♡Honey Pie♡

“There ya go, lass! Almost got it!” John heard you giggle, followed by a shot and the breaking of glass. He scowled as he looked in your direction to find Sean standing closely behind you, one hand on your waist, the other holding a cattleman.

You had been complaining about your lack of self-defense skills, to which Sean eagerly offered to teach you how to shoot - a little too eager for John’s liking. Nevertheless, you happily agreed, and there you were; a haphazardly built shooting range of glass bottles and cans in front of you, and Sean right behind you.

John scoffed and shook his head as he watched the Irish man make a fool of himself to make you laugh - his scowl deepened as he saw it was working.

“Jesus Christ, John. If looks could kill, I’d hate to be Sean right now.“ Karen teased and sat beside him.

“What the hell are you on about?“ It was a meagre attempt at hiding his feelings for you, and Karen knew. Hell, everyone in camp but you seemed to know.

“Oh, c’mon, Cowboy“ She continued pestering him. “If the redhead is botherin’ you so much, why don’t you just show your lady how it’s done yourself?“ John glanced up at her, and Karen saw the gears in his head turning. She giggled. “Anyway, I won’t disturb ya. See you ‘round, then“ She got up and left the man to his own devices.

After pondering her words, and hearing you giggle at Sean’s missed shot, John decided to act. He put on his best swagger and a fake smile to saunter over to the pair of you.

“Real nice shootin’ there, MacGuire“ he mocked. Sean turned around to face him, ears turning red. ”Cheers, Marston. Never knew you had it in ya to ruin the moment quite as much.“ Ever the jokester, Sean MacGuire.

You laughed at the Irish’s teasing and turned to John. “Unlike you, Sean here was nice enough to offer. Were you?“ You knew this would get under his skin as you challenged him.

“Well, if I knew he’d be so bad at it, I wouldn’t have let him.“ he shot back, barely paying the man in question any mind as he stepped closer to you. After an intense staring contest - which you won - John finally turned to face him.

“You up for a battle, Sean? I’m even up to bet for somethin’.“ John knew he wouldn’t turn down. Sean MacGuire didn’t have it in him to turn down a bet. “Alright, yer on, Marston. What are we bettin’ on, then?“

John pretended to think for a moment before speaking up “Whoever hits more targets in one minute gets to teach the Lady some more shootin’. How ‘bout that?“ You looked at him sourly, pretending not to enjoy your attention being the object of the men’s desire and turned to Sean, who seemed to be gearing up for war. “Prepare to lose, then, Mister.“ he stated.

After some time, and a lot of bickering, John and Sean had finally set up the shooting range. The glass bottles cast a bronze hue on the ground, reminding you of stained glass in a church. Oh, how ungodly it was to enjoy the view you had right now. The pair surely was a sight; Sean was certainly a looker, but it was John, with his dark hair and long legs who really caught your eye.

The man looked over to you and you quickly averted your gaze to the redhead, if you got caught staring, you’d never hear the end of it. As John followed your eyes to find them on the man next to him, he got even more riled up and impatiently shuffled his feet.

“You ready, Ireland?“

”As I‘ll ever be. On your mark, Ma’am!“

You pulled out a pocket watch you got from Arthur and started counting down from ten. The men got into position and as soon as the ‘one‘ fell from your lips, Sean was done for.

You couldn’t believe your eyes, but you were sure that the Irishman did not get the chance to hit a single bottle. The shards in front of them were all a result of John’s bullets. He brushed the imaginary gunpowder of his revolver and put it back in his holster, pleased with himself.

“Well-“ Sean chuckled to himself “I sure am glad there was no money involved in that bet, or I’d be a much poorer man now.“ he tipped his hat at you. “You let me know how this goes, maybe I’ll take some lessons from the lad as well.“ and with that, he made his way over to pester Arthur about some stagecoach he got wind about.

“What was all that about, Marston?“ you stood up to face him, acting annoyed. ”Can’t a girl have some fun with her friend once in a while?“

He took a step closer to you, towering you with his height. ”Friend, huh? Didn’t seem that friendly to me, the way his hands were on you?“ You couldn’t believe that man. First he was too shy to offer his help and now he had the audacity to be mad at someone else taking his chance?

“You’re a jealous coward, John Marston.“ you huffed and turned to leave, but he caught your arm and pulled you back. “Don’t start, lady. You knew I was gonna win - you could’ve stopped me at any minute, but didn’t. What does that say about you?“ he didn’t know where this sudden boldness came from, but he knew he hit a nerve as you turned beet red.

“I just wanted to enjoy the show“ you lied, and he knew it. He chuckled. “Show’s over. I got some teachin’ to do.“

You looked at the gun he was offering you and took it, not without giving him an annoyed glare.

He seemed amused at your demeanour as he stepped behind you. You gasped offendedly as he kicked your legs apart and stood behind you, much closer than Sean did. “Deep breaths now, Darlin’. No need to be so jittery.“ He breathed in your ear and brought your arms in position.

You held your breath at his closeness and felt heat creeping up in your cheeks. “Now stay just like this, don’t move an inch.“ he ordered before leaving to put up more bottles for you to shoot. You did your best to still act annoyed, but your defenses were faltering with each moment.

He came back up behind you and put his hand above yours, holding the gun together. “Careful now, this one’s got quite a kick to it.“ Your breath hitched at the way he invaded your space, though you would never admit how much you were enjoying this.

One more deep breath, left eye shut, gun aimed, you pulled the trigger. John was right, his revolver had much more kickback than you anticipated and you stumbled back, right into his arms. ”Woah now-“ the man laughed and caught you in his arms, you didn’t miss the way his touch lingered after you were back on your feet.

You turned to face him and found his eyes already on you, your lips more specifically. “Good shootin’, Sugar.“ he whispered. You turned away and looked toward the shooting range - you had almost forgotten what got you in this situation in the first place.

You were elated; the shot had found its way dead into the center of the bottle and broken it into a million tiny pieces. This was your first hit of the day. You faced John once again, smiling from ear to ear. He mirrored your expression, a small blush on his cheeks when he realised he was the reason for your joy. He found himself wanting to take a picture of this moment and putting it under his pillow, for safekeeping.

“Thank you, Marston.“ your words snapped him out of his trance and he realised he was staring. His cheeks turned an even deeper red. He was embarrassed, but you found it adoring. Big, bad John Marston, wrapped around your pinky finger after merely smiling at him.

“So, am I still a jealous coward to you?“

“Coward? No. Jealous? Definitely.“ you giggled at his, still red, dumbfounded face. “You looked like you were gonna suggest Sean as target next when you caught me coppin’ a look at him.“

John scowled at the memory. “You did that to rile me up, didn’t you?“ you nodded, not feeling guilty in the slightest. “And it worked, too“ You turned to leave, but not before winking at the man taken aback by your open admission of guilt. When you left, you made sure to add an extra swing of your hips in your steps.

The fire was crackling and the people were singing and laughing, enjoying the oh-so-rare peaceful evenings at the camp. You sat on a log next to Sean, nursing a beer bottle and laughing at his overdramatised storytelling of a robbery gone wrong.

You felt eyes on you from across the fire and found them to be John’s - brooding and dark, not even trying to pretend he hadn’t been staring.

You felt your heartbeat quicken at the intense gaze, and decided to excuse yourself from the group. In an attempt to appear busy, you made your way to the crates of alcohol, pretending to get another bottle.

