S's & Giggles

“Well done, Grogu! That was amazing, you did so well!” 

Din looked up from the disassembled blaster laying on the table in front of him at your joyous shout. Ever since the Force attack against your mental shielding that nearly killed you, you’d been training Grogu in his own shielding techniques. His other training had been set aside for now as you worked to get the child to point to where he could ward off the beginnings of an attack, hopefully long enough for him to reach out to you for assistance.

You’d been testing his shields all morning, and based on your exuberance, Din figured this must be the first time Grogu had succeeded in keeping you out of his mind. 

He watched, amusement hidden by his helmet as Grogu toddled over, arms held out for Din to pick him up, which he readily did. Settling the fifty-year old toddler on his lap, he chuckled lowly as Grogu attempted to explain to him what a feat he’d just accomplished, tiny, pudgy arms waving about wildly as he babbled.

Grogu finished his explanation and suddenly yawned, blinking his huge eyes sleepily as he suddenly seemed unsteady on his feet. Din had been worried the first few times this had happened, but you’d explained that mental shielding was a lot more taxing than the other training you’d been doing with him, and that it was normal for Grogu to take a short nap after a rigorous session.

You leaned in the doorway, covering your own yawn behind the palm of your hand. “He did well, but I bet he’s probably exhausted, the poor guy. Let me–” you yawned again, tears prickling in your eyes from the force of it. “Let me go lay him down, and then we can work on your form some more.”

Din shook his head, standing up from the table and cradling the rapidly-tiring baby in the crook of his arm. “You’re exhausted too, verd’ika,” he murmured, his free hand coming up to brush gently across your cheek. “You could use a nap as well.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but you were cut off by yet another yawn. The impassive beskar helmet and black visor stared you down, and you found yourself giving in. “Fine, but only for a few hours.” Straightening up, you go to step away from the wall, but a wave of dizziness hits you, and you stumble.

Din is there, easily catching you against his chest as his unoccupied arm comes up around your waist, supporting you, keeping you upright. You rest your forehead against his pauldron, the cool beskar grounding you as you wait for the dizziness to pass. 

“Guess I’m a little more out of it than I thought,” you whisper, and even though you’re half-unconscious, not even supporting your own weight, you feel tingles run down your spine at the way Din’s hand presses against your back. 

“Here,” Din whispers back, nudging Grogu into your arms, and before you can form the words to ask him what he’s doing, his other arm is tucking underneath your knees and sweeping you up off the floor and against his chest as he easily supports your weight. 

He carries the both of you to your bedroom, keeping his steps slow and fluid so he doesn’t jostle you. He sets you down amongst the sheets, and is about to take Grogu from your arms when the little one whines, and buries his face into your bosom. Your eyes flutter open–when had they closed?–and you smile softly up at Din. 

“Let him stay.”

“Alright.”

Din sighs fondly, his fingers once again brushing over your cheek. He pulls the blanket up and over the two of you, and makes his way out of the room, letting you both get some much needed rest.

~~~

You napped longer than you’d originally planned, a sign that you weren’t getting nearly as much sleep as you should, although it didn’t surprise you. Ever since that night, your dreams had been plagued with thoughts of your Mandalorian-  Partner? Housemate? Padawan? Maker you had no idea what the two of you were, although from some of the dreams you’d been having as of late, you knew what your body wanted. 

He’d said I love you–in Mando’a, true–but he’d still said it nonetheless. And you’d said it back. It’d been true, every word, but since then... it was like the two of you were stuck in limbo, unable to move forward, but unwilling to go back to the way things were before.

Later that night, after another brief round of training with Grogu, you’d finally gotten some time to work with Din on his forms. He’d grown exponentially since he’d come to stay with you, and you couldn’t have been more proud. 

Fighting with the Darksaber seemed to come naturally to him, and the more he practiced, the more fluid his movements became. It got to a point that eventually you had to start actually trying in your duels, instead of leading him through the steps. 

He’d tried to convince you that the two of you could skip training for the night, but you insisted you were fine. You’d gotten some much needed sleep, and now you were wide awake, and ready to work off some steam.

~~~

How did the two of you end up like this?

One minute you were fighting, blades clashing as you dueled, and the next, Din had managed to disarm you, forearm pressed against your sternum as he pressed you against the wall. He held the Darksaber loosely in his grasp at his side, far enough away that he couldn’t accidentally hurt you, but close enough that you could still feel the crackle of energy the blade gave off. 

Panting softly, you looked up into the dark T of his visor, fruitlessly searching the blank beskar for some flicker of emotion, some sign of what was running through his brain at this very moment. 

Suddenly, there was a quiet hum as the Darksaber’s blade retracted, followed by a dull thud as Din dropped the weapon to the ground. You opened your mouth to scold him, but his hand came up to cup your cheek, his leather-clad thumb pressing heavily onto your lower lip, keeping your lips slightly parted.

“Will you close your eyes for me, verd’ika?” His question was soft, but you could hear the underlying tension in his voice. “Wanna kiss you again.”

You sucked in a breath before nodding, your eyes fluttering shut as your heart began to beat rapidly beneath your ribcage. The anticipation was so thick it could be cut through with a vibroblade, and the quiet hiss of the mechanisms in Din’s helmet were so loud in the stillness of the night, it made you jump. 

“Easy,” he whispered, and you felt your knees almost buckle at his rich baritone, so much clearer without the rasp of the vocoder. “It’s just me.”

You had a half-formed, sarcastic retort ready on your tongue when Din pressed his lips against yours. 

Your memories didn’t do him justice, your mind could never hope to recreate the way it felt when his lips slowly slid across yours. He cradled your face in his hands as he kissed you deep and slow, as though he were memorizing the way you tasted, the way you sounded, the way you trembled beneath his palms. 

His tongue peeked out to run over the seam of your lips, begging for permission that you gladly gave. He groaned as you opened up beneath him, letting him control the speed and intensity. He was overwhelming in the best of ways, and you wondered why the fuck the two of you had waited so long to do this again.

