summary: Tommy says to Joel he should go to therapy, so he does. Little did he know, he starts fantasizing about his own psychiatrist, which he will discover has her own way to deal with his anger issues. Though at first, he thinks he would be the one in control.
tags & warnings: au no outbreak, smut, eventual sub Joel, dom reader, improper use of psychiatry/psychology degree (LMAO), more to be added
Chapter warnings: Masturbation.
Author's note: I thought about making a mini series of sub Joel, but I'll see if people are interested enough to see that!! Don't see sub Joel much around anymore so. And I guess I'm sick for dom sub dynamics...
wc: 5k
Tommy told him to try therapy. "People can't stand you anymore, with that attitude of yours," he'd said, annoyed because of something Joel had said, he said it like it wasn't the first time he had to mutter that line â and predictably, it ended in another fight, doors slammed, silence for a week after. Yes, even during work.
Joel knew it, deep down. He was insufferable in ways he couldn't always nameâŠsharp tongued, quick to cut, the kind of company people tolerated rather than sought out. It wasn't that he'd lost his friends, a handful still called, still showed up. But Tommy had made it clear, more than once, that he was running out of patience for the version of Joel that had been hardening for years. Something was changing for thr worst, slowly, without an obvious cause, or at least that's what he thought â the edges of him just kept sharpening instead of softening, and people always told him you become wiser, softer with age, not meaner.
The divorce didn't help. It had left him adrift in a sea of things he never talked about, treading water without knowing which direction led anywhere.
So one afternoon, walking the dog â the leash slack in his hand, the dog sniffing at something in the grass in no hurry â he passed a gold plaque with your name engraved on it, and something in him, tired of arguing with itself, just gave in. He did it lazily, detached, like someone forced him to. He typed your name into his phone, saved the contact before he could think better of it, found the studio's number online.
A man's voice picked up, in a brisk, professional tone he said, "How can I help?"
"Uh â can I get an appointment with the doctor?"
"Is this your first time seeing her?"
"Yes."
"One moment."
He heard the click of a mouse, and then: "I have a slot free tomorrow at four, actually. Does that work?"
"Sure. Last name's Miller," he added, already regretting his decision.
"Perfect. See you tomorrow."
The line went dead and just like that Joel stood there feeling like he'd done something monumentally stupid, something so pointless he nearly called back to cancel before he'd even hung up properly.
Annoyed with himself, he showed up the next day anyway. He pushed through the door of the practice and stopped just inside, thrown by how dark it was, darker thanhe expected. The walls bled from charcoal into burgundy into black, it wasâŠdefinitely moody. Wasn't a therapy office supposed to put you at ease? This one just made the back of his neck prickle.
The receptionist, at least, was warm. Young, sharply dressed, the kind of put together that made Joel self-conscious about his own clothes, he didn't pay much attention to how he dressed. Why would he anyway?
"Miller, right?" he said, smiling.
"Yeah. That's me," Joel murmured, hands shoved in his pockets.
"Give the doctor a few minutesâŠher last patient just left, she's finishing up some notes. She'll be right with you."
He gestured toward a row of chairs against the far wall, and Joel sat, trying not to think too hard about why his palms had gone damp. A strange knot was tightening in his stomach â a low, nagging why the hell did I agree to this. He hadn't even told Tommy he booked the appointment. It felt absurd, honestly, a man his age paying a stranger to sit and listen to his problems like that fixed anything.
"Miller?"
The voice pulled him out of the spiral.
"She's ready for you," the receptionist said, that same easy smile back on his face.
Joel got up, crossed to the door, and pushed it open. The office wasn't any brighter than the waiting room, he found the same heavy dark, same faint chill crawling under his skin, it felt as if the building itself hadn't gotten the memo about what a therapy practice was supposed to feel like.
You looked up from the papers on your desk.
"Welcome," you said, gesturing loosely toward the sofa across from you.
Joel gave a half smile and lowered himself onto it, the cushions sinking more than he expected.
"You can lie down, if that's more comfortable for you," you added, watching him settle.
Lie down? Jesus. He'd thought that only happened in movies.
"No, I'm good like this," he said, and his eyes drifted over you without quite meaning to, taking you in before he could stop himself.
Perfectly put together, composed. You wore black, a fitted blouse tucked into a pencil skirt, sleeves buttoned at the wrist even though the room was warm enough to make Joel want to shed his own jacket. No jewelry except a thin watch, a faint sweet but sophisticated scent he could catch. Exactly the kind of person you'd expect doing exactly this job.
"Well, why don't you introduce yourself," you said, not looking up from your notepad. "Name, age, why you're here."
Your voice was even, clipped, like you'd asked the same three questions a thousand times and stopped expecting anything interesting back.
Joel let out a breath, long and irritated. This whole thing was absolutely fucking ridiculous.
"Joel Miller," he muttered. "I'mâŠforty six. My brother thinks I need this." He looked somewhere past your shoulder, at the wall, trying not to meet your eyes. "Says I'm 'annoying.'" He hooked two fingers in the air around the word, like it was something he could physically discard.
"Do you think this is stupid?" You finally looked up.
Out of every question he'd braced for, this wasn't one of them, and it caught him off guard enough that he actually met your eyes. Your tone didn't help, flat, almost bored, he thought that his answer wouldn't move you either way.
"No," he said slowly. "I don't think it's stupid."
"Then what is it?"
"Is this an interrogation?" he snapped suddenly, sharper than he meant to. "I thought people justâŠtalked, here. About their problems."
You lifted an eyebrow and wrote something down without answering, the pen scratching against the paper. The sight of it, needled at something under his skin, and he couldn't have said why it made him this angry. Maybe it was the not knowing what you were writing. Maybe it was just that nobody had looked at him like that in years, this coldly. Not even his wife when they finally signed for the divorce.
"I just asked a question," you said evenly, leaning back into your armchair, unbothered, his irritation was something you already accounted for.
Fucking ridiculous. Again.
"I feel like this is bullshit," he admitted, finally, the words coming out before he could dress them up.
"Why?"
His jaw tightened. "Because I'm paying you to ask me questions like this is going to accomplish anything. Like you can justâŠunderstand me, in an hour."
"I understood enough," you said, unmoved. "You can't control your anger. That took one question."
"I can control it just fine."
You didn't answer that, just looked at him a beat too long, then went back to writing. What the hell is she even writing. He fought the urge to lean over and look.
"Tell me about your brother," you said instead. "What's your relationship like?"
It was, Joel thought, the first question that didn't feel like a trap, so he let himself answer it straight, without the edge.
"Tommy's my little brother," he said. "I think we're good. We work together, too."
You watched him say it, something unreadable passing behind your eyes.
But when he looked at you, something about it felt off. Not wrong, exactly, just off, in a way he couldn't quite name. Like you were hanging on every word he said, cataloguing it. It wasn't that you did anything strange, if anything, you were unnervingly composed, your expression barely shifting between questions. But there was something about you â how calm you were â that made him feel like he was being read rather than listened to. Fucking psychiatrists.
"Go on. I'm listening," you said, bringing a glass of water to your lips without breaking eye contact.
"We've had some pretty big fights over the years," Joel said, shifting on the sofa, "but I figure that's normal, between siblings. Like I saidâŠhe's the one who pushed for this. Says I've got shiâ" he caught himself "â things to work on."
"What do you think those things are?" You tilted your head slightly, and your pen began turning slowly between your fingers, an unconscious motion that that made Joel's eyes drop to your hands before he could stop them, and he lost the thread of his own thought for a second, watching the pen roll over your knuckles.
"I don't know," he admitted, dragging his gaze back up.
"I think you do," you said, almost gently, the pen still moving.
He didn't answer right away. He was still looking at your hands, at the small, precise motion of them, and it took him a second to realize he'd been staring long enough that it might've been obvious.
"What about relationships?" you asked, breaking the silence before it stretched too far.
"I'm divorced," he said, quieter now, his eyes finally finding somewhere else to land, the floor now. "Been about a year."
"Why did you divorce?"
"She hated me. I hated her. That's all there is to it."
When Joel lifted his eyes back to your face, your expression was different, and it unsettled him â something close to judgment, maybe, though he couldn't be sure. Weren't therapists supposed to be neutral about this stuff? Maybe that was just the shape your face took at rest, and he was reading into it out of pure paranoia.
You moved, crossing one leg over the other, and his eyes dropped there for a second too long before some distant, more rational part of his brain flagged it â wrong, don't, look away â and he dragged his gaze back up before you could've possibly noticed.
You said nothing. The silence stretched, you didn't try to fill it with a question again after he purposefully cut your question about his divorce.
"Is thereâŠanother question, or what?" he muttered, and hated how uncertain it came out, like he was being evaluated and failing.
"There's a lot of questions, always" you said, and something in your tone made him wish he hadn't asked.
Joel moved his weight again again, the leather of the sofa creaking under him, and looked at you.
"You're not going to tell me anything, are you." he said.
"Tell you what?"
"Whatever you're writing. What you're â " he gestured vaguely at the notepad, at you. "Concluding, or whatever it is you people do."
"You want to know what I think of you?"
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." You set the pen down, finally, and folded your hands instead, watching him with the same maddening stillness. "Is that important to you? What I think?"
"No," he said, too quickly, again. His fucking mouth apparently decided to stop consulting him.
"Okay," you said simply, didn't even try to challenge him on that, which for some reason felt worse than if you'd called him out on it.
He looked away first. Toward the window, the dark wall, he slowly got every detail of your office trying to look away from your face. The silence in the room was something he wasn't used to. Not the comfortable kind, like when you are at home alone or when you're just quiet with someone you trust, but something denser, it was waiting for him to fill it.
"This is the part where I'm supposed to keep talking, right," he muttered eventually. "Fill the silence."
"Only if you want to. You don't have to talk if you don't want to" you murmured, gentler than any of the sentences you have said until that moment.
"I don't." he admitted
"Then we can sit here, in silence."
And you did, you just sat there, perfectly at ease with it, while Joel found, to his own irritation, that he couldn't.
Joel's eyes drifted around the room again, now the shelf of books about psychology and neurosciences and the discomfort of it finally tipped over into something he couldn't sit with anymore.
"I think I'm gonna go," he said, already shifting his weight forward like he meant to stand.
"You've still got half an hour left," you said, not moving, not even looking up from your hands. "You sure you want to pay for the full hour and waste it like that?"
Joel looked at you. Something about the way you said it, to you his discomfort was mildly entertaining rather than something you felt any need to fix. This made him feel strange, exposed, irritated.
"I can't really talk if you're justâŠsitting there, saying nothing," he admitted, a little embarrassed, dragging a hand through his hair. Reluctant.
"Well," you said, tilting your head slightly, "earlier you told me this felt like an interrogation." you murmured in a quiet tease.
"That's different."
"Is it?"
Joel exhaled, sitting back down against his own better judgment. This was starting to get exhausting.
"You want me to ask you more questions, then?" you said, one eyebrow lifting slightly.
Joel nodded, not trusting himself to say it out loud.
"Fine." You picked the pen back up. "What do you do for work?"