“You tryin’ to get me to bet on you again?“ a voice behind you spoke. You smiled inwardly, John had fallen for your trap. “Nah, just trying to get you alone, Mr. Marston.“ You kept up your innocent facade and felt deep satisfaction as he realised you had been baiting him like a fish yet again - and caught him hook, line, and sinker yet again.

“You’re a real connivin’ one, you know that?“

”I thought that’s what you liked about me.“

He knew you were right. If John Marston enjoyed one thing, it was a challenge. He stepped closer and put his hands on each side of the liquor crate, trapping you in his arms.

“That, among other things.“ his eyes were on your lips again, there was a hunger in his gaze. “Show me, then.“ you retorted, challenging him once again.

Kind as no one had been on here for so many years. You shared the same dream of Marcus Aurelio.

An empire for the world and a refuge for those in need.

and Marcus looked at you with tenderness in his heart from afar.

Most of the time you didn't acknowledge him. He knew you weren't really fond of him or the idea of him leading armies to claim cities under the glory of Rome.

For you, he was just a general repeating the same cycle of madness.

And you didn't acknowledge him until Geta slapped you on front of him for not showing your gratitude towards him after his returning from battle.

The sting lingered on your cheek after his slap, not from the force but from the humiliation of it. The room fell silent, the tension arose like flames to the fire. Geta and Caracalla, with their arrogant disdain, seemed to punish your perceived disobedience.

But Marcus? His expression shifted, subtle, yet profound. His sharp gaze, so often unreadable, burned with an intensity that wasn’t anger but something close to defiance. He stepped forward, his towering presence demanding the attention of everyone in the room.

“Enough,” Marcus said, his voice calm and gentle, the command laced with quiet fury. The word carried weight, a warning not to be ignored. Your brothers exchanged a glance, clearly displeased but unwilling to challenge the general directly. They turned and left, leaving muttered curses in the air.

The room fell silent once again, and you found yourself standing alone with General Acacius. Your hand hovering your cheek, the skin still warm from Geta’s punishment. You didn’t look up at first, embarrassed not just by the slap but by the realization that Marcus had witnessed it. You had worked so hard to ignore him, to keep him at a distance, but now, there was no avoiding him.

“You didn’t deserve that,” he said softly, his voice a startling contrast to the authority he had wielded moments ago.

You finally raised your eyes to meet his, expecting pity but finding something else entirely different, something softer. “It doesn’t matter,” you murmured, attempting to dismiss it, but he shook his head.

“It does,” Marcus said, taking a step closer. “You shouldn’t have to endure this, least of all from them. They’re your blood”

His words hung in the air, and for the first time, you saw him not as the general who commanded armies in your brothers’ name but as a man standing apart from their cruelty. He wasn’t like them, not entirely.

And perhaps, you thought, he never had been.

Your gaze lingered on Marcus for a moment longer, his eyes searching yours as if waiting for you to say something—anything. But you couldn’t. Your throat tightened, and you turned away, moving to the window to avoid the weight of his attention.

“I don’t need your protection,” you said, though the words came out softer than you intended. “You’ve done enough by speaking against them. They will get under your skin for it.”

Marcus hesitated, his heavy footsteps echoing as he approached you. “You shouldn’t have to thank me for doing what’s right.”

His words made your chest ache. When was the last time anyone had done what was “right” for you? You stared out at the gardens beyond the window, their beauty feeling distant, unreachable. Your brothers had never cared about right or wrong, only power.

“I don’t understand you,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “You fight for them. You serve them. And yet…”

“And yet I see who they truly are,” Marcus interrupted gently. “I serve Rome, not their cruelty. There’s a difference.”

You turned to face him, his nearness almost startling. For the first time, his presence didn’t feel overwhelming. Instead, it felt… grounding. Safe. He stood tall, but his expression was open, waiting for you to respond.

“They’ll hate you for standing up for me,” you said, your tone cautious. “They don’t forgive things like that.”

“Let them hate me,” Marcus replied without hesitation. “I won’t stand by and let them treat you as they do.”

The conviction in his voice sent a shiver through you. You wanted to argue, to remind him that opposing your brothers would bring nothing but trouble, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, you found yourself studying him. His broad shoulders, the sharp lines of his face, and the way his eyes softened when they rested on you.

“I don’t need anyone fighting my battles,” you said, though even you weren’t sure if you believed it. “I’ve survived this long on my own.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” he replied, stepping closer, his voice low but steady. “You deserve better than survival.”

Your breath hitched, the weight of his words pressing against you. Before you could respond, Marcus straightened, his demeanor shifting as if sensing he had said too much. He nodded once, a gesture of respect, before stepping back.

“I should leave you to rest,” he said. “You’ve been through enough today”

Your breath caught at the sound of his voice, so steady and sincere, the words lingering in the air like a balm to your frayed nerves. You wanted to reach out, to say something and stop him, but you hesitated, unsure of what held you back.

Marcus took another step away, his broad shoulders tense, as though leaving you was harder for him than he let on. His words, though respectful, carried a tone of finality that made your heart twist.

“I’ll see you soon,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost reluctant. He bowed slightly, taking your hand in his, and kissing it as his dark eyes met yours, “My lady.”

As if his words had worked as a kind of manifesto, the “soon” came no long after.

There you were in the gardens, barefoot, with your wild hair looking at the moon shining over the town you had been forced to call it home.

Marcus could see from your posture to your void eyes when you were there in the middle of your brothers, faking enthusiasm, while inside your bones you hate with passion this torturous show.

You didn't wish to be cruel to the world but kind.

You didn't wish to see blood coming out from innocent men who had fallen prey under the hands of the cruelty of the roman empire.

And you were exhausted of seeing and hearing the cheering of people celebrating death as a spectacle.

You didn't want this to be your life but just a nightmare you were going to wake from too soon.

And now, as Marcus could see the moon reflecting on your face. He was able to see through the golden jewelry and the soft material of your dress, he could see a soul pleading to the moon to set her free.

Something must have alerted you. You turned around facing him hiding under his cloak.

"General Acacius?" You whispered, closing your eyes a bit to take his form under the soft light of the moon.

"My lady" he replied softly, with respect to his tone.

“What are you doing here?” you breathed, your voice trembled under his gaze.

He hesitated for mere seconds, his gaze intense as it locked onto yours. “I could ask you the same, my lady,” he replied, a trace of sweetness in his tone. “It seems even those closest to the emperors need to escape from time to time.”

A silence fell between you, charged with a tension that both thrilled and unsettled you. The few stolen glances you’d shared over the past days had spoken volumes, but you had never dared to hope his heart could be beating as fast as yours in your presence.

You turned around again, your back to him. "I love coming here to look at the moon. " You spoke, breaking the silence "This seems to be the only place my brothers haven't tainted yet."

"How they don't know about this place?"

"My father sent this place to be built for his only daughter." You replied, and Marcus could notice how the corners of your lips graced with a smirk, even from behind. "A place for her to be a girl."

"What do you mean?"

"You know, General. Women seem to be useless for having a voice, less for ruling an Empire. Everything I can do is stay here and feel like I own something." You hold your voice for a minute, “I’m just a statue waiting to crumble.”

Marcus didn't reply to your words and if it wasn't for the sound of his steps getting closer you would have thought he left.

You could see his outline from the corner of your eyes, the way his face had been marked by cruel events you despise. A red mark on his cheek, a few scars on his neck and for brown eyes that contrasted from his hard exterior, shinning under the same moon as yours.