When he pulled away, your first instinct was to chase after his lips, not ready for him to stop. But then his fingers were pressing against your mouth, the leather warm against your swollen lips. 

“Bite.” 

Eyebrows rising up, but your eyes staying firmly shut, you slowly bit down on the leather, holding fast as Din slowly withdrew his hand. He repeated the process with his other glove, letting both of them fall to the floor alongside the Darksaber. 

As his lips descended on yours, his warm hands slowly crept under the fabric of your tunic, the rough pads of his fingers brushing over your bare skin with reverence. You arch into his touch, your fingers winding themselves into his hair as he kisses you desperately.

Din’s still in his training clothes, and you can’t resist the temptation to take advantage of the lack of armor, smoothing your palms over his chest, his broad shoulders, clinging to him as desperately as he’s clinging to you. You thank your lucky stars that Grogu’s already in bed, because you don’t think you could stop, even if the Empire themselves landed on your doorstep.

“Trust me?” Din whispers against your lips, pulling back just enough to speak, but not enough to stop kissing you between every syllable.

“Always.”

In one swift move, Din wraps his hands around your thighs, picking you up with ease and guiding your legs around his waist. He supports your weight easily, his bare palms practically branding your skin with how warm they are. You take the opportunity to wrap your arms around his neck, fingers toying with the soft hair at his nape as you use your new position to kiss him even more enthusiastically.

With slow, steady steps, he begins the walk towards your bedroom, easily navigating your home even as he refuses to break the kiss. You can’t help the mischievous curl of your lips as you tug at his hair, making him let out a groan, one hand flying out to brace on the wall as he stumbles in surprise.

“Minx,” he growls playfully, the hand still cupping your ass squeezing briefly in retaliation. You giggle in response, taking his lower lip between your teeth and tugging gently.

Eventually, the two of you make it to the bedroom, though not without occasionally bumping into things as you continue to tease your Mandalorian.

He’s gentle as he sets you on the bed, hands trailing over your body as he slowly lets you go. “Keep those eyes closed, mesh’la,” he murmurs, pulling back reluctantly.

You nod, resolute. You won’t break his trust.

Soft quiet footsteps cross the room, and you hear a rustling noise before the footsteps draw closer once more.

“Can I put this on?”

Din places a soft strip of fabric in your outstretched hands, and you realize quickly his intentions.

“Of course,” you offer without hesitation. As much as you want to believe you can keep your eyes shut, the blindfold removes any possibility of accidents.

He takes it back and gently ties the fabric around your head, careful not to catch your hair in the knot. It’s soft over your eyes, and when he pulls back, you cautiously take a peek.

“Can you see?”

You shake your head, vision completely obscured. “I can’t see anything.”

“Good.”

His lips are back on yours seconds after he speaks, and you eagerly reciprocate, hands coming up to cradle his face as he manhandles you further back onto the bed.

You lean back against the pillows, legs spreading as you cradle Din between your thighs as he crawls up the bed after you. He’s a firm, delicious weight against you, fitting perfectly against your body like he belongs there.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” you whisper against his mouth, the secret you’ve been keeping sounding so sweet at this late hour. “You’re driving me mad.”

“Mesh’la,” he breathes, the mando’a reverent and worshipful. He presses kisses across your cheek and down your throat, and you can feel the dip in the mattress as he settles his palms on either side of you to prop himself up.

You rock your hips against his, feeling the evidence of how much you turn him on clear through the soft training pants Din still wears. He whispers muffled curses against your skin, and you can feel the way he trembles above you.

“Are you sure?” He asks, and while a part of you melts at the fact that he’s so considerate of what you want, you’ve been dreaming about this for weeks now, and you are done waiting.

You wrap one leg around the back of his thigh, pulling him tighter against you. The moan you let out at the friction is loud in the quiet night.

“If you don’t fuck me, Din Djarin, I swear to the Maker-”

He cuts you off with another kiss, this time coaxing your mouth open and swallowing whatever you’d been about to threaten him with. You give in easily, everything heightened due to your vision being completely cut off. You’re forced to compensate using the Force, and your other senses are dialed up to eleven.

“Needy girl,” he whispers against your lips, his hands already busily working on divesting you of your training pants.

You wriggle, doing your best to help him but also reluctant to stop kissing him and running your fingers through his hair.

After some fumbling, he manages to bare your lower half completely, and you whine as he pulls away from your lips. But then, he lets out a muffled curse,and you feel his fingers gently spreading your folds, and you understand.

“Like what you see?” You murmur, voice mostly steady, trying to cover up any lingering embarrassment. While it was a common misconception that the Jedi were celibate, you certainly hadn’t had any partners after the Empire took over, so it’d been an embarrassingly long time since you’d taken anyone to bed.

Instead of answering, you feel the weight shift on the bed, and suddenly Din’s mouth is on you.

Immediately, you’re clutching the sheets with a white-knuckled grip, eyes flying open underneath the blindfold, but your vision’s still obscured. Din wastes no time, hooking your bare thighs over his shoulders, arms wrapping around your waist so he can hold you down as he feasts.

The burn of his stubble against your skin is delicious, sending sparks shooting up your spine. His tongue is warm and wet and fucking talented, and you wanna worship whoever taught him how to eat pussy like it’s his last goddamn meal.

One of your hands abandons the sheets to instead grip at the dark curls that adorn his head, fingers winding through the strands and tugging, needing something to ground you.

He groans, the sound and vibrations against your core making you arch your back as you try desperately to get even closer. His wicked tongue lashes repeatedly against your clit before stroking through your folds, tasting the pure essence of you that gathers there. The sounds of his enthusiasm are, quite frankly, obscene, the only noise that you can hear in the quiet stillness of the bedroom. It’s slick and wet and messy, and you can feel the faint sense of smug satisfaction floating down your bond as he stops you from writhing too much beneath him.

You’re embarrassingly close, and your tugs on his hair become more frantic as you try to convey that the only way you’re currently capable of.