"Construction. I run my own crew."
"How long?"
"Twelve years, maybe more."
"You like it?"
Joel shrugged. "It's fine."
"Do you have friends outside of your brother?"
"Some."
"Some? A close circle?" you murmured.
"Yeah. Some," he said again, jaw tightening slightly.
"When was the last time you cried?" you said suddenly, the question shocking him.
Joel blinked. "I don't know."
"Probably a long time ago, then."
"Who cares?"
"You should." you said, and let the pen rest against your bottom lip for a second, watching him not answer. "Are you seeing anyone?"
"No."
"Do you want to be?"
"Don't know, I don't care bout going on dates."
He was sure he caught amusement in your eyes while you started writing down something, again.
But then, the last ten minutes of the appointment, something morphed. Joel couldn't place exactly when, maybe when you leaned forward slightly to set the pen down, maybe when you recrossed your legs and he caught himself watching the movement a beat too long before forcing his eyes elsewhere.
"Do you like being looked at?" you asked, and the question was, well, weird.
"What?"
"When people look at you. Does it bother you? Do you like it?" Your tone hadn't changed, not really, but something underneath it had, it felt to him like the words were doing double duty, meaning one thing on the surface and something else just beneath it.
"I don't know," Joel said, and it came out rougher than he meant it to. "Depends who's looking, I guess."
"And right now?"
He didn't answer that one right away. His eyes had drifted, without his permission, to the line of your collarbone, the way your blouse sat against it, and he yanked his gaze back up so fast it almost gave him whiplash. Don't. Don't do that. She's your fucking therapist. The thought arrived too late, useless, already outpaced by whatever part of his brain had been looking in the first place.
"Right now I'm just trying to answer your question," he said, trying to escape whatever trap you were getting him into.
You almost smiled at his attempt, drinking your water one more time.
"Do you find it easy to be honest," you asked next, "or do you perform, mostly?" your eyes scanned him now, he was sure, his face, his chest, his jeans. It was borderline uncomfortable not knowing if you were judging him or just looking.
"Perform for who?"
"Whoever's watching." you said softly.
Joel felt something tighten low in his stomach that had nothing to do with anger, and he hated it instantly, hated that he couldn't tell if the question was about his brother, his ex-wife, or the two of you, sitting so close in a room that suddenly felt smaller than it had an hour ago.
"I don't know," he said again, getting irritated at his won short answers.
"These questions don't even make sense," Joel said finally, an edge creeping back into his voice, defensively. "Nobody could answer that. 'Do I perform.' What kind of â "
"Somebody could," you said simply, unbothered by the pushback, shifting slightly in your chair, just enough that the fabric of your blouse pulled taut for a second, just enough that his eyes dropped there before he could stop them. "You're just not used to being asked."
"That's not â " He lost the thread of his own sentence, eyes snapping back up, jaw tight, annoyed at himself more than at you.
"Not what?"
"Nothing."
You didn't respond for a moment, tilting your head, studying him again. But your eyes now met his. "You get uncomfortable when you don't have the answer ready. Have you noticed that?"
"I get uncomfortable because you keep asking things that don't have answers." he muttered irritated.
"Everything has an answer. Some people just don't like theirs."
You crossed your legs again, and Joel felt his own eyes start to drift there before he physically dragged it back up, furious at himself, at the room, at whatever was wrong with him in the last ten minutes that wasn't wrong an hour ago.
"Fine," he said, rougher than he meant to. "Ask me something with an answer, then."
"Okay." You leaned back, watching him with that same maddening patience. "When you looked at me a minute ago. What were you thinking?"
The question landed flat in his chest, and for one long, stupid second he actually considered answering it honestly, as if it would break whatever unsettling and feverish atmosphere started to fill the room, before some last working part of his brain slammed the door on it.
"Nothing," he said.
"Sure," you murmured. The clock on your desk clicked past the hour, and you set your notepad down.
"That's it for today," you said. Then, almost as an afterthought, though it clearly wasn't: "For next time â why don't you try losing control a little?"
Joel's head came up. "What?"
"You heard me." you stood up, smoothing your skirt.
"That's not⊠" he let out a short, disbelieving breath, "that's not even a real thing to ask someone. Lose control. How am I supposed to just â decide that?"
"You don't have to decide anything," you said, "You just have to do it."
"That's a nonsense request."
"No, it isn't." You held his gaze, but your tone, that was something else, velvety, secure, just enough to make the back of his neck go hot. "You'll know what I mean when you're there."
Joel stood too, perhaps too abruptly for what needed, "You're not gonna explain that?"
"No, I don't have to" you said simply, walking him toward the door, but when he got closer to you, still expecting for an answer you said something else. "Do you want to argue with me, Mr Miller?" you looked up at him.
He didn't answer right away. He just looked at you, jaw clenching, some inexplicable emotion running under his skin he didn't have a name for.
"No." he said finally.
"Then see you next week, have a nice weekend."
Joel walked out feeling strange, he barely managed a nod at the receptionist on his way past, the guy said something, "see you next week" or some version of it, and Joel just grunted, already halfway to the door.
Outside, the sunlight hit him like a slap, a hard white contrast to the dark he'd been sitting in for the last hour, and he stood there a second, letting his eyes adjust.
You were strange, he thought, walking now. The questions were strange too, especially the last ones. You were definitely mapping him, taking him into your own world, looking at him with eyes he couldn't quite read. And he'd been strange too, looking at you like that, more than once, he had no business looking at his own psychiatrist. You wereâŠhot.
It had been a while since he'd done that with anyone. Actually looked or noticed a woman. He couldn't remember the last time, couldn't pin down when exactly he stopped himself letting his body feel things.
He didn't understand what the hell had happened in there, not really, and he didn't try very hard to work it out standing on the sidewalk. He just raised a hand for a cab, climbed in when one pulled over, and gave the driver his address, staring out the window the whole ride home, turning the hour over in his head without landing anywhere useful.
The days after, he forced himself to forget about it. He didn't tell Tommy he'd made an appointment, didn't mention he'd be going back. He worked like always â up early, on site by seven, barking orders at his crew â and did his usual rounds of errands, groceries, taking care of his dog, nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing had really changed, if you asked him. Just this low buzz of confusion running under everything, did he really want your approval?
Then, the night before the next appointment, he took a shower, hot, trying to ease his mind. And somewhere in there, without meaning to, he thought of you. The black blouse, the way it had pulled tight for that one second. The skirt. Your hands around the pen.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered to himself, forehead against the tile, disgusted, mostly at himself. She's your therapist. What the hell is wrong with you.
He stayed under the water a while longer, willing the thought away, and when it wouldn't quite go, he shut the water off instead, toweled off too roughly, and yanked on a pair of pajama pants.
He got into bed, turned the TV on for the noise more than anything. Laying there his eyes were fixed on the screen, but his thoughts had completely untethered themselves, spiraling back to the last time he had seen you.
He couldn't stop, no matter how much he tried to force his gaze back to the screen. His mind kept fixating on the curve of your legs, the slow movement of your hands, the velvety cadence of your voice, and what you left him with: "Try to lose control."
He knew it wasn't right âit certainly wasn't normal to think like that of a session with his therapistâ but there was something about it being socially forbidden, or even taboo of it that it only fueled the fire. Before he could talk himself out of it, he realized he was getting hard just picturing the heels and the smooth sheer line of your dark stockings. The tension on his cock grew so intense it became almost uncomfortable, a rigid, aching erection throbbing under his pajama pants. And Joel tried to fight the urge, to think about it some longer, but it was useless. It just kept getting worse, like he had intrusive thoughts that he couldn't get rid of.
So, he slid a hand down to the crotch of his pants and began to rub himself through the fabric, desperate to relieve the overwhelming pressure building inside him.
He stared down at his own hand moving over the soft fabric of his grey pajama pants, the motion giving him pleasure was doing little to quiet the echo of your voice repeating in his mind. Swallowing hard, he slowly tugged the waistband down, letting the his tense cock snap back against his lower abdomen with a dull thud. He was almost shocked to see he was this hard.
Joel then wrapped his fingers firmly around the base of his shaft â calloused and worked from years of manual work â feeling the searing heat and the desire fueled pulse. He began to stroke himself with drags at first, slicking his skin with pre cum already leaking from his tip, as his knuckles brushed rhythmically against his stomach, his breathing getting already heavy.
A groan escaped his throat as his fist tightened around his hard flesh. He couldn't shake the image of your legs, taut beneath the sheer nylon, and the visual of it alone was driving his fist in every frantic stroke of his palm. Joel in the middle of giving himself pleasure, left space to a spike of irritation twisted together with the arousal. It pissed him off how cold and detached you were when you spoke to him, how easily you made him feel small and exposed in that chair. How stupidly shallow your questions where, the way you looked at him like he was nothing more than a stupid man sitting on his sofa and wasting his time.
Yet that exact resentment, the sharp sting of feeling so deeply uncomfortable around you, sent a violent surge of heat straight to his groin, fueling the slippery pace of his hand. His thumb smeared the thick beads of pre-cum that leaked again over his head, spreading the slickness as he pumped himself faster. His hips jerking up off the mattress with every harsh stroke, completely consumed by the thought of breaking that professional ice and taking control.
As his grip tightened, he felt himself getting closer to his own climax and for some reason unknown to him, he actually slowed down. Even if this all started like something he had to reluctantly take care off, even if at first he didn't want to think of you in this way, he was playing with his own orgasm, to give his pleasure filled mind some more time to savor his own fantasies.
As he slowed down and the climax was getting further away, the bitter edge of his frustration morphed into another vivid fantasy. He pictured pushing you back against that polished mahogany desk in your office, Joel imagined he wasn't sitting meekly in the patient's sofa anymore; he was leaning over you, his fingers digging into your shoulders as he unbuttoned that pristine blouse with zero patience, ripping the fabric open to expose your skin to the cool air.
His pacing quickened once against, stroking on his throbbing cock in a restless rhythm. How would your breast feel? He was pulsing just thinking about it. He imagined opening your skirt's zip, now looking at your legs covered in those smooth stockings, feeling the contrast of the sheer nylon under his rough palms.
He wanted to hear that composure break, he wanted to feel like he was more than some notes, to fuck you against your own desk, the thought of taking complete control, of forcing you to lose the very restraint you so casually preached, made his pulse roar in his ears. Every hard and slick drag of his palm against his throbbing erection matched the violent feverish imagery in his head, every stroke was him driving into you, making you nothing but a series of high moans that filled your office.
A rough, breathless whisper tore from his chest right as he reached the breaking point, his voice cracking into the silence of the room.
"Fuckâ" he rasped low. His hand clamped down hard over his cock as the first violent pulse hit, his hips jerking up off the mattress while his climax spilled hot across his thick fingers and bare stomach stomach. He lay there panting, his knuckles sticky and his breathing uneven, trying to find his lucidity again after the intensity of the delayed orgasm.
The sessions after the first one had each one following the same shape but somehow getting more feverish, sometimes normal, sometimes off.
"Do you think about the fact that you keep trying to control everything often?" you'd ask, and he'd say "No," and you'd write something down anyway.