"How did you find this place, General?" You asked, bow fully looking at him. You were wondering how your brothers never knew about this place but him had been the first man to find it, just after his return.

He took a brief look at you from the corners of his eyes. "I would say that something brought me here," he paused for a moment, "but it seems like it was you, my lady."

You had to hold your breath for a moment. You didn't expect such words from Marcus. He was the beloved general of Rome. But to your eyes he was still a man who had built his honor from cruelty or that was what you thought.

"I don't believe so." You replied, despite the rapid beating of your heart, you didn't want to be fooled by a man with soft brown eyes and a heart that seems to be kind. "I do not desire a man to follow me, not less one who is the puppet of the cruelty of all this cold nonsense."

"My lady…"

"Please, you may go now." you said, turning your gaze back to the moon.

Marcus didn’t leave immediately. Instead, he lingered in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the faint torchlight flickering in the hall. His hand rested on the edge of the door, his knuckles tight and pale as if he were restraining himself from saying something he would later regret.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the crackling of the embers in the hearth. The tension between you felt almost unbearable, a quiet battle waged in silence.

“I know what you think of me,” he finally said, his voice softer now, like the hush of a secret shared in the dark. “You see a man of blood and iron, one who serves an empire that devours cities for the Glory of Rome.” He exhaled slowly, almost as if gathering the strength to continue. “You’re not wrong to think that. There are nights when I wonder if all of this is worth it, if I am worth anything beyond my sword.”

His admission struck something deep within you, though you kept your face turned toward the moon. You refused to let him see the small crack forming in your carefully constructed armor.

“Then why stay?” you asked quietly, your voice carrying an edge of challenge. “Why continue to serve a cause you doubt?”

“I stay because I must,” Marcus said without hesitation. “It is all I have known, and it is all that has been asked of me. But you…” His voice faltered, and you felt the weight of his gaze, though you didn’t dare meet it. “You are different. You are everything this empire is not, kind, unyielding. Someone like you should be the one ruling Rome, the princess.”

You chuckled at the statement “My brothers would send me to death before I’ll have the chance to sit on that throne.”

Your fingers tightened around the fabric of your dress. His words shouldn’t have this effect on you, yet they lingered, stirring something unfamiliar.

“And that is why you should go,” you said, more firmly now. “You’re talking nonsense”

Marcus took a step closer, his steps echoing faintly against the cobblestones “Perhaps I do not belong here,” he said, his tone unwavering, “but that does not mean I will walk away so easily and let this empire fall under your brother’s madness.”

You turned to him then, unable to ignore the quiet determination in his voice. His eyes, those soft brown eyes that had once seemed so dangerous, now held a sincerity you hadn’t expected. For the first time, you saw not a general, but a man, a man who carried the weight of his choices and the burden of his doubts.

“You think you can change my mind?” you asked, your tone sharp despite the unease stirring in your chest.

“No,” Marcus admitted, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “But I hope, one day, I can show you what I am talking about.”

Before you could reply, he bowed his head slightly, as a gesture of respect rather than submission, and turned to leave.

As the door closed behind him, you stood in the quiet of the garden, your heart beating fast while his words played over in your head.

The arena buzzed with the deafening roar of the crowd, their excitement spilling into the air as dust kicked up from the floor below. You sat stiffly behind Geta and Caracalla, their laughter and sharp whispers grating against your ears. This was how it always was, trapped in their own world, watching their cruelty unfold.

Today, the games were bloodier than usual, the violence more drawn out, as if they relished every clash of blades and every cry of pain. You tried to ignore the chaos, your gaze drifting to the far horizon, where freedom felt like a distant dream in the blue sky.

But then, a movement to your right drew your attention. You turned your head just slightly, your breath catching when you saw Marcus approaching. His expression was calm, unreadable, though his eyes softened ever so slightly when they met yours. Without a word, he settled into the seat next to you.

“General,” you greeted, your voice low.

“My lady,” he replied, his tone equally soft, though there was a subtle warmth in it.

For a while, neither of your spoke. The sounds of the crowd and the clash of weapons filled the silence between you, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable one.

“They love this,” Marcus finally said, his voice barely audible over the noise.

You didn’t reply, too focused on fidgeting with the material of your dress, your fingers twisting the fabric in small, anxious movements. The tension in your shoulders was noticeable, your gaze fixed on the arena below, though it was clear your mind was far from the bloodshed.

Marcus noticed. He always noticed. After a moment of hesitation, his hand moved, gentle, placing it over yours. His touch was warm, steady, and it stopped the restless motion of your fingers.

Startled, you glanced at him, your breath catching as you saw the softness in his expression. There was no judgment, no pity, only quiet reassurance. For a moment, you forgot where you were, the chaos of the arena fading into the background.

But the moment didn’t last.

“Ah, what’s this?” Geta’s voice cut through the din, sharp and mocking.

You flinched, quickly pulling your hand away as Geta turned in his seat, his eyes narrowing as he looked between you and Marcus. His lips curled into a sly grin, the kind that sent a chill down your spine.

“Well, well,” he drawled, leaning closer as if sharing a secret. “Our dear sister has caught the attention of the great general. How… intriguing.”

Marcus’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, his gaze unwavering as he stared ahead.

Geta leaned back in his seat, his grin widening as an idea seemed to spark in his mind. He turned to Caracalla, nudging him with an elbow. “Brother, I think we haven’t been too generous with our sister, have we?”

Caracalla raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? What do you suggest we could do for her?”

Geta’s grin turned wicked, his eyes gleaming with malice. “A little incentive for the games. Let the gods decide her fate.”

Your blood ran cold as you realized what he was suggesting. “Geta, don’t—”

He ignored you, standing abruptly and raising his arms to address the crowd.

“Citizens of Rome!” Geta’s voice boomed over the noise, silencing the arena. “Today, we have a special reward for our brave gladiators. A prize worthy of their strength and valor.”

Caracalla caught on quickly, his laughter echoing through the stands. “Indeed, a prize unlike any other,” he added, his voice dripping with amusement.

You shot to your feet, panic rising in your chest. “Geta, stop this!”

He turned to you, his smile cruel. “Sit down, sister. This is for the glory of Rome.”

You didn’t move, but your voice faltered, your protests drowned out by the cheers of the crowd as Geta announced his decree.

“The victor of this fight,” he declared, “shall win not only their freedom but also the hand of our beloved sister.”

The crowd erupted in applause and cheers, their excitement deafening.

Beside you, Marcus remained seated, his expression unreadable. But you could see the storm brewing in his eyes, the muscles in his jaw clenching as he processed what had just happened.

And for the first time, you saw something in him that you hadn’t before, a quiet, burning fury, one that made you wonder just how far he would go to defy your brothers.

"They offered me as a price." You whispered to Marcus who was offering his arm for you to hold, as you tried to keep your composure.

You felt humiliated.

You felt that men owned you and despised the feeling.

Marcus didn’t respond right away. His arm remained steady, extended for you to hold, a silent offer of support. His face, though unreadable, betrayed hints of a restrained anger—anger that wasn’t directed at you, but at the cruelty of your brothers, the twisted spectacle they had made of your dignity.

“They did,” he finally murmured, his voice low but firm, so only you could hear. “And they will answer for it.”

You hesitated, your hand trembling slightly before resting on his arm. The gesture was subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone else, but between the two of you, it felt like a silent pact. Marcus guided you to sit back down, his movements deliberate, as if shielding you from the prying eyes of the crowd.

