed, each one shaking your chest.
You curled your naked body around the towel and waited it out, praying that Clint wouldn’t hear you.
This would pass. Your body was just confused.
You were fine. You were always fine, in the end.
Tonight wasn’t any exception. You rode out the surge and regained control of your body. You checked your reflection, and it was impossible to tell which tears were new. Clint wouldn’t know anything had happened. You ran fresh water over the towel and scrubbed off your face as best you could.
When you emerged from the bathroom, the living room was empty. The pillow you’d defiled was gone from the couch, and your dress and lingerie sat folded in a pile on the coffee table.
A stack of bills had been set on top of your bra. You counted them out. Fifty dollars.
What the hell? Clint had already paid double. You didn’t need more of his money.
You set the cash aside and put on your clothes, minus the garter belt and your ruined panties. The sound of a faucet running came from the kitchen. You followed it and found Clint washing out your mugs.
His back was to the door, and he seemed not to hear you enter. A pair of pajama pants hung from his hips, and he’d thrown on a thin white t-shirt. Muscles shifted beneath it as he scrubbed, and steam drifted up from the faucet.
Why was he scrubbing? You’d only had hot chocolate.
He washed the same mug for a long time without stopping. It wasn’t until you said his name that he switched off the water.
Clint placed the mug back in the sink. He dried his hands off on his pants and brought them to his face for a moment before he turned.
“Hey,” he said.
His voice sounded strange. You opened your mouth to point out the dish towel he could’ve used. Then you saw that his eyes were red.
“Hi,” you said. You walked over to lean on the counter beside him. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Clint shook his head. “Can’t really afford another conversation.”
It had the cadence of a joke, but neither of you laughed. You set the fifty dollars on the counter.
“Then why did you give me this?”
“12.5%,” Clint said. “Double. It’s almost 1:30 already. I kept you here too long.”
“Don’t be stupid,” you said. “I’ve been cleaning up for the last fifteen minutes, and I fully fell asleep before then. I can’t charge you for that.”
“I took pictures,” Clint said.
“I begged you to take them.”
“I came all over you.”
“I begged for that, too.”
“But that’s your job. I know you charge extra for shit like that.”
You did, actually, but not as much as he’d paid. And it wasn’t the point.
“I’m not charging you,” you said.
“Then call it a tip.”
“Clint. Why are you trying so hard to give me your money?”
He paused, and his eyes found yours.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I had a good time tonight.”
“So did I.”
Clint gave you a sad smile. "You don’t need to say that.”
“No,” you said. “Really. Do you seriously think Iwould bother lying to you? If I’d had a bad time, I’d be home by now. And there wouldn’t be pictures on your phone.”
“Do you want me to delete them? You weren’t in your right mind when you agreed.”
“Not unless you want to. And it’s fine if you do. I know photos go against our whole ‘what happens here stays here’ agreement.”
“Right,” Clint said.
He fell quiet. His hands were pink from the water. He still wore his ring – he hadn’t even taken it off to do the dishes.
He’d lost his wife only a year ago.
You were standing here too long, weren’t you? You’d done your job.
“I’m going to leave,” you said.
Clint nodded. Then he reached for your hand.
His skin was warm and damp from the faucet. He swept his thumb over your knuckles, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse.
“What if I don’t want you to go?”
Your throat felt tight.
“I also don’t want me to go,” you admitted. “But… I don’t think you want me to stay.”
Clint’s brows pulled together. He dropped his eyes and nodded slowly.
“Maybe not,” he said. “I don’t know.”
You squeezed his hand.
“We could do this again? If there’s a first step, there’s got to be a second, right?”
“I don’t know if I can afford that anytime soon.”
You’d meant you could do it for free. You opened your mouth to say as much, and a web of questions tangled around you. What were you going to do, half-date Clint while he was still in the throes of his grief? While you were making a living as a call girl? When there was a little kid involved?
Each one of you was kind of a mess. Together, right now, you’d be a disaster.
You swallowed a heavy feeling.
“Maybe that’s for the best,” you said. “When we got started tonight, you told me there was somebody new in your life, right? Somebody who made you want to take this first step. Maybe the second step can be with her.”
Clint looked at you strangely. He was quiet for a long time.
“Right,” he said finally. “That’s right.”
“Good,” you managed to say. “Thank you, then. For tonight.”
Clint didn’t let go of your hand. With single long motion, he pulled you into his chest.
The warmth of him surrounded you. He smelled like clean laundry, and his body was solid. You melted against him with a sigh.
He slid one hand around your waist. The other cupped the back of your head, and he held you close. You tightened your arms and clutched two fistfuls of his shirt.
You stayed like that longer than you should, the drum of Clint’s heart sounding low beneath your cheek.
Saturday afternoon was close enough to Saturday morning that the diner still bustled with the breakfast rush. Bacon sizzled on the grill and hashbrowns flew from the kitchen. A ton of hashbrowns, really. You guessed that most of the patrons were hungover.
A newborn wailed somewhere in Casey’s section, and nobody was happy about it. Two red-eyed teenagers had already migrated over to your tables, and you didn’t think they’d be the only ones.
Every booth by the window was filled, including Clint’s. But the family who’d taken it was almost done – their plates were empty, and when you offered to refill their coffees, all they wanted was the check.
Not that it mattered. You’d promised yourself that you wouldn’t get your hopes up. Last night had been confusing, and Clint might not want to come back to the diner. You had to be okay with that.
And, yeah, on your way out the door today, maybe you’d made one little decision, one thing you thought he might like.
But you’d be fine if he didn’t show.
You grabbed the family’s check and took a look at the clock. 2:10.
This was about to be the only open booth in your section, and it wouldn’t stay that way for long.
Fuck it. You set a Reserved sign on the table.
Casey greeted you with a knowing look when you came back behind the counter.
“We don’t take reservations on weekends.”
“It’s a one-time thing.”
“Uh-huh. A one-time thing that drives a blue Chevy?”
You stacked up an armful of menus. “It’s good business to look after our regulars.”
Casey nodded solemnly. “Yeah, I’m sure that banana revenue is make-or-break.”
“Shut up,” you muttered.
Casey laughed. “I’m not judging. Hot Dad is hot enough that you’re only being a little insane right now.”
You were being a lot insane, but you didn’t want to dwell on it. You got to work taking the teenagers’ orders. Short stack, eggs, double hashbrowns.
The bell over the door rang, and you spun your head around. It wasn’t him – just the three ladies from the nail salon around the corner. It was only 2:13.
By 2:20, Clint still hadn’t come. Your section clattered with conversation, and Casey’s was starting to fill up too. She looked at the empty table by the window, then back at you.
You’d brewed fresh coffee at the start of your shift, but the pot was already empty. You put on another.
2:28. You were being stupid now. Clint lived so close that he couldn’t be stuck in traffic. You needed the tips from his table, and your manager would start asking questions if he noticed the sign.
At 2:35, you opened up the table. Three men in Warriors colors claimed it at once.
You got the kitchen working on their burgers. You weren’t going to think about the pit in your stomach.
“He’ll come by tomorrow,” Casey said.
You nodded, but you felt certain he wouldn’t. He’d probably come and gone already before your shift.
It was easier this way. In a few days, when you’d gotten a little more sleep, the crush would be out of your system.
You considered taking your fifteen, but you didn’t want to strand Casey with the diner as packed as it was. Instead, you kept yourself busy. You double-checked every order as it came in. You refilled the ketchup bottles. You kept the coffee brewing and cleared empty plates before the busboys could get to them. When the punk kids once again paid with coins, you sorted each one out into the register.
You were sliding the last nickel into place when Casey closed the drawer for you.
“I need your help,” she said. “Hot Dad is here and he won’t take a seat in my section.”
You whipped your head up. There he was, taking up an absurd amount of space behind the hostess stand. His daughter squirmed in his arms and grabbed at his collar with chubby little hands. He didn’t seem to notice. He met your eyes, and his mouth lifted into a smile.
He’d come. He was late as hell, and he was getting in the way of the customers, but he was here.
You left Casey at the register and set off across the diner. Customers tried to catch your attention, but you only barely heard. A busboy swerved out of your path. The long row of booths passed behind you, and you came to a stop at the hostess stand.