"What do you imagine when you can't sleep?"
"Nothing," he'd lie.
Some weeks it was work, his brother, nothing questions with nothing answers, and he'd leave almost relieved.
Other weeks you'd ask something weird like: "Do you like being told what to do?" and he didn't know how to answer. With every session he found himself looking at you longer than he should, every single detail about your body, about the way you crossed your leg, about your blouse hanging so perfectly over your breast. Or how you looked at him, he was sure there was something about the way you sometimes would your eyes on his arms, or his hands, his legs.
He hated how much he noticed. He hated more that noticing had started to feel like the only part of the week he looked forward to. Each session your questions kept getting weirder, unsure if you wanted to undertand him and at the same time he stopped being sure whether he was still coming here to be understood, or just to be looked at by you for an hour, and told, in that same unbothered voice, exactly what was wrong with him.
And every time, after your appointments, Joel would take care of it, of what he was fantasizing about, just like that one night; little by little, he stopped feeling guilty about it. His mind was too occupied trying to imagine how you would look naked while he was stroking his cock, or how you would moan, whimper because of him, or how you would beg for more. Sometimes, he came way too fast, and that would embarrass him for about a minute while the post orgasm reality settled in.
Every session, you'd offer him something, close enough to an advice. A suggestion on how to sit with a thought instead of running from it. A way to notice himself getting defensive before he was three words into a sentence. He took it worse some weeks than others, but he took it, filed it away even when he complained about it out loud.
Then one day, something in him just snapped, he was not in a good mood, before you'd even finished the question.
"Your questions are fucking useless. I don't need all of this." he said, cutting you off mid-sentence.
You set the pen down, studying him for a second before you spoke. "But you still come here so I can tell you how to fix your problems?"
"Yes," he said, too fast, too loud for the size of the room, irritation bleeding into every syllable. "Isn't that the whole fucking point of this?"
You stood up, and that was not something he expected since the hour was far from passed, and walked right to him. You stepped directly into the space between his spread legs, and Joel looked up to you, totally confused and strangely anticipating what was about to happen.
But then, you took his jaw firmly in your hand, you tilted his face up to force his eyes to meet yours and you leaned close, hissing, "Then why the fuck don't you listen to me?"
Joel's mind became mush, it scrambled, he wasn't sure why. His pulse was hammering with you between his legs, and as he looked into your eyes, he couldn't help but feel his pants growing tighter.
author's note: if you liked it let me know!! second part is already vivid in my mind aaaaaaa
summary: After one deeply awkward encounter with a stranger on the subway, you find out he is your newâand incredibly hotâliterature professor. Your relationship quickly becomes filled with twisted sexual encounters, something you realize you need more and more. Before long, you are trapped in a web of feelings for a man who is completely cold, detached, and â above all â married. Sex always finds its way to make things complicated.
tags & warnings: au college, original characters, Joel is nasty rich, cheating, masturbation, power imbalance, oral sex, BDSM, piv, semi-public sex, verbal humiliation, degradation, spanking, emotional manipulation, Joel is MEAN, choking, Dom/Sub, rough sex, violent sex, orgasm control, orgasm denial, face slapping, brat taming, bondage, hate sex, drunk sex, praise kink, porn with plot, whipping, angst, no aftercare, slow romance build, avoidant attachment, emotional hurt, Joel is BAD at feelings, angst/comfort.
if you want to be added to the tag list, let me know!
đđđđ đđđđđđđđđ MASTERLIST
RATING
Explicit (18+ only)
PAIRING
Harry Castillo x Female Reader (nicknamed âEveâ)
FORMAT & SETTING
Third Person POV & Post-Materialists AU
WORD COUNT PER CHAPTER
approx. 10k+
STATUS
Ongoing
SUMMARY
One honourable thief. One smitten billionaire. One stolen emerald ring. One simple con. And one very inconvenient attraction.
Sheâs made a life out of stealing from men like Harry Castilloâinfluential, arrogant, freshly tailored to fuck and wealthy enough to believe they control the game. But when a diamond heist turns into a filthy rendezvous in a penthouse suite, her night gets complicated fast. See, Harry mightâve come undone under her, but heâs not done playing with her. Now, her biggest crapshoot isnât the con⊠itâs falling for the man sheâs robbing blind.
Harry Castillo, powerbroker, fellow materialist, and her latest target, knows exactly what she looks like when sheâs ravaging him, precisely how adept she is at lifting family heirlooms, and thus starts off one illegal beginning to a cat-and-mouse match soaked in sex, extortion, and gloated with more money than sense.
Love, lies, larcenyâall before sunrise. The state of play: he chases, she runs, they deceive. And someone always comes out on top (and sometimes that's quite literal.) Easy peasy, right?
INDEX
DEAR DESPERADO
GOOD GIRL GONE BAD
CUNNING LINGUIST
PRETTY RICH PUSSY
DICKMATIZED
THE SLOW BANG
BOOTY CALL
BONER QUEEN
SLUTSHAMER
FUCK THE RICH
ONCE MORE
READING STYLE QUERIES (a little ask from an anon that I figured people should know it's important!)
TAGS
ROMCOM, billionaire!harry castillo x thief!reader, how materialist should've treated Harry, one Pedro boy conned per chapter, New York being New York, laugh-out-loud humour, quips, banter, powerplay, biblical references, reader is a sexy, bad bitch, harry is disgustingly rich with a big dick that's what, questionable age gap, luxury brand and pop culture references, witty repartee, cat-and-mouse dynamics.
CONTENT WARNINGS
smut from the get go woohoo (p in v, oral - female and male recieving, and everything in between), explicit language, discussions on poverty, sexism, social prejudice, glass ceiling, toxic masculinity, abuse of power, substance abuse, materialism.
Dark fic â please mind the warnings and skip if itâs 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 couldnât give you an heir, but the general-the one whoâs watched, wanted, and would burn the Empire to put one in you, calls you peccatum dulce, the sweetest sin heâd 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 @tateypotsâ 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 đ If you havenât checked out her fics yet, youâre missing out, go check them!
ao3 link - angel's masterlist
some sins are sweeter when theyâre 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.Â
That was the problem. Rome took what it wanted the same way it always had â 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 â 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 haveâfailed 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 â 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 â 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 Romeâs ugliest truths were spoken aloud.
âThey say she sleeps alone,â one of the legionaries snorted, leaning back against the stone wall.
âWhat kind of emperor leaves his own bed cold?â
âThey say he doesnât share his chamber with her at all.â
âThen who does?â another snorted.
A pause. A look exchanged.
âNot women,â someone muttered.
Laughter followed; uneasy, sharp-edged.
âFunny how his concubines see more of him than his own wife.â
âGods above. Imagine that. An Empress untouched.â
Another scoffed.
âUntouched by her husband, you mean.â
A third voice chimed in, uglier, louder.
âIf she were mine,â he said with a grin, âIâd never leave the space between her legs.â
The laughter came first â then the sighs, slow and hungry.
âMaybe he cannot,â someone else scoffed. âAll that power, all that gold⊠and still not man enough.â
âSeems like our Empress deserves a true manâs cock,â he said, grabbing his own balls in a joking gesture.
They laughed harder at that.
Another legionary chimed in, mockingly thoughtful. âYou ever see a fruit kept too long out of reach?â He chuckled. âMakes you wonder how sweet she must taste.â
More laughter â low, ugly, unchecked.
That was when the air changed.
Marcus had not spoken.
The men noticed too late â the sudden silence, the way the sound seemed to die in their throats.
âGeneralââ 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 generalâs command â 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 â eyes cold, voice low.
âSpeak of her again,â he said, calm as a drawn blade, âand I will bury you beside him.â
No one doubted him.
YOU
The palace was quiet, but the quiet offered no comfort.
It only gave your thoughts room to breathe â 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 werenât 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 didnât 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 didnât 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. Romeâs future rested on your shoulders. Becoming Empress was an honor few women were ever given.Â
Do not forget what you owe the city. Do not shame me. Do not stain our name.
He had been a legatus once â 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.Â
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 â and there was no heir.
The Senateâs concern had become Romeâs 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.Â
Women bore the shame.Â
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 â not at first â 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 matterâwhere 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 aliveâthat 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 recklessâperhaps even suicidalâbut 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 cityâs reach â 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.Â
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 â 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.
âThis is not recklessness, Your Highness,â she said, fastening the last pin with steady hands. âIt is survival.â
You didnât answer. You didnât 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.
âA gladiator is the cleanest choice,â she continued, as if weighing grain or silver. âHis body is not his own. It never was.â A pause. âAnd the arena will take him soon enough. There will be no witness left to trouble you.â
She met your eyes then â unafraid, certain.
âFor a man like that, being chosen by a noblewoman is not shame,â she said softly. âIt is reward. A memory he will carry like armor.â Her mouth curved, just barely. âIf he survives long enough to remember it.â
Your throat tightened.
âHe will not refuse,â she added. âWhy would he? One night in a womanâs bed is more than most of them are ever given.â She adjusted your tunic, reverent now. âHe will not know who you are,â she said quietly, as if this were the simplest thing in the world. âOnly that you are a matron of rank. Nothing more.â
A memory he will carry like armorâŠ
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. âVery well,â you said at last; the words leaving your lips like an order that would shape the rest of your life. âBring the gladiator to the chamber at once..â
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 corridorsâmusic 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 â the best courtesans, the youngest and most beautiful, each one a temptation perfectly honed for eyes that lingered.
Some of Marcusâ 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 â 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 â 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. Jupiterâs 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 â quick, restrained, unmistakable â 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 submissionânever thatâbut 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 featuresâbrief, 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 downâjust 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 â amid cheers, laughter, and the thunder of Romeâs approval â 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 armâs reach of one another â banquets, ceremonies, the Colosseum, victory feasts â 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 â cut, torn, soaked through â 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 â restrained, careful â 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 â close enough to feel, real, breathing â 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 â 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 â 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 â 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 â 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. âAllow me to pleasure you, General,â 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.
Marcusâs hand shot up, fingers tangling in her hair, yanking her back with brutal efficiency. Not cruel â controlled. Final.
âNo,â he growled. âNot tonight.â
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 â 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.
âGeneral, sir.â
He did not turn. âLeave me.â
âSir â it concerns the Empress.â
He spun so fast the man flinched, stumbling back a step.
Marcusâs gaze was a blade. Cold. Focused. Lethal.
The legionary swallowed hard and leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. The words reached Marcusâs ear; and the world seemed to stop.
His eyes widened.
His heartbeat slammed against his ribs.
Blood no longer coursed through his veins â 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 â 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 â 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 â 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 â 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 â 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 â 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 â spilling him across the marble, taking you while your husbandâs 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 â 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 â torches, walls, shadows â 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 quietedâŠ
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 â breath held, instincts flaring all at once.
Agrippa Varro, the villaâs owner, stepped forward before sense could stop him. His wifeâs 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 â rage held in check by iron discipline.
âGeneral,â 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.
âWhere is she?â he asked.
Nothing more.
They knew who he meant.
They did not know how he knew â and none of them dared ask.