“Hold your head high,” he said quietly, leaning just close enough for his words to reach you. “You are not a prize. You are a queen in all but name.”

His words, though softly spoken, struck a chord deep within you. They carried a weight that steadied the storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm you—humiliation, anger, and a raw, aching vulnerability you despised feeling. You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to sit straighter, your gaze fixed on the arena even as your chest burned with resentment.

The fight began, the clash of swords and the roar of the crowd filling the air. The gladiators fought with a ferocity that was almost unbearable to watch, knowing that your fate hung in the balance of their blades. You despised every second of it, despised the men in the arena who saw you as a reward to be claimed, despised the crowd who cheered for your subjugation, and most of all, despised your brothers for orchestrating this humiliation.

And yet, as the fight dragged on, your attention kept flickering to Marcus. He hadn’t moved, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed on the arena with an intensity that made your heart race. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, fingers tightening with every blow exchanged below.

“They cannot do this,” you whispered, your voice trembling with barely contained anger. “They cannot decide my life like this.”

“They can try,” Marcus replied, his tone like steel. “But they will not succeed.”

His words were cryptic, but there was something in his voice, a quiet, unshakable resolve that made you glance at him. For a moment, you wondered if he already had a plan, if his mind was racing with strategies to undo the cruelty your brothers had unleashed.

The fight ended abruptly, the crowd roaring as the victor emerged, bloodied but triumphant. Your stomach churned as the man was announced, his grin wide as he looked up to the podium where you sat. You felt Marcus tense beside you, his hand gripping his sword so tightly you feared it might snap.

“Don’t,” you whispered urgently, sensing the storm about to break within him. “Please, Marcus.”

But he didn’t respond, his gaze locked on the victor below. And for the first time, you wondered just how far Marcus would go, not just to defy your brothers, but to protect you from their cruelty.

The victor's triumphant roar echoed through the arena, and the crowd erupted into wild cheers. You couldn’t bear to look at the man below, his eyes alight with the promise of his prize—you. Your stomach churned with revulsion, and your breathing quickened, panic clawing at your chest.

“Come,” Marcus said quietly, his voice cutting through the noise. His hand found yours again, firm but not forceful, and this time, you didn’t hesitate to take it. The heat of his palm against yours grounded you, gave you a tether to hold onto as you stood on unsteady legs.

You didn’t wait for your brothers’ gloating remarks or the smug expressions on their faces. Without a word, you let Marcus guide you away, his presence shielding you from the leering eyes of the crowd. The noise of the arena began to fade as you descended the steps, replaced by the rapid beating of your heart.

The corridors beneath the stands were dimly lit, the cool air a welcome reprieve from the suffocating heat of the arena. You kept your gaze forward, refusing to look back, refusing to give your brothers or the victor the satisfaction of seeing your fear. But inside, you were trembling.

“Marcus,” you finally whispered, your voice breaking. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere they can’t touch you,” he replied, his tone low and steady. His hand tightened around yours, a silent vow that he wouldn’t let you face this alone.

The two of you emerged into the open courtyard behind the arena, the setting sun casting long shadows across the stone walls. The sounds of the crowd were distant now, muffled by the heavy doors that closed behind you. You stopped walking, pulling your hand from his and turning to face him.

“They’ll come for me,” you said, your voice laced with frustration and fear. “They won’t let this stand. Geta and Caracalla—”

“They’ll have to go through me first,” Marcus interrupted, his tone sharp, his brown eyes fierce. “And I promise you, my lady, they won’t succeed.”

You stared at him, his words sinking in. He looked every bit the general now, strong, resolute, and unyielding. And yet, there was something else in his gaze, something softer that made your chest tighten. He wasn’t just protecting you out of duty or honor. There was something personal in the way he looked at you, in the way he stood so close, as though shielding you from the world.

"I can fight in the arena" he said, "for you."

You stared blankly at him, shocked at your core.

"What would you win from that? Do you want to own me like those men?" You asked.

"I do not wish to own you, my lady. You're not property. You're a free woman, and If I win, I'll become your husband and you would never have to endure those humiliations ever again."

"Just because I would be yours." You whispered, still broken at the thought of not being enough.

"You would be my wife, not my property." He clarified, "I will live and fight to keep your honor just as you deserve"

You looked away, heart pounding, his words washing over you like laurels over your skin. A part of you longed to believe him, to let his offer pull you from the grip of your family’s ambitions. But fear clung tightly, rooted in years of being nothing more than a pawn in your brothers' power games.

"General…" you murmured, voice wavering. "If you fight for me, you put yourself in danger. And if you fall, my life will only become darker, lonelier. I don’t want your blood on my hands."

He stepped closer, his eyes steady, fierce. "I would rather risk everything than stand by while you suffer. You deserve a life where you choose, where you're loved, not used."

Your throat tightened, emotions swelling. "But if you fight and lose, you’d be at their mercy. They’d make you a symbol. A warning to anyone else who dares to defy them."

He lifted your hand, pressing it to his heart. "Then let them try," he said, his voice unyielding. "For you, my lady, I would face even the wrath of the empire."

His touch was gentle, but his resolve was unbreakable. In that moment, you realized he wasn’t just a man willing to fight for you, he was someone who saw you as more than a title, more than a sister to emperors. He saw you, truly.

“Why?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “Why would you risk this for me?”

For a moment, he hesitated, the stoic mask slipping just enough for you to catch a glimpse of the man beneath. “Because you deserve more than to be treated as a pawn in their games,” he said finally. “And because I…” He stopped himself, shaking his head as if the words were too much to say aloud. “You don’t deserve this.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tight with emotion.

"Acacius… if you truly wish to do this," you whispered, your fingers trembling in his, "then I will stand by your side, come what may."

He smiled, a rare softness breaking through his stoic exterior. "Then we’ll face them together, my lady. And if they stand in our way…" His eyes darkened, a spark of defiance glinting within them. "They’ll learn that love is a force they cannot control"

"Do you believe you could come close to loving me?" You asked, heart pounding.

His reply didn’t come from words. Instead, he squeezed your hand over his heart.

His words lingered in the air, hanging between you like the delicate balance of a fragile moment. You searched his face, his steady eyes holding yours as if daring you to see the sincerity in them. For all his strength, for all his might as a general, Marcus stood before you as something else entirely. A man laying his heart bare.

Your breath hitched as his hand moved from yours to gently cradle your cheek, his touch warm and careful, as if he feared you might pull away. You didn’t. You couldn’t. Instead, you leaned into his palm, your heart pounding so loudly you thought he must hear it.

“May I?” he murmured, his voice soft and hesitant, as though you were something precious, he was afraid to break.

You nodded, unable to speak, your eyes fluttering closed as he leaned in. His lips brushed against yours, tentative and light, testing the waters of your comfort. It was not the kiss of a conqueror or a man accustomed to taking what he wanted. It was the kiss of someone who had been waiting, who had held back his own desires out of respect for you.

The first touch was fleeting, but when he felt you relax into him, he deepened the kiss, his other hand settling on your waist to anchor you against him. The world around you faded. The distant noise of the Coliseum, the threat of your brothers, even the weight of your own fear. All that remained was the warmth of his lips, the steady beat of his heart beneath your other hand.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested gently against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet that followed. “Loving you,” he whispered again, his voice thick with emotion, “would be the easiest battle I’ve ever fought.”

