screw single and ready to mingle. i'm bi and ready to die

It was this upbringing, the gruelling labour and long hours, that had crafted him into the racer he was today. He might be barely above the lowest ranks of Rome, but the trials Rome put him through now saw him earning as much as the senators spectating above.

The others around him, however, were not as fortunate. They were babies, really, he thinks as he still smashes into one of the orange racers. The boy, not even a man, couldn't be older than 20.

The crowd roars at the destruction, egging him on as he makes the corner and pulls into the lead. He was well within his rights to wreak havoc where he went, but it didn't make him feel any nicer about it. That boy, now trampled underfoot by the rest of the chariots, could be dead, broken, or dying. It was a thought that Max was, unfortunately, used to.

It's not that he wanted them dead, though he wasn't exactly on good terms with most of them. Outside of the arena, he'd say he wasn't hostile. He gave them pointers, whether they wanted them or not. He shared a coin or two with the much younger boys, the ones who wouldn't survive the coming weeks, who could use a proper meal. Inside the arena, however, they were all just casualties waiting to happen.

Max refused to die in the dirt he fought so hard to crawl out of.

They could try all they like, battering into his chariot without concern for their own safety, riding on his heels like they were something he could fear, but nothing would stop him from crossing the finish line, and like the last fifteen races, he does exactly that.

It's still a new feeling, respect, when he finally crosses the finish line first. When the crowd roars, the banners fly, his patrons grinning ear to ear, it's easy to forget that this life was once forced upon him, that it was something to abhor. Doing his rounds around the track, he's getting used to soaking up the attention, allowing himself to revel in it for just a moment, to see thousands of people standing and applauding him.

Not an emperor.

Him. 

This is the closest he thinks man could ever get to feeling like one of the gods, but that's not a thought anyone should think without dire consequences. His eyes scan the crowd as he finally wipes his brow, taking in the betters yelling profanities, the younger boys chaotic in their appreciation, and somehow, amidst the chaos, he sees a ghost wrapped in blue, a phantom if he's ever known one.

After all, it's about ten years since he's seen you, and that palla, and that knowing gaze, striking him through despite the distance. You shouldn't be here, he finds himself thinking with gripping fear.

Then, even worse, you shouldn't be here alone, and his brain sends him back to the days when seeing you alone was something he craved.

-

It was a scandalous thing, Max is well aware. To be alone as a slave is one thing; to be alone around someone as pretty and as young as you are, as a slave, is another.

Yet, here you were, as Max aided in clearing out the perimeter of your back garden. He hauls one of the fallen logs onto his shoulder, purposeful in ignoring your presence as you dip your feet into the small pond your father had Max carve out. He was another family's slave, but he was often on loan to others in the community, meaning he could get glimpses of paradise like your bare ankles and the fruit bowl that sat beside you. 

Your head raises as he passes, and he tries his best to remain stoic, face emotionless as he moves forward. He was not the kind of boy any girl would want to look at: he was tall and awkward, lean yet appearing weak, his clothes stained from the hours at work, not to mention how much his hair must be a mess. 

For most of his life, he was never aware of those things. They were just how life was, the dirt, the grime, the work, but then he saw you talking to one of the village boys, and all Max could think about was everything that boy had that Max didn't. He probably went to the communal baths, was smart, could play instruments, in much better and richer clothes than Max could even fathom. 

You were destined for a boy like that. Not Max. "Are you hungry?" 

The log hoisted on Max's shoulder nearly teeters off, and he regains his composure without answering. Surely, you were talking to someone he couldn't see. Not asking him if he was hungry.

It just wasn't possible. He keeps moving forward, dropping the log off at the front of your estate, where your father stood, waiting. Neither of them said a word as Max turned to head back to the clearing, where, rather than the dirt-worn path, Max is met with you, standing so close he can make out the soft scent of your soap.

You blink up at him, not in disgust, as he had expected, nor in confusion, but rather with a strange sort of spark in your eye that Max tried desperately not to think of. "I asked you if you were hungry." 

"You're just like your mother." Your father answers wistfully, squeezing Max's shoulder. "Never letting anyone leave with an empty stomach. Well, boy? Are you hungry?" 

"Not really, sir." He answers politely. "I can manage." 

"That is not a no." You answer somewhat smartly, though he imagines everything you say is smart. You extend a green fruit to him, one that he'd never had before, and he lets it rest in his hand. 

"Thank you, sir." Then, realizing the mistake, he's quick to correct it. "Uh, miss." 

Your father laughs heartily, squeezing his shoulder tight before letting go. "Go enjoy your pear, boy, then get back to work." 

"Yes, sir." Max bites into the fruit and savours it, sweeter in a different way than his typical apples or figs. He walks as he eats back toward the edge of the forest, and he can hear you walking behind him, returning to your pond, and he wants to say something, wants to thank you again, because he doesn't know what else to do. 

It's not often in this world he's offered kindness or random fruits by pretty girls. He glances up to find you staring intently at him as he wipes the juice from his cheek, having finished the pear in almost a minute flat. He picks up his axe and returns to work, and every time he swings, he catches a glimpse of you still staring at him, and he can feel the heat rise on his cheeks. If anyone asked, he'd say he was just exerting himself, despite the fact that this was light work.

He had never been properly watched before, as a pastime, just for fun. People never looked at him without scrutinizing.

As the tree falls, he finds a new image awaiting him, of you standing atop a bench, arms outstretched as you walk the length of it. He chops the base of the tree into a manageable log and hauls it onto his shoulder again, and tries not to stare as you smile at him as he approaches. 

"Thank you," He finally repeats, manners not yet beaten out of him, and his words must startle you as your foot slips. Quicker than he thinks he's ever acted before, Max drops the log to catch you, and you land so perfectly in his arms, like you were meant to be there. You blink up at him, eyes wide, as he's quick to help you to the ground, putting distance between you. 

He was filthy. He must've gotten sweat and grime all over your tunic from his hands, and he doesn't quite know what to do, because he's never touched a girl like that before. You were a light thing, much lighter than the log, yet your touch haunted his arms, the softness of it, how whole it felt. It might have only been a split second, but it was an eternity to touch. For some ridiculous reason, he thinks he might like to hold you again some day as he hauls the log back to his shoulder. "Thank you." You echo, fingertips gently trailing on your arms, likely trying to wipe off the dirt. "How did you do that?" 

"It's nothing, miss." You reach out, fingertips grazing his arm, and his whole body jolts. 

"How did you react that quickly?" It's not something he's ever really thought of before. He's just needed to his whole life, to be first in line for rations, to avoid being hit, to catch things before they broke. Being quick was just a means of survival, but rather than share that anecdote, he stays silent as he keeps walking, delivering the log wordlessly to your father and returning back to the wood to chop up the same tree. 

You should not be conversing. He should not have touched you, though he did save you. You should not have touched him, even if it was perfect and kind and sweet. You watch him wordlessly as he moves the rest of the tree, rooted in the same spot he had left you, now properly examining him. 

It was wrong, and you knew that, and he knew that. Plain and simple. You were both young, anyway, in your teenage years, though Max thinks he might be older than you. He had just had to grow up fast, he supposes. Returning to fetch his axe, he wipes the sweat from his forehead and wills the action to also remove the memories of you, lest they haunt him tonight. Much to his horror, however, he seems to have brought you back to life with it, and you approach with a nice cloth. 

"I can't." He states instantly, awkwardly pushing your hand away. "That's nice." 

"We can get another." Your father is going to kill him. You have a reputation to uphold, and even if Max is just dirtying a cloth, it feels like he's dirtying a lot more. 

"For both of our sake," He whispers, so as not to let your father hear. "Do not talk to me. I thank you for your kindness, but this must stop." 

He leaves without another word, returning to your father, who commends him for the good work, comments on the weather, and how nice the fruit harvest has been.

That night, Max dreams of pears and girls in soft, blue dresses, and the feeling of something else on his lips that he cannot describe. 

-

So, you were discovering that certain childhood fantasies never seemed to leave. It had been a stupid infatuation to begin with: Max was just some boy, owned by another family, who occasionally helped your father with yard work. You weren't some noble that he couldn't have, but you were in two very different worlds, plain and simple. 