Marcus turned slightly, his voice cold and precise. âSeal the villa,â he said. âNo one leaves. No one enters. If I see a single unfamiliar face after this moment, I will assume it is an enemy.â
That was enough.
Agrippa stiffened. He exchanged a stunned glance with his wife â a silent, frantic question passing between them. This was not what they had expected. They had thought Marcus would demand explanations, invoke the Emperorâs 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 â 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 â 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. Marcusâs hand closed around the mask â not ripping it away, but gripping it firmly, deliberately, asserting ownership with the smallest motion.
âTake him,â Marcus said, voice low and absolute. âReturn him to his cell.â
The slaves hesitated, caught between their loyalty to their empress and the fear of the man - the general - standing before them.Â
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 handâheavy and cold.Â
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.Â
âYou,â he said calmly, lifting his hand, waving in a gesture. âCome here. Help me take off my armor.â
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 â 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 brewâs 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 â quietly, without humor. Love. Fertility. Desire. The goddess Rome pretended ruled womenâs 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 â 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 â 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 â 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 â and froze.
Voices. Footsteps.
Too soon.
You hadnât given the signal.
Your slaveâs head snapped toward the door, tension rippling through her body. The room felt suddenly smaller, the air too tight. You hesitated â 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 â 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 â 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.
âYou will not approach the lady unless she permits it.â
He did not even look at her.
He shoved her aside with one efficient motion â not violent, not gentle. As if she were simply in the way.
Your breath caught, sharp and instinctive.
âStop,â you commanded, voice firm despite the tremor beneath it.
He didnât.
His eyes never left you.
Your slave rushed forward again â and this time, he caught her by the throat. Not crushing. Just enough. Enough to make the room lock in place.
Shock hit you. âEnough!â Your voice cut through the room. âDo you even know what you do? Who you presume yourself to be?â you demanded, anger flaring.
He released her with a shove and straightened.
âLeave,â he said.
The voice came from behind the mask â low, controlled.
Something in it struck you like a memory you hadnât known you were keeping. You had heard that voice before. Across marble halls. Over the roar of crowds. Calm amid blood and ceremony alike.
âAll of you. Leave us. Now.â
Your heart stuttered. âThatâs not possible,â 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 â familiar, burning, unmistakable.
Shock slammed through you, and you instinctively stumbled back, heart hammering. âGeneral Acacius,â you breathed, voice trembling.
The room tilted.
Without taking his eyes off you, he barked, âOut! Now!â
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 â 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 â 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.
âH-how? You shouldnât be here,â you said hoarsely.
âI could say the same of you, your highness,â 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 didnât 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 heâd 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 â unmasked, unguarded â had cost him something he hadnât meant to give.
Instinctively, he leaned closer.
Not enough to touch.
Enough to threaten it.
His attention dipped â briefly, deliberately â 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.
âThis was a mistake,â you said, the words tight, fragile.
His thumb remained beneath your chin, unyielding.
âIt would have been,â he replied quietly, eyes never leaving yours, âif I hadnât come.â
You tried to pull away. He didnât let you. âWhat- Let go of me.â
âYouâre tired of being treated like an object,â he growled. âAnd yet⊠here you are. Playing with fire, little Empress⊠do you not understand what you risk?â
How dare he.
âYou wouldnât understand,â you snapped. âIf youâre here to lecture me on honorââ
âI understand perfectly,â he said. âI didnât come here to lecture you or protect your husbandâs honor. Or your fatherâs.â
âThen why?â you demanded.
He released you.
âBecause what you desire,â he said slowly, eyes fixed on your face, unblinking, âyou shall never receive from one unworthy of you.â
Your breath caught. You could scarcely believe your ears â that he would suggest such a thing.
âI am not letting you give yourself to a man who will forget you before dawn.â
The words landed like a blow.
âAcaciusââ Your hand rose to your chest as you stepped back. âHowâ whyâno.â
He surged forward, presence overwhelming, breath warm against your skin.Â
Not kind. Not gentle. Predatory.
âYou still donât see it,â he said, voice dark with fury and something far more dangerous beneath it.
âI have burned for you,â he continued, each word forged tight with restraint. âFor years. In my thoughts. In my sleep. In every battle, it was your face that kept me standing.â Your eyes widened, disbelief clawing at your mind, your ears betraying you. âAnd you dare think,â he went on, quiet but vicious, voice like steel coiled around fire, âthat 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?â Your breath shuddered. âAnd gods help me,â he added, jaw clenched, âas if I would ever allow that.â
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 â answering his fury with a treacherous spark of want.
And that frightened you more than anything else.
His hands came to your shoulders â firm, unyielding â halting you where you stood. He forced you to look at him.
âHow could you lower yourself so?â he asked quietly. Not shouting. Judgment was colder than fury. âHow could you make yourself lesser than what you are?â
âWhat is this insolenceââ you began.
âInsolence?â His mouth twisted, humorless. âAnd what of your audacity?â
Your heart thundered. âYou speak as thoughââ Your voice wavered. âDo you claim an attachment to me beyond duty?â Your eyes searched his. âIs this love, then⊠General?â
A sound escaped him, not laughter, but close enough to mock it. âLove?â he echoed softly. âA small word. A thin one.â
His grip shifted. One hand rose, pushing your hair back to bare your throat. His palm settled there â possessive, overwhelming by its sheer weight alone. âDo not profane what I bear by naming it love,â 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.
âI have imagined this,â he confessed quietly. âMy hands upon you. Your composure breaking. Your will bending.â
âStop,â you whispered. âPlease."
âYou tremble,â he observed calmly. âGood.â
His large hand closed around your throatânot 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.
âAcacius,â you gasped. âYouâre hurting me.â
His head tilted, eyes intent, studying you like a creature caught between fear and the instinct to run.
âThis,â he said quietly, tightening just enough to make his meaning clear, âis restraint.â
Then â slowly, deliberately â he released you.
âThis ends here.â The instant his hold loosened, you turned and moved for the door â swift, desperate, unthinking.Â
He caught you with ease from behind. âWe havenât even begun.â He growled, pulling you hard against him, his arms locking around you from the back. You struggled, twisting, trying to break free â but it was impossible.
Gods, this was wrong.
All of it was wrong.
âYâYouâŠâ Your voice faltered. âI⊠we canât. my husband trusts you. If this is ever heardââ
He cut you off without raising his voice.
âCurse your husband,â he said. âAbi in infernum. (Let him burn.)"
The vulgarity of his words shocked you â the sheer irreverence of it â 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 â rough, unmistakably male â 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 â 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 didnât even flinch.
âLet go â Acacius, pleaseââ
His breath grazed your ear, low and steady, but with a sharp edge hidden underneath.
âResist me once more," he whispered, his voice low and edged with steel,
âand I will drag you into the atrium. I will have you there. Before my men, before Agrippa and his wife, before the slaves.â
You froze completely. âDonât,â you breathed, the word barely more than air. âPlease⊠do not.â
âThen be still,â 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.
âThis can be something we both enjoyâŠâ he said, voice velvet and venom, â...or it can be just for me. But either way â youâre not getting away. Decide.â
His hand found the back of your tunic, fisting the fabric without hesitation.
The cloth tore from your shoulders in one brutal motionâthe gold-chained garment draped across your back giving way all at once. Something snappedâa delicate chain, perhapsâand a rain of jeweled ornaments scattered across the floor, clattering sharply.
âIâve wanted you for a long time,â he said, his voice thick, deliberate. âYou have lived in my thoughts,â he admitted. âIn ways the gods would condemn.â
A breath.
âNow... you're mine to cherish.â
Another pause.
âAnd to ruin, if I choose.â
He pulled the silk from your shivering body slowly â 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 wasnât meant for anyone else but him.
His hands â calloused from war, scarred from blade and bone â 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 hadnât 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 â slow, deliberate, not wandering but learning, as if committing the shape of you to memory.
âSoft,â he murmured, almost to himself. âAs I imagined.â
His touch rose, restrained yet inevitable â tracing your back, your shoulders, his fingers brushing the line of your collarbones with a strange reverence, like a prayer unwrapped rather than spoken.
âHe does not deserve this,â he whispered.
He leaned closer, his breath warming your jaw, close enough that you felt it without daring to turn.
âYou were never his.â
His fingers went to the knot at his hip.
Unhurried. Deliberate.
The subligaculum (a kind of underwear)Â 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 â 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 â 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 â not in amusement, but in something colder.
âTell me,â he said, almost idly, âthe man you call husband⊠does he even touch you now? He canât give you what you need, can he?â
You stiffened, spine straightening despite yourself.
âDo not speak of him with such disrespect,â you said sharply.
He gave a short, incredulous laugh, sharp as a blade.
âHow loyal. So dutiful,â he added, voice dark with contempt. âSo Roman.â
His eyes flicked toward you, catching your movement â 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 â not a smile, but something sharper, crueler, predatory.
âYet here you are,â he continued, voice low, dripping with scorn. âSneaking off to a borrowed villa. Choosing a gladiator to do what your precious⊠husband cannot.â
Your chest tightened. âThatâs notââ
His tone snapped. âYou wanted him to put an heir in you.â
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 â and your throat went dry.
âLike what you see, my Empress?â
He leaned in, forcing your chin up with two fingers.
âIâm willing to bet,â he said, voice rough with satisfaction, âthat whatever you endured in that cold bed of yours never came close to this.â
You swallowed. Hard.
He smiled then â slow, predatory.
âThatâs what I thought.â
His grip in your hair tightened just enough to sting.
âTurn not your eyes,â he growled. âThere is no retreat now â not that you would want one.â
Your eyes dropped again â and this time, you couldnât stop the sound that escaped.
âOh godsâŠâ
Marcus stilled. Then, slowly, deliberately, he tilted your chin up.
His mouth was a breath away from yours when he whispered:
âForget your gods. They canât hear you now.â
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.Â
It stole your vision. Your thoughts.
You barely registered the generalâs 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 wasnât the first time youâd seen a manâs penisâŠ
But this?
Even believing it was real strained the limits of your mind.
Marcus stood before you without shame, without hesitation â 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 â 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 hadnât 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.
Thenâ
Fingers in your hair.
Firm.
Unforgiving.
âYouâve made me wait long enough,â Marcus growled. He tilted your face up, the heat in his eyes enough to scorch you from the inside out. âDonât pretend you donât want this now.â
Your heart pounded. You shouldâve pulled back. Shouldâve spoken. Shouldâve 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: âBe a good girl now, regina mea.(my queen)â
His grip turned unforgiving as he guided you forward, stealing your breath as he forced you to take him â relentless, claiming, leaving no room for hesitation.Â
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 manâs 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.Â
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.Â
A low, guttural sound tore from Marcusâs chest; something feral, raw and you didnât know why it made your own chest tighten the way it did. But it did.Â
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 couldnât 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.Â
This was unreal.
You â 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 â you didnât care.
Not about titles.
Not about appearances.
Not even about the husband who hadnât touched you in months.
All you could feel was the heat curling low in your belly. The ache. The burning awareness of how long youâd gone without being wanted like this.