Hosea seemed to like you most because you were generally more tame than Arthur and John. Part of it was because Grimshaw was always breathing down your neck and making you clean the boys’ dirty clothes. But simply soaking in the reality of living on the run was a lot for someone so small to grasp.

Regardless, you settled down, and John was the brother who teased you and acted too untouchable to interact with you. Arthur was the older brother who looked after both of you and set John straight when he even slightly hurt your feelings. It was a typical dynamic, you supposed, but you wouldn't trade it for the world.

As usual, you sat in the shadow of the large, rocky mountain juniper at the camp. The days passed in a blur, and there you were, furiously scrubbing one of John's muddy pairs of pants. No matter what you did, you couldn't get the stains out, and you knew Grimshaw would mention it if it wasn't spotless.

Dutch and Hosea sat elsewhere, discussing something about a well-off family and the wealth hidden in their country home. Arthur and John, of course, were dying for a chance to prove themselves as capable outlaws.

"Hey, well, come on, Arthur," John groaned, trying to rip a stick from Arthur's grip that looked like a misshapen gun. "You know that Dutch said he was gonna teach me to shoot, right?"

Arthur stood slightly taller, holding his hand out of reach. "Who's the one who already knows how to shoot, aye?" he wondered, tilting his head as his hat awkwardly flopped over his brow.

"Just 'cause you're older doesn't mean you're more experienced with a gun," John claimed, his hardened expression turning into more of a pout.

"Sure," Arthur said, slipping the stick beneath his belt. "But it does mean I've gotten to touch a real one."

While the boys bickered, Bessie asked in a tone that was as light as a feather, "It's much more peaceful over here, isn't it?"

"Yes," you agreed, your furrowed brow not softening. "But it's only peaceful when I don't have to do this."

"Oh, come, now," she murmured, shifting in her dark dress while she sewed together a blanket. "You know it's only a little work. Compared to what my husband gets up to, this is nothing. Plus, if you were covered in gunpowder, dirt, sweat, and blood, wouldn't you want to come home to a nice pair of clean clothes?"

You shrugged and dunked the fabric into the basin once more when the force of your efforts splashed water right back at you. Frustrated, you wiped the suds from your arms and sat in silence.

Before long, Bessie said, "Oh, I think the boys are calling you over. Don't worry about the mess if they need you for somethin' else, sweetie. I'll handle it."

Abruptly rising, you rubbed your wet hands in the folds of your skirt, then followed the small trail through the brush, past your restless siblings, and to Dutch and Hosea. Hosea sat beneath the shade of the tent, squinting as he surveyed the rugged terrain beyond the wagon you were previously near.

"y/n!" Dutch exclaimed, setting his cigar aside and meeting you. "Get the boys, would you?"

Before you backed away, you quizzed, "So, you called me all the way over here so I could get Arthur and John even though they're right there?"

"Yes!"

Not knowing what else to say, you lifted your skirt to step over the jagged rocks between the sagebrush. Then, you called, "Arthur, John! Get over here!"

Once they hurried over, you instinctively prepared to return to the women, but Dutch wondered, "And where do you think you're going, young lady?"

Knowing something was off, you turned about and drew closer only when he gestured to you. Even then, you gravitated toward Hosea's side.

"What is it, Dutch?" asked John as he mindfully adjusted his dark hair.

As the pair gathered beneath the shade of the tent, Dutch claimed, "It is a beautiful day. Hosea and I were thinking it seemed just right to see what fish are in the lake!"

"We're goin' fishing?" Arthur asked, an eager smile spreading across his lips.

"Indeed, we are, son," he said. "You boys have your things, right?"

They were as ready as could be, so you stood there awkwardly until Hosea handed you his own fishing rod. "And you, Miss y/n, will be learning from me."

It was heavier than you anticipated, and your hands moved all about as you were unsure of how to even hold it. "I have to continue working, though," you protested, scrutinizing the rod.

"Nonsense," Hosea replied, sliding a container of bait across the table and placing it right in your palm. "My wife loves you—you know that. She'll take care of what you didn't do. And if Susan is upset, she can just talk to Dutch."

"But this thing is heavy, and I really don't know what to do," you whined.

"Just be quiet and come along, my dear."

Dutch and the boys were already on their way to the dip in the hill that led straight to the lake when Hosea's hand landed on your shoulder. Once you gathered your courage, you followed behind your father figure. Bessie just gave you a smile as you passed, and of course, Susan didn't seem too pleased. But when else would you be able to have fun, you wondered?

John had already descended the steep, rocky bluff when he let his line trail into the crisp water. "I'll catch something better than you, Arthur!" he exclaimed.

"I doubt it," said Arthur. "You know that y/n has more patience than you. She'll probably beat both of us."

"No, I won't," you said, carefully navigating through the loose rocks. "I don't even know how to fish."

Dutch faced you once he stood beside John and Arthur. "Oh, but you will know, darling. Hosea beat my record for the most fish caught in a single day, and I know he's set on making you beat it. Now, quit being so careful over there and just hop down. You can't keep your pretty dress clean forever."

Hosea shook his head and extended a hand. "Don't listen to him," he said, clasping your smaller hand to help you down. "I'm not trying to make you the best. And if you don't wanna get your dress dirty, that's okay."

After stepping over the last few rocks, Hosea cupped your shoulders and guided you to stand just before the shore.

"Okay, sweetheart," he said, taking the container from your hand and opening it. "Here are the worms for the little fish to eat. Now, you want to... impale them on the hook just like this. See? They squirm a bit, but it's nothing for you to worry about. And when you're done, you bring the rod over your shoulder like this, then come back down and release. Got it? Let me see you do it."

After he backed away to give you room, you clumsily did as instructed. As soon as the lure pierced the water, you asked nervously, "What do I do now? Did I do it right?"

"Now, we wait," he said as he sat down and rested his back against a boulder. "You were a little clumsy, but you got there. Now, tell me about that book you read with Bessie yesterday."

"It didn't make sense," you explained. "It was about a complicated romance."

"Ahh, romance. You'll understand it someday, my dear. But for now, why don't we enjoy the quiet? Well... what quiet there is."

Still, John complained that he hadn't learned to shoot when Arthur had. And before long, the boys' lines had tangled because they were too focused on their own grievances. You could tell Arthur was moments away from throwing the smaller John to the rocks to knock some sense into him. But for the sake of appearing to be the perfect parental figure, Dutch roughly pulled Arthur to his side after retracting his own line.

"Now, boys," he said, adjusting Arthur's slightly oversized hat. "Is that any way to act in front of a lady?"

Hosea scoffed and told the boys, "I wonder how your sister hasn't left us yet because of your bickering. I wouldn't blame her if she did. You're acting like wild animals!"

John, feeling particularly bratty, tugged on his fishing line to manage it away from Arthur's. Once he did, he huffed and hurried away up the hill, leaving the rest of you behind. "I don't care what y/n thinks of us!" he snapped. "You know you should've taught me how to shoot when you taught Arthur! Just 'cause I'm younger doesn't mean I'm dumber!"

Hosea muttered, "Well, not in every case, but..."

Arthur chimed in, "Sometimes it does!"

Then, John's head shot around, and he asked, "Would you like to see for yourself, then?"

"Maybe I would," Arthur said, effortlessly reeling in his line before resting the rod over his shoulder.

Hosea straightened up and instinctively wanted to follow them, but he turned to Dutch and asked, "Well, aren't you going to go after them? Make sure they don't kill each other, at least!"