That didn't stop him from filling your mind when you could afford it in your youth, fantasizing about the day he was revealed to be some foreign prince and would sweep you off to be a princess in a faraway land. Being a chariot racer wasn't exactly as glamorous as what you had in mind, but he looked like the prince you had imagined. 

He had filled out that lanky body, his hair seemed to know what to do, his eyes just as piercing, even with an arena between the two of you. He had to have seen you, as embarrassing as the thought is. Your roles had almost entirely reversed, considering he was now, according to those around you when you had asked, the best chariot racer, the richest and most well-regarded, and you were...nothing. 

No father, no husband, no dowry. You had moved to Rome to find work, found a little apartment for yourself with the last of your family's money, and had devoted yourself to the skills you had learned on a whim as a child. The weaving you had rolled your eyes over once was now your livelihood, and you worked hard enough that you, in your time spent here, hadn't even tried to attend any of the spectacles Rome had to offer.

That was, of course, until today. 

It was a shameful thing, to be wrapped in the same cloth he had last seen you in, to be some spectator to the world he'd filled. You were proud of him, really, but it wasn't without understanding your own failures in life. Well, not quite your own, but your family's. You had gone from relatively well standing to selling everything you own, from a proper estate to a single room. You had gone from ignoring Max to envying him. 

But he was no longer something you could afford to stew over. You weaved your way back through the streets, despite the hours you had wasted around the arena, thinking just maybe you'd get a glimpse of him again.

Instead, you were just making a fool of yourself. 

"Little one," Someone drunkenly calls from a doorway as you pass, which you ignore. "Hey, little one!" 

You keep walking, head down, and someone's hand ravels itself in your palla and pulls, forcing you backward toward him, and your heart falls into your stomach. Not today, not now, not here. There were rules about these things, after all, but who was really here to enforce them for you? Despite the bustle after the race, in this alley, you were alone. "Please, I-" 

"I'm raising rent." You blink up at your landlord, who studies your palla between his fingers. "There are plenty of people who are willing to share rooms for the same price." 

"What?" He had promised, when you had explained everything to him, to keep your space alone, the price stable. You were completely defenceless to the world, and he was one of the only men who could have helped. "But you promised." 

"You never thought to get a husband?" He rasps, swaying on his feet from the copious amounts of wine he must've consumed at the race. "Pretty little thing." 

"You know-" He shushes you, then, stumbling out and forcing you toward the other wall of the alley.

"You need the money? I'll pay you." He looms over you as you try and press yourself as flat as you can against the wall. You'd never take up such an offer, but the look in his eyes didn't seem to allow refusal. "Be your first, won't it?" 

Then, before you can answer, your landlord is peeled away from you, tossed back towards the tavern door he emerged from, colliding harshly with the stairs. You let out a deep, shaking breath, taking a step to the side to run, when you finally see your saviour, and find that you can no longer move your feet.

Max.

He stares at you like always, words unspoken as he adjusts your palla to sit properly on your head, having fallen in the confrontation. It's the sort of soft touches you always found so strange from a man who could be so violent, treated so poorly by the world around you, but Max wasn't just any man.

Your landlord shakily rises with a slew of profanities, and Max turns back to him. "Think you're so tough," The man spits, blood hitting at Max's feet, "Being a big racer? You're nothing but fucking dirt-"

Max gets one, clean hit out, punching the man across the face. You gasp, pressing your hand over your mouth at the violence, but it truly doesn't surprise you. Max had always been there to protect you, after all, so it should be no different today, despite the years that have passed. 

Your landlord lands in a heap on the road below you, matching your action as he cradles his nose.

Then, without another word, because Max had always preferred silence, because you had always said everything you need to without words, his hand comes to hover over your lower back, waiting for you to move. He would never touch you, grab you, do anything to you without permission. You offer the smallest nod, and he gently places his hand on the small of your back to leave down the alley with Max at your side.

It shouldn't be that surprising of a rescue, really. Max has always been there to protect you, but this time around, it wasn't just gratitude that the action stirred within you.

It was something much, much deeper.

-

You hadn't meant to scream that loud, really. 

But there was a snake in your kitchen, and your father was out doing yard work, and your mother had passed years ago, and with no other siblings, it was either you or the snake. 

So, you screamed, and probably alerted half of the empire as you did. You jumped up onto the kitchen counter as it hissed at you, a menacing thing that spiralled in the middle of the floor. You weren't even sure how it got in, but you weren't letting it anywhere near you.

Heavy footsteps echo down the hall, and you expect your father to appear, but instead, it's Max. After his comment about not speaking to each other, you had chosen to admire from a distance, but now he was here, your guardian, though he seemed just as confused as you were scared.

"Are you-" He freezes, taking in the snake, and quickly pulls the knife from his belt. Your father is not far behind him, and watches, impressed, as Max snaps down onto the wretched creature and cuts it in half, each spasming for a moment before rendering still. He's quick to glance up and check on you, and if it weren't for the fact you were already red in the face from the snake, your blush would've given your infatuation with him away. "Did it bite you?" 

Max wasn't like the others. The others were...good, by all means, handsome, attainable, perfect potential husbands, but Max had a certain something about him, the fact that he was forbidden making him all the more enticing. He was strong, he was kind, he was even soft, around the edges. You were watching him grow before your eyes, and he seemed to be turning into quite the man. He had also caught you once when you slipped, and his arms were better than any bed you've ever rested in, but that might just been the teenage hormones speaking. "No." You finally answer from your curled-up position, and Max extends a hand to let you back down, and it's calloused and rough yet entirely right in yours. "It just scared me." 

"You scared us!" Your father exclaims, pulling you into his arms. "I didn't know you had that sort of sound in you." 

"I didn't either." You answer sheepishly. "Sorry." 

Max obediently picks up both halves of the snake and carries it outside, and does not return. Your father spends a moment checking you over, the last of his legacy. You'd asked him, once, why he'd chosen to never remarry. Everyone else wanted, seemed to need sons, but he had stopped after you, after your mother passed. 

He had explained that sometimes, love overrules what the world wants you to do. He would rather mourn your mother and take care of you than find a lesser woman to give him a baby he doesn't need at his age.

Maybe, you think, someday love would overrule what the world wants you to do, and Max could be yours. 

"Perhaps we need to get you a guard," Your father jokes softly. "Save you from any more rogue snakes." 

"I'm sure Max would be up to the task." You say, and he laughs, like it's some kind of joke, and you laugh to hide that it isn't. Your father's gaze then turns over to the small tray you were arranging to take out to them and the rest of the workers, and his face softens. "It was supposed to be a surprise." 

"You know Octavius? The butcher's son?" He asks, and as much as you can daydream about Max, reality hits. "He's working with us today. I'm sure he would enjoy the gesture, if you brought that out to him." 

You move to the tray, gathering the last of the grapes and placing them on, before turning and offering a smile. "I'll be out in just a moment, then." 

He leaves, and you stare at the trace amount of blood left by the snake on the floor. Octavius would be used to blood, you think, but he hadn't been the one to come running, was he?

Finally, after sitting in a daydream of unattainable men, you decide to focus on the ones waiting for you. You carry the tray out to the few men repairing the road, or more specifically, the men overseeing those actually repairing the road. Octavius's eyes awkwardly skim over you and the tray, likely having been told all about you all morning. 

Max holds your gaze as you set down the tray, and you offer him, and then Octavius, a smile. "A little thank-you for coming to my aid," You say first to Max, "And an apology for disrupting the rest of you." 

"A thoughtful girl." You father boasts, grabbing the cask of wine and pouring it into one of the cups. He offers it to Octavious first, then the rest of the men, and with the last glass, he drinks it himself. Max and the other workers don't seem to pay any mind, focusing rather on Octavius, who now has worked up the courage to actually look at you. He's not unattractive, but he's also not exactly attractive either, having yet to lose the baby fat around his face. "I'm sure you've met Octavius in your runs to the butcher?" 