But Din doesn’t care. He seems to guess, because he doubles down, his grip turning from merely restrictive to downright immobilizing, not letting you move an inch, only able to submit to the pleasure he wrings from your body.

“Din,” you gasp, tears leaking from the corner of your eyes and wetting the blindfold as you teeter on the edge of something unknowable. He hums, the sound lilting up at the end, a mockery of a question, but that small vibration is enough to push you off the edge, and you’re falling into the abyss.

Your legs tremble and shake violently on his shoulders, and explosions burst behind your eyelids as exquisite pleasure courses through you at light-speed. You surely have to be hurting him, from how hard you’re tugging at his hair, but Din makes no signs that he’s in pain. Quite the opposite in fact, as he pulls you even tighter against him, tongue lapping up every drop.

For a moment, you realize he has no intention of stopping, so you physically force yourself to push him away. As much as you’d like to let him spend hours with his mouth on your cunt, you have other priorities right now.

He actually whines as you push him away, and even though you’ve never seen his face, you can picture the pout that must be on his lips right now.

Still out of breath, you grab at his shoulders, trying to coax him up from between your thighs. He follows your direction, albeit a bit reluctantly.

It takes some maneuvering, but eventually you get him back on top of you, his hips once more slotted between your still-shaking thighs as you bring his lips back to yours. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and it’s far hotter than it has any right to be.

He sighs into the kiss, relaxing against you, and you’d think the two of you could spend the rest of the night like that, if you didn’t still feel that crushing emptiness, and if you couldn’t feel how painfully hard he was, pressed against you.

With one hand cupping his cheek, you trail the fingers of your free hand down his chest, towards the waistband of his pants. He quickly gets with the program, helping you push the offending fabric down, and he groans at the instant relief.

You’ve waited long enough for this, you aren’t about to waste any more time. You wrap your fingers around his cock, wishing for a brief moment that you could see what he looked like. Alas, you’re left to just use your imagination, and imagine you do.

He feels thick, your fingers barely able to meet as they wrap around his length. You can feel the veins beneath your fingertips, the slight curve of him that’s sure to absolutely devastate you. You slowly stroke him, trying to tease Din a tiny amount of the way he teased you earlier. Based on the way his breath hitches above you, you’re certainly succeeding.

Din’s voice whispers your name, absolutely wrecked, and you can’t help the way you tighten your grip and twist your wrist just so, delighting in the choked off noise that escapes him.

“Tease,” he groans. “Behave.”

You tilt your head back, letting your lips brush over his.

“Make me.”

You still couldn’t see, so the feeling of Din’s cock suddenly running through your folds made you jump in surprise. Din put one hand on your waist, pulling you up slightly so your thighs were resting on his legs as he kneeled on the bed. You felt the world tilt at the sudden angle change, but it gave Din perfect access to toy with you, coating himself in your slick as he brushed the head of his cock against your swollen clit.

“Brat,” he whispers, voice almost mocking as he presses the head of his cock against your fluttering hole, chuckling as you try to buck your hips to just get him to fucking move. But he’s got all the power here, and he won’t give an inch.

You whine, but Din isn’t moved. He’s got you exactly where he wants you, and you can feel the thrill he gets at having this much power over you. In anyone else, it would annoy you, or infuriate you, but with him? It just makes you even more desperate.

When he finally pushes the tip of his cock inside you, you instinctively clench down, you body reacting to finally getting what you want. Din spits a harsh curse out, and you can feel his fingers indenting your skin from where he has a vice grip on your waist.

“Relax, mesh’la,” he groans, and you have to physically force your muscles to unclench. He leans forward, the hand not gripping your waist coming to rest on the bed beside your body. Slowly, he begins to push inside you.

Fuck, he’s huge. You’d felt his girth when you’d wrapped your hand around him earlier, but it’s a wholly different sensation actually sinking into your waiting heat. You’re absolutely soaked with slick and Din’s saliva, but even then, it’s still a struggle to take him. The ache makes you cry out, nerves lighting up as you’re stretched in ways you haven’t felt in years. It feels divine.

And Din doesn’t just push in all in one go. No, he sets up a steady rhythm, a gentle rocking of his hips that teases and satisfies you at the same time, making you feel every single inch of him.

You can feel his breath on your neck as he pants, and you can tell from the tense muscles in his back that it’s just as torturous for him to go as slow as he is, but it’s the only way either of you are gonna last.

“So fuckin’ tight, mesh’la,” he whispers against your ear, voice shaky and desperate. “H-How’re you so-ung! fuck, how’re you so tight?”

A mix between a moan and a sigh leaves your lips. “It’s… ah!, it’s been awhile.”

He doesn’t respond, and you think it might be because he’s incapable of speech, because at that moment, his hips press flush against yours, and he’s as deep as he can physically go. The way he fills every inch of your pussy is indescribable, the head of his cock pressing up against that spot deep inside that makes galaxies spark behind your eyes.

You curl one hand around the back of his neck, keeping his face tucked into your neck as you stare sightlessly through the blindfold. Your other hand brushes down over your stomach, feeling for the slight swell that you know is there.

When your fingers brush across the bulge of his cock hilted all the way inside you, he lets out a broken noise, hips stuttering as he tries to hold himself back from losing it then and there.

“I can feel you,” you whisper, tone a bit incredulous as you can’t stop touching the evidence of just how big he is, visible through your skin. “Fuck, Din.”

His lips curl into a snarl that you feel against your skin.

“So fuckin’ perfect, verd’ika,” he growls, whole body trembling and tense above you. “Take me so well. How’m I supposed to give this up?”

You chuckle breathlessly. “Don’t… Don’t have to. Stay.”

As though your words were the permission he was waiting for, he sinks his teeth into your neck, and pulls his hips back just a bit, before he thrusts forward, once more sinking back in to the hilt.

Your eyes roll back, though it doesn’t really make a difference, and Din starts up an absolutely brutal pace, short sharp thrusts that completely ruin you. Every single thrust feels like it rattles your very bones, like he’s trying desperately to get even deeper, even though it isn’t physically possible.