"Awhh." Dutch, too, gave up on fishing, then stepped over to you. "They'll work it out, Hosea. They're growing boys, and they need to know how to defend their ideas, hmm?"

Before he trailed behind your siblings, he set his large hand over your head and affectionately ruffled your hair.

"That's a stupid idea, Dutch," Hosea said, crossing his arms.

"It's called becoming a man!" Dutch slung an arm around your shoulders and pulled you against his chest, holding you there for a brief moment. Then, he pecked the top of your head and told you, "Now, you just be a good girl, and we're alright."

Hosea replied, "She's always a good girl. Just leave her with me and stop the boys from killing each other, for Christ's sake!"

Finally, Dutch pulled away and managed his way up the rocky slope. From your position, you could hear Arthur and John shouting at each other, and Susan threatening to put them to work if they misbehaved. By then, the sun crept toward the horizon, and Hosea finally decided that perhaps it wasn't the best day to teach you how to fish.

So, he said, "Just leave the rod against that rock there."

He already appeared worn out just from dealing with your siblings' tempers, so, not wishing to be a bother, you followed his instructions. As you turned back to him, you noticed his arm reaching toward you.

"Let old Hosea hold you for a while," he said, a genuine smile crossing his lips. "Just let the others fade away for now."

You would never pass up the opportunity, so you eagerly sat beside him and settled snugly beneath his arm. As soon as you did, he pressed his palm against your bicep and pulled you in tightly. Neither of you said anything, so you wrapped your arm around his torso and pressed your head right atop his heart.

When you hid your face away and listened to his heartbeat settle down, he placed his chin on your head and murmured, "You are very safe. Bessie and I will take good care of you, as we always have."

"Thank you, Hosea," you whispered.

A humorless laugh escaped his throat, and he said, "Thank you, sweetheart, for not being as rowdy as those boys. And maybe when Arthur and John aren't so ready to rip eachother's eyes out, I'll take you three hunting. How does that sound?"

You nodded and squeezed him tighter before he instinctively wrapped his other arm around you, fully cradling you. "I'd like that," you said.

Hosea rubbed your arm, then said, "Good. And don't feel too threatened by them. Arthur and John love you dearly. So does Dutch... so do I."

Before you could get another word in, he pulled you in so tightly that you could hardly breathe. But you couldn't deny that being held by your father figure was the most comforting thing in the world. So, you hugged him back just as tightly and felt his hand travel to the back of your head to smooth your hair down.

Even as the sun dipped below the horizon, the two of you remained in place, soaking up each other's warmth with no other care in the world. For a moment, being against Hosea's chest made you forget about your past and how miserable you were for Dutch to even rescue you from that dreadful town. What you wanted most after that was to call Hosea and Dutch your fathers, but you felt it might be too soon. In the meantime, such affection and the knowledge of your worth were all you needed to feel okay.

---

"What about Twilight?" He smirks, clearly trying to rile you up.

"Val! We are not watching Twilight." You laugh.

"You’re the one always comparing me to Jacob."

For some reason, the TV just isn't responding, so you press down harder on the button. You angle the remote, as if that would somehow improve the connection. Unfortunately, the smooth plastic slides out of your grip. It clatters to the floor, the battery cover popping off.

"Shit. Valko can-"

"Got it!" Valko practically dives towards the remote, grabbing the device.

"Thanks…"

"No problem!" He gives you a fanged smile.

That's weird. He seems almost… Happy? Proud? Excited? That's the word. He seems strangely excited to retrieve the remote for you. You didn't notice it at first, but now that you think about it, it's something he's done since you met.

Just last week, you dropped your pencil while you looked over reports from the Association. Before you even registered that you had dropped it, Valko handed it back to you.

Yesterday, you accidentally knocked your phone off the counter while cooking. Valko was there to pick it up.

This morning, the toothpaste tube slipped out of your hands when you were brushing your teeth. He literally ran from the other room just to help you.

Then it clicked.

"Valko," You sigh, staring him dead in the eyes. "Are you… playing fetch with me?"

"No! I'm-" His voice cracks, coming out a few octaves too high.

"Ahem." He clears his throat, his voice returning to its usual baritone. "No. What do you mean? Tch. Playing fetch. I'm not a stupid dog." He insists.

"Right…" You give him a side eye, but resume the movie search regardless.

You hand him the remote, letting him find what to watch while a plan brews in your mind. There's no way you’re letting this slide without teasing him. It's just too good an opportunity to pass up. Spotting the bag of snacks perched on the table, you reach over and grab it, letting the bag slowly fall from your hand. It lands on the ground with a crackle.

Like a sleeper agent, Valko's eyes lock onto the package. His eyes narrow, like he's stalking prey. The wolf hybrid lunges, snatching it up from the floor. Valko then places it in your lap with a gentleness that belies the urgency with which he grabbed the bag of snacks.

"Valko."

"What?"

You snicker and toss the bag across the room.

"Valko, fetch!"

He bolts up from the couch, scoops up the chips and returns it to your outstretched hands.

"Oh. No, no, you did not!" Valko's face drops as he processes what in the world just happened. Red blooms across his face and his ears twitch in anger as embarrassment sets in.

"Stupid wolf instincts." He mutters. “Stupid human."

an: I am genuinely devastated at the loss of such a wonderful character and am angry at the way infold has handled the situation. so I wrote something lighthearted for those who need it rn

also apologies if anything doesn’t make sense or is grammatically incorrect it’s 2 am rn for me and I am tired… g’night guys I sleep now ‎꜀( ꜆-ࡇ-)꜆ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

Peter finds out their name the very next day. Not because they told him, but because he watched them write it on a coffee cup when they ordered. Y/N. It rolls around his mind like a prayer, or maybe like a threat. Depends who you ask.

When Y/N starts noticing Peter more often at their favorite spots, they chalk it up to coincidence. The diner. The comic store. The Sanrio section in the mall. “You again,” they say with a small smile. Peter grins like he has won the lottery. “Guess we just have good taste.”

He never mocks their love for cute things. He listens. He asks questions. “Is that one your favorite?” he asks when Y/N picks up a My Melody pen. He doesn’t even flinch when they gush about Kuromi or Pompompurin. In fact, he looks more focused than ever. He is storing all this information like it is vital for survival.

Peter starts showing up with little gifts. A pink scrunchie. A strawberry-scented lip balm. A sticker sheet of Cinnamoroll. “Saw this and thought of you,” he says casually, like he didn’t spend an hour picking it out while muttering their name under his breath.

One time Y/N tells him they had a bad day. Just a passing comment. The next morning, there is a Hello Kitty plush on their doorstep with a note that simply reads, “No one should make you sad.” The handwriting is shaky but careful. Y/N looks around the street but sees no one.

Y/N eventually invites Peter to hang out more formally. Coffee, maybe a movie. He agrees so fast it’s almost alarming. During the movie, his hand lingers too long near theirs. When Y/N brushes pink cupcake frosting off their cheek, he watches them like they just created art. His pupils are blown wide and his jaw flexes, but he doesn’t say anything. Not yet.

Peter likes when they dress up. Especially in soft, pastel dresses or anything frilly. The more pink, the better. He always compliments them. “You look like a dream,” he whispers, voice low, almost reverent. If anyone else stares at them for too long, he notices. His eyes go flat and cold.

One time, some guy bumps into Y/N and mutters something rude under his breath. Peter’s smile disappears. He watches the guy walk away, jaw clenched. Later, Y/N hears about someone getting their tires slashed behind the building. They never make the connection. Peter does not offer it.