You nod, shifting your palla up your shoulder. This one is a deep brown, more plain than your other, nicer ones. It would look best wrapped around Max, you think, and your brain supplies an image of him wrapped in it and nothing else. "Yes, we have. I believe your brother is marrying my cousin." 

"He is." Octavius answers somewhat squeakily. The cask of wine, seemingly having been drained, is passed back to you, and with little thought, you extend it to Max.

"A thank you," You say, "For my rescue."

Max takes the bottle and presses it to his lips as Octavius continues talking. "Pretty runs in the family." He says, and Max's gaze drifts from Octavius to you, something new in his eyes.

The men laugh as you blush, and Max raises the empty tray and wine bottle to you, which you gladly accept back. You shift the bottle and find the smallest trace amounts left in it, and your father picks up on your examination of the bottle. "What? Sad none's left for you?" 

"Max is a kind man," You offer instead, bringing the bottle to your lips to drink the last of it, thinking about what his mouth might taste like left over on it. "Left me the last bit." 

"Man?" One of the workers says with a chuckle. "Boy. Look at those arms! At least Octavius has some meat on him." 

Max stares at you, as if he knew exactly why you took a drink. 

-

Max's eyes have not left yours since he let you into his apartment, a small yet lavish thing on the ground floor of a nicer building than yours. His eyes have not changed in the years since you've seen each other, but the emotions behind them have. There's something you can't quite trace as he looks you over, ensuring that you aren't hurt.

"Why are you here?" He asks softly as you take in his space. He'd modelled his living room and kitchen, you realize, to look like yours. Everything is laid out exactly the same, from the blanket thrown over the back of the seat by the fireplace to the centrepiece on the kitchen table. He'd made it look like your home. "Where is your father?"

The question brings tears to your eyes before you can stop them, and Max tenses, unsure about the old boundaries that kept the two of you in place. You're both adults, now, but it still feels like you are children, dancing around each other. His hands hover over your arms, terrified to touch, and you make the first move as you step towards him. His arms clutch around you, tight, and you sob into his chestplate. It had been a long, long time since you'd been held like this, and the first time you'd ever been held by Max. He's strong and warm around you, a comfort you'd dreamt of for so many years.

Gently, one hand glides up to cradle the back of your head, fingers gently threading through your hair, and you wonder if he'd learned, by now, to hold someone like this. "He passed," You finally managed to get out, pulling back just the smallest amount to wipe at your face. "And I could not afford the estate anymore." 

"Could not afford-" He looks down at you, concerned, and you shake your head.

"They raised rent prices, I-I had to come to the city to find work." God, you missed your vegetable garden, your walks in the woods, everything. Anything. 

"Work?" Max's hands come up to wipe at your face, gently, and you watch the smallest bit of discomfort cross over his face. You pull his hands away to find his one fist bloodied from where he'd beaten your landlord, and you sigh softly. 

"You're hurt. Where are your bandages?" You leave his side to move towards his cupboards, and he trails after you, keeping enough distance between the two of you.

"You do not need to worry about me right now." He says, like that's a convincing argument. You're not sure Max has ever had anyone worry about him before. Well, besides you. "I need to worry about you." 

You pull open one of the cupboards and find them bare, and Max gestures to the one beside it, where there's a neat shelf of ointments and rolled bandages. "Well, I was fine, until...you know." You turn to look at him and his jaw sets, hands balling into fists again. "Thank you." You try not to think of what might have happened if he hadn't been there. Why he had been there in the first place, you're not quite sure, but you can imagine a fantasy where he followed after you to find you again. 

"I don't deserve any thanks," Max states bluntly. "Any man should have protected you in that moment." Then, slowly, he asks, "Is there someone who should be protecting you?" 

"No." He should be, but in reality, there had been no one so far from your past who wanted you, and no one from this new life who pitied you enough to ask for your hand. There was nothing you could offer, anyway. 

"Why..." Max trails off for a moment as you grab one of the bandages. "Why did you not find someone to marry?" It wasn't your fault, you wanted to say. You could've married anyone, at any time, but you'd delayed, because you wanted something real, wanted to feel like how you did when you looked into Max's eyes, but no other man could offer you that. Then, your father passed, and your money went, and you weren't worth it anymore.

You unwind one of the rolls of bandages and find a cloth dipped in his water basin, and gently begin to wipe down his hand, careful not to drag the skin too much. "I wanted love," You explain softly, "No one seemed interested in that." 

"Their loss." He says as his fingers flex under your touch, skin warm. It, somehow, felt more intimate than anything you've ever done before. It felt right. "You always knew how to take care of me." Max breaths out as you set the rag aside to gently begin to wind the bandages over his knuckles. It was a foolish thing for him to do, considering he might have to race again soon, but the thought dies as his words register in your mind. "I never got to thank you for that." 

"You have nothing you need to thank me for."  You were raised to be kind. That was the virtue that seemed to matter most to your parents, carrying you through life. You always knew how to take care of Max because it was the right, kind thing to do, and because even as a young girl, you knew no one else would take care of him like that. 

"Nothing?" Max echoes, his hand beginning to chase after yours once it's out of his grip. Then, thinking better of it, he lets it drop. "You got me out of there." 

"I just helped with a lie." 

-

You had awoken to shouting outside. It had to be an ungodly hour of the night, as you stumble from your bed to stare out the window, and you take in the fire consuming one of the estates in the distance. Those awake have begun to leave their homes to rush to aid whoever's home was ablaze, and you watch your father and the neighbours, including Max, join the small stream of people heading toward it. 

You're quick to get dressed and follow, piecing together what happened through other people's conversations. They had been away for a few days, a candle left unattended, or maybe the fire from the oven had taken over. It wasn't exactly cohesive, and half asleep, you didn't really care. 

Rather, you stood with the crowd, watching people rush for water and things as a few of the men tried to get in to salvage something, to see if people were there, Max included. One of your friends finds you in the crowd, taking in the blaze as you pull back from the heat. "Octavius went in," She whispers in a hush to you. "I heard people say he was one of the first to respond, he had been up late studying." 

"No." You breathed out, not because you and Octavius were now on the path to being betrothed, but because you knew he couldn't last that long in any sort of blaze. He was meant for light work, mind work, not...not this. Something snaps and crackles inside the house, and the men stagger out, save for Octavius and Max. 

There your two men are, going up in smoke. Neither of them was really yours, and one of them you didn't even want, but it still forces your heart into your throat. You hold your breath, waiting, pleading to any deity that would listen, for them to get out alright, for Max to be okay, when they appear in the doorway, Max all but dragging Octavius's body. He lowers the poor boy to the ground, and Octavius doesn't move. 

People rush around to help, calling for doctors, calling for water, and Max scans the crowd until he finds you, something soft and apologetic on his face. Within a few minutes, Octavius is pronounced dead, and your friend takes you into her arms as you try to process it. 

"Here, boy." You stare over her shoulder as Max is tossed a roll of bandages, which he awkwardly tries to unwind for himself. "You did your best in there." 

The bandages unfurl and land on the ground, and as people move about trying to get Octavius's body away, you realize no one is going to stop and help Max bandage himself.

You part from your friend to pick up the bandages for Max, and he stares, again, like he always does. You both seem to communicate with your eyes more than words, ever,  because it's all you're really allowed to do. This time, however, in the chaos of the night, you allow yourself to help him and not feel strange about it. You gently wind the bandage around one long slash on each hand, sharp but not quite thick or deep, which is good. His fingers flex under your touch, soft hisses escaping him, before you gently rub your thumb over his wrist as you work, a soothing touch that renders him completely still. No noise, no twitching, he becomes a statue under your palms.

"Max, was it?" A man says from behind you, and Max's head shoots up to stare at him. 

"Yes, sir?" Always so polite. You gently smooth down the last of the bandages on one hand, pinning it in place, and his pinky and ring finger close over yours, as if to hold you there. 

"I've never seen anyone move that fast." The man says admiringly, sparing a glance up at the blaze. "You saved a good few men back there." 

"Thank you, sir." You move on to the next hand and try to place where you know the man from. 

If he were friends with your father, then none of this information should be new to him. Max was fast, a prized possession, really. "Strong, too." The man continues your thought for you. "Catching that beam. Are you used to weight? Pressure?" 