The sound of skin slapping against skin mixes with his harsh breathing as Din fucks you, just like you’d asked him to. He’s carving out a space for himself inside you, molding you to fit him perfectly, and you know that nothing will ever be able to satisfy you again the way he can.

You’re barely even able to take a breath, every thrust punching any of the air you’d been able to take in back out of your lungs. You’re clinging to him, the walls of your pussy trying to somehow suck him in even deeper. Every time you clench down, Din makes a choked noise against your throat, and his hips stutter against you.

He felt so big from this angle, it was impossible to describe. It felt like Din was in your throat he filled you so well, and you felt dizzy and lightheaded as he somehow began to thrust faster. The previous pace, which you’d already thought was incredible, was nothing compared to his new rhythm. You were positive you were going to have bruises tomorrow, and the thought thrilled you.

The heat inside you was quickly rising, and with every thrust, you’re being driven straight towards that precipice once more. Winding your fingers through Din’s hair, you pull him off your neck and search out his lips, the urge to kiss him again too strong to ignore.

He easily obliges, the kiss wet and filthy as he continues his relentless pace.

You were closer and closer to tipping over that edge, and you could tell from the frantic energy radiating off Din, he was getting close as well. He was practically screaming into the Force just how desperate he was to feel you come on his cock, and you were ready and willing to oblige.

“Gonna come for me, mesh’la?” He asked, voice breaking mid-sentence, damn near begging you. “Let me feel this pretty pussy fuckin’ squeeze, huh?”

You can barely breathe, let alone speak, so you simply nod frantically, nails digging into the muscles of his back. Your whole body is trembling violently, and you’re not completely sure that you won’t pass out due to lack of air.

Din doesn’t wait for it to come to you naturally. No, he plays dirty, the bastard. He lets the hand that had been gripping your waist trail across your stomach, thumb finding your swollen clit, and rubbing quick, tight circles on the sensitive nub.

You let out a scream as everything clenches down hard, and you come violently. Din uses his body weight to hold you down, and you have a fleeting thought of being thankful, because you’re not positive you would’ve been able to stay grounded in gravity otherwise. Your legs are shaking so violently you almost kick Din, and you can feel as fluid gushes around his cock, practically squirting out of you as your climax overwhelms you.

He’s whispering filthy praise as you come, his hips stuttering as you clench around him like you can manage to keep him buried inside you for the rest of time. He’s close too, and you manage to wrap one of your shaking legs around his waist, keeping him flush against you.

“Mesh’la,” he whispers, voice tight and desperate. “I-I’m close, where-?”

It takes all your strength, but you wrap your other leg around his waist, locking your ankles together and not letting him pull back a fucking inch.

“In me,” you whisper, purposefully clenching down, trying to tip him over the edge. “I want you to come inside, Din, please.”

Your begging is what pushes him over the edge, and he falls into the abyss with you. He lets out an obscene moan, lips pressed to your skin as you feel him come, filling you up, just like you’d asked for. It’s fucking glorious, and your still sensitive walls keep clenching and squeezing, trying to milk him for all he’s worth.

He’s throbbing, cock twitching and pulsing inside you as he comes and comes and comes. If he’s anything like you, it’s also been a long fucking time, and the sheer relief is almost as orgasmic as the climax itself.

It’s easy to coax him down, getting him to lay fully pressed against you, his weight pushing you into the mattress as he shakes through the intensity of his own release. You keep stroking your fingers through his hair, and it’s your turn to whisper praise to him.

Eventually, you feel him soften slightly, though he’s still large enough that he stays buried in your pussy. He half-heartedly tries to move off of you, but a wiggle of your hips and a soft tug on his hair stop that in it’s tracks.

“Wanna stay like this f’r a little longer,” you slur, voice thick with exhaustion now that the tension that you’ve been carrying for weeks has been washed away. “Please?”

Instead of a verbal response, Din merely presses a kiss to one of the many bruises decorating the skin of your neck. He settles even further, his arms sliding around you, holding you pressed against him, his body essentially a furnace with how hot he runs.

“Kar’taylir darasuum,” he whispers, his own voice sleepy and punchdrunk. It sends butterflies fluttering, just like it did the last time he said it.

Squirming slightly, you bite your lip as you try not to give away the game. Glancing up from your paperwork to see that he is engrossed in whatever report he is reading. Your eyes slide over his handsome features. Since going back to the field, he’s worn a more casual look into the office, but it always pairs so nicely with that leather jacket. Wearing his glasses less, although he’s got them on right now. 

He’s so fucking sexy without even trying to be and ever since that last conversation, you’ve been obsessed with the idea of him fucking your ass. 

Marcus had been widowed for a long time, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t experienced. Despite looking like an All-American Heroic, he loved sex. He loves experimenting. You had learned that very quickly after jumping into bed with him. 

This weekend is the perfect opportunity to take it to the next level. The conference was in a beautiful resort, and ‘somehow’ you and Marcus had been booked into the same suite. Ms. Granada had smirked when she told you the news, rumors of your relationship have already made the rounds through the halls of the Heroics’ Headquarters and neither one of you had denied it. 

“Are you almost done, babe?” You ask, making him look up, his brow furrowing slightly. 

“Yeah, uh-” He suddenly wonders if you had booked a table somewhere for dinner, if he’s forgotten about that. “Yeah.” He nods, taking his glasses off as he tries to remember what you had said you wanted to do. You said you had something planned but he doesn’t think that you’ve said anything else aside from that. 

“Good.” You can see he’s a little confused, but you get off the couch and walk around the coffee table to where he is sitting in one of the armchairs in the living room of the suite. “I have something I want to show you.”

Marcus frowns as you turn around. Unsure of what you might be showing him until you slide your dress up your hips and bend over, your legs spread. 