He has a habit of touching their things. Rearranging their keychains, flipping through their photo albums. He says it is because he wants to know them better. “You’re in every little detail,” he says one evening. “I want to understand all of it.”

Sometimes Peter gets quiet. Real quiet. Especially when Y/N talks about people they used to date or friends who call them cute. He smiles, but it does not reach his eyes. Later, he might press closer during a hug or cling just a little longer. “I like when it’s just us,” he mumbles into their hair.

Y/N once joked about having a Sanrio-themed wedding. Peter did not laugh. He just looked at them and asked what character they would want on the cake topper. “I’d wear a pink tie,” he said after a beat. “And I’d make sure you were the center of everything.”

Peter keeps one of their hair accessories. Y/N thinks they lost it. He found it on the ground and never gave it back. He keeps it in his jacket pocket and runs his thumb across it whenever he misses them. Which is often. Like, every few minutes often.

One time, Y/N paints their nails soft pink and adds little white hearts. Peter stares so hard they get self-conscious. “Does it look weird?” they ask. He shakes his head, slowly. “No. You just make everything beautiful.” Then, quieter, “I want to be something you’d paint.”

He leaves notes for them in their locker or bag. The handwriting is shaky, but the messages are clear. “You are perfect.” “I hope you smiled today.” “I would hurt anyone who made you cry.” The mix of sweet and dangerous gives Y/N butterflies they cannot quite explain.

Y/N once told him that people used to tease them for liking pink, for being soft, for caring about silly things. Peter’s eyes darken. “They’re idiots,” he says. “Those things are what make you magic. And if anyone says otherwise again, I’ll make sure they regret it.”

He surprises them by getting matching phone charms. His has a tiny Grim Reaper with a heart. Theirs is a sparkly pink bunny with a knife. “It suits us,” he says. Y/N laughs and agrees, not realizing how serious Peter is about the symbolism.

Peter sometimes stands behind them and wraps his arms around their waist. He rests his head on their shoulder and watches whatever they are doing. “You smell like strawberries,” he says one time. “I want that scent on my clothes forever.”

He never lets them walk home alone. Ever. Even if they argue, he insists. “You don’t know who’s out there,” he says. “But I do. And I’m not letting anything happen to you.”

Y/N has a little vanity in their room, decorated with Sanrio trinkets and pastel accessories. Peter leaves a rose there once. Not bought, not wrapped. Just a single pink rose, placed gently on the mirror. Y/N doesn’t ask where it came from.

Peter gets jealous. It is not loud or dramatic. It is quiet, possessive, and simmering. If someone flirts with Y/N, Peter stays close, his fingers brushing against theirs in warning. When they are alone later, he’ll say, “You’re mine, right?” and wait for them to answer before he relaxes again.

One night, Y/N falls asleep on the couch after a long day. Peter tucks a pink blanket around them, kneels beside them, and just watches for a while. “You’re the only thing that makes this place feel like home,” he whispers.

He knows their favorite character, their favorite snack, the playlist they listen to when they’re sad. He knows what earrings they wore last Thursday and the way they hum when they’re focused. He stores all of it. Like it is sacred.

Peter once tried to draw them in their favorite outfit. The proportions are a little off, the lines shaky, but the effort is pure. He leaves it on their desk without a name, but signs it with a tiny heart. They know it is from him.

When they go on dates, he always lets them choose. But he steers them toward places where it is just the two of them. Less people. Less distractions. More time to hear Y/N talk about cute plushies or sweet drinks or how soft their new cardigan is.

Peter keeps calling them cute. Not just when they’re dressed up, but when they’re in pajamas, when they’re sleepy, when they’re grumpy. “You’re cute when you pout,” he says. “You’re cute when you blink. You’re cute when you breathe.”

Y/N once catches him staring at them for way too long. They ask him what’s wrong. He answers in a voice too soft for someone so obsessed. “I just don’t get how something like you exists. And how I get to see you every day.”

Sometimes, late at night, Peter whispers things like, “If you ever left me, I think I’d lose it.” He says it like it is a joke, but his grip on their hand is tight. Y/N strokes his hair and says they’re not going anywhere. For now, that is enough.

Wandering in the wild? When he was little? Without anything…? How could that happen?

You thought of a much younger Valko, all alone in a dangerous forest at night.

Probably muddy, hungry, and shivering from the harsh wind.

Exhausted and leaning against a tree, curling around himself before hugging his tail.

“Babe?” He tentatively called, observing you.

Your lips quivered. Gaze looking elsewhere as you tried to dodge his inquisitive eyes.

“Hey now, are you—” concerned, he sets the throw blanket away and comes closer to gently cup your face, guiding you to turn back to him. “Are you feeling sad for me?”

Your eyes finally meet his, and he sees the sheen of tears that has started to gather in them.

He presses his forehead to yours. He understands your sincerity. You’re always so sweet to him. He vows to keep your tender heart safe.

“There is no need,” he says in a low voice, thumbs caressing your cheeks as he coaxes you. “That was a long time ago. I’m fine. Didn’t mean to make you sad.”

You huff, burying your face into his chest as you wrap your arms around his torso. “You must have felt frightened.”

He says nothing, just slowly runs his hand over your hair.

“I’m going to build a time machine.” You mumble into his chest.

You feel the vibration on his chest as he chuckles. “And come find me?”

“Yes. I’ll be younger too. I’ll bring a blanket. And a flashlight. And a tent. And some food.”

He hums. “And a gallon of my favorite chocolate milk?”

That gets you to smile. “Silly.” You squeeze around his waist. “We’ll make it a fun camping night. Play games, count the stars. And when daylight comes, I’ll bring you to your family.”

He kisses your forehead, then nuzzles into your hair. “Thank you, my love. I would have been thrilled to meet you back then.”

He sits down on the couch, leading you to sit sideways on top of him, then lets out his tail to drape over your legs. You giggle, leaning on his chest as you gently brush your hand over his fur.

He regales you with other tales of his childhood, making sure to mention happy memories and exaggerate his mischievous moments. Until he feels your breathing start to even out.

Valko carefully lifts you up and carries you to bed, sliding under the covers with you. He turns to look at your face for a while, before finally settling in to hold you close for the night.

He dreams of that forest again, and sees his younger self. But this time, the small werewolf is happily following a little firefly that chose to stay and light his way. “We’ll be just fine, bud.” He says behind them, the weight of this memory feeling much lighter.

Dividers by @/diviniyae

It's not your fault, it really isn't— how is a woman supposed to act when her man is looking too delicious to not devour.

Despite him being half wolf it really feels like you are the animal here because all day you had been staring at him like a piece of meat being dangled in your face.

You don't need to check your phone to know you were ovulating because there is no other explanation for how you are sitting on his lap while he innocently unboxes his newest keyboard all giddy meanwhile your body and brain were fighting demons.

Little did you know he noticed, you weren't exactly all that subtle with how often you shifted your hips on his lap to "get more comfortable" but he chose to ignore it, wanting to see how far you can contain yourself, he wasn't all that clueless, it was impossible for him to not smell your arousal but even more impossible to not tease you.

"I can finally try out the new switches I got for my keyboard." He quickly got to work arranging all of his things on the desk.

Your eyes follow the furrow in his eyebrows and how he bit hid lip in concentration.