"Yes, sir." He caught a burning beam! He's lucky he's leaving with just cuts across his palms and not missing hands. You finish the second bandage, and this time, rather than two fingers, Max lets his whole hand close around yours.

"There you are!" Your father joins, and Max quickly tucks his hands away from you, but for a few seconds, you knew what it was like to be wanted. "I'm so sorry about Octavius, dear." He wraps his arms around you, and you let yourself embrace him. It was back to the drawing board, now, and you let yourself mourn the poor boy who just wanted to help. Your father lets you go to brace a hand on Max's shoulder, squeezing it. "Max, you did...you did a good thing back there, a very good, stupid thing." 

"Have you ever worked with horses before, Max?" The other man asks, and there, staring at him in the flickering heat, you realize where you know him from:

He's one of the chariot racing organizers.

Your father had him for dinner more than once, joking about horses, about the men, about how some could even buy their freedom. Staring at Max that night, you came to two conclusions. Max has never worked with horses before, and becoming a chariot racer is his one chance at gaining freedom. 

You peer around your father to frantically nod at Max, who takes in your sudden motion with confusion, before trusting your guidance. "Yes, sir. At the, uh, farms." 

"I want a word with your master. Come, boy." Max is led away, and your heart aches to see him go, but he needs to. He needs to escape this life, deserves more than his birthright. He turns back to look at you, and you offer a small smile and a wave as he goes. 

He doesn't return the gesture. 

-

Of the limited kindness Max has been offered in this life, most of it had been from you, in your youth, choosing to treat him humanely. To anyone else, it would mean nothing - you were just a nice person, but to him, it was everything. It was the first time he'd ever felt normal, ever felt like he was worth something, holding your stare as he worked from across a yard, everything unspoken between you, because there was never a universe where he could. 

But then, that night, you had nodded at him so vigorously you'd convinced him he must've worked with horses at some point, and in that lie, you created a world where he was a free man, where he could rise above what he was born to do, where he was now above you. You deserved everything the world could offer, yet everything had been taken from you. Max had not deserved any of your kindness, and yet you had always given it to him. 

He lets his hand hold yours, allows himself to feel your skin and not rip the touch away, because you were both grown, and he was in his own home, and you were free to choose him, should you want to. And if you didn't, he'd still shower you with anything you could ever need until you were on your feet again, because you had taught him how to care in a world that didn't bother to. 

"That lie changed my life." He continues, and you hum softly. 

"You're famous, now. Rome's greatest chariot racer." It feels so strange to hear, but it's true. "You're so grown, too." 

"You've grown as well." He reaches up to brush some hair from your face, and even without the make-up you had begun to experiment with back then, you are the sweetest thing he's ever seen. The most perfect being, and so what if it was a youthful infatuation? He had seen enough women, from the highest families to the scantily clad corners of Rome, and none compared. He had waited, and you had come, and he was going to make things right. "More beautiful than the day I left you." 

You stare up at him, because words had never been easy between the two of you, and Max stares back. He lets a single bent finger drift up your forearm and stop at your elbow, still well aware of the expectations on both of you, but he has you so close, he just has to touch. It's rare he's granted skin to skin without the expectation of violence to come with it. It's rare for him to be still, to be gentle, and your hand comes up to hold his cheek, and it nearly breaks him. 

The years have not been as kind to him as they have to you. He's scarred, sweaty still from the race, clad in his racing gear, but your eyes don't seem to notice any of that as you smile, gently brushing your thumb over his cheek as if he were a warrior gone for years, returning to his wife, and really, that's how it feels. Like he's been gone on some terrible battle to return home to you. This is where you should be, forever, tucked between his arms in your shared house. 

His hand glides up your arm to hold your wrist, keeping your palm against his cheek, and he leans into the touch. This must be love, he thinks. This must be how it feels to be loved. Then, because he can't help himself, he turns and presses a kiss to your palm, and your breath hitches. 

It's the first time you've been kissed, and Max is happy to steal that from you. It's his first kiss, too. "Max." 

"I will only ask once, I promise." He whispers, voice almost hoarse. 

"Yes." You answer, staring him down. You hadn't even known what he was going to say, but it was somehow still the correct answer.

Did you feel this way back then?

Did you miss me? 

Do you want me? 

Will you be my wife? "I can protect you." Gods, he'd do anything for you. There would never be a single thing you should ever want for, ever ask for. "No more landlords, no more work." Max could never really keep anything from you, so he adds, "Unless you want to, of course. I will take care of you as you have taken care of me." 

"You could do better." The words hurt more than any wound ever could. This was not an ideal match, Max was well aware. You were the lowest rung of society. You were steps away from poverty, and he steps away from ridicule, but if this were the only outcome that brought you back to him, then Max could only complain about the discomfort it might have brought you, because he would've suffered this fate a hundred times more to have you here. 

Really, you could do better. Once, you could have had any great man, and even now, with the conditions you had been dealt. With your kindness and beauty, you could make any man in all of Rome fall for you. Max, luckily, was the first. "There's no such thing." Max steps forward, and you step back, pressing yourself against the counter, and Max looms over you, coming up to cradle your face in his hands. "Tell me to stop and I will." 

"Please, Max." It's all the sign he needs before he dips down and kisses you. Kiss, really, isn't perhaps the right word for it, because it's like nothing Max could ever describe. It is every race, every crash, every stare, every touch combined into one heated moment. It is what he's sure the poets were trying to sum up for all these years and failing to; it's like a second nature that Max didn't know he had in him. 

Your hands smooth against his chest plate, sliding up to rest on his shoulders to pull him down more to kiss him easier, and he smiles into it, hands slipping from your face to find your waist, and as he'd waited to do for so long, he picks you up and spins you around and you break apart to laugh down at him. 

"I will get your things tomorrow morning." He states simply, setting you down. "And we will marry when you wish to." 

You find yourself staring at each other at the admission, of having gone from strangers to betrothed in a day, but neither of you were here to argue about it. It was mad, he knew, to anyone who would hear about it, but Max didn't care, unless you did. If you needed, he would prove to you, over and over, whatever you needed for him to be your husband. Though, he supposes in this situation, it's you who really needs this union, needs the protection of a husband, needs the money. 

"Do you..." There is a difference between need and want, however. Needing him as a husband and wanting him as a husband are two very different things, and he would never wish to trap you in a marriage if it were something you needed, rather than wanted. "Do you want to marry me? I know this can't be what you imagined." 

"I said yes, didn't I?" You say, letting your old personality slip through the cracks, of the petulant girl who'd defiantly try to talk to him and offer him fruit. "And I always imagined you." 

"Me?" You always imagined marrying him. Him. Him. "I always imagined you." 

You laugh softly up at him, and Max could hear that sound a hundred times over. "The Fates work in mysterious ways, hm? We will marry soon, then." You finally answer, before concern passes over your features. "And until then?" 

"You will have my bed, and I will sleep anywhere else." 

-

"What are you doing tomorrow?" Charles glances up from where he's tying his sandals and raises an eyebrow. 

Their race today had gone as expected: Max had conquered, and was paid handsomely. However, there was a distinct difference at today's race, that no one knew but him:

That you were waiting for him at home.

"Nothing? What is this, Max? Inviting people somewhere?" Max isn't going to lie, he doesn't always like the people he races with, but currently, they're his only friends, and he's getting married tomorrow. 

Tomorrow, you were his, forever and always. It was an adjustment, certainly, but a welcome one.

But, because it was tomorrow, and he hadn't said a word aloud about it, terrified to jinx it, he figures he might want to invite someone, make it a proper ceremony for you.

In the two weeks since he had found you again, you had settled into his apartment, and Max had made the last minute arrangements for your wedding, and he had gotten used to someone filling the seat at the table across from him, laying by his side at night.

He was entirely intoxicated by the fact that he got to return to you in a moment that he didn't even care for the racers teasing. "Wait, we're going somewhere?" George continues with a lopsided smile. 

"Not all of you," Max says, drawing the men near. "So be quiet." 

"Oh, so this is a special something?" Charles teases, and Max reaches out to smack his shoulder. "Well, come on, get out with it." 