This close to Clint, everything else faded. He was back in his usual flannel. His chest rose and fell beneath it when you met his eyes.
“Hey.” His voice was a low, warm rumble. You felt it in your stomach.
“Hi,” you said. “I heard a rumor that you’ve rejected some of our finest tables.”
“I don’t like those tables,” Clint said. “They’re not my table.”
“Yeah, well. Your table is full.”
“I noticed. Can’t believe you gave it away.”
“I gave it away half an hour ago. I thought you weren’t coming.”
“I’m sorry,” Clint said. “Somebody threw a temper tantrum on our way out the door. Sugar crash thanks to her babysitter.”
His daughter chose that moment to snuggle up against him, smushing her tiny cheek into his chest. She looked up at you with big, dark eyes. Oh God, they ran in the family.
“I don’t know,” you said. “She looks pretty innocent to me.”
As if to prove your point, her mouth stretched into a yawn.
“Don’t fall for it,” Clint said. “She had me on the ropes ten minutes ago.” He looked down at her. “Hey, Emily,” he said softly. “Tell the nice lady what you did.”
She blinked sleepily. “Da.”
“She’s trying to say she screamed out a lung.”
“Oh, obviously,” you said. “But it’s a hard sound for toddlers to make, right?”
Clint grinned. “Exactly.”
He looked back up to you, then caught sight of something on your uniform. He froze.
You felt a nervous little rush in your chest.
“Hey,” Clint said. “You remembered your name tag.”
“I… yeah. I thought maybe… some customers… would want to know.”
“That’s good,” Clint said quietly. “I’m happy for… them.”
There was no reason for the giddy feeling inside you. Nothing had changed since your conversation with Clint last night. Nothing had really changed since yesterday.
You let out a shaky breath.
“Okay,” you said. “Well. Can I get you set up at one of the other tables?”
Clint looked over to Casey’s side of the diner, where two booths were still free. The newborn had finally stopped crying, but it was taking the crowd a moment to reset.
“Those tables aren’t in your section.”
“No. But it’s the same banana you’d get from me.”
“That’s alright,” Clint said. “I’ll stick with my normal spot. I don’t want any other, uh, table.”
He held your eyes carefully. A warm feeling bloomed inside your chest.
“That table isn’t ready,” you said. “It’s going to be a long time before it’s ready. And you might not be ready. To, uh, sit at it.”
A smile played at the edges of Clint’s mouth.
“I know,” he said. “But I want to stick around. I’ve got a feeling it’s gonna be worth the wait.”
If you enjoyed the story, comments and reblogs make my day! 💖💖
end notes: If you liked the way Clint ordered reader around, I did something similar in part 3 of my completed series what you can't have. Cameraman!Joel is a similar pining-y, flannel-clad dad, so you may like that one.
Tags: smut, minors DNI, age gap (mid-20s & 50s), dbf!Joel, unprotected piv, creampie, oral (f receiving), light slapping, rough sex, pet names, overstimulation, multiple sex positions, nipple play (f receiving), dirty talk, dirty!Joel, desperate!Joel, multiple orgasms
WC: 5.3k
Summary: The summer before your senior year, you returned to your Texas hometown to stay with your dad. You spent the break working to save money, leaving little room for fun—until your dad insisted on a “going away party.” Hooking up with his best friend, Joel, was definitely not part of his plan.
Divider by @saradika-graphics
“Party’s here!!” Snooki’s voice rang out on the television and your dad entered the room with a grimace.
“Dear god, you’re watching this again?” He hadn’t even tried to hide the judgement in his tone.
“Yes, dad,” you were laying on the couch and tilted your head back to look upside down at him, “wasn’t it you who said you wanted me to do whatever I had to in order to enjoy my last day of summer? Well…”
“I just didn’t realize trashy reality TV was gonna be part of it. Could’ve given a guy a warning,” he said sarcastically and turned to leave the room.
“Could I get a snack?” You fluttered your eyelashes at him and put on a cartoonish pout, “Please?”
“You’re verging on elder abuse, now” he quipped as he exited the room.
“Your words, not mine!” You shouted after him, stifling a laugh.
When he re-entered a couple minutes later, he was carrying a salad bowl filled with assorted chips. It was a movie-night staple for the two of you. You’d toss a variety of salty snacks into a bowl (mostly chips, but also consisting of nuts and popcorn sometimes), and voila, you had your own junk food trail mix. The sight of it now made you nostalgic for the Friday nights you had with him throughout high school.
He took a seat at the opposite end of the couch and nestled the bowl between you both. You sat up, making some more room for him, and hungrily stuck your hand into the bowl, fishing out a Dorito.
The afternoon seemed to disappear as you woke up on the couch, groggilly rubbing the sleep from your eyes. You heard your dad on the phone.
“This has to go off without a hitch…I know, I know, but you gotta figure it out. I told you this is her last summer here…Who knows what she’s going to be doing or where she’s gonna be next year,” his voice sounded somewhat pained and your heart sank. Did he really think there was a chance you’d stop coming around?
He came back into the room and you pretended as though you had just woken up.
“Hey kiddo,” he smiled softly, “wanna go get ready? Party starts in a couple hours, and Joel’s coming by in a bit to help set up.”
Joel. You’d spent the last couple months in a dance between avoiding him and subtly flirting. He had moved in a couple years ago and he and your dad hit it off immediately. You remember the phone call from your dad when you were at college, telling you about the new neighbor and how he was a contractor. The excitement in your dad’s voice as he reported to you the projects that Joel had offered to help with around the house.
You remembered most of all, though, the feeling in your stomach when you had finally gotten a glimpse of the man. It was a rainy, foggy morning and you were in the kitchen pouring coffee through your half-lidded eyes. Hearing a truck door shut, you peeked through the kitchen blinds to see who was in your driveway.
You saw him from behind first, as he walked around to the back of his truck. His expansive back was what first caught your eye. You immediately took note of the way it pulled across his shoulders, highlighting the muscles underneath. It hung looser around his waist, then trailed down to his denim jeans that seemed to be the perfect fit for his form.
When he turned around to open up the bed of his truck, you had to practically pick your jaw up off the floor, maybe check for drool at the corners of your mouth. The sleeves of his t-shirt rippled around his flexed biceps as he pulled a tool chest from the back. You saw his shirt tighten around his pecks as he picked up the chest and moved it to one hand, using the other to close the tailgate.
So enamored with his fit body, you’d almost forgotten he had a head, too. Your eyes hadn’t had time to move up before his figure had disappeared from your view and there was a knock at the door. Realizing just how much you had objectified him, a brief shock of guilt rang through you, until your dad opened the door and Joel stepped through.
“Hey kiddo, come out here and meet Joel!” Your dad hollered from the entryway.
You heard his gruff voice before you saw him, “Ah, you don’t need to bother her. I’m gonna do my best to stay outta your hair, anyway.”
You rounded the corner to see him standing there, still dripping slightly from the rain outside. His shirt had dark speckles from the heavy drops and you saw some lingering moisture dripping down from his dark, curly hair. He smiled widely at you and you felt as though you were splitting in two - a coconut that someone had separated, coming undone with a pool of your own fluid escaping. His perfect smile was bracketed with dimples that made you want to drop to your knees.
He raised a hand to his stubbled jaw and ran his fingers across, scratching nonchalantly. The fluttering between your legs intensified and you swallowed hard. You’d realized, stupidly, that you hadn’t returned his smile, so you did so quickly.
“Nice to meet you,” was all he said as he stuck his left hand out toward you. Your mouth watered at his long, thick fingers, and became even more salivatory as you noted the lack of a wedding band.
You’d yet to get anything out before your dad saved you. “Excuse her, she’s uh, just waking up. Soaking up as much of her spring break as she can get.” Your dad shot you a “what the fuck is wrong with you” look and you blushed, turning away quickly and hurrying back to the kitchen.
The next few times you saw him were just as awkward, but your courage started to build the more you were around him. You knew that he noticed your staring - it was hard not to. And there had been at least a few occasions when you had glanced around to find him quickly looking away from you as your eyes landed on him. You couldn’t ignore the way your fingers always seemed to find each other when you were handing him a glass or he was handing you his finished dinner plate. You even heard his breath catch once, when you had bent down to pick up your book bag, pretending to not notice him standing right behind you.