His mouth runs dry. There, teasing him, is a little jeweled plug buried deep in your ass. His groan is immediate, accompanied by the hardening of his cock. “Fuck.” He hisses, reaching out and grabbing your ass with both hands as he leans in, spreading your cheeks wider as he gets a good look. 

You giggle quietly, twisting your head around to watch his gaze turn focused and nearly feral. He’s mentioned it before, wanting to fuck your ass. Telling you that he could make you enjoy it despite having never really been interested in it before. He never pressured, just telling you that if you wanted to do it, to let him know. 

You are ready, deciding that this weekend was the perfect time to give him this. “It feels strange.” You admit, sucking in a sharp gasp when his thumb moves to the jewel and he shifts it inside you. “Strange, but good.” 

“How long have you been wearing it?” He asks, biting his lip as he watches your puckered hole clench around the plug. 

“Only a few hours.” You admit, knowing that you didn’t want to wear it for too long. He groans again and this time you are moaning when he twists it inside you. It’s strange how that simple action can make your cunt clench around nothing, but you are already soaking wet from the anticipation. 

“Goddamn, it looks so pretty.” He coos, squeezing your ass and pulling you slightly closer. “When did you get this little beauty?” 

You whimper and wish he would stop staring at your asshole, but you know he likes your surprise. “A- a couple of days ago.” You had stopped by the adult toy store and picked it up, wanting to wash it and look at it. 

“You’re so good to me.” He praises, already straining at the seam of his jeans and eager to take you to bed. “Did you get lube, sweetheart?” 

Of course you did. There is no way Marcus Moreno is sliding his cock in your ass without some lube. He’s too thick to even imagine it. “Uh huh.” You hum. “In the bedroom.” 

Marcus groans, slapping your ass and reluctantly letting you go. He needs to get you into the bedroom and prep you a little more. 

****

“Marcus.” Your eyes clench closed, your fingers twisted in the sheets as you try not to roll your hips up, away from him.

He’s killing you with this pace. Three fingers buried inside of you, replacing your plug one at a time until he’s got the three inside you. His tongue lashes at your clit again, moaning into your folds and making you curl your toes when they flick over your sensitive bud again as you ride out your second orgasm. 

His dark eyes are laughing at you, finally pulling away as he scissors his fingers one last time, finding that you are opened up enough to finally take him. “Now I’ll fuck you.” 

You whimper at the cocky assurance in his tone. Watching Marcus change from the mild mannered man to the in-charge lover is one that is spectacular to behold. Confident and almost brash as he pulls you apart and pieces you back together every time. “Then do it.” You are practically pouting and your tone is needy. 

Deliberately, he drags it out. Turning you over and pulling your hips up to the position that he wants. Face pressed to the cool sheets and your ass up in the air, you can see him shuffle behind you. 

Another thick dollop of lube coats his fingers to rub around your puckered hole, making you whimper and clench slightly, pushing back and moaning in desperation as he pulls his fingers away. You can hear him, hear the slide of his cock through his slickened hand, coating himself in the friction resistant lube. The low groan as your body throb in anticipation, knowing your hole is fluttering wildly. All you can do is wait for him to move. To claim you. 

Marcus shuffles closer. Licking his lips as he presses forward, his cock sliding through your cheeks and around your hole. One hand holds your hip steady, keeping you from rocking back as he gets closer to filling you. 

“Marc-” 

“I’ve got you, baby.” He coos, smirking slightly as he lines up to start to slowly break you open with gentle yet firm pressure. “Don’t worry, you’ll take me.” 

You weren’t worried about that, but it is reassuring to know. A low moan starts in your throat as he starts to push inside you. Slowly filling you, an inch at a time. 

Your eyes closed and you don’t know it, but Marcus has his eyes closed too. Savoring the way you feel. How your ring of muscles is clenching around him and having to wait until you relax to push in just a bit more. Rocking his hips until they are flush against your ass and he is buried deep. 

He’s thick, long and completely stretching you out. Your fingers curl into the sheets as he gives you time to adjust to him. Waiting so patiently even though you can feel every pulsing beat of his heart and his excitement through the insistent throbbing of his cock, making your own body respond to it. Until you are pushing back, begging him to move inside you. “Baby please,” you whine, rolling your hips back and needing him to give you more. 

For the last three months, you have been led to this moment. Guarded and well-fed. Given everything that your heart desires and showered with presents, food, even jewels to wear. Your status in the region has been elevated. The wooden laurel on your head showcasing your purpose and strangers stopped you on the cobblestoned streets to give blessings to the gods for your sacrifice. 

Golden chains bind your hands and feet. Loose enough to allow you to walk, but still keep you from running away. Naked, you are paraded through the streets. Cheering Romans citizens throwing flowers and seeds in the air. Marking the traditional path that you will be guided by the centurions that are tasked with seeing you to your destination safely. Leaving you there to the whims of the beast. 

The last one hundred years has been marked with prosperity. The annual sacrifice made to the guardian of the lands insuring the year’s bounty. A virgin, chained to the altar in the clearing and left to be consumed by the beast. 

Over the years the citizens had learned not to anger the beast, knowing that if the woman provided was not a virgin, the sacrifice would be rejected. The year’s crops are destroyed by giant hooves that trample and destroy everything planted in the dirt. 

Through the city you are led, out past the fields that will be planted and into the edge of the woods that the beast makes its home. The stone altar comes into view and you shuffle to a halt as you stare at it. 

It’s not the typical altar that you would expect. It is a large stone, carved out and worn smooth over the years. The rings driven deep at certain points used to anchor your chains to it and keep you from escaping. 

It’s curved and odd shaped, making you wonder how you will lay on this. “Move.” The guard closest to you yanks on the chains and drags you forward. Making you swallow as the reality of your demise is quickly approaching. 

“Please. I-” You start to say that you need just a moment, but you are cut off.

The guards all tut, yanking you forward and starting to stretch your limbs over the altar and secure them to the rings. You are bent over, spread out and embarrassed by how vulnerable you feel even though you had just been paraded through the streets completely bare as the day you were born. Now you feel exposed, your womanhood on display and you close your eyes tight. 