"I'm getting married." The whole room comes to a standstill, despite the fact that Max had whispered it to just the two of them. 

Charles blinks once, twice, before an incredulous look passes over his face. "You're what?" 

"To who?" George continues, which are both fair questions. Max had never once mentioned any romantic interest in anyone, nor any interest in getting married. A thought crosses over George's face before he snaps, tilting his head back to laugh. "The girl!" 

"The girl?" Charles repeats, and Max presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

"You talk about her when you're drunk." That earns him a few solid punches, and George bats him away. "You found her? And she wants to marry you? Wasn't she rich?" 

Max offers a small shrug in response. He isn't sure what to say either, considering you, a goddess among people, wanted to marry him. He'd be in disbelief to hear it too, if it weren't his own life.

"You can't forget he's rich now, too," Charles says, before clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Congratulations. We'll be there." 

"Not all of you." Max insists. After all, he wasn't sure who would be coming for you, though you mentioned talking to some of the girls you'd gotten close to at work. "Just a few. It's small." 

"Oh, we'll be there." Lando says, throwing an arm around his shoulder. "Need any pointers for your wedding night?"

Max would kill him for the comment, if he didn't need the advice.

-

Nerves were a normal thing before a wedding. It wasn't really about the wedding, or about Max at all, but the fact that you were about to be a wife. That things were finally seeming to go right, and the last thing you wanted was to mess it up.

These past two weeks have felt a bit like a dream, or perhaps waking from one. Everything was a blur until Max appeared, and for the first time, things made sense. It makes sense that he would protect you, that he would hold you, call you beautiful, ask for you. It makes sense for you to say yes, and for you to marry, though it still feels scandalous. It feels like something you could have once lost your reputation for. There was a whole lifetime of lessons before you that no longer applied, about grace and prosperity, about maintaining expectations.

That strange, unknowing feeling was the constant reminder of all that you had lost to get here, and all the people who were not celebrating with you. 

Your wedding was not in June, like when all the popular people had theirs. It was not lavish, though you had never pictured it would have been. It was still with the strange, orange veil that didn't quite make sense to you, but it was without any fanfare at all. You were just getting married, like it was any other day. 

You and Max had already been living with each other for about two weeks when you managed to get everything settled. Your things first perfectly into his space, the bed you shared just the right size, like he'd been waiting for you to come home. After today, you would properly be man and wife, though it isn't lost on you that years ago, Max would have never been allowed to marry you. 

"I came as soon as I heard." You tense in the mirror, staring past your reflection to your childhood friend in the mirror. You knew she had come to Rome and married someone to match her status, and for that exact reason, you had not told her about Max, or about the wedding, or about much in your life. You just happened to see each other in the streets occasionally, and you would pretend like things were fine, that the move out of the estate was a nice change of pace. 

Having her here made things feel more real. "How-" 

"A friend of a friend of mine works with you, apparently." She's dressed perfectly, as she always has been. She slowly assumes a position behind you, reaching to flip up your veil to reveal your face. The action brings tears to your eyes, and she quickly finds a handkerchief for you to dab them with. "You cannot ruin your makeup, you look beautiful." You laugh softly, dabbing away the tears, and she smiles down on you happily. "I always knew you liked him." 

"What? No!" You had kept all infatuations to yourself, despite the many she had shared with you.  

"Oh, I saw those heart eyes come out every time he came around." She teases, before lowering the veil and helping adjust it. "Works out that he became a famous chariot racer, didn't it?" 

You pause at the words, knowing how lowly most of them were seen. "You're not...put off by it?" 

"It's love. I'm not one to judge it." She turns you around to face her, a kind smile plastered on her face that means more than he would likely ever know. "I hope you don't mind, but I did rally the troops." 

And there, standing in the doorway, are a few more of your hometown friends and the girls from work. "You didn't have to come." 

"And miss this?" One says, gesturing across the hall to where Max is getting ready. "Attractiveness is apparently a requirement for chariot racers." 

"Now, let's get you tied into this thing." Another friend takes a position behind you, tying up your tunic in the way you had tied hers at her wedding. It was tradition for the bride's tunic to be tied in a way that only someone else could take it off, being Max. What he'd take it off to do, you'd never been told, but you didn't have much longer to wait to figure out. "You have one lucky, lucky groom." 

-

If asked, Max was entirely present and aware of everything that happened at his own wedding, but really, the second you had flipped your veil up? Max's brain stopped working, and all he could think about was how beautiful you were. You didn't even look that different from your everyday, but there was something about you, something that glowed, something that made his dreams of starting a family, retiring, buying your estate back for you become reality. He wanted you in your garden with his child on your lap as you showed off the place where he and you first met. 

So he was not exactly paying attention, but he was well aware of what he had to do. He had gotten rings, got a new tunic, arranged everything. Seeing as you had no family, it made the ending part of the ceremony different, though no one seemed to mind. There was no great dinner, no Max dragging you away from your family to bring you to his house. All he had to do, once the ceremony wrapped up, was carry you home so that you didn't fall. 

Someone sniffed from behind him, and Max stole a glance to see the row of chariot racers, most of whom he did not invite, all in varying stages of emotions. Your friends were all so happy for you, some of whom he remembers from his time at your estate. They don't seem to care, however, what Max used to be or who he became, but rather that you were happy. 

Your hands squeeze his, and Max squeezes back, smiling down at you. The officiant said something about kissing, and for once, Max wasn't the initiator as you got up on the tips of your toes to kiss him, and Max easily hooked an arm around your waist to dip you, much to the surprise and shouts of those attending. 

You laugh as Max lets you back up, grinning ear to ear, and forever, he realizes, starts now. The officiant says something about husband and wife, but Max stopped listening a long time ago, and the small crowd cheers as Max helps you down the stairs and towards the door, where before he steps outside, he sweeps you off your feet.

"What?" He teases as you gasp at him. "I'm supposed to make sure you don't fall." 

The wedding party makes a strange little parade as Max carries you to your apartment, exchanging stories, calling out to you and Max. You've twisted to perch your head over his shoulder, saying something to one of your friends, but all falls silent when Max finally gets to his door. Uncaring if it's rude, he opens it and brings you inside before slamming it shut behind him, and he can hear the whistles from outside. 

There was a reason he didn't want all the racers there, and as he presses a kiss to your flushed cheek, embarrassment is one of them. This is your night together, after all.

No one else needs to know anything of it. He makes his way through the apartment and drops you onto his bed, and for a moment, you just take in each other. 

Married. 

His wife. It was a dream that he had had for so long, he wasn't sure how to feel now that it was real. You were wearing a ring he had gotten for you, uncaring about his rank, uncaring that he was now a chariot racer. You were just his, and he was just yours, and you got to spend the rest of your lives together. 

You pull off your veil and wreath, kicking off your shoes, and Max waits for some kind of sign that you knew what was going to follow. After all, while he might have heard and learned all about what grooms were expected to do on their wedding night, along with some incredibly personal stories from his fellow racers about pleasing women, you wouldn't have been taught anything at all. It was a virtue to be pure, and as you blink up at Max, he's not sure he's going to be able to do what he wants to you without having to sit you down and explain the repercussions of it. 

"Do you..." He awkwardly trails off, trying to think of the best way to ask. "Do you know what we are supposed to do now?" 

You flush as Max slowly lowers himself to sit beside you, head ducking to avoid his eyes. He hates it more than he can bear, because if there's one thing you did, even when no one else would, you looked at him. He raises your chin with a bent finger, and your eyes find his as you manage to whisper, "I know some things." 

"Like?" You shift closer to him, nearly pressing yourself against him, and Max loops an arm around your waist.

"We are supposed to kiss." His lips capture yours the moment the words leave your mouth, not quite the tender thing you'd been sharing for the past two weeks. Now, it was something heated, something heavy that had Max dragging you into his lap, careful not to overstep or scare you. He pulls back, waiting, and you bite your lip as you stare down at him. "You...you're supposed to take my tunic off." 