"These are the cherry mx clear switches which should be a little louder than the last ones I got! They have a more clicky sound to them see since they are more tactile, it's because they are not linear." He demonstrated typing into the quiet room that soon was filled with the sounds of the key pads echoing, not in obnoxious way, still, valko was very particular whenever it came to these things though you could swear they sound no different than the last ones he got.

"So what's the difference between these and the other ones?" You ask, half genuinely curious and half trying to distract yourself from jumping his bones like a feral cat in heat.

"They have the same actuation and travel rate but these ones need a little more force." He explained, all animated, fixing his glasses as they slip down his nose.

"The red ones need 20g less force which could be better if you want to prioritize speed but personally I think higher is better so I avoid miss clicking so often without sacrificing speed as much too—"

Your eyes have not left his face for a single moment, you have no idea what the fuck he even said or what any of that means but you nod along nonetheless, there was something about how he talked so confidently and passionately about his hobbies that made you dizzy with need.

He noticed your confused face and let out a quiet laugh that went straight to your core, you subconsciously fidget more, leaning closer to him.

Valko wrapped an arm around your waist pulling you in more.

"Are you even paying attention to me right now?" He pouted, mischief written in his face.

"Of course I was!" You cough, covering up how your face felt hot from how he stared down at you.

"Really?" He whispered against your lips.

You hum acting nonchalant despite your heartbeat roaring against your chest.

"What was I talking about then?" The arm that was wrapped around your waist slowly moved to your hips stopping your movements.

Your eyes widen, not even realizing you had been humping his leg this entire time.

Valko leaned back into his gaming chair, adjusting his hips, purposely thrusting up against you to hear that little gasp leave your lips, amber eyes never once leaving you, tracing your face and body.

"You were talking a-about— nghh— about—" You try to save the last of your dignity but he was quick to tighten his grip on your hips to move you on his lap with practiced ease till you were on top of his hard cock, he hissed.

The soft sounds coming from you were music to his sensitive ears, better than any keyboard switch until he got an idea, smirking.

"How about this, pup." His other hand carefully caressed your cheek watching how you nuzzled into his warmth, his heart swelling.

"How about we test this new keyboard in a different way?" You could almost read his thoughts.

You nod, fully trusting him.

"Words, pup." He came closer.

"Okay." You whisper breathlessly.

"Good girl." He chuckled suddenly manhandling you on his desk, you squeal hands quick to grab at his shoulders.

"You trust me?"

"Yes."

He carefully placed you on top of his new keyboard, your breath hitches.

"You know what to do."

You move your hips hesitantly, scared to break it from your weight.

His pushed you down firmly, not forcing, never that but encouraging you.

You gasp, the only barrier between you and the key pads was your panties that were slick with raw need.

Valko watched, leaning back against his chair, eyes stripping you naked till your soul was bare to him.

Every shift made the pads rub just right against your throbbing clit, your body was possessed with the need for his approval.

"Eyes on me." His command made you dizzy, hazy eyes desperately trying to maintain contact.

"Just like that, so filthy."

"You're just a dumb puppy, aren't you?"

"Look at this mess, you gonna clean it up after, puppy?"

"Fuckkkk, don't stop."

The click sounds slowly start to sound more chaotic and uncoordinated with your peak nearing from his demeaning words, you loved how be talked you through it.

Before you can ask for permission valko moves, stopping your movements, you cry out in frustration, nails digging into his arms until streaks of blood were visible.

"Not so fast." He whispered against your ear, biting and licking until he reached your neck, your scent driving him crazy, it was the most intoxicating and addictive thing.

You try to grab his bulge, his own arousal evident but he was quick to stop you, your whine makes him laugh.

"Not tonight, not before I get a taste."

You shiver.

His fingers carefully trace along your underwear, avoiding where you needed him the most on purpose.

"Val—" You whine.

"Shhh."

"But—"

Your thoughts all crumble when you feel his thumb press down firmly on your clit. Your whimpers were fueling him more.

His thumb adding more pressure, moving in slow and tight circles that made your vision blur. Each time you neared your climax he purposefully stopped his movements.

"Val, please please please—"

He was planning to tease you more but he couldn't wait himself anymore.

Finally giving your clit his full undivided attention you cry out withering around him.

Spots of white scatter in your vision, mouth falling in a silent scream, not fully registering the clear spurts that covered his keyboard and desk.

"There. You. Go." He groaned watching you unfold in front of him.

He lets you catch your breath for a moment, head resting against his chest before he pulled you away slowly, "not done yet." dropping to his knees, free hand pulling you off of the keyboard that was covered in your cum.

Your body felt like puddy, molding to his every will. Your eyes widen when you notice him lick the keyboard clean, his dark eyes watching you like were his next meal, oh how the tables turned.

He moved to take off his glasses but you stop him.

"Keep them, please."

How could he dare say no to you when you use your manners?

He nuzzled against your stomach, breathing you in like you were the most intoxicating drug.

His lips leaving gentle kisses down to your thighs, big hands parting them, a groan leaving his lips at how soaked you were.

"Mine." His possessively mumbled, not really meant to for you to hear but your heart stuttered when you caught his quiet confession.

He wastes no time, diving into your cunt like he was worshiping a goddess. Still keeping your panties, only moving them to the side after he licks a long slow strip from your slit to your aching clit.

You bite you lip trying to stop the embarrassing noises from leaving your lips but he doesn't let you.

"If you keeping doing that you not cumming on my cock tonight, pup." He whispered loud enough for you to hear.

When he finally makes contact with your bare skin your hips buck, he holds you still, devouring you, all messy and sloppy, squelching sounds mix in with your loud whines.

His tongue was on a mission to steal all your oxygen. Your hands quickly find purchase on his hair, pulling it harder and harder and he lets you, feeling an absurd amount of pre stain his pants.

He was completely marked in your scent, nose dumping against your clit in a rhythm that matched the way he ravaged your insides with his tongue.

The way his name became the only coherent word you could let out had him drunk. By tomorrow you knew bruises would appear on your hips from his grip but none of that mattered. You wanted his mark on you too.

The visual of his glasses fogging up while he diligently ate you like you were the sweetest thing had your pussy tightening around his tongue.

"Val!" You cried, pulling his hair harder.

Valko groaned, knowing what you wanted he sealed his lips around your clit, fingers quick to replace his tongue, pumping in and out of you till your breath caught.

"Breathe, pup." He reminded you before diving back in. Your lungs burn trying to remember how to breathe in oxygen, your spread legs wrapping around his head now, too drunk to realize he himself wasn't breathing at all and valko did not care one bit, he loved every second of this.

"C-can't—" You gasp.

"Yes. You can." He encouraged you, fingers never once stopping their pace, hard and deep just how you liked it. He moved, nose against your own now, his lips capture yours, the taste of you on his tongue made your pussy grip his fingers tighter, valko groan at how erotic it all was, finally taking his glasses off to see you better and he swore he could cum just from seeing your eyes roll as you came all over him, messier than ever, more clear liquid splattered everywhere but he didn't stop until you were a crying mess, shushing you with sweet kisses.

"There you goooo."

"So pretty for me."

"So good, so good for me." He praise made you more lightheaded.

He caressed your hair, helping you calm down from your intense orgasm.

"Breathe for me baby, slowly."

"Yeah, just like that." He smiled noticing how content you looked with your eyes closed.

"Better?" He asked.

"So much better." You sighed, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him into soft kisses as he moved you to the bed, holding you in his warm and strong arms for the rest of the night.

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