They never say another word to you. The whistle is sharp and piercing, but the guards disappear from your limited vision, even as you try to twist your head to look behind you. It’s like they vanish into the mist that has started to gather along the edge of the trees. 

You wait, the silence starting to drive you mad. You’ve never been good at waiting, but it is all you can do right now. 

Until you hear the snapping of a twig. Your head pops up from where you had been laying it on the altar. Trying to twist around to see what is coming, but you can’t turn that far. Your arms are stretched out too far, you are bent too far over. “Who- who’s there?” You call out, another snapping twig makes your heart skip a beat. 

Something is coming. You swallow harshly and close your eyes, afraid that your time is up now and the beast is here. 

“Another one.” Your eyes spring open when you hear a voice. A man’s voice, weary. You shiver and tug on the chains. 

“Don’t- don’t release me.” You hadn’t meant to say that, but it is what pops out of your mouth. 

“Why?” There’s a sense of surprise in his voice, as if that was the last thing that he had expected to hear from you. 

“I- t-th-the beast-” you stammer, clenching your fist and swallowing harshly. “It- I am a sacrifice.” 

“A sacrifice.” He hums and you can hear the shuffling of feet behind you, making you tense again. It doesn’t sound like sandals on the hard packed ground around the altar. “For what?” 

“To the beast, so that there will be another year’s harvest.” You explain, unsure of how he doesn’t know this. Everyone knows that there is a sacrifice to the beast every year. 

“You are the first that did not beg to be let go.” The man seems impressed by that. Making you frown as you try to twist around more, to see who is behind you. 

“The first?” You don’t understand, trying to push up against the edge of the altar. To lift your head enough to see. 

“Sacrifice.” 

Your blood runs cold as you feel a hand slide up the left cheek of your ass. “What-” 

“The gods cursed me.” He speaks as if he hadn’t heard you. “Failing to win a battle they wished to be won.” 

You frown again, not understanding why he is telling you this. Or who he is. “I don’t understand.” 

He chuckles slightly and there is another shuffle, a set of hooves start to come into view. Making you frown even harder until your eyes trail up and you see that the hooves and body of a horse are attached to the torso of a man. A centaur. 

“Gods.” You gasp, eyes blowing wide and you gulp. “You- you’re the beast!”

“Guilty.” The man flashes you a startlingly attractive grin. His features are handsome, although he has a strong hook to his nose and his hair has gray in it. “Although I don’t eat the virgins brought to me.” 

“What do you do?” You are breathless as you ask the question. Unsure if you want to know the answer. This is not how you thought this would turn out. 

“Let them go.” He admits, lifting a brow. “None of them would help break the curse.” 

“Break the curse?” You ask, making him smirk as he watches you. He has to be lying. None of the other virgins had returned. None of them had come back to their families. The only ones that had survived had been the ones rejected. The ones who had later confessed that they weren’t virgins. 

“I have to take your purity to regain my human form.” It sounds incredulous, but then again, you are talking to a centaur. A mythical beast that was not supposed to actually exist. Centaurs were stories that mothers told their young to keep them from sneaking out into the woods alone.  

You choke out a laugh, understanding now why you are naked and secured to this stone in such a way. This was to allow it to be easy to mount you. 

“It is not a falsity.” He huffs, looking mortally offended by your laugh. “The catch is that I could mount a hundred virgins, but she must be willing to take me.” It had been crushing to discover the gods were especially cruel to add that little caveat to the entire thing. 

He watches you, you can feel his eyes on you as you think about what he has told you. You are chained to this altar, at his mercy but in reality - he is at your mercy. Without your willingness, he will still be stuck in his current form. 

“I am your sacrifice.” You remind him quietly after a few moments of silence between you. You had been chosen to give your life for the good of everyone. What did your virginity matter? “What you do with me is up to you.’

His nostrils flare, jaw clenching and he stares at you. Waiting for you to change your mind. Waiting for you to steal the hope that is flaring in his chest. He has never had a virgin offer him what you are gifting him with. 

“What is your name?” You ask, waiting for him to say something, do something. You had almost expected him to leap on you after agreeing, but he was still watching you. 

“Marcus.” He replies after a moment. “Marcus Acacius.” 

Your eyes widen, having heard the stories of Marcus Acacius. The general who had defied the emperor’s and had fought in the arenas of the colosseum. Some had said he had died on the sands, others said he had retired and lived out his life as an old man. You now know that he had not. He was standing in front of you, half man half beast. 

You tell him your name and bite your lip. “Will it hurt?” You ask, not sure what to really expect from a beast. 

“Probably at first.” He won’t lie about that, but he hopes that you don’t change your mind. The chance to be human again is being dangled in front of him like an enticing carrot. 

“O-okay.” Your voice trembles and you press your face against the stone to squeeze your eyes shut. “Uh- do- do it.”

He groans, cock under his belly starting to twitch and lengthen, pushing out of the protective sheath. Your cunt is on display and he can see that you will need some moisture to ease his cock’s passage inside you.

“I will get you ready.” It has been years since he has actually fucked a human, letting the sacrifices go and sending them away to live out their lives somewhere else.

This centaur, this monster, is actually considerate. He could have just mounted you and been done with it, there would have been nothing you could do to resist, but you feel his hands between your thighs. Human hands. Fingers probing and pressing, massaging until your mouth opens on a soft moan. 

“That’s it.” Marcus growls softly, approving of how wet you are starting to get. You seem to accept his touch, your folds slick after just a few minutes and he is already aching. Still he doesn’t rush. 

You’ve never been touched like this before. The mist has spread around you when you open your eyes, almost shielding any unwanted eyes from the altar. Isolating you from the outside world, or perhaps even transporting you to another realm. From the way he is touching you, he is taking you to meet the gods. Your moans start to get louder, more demanding. The chains around your wrists and ankles rattling slightly as you try to push your hips back, whimpering for more. 