You were shaking â 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 â 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 â at the absence, the shock, the unbearable heat still coiled low in your belly.
Saliva clung to your lips â slick, messy, warm with the unmistakable blend of your spit and his precum â trailing down the corner of your mouth in a slow, shameful line. Your chest heaved, rapid and uneven, rising with every shallow breath you couldnât quite catch.
âThis wet,â he murmured, reaching for your hand, observing your soaked fingers. âJust from sucking my cock?â His thumb circled over the mess, slow and cruel. âSo eager,â he mused darkly, âand yet so unfulfilled.â He leaned in, voice brushing your ear like a blade.
âIs this how royalty trembles? From the taste of a man made of war?â
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. âYou needy little whore.â You opened your mouth to speak â maybe to deny, maybe to beg â but he brought your fingers to his lips first. And sucked. A low growl rumbled in his chest.
âSweeter than honey,â he muttered against your skin â but there was no reverence in it. Only hunger.
His hand tightened suddenly around your waist, and before you could speak â even breathe â 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 didnât even glance at you.
His voice, when it came, was lower than before. Rougher.
âIâll carve my legacy into your womb, seed by seed, until there is no part of you untouched by me.â
Then he leaned in, lips brushing your ear, voice a slow venom.
âBut first⊠I want the source.â
A pause. A breath. A cruel smile.
âYou think Iâd be satisfied with a little taste?â
Another growl â deeper now.
âI want to drown in it.â
And with that, he threw you onto the bed â 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.
âLetâs see,â he rasped, his hungry eyes trailing down your body. âIf the rest of you tastes as good as your shame, regina mea.â
It wasnât just a word â 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 ironâtight grip left you rooted in place, your legs locking in tension.
He smacked the side of your thigh, hard and sudden. âWould you have me drag you to the atrium?â he thundered, his voice low and commanding, vibrating with fury. You swallowed hard, shaking your head. âThen be still, and resist me not,â 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 reachâfar for you to graspâso 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 hadnât 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.. âDo not dare to silence yourself,â he growled. âFind your voice,â he said. âLet 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. âOoooohhhh! Please!â You screamed, âOh gods, oh gods!âÂ
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.
Marcusâs grip tightened, followed by a sharp blow on your arse that tore a cry from you, digging his thick fingers deep into your core.Â
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 wasnât only yours at the sweet violence of your response, your body bucking and your wetness on his lips and chin. âRather sweet,â 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. Itâs 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 hungerâand 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 rhythmâa 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.Â
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 wasnât 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.Â
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 longâdeprived 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 youâforced though it wasâhad filled you with an overwhelming, undeniable delight.
Marcus sit up on the bed and lifted his hand, crooking two fingers in a silent summons. âRise,â he said. âCome closer.â
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 onâeach 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 breathâand for the first time in your life, a manâs 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 beforeâhow dangerously compelling they were, how they promised not tenderness, but conquest?
âClean it,â 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. âUse that pretty tongue of yours,â he murmured darkly. âTaste 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 himâno, you needed toâand the realization unfurled inside you, inescapable, undoing you far more than his touch ever had.Â
âAcacius,â 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 tongueâeloquent 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 unkindlyâbut decisively.
âNo,â 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 backâcontrol 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 youâthat single, deliberate refusalâhad left a sharp edge of anger beneath your skin. Still, you would not look desperate. You would not look like a supplicant.
âYou taste better with wine,â 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.â
You lowered your gaze at once.
âDamn fool,â he snarled. âSuch a crime to leave such ambrosia untasted. Ah, regina mea, I could drink of your cunt forever and never be thirsty,â 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. âDoes the general,â you asked, voice cold, measured, ânever kiss the whores he fucks?â
For a single heartbeat, your question struck its mark. The man who had been all hunger and shadow faltered, something unreadable flashing across his faceâcornered, 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.
âYou presume too much.â He laughedâlow, unbothered, almost amused. His eyes slid over you slowly before lifting to meet yours, draining the cup in one swallow. âBesides, I havenât fucked you yet.â As he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes never left youâstill 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.Â
Your eyes betrayed you, lingering where they should notâon 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 innocenceâan 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 experienceâthe 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 didnât know any better, you couldâve 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 admitâyou 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. Wasnât it?
âSo,â Marcus asked, a slow, taunting curve to his mouth, âyou wish to be kissed, do you?â His gaze held yours, dark and knowing. âBy the very man you were trying to flee from only moments ago?â
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. Marcusâs hand came up, slapped your cunt, drawing a sharp squeak from you before you could stop it. âAnswer me,â he growled.
âYesââ you cried, the word tearing free before you could stop it. âYes, I wish you to kiss me,â you breathed, your body arching beneath him, caught between need and surrender.
He grinned, a slow, predatory curve to his lips. âThen,â he said, voice low and sharp, âyouâll have to earn it.â
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 smileâ right before slamming the rest of his length in with one vicious thrust.Â
âOh GODS!â 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.Â
A sharp, surprised grunt left him, taken aback by just how tight you were. Your grip on him was like a pythonâs, 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 intoxicatingâyou felt divine. His eyes darkened, pupils dilating, every fiber of him alive with sensation. He had never felt this way with any woman beforeânot even close.Â
For a heartbeat, the predator faltered, undone by the inevitability of your hold. Yet almost instantly, he recoveredâlips 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. âAhhhh...oohhh...Gods!"
His big hand wrapped around your throat, slapping your arse with the other, âNot your gods⊠youâll scream my name,â 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 werenât enough to stop himâif 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 lipsânoises 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.Â
Marcus treated you more like a shameless filthy whore than a womanâor, hell, even a human at that. Yet the very idea of being fucked this way didnât feel as shocking or unappealing as you had first imagined.
For a moment, the pleasure threatened to overwhelm you, and you squeezed your eyes shutâbut his hand on your neck shook you insistently.
âLook at me,â he commanded, and you obeyed, meeting his dark, unyielding gaze as your bodies moved together.
âNow⊠scream my name.â
He thrust again, harder, more brutal this time. You gasped, trying to resist, but the sound escaped anyway, âMarcus!â
Every soul in the atriumâand likely throughout the villaâmust have heard you. In that instant, you understood exactly what he had meant when he said âearn it.â
He thrust once more. âLouder. Declare me⊠in full..â
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, âMarcus! Justus! Acacius!â
A dark, satisfied laugh escaped him, thick with possession and hunger.
âWell done⊠let everyone know who claims you. Let them hear who fucks you,â he growled, eyes blazing, every muscle in his body taut with the knowledge that you were hisâclaimed, 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 hadnât known heâd 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.
âMarcus! W-Wait!â you cried, eyes wide at his resumed thrusting. âI-I'm stillâhave mercy, please!â
You couldnât 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; Marcusâs 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 didnât 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 wasnât.
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 softâperhaps a pillowâso 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 himâby 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 â 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 couldnât 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 formâyet 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 generalâs thick seed. He pressed your body down against the pillow beneath your hips, lifting your rear high, angling you perfectlyâas 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 completelyâan exquisite fullness.
âI know why you didnât want to kiss me,â you breathed, chest rising and falling beneath his arms as he held you tightly. His eyes, still misted from climax, sharpened on you. âBecause thereâs a saying,â you breathed, voice trembling, âthat the bond of love is sealed on the lipsâosculum vinculum amoris est. You fear realizing youâre in love with me, and prefer to surrender to desire instead⊠donât you, General?"
He smirked. âAh⊠clever little empress. Speaking of lips and loveâdaring to have me confess to something that does not exist, testing me, even while you lie beneath me.â
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 itâknew it instinctivelyâas 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 achingâwhile 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. âDo not move,â he said, already rising.
You could not have moved even if you wished toâyour 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 skinâfaint 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. âIf you do not kiss me now,â you said quietly, unable to hide the hope in your voice, âyou may never have another chance, General.â
He was already reaching for his garment, the distance returning with every movement. The moment he left the chamber, he would be unreachable againâso you pressed on, hopeful and daring all at once.
Despite your exhaustion, you smiled, a quiet challenge in your eyes. âEven if you were to seize the chance,â you said softly, testing him, âdo not imagine I would make it easy for you.â
He paused at the door, glancing back with a slow, knowing smile. As if you werenât already mine,â he drawled. âTell 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 skinâwhile his final words seemed to echo in the quiet, lingering as insistently as he did.
You knew you would see him againâat 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 wifeâan ornament of Rome, a symbol, a possession.
Yet your body, your longing, even your heart, belonged elsewhere. They belonged to himâquietly, 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.
Joel Miller x f!reader | Frankie Morales x f!reader
Summary: you have a hot boyfriend and a hot ex whoâs still obsessed with you. Why not get the best of both worlds?
Tw: 18+ mdni, smut, darkish!reader, toxic!reader, boyfriend!Joel, ex who desperately wants you back!Frankie, soft!Frankie, infidelity (readerâs), praise kink, size kink, unprotected piv, creampie, handjob, m!oral, pussy eating, cum eating, f!masturbation, stalking (reader loves it), voyeurism, exhibitionism, swearing, dirty talk, pet names princesa-princess, mi amor- my love. Reader wears a dress. Pics are for the mood only, reader has no specific physical descriptions.
A/n: I have no excuse for this one. I donât know why I look at our baby Frankie and want to do all this. Iâm not sorry though, itâs hot to me and also fictionalđ the titleâs inspired by the song âIâm goinâ downâ by Mary J. Blige and Frankieâs special talentđ Happy Frankie Friday, my loves!đ
Written for @burntheedges âs roll-a-trope challenge - my trope was Exes. Thank you for the fun event, Kateâ€ïž Kisses to wonderful @milla-frenchy for beta-ing this filthđ dividers by @saradika-graphics
Prequel - OBSESSED || Frankie Morales ML || MASTERLIST
You are looking out of the window at the night street, illuminated by a few golden lights, when you feel Joelâs heavy hands on your hips and then his lips plant a kiss on your neck from behind.
âLetâs go to bed,â he mumbles, his gruff voice coated with lust.
âNo, fuck me right here.â
He smiles against your neck.
âReally? Want the neighbors to see us, dirty girl?â
âYeah. Neighbors,â you smirk, not tearing your eyes from the car parked outside your apartment building. Your exâs Pickup.
Joel pierces you with his big stiff cock and before you start moaning like a whore, you open the window a little so you two can not only be visible, but also perfectly heard from the street. Cool autumn air hits your heated face and your nipples get hard under your thin dress.
"Oh yeah, Joel! Harder!" you cry out, reveling in the way he's dragging his huge manhood in and out your channel. You're taking it like a good girl-always wet and tight for your boyfriend's cock.
Your fingers swiftly pull down your neckline, exposing your bouncing tits to whoever might look through your window. And you're sure that someone is looking.
Not knowing about your sick game, Joel is grunting loudly, thrusting deep and hard into you, your back flush with his broad chest. Heâs rubbing his stubble against your neck, then your cheek until you turn your face to him and your lips lock in a sloppy and passionate kiss, while heâs holding you close, drawing pleasure from your tight pussy.