These had all been innocent encounters, sure. But you could feel the tension that had been steadily building between the two of you over the past couple years, and you were desperate to know if he felt it too. While your dad had been busy planning a fun night for you, you had fun plans of your own that you intended to execute tonight.
—
The party was going great, despite your brain’s preoccupation with getting your sinful needs met. You’d had a good time mingling with your hometown friends that had all generously brought you gifts in the form of alcohol. A couple friends brought shooters and insisted that you all take them together. Given what you had planned for the night, you were comfortable with a buzz but wanted to make sure to not go too crazy.
The most difficult part of the plan seemed to be that your dad and Joel were inseparable. Your dad was manning the grill and Joel was right beside him. Then, Joel went inside to get something, and within a minute your dad was joining him, grabbing another beer. You prayed for one of those chatty, single women who lived on the block to stop by and pull your dad to the side. But the night was creeping in and you knew that it was only a matter of time before guests started to trickle out.
Feeling dejected, you went to grab a slice of cake. You hadn’t even been exactly sure of what this plan was, but just knew that at some point you wanted to pull him to the side. The house was much cooler inside than out and it gave you a chill. You felt your nipples perk to attention in your yellow sundress. The dress fell mid-thigh, appropriate enough to wear around your dad, but suggestive enough to spark some creativity for anyone whose eyes might be lingering.
The cake sat in the center of the dining table, a stack of paper plates beside it. No one else was in the house and the brief respite from the excitement outside was kind of nice. You approached the table and picked up the knife to cut a slice. You paused, admiring the cute cake that your dad had ordered and Joel had picked up. It was a strawberry cake with vanilla frosting, buttercream flowers adorned the edges of the circular cake and in purple icing was written “We’ll Miss You Kiddo!”
You smiled at the sweet gesture and then dug in. The first bite lit up your tastebuds and you were instantly ravenous for more. You stood by the table, back facing the entrance to the room, as you shoveled cake into your face.
“Cake good?” A gravelly voice surprised you from behind and you worked quickly to swallow the large bite of cake in your mouth.
You turned around to see Joel, a sly smirk spreading across his face as he took you in. Before you could respond, he took a couple long strides toward you, and stopped right in front of you. Your chest tightened at the close proximity and your eyes stayed glued to his face, taking in every detail up close now.
He reached toward you, his thumb swiping at the corner of your mouth before he pulled it away. You followed his gaze down toward his thumb and saw a crystallized dab of frosting on the tip of it. As if in slow motion, he went to move his hand toward the bottom of his t-shirt, presumably to wipe away the frosting.
Without more than a single thought, you reached out and took his hand in your own, your fingers curling around the outside of his hand and raising it to your mouth. His lips parted as you opened your mouth, tongue protruding forward, and raised his thumb to your lips, curling them around his thick digit.
In one long, slow suck, you cleaned the frosting from his thumb then released his finger with a pop. Your eyes stayed on his and you saw his pupils grow, eyes darkening to a shade of black you hadn’t seen in him before.
His hand was now back down at his side, but he had yet to move, appearing transfixed by your behavior.
“What are you doing?” His voice was deep and hushed as he spoke.
You decided now was as good a time as any to shoot your shot. “What I’ve been waiting all summer to do.” You were impressed with the feigned confidence that accompanied your voice. Truth be told, you were scared shitless at this moment.
His eyes scanned your face, a beat of silence before he spoke, “And what would that be?”
Say it, say it. You bit your bottom lip out of nervous habit and were surprised when you felt his thumb back at your mouth. He pulled down gently, freeing your lip from the confines of your teeth. You witnessed his tongue dart out and wet his lips briefly at the sight of your reddened and swollen bottom lip.
As his thumb trailed down to your chin, his other fingers just barely resting on your neck, you shared your moment of truth, “For you to fuck me.”
You saw his throat bob as he swallowed at your words. He was staring so intently into your eyes that you felt completely naked, like he was seeing all of you, all at once. Need was slowly building in your core and you wanted so badly for him to take the next step.
Then, suddenly, he dropped his hand and turned around. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” he said as he made his way to leave the room.
You hurried behind him, grabbing his forearm in your grasp, your fingers barely able to even wrap around him. “Please, Joel.” You weren’t above begging, though you didn’t realize that until this moment.
He turned around, his brows knitted together in uncertainty as he asked, “What’s gotten into you?”
You’d already made it this far, admitted this much, and you were not going to back down now. “I was hoping…you would…”
Joel scoffed and shook his head, a dismissive action that had you internally cringing in embarrassment, but still not retreating. You didn’t miss that his pupils had already started dilating again - he wasn’t able to keep the darkness at bay, and you relished in it. Took it as a hopeful sign that your desires would come true.
You brazenly reached out toward him, placing your hand on his side. You felt his solid core underneath your palm, felt his muscles tense under your touch. His hand came down on your wrist, yanking it away from him and holding your arm up in between your two bodies, a barrier.
“Do you know what you’re starting?” He leaned in toward you as he spoke. You could practically feel the vibrations of his low-pitched voice reverberate through your body. His grip on your wrist was tight, but not enough to be painful.
You nodded, speechless from the tension that was wrapping around you. Joel seemed to take note and the power began to shift to him. He took it hungrily.
“Where?” He demanded in a voice that was equal parts softness and command.
You looked around the room, as if a secret passageway was going to reveal itself. Joel rolled his eyes and let go of your wrist.
“Didn’t think this through, didya?” He looked out the window then back to you. “Follow me.”
With that, he was exiting the house and making a beeline toward your dad, who was sitting in a lounge chair by the pool out back, sipping a beer that should probably be his last. He looked up as he saw you two approaching and you had to look away from his smile in order to not abandon all plans. You’d process your sins later.
“Hey, what are you two up to?” Your dad asked through slightly slurred speech.
“She was mentioning some projects that might need to get completed at the new house with her roommates, and I figured I’d show her some of my spare tools she could take with her.”
You had to work to not look surprised at just how well he created a cover. You were also feeling slightly flattered, and surprised, that he had remembered you were moving into a new place with your roomies. You’d only mentioned it in passing, mostly talking to your dad, and Joel hadn’t seemed to take note at the time.
“That’s a great idea!” Your dad smiled and waved you off, “see ya later, kiddo.”
That was easy.
You and Joel wasted no time in heading off toward his house. He practically shoved through the front door, and you were right on his heels. As soon as you crossed the threshold, he turned around, shutting the door and pushing you up against it in one swift movement.
One hand settled on your waist as the other positioned itself at the back of your neck, his fingertips pushing up into your hair. You had anticipated the kiss to be passionate, but were still unprepared for how his lips crashed against yours, stealing the breath straight from your lungs.
Your tongue slipped into his mouth and he reacted with a sinful groan, sucking your tongue further into his mouth. You felt the wet cotton between your legs and squeezed your thighs together, seeking any friction you could find.
As if he sensed it, Joel’s hand reached down your belly, pressing the cool material of your dress against your skin. Then his hand slid down, lifting up the hem of your dress and slipping his hand between your legs, overtop your panties. He groaned again, and you thought that you would never tire of that sound.
“Oh baby,” he said between the kisses he was now planting on your neck, “needy little thing, aren’t ya?”
You pushed your cunt down onto his hand in response, and he nibbled at your neck before pulling back.
“We’re not doing this here,” he said, taking your hand in his and leading you upstairs.
The sun was mostly set now and there were no lights on in his bedroom, creating a dim landscape that you had difficulty navigating. He had let go of your hand once you reached the top of the stairs and was now rifling in his bedside table. You took a step back and bumped into a table that you hadn’t seen behind you.
You heard something fall onto the ground and you immediately dropped down to your hands and knees to search for it.
“Don’t worry ‘bout that,” you heard Joel say from across the room.
You saw the shape of something under the table and picked it up. Turning it in your hand, you saw that it was a carving of a wolf. Standing up to set it back on the table, you saw the wooden shavings and tools scattered across the surface.
“You woodwork?” You hadn’t known that was a hobby of his, and now that you were thinking about it, you realized there wasn’t much you knew about the man. Aside from how deeply attracted to him you were.