You are a gift. A treasure. Marcus stamps his hooves impatiently, eager to mount you and feel how tight you are around the non-human cock he possesses right now. 

“I- I think- ooooooh!” You squeal when he presses his fingers just right and feel your core heat up, a rush of pleasure drowning you as you cry out. 

You’re ready. Marcus pulls away and starts to lift his front hooves onto the stone altar. It has been designed for his body, allowing him to hold himself up and position to mount the person strapped to the stone. 

You bite your lip, feeling the air moving as he shifts. This is happening. Your body tenses slightly when you feel something poking, but all you can think is how hot it is. It feels like it’s burning, branding you against your skin and when you feel the smear of liquid, you realize what is poking your ass. 

“I can’t help guide it in.” Marcus admits, his human body braced farther above you because of the angle. “Just relax. I will try to go slow.”

It takes him a few tries and you try not to squirm, reminding yourself that you are a sacrifice. Even if you had thought it meant your life, your virginity doesn’t matter. 

The thick, blunt horse cock of the centaur finally is pressed against your entrance and you take a deep breath. 

Marcus shakes in his need to push into you. Gritting his teeth, sweat beads on his forehead. Trying not to let the animal instinct take over. “Relax.” He cautions and starts to shuffle forward to break you open. 

It’s big. Bigger than you’ve ever even imagined and your cry is instinctual. Making Marcus snarl in response and his cock seems to be pushing up into your stomach but he just keeps going. The stretch of him is too much but it doesn’t even hurt, just overwhelms. 

Your fists clench together and you push back making yourself take him even deeper until his great length is fully buried in your virgin cunt.

“Fuck!” Marcus shouts, rearing up and sinking deeper before he starts to pull back. 

Once he has taken you, all you can do is hold onto the anchor that keeps you tied to the altar. Squealing and keening as he starts to move inside you and steals your breath away. 

Taking the heavy, thick thrusts of his enormous cock that seems to feel like a hammer driving into you. It hurts and feels incredible at the same time, ripping a sob from your throat as you imagine the scene you are making. This centaur, this creature, is driving into you again and again, breeding you. Fucking you. 

Marcus prances in his hind hooves as he fucks you, sinking deeper and deeper as your sweet virgin cunt opens up more, flowering for him and taking the rougher thrusts he is helpless to temper. 

That feeling in your stomach starts to curl again. Building up as he plows into you. The inhuman sounds he is making above you adding to the sensation and the slickness of your cunt grows. 

“Mar-Marcus!” Your gasp of his name is screamed out into the mists, the forest around you ringing with the sound as you start to chant it over and over again. Stars bursting behind your eyes and your entire world going dark with a loud roar and a rush of heat inside you. 

****

“Wake up. Wake up sweetheart.” Your eyes peel open slowly, body aching and you groan quietly. 

You’re on the ground, unchained from the altar and laying on a bed of soft down and leaves. Warm, concerned brown eyes staring at you in wonder as you come too, slightly disoriented and feeling like you have just woken from a dream. 

“You- you did it.” Marcus breathless exclaims. He looks down and your eyes follow his to find the very naked lower body of a man where the horse’s body had once been. “You broke the curse.”

“You- I did?” You frown but it turns into a smile when he beams at you, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours. 

It was the marble bust atop a pedestal that revealed whose home you were in. The opulence of the domus’ atrium, with its four tall marble columns surrounding the impluvium's shallow, sunken pool in the middle of the room and the compluvium’s opening in the ceiling above it, allowing the moon’s light to filter in, told you whoever lived here had notoriety—then you saw the face carved out of stone, recognizing the curls and strong nose you'd only ever seen as he was paraded past you down the street in honor of his latest victory, and you knew.

General Marcus Acacius is a man feared by many for his ferocity and skills in battle. It's been said Mars, the God of War, blessed his birth, while others believe his bloodline is descended from the God himself. What you know to be true is he's a gifted General that the Emperors and Gods have smiled upon, and in his presence, an intimidating figure you didn't dare look at unless you were addressed.

There are four women standing to your right, all of you younger than him, naked, and courtesans of the highest standard—well-educated and well-versed in politics along with the pleasures of the body—and highly sought out by society's elite. 

Marcus is at the opposite end, silently making his way down the line with what you can only assume is a scrutinizing eye, and you fear there's been a mistake that you're here—the other courtesans are all built similarly with small breasts, flattened stomachs and thinner waists than yours, whereas you’re curvier, and have more meat on your bones, with your bigger chest, soft noticeable belly, and grabbable hips. Clearly, he requested a particular type of woman, and it doesn't appear you're it. Staring down at the tiled floor seems better than seeing the disappointment on his face when he gets to you. 

His sandaled feet come into view as he stands before you, and you can feel his eyes roaming over your bare body—golden snake bracelets coil around each of your upper arms, and at the unexpected gentle touch of his fingertips to one, you flinch. 

"Do I frighten you?" His voice is a low, deep rasp that shivers down your spine. 

"No, Sir," you answer.

His thumb strokes over the snake's head and along its body. "Why do you flinch?" 

Raising your head, you see he’s wearing a white tunic with a gold pattern lining around his neck, down his arms, and along the hem, a belt securing it at his waist; golden cuffs covered his wrists. You’re met with dark eyes, a furrow crinkling between his eyebrows—his brown hair with a kiss of gray, curls like waves on his head, his facial hair dotted with a few silvery strands. It takes you a second to answer his question because the glimpses of him you caught during victory parades and the marble bust didn't prepare you for his beauty. 

Mars and Venus have bestowed their blessings upon him. 

“My apologies, Sir,” you finally reply. “It was simply surprise at being graced by your touch.” His expression is difficult to read, so you continue speaking, “I’ve heard of your prowess in battle that inspires songs and how your enemies tremble before you, but I do not believe I have reason to fear you—unless that is something you wish. Do you wish for me to be frightened of you?” 

Some men liked it if you acted afraid of them to feel powerful. Some men, usually the big, tough ones, liked to bury their faces in your bosom while you held them. The slight show of relief on Marcus’ face when you said you had no reason to fear him made you suspect he’d be in the latter category. 