Joelâs hand snakes under your dress and having found your naked cunt, begins swirling your clit between two thick fingers. You part from his mouth, whimpering loudly.
âYeah, baby! Let âem hear what a slut you are for me. Getting fucked in front of the whole neighborhood.â
His words push you over the edge and you come on his cock, crying out from pleasure. You donât fake it. There is no need. He is that good.
Joel follows you soon and shoots his thick warm cum into your pulsating core. When he stills and pulls out, you hastily fix your dress and grab your dogâs leash.
âIâll walk Tom.â You kiss Joel with tongue and leave the apartment, leaking your boyfriendâs load with every move.
When you step out into the night, you walk along the street a few meters and tie your dog to a street pole. On your legs, trembling from the hard orgasm, you saunter to your exâs truck.
The passenger door is already open for you when you reach it and you get in, feeling cold air lap at your pussy, coated in Joelâs cum.
A pair of beautiful kicked puppy eyes greet you there and you turn slightly in your seat to see your ex better in the dark car.
Frankieâs wearing a denim shirt, dark blue jeans and his favorite baseball cap that you always hated for hiding his gorgeous curls. He looks the same as the day you left him. Maybe the bags under his eyes are darker but it could be the poor lighting at fault.
âWhat are you doing here, Frankie?â Your voice is soft and calm, with a pinch of sadness thrown in for his sake.
The man nervously fixes his cap and glances at you from the side, like a guilty dog. He clears his throat and lies,
â âm checking on you.â
His velvety voice caresses your ear, itâs soft like everything about his character. He starts chewing on his lip while his eyes are staring into the darkness ahead of him.
âNo, youâre stalking me, baby. I see your Pickup everywhere I go. Near my work last week. I spotted you at the bar today. And now youâre here⊠spying on me through the window.â
He proves that he watched your little show when he spreads his thighs wider and bucks his hips, unwillingly attracting your attention to his big bulge. You both are quiet for a few moments.
âI miss you,â he finally admits, turning to you. His eyes are sad and sappy and you should feel sorry, bad or at least sympathetic but the overwhelming feeling in your heart is a triumph. Heâs not over you. Youâre the best heâs ever had and he desperately wants you back.
Youâve been feeling elated lately when you noticed Frankie stalking you. Itâs been fun playing with him and you donât plan on stopping. You pull your brows together and coo,
âI understand, baby, but you canât keep coming here. Joelâs a jealous type. I donât want any problems.â
While youâre talking, Frankieâs nodding along, eyes downcast. You place your hand on his shoulder and give it a comforting squeeze. His own big paw flies to yours and after bringing it to his mouth, he presses his lips to your palm. Your heart flutters at his need for you and your pussy tingles when you remember the way his plush lips were leaving kisses all over your body weeks ago.
âBaby,â you breathe out and he looks at you, not letting go of your hand. You see tears in his eyes, not enough to spill but enough to fuel up your ego. His eyes are so pretty like that, wet lashes and glossy chocolatey irises.
âAww, Frankie,â you coo and open your arms to him. He rushes to you as if youâre his lifeline, wrapping his big strong arms around your torso and burying his face in the crook of your neck.
Youâre hugging him back, trying not to suffocate in his steel embrace and rubbing his muscular broad back. Frankieâs as big as Joel, both are much bigger than you, and warmth spreads deep in your core when his scent envelops you just like his body.
You smile when you notice him still wearing your favorite cologne.
Soon your body craves something more than just a hug so your lips part and a soft whimper escapes your mouth. You know well that your pretty noises always make him wild.
Your ex reacts immediately and you feel an open mouth kiss on your neck.
âFrankie.â Your tone is scolding yet fake and you sigh deeply, brushing his chest with your barely covered breasts. Your ex grumbles at the sensation and then whispers, his voice already strained with lust.
âI miss you so much.â
You hug him tighter and feel his hot breath on your cleavage when he leans lower to plant another kiss on your collarbone. His cap slides off his head and falls on the floor but he doesnât care. Looking down at his beautiful dark curls you run your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp with your nails and Frankie almost roars against your chest. His arms pull you closer to him, even though your torso is already flush with his. He slightly lifts you off the seat and you tug at his hair in warning, steel in your tone.
âPut me down, Frankie.â
He listens to you like he always does but your roughness earns another loud groan from him. You smile, imagining how hard his cock must be now.
Frankie leaves soft kisses on your clothed chest, your belly and soon his head is resting on your lap, while his arms are wrapped around your hips as if heâs scared youâll float away.
Youâre stroking his head, marveling at the silky waves of his hair, shining even in the dim light, and slightly tilt your hips up when his prominent nose pokes your mound through the thin fabric of your dress. As if thinking about the same thing, Frankie breathes in full lungs of your arousal and a guttural moan vibrates against your covered pussy.
âI miss her, mi amor,â you barely hear him mumble and you sigh. Recently satiated by Joelsâs pounding, your core gets reignited with sticky desire and you bite your lip, your dark gaze sliding over his sexy shoulders and his head, with his face hidden. You part your legs just slightly, letting him closer to your needy pussy.
Like a dog sniffing out his favorite treat, Frankieâs nuzzling your lap, and his lips and nose are brushing against your thighs, your lower belly, your cunt through the fabric.
You gasp when his fingers dig into your soft hips a bit too hard and he hastily relaxes his grip and looks up at you.
âSorry, princesa.â His blown out eyes are filled with guilt and want and you give him a smile, cupping his scruffy cheek.
âItâs ok, baby, just be careful with me, âk? No marks.â
âYes, yes, of course, mi amor,â he murmurs, returning his head back onto your lap.
After a couple of minutes in his arms, the fire in your core morphs into an ache and you squirm under him with impatience.
âI should go, Frankie. Joelâs gonna worry.â
âNo, please,â he almost whines, hugging you tighter. âIâ,â he stumbles.
âYes, baby?â
âCan I â? Can I see her?â
Heâs staring up at you and you tilt your head to the side, faking confusion.
âWho?â
He knows that you understand but you need him to say it. So he plays by your rules. Like he always does.
âCan I see your beautiful pussy?â He sits up, facing you, his huge body squeezed in between the wheel and his seat. His bulge looks even more prominent now and you gush at the thought that he must be leaking into his boxers.
âOh, Frankie, baby, you know I have a boyfriend. I canât.â
His pleading eyes are fixed on you as he begs,
âPlease, mi amor, just a look. I miss her so much. I miss you. Please.â
With another fake sigh you glance out of the window to check the surroundings, and after finding the street empty, you turn back to him.
âOk, just for a second. Get in the back.â
âThank you, mi amor,â he mumbles, hurrying out of the truck.
You squeeze between the front seats and sit down, turning to Frankie as he joins you at the back of the car. Your ex impatiently grabs the hem of your dress but you stop him.
âNo one should know about this, understand?â
Frankie nods eagerly, mumbling yesâs like a junkie before getting a hit of his drug and you let him lift your dress and expose your naked pussy.
Your hands clutch the dress against your waist, and your legs are pressed together but itâs evident how wet youâre - your folds shine with Joelâs cum and your slick arousal.
Frankieâs breath hitches and his broad chest expands, straining his shirt.
âBeautiful,â he praises as his hand flies to the apex of your thighs.
âNah-ahâ, you grab his big paw midair and place it on top of your thigh.
âNo touching. You wanted to look, right?â
âYeah,â Frankie halfheartedly agrees, furrowed brows showing his discontent. âThen at least open your legs, princesa. Need to see her better.â
You try to contain your excitement as you tut at your ex,
âYouâre so naughty, baby.â
You slowly part your thighs wide enough for your pussy to bloom in front of his hungry eyes.
Frankieâs mouth goes slack and his gaze clouds up when he sees your glistening pussy lips, puffy clit and your inviting hole. You shift a little on the seat, leaving wetness on the leather, and when you clench your walls in anticipation, you both see a little bit of pearly white liquid slide out of your entrance.
âIs thisâŠ?â Frankie mumbles, not tearing his eyes off your recently used cunt.
âYeah. I know youâve been watching Joel fuck me so donât pretend that youâre surprised. My pussyâs full of his cum,â you say with defiance and wait for his reaction.
Frankieâs softly growls and his hand on your thigh contracts into a fist.
âShhh, big boy,â you purr, bringing your fingers to your pussy. You gather some of Joelâs seed, leaking from your hole, and spread the creamy juices over your hardened clit. You rub yourself a few times and when a soft moan escapes your lips, Frankie echoes you.
âFeels so good,â you admit and begin pleasuring yourself in front of your ex.
âJesusâ fuck,â Frankie mumbles. His eyes are obsidian, forehead glistening with sweat with a few wet curls stuck to it. With his gaze tormented and pained, he reaches down to his belt.
âWhat are you doing, baby?â you ask, pausing your ministrations.
Frankie freezes and replies, stumbling over his words,
âI need â need to take my dick out. It hurts.â
âOk, Frankie.â He hastily unzips his jeans when you add, âBut donât touch it.â
Frankie groans but then sighs with relief when he pulls the waistband of his boxers down, tucks it under his balls and his cock springs free. It hits his shirt and leaves a dark wet spot.
His member is throbbing, the dark pink tip, glossy and fat, is oozing his clear need for you and you lick your lips, enticing the man even more.
Frankie follows your orders and lets his cock bob and drip pre-fuck juice all over his balls and jeans while you moan again, tracing your sopping hole.
Your ex rubs his cheek, focused on the place he desperately wants to claim with his tongue and cock and croaks after wetting his plush lips,
âLet me kiss her, mi amor.â
Bingo.
Thatâs what you wanted as soon as you saw him at the bar today. If you cared to admit maybe you already dreamed about it when you noticed him stalking you last week. But whatâs a prize without a game? Now it feels extra special.
With a little smile, you throw off your shoe and plant your bare foot on the seat, opening your thighs wider for him.
âYou gonna taste another manâs cum on my pussy? just to kiss her?â
Frankieâs eyes snap up to yours and you see his defeat, his despair, his love in their depths.
He nods silently.
âAww, youâre so sweet,â you coo. âOk, baby, go ahead.â
With a grunt Frankie bends down, slowly adjusting his position between your legs so itâs comfortable for you, and when his soft warm lips kiss your cold cunt, you flutter your eyes shut with a pleased mewl.
Frankieâs always been the best at pussy eating. Joel often goes down on you but itâs different. He demands your ecstasy, claims your pussy with his mouth, makes you scream when his rough tongue impatiently rubs at your clit. His movements say âGive meâ while heâs eating you out.
But Frankie. Heâs whispering âTake itâ. Take your time, take your bliss, take my lips and tongue and use them, let yourself drown in pleasure. He laps at you softly and languidly, licking your pussy like itâs the most delicate flower, the most delicious fruit.
You grab your phone out of your pocket and text Joel that you met a friend by accident and need to catch up.
Frankie doesnât see any of it, heâs gone, fully concentrated on pleasuring your soft cunt. His hands are gently holding your thighs apart, his face buried in your pussy.
âHowâs she?â you whisper, raking your fingers through his silky curls and tugging on them slightly to get his attention when he doesnât respond right away.