Crossing the room back to you, he took the object from your hand and set it further back on the table. He was standing in front of you now, staring down at you, and you saw how his chest was still thumping. His heavy breaths fell down onto your face and you felt your desire reigniting.
“In my spare time,” he answered, clearly practicing self-control with his hands down at his sides.
You looked up at him and swallowed. His gaze fell to your throat and he clenched his fists. “You sure about this?” His eyes darted back and forth between your own as he asked.
You smiled coyly and replied, “I can’t express to you just how sure I am.”
And with that, it was mere seconds before you were laying on your back in his bed, with his forearms on either side of your head, holding his weight up. He was kissing you deeply again, your body sinking into the mattress, and you wrapped your legs around his waist. He pushed against you as you did so, and you felt the distinct outline of his hard cock nestled between your legs.
“Fuck,” he murmured into your mouth, “can we take this off, baby?” He palmed the fabric of your dress, clutching it in his hand.
You nodded frantically and in a swift movement he had you sitting up in the bed, dress pulled up and over your body, and then you came crashing back down. His lips only left yours for a second when the yellow fabric had intervened.
His hands hungrily roamed your body and you blossomed at his touch. You were intensely aware of every spot that his hands touched, your skin pricking at the sensation of his calloused hands. The warmth was bordering on overwhelming and you felt sweat growing on your brow.
Finally, his fingers landed where you had been craving them. He stroked your folds through your panties and you couldn’t help but to grind shamelessly against them, your mouth falling open as his thumb grazed your sensitive clit.
Joel moved his hand from you to reach down and adjust himself. You peeked down at his crotch and saw the straining bulge in his pants.
“Wanna take those off?” you motioned with your head toward his pants.
Joel removed his hand from his crotch, placing it on the waistband of your panties, and gave a definitive, “not yet,” before he tore the fabric away from your weeping cunt.
You gasped as the cold air met your wet skin. Biting your lip and closing your eyes, you were almost sick from the anticipation of what was to come.
Joel’s hands moved down your body and you felt his torso slide down your legs. You heard his knees crack as he lowered himself to the floor and pulled your body to the edge of the bed.
You reached down and wove your fingers through his curled locks. “You can just fuck me, yanno?”
Your hands moved back and forth as Joel shook his head and replied, “not a chance in hell, sweetheart.” You melted at his use of the pet name and further melted as you felt his warm tongue lap at your core.
The tip of his tongue poked at your entrance and then licked up to your sensitive bud. Your body involuntarily jerked at the sensation and Joel wrapped his arm under your thigh and up and over your tummy, his warm hand pressed against your stomach as he held you still.
He lapped at your juices greedily. The mixture of his firm hold on you, as well as his generous licking, was already bringing you to your peak. He sucked your clit into his mouth at the same time as he pushed two fingers into your core. You came undone.
“Oh my god, oh my god,” you were chanting as your orgasm crested, “fuuuuuuuck,” you moaned louder than you ever had before, you were sure of it.
Joel released your clit from his lips and looked up at you, his facial hair glistening from your spend. His grin was merciless as he slipped his fingers from your dripping pussy. You whimpered from the absence and he stood up, looking down on you.
“Don’t worry, baby,” he said as his belt buckle clinked against the floor, his pants dropping, “I’m not done with you, yet.”
You lay motionless, frozen from the power he somehow held over you. He hooked his thumbs into the sides of his boxer briefs then slid them down, his massive cock springing free. Your eyes must have widened because he chuckled and said, “cat got your tongue?”
You licked your lips without noticing and replied, “you’re just…so big.”
“Think you can take it?” He took a step toward you.
You nodded and he shook his head, clicking his tongue against his teeth, and said, “words, baby.”
“Y-yes, Joel.” Your mouth was dry and your heart racing.
“We’ll see about that,” he challenged as he crawled onto the bed above you, sliding your body back up toward the headboard, his arm wrapped around your waist as he moved you seamlessly.
He picked up a condom that he had pulled from his nightstand and went to open it. You set your hand on his arm and said, “It’s okay, I’m on the pill.”
“You sure?” He asked earnestly.
“Yeah,” you replied breathily.
He kissed all over your neck, dipping down to your collarbone and then sweeping kisses across your breasts. Sucking one of your nipples into his mouth, and then releasing it with a wet pop, he looked up at you with blown out eyes.
You looked down to see his hardened cock, tip red with want and dripping with precum. At the same time, you could read the hesitation in his eyes, the uncertainty about whether what was about to happen was okay.
“Joel,” you spoke softly, gathering his full attention immediately as he looked into your eyes which were equally filled with desire. “I want you to ruin me.” It came out as a whisper, but the steady confidence in your tone was all the reassurance he needed.
In one sudden movement, he was sheathed inside your sopping hole. The sheer size of him was enough to make you scream out, walls clenching around him, trying to accommodate his girth.
His lips touched your forehead, now dotted with perspiration, and he murmured, “There, there, baby, I’ve got you, girl.”
The pain of the stretch aroused you further and you reached your hand down to your clit in an attempt to massage some pleasure into your body. But Joel snatched your hand away, holding it firmly in his grasp.
“Nuh uh, honey,” he started to loosen his clutch on your hand, “you’re gonna let me do all the work, okay?”
You nodded. He grabbed your face, pinching your cheeks with his rough hand and forming your lips into a pucker.
“Words.” His voice was commanding, stern.
Through pouted lips you spoke, “Yes, Joel.”
He released his grip on your face, “Good girl. Just give me some time and I’m gonna have you screaming my name in a bit.”
You felt yourself pulse around him and he smiled. “You like it rough, huh?”
You caught yourself before you nodded and instead said again, “yes, Joel. Please.”
He slapped your cheek lightly, but it was enough to leave a sting and cause you to look up at his eyes, to see the raw desire in his gaze. You whimpered at the impact and he snapped his hips into yours, his cock reaching deep inside you, hitting that sweet spot that causes you to see spots.
His hand moved to the back of your head and he grabbed a fistful of your hair, tilting your head back as he pulled. “Yeah, you like it rough. Look at you, practically drooling with my cock buried inside your pussy.”
He continued fucking into you, deep and hard thrusts that would have been knocking your head against his headboard if it wasn’t for the tight grasp he had on your hair.
“Fuck, you feel so good, baby.” He picked up his pace and let go of your hair. He lowered his torso onto yours, his forearms now resting on the bed. He dropped his head to rest in the crook of your shoulder as he set a punishing rhythm.
The wet slaps filled the room and your eyes rolled up into your head as he pounded into you. His cock was stretching you wide just as much as it was digging deep inside you. He moved his hand in between your bodies, the tips of his fingers finding your clit and he rubbed circles into you.
“Fuck, Joel, I’m gonna-” you moaned as the orgasm overcame you. It caught you off guard how quickly it built and exploded. Your pussy spasmed around his hard cock and you couldn’t keep your legs wrapped around him with how much you were shaking.
Your nipples were hard and protruding and Joel gave them both attention. He moved back and forth landing kisses on your breasts and licking and sucking at your nipples. It drew out your orgasm a bit longer.
Joel slowed his pace as you started to come down, moving his hand away from your clit and up to your face. He stroked down the side of your jaw and kissed you gently. It was soft, and romantic, and in such juxtaposition to how he had just fucked you. It warmed your belly and slowed your heart rate.
“So good for me, baby…” Joel kissed your lips again then moved his lips back up to your forehead, “you’re so good for me.”
He pulled his face away to look at you. You didn’t expect to see his eyes so dark with how soft he was just speaking to you.
“Now be a good girl and get on all fours.” His voice was firmer again. You gulped and felt your pussy throb.
He pushed himself up and sat back on his knees to give you room. You did as you were told and clamored up onto your hands and knees, faltering slightly, but Joel steadied you with a hand on your hip.
You hadn’t realized how tired and weak you felt until you had to move on your own. Now propped on all fours, you stared ahead at the headboard, awaiting what was to come.
You felt the mattress give as Joel shuffled up behind you. He notched his cock at your entrance and moved his hands to either side of your hips.