Oh, fuck. Max reaches around, manhandling the strange knot that keeps you from being able to take off your own tunic, and the fabric falls to pool around you, revealing your skin and undergarments to him, and Max might die before he's able to touch you. It's more than any fantasy he'd come up with before, your perfect, unmarked skin, swathes of it, more than he'd ever dreamt of seeing. His hands come to gently rest on your waist, waiting for the next instruction, but you remain silent. "Beautiful." Is all he can bring himself to say. "Just beautiful." 

"I..." Your head disappears into the crook of Max's neck, hiding yourself away. "I don't know what comes next." 

"Do you want me to show you?" He asks softly, "Or do you want me to tell you?" 

"Show me?" For you, for his own sanity, he knows to take it slow. He bends down, mouthing against your neck, and he'd pay all he has to hear the soft noises that escape your lips again, and again, and again. His lips trail down to your collarbone, and you pull away slightly, enough that Max stops his demonstration to stare up at you. 

This was a very new world for both of you. He didn't want to overstep, but at the same time, this was part of what he'd been dreaming of. He thinks he could spend the rest of his life without ever lying with you like this, but he also imagines that getting to do so would be the closest a man could get to heaven without dying.

Rather than giving him some sort of answer, you dip down to match what he did to his neck, and your tongue drags softly against his pulse point, forcing his eyes back into his head at the touch.

"Fuck." He breathes out, before realizing how improper that must sound to you. He had spent too much time around the other racers that his vocabulary was starting to change, but in this situation, it's the only word that sums up how he's feeling. 

You pull back with a small, knowing grin, and Max flips you, so that you lie under him. He props himself up on his forearms, just barely hovering, and your arms loop around his neck and pull him down into a kiss. His tunic shifts awkwardly between the two of you, and without much thought, he sits up on his knees to pull it over his head, and your eyes widen as you take him in. It was not the first time you'd seen him shirtless, but every time he was shirtless around you, it garnered the same reaction, which was the greatest ego boost Max had ever known. 

Without his tunic in the way, you're now pressed against him, and as he shifts to hover over you once more, the friction between the two of you draws a little noise from both of you. "Do you want me to continue?" He asks, ensuring you're okay, and you nod slowly, the smallest bit of hesitation clinging to you. "I need words, love." 

"Please." What man could say no when you ask so nicely? He lets one hand roam down the side of your body, gently tracing idle shapes that draw shivers out of you, before resting at the waistband of your underwear. Your breath hitches as Max gently plays with it, waiting for you to stop him, but the words never come. His fingers finally dip under the band, and he groans softly at the touch.

You're soaked, exactly how he was told you'd feel if you were as into it as he was, and his dick strains against his underwear, hardening at the feeling of you. Your eyes squeeze shut as Max gently runs his fingers through your folds, just letting you get used to the feeling. He had gotten himself off numerous times to the thought of you, but the thought that you'd never been touched down here, that Max was the first, that you'd never experienced this kind of pleasure? It does something to Max that he's never felt before, as if his whole body is on fire, and you're the only thing to put it out. 

"Max." You whisper, cheeks flushed. "This isn't-" You cut yourself off as Max pulls his fingers from you and brings them to his mouth, and you're just as sweet as he was told you would taste. "Max!" 

"You wanted me to show you." He shifts lower, pulling your undergarments down to replace his hand with his mouth, and the moan it elicits is something he'd expect to hear out of a brothel, not out of you. He's not quite sure if what he is doing is right, considering what the others had told him, but your hands are in his hair, tight as he moves against you, a kind of sting that spurs him on. He must be doing something right, he thinks, savouring the taste and every noise he gets to draw out of you. 

"Fuck, Max." He groans into you as you curse, caught off-guard by the vulgarity of it. You were the image of innocence, of perfection, and he'd driven you to such language. Your thighs squeeze around his head, and he wraps his arms around them to keep your legs open for him. You whimper at the lack of movement, and Max finds a strange, deep pleasure in it. "This can't be-it isn't what this-" 

He pulls back to look up at you, and just the sight of him has you sighing, head rolling back onto the pillow. It's nice to know that he has the same effect on you as you do on him. "Do you want to stop?" 

"N-No," You breathe out, "But are you sure this is right? Have you..." 

Ah. It was a stupid thing to confess, but Max had saved himself for a moment like he. Instead of revealing everything he'd done for you, how deep this infatuation went, he presses a series of soft kisses to your thighs, soothing you. "You're the first." 

"Good." There's a tone of something possessive in your voice, and it makes Max grind down into the mattress to relieve some pressure. 

"And I know this is right." He continues, mouth hovering over you. Even just his breath against you has you shivering. "It feels right, doesn't it?"

You hum an affirmative before he's back on you, and he can feel your legs begin to shake. You're getting close, and glancing up, he can see your face screwed up in pleasure and concern. "Max, it's-it's-" 

"Let go for me, love." His lips wrap around your clit, and your back arches up, your orgasm taking over as a soft, high-pitched whine escapes you. He pulls away when your body slackens, careful to not overstimulate you just yet. He's not sure if it would actually hurt, but if this was your first time cumming, then he wanted it to be good. He scoots up to hover over you, expecting you to be exhausted, but you surprise him by leaning up and wiping off his mouth before kissing him, hard. It's Max's turn to moan into it, letting you take the lead for a moment as your fingers dig into his shoulders. "Told you it was right." 

"What about you?" You whisper hoarsely, voice somehow already shot, and Max blinks down at you. He gets it, now, why the others boasted about things like this. It was going to take a lot to convince him to get out of this bed. "What do I do to you?" 

Slowly, he drags one of your hands from his shoulder down his body, fingers drifting over the plains of his abs before resting at the band of his own underwear. Your breath hitches as your hand slips from under his and dips lower, a sort of confidence he wasn't expecting. Your hand stutters over his dick, hard and outlined by his undergarments, as your eyes widen. Max's head drops to rest on your shoulder, letting out slow breaths to pace himself, but god, it was hard to do when you had reactions like that. "Just like that, love." Your fingers dip under his waistband to touch him, and Max groans softly as you slowly begin palming him. His hand finds yours, helping mould your grip to wrap around him, and he slowly helps you drag your hand up and down. 

The touch nearly makes him spill.

Your hand is that much smaller, that much softer, that as you slowly speed up the motion, it punches a moan out of him as he mouths at your neck. His precum acts as the oil he probably should've prepared for this, helping you move more fluidly, hand tightening and loosening to see what can drag a noise out of him. 

Your free hand comes up to his cheek, pulling his face towards yours, and the kiss is sloppy, all saliva and tongue, but neither of you really seem to notice. Your hand speeds up, the noise disgraceful as it echoes off the walls, and Max finds himself seeing stars far too quickly. He grabs your wrist with a groan, carefully pulling your hand away, and you jolt. "I'm sorry, did I-" 

"Fucking perfect." He grunts out, trying to keep his own orgasm at bay as he squeezes his eyes shut. Tonight, he wanted to last, and he wanted to last for at least a couple more rounds. "Would've cum." 

"Cum?" You echo softly, the word dripping from your lips. It's the kind of reminder he needs that you don't know anything about this, or how this works, and he pulls back to stare down at you. 

"That pleasure you felt? That was, well, cumming." The words bring a blush to his cheeks, and you nod silently. "If I cum inside you," His voice dips, moving one hand to press against your core again. "I get you pregnant." 

Your eyes widen, your own hand coming to rest on your stomach. "Inside?" 

"Do you want me to show you," He repeats, "Or tell you?" 

"Do you want children?" You ask as you shift up, and Max pauses. He hadn't really thought to ask you that, had he? It was kind of assumed, but he pulls back entirely, terrified he'd overstepped and scared you off by telling you he was about to get you pregnant. 

"With you? Of course I do." Then, because he doesn't want to scare you off, "Do you...not?" 

"No, no, I do." You soothe quickly. "Just...do you want them now?" 

"It takes a couple of tries," Max says softly, fingers gently rubbing at your hip. Maybe he really should've sat you down, explained all this before he began, or maybe even had one of your bridesmaids explain it. "But if you want to wait, I'll wait forever with you." 