âI taste him on you,â Frankie grumbles, parting from your sex, ââm gonna get it off you.â
He returns to work, making out with your folds and sucking the other manâs cum off your clit and you already feel yourself close to unraveling.
âYes, like that, baby. My pussy misses you.â
You feel Frankie smile against your cunt before he begins stroking your clit with his tongue again and again until you cry out his name into your hand, while your hole clamps around nothing, walls contract and release another portion of Joelâs thick load.
Trembling from the orgasm thatâs rippling through your body, you watch Frankie lap at your entrance, drinking the runaway seed and your slick, prolonging your shattering climax with this depraved act.
He doesnât stop kissing your pussy until you get overstimulated and try to close your legs.
âDid so good for me, Frankie,â you murmur through heavy breaths.
âThank you, mi amor,â your ex gruffs, sitting up, his face blushed, the gaze hazy and drunk on you.
Heâs shivering from the arousal, his engorged cock generously leaking precum, and you take mercy on the man.
You scoot closer to him, wrap your hand around his hot cock and start slowly pumping it. Itâs soaked with his juices so your palm slides easily over his hard length but to make him absolutely wild you gather some slick off your cunt and rub the underside of his cock where his tip meets the shaft with your wet thumb.
Frankie moans like a needy slut and in a second the first rope of cum shoots out of his slit.
You hastily lower your head, take the head between your lips and start drinking his load as heâs feeding it to you, jerking and thrusting his hips up, while your hand is gliding over his shaft.
You swallow everything to the last drop and lick it all over, cleaning his cock and earning a jerk of overstimulation from your ex. Then you sit up, wiping your mouth curled into a satisfied smile.
âFuck, princesa, I love you,â Frankie breathes out falling onto the backrest, his cock softening but still standing at attention. You smile at his confession and your hunger finally seems satisfied.
You begin fixing your clothes and he watches you for a few seconds before tucking his cock into his jeans and then shifting closer to you. He gets into your space and you feel his warm hand pressed to your lower back. His huge frame is looming over you and you look up into his chocolaty eyes. They seem sad again.
âI want you back, mi amorâI... I need you.â
You sigh deeply and shake your head, taking his big hand in yours.
âYou know itâs over, Frankie. Iâm sorry, but Iâm with Joel now.â
âWhy? Why canât you be with me? Why is he better?â He asks, furrowing his brows and leaning even closer to you.
âBaby,â you whine, averting your gaze from his puppy eyes and tracing hearts on his hand. âWe talked about it. Heâs âŠheâs like whiskey, heâs rough and heady and⊠youâre like hot chocolate, Frankie. Youâre sweet but youâre too saccharine for me.â
âI can get rough with you, princesa.â
You giggle and shake your head.
âItâs not who you are, baby. And itâs ok. Someone will love you for it one day.â
You hear him sniff before he yanks his hand away from yours.
You know you should leave, break it off once and for all but the sick, mean, greedy side of your soul wants to pull him back as soon as you have pushed him away.
âFrankie,â you purr and grab his arm as heâs about to get out of the car. A slight touch from you is all it takes to stop him and he turns to you, his eyes glossy, his expression defeated.
You get closer to him and take his face between your hands. To kiss him goodbye. To poison him more.
He falls into the kiss head first, embracing you tightly, pressing his torso to yours so close itâs difficult to breathe.
You both moan against each otherâs lips and you pull on his hair with passion and possessiveness. His tongue is licking into your mouth and youâre tasting yourself, sensing a faint trace of Joelâs cum. Itâs so sick and twisted that another surge of arousal burns your core.
You make out for some time until you part from his lips.
âI should go, Frankie,â you whisper, snaking out of his embrace.
Frankieâs arms fall and he nods, looking lost and inebriated. You use this moment to hastily get out of his car.
âBye, baby,â you chirp, smiling at him, but before you close the door he wakes up from the trance and calls for you.
âI wonât stop, mi amor,â he admits with determination in his shaky voice. âIâm gonna keep coming. I need you.â
âI know,â you say with a fake sigh and close the door.
Youâre walking to get Tom, feeling Frankieâs eyes on your back, and trying to calm down, you bite your lip, but the excitement overwhelms you and soon a triumphant smile spreads across your face.
Thank you for reading! Leave a comment and reblog if you enjoyed the fic!đ
prequel- OBSESSED || Frankie Morales ML || MASTERLIST
I feel like Eddie Munson would fit so well with an older reader. Like having a crush for a teacher, a milf, a tattoo artist, an school librarian or just an older hot girl next door.
I don't even mean a age gap like 5 years, maybe 10, 15, reader experienced and in her early tirties.
This man has the charm and charisma that school girls would never understand.
i would never argue. i would never talk back. the house would be spotless. dinner would always be ready and served. raw and in whatever position he puts me in. as many kids as he wants.
A/N: Here you go my lovelies! I have literally never done ballet in my entire life, so any knowledge of this has come from watching tiktoks of ballerinas, movies with ballerinas in them, or my best guesses⊠anywaysssss, I hope you enjoy it!Â
Also, would highly recommend watching the performance of Still Life at the Penguin Cafe on youtube, the music and the dancing is *chefs kiss*Â
Summary: You were ready to admit that you hadnât been at your best the past week or so, but surely you hadnât been so bad as to deserve this much wrath from Mister MurphyâŠÂ
Word count:Â 3,750Â
Trigger Warnings: she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, mean!Cillian, SMUT, dub-con bc of the power imbalance (?), fingering (technically?), humiliation (not as a kink tho), only reader orgasms, depiction of toxic teaching environment, (please let me know if I missed any)Â
Disclaimer: This is written purely for fictional purposes and for the sake of writing. No disrespect is intended to the real people portrayed/concerned in this scenario.Â
Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)
If anyone out there believed in the stereotype that all Irish people were happy and jovial then they clearly hadnât met your ballet master. The man may speak with a lilting musical accent but there was not a thing jovial or happy about him. The master was harsh, verging on cruel. If anyone was caught slacking even the littlest bit, something that would go unnoticed by the rest of the troupe, his voice would crack like a whip through the studio.Â
Today differed in no way. You had dilly-dallied a little too long while getting ready in the morning, only to end up running late for rehearsal. It was no more than five minutes, but from the start of training it was the rule that all ballerinas must be lined up by the barre at exactly ten oâclock every day. For every minute you were late, the worse your punishment got. Usually if someone hit the five minute mark, they went home and sprained their ankle on purpose for an excuse.Â
At four minutes, you had run into the hallway outside the studio and thrown your bag onto the ground, disregarding the sound of your water bottle rolling away and one of your keychains cracking under the weight of your things. At five, you were throwing the door open and running inside, slipping into the back of the line and getting into first position.Â
Mr Murphy paused in his speech to gaze at you. You stared straight ahead, refusing to look directly at him. Slowly, his eyebrow rose, scrutinising you with a frown that made shame curl in your stomach and tears make themselves known behind your eyes. He slowly brought his hands together, rubbing them as he sighed and began shaking his head.Â
âKind of you to join us,â he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest as he made his way closer to you, stepping leisurely, dragging out the fear that made your throat hurt. He stood a few feet away, staring at you in that impenetrable way of his, ice eyes sharp and painful wherever they gazed. He clapped his hands once. âGirls, turn and look at Ms. Y/L/N.â He waited until each of them had turned in their spots, some craning their heads to the side to make sure they were looking at you lest they somehow disobey him. You could see the pity, the sympathy, the smug triumph in each of the girlsâ eyes, the frowns and subtle smirks, and you could do nothing other than keep staring ahead of you as your hands and knees suddenly began to tremble. âWhat is wrong with her?âÂ
He didnât ask it in a rude or incredulous way, but as if you were a diagram in a textbook, and this was simply an exercise the students were completing. You were sure your shame was visible on your face, the embarrassment turning your spine to liquid. One of the girls put her hand up, near the front of the room, and you only recognised her for the little kiss-ass she was once she spoke. She had always been that way, desperate for Mr Murphy. Always at the front of the line, always gleeful at the downfall of others, always ready to point out any mistakes. And you were always happy to watch her desperation help her in no way whatsoever. A lot could be said about Mr Murphy, but favouritism was not something he had ever displayed. Whichever ballerina was doing well, recognisably well, was given her dues, and it was left at that.Â
âSheâs not wearing her tights and leotard, or at least, sheâs wearing sweatpants over them. Her pointe shoes are dirty, and her hair isnât in a bun.â You could almost imagine her satisfied little smirk when she finished speaking, that evil little smile that you had always wanted to punch off her face. One swing, you thought, just one swingâŠÂ
âCorrect,â he simply responded, threading his fingers through each other and raising his eyebrow at you again, as if confused and annoyed at you for not doing something. âLeave, get your shit together, and then come back inside. If you have not returned within ten minutes, donât bother returning to rehearsal ever again.â He nudged his chin in the direction of the door and you nodded obediently, eyes downcast as you stood up straight and slowly walked back out.Â
When the door was closed behind you once more, you stood silently for a minute, eyes clenched shut and hands curled into fists at your sides. You pressed out a scream behind your pursed lips, teeth clenched so hard your jaw began to hurt. You slammed the heel of your hand against the side of your head again and again and again until your shoulder hurt a little from the motion and your brain felt sufficiently jumbled. Your chest was heaving and you were overwhelmed with rage. You wanted to kick something, to throw something, to go back in there and rip that bitchâs hair out of her bun. You resolved to pulling your pointe shoes off and lobbing them across the hallway as hard as you could, letting out another clenched scream before walking all the way down to pick them up and bring them back.Â
You stood in front of your bag and took three deep breaths. You picked up your water bottle from where it had rolled between another two of the ballerinasâ bags, and took huge gulps of water until you felt a little less sweaty with anger. You checked the time on your phone to make sure you hadnât wasted your ten minutes, then set about carefully pulling off your joggers, folding them up, and placing them inside your duffel. You pulled out a new pair of pointe shoes, cursing yourself for not having prepared them in time and preemptively wincing at the blisters you knew you were going to get by the end of rehearsal. You walked down to the bathroom at the end of the hall in the pointe shoes, hoping to at least break them in a little bit with the short time you had, and used the mirror to quickly pull your hair into a bun, securing it with pins in a practised dance you had learned from years of repetition. You checked yourself once more in the mirror and then looked down at your phone before sprinting full on back to the room and sliding through the doors. You made it just in time.Â
Mr Murphy glanced at you as you slipped into position at the back of the line, following the exercises he had been calling out to the ballerinas while you had been out. He methodically looked at every inch of your body, from your pointe shoes to your pink tights and black leotard, from the careful set of your bun to the determined set of your brow and sheen of sweat on your temples. He didnât say anything directly to you, and you took it as a win.Â
At the halfway point, you were all allowed a little break to drink water and have a rest before you switched from exercises to rehearsals for your next performance. You were all practising for your various roles in a performance of âStill Life at the Penguin Cafeâ, and though you would have to wear a huge mask of a ram on your head, you were ecstatic for the performance. While it wasnât technically a solo, you were the centre of the piece, being the only one not dressed as a penguin. Now, everything felt so precarious. You couldnât quite be sure Mr Murphy wouldnât take the role from you after the past two weeks spent in a slump, and the worry was becoming your ever-present companion.Â