“Tell me when you’re ready, baby.” His voice had softened again. If you hadn’t wanted him to fuck you so badly, you’d want to curl up next to him and hear him read to you in that sultry voice.
“Ready,” you spoke.
He punched into you hard. It knocked you forward and you had to brace a hand on the headboard in an effort to not collide with it.
His fingers dug into your hips, bruising your skin as he slammed his cock deep into your fluttering pussy. “Fuck!” You exclaimed. The sensation was overwhelming.
“Take it, honey,” he said between punishing thrusts, “I know you can take it. Show me. Show me how good you take my cock, baby.”
Tears were now spilling down your cheeks as it took everything you had to hold yourself upright. It felt so good, so fucking good, but you were struggling to maintain any semblance of composure.
Joel could tell that you were holding back, trying to keep yourself together. But, like you had given him permission to, he wanted to see you completely undone.
“Let me hear those pretty sounds, babygirl.” One of his hands lifted up from your hip to come back down on your ass with a hard slap that you knew would leave an imprint. His hand massaged where he slapped briefly before sliding up to your upper back and pushing down.
You turned your head, one side of your face pressed into the sheets and the other exposed to him. You allowed the moans to spill out as he absolutely ruined you. You could feel his balls slapping against your cunt, making the occasional contact with your clit that had you sobbing into the mattress.
“Ohhh there she is,” Joel said, continuing to slam into you, “there’s my good girl.”
Your hands curled into the sheets, fingers grasping for anything to stabilize you as Joel rocked you back and forth from behind. Your slick was dripping down your thighs and you felt a third orgasm start to build.
“Fuck, Joel,” you panted into the sheets, “I think I’m gonna come again.”
“That’s it, baby,” Joel’s grip on your hip tightened, “Fuck, I’m gonna come too, gonna fill that sweet pussy all the way up.”
His words did the trick and you felt yourself release onto him. He groaned and began pumping into you faster, chasing his own release, desperately.
“God damn, I love feeling you cream around my cock, baby. Shit.” With another hard thrust, Joel was coming deep inside you. You could feel every inch of his throbbing cock as he emptied his load inside your wet walls.
You were both left panting and sweaty. He carefully slipped his cock from you and you heard one last groan as he watched his cum drip out of your hole and down your pussy lips.
You laid down on your stomach and Joel stepped away to come back a minute later with a wet washcloth. He cleaned you up gently, thoughtfully, and then came to lay next to you.
He flopped his arm out to the side and you shimmied up next to him, resting your head on his bicep.
“You know,” you started, “I really do have some projects that need to get done at the new house.”
Joel turned to look at you, his cheeks flushed. A smile spread across his face as he said, “Oh yeah? I might just need to come and help you out, then.”
regni rerumque oblite tuarum? - Aeneid by Virgil
(Mercury to Aeneas: you forget your kingdom and destiny?)
|| MDNI 18+ smut, angst, fluff, oh my! Marcus Acacius x reader, secret relationship, marcus is not married, so much latin but I have a study guide beneath the cut for you, hurt/comfort, arguments, man handling, kissing, praise, dirty talk, riding, f!receiving oral, pinv, marcus is a large man, creampie, breeding kink, no y/n, no daddy kink, domestic dirty talk lol ||
a/n I: Mercury is one of the Roman gods and is known for delivering divine messages between worlds. I took Latin in highschool so my knowledge is finally being used but still I am dependent on google for many things so please forgive any inaccuracies!
a/n II: this is my submission for @pedroscurls's ppcu dialogue challenge. my dialogue was "you can't, or you won't?" tysm!! x
wc: 6.5k
roman vocab (oh, dr c if you could see me now)
domine: lord, master, a title meant for respect
nuntia: messenger, female
mea cara: my beloved
Kalends of Iunius: first of June
filia mercurii: daughter of mercury
Augusti: plurual of Augustus, which was the title of emporers
fututores: fuckers
vir meus: my husband
It is far too hot to be traveling.
Although it is nearly evening, sweat runs down the bare column of your neck, stinging where the sun pressed for hours against your topmost vertebrae before falling down the length of your spine.
It does not matter. You know this plainly. It does not matter if the tender flesh between your toes rubs raw against dry leather, nor if your shoulders burn beneath Sol’s temper on this early spring day, his bright chariot riding closer than it should as it dragged the sun too near to the earth. Perhaps the God has taken offense to the season prior—winter was harsh, spring slow yet eager to bloom, fields finally thin with green, but mostly thick and swampy with mud and muck. Perhaps it is punishment for some forgotten slight. The gods have long memories, after all.
It makes little difference. As Sol shows no mercy to the road, the Augusti show none to the general who must ride it.
At last you see it in the distance.
At last.
You take in cream colored linen tents, risen from earth like ant hills, dirtied with mud and blood from many months of rain and storms and fighting. They stand raised by wooden poles as their horses graze nearby in half made paddocks where the grass has already been turned to mud by hooves and soldiers’ boots.
It takes some time to find him.
He is not seated within some grand pavilion at the heart of the encampment. There are no guards planted stiffly at any of the entrances, no noise of revelry spilling out into the early evening air. No drunken laughter rolling between the tents, no clatter of cups or men grown loud and foolish on too much wine.
Instead there is the quieter life about the camp.
You hear the light clatter of dishes somewhere within the rows of tents as soldiers settle down for evening rations. There is a slow rasp of iron on stone as one draws their blade along a whetstone. You see a few with wrapped linen and gauze around wounds. Some around an arm or a leg, one covering a bloodied eye. Here and there small cookfires burn low, men crouched beside them writing letters in the fading light of day, heads bent over wax tablets or scraps of parchment that you will carry back across the empire.
You draw your tote closer to your side as you pass and a few of them look up.
Curiosity follows you down the narrow lane between the tents. It is not often someone like you walks through a legionary camp. And the of a woman besides. You know it is more skin than most of them have seen in months, perhaps longer. You halfheartedly assess your own clothing, obscenely aware of how short your tunic is, how much skin you are showing, originally only to keep yourself cool but now seems egregiously unsafe. Your shoulders and arms, supple but reddened by the road, catch their eyes as you move. You quicken your pace.
A soldier’s encampment is not known for gentleness, nor patience, and certainly not for manners.
The tent you seek blends in with the others, set just behind the line of command tents where the officers take their counsel. Larger than the rest, though not ostentatious, its linen walls are marked with the same dust and weather as every other shelter in the camp. A vexillum has been driven into the earth beside it, a square Roman battle flag bearing the general’s insignia that stirs lazily in the warm breeze.
You step inside with little ceremony to see three men standing around a wooden table, the dim interior lit by oil lamps that flicker at your intrusion.
To his left—a soldier, hardened, wearing a cuirass across his chest and a hand resting near his hilt of his gladius. Habit, surely, would not allow it far from reach.
To his right, a young officer or clerk, ink-stained fingers clutching a wax tablet, a stylus poised in the air where he had been taking down orders.
And in the middle, the man you seek. Taller and broader than either of those beside him, dark curls fallen loose across a battle-worn brow. He fills the space entirely as your eyes find him before you can force them elsewhere.
All three of them look up the moment you enter.
“Domine,” you greet, bowing your head. “I bring word.”
The general, immense in his stillness, studies you in silence. You can't see it, but you can feel the slow weight of his gaze travel from your swollen feet to your sunburnt cheekbones and the frazzled crown of braids atop your head.
“Leave us,” he commands.
The men do not question him. They wouldn't dare. The faint stir of air from their passing brushes your skin as they slip past you and out of the tent into the evening.
You keep your head bent out of respect, avoiding his eye, and your hand is clenching the leather strap of your bag hard as you wait for his next command.
"The city sends nuntia into war now? In the state we are in?" he asks, though you're not entirely sure if you're meant to answer.
He exhales through his nose and drops the small stone marker he had been holding between his fingers. Several more lie scattered across the campaign map spread over the table, marking roads, river crossings, and the positions of men.
"Come." he commands, and you dare not disobey.
You move around the table and stop before him. Slowly you lift your chin, first to his chest, then to his face. You take in the unshaven line of his strong jaw, the aquiline nose carved hard against the last of the sunlight bathing the tent, oil lamps already lit around you. There are cuts on his face, and you count them while you wait for his next order. Some of them are earned over the long, grinding months of war, others fresh enough that the skin around them is angry red.