“No.” His eyes are locked onto yours. “I do not need another to fear me. I wish for you to want my touch.” 

“I wish for more than your touch,” you reply. “I wish to feel your lips on mine and your weight on top of me, I wish to feel your cock inside me and to hear the sounds you make when you peak, and I do wish for your touch; I wish to feel your hands claim my body as yours.” 

His gaze turns to one of desire, and it makes you smile. 

"You," he says. "Stay. The rest of you,” he announces, keeping his eyes on yours, “leave us.”

The invitation the messenger brought to your home the day prior did not state who requested your services; it simply said the person was a public figure, and the woman picked would be paid handsomely.

The servants, who stood as still as statues against a wall, scurried to assist each of the other women with redressing.

"Come," he orders, offering you a hand you accept. He leads you to a room you realize is his personal quarters when you spot his armor in a corner, Medusa's golden head on the cuirass shining in the candlelight—she wards off evil and offers protection. There's a bed against the wall opposite the door, and he lets go of your hand, slipping off his sandals by the doorway before walking over to a thin table laden with a jug, cups, and a bowl of berries and grapes. 

"Care for some wine?" he asks without looking at you while pouring himself a cup. 

His body is tense, and you’re assuming you’re here to help him relax—he arrived home only days ago from war, and you got a chance to see him rolling down the street on a chariot as he waved to the cheering masses. It would make sense that he could use somebody with your expertise to get him to unwind. 

“No, thank you, Sir,” you answer, and he faces you again, taking a drink. “It’s a great honor that you chose me, and I do not wish to forget a single moment.” 

His cup lowers, and you're surprised to find he’s wearing a little smile. He twists to set his wine down next to the jug, and removes the cuffs from his wrists, setting them onto the table then his eyes are on yours. 

"Marcus," he says, and it only takes a few strides to have him in front of you again. 

"I'm sorry?" you ask.

His attention moves to your body, and he’s not looking upon you like an object or something he’s just purchased as most men do; his gaze is appreciative, the same kind of look you could imagine was on his face when he stared at art that pleased him. Your figure isn’t the ideal for most Roman women—your hips are too wide, your breasts are too large, your ass is too big, your thighs are too thick, and your stomach is too noticeable—yet, there are many men who sought you out and paid well for your time, and it seems the General is one of them. 

"My name." He walks around you, his fingers sliding along your upper back from shoulder to shoulder. “Call me Marcus. I want you to be familiar with how my name tastes on your tongue.” 

The touch and his words cause your nipples to harden and goosebumps to rise on your skin.

"Marcus,” you say. 

He’s in front of you again, his darkened eyes on yours. His big hands grip your waist, pulling you into him, and he shoves his face into the crook of your neck, feeling him inhale deeply. “Gods, you’re the best thing I’ve smelled in months.” The words are said against your flesh. “Like a meadow of flowers in Spring, and I fail to remember the last time I felt such softness.” He squeezes the fleshy handles at your hips and goes lower to grab handfuls of your ass, then runs his hands up your back. “Upon hearing your description,” he says, “I knew you’d be perfect, but what I imagined has no comparison to seeing your beauty with my own eyes.” His admission catches you off guard as it sounds as though he always intended to pick you from the line of women. It’s curious that he even invited the others if his mind had been set beforehand. He straightens, meeting your gaze. “Take off my clothes.” 

There's no need to reply; you just do as he ordered, getting his belt undone, the leather falling to the floor, then pulling his tunic over his head, it meeting the same fate as his belt. 

He’s completely nude, standing at his full height before you. 

You expected the scars etched all over his body, the evidence that he'd lay down his life for Rome without hesitation. There's a long, jagged one across his right pec, silvered with age, that has you forgetting yourself and softly pressing your fingertips to it.

He snatches your smaller hand, pulling it away from his marred skin. 

"My apologies," you quickly say, bowing your head in submission. "I shouldn't have touched you without permission." 

"You may touch me." Once again, he surprises you by putting the flat of your palm against the scar, his other hand grabbing your chin to lift your face. 

From his reaction to your fingers on him, you think he hasn’t been with a woman in quite some time, and you hope you can make up for all the nights he spent alone. 

It seems he's done with the pleasantries when his lips crush into yours. It's all of the encouragement you need, kissing him back while rubbing your palms up his broad chest, feeling his warmth. You snake a hand down his stomach through the trail of hair low on his belly to take his half-hard cock into your hand—he groans and twitches in your hold.

He truly has the Gods' favor—a talented General, handsome and well-endowed. 

With his hands on your waist, he walks you backward to the bed, laying you on the mattress. He's on top of you, deepening the kiss with his tongue pressing into your mouth, his hand palming your tit, making you wet with arousal and your body heat. 

It's fascinating how he's defying all of your expectations. The men who seek you out after spending months fighting are often rough and brutish, using you however they want to release their tension. There's never kissing or offers of drink; it's orders to suck their cocks, or to get on the bed in their desired position—and here's Marcus kissing down your body, along the skin of your neck to your chest. Most of his weight is on his knees between your legs while bending forward over you, and the only word you can think of to describe it is he's worshipping your breasts. He has them in his hands, moving from one to the other, licking, sucking, and nibbling on your nipples and soft skin, the sensations making your pussy weep with need. 

“Gods, Marcus,” you moan. He has you squirming with how good it feels, your fingers pushing into his curls. He takes a pebbled bud between his teeth and gently tugs. “Oh,” you gasp, your hands tightening in the tousled waves on his head.

He releases your nipple. “Harder,” he rasps, then flicks his tongue against your stiff peak, and you do as requested, pulling his hair harder. A loud groan rumbles from his chest as he continues laving at your tits, skimming his hand down your stomach, your skin tingling under his fingertips, until he’s sliding two fingers through your wet slit. You tighten your hold on his head, your toes curling when he starts rubbing your clit, and the realization hits that he intends for you