Just as the girls were all leaving the room to get water and lounge around on the floor of the hallway, Mr Murphy cleared his throat and snapped his fingers at you.Â
âMs. Y/L/N,â and he pointed at the spot right in front of him. It took everything within you not to sprint to the spot. You took careful, measured, steps and stopped a few feet in front of him, spine straight and head held high. You werenât sure where to look. You could never meet his eyes, something in your soul was opposed to it, so you chose a spot on the wall just next to his head.Â
âYou will stay for another hour at the end of the session to make up for your failures this morning, understood?â He raised both his eyebrows, hands on his hips. You closed your eyes, trying not to burst into tears like a child throwing a tantrum on the spot. You nodded, whispered a âyes, sirâ in a clogged voice, and waited until he dismissed you to walk out of the room.Â
You sat down by your bag with a sigh, arms slung over your knees as you cradled the water bottle close and pressed your face to it. You closed your eyes and allowed your head to dip down as some of your friends came to sit around you, offering pats of sympathy and words of comfort. You tried to smile, nodded in thanks, but you just wanted to curl up into a ball and never get back up.Â
The next few hours were spent going through each section of the dance. You felt lucky that you didnât get to the Ram piece, you were sure you couldnât hold it together long enough for that, only to be doused with cold water at the thought that you needed to stay longer afterward.Â
When rehearsal was over, Mr Murphy dismissed everyone right on the dot. He didnât acknowledge you as the girls started leaving, the chatter slowly beginning to rise as they reached the door. For a moment you wondered if you could get away with leaving with everyone else, but just as you reached the door he called out âten minutes at most, Ms Y/L/N, then I want you back in here.â Your bones seemed to disappear and you thought you would collapse to the floor in a heap of mushy flesh. Instead you nodded and wobbled your way outside to chug what was left of your water bottle, refill it, then chug the contents again as tears of exhaustion slipped from the corners of your eyes and mingled with the sweat dampening the hair by your temples and ears.Â
The ten minutes were up far too quickly and you stood with a groan, heading to the door once more. You gazed at the room from the door, the light hardwood floors, the wall of mirrors and the bar spanning the length of the room, the huge windows letting in swaths of natural light. You often forgot how beautiful the space was.Â
You walked slowly to where Mr Murphy stood, typing something on his phone and moving the speaker to face the room again. You stood before him, hands clasped and eyes downcast, waiting for instructions. For a while, he didnât say anything. He was no longer on his phone, his hands hanging by his sides, and he stared at you. Every few seconds you glanced, trying to glimpse what was going to happen, but he just continued watching you, stoic as ever.Â
You could never tell what he was thinking. Never once had you been able to guess at his thought process, to figure out what was going on in his head. Maybe that was one of the reasons he intimidated you so much.Â
He walked closer, so close the toes of his shoes almost touched the toes of yours and you gulped, staring at the contrast, the black and the pink, the background of wood. His hand came up and he tapped up under your chin with the side of his index finger, waiting for you to lift your head. When you did, your entire face felt hot under the skin. He was so close, you could see the freckles splashed on his skin, the careful set of his cheekbones and jaw. You gulped. His eyes were so much more terrifying up close.Â
âYouâve been given a gift,â he began, slow and firm, âyour ability, your natural rhythm, that is a gift. Unless you put in effort to finetune this gift, it goes to waste. Do you understand what Iâm saying?â You nodded but he shook his head once. âSpeak.âÂ
âYes sir,â you breathed out quickly, gulping when your mouth was closed again.Â
âIâm not sure you do, though,â and it felt like the hammer falling. His eyes seemed to harden a little, and he crossed his arms over his chest. âThe past two weeks all I have seen is a sloppy, unprincipled, uncommitted dancer who deems merely showing up a success.â Each word was a stab to some part of you, and it took everything not to wilt completely to the floor. âYou have been given one of the more difficult roles in the performance, and I once believed you deserved it. For the life of me, I cannot remember why.â Your eyebrows furrowed as you closed your eyes, throat bobbing as the despair that felt inevitable finally began to land.Â
He went silent, and that felt worse somehow. The backs of your eyelids began to burn and you clenched your hands tighter around each other, hoping the little pain it brought would distract from the tears. You berated yourself in your head. You yelled in your mind that this was a pathetic display, that it would be the stupidest thing youâve ever done if you began to cry in front of him. He would think less of you, it would only confirm what he believed; you were weak. When you opened your eyes again, one traitorous tear slipped out and down your cheek. You could feel the hot, ticklish track it made down the skin. If you didnât know better, you thought you saw Mr Murphyâs eyes soften.Â
He breathed out, long and tired, and reached up to gently wipe the tear away with his thumb. Your breath caught in your throat. His hand was warm. Your chest felt tight. His skin was soft. You stared into his eyes. He left the side of his hand against your face, as if allowing himself to feel the skin. Something in your stomach writhed impatiently. Everything seemed to have changed within a second. Some deep seated urge whispered in your ear to open your mouth and lick his thumb. You shivered.Â
âTurn around,â his voice was low, rough, and you almost moaned at the sound. You gulped again, but obeyed almost instantly. You heard some shuffling, and then the music started, the slow long notes interspersed with the quick little strums, a beautiful, almost joyful piece of music. Then Mr Murphy was pressed right against your back, and suddenly the music was secondary. His chest, firm, solid, was moulded to your back. You could feel the soft fabric of his black shirt, the puffs of his breaths against the back of your neck. Your entire body shivered. He was warm, like a heater on a middle setting, and if you werenât so tense, you would melt against him. You could feel his nose against your head as he bent slightly. You could feel his lips graze the shell of your ear as he whispered ârelax.â You tried, forcing your muscles to loosen like you would before a performance.Â
His hands trailed down your arms, his fingertips running down your biceps, then your forearms until you shivered against him again. When he reached your wrists, he hooked his own hands under them and began raising them in time with the music. You turned your head to the right, watched his hand raise your own, your lips parted and breaths heavy. You couldnât move past the feeling of him pressed to your back.Â
You almost missed the cue to move, almost, and pulled away from him slowly, carefully, using the measured steps required by the music. You left your right hand in his, just the barest touch of your fingertips against his, the illusion of contact as you moved to the left, feet lifting high. His eyes seemed to pierce through you, and suddenly you enjoyed the feeling in a sick, scary way. You walked forward until you were in line with Mr Murphy, still an armâs length away before he stepped forward and your arms moved to a waltz position. He settled into the space, gripping your hands firmly in his. He was pressed as close as he could be, closer than your actual partner would be for the dance, and you set your eyes on his face. Your pulse thrummed in your ears, you were in your element.Â
You went through all the steps of the dance like you had been born knowing it. Your bodies were like water as they moved, smooth, graceful. You hadnât felt this intune to the music in a long time, hadnât felt this much like a dancer in a long time. You could almost see the crowd in front of you, the blinding lights, the smooth fabric of the dress.Â
At the final step, Mr Murphy gripped your hand and spun you into him, changing the ending of the dance. You gasped as you leaned back into his chest. His head was bent down, pressing his face into your hair. You were panting, torso moving up and down quickly but trapped in the confines of his arms crossed over you. You leaned your head back a little, pressing the curve of your skull into the curve of his neck as he pressed his cheek to the side of your head. The music was fading out, and the only sounds in the room were your mingling breaths, heaving into the air of the room.Â
His left palm pressed against your stomach, firm and insistent, but you couldnât be bothered to look down. It seared into your already boiling skin and you closed your eyes. You tuned into the sensation of his hand slowly sliding down, bit by bit, inching down over your stomach then pressing against your pelvis. You gasped as you felt his fingertips brush over the leotard just at the top of your pussy. Your hand moved behind you, gripping his sides, clenching into the soft fabric of his shirt.Â
He didnât say anything, just breathed heavily against the side of your head, and you didnât stop him. His hand moved farther down, pressing against the softness atop your core. Gently, his index finger moved to the centre line and began pressing in. You lifted up on your toes a little when you felt the pressure through the fabric, the indent of his finger pressing against your clit. You were hot and wet, he could feel the heat emanating from your core against his hand.
He kept his finger pressed there until you became restless, impatient, pressing your hands a little harder against his ribs. Slowly, keeping the pressure, he moved his finger down until he was pressing against your hole. The warm tendrils of pleasure slowly undulated up your insides. He repeated the motion, up then down and pressing a little harder against your hole.Â
You breathed out heavily, shakily, and bent your knees to press a little harder into the feeling.Â
Up, down, press. Up, down, press. He circled your clit through the fabric, pressing against the pulsing little bud. Up, down, press, drag up, drag down, press. You were panting into the air, face contorted, mouth up and head tilted up, resting against his shoulder. Your eyes were screwed shut, hips moving to chase the motions. He didnât say anything, just breathed heavily against your ear, held you tighter against his body.Â
You were both standing in the middle of the large studio, bathed in the early evening light. Your hands clenched a little harder against his sides. The warm tendrils were lasting longer, becoming more frenzied, curling up into your stomach and making your hole flutter. His right hand moved up and cupped your breast, gripping firmly and burning the heat of his hand into the flesh.Â
You were engulfed by him, wrapped up in both his arms as he pressed his fingers harder and quicker against the seam of your core, moving up and down, pressing and releasing. He ran the edge of his thumbnail against the fabric over your nipple and your pelvis shook. You writhed in his arms at the spark it shot to your core, at the electric pulse it created and ultimately pushed you over the precipice. A moan, a high-pitched whine shot from your mouth, echoing in the room. You pressed yourself so hard against him he almost lost his balance, moving one foot back to keep the two of you upright. Your hands hurt from how stiff they became clenched into the fabric of his shirt.Â
Slowly, he released the pressure against your core. He grazed his finger up until he could press his hand to your stomach again. He left it there and the two of you heaved breaths in sync. You began to flutter your eyes open, still lost in the blood rushing through your head. His right hand came up and gripped your chin, pushing it so you faced to the left where his head had dropped down. He leaned back a little, you tilted forward a smidge, your eyes met. Your lips were still parted, his mirrored. Then he surged forward, pressing his mouth to yours, his nose sliding into the crease between your cheek and nose. He tasted warm and minty. His lips were plush and cushiony soft. He pulled away and you looked into his eyes again.Â
We need mean!reader, angry!reader, misunderstood!reader, creepy!reader, gross!reader, toxic!reader, nonforgiving!reader, selfish!reader, narcissistic!reader, dark!reader, FEDUP!reader. That bitch is way too nice, passive, and sensible. âđŸđ
While you struggle starting over in a place you never thought you would return, Eddie struggles feeling stuck in a place he canât manage to leave â until you offer to help him.
Of all the lessons learned, the most important are the ones you teach each other.
âïž Series CW: forbidden romance, slow burn, smut (18+ mdni), true love, internal conflict, student-teacher relationship, 10 year age gap, mutual pining, sexual tension, emotions, drama, angst, character development, happy ending :)
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