But you do not look in his eyes.
You see the movement before you feel him— a shift of his shoulder as you keep your gaze averted, and a quiet breath leaves him as he steps closer. Then the rough pads of his fingers find your face. He catches your chin between his thumb and forefinger and lifts, carefully forcing your gaze up to meet his.
The moment your eyes find his, you feel a thick lump rise in your throat. They are dark as honey left too long in the sun, warm and brown and far gentler than a man like him ought to possess as they look down upon you.
"You should not be here," he whispers.
Your shoulders fall, a deep lungful leaving your chest that you didn't realize you'd been holding. "Domine—"
“You should not be here,” he says again, firmer now, the voice of a formidable general growling out his demands, even when the words are meant only for you. His brows draw together as he looks down at you, the line of his jaw tightening. “We stand on the brink of another attack and I cannot—”
He stops himself, shaking his head once as if the rest of the thought is not meant to be spoken, and drops his hand from your face. Your skin still burns where his fingers had rested, the ghost of his touch seared there even as it disappears.
“I bring word, Domine,” you tell him again, steady despite the painful tightness gathering in your throat. “That is all.”
"That is all." he echoes in disbelief, a scoff forced from his lips. “If that is all, why not wait until I return to Roman soil? Why come here, where I am commanded to bring war to people who do not deserve it? Why must you come here, where I am unable to keep you safe?”
"It cannot wait, Domine—"
“Please,” he says, cutting you off. His voice softens, though the frustration still sits in it. “Do not call me that, mea cara.”
Your lips press tightly together, the muscles of your face drawing taut, and he turns away from you then, dragging a rough hand across his own face, thick fingers scarred and hardened from long years spent beside Mars himself.
You hesitate.
But at last you reach into your leather satchel, and even you cannot ignore how badly your hand trembles as you retrieve the scroll sealed shut with violent red wax.
“This order comes from the twin Augusti,” you say at last, though it is more of a croak, and you hold it out to him behind his back.
The general turns only slightly, glancing toward you over the breadth of his shoulder, and it is only then you realize he is still wearing portions of his armor. The plates gleam faintly in the dimming room, light warming the already golden cast of his skin.
"Read it to me."
You lick your dried lips. You're not sure you have such courage.
But in the end, you obey, and break the seal.
The wax cracks beneath your thumb, loud in the quiet of the tent, and you unroll the parchment with careful hands, forcing your voice steady as you begin to read.
“By command of the divine Augusti, guardians of Rome and fathers of the empire,” you begin, the formal language already turning bitter on your tongue, “let it be known that Marcus Acacius, General of Rome, who has long served the will of the empire with sword and discipline, is hereby ordered to secure the continuance of his bloodline for the strength and stability of the state.”
The words feel heavier the further you go.
“The Senate and the Augusti alike have deemed it necessary that the house of Acacius not fall barren. Therefore the general is commanded to take lawful wife before the Kalends of Iunius, and to produce an heir worthy of Rome.”
You swallow.
“The names of suitable brides of noble Roman houses have been prepared and await the general’s choosing upon his return to the capital.”
Your finger grow weak, your voice even weaker, shaky now, as the parchment shakes in your hands, and you barely can make out the last words.
“This decree is issued in the interest of Rome, whose strength rests not only upon conquest, but upon the endurance of those who carry her name forward.”
His head hangs heavy as he stares down at the campaign table before him. He has turned, and both of his hands come to rest upon it as though he must brace himself there, his gaze fixed upon the map spread beneath his palms, the small stones marking the positions of his men staring back at him with indifference.
“They send me across the empire to spill blood for them,” he mutters finally, the bitterness in his voice low and restrained. “And now they would have me breed for them as well.”
He lifts one of the stones between his fingers, turning it slowly before letting it fall back onto the board with a dull clatter.
“And they sent you to carry this message to me.”
“I was ordered to.”
“Yes,” he replies quietly, his eyes still fixed upon the map. “You always are.”
You shift your weight as you set down the letter on his table. The leather of your sandals creaks softly against the packed earth as you gather the last of your courage.
"One of the women picked for you is the daughter of Senator Gracchus and she…" you clear your throat, "I hear she is blessed by Venus in her looks. She would make a good wife."
Somewhere during your speaking he has crossed the space between you.
He stands before you now like a shadow fallen over the room, his broad shoulders and unruly hair cutting the light from the oil lamps until you feel swallowed by his presence.
His hands find your hips as if it had not been weeks since your last meeting, but as easily as though they had never forgotten the place they belong. And though there is a faint, infuriating grin upon his mouth, his touch is warm and welcome through the thin fabric of your tunic, resting against the leather cord at your waist as he draws you nearer by a fraction.
You were used to this: the rough country of his hands, wide and cracked and certain upon your waist. This, you see, was commonplace for the two of you. You would come to deliver his letters to his expansive villa—usually orders of the next country to march upon or plans for a day of leave—and he would shoo away his servants so he could take you into his hands and bend you over the nearest lectus to fuck you utterly spent. He would feed you Rome's best wine and cheese, take you a time or two more, and send you back on your way with his reply.
But this was nothing like those times. The memories only burn as you think of them now.
“Gracchus,” he repeats, the faintest curl of amusement pulling at the corner of his mouth. “That miserable old slug.”
Your hands come up at once against his chest, pushing lightly at the hard plates of armor.
“Domine, don't—”
“And this daughter of his,” he continues, paying no mind to your protest as his thumbs press idly against your hip bones, “she is very beautiful, you say?"
“Yes,” you answer stiffly, still trying to push him away. “That is what I hear.”
He studies you with dark eyes moving slowly over your face as though the answer to his riddle rests somewhere upon it.
“I see,” he murmurs, leaning down into you.
Your palms press harder against his armor.
“Stop this jest,” you insist, your voice tightening despite your effort to remain composed. “You must treat the matter with the gravity it demands. They require an answer.”
His smile widens enough to show his teeth.
“Why…” he asks quietly, his lips moving though his words are scarcely above a whisper, “should I trouble myself with the spoiled daughter of a Senator…”
His fingers tighten in your tunic, drawing you even nearer still until there is scarcely any space left between you. His hips press flush against yours, his warmth insistent through the fabric and plated steel keeping you apart.
“…when I already have the most beautiful woman standing in my tent?”
"Enough of this, do not be so insolent." you finally shove him away, and he lets you go. His hands fall, but his gaze does not.
"I have no need for one of their hand picked maidens, cara, for you are the only woman I desire." His voice is low again, "So take my hand, my name, take everything I am and be my wife."
Your hand flies up to strike him before you have time to think of his proposition. The smack of your palm meeting his face cracks in the stillness of the quiet.
And yet, he is unmoved by this.
His eyes do not widen, his body does not flinch. But you see the infinitesimal clench of his jaw, the line of his brow deepening like a crack in the earth as his smile vanishes.
You move to strike again, but he catches you, his large, meaty palm wrapping around your wrist. He has the grip of a man who has spent half his life with a sword in it, which now swallows the delicate bones of your joint instead of the metal of a handle.
You fight in his grip, but he does not let go. It flits across your mind that he could easily break your bones, if he wished. He would have the right to it, for the way you struck him.
"Unhand me, Domine—" you seethe.
"Say my name."
You wrench again at his grasp, but his hand holds fast, immovable as iron. The thick knot in your throat burns hotter with every passing second, swelling until it chokes the words before they can leave you.
"Say my name, cara—"
"Unhand me!" You hiss. "I cannot marry you and you know it well!"
Your resistance only brings you closer, his hand dragging you forward as if inviting you into some sort of silly dance, your breasts now pressed hard against the armor that is gilded across his torso. The metal is warm from the heat of his body beneath it, and he leans down over you then, baring his teeth slightly with each syllable he forces out.
"Cant or won't?"
There is an aching, seething silence that stretches. Your ire burns as hot as coals behind your eyes as they narrow up at him. You hate him, you must. You must tell yourself this again and again, because the truth would be unbearable when the day comes that he is to wed to another.