You hold out a hand, and Max lets you pull him back down, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. Not exactly where he thought the night would lead, but he's a gentleman. Only when you're ready would he ever do something like that.

Slowly, your hand trails back down his body, and Max pulls away with a furrowed brow. He opens his mouth to question it when your hand finds his dick again and squeezes, and he moans unabashedly. "Do you want kids now?" You repeat softly, and Max just nods dumbly into your shoulder as your hand moves against him. "Words, love." 

"Fuck." He says with a soft laugh, though the words go straight through him. He should be the one in charge, but when you said things like that? Well, he could see himself doing whatever you asked of him. "Using my own words against me?" You hum, hand speeding up, and Max finds himself babbling. "Yes, yes please, please, if you'd let me-" 

"Show me." Max raises his head to stare at you, and you easily meet his gaze, something soft twinkling in your eye that has Max groaning and moving over you. His fingers dip back down to your folds, gently parting through them before slowly letting one finger push into you. He's slow, careful with the intrusion, but with how soaked you are, you swallow up one finger easily.  

"It's going to be a bit of a stretch," He soothes, slowly pumping his finger in and out of you, easily gliding with the remains of his saliva and your arousal. "But you can do that for me, can't you?" He presses his second finger into you, just as slow, and lets you adjust to it. You clench down around him, flushed before you throw an arm over your face to hide yourself. "No, no." He's not exactly in the position to move your arm for you, but just at his words, you slowly let it move from your face to peek out at him. "I want to see you." 

"But it's-" You trail off with a broken moan as Max begins to move his fingers again, this time curling upward. He seems to hit something right inside you as you gasp, hands grasping at the sheets. Max repeats the motion, over and over again, drawing noises out of you that go straight to his dick. "Max, Max-" You say his name like a prayer, babbling as your eyes squeeze shut, and he can feel just how close you are. "I'm going-fuck," Your hand reaches up to grab at his bicep, squeezing tight. "Going to cum."

Despite his original embarrassment at all the advice the other racers had for him, he finds it incredibly useful now as he works you through your second orgasm, nails biting into his arm as you tilt your head back, and Max can't resist nipping at the column of your throat. "That's it," He says, not letting up yet. "Tell me how it feels."

"Max," You moan, chest heaving. "Max, Max-"

"Gods, you're beautiful." He lets up as the last of your orgasm washes over you, though he doesn't pull his fingers out. Once you've settled, he drops his head down to whisper in your ear. "Ready for a third?" 

You nod, wordlessly, before catching yourself. "Yes, please." 

"Good girl." He can tell it's a lot, his fingers stuffed into you where you've never even thought to touch before, and you mewl softly below him, eyes squeezed shut. "Taking me so well, hm?" He dips down to mouth at your neck again, slowly moving, fingers curling and dragging against your walls, and your head rolls to the side to give him more access to your throat. His thumb roams back up to your clit and you jolt, nearly headbutting him, and he laughs it off as you glare at him from the pillow, breaths coming out in shallow pants. "I need you nice and open for me," He explains, fingers moving frantically as he chases your release. "Want you to cum on my fingers one more time before you cum on my-" 

"Max!" It's lewd, his name falling off your lips over and over again, and with little warning, you cum, soaking his fingers as he slows his thrusts. He takes the time to lie with you, fingers still gently rubbing at your entrance as you sigh, leaning to bury your head in his neck.

"Too much?" He whispers, and you shake your head, though you can't seem to find the words to speak yet. "Do you want to continue?"

"Please," You say, hand fumbling with his underwear. Max takes his time, slowly pulling it down, and he watches concern slowly return to your expression. "That's...that's not going-" 

"Relax for me?" You let out a slow breath as Max slowly eases his fingers out of you, and you make a small noise at the loss. He uses your slick to prepare himself, loosely fisting his dick as you watch him, a pink flush spreading from your cheeks to your neck to your chest. "Always so good for me," He says, unsure if this is what you'd like to hear. You moan at his words, or maybe his voice, and Max finds himself saying nonsense as he continues. "My girl," He says, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Going to make you feel so good, yeah?" He braces himself overtop of you, dick sliding against your folds to wait at your entrance. "You say the word and I stop, okay? It's going to be a stretch." 

Max finally presses into you, and he lets his head fall to your chest as you both moan. Fuck, you're tight and you're hot, and Max is not prepared for it atl all. He knew how tight you were around his fingers, but didn't expect the pleasure that would come from it being around his dick, keeping him so close to the edge. He waits with just the tip in you to let you adjust, and your hands scramble to find purchase on his shoulders again. He slowly lets his head rise to press soft kisses to your breasts, still covered by your undergarments. Right now, he just needs you to relax and focus on him, and his hand slips down to find your clit, and you tighten so quickly around him, you almost force him out. 

"Shit," He groans out, and he stops his ministrations to let you relax again, hands coming to rub softly at your hips. "I've got you," He says, and slowly, inch by inch, he bottoms out and leans over your shoulder to bite into the pillow, terrified of hurting you as he tries to contain himself. 

He was just a man, he knew he had urges, but god, he just wants to press into you and never come out again, wants to fuck you until all you can say is his name and his name only. Wants to breed you until you can't walk, stuck in his bed for the next week as he fills you up and truly makes you his. "What're you-" Your voice brings him back to reality, and you expose your neck to him again. Somehow, you knew exactly what he wanted, and he finds himself moaning wantonly.

"So perfect for me, shit-" He sucks and bites his way down your neck, still refusing to move, and you experimentally clench around him. The shock of it forces his teeth into you, and he's quick to withdraw, but the look on your face is anything but pain. "Liked that, huh?" He breathes out, pressing soft kisses to the mark. You squeeze again, and Max groans, pulling away to stare down at you. "If you want something, you have to use your words, love." 

"Please?" 

"Oh, you can do better than that for me." But, mercifully, he slowly drags himself out before pushing back in, and your head falls back to the bed with a heavy thud. "Tell me what you want." 

"You," You moan, and Max can't help but speed up, hips easily meeting yours with every thrust. "Want you." 

He can't quite reply, too lost in the feeling of you around him, warm and wet and tight, so tight he's terrified that this must hurt, but the way you keep arching your back and moaning is telling him another story. "Got me." He finally manages to grunt out, sucking a spot right under your ear. "Always yours." 

His orgasm is chasing him, he knows, can feel it building with every touch, every time your nails bite into his skin, every time he manages to press a kiss to your neck, your mouth, your shoulder. He's lost in the feeling of you, and he knows that he's never going back. He is going to shower you in everything you've ever wanted, going to take such good care of you to keep you under him like this, pliant and perfect. 

"Fuck," He breathes out, speeding up as you tense around him. "Feel so good. Dreamt of you like this." 

"Want your mouth." Max doesn't have to question where, he just continues his onslaught of kisses and bites up the column of your throat before finding your mouth, never able to keep anything from you. Your hands tangle in his hair, just the smallest tug spurring him forward, and he gasps as he slams into you sloppily, orgasm seconds away. 

"I love you." He says, repeating it over and over, the only words that have ever mattered, the words he should've said long ago. He finally let's go, white-hot stars settling over him as he begins to ramble, everything he can think to say spilling off his tongue as he spills into you with a breathy moan. "So good under me, took me so well-" 

You tense around him as he realizes you're cumming too, matching his pace, and it's hotter than anything he'd seen before, hotter than however long the two of you just spent tangled together. Max loses all feeling in his body as he slumps on top of you, careful to distribute his weight so as not to crush you, but all that he finds he can do is say your name, over and over, like it's all he's ever meant to say.

Your arms loosely come up to wrap around his neck, holding him down, and it should be uncomfortable, the sweat, the skin, the fluids trapped between the two of you, but he finds that this is the only place he'd ever want to be.

Slowly, when he thinks he might be able to stand, he pulls out of you, your combined fluids slowly spilling out of you. Still not quite able to feel his legs, he pads to the kitchen to grab a cloth, and takes the time to admire you as he comes back.

You haven't changed positions, perfectly laid in his bed with the blankets molded around you, and Max hates to disturb you as he perches himself on the edge, and begins to wipe down your thighs.