“Have you lost your damned mind, Domine?” you snap, anger flashing hotter than the tears threatening behind your eyes. “You dishonor yourself speaking such madness—raging like a rabid hound.”
His other hand slides to wrap around your waist and down onto your lower back, pressing gently into your tail bone so your hips flush against his, and you can only just feel his growing member beneath the thick cotton tunic he wears.
“Madness?” he repeats, his voice low and dangerous now.
When you refuse to answer, he simply looks at you as though you are the one who has lost sense.
"I am to take a wife of my choosing," he says, each word slow and carefully chosen, "to lay my seed so our Divine Emperors may sleep easily knowing my blood will carry on their vanities—"
His jaw shifts, and he drops your hand to pull a piece of your hair that has fallen from the braid, curling it around his thick finger, “—and yet when I offer my hand to the one woman who knows me better than my own soldiers, the one who has shared my bed and my counsels…she strikes me."
Your face, you realize suddenly, is damp. And he sees it at once.
Something in him softens then, and the look he gives you holds both tenderness and hunger, the two mingling together like honey stirred into warm tea.
He leans closer, brushing his lips once against the corner of your eye where the tear has gathered.
“Why do you weep, mea cara?” he murmurs, the words warm against your skin before his mouth touches your temple, then the edge of your cheek. “Why do you fight me so?”
“I—”
Your breath shudders as you try to gather the words that refuse to come.
“Marcus,” you sigh at last, the name slipping from you despite yourself as you close your eyes. “I am no one.”
His mouth stills against your cheek.
“You are everything," he answers quietly, and you can feel his breath against the shell of your ear.
You shake your head at once, desperate, your hands pressing against his chest again though the strength has gone from them.
“No,” you insist, the word breaking. “You are a general of Rome. Marrying me would gain you nothing. It would not strengthen your house, it would not please the Senate, it would not satisfy the Augusti—”
“I do not care for any of that.”
“But you must,” you whisper, the tears coming faster now despite your effort to stop them. “I will not allow you to throw away your destiny for the sake of someone like me.”
He draws back just enough to look at you, his brow knitting as though the thought itself offends him.
"Someone like you," he repeats softly, licking the pearl of a tear from the top of his lip.
Your voice shakes so badly you hardly believe he can understand you, "I carry orders for Rome, I am nothing but a messenger of the Gods will, they speak through The Twins and so you must take it seriously—"
"My patience is at an end with them."
“You must not speak so,” you whisper sharply, your glossy eyes darting toward the walls of the tent.
The general takes both of your hands in his then, lifting them beneath his chin like something precious, and presses a kiss to your knuckles.
“I know who you are, my love,” he murmurs. “You are blessed with Mercury’s favor. For years you have come to me with the will of Gods and Emperors alike. You bring me their messages… and you bring me yourself.”
His thumbs move slowly across the backs of your hands.
“And I would have that forever. I would have you forever, mea cara.”
“But Rome—your armies—you could never—”
“Then we shall leave it behind,” he says quietly. "I will gladly send my men back to their families where they belong, rather than ripping apart the ones we conquer."
You stare at him.
“You wish to leave?”
“Yes, mea cara,” he answers, his voice low but steady now, the idea clearly not new to him. “Let Rome keep her wars and their decrees. Let the Senate drown in its own blood. We will go where the hand of the Augusti does not reach.”
Your heart stutters painfully.
“Marcus…”
“There are lands yet untouched by them,” he continues, his gaze never leaving yours. “We could live quietly. A farm, perhaps. A stretch of earth and sky that belongs to no emperor.”
You shake your head even as the image threatens to take root inside you.
“You cannot mean that.”
“It is the only thing I have meant in years.”
“Marcus, if anyone heard you speak so—”
“Let them hear. I tire of the will of those fututores, swaddled in their perfume and silk—”
“Marcus!” you hiss, clapping both hands over his mouth before the words can grow more dangerous.
He only smiles against your palms, the warmth of it startling you, and presses a soft kiss to the heart of your palm, the wiry hair of his mustache tickling you.
“Is that a yes, my love?” he says, muffled.
“You truly have gone mad.” you whisper, leaning your forehead against the back of your hand where it still rests on his mouth.
And when he it away, you straighten, allowing him to guide both of your hands to his own will, placing them at the back of his neck while his fall once more to your hips, adjusting you until you are perfectly flush against him again, where you belong.
“An answer is all I desire, filia Mercurii.”
Your breath falters.
“Yes, Marcus.”
And suddenly he is kissing you, and it is as if heat sparks across your lips, Jupiter's lightning striking through you and pulling a gasp from your throat in his hold. He tastes of salt and musk and wine. Groaning deeply, the sound rough with want, his hands slide lower to the lush weight of your bum as he draws you closer still. Your back bends against the heavy press of him as he pushes into you, the strength of his body undeniable. There is no question of how fiercely this man wants you, how deeply he needs you, how long he has yearned for you. You can hear it in his moans, can feel it in the weight of his grasp.
He is turning the two of you quickly, the meat of his hands gripping you hard enough that you hope to find the crescent marks of his fingers there later. His tongue pushes past your lips, tasting at your mouth, licking behind your teeth before drawing your top lip between his in a slow, hungry pull. You think, for a moment, that you taste something else there beneath the heat of it— a loneliness that has left a hollow ache settled into him during these long months away from home. And you kiss him back with equal hunger, your tongue pressing into his mouth like a salve, as though you might soothe that wound with it.
But then, outside the tent you hear the roar of men laughing, voices carrying easily through the warm evening air, and suddenly you remember you are not alone in his villa this time.
“Oh, Marcus, not here, please, not—”
“I don’t give a damn,” he growls. “I will take you how I want, where I want, for the rest of my life.”
Something in the tone of his voice sends heat racing through your body, a flush blooming low in your belly that makes your breath catch. Your knees buckle at the ferocity of his need, wetness pooling between them for it.
He lifts you onto the table with startling ease, spreading your legs so he can step between them. Leaning over you, he sweeps the table clear in a single impatient motion, scattering the carved stone markers of battle across the tent floor as they clatter and slide into the shadows. He lays you back against the wood, grinning at the sight of you as his hand fists the tunic covering your body.
He pushes it roughly upward, baring you to himself, the fabric bunching under your neck haphazardly.
“There is nothing like this,” he murmurs, his voice lower now. “Nothing like seeing you as the Gods made you.”
His eyes move slowly over your figure, drinking you in.
“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”
“You speak such foolishness, Marcus,” you swoon, stretching your arms above your head as you watch him unburden the armor from his chest and let it clatter to the floor before folding himself over you.
“I would sooner have my tongue cut than ever speak a lie of you,” he says softly before his mouth closes over your breast, taking the nipple between his lips as a low groan escapes him at the heat of your skin.
"You are so warm, so soft—" he says between your gasps of pleasure—" I have not felt such things in so long, it is like a dream."
You take him in as his long, thick lashes flutter shut. Your hands thread delicately through his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp. He whimpers at your touch, mouth unlatching from one breast only to nuzzle the other, kissing and licking at your supple skin.
He is the fierce, violent commander of Rome’s legions—but that is only sometimes. For most of the moments you have spent with him, in his villa in the city, he is this: gentle, kind, passionate, and utterly confident in his want. As though this is the truest version of himself, the man beneath the armor, without the smoke and mirror of war that paints him as a brutal leader.
His tongue laves at your pert nipple, now pebbled and tender from his attention. His hands, thick and wide, span the narrowest part of your waist, his thumbs nearly touching over your navel he is so much larger than you. He draws you closer, shifting you to the edge of the table so his eager cock slots between the lips of your core.
You let out a soft whine at the barrier of his tunic between you.
“Patience,” he breathes, though it is not without the roughness of restraint. The heat of his mouth ghosts over your skin as he kisses your clavicle, then slowly up the column of your throat and along the line of your jaw. “Let me enjoy this. It has been too long.”
“And what if I say take me now and enjoy the smaller pleasures later?” you murmur, your fingers curling into the hair at the back of his head. “I wish to feel you inside me.”
A low sound escapes him at that, half laugh and half groan.
“My needy woman,” he says against your skin. “It is like music to my ears. But if I were to give you everything you wished the moment you asked for it, you would be as spoiled as those who grow pale behind palace walls.”