You stir momentarily to blink down at him, and Max suddenly feels so sickeningly in love that he can't do anything but stare back. You're his, officially. You'd gotten married today, your ring glinting in the candlelight as you reach out for him, and he happily accepts your hand. You pull him down beside you and you roll into him, curling up and pressing your face back to his neck, and his arms thread around you, tight. Your bare skin under his arms feels like a dream, and he takes just a minute to examine your neck, where a litany of bruises remains. 

His fingers ghost over them and you reach up to intertwine your fingers with his. "Did I hurt you?" 

You make a strange sort of noise that has Max laughing, pulling away further to look down at you. You're fighting sleep, eyes half-lidded as you shake your head. 

"Words?" He teases softly and your head thumps against his chest. He gently places his hand around the back of your neck, positioning you to look back up at him, and even half-asleep, you're more gorgeous than Max could ever describe. He was the speechless one now, despite how much he teased you for it. 

"Perfect." You whisper softly, and something deep inside Max breaks, for just a moment. He had never been called perfect before. He'd never had anyone look at him with as much admiration, albeit tired admiration, as you did currently, and he didn't quite know what to do about it. "You were perfect. May I sleep now?" And then, with your old, teasing personality, the moment breaks, and Max rolls his eyes as he presses you to his chest. 

He was never going to let you go. Not now, not ever. Even in death, Max thinks, he'd find a way to haunt you. He lets his hands card through your hair, soothing as you finally drift off. There will definitely be a conversation in the morning, he knows, one that will probably be awkward and maybe, he thinks with excitement, lead to something more, but for right now, he's okay to just have you sleep on him as he lets himself soak up the night. 

You're his.

It's the only thing that he thinks ever mattered.

"Oh," You breathe softly against him, as if remembering something, and he's quick to glance down at you. "I love you too, Max."

Whatever had broken inside Max had now been reduced to dust, the first time you'd ever said those words to him. If he was honest, it probably wasn't great that the first time he said it to you was in the heat of the moment, but he had meant it, and he had felt it long before he'd ever thought of putting it into words. 

"Rest," He finally whispers, and without much fanfare, you fall asleep against him, and Max wills away the tears in the corners of his eyes. 

This was all he'd ever need, and all he'd ever want for the rest of his life. 

-

- - -

- - - - -

It was final. Max had retired from chariot racing, despite the protests of his team, and his fans, and, well, everyone. The only person who probably wouldn't complain about Max retiring was waiting for him at home, and was the exact reason he was rushing up the steps to your estate. 

It was the first big purchase he'd ever made, getting your estate back to you. He might have pulled a few strings to get it, but it was your family's rightful home, and where you belonged. He had never seen you happier than that day, returning to your garden, getting to leave behind the poor working conditions of Rome to tend to your vegetables and flowers. You deserved it, after all. 

You deserved everything. He hadn't actually told you he was going to retire today, considering it was just another race, but he'd made his mind up while leaving this morning, for one very good reason.

"See that?" You whisper softly, kneeling by the pond, that same slice of paradise where once, Max had seen your ankles, and now he sees his future. "That's a frog." 

His son babbles beside you, your palla extended to wrap around him. His little fists happily pat away at the dirt, scaring away the small frog that was resting at the water's edge. It was his son who made Max finally decide to retire from racing, along with you. He wanted to be here for these silly, random moments, not dead under a horse. 

He had made enough money to last you well enough, and the small income you'd get from the farm would help supply anything extra. He sneaks up behind you, stilling just above you to cast a shadow. You glance up, confused, before a soft gasp escapes your lips, and you angrily bat up at him. "Max!" 

"Mama!" His son says as Max scoops him up, resting the boy gently on his hip. You rise to scowl at him, though you break to give him a kiss before returning to your pout. He doesn't get why you get to be upset - his own son won't say his name! That was another reason Max had decided to retire.

He wanted his son to remember him, not like the blur of memories Max had of his own father. 

"No, dada. Try it? Dada?" He'd had the same debate this morning, jokingly splayed out on the carpet as he desperately tried to teach the boy any other words, but he was always stuck on the same one:

"Mamamamamama." Max can't really blame him, though. You were worthy of obsession.

If he could only ever say your name, he wouldn't miss the others. 

"Did I scare you?" Max teases finally, and you roll your eyes as you brush the dirt off the edge of your palla. "I thought you'd enjoy me being home early." 

"I do," You say as you take his arm and lead him toward the kitchen. "But not when you sneak up on me." 

"I was just standing there! Could've been a cloud, for all you know." His son reaches up to gently tug on Max's armour, and Max happily swings him around the lounge before gently setting him on the carpeted floor. "I retired," He says over his shoulder to you, like a normal, passive thing, and he watches you freeze over the dining table. 

It's a mix of emotions, he's well aware, pride, happiness, confusion. You slowly come to join him on the floor, studying him intently, as if gauging his reaction. "You did?" 

"I wanted to be home." He answers softly, leaning in to press a kiss to your lips. You all but throw yourself at him and Max laughs, happily holding you in his lap as you press kiss after kiss to his mouth. "See? This was the reaction I was expecting." 

"Are you sure?" You say as you pull back, distracted for a moment to grab your son, trying to crawl away, and you pull him into your lap. Right here, in Max's arms, is his whole world, and there's nothing he could ever do to leave it. 

"Absolutely." He answers, pressing a slow, tender kiss to your lips before letting his mouth trail down your jaw and neck. "Wouldn't want to miss this for anything." 

Your son sneezes, bouncing his head back off of Max's chest and begins to cry, and you're quick to coddle him, rising up to bounce him and gently hold the back of his head. This, this was a dream Max couldn't believe once wasn't supposed to be fulfilled. This was a life that meant so much to him, to just be able to sit on the floor and watch you with your son, with his son. To be your equal, to be home, to be happy. "It's okay," You soothe softly. "I know Dada's chest is hard, but it'll be soft soon, now that he's not a mean old chariot racer." 

"Hey!" Max stands, offering a soft glare as your son giggles between the two of you. 

"Mhm, I'm going to cook so much, make him nice and fat so you'll never get hurt on his muscles again." You move away, up the stairs to find your son's nursery, and Max follows behind like he still can't quite believe you're his to follow.

The nursery used to be your childhood room, Max is pretty sure, considering the angle of the window. He'd watched your silhouette so many times, he's sure it has to be here. It's odd to be on the inside, despite the years since Max worked for your father. He had to remind himself, often, that he was meant to be here, that when you laid your son to rest in his bassinet, it was Max who carved the wood for it, chose where to place it.

Max was allowed to have this.

He was allowed to have you. 

"You like my muscles," Max finally argues, picking up where you left off as you join him in the doorway. He flexes his arm, and you watch him unabashedly. He leans over you, bringing you in for another kiss as his hand roams down to palm your ass. "See?" 

"You keep that up, and this little guy is going to have a sibling soon." You say against his lips, and Max bends down to pick you up like on your wedding night, and you laugh as he carries you to the bedroom. 

"Anything wrong with that?" 

You smack at his chest, and he tosses you back onto your bed, which is to say he lays you as gently as he can, because if there's one thing he could never do, it was touch you without reverence. "We agreed to wait, unless you want to be up with two crying babies at night." 

"Then I guess we'll just have to keep my muscles around a little longer then, hm?" He strips out of his armour, and your eyes skip down his chest. "I'll make sure not to wear any more armour around. Make sure they don't hurt themselves." 

"That'll be for the best." You nod along, biting your bottom lip in thought. "Probably shouldn't wear a tunic around the house, either. Just in case they get tangled in it." 

"Oh?" He crawls up toward you, and you loop your arms around his neck to pull him in for another kiss, and then another, and Max grins into every kiss. "So you just want me nude around the house all day?"

With a matching smile, you pull away, and Max decides that there is no sweeter view to be found anywhere else in the world.

"What else is retirement for?" 

a/n: so this is the longest fic i've written yet, and my very first smut, so i hope y'all enjoy! as someone studying history this was such a labour of love, and I'm so proud of how it turned out

biting at the bars of my cage. foaming at the mouth.

biting at the bars of my cage. foaming at the mouth.