Your brow lifts faintly at that.
“Marcus Acacius,” you whisper, breath brushing his ear, “you speak as though you are not the one who has ruined me.”
A rough sound escapes him at that.
“That is because it is you who has ruined me, cara,” he groans, his teeth catching lightly at the line of your jaw before he presses a hard thrust of his hips against your swollen center, drawing an involuntary arch from your back. “If I were to take you as I wish, this would not last nearly as long as I would like.”
"Don't care," you murmured, your hands fisting into his hair harder now, making him wince and groan at once. His eyes flicker up to yours at that, dark and bright with something dangerously pleased.
"Promise me you'll stay the night, then? Let me eat your sweet cunt for dinner, and again for breakfast and midday."
You smile widely at that, "And you say it is me who is spoiled,"
"Promise it."
"I swear, Marcus." you say, planting a chaste kiss to his lips. "I will stay as long as you wish. Now please, for the love of Jupiter and all the gods—fuck me."
He leans back, and you are forced to drop your hands from his hair as he straightens, though you drag them slowly down his chest, your fingertips brushing the linen of his tunic. The fabric clings where your arousal has stained it, darkened over the tenting of his throbbing cock beneath. He lifts the hem and tucks it beneath his chin, and finally you see him fully—scars crossing the broad plane of his chest, the softness of his belly, the dark trail of hair that gathers beneath his navel and travels downward to frame his bobbing member, flushed deep red with want.
For a moment he simply looks, breathing deeply. He seems distracted by the sight of you, the way you glisten beneath the lanterlight of the tent. A heat of humilation blooms across your cheeks as his gaze lingers on the slick folds of you spread before him.
And then he is bending suddenly, forgetting himself and diving for you.
His mouth opens, greedy and unrestrained, as he kisses you there. His lips part wide against you, wet and hungry as he eats at you. You hear a rough groan spill from his throat as his hands close around the meat of your thighs, gripping hard to still the undulating roll of your hips.
It is obscene to watch.
Your wet cunt sliding against his wet tongue, the sounds he makes as he tastes you. Your soft sighs and breathless little cries only seem to make him more ravenous, his tongue cupping your sex as though it were a basin meant to hold the nectar gathering there. Up and down, then down and up again, he works at you with relentless hunger before his nose presses against your clit and the slick muscle of his tongue pushes inside you.
And then your back is bending, nearly lifting you from the table as he fucks you with his tongue. The pressure builds too quickly to bear, your body tightening before it breaks, and you gush over his face with a cry, trembling beneath his mouth as he purrs with pleasure.
When the tension finally leaves your limbs and your body goes soft and boneless, he is already moving you again. He handles you easily, turning and shifting you where he wants you, those big hands working with a single vision in mind.
"You will ride me." he demands.
You know that tone of voice. The sweet, sensual man who kissed you moments ago has stepped aside, and something harder has taken his place. The beast of him. The commander who draws blood from his enemies, who takes what he wants without hesitation, who fucks with the certainty of a man used to victory.
You barely have time to catch your breath before he lifts you from the table, one thick arm wrapping around your torso while the other hooks your thigh high around his hip. Your body drags against him as he moves, and you feel the heavy bob of his cock between your soaked folds. The sensation pulls a needy sound from your throat and you grind down instinctively, searching for more of him, pressing harder and harder. You feel his mouth on your neck just as his teeth close on your artery, biting you into submission. You cry out for him, but you only feel his cock twitching in response.
By the time he drops into the lounging chaise behind him, he is guiding you down with him, forcing your hips to widen to settle around the breadth of his lap.
“I want to watch you,” he says, voice thick, his eyes gone black with hunger. “Get this off.” His hands make quick work of your tunic, finally pulling it the rest of the way from your body.
The moment your arms come down again you are reaching for him in return, tugging impatiently at the linen still clinging to his shoulders. You push the fabric from him, eager to feel the heat of his skin beneath your palms. He groans when you lean forward, your arms slipping around his neck as your mouth finds his again. You taste yourself on his tongue, musk of sweat and sweet honey of arousal, and your hips move without thought. They slide against the thick length of him, wetting the shaft of his cock as you grind your clit against him. The heavy weight of his sac tightens in anticipation, brushing against your cunt as roll against him again and again. Your tongue slips deeper into his mouth as you pull at his with greedy little sucks.
He has quite enough of your teasing as his hand catches your face, pushing you upright with a deep growl of impatience. The other guides himself between your legs, angling his cock until the blunt head presses firmly at your entrance.
You both gasp at the first push—the stretch always too much at first. Always intoxicating. Like Cupid himself has driven some poisoned arrow through your heart, turning your thoughts to useless haze as your body opens for him.
“There she is,” Marcus breathes, his lips parted around a rough gasp. “What a good girl you are. That’s it… slow, cara. Nice and slow.”
You slide down onto him inch by inch, your eyes rolling back as a long, helpless moan spills from your throat. His hand comes quickly over your mouth—you know you are being far too loud—but how can you help it? He is thick and perfect inside you, your velvet walls drawing him in greedily until you are seated fully atop him, your wet cunt sealed around his cock, slicking the dark thicket of hair at his base.
"Oh—Domine—" you sigh, muffled behind his hand.
“Marcus,” he corrects softly, breath shuddering through him. “My love. Only Marcus to you.”
“But you are my everything,” you gasp, nimble fingers coming up to circle his wrist. His hand is so big it spreads over the entirety of the lower half of your face. “My lord, my master, my—my husband—”
“Yes,” he groans, his eyes burning into you. “Say it again.”
“Domin—”
“No.” His voice drops to a growl. The hand that covers your mouth slides down to grip your jaw, forcing you to look at him as he jostles you slightly.
“H-husband?”
He thrusts his hips upward sharply, the movement stealing the breath from your lungs.
“Say it again.”
“Vir meus,” you moan.
“Yes—yes, that’s it,” he groans, his head falling back against the chaise, mouth agape and his breath short. “That’s it, girl. Ride my cock. Tell me you are mine.”
Your head falls back as he thrusts higher into you, the motion forcing a broken cry from your throat as you chant it over and over. Vir meus, vir meus, vir meus. You can no longer hold yourself upright as his hand falls, and you brace yourself over him, planting your knees on either side of his hips as you begin to lift and drop over him, suddenly drunk on the poison of Cupid and your own rising pleasure. He does not seem to care about your volume anymore. The sounds leave you unbottled and wild, helpless. Like some creature in heat. His hands grip the flesh of your hips harder once again, guiding the rhythm, forcing your body to ride and fall at his pace.
“Shall I give the Augusti what they want?” he pants against your ear, licking the shell of it. “Breed my sweet little wife and fill her with my seed?”
The thought had never crossed your mind before. The two of you had always been careful in your previous meetings, always finishing elsewhere—your mouth, your breasts—but…now…
"Promise we will never go back to Rome again," you beg against his throat between moans, rocking your hips slower now. "Promise me we will have a home by the ocean, where we will watch the sun rise and set with no cares of the twins, only us—only our family—and I will bear your children, as many as you wish."
“I promise, mea cara,” he groans, his hands tightening on you. “Oh—fuck—to see you round with my child, I’m—I’m going to—”
“Give me your seed,” you breathe. “Vir meus.”
You feel his body seize beneath you, struck through with the crash of pleasure. His mouth falls open on a broken breath as you tighten around him, both of you gasping against one another while your body clenches down, drawing him deeper still. The feeling of his spend filling you in thick warmth pulls a cry from your throat, the sensation cresting through you like a breaking wave until you are both trembling breathlessly together.
You sag over him, sweaty chest against sweaty chest, and hands stay on you, but they change, sliding from the rough hold of your hips to settle at the small of your back, keeping you against him as the two of you come down slowly from the height of your orgasms. You feel his chest lift hard beneath yours as he drags in deep lungfuls, your breath matching in tandem, hearts beating together until they settle.
You and Marcus leave that night.
He gives his orders quietly to the only two men he trusts to carry them. The legion will return home. No more men will die at his command. Word will travel back to Rome, where senators continue their shouting and scheming without the spilling the blood of any more soldiers.
But by the time those messages arrive, you are already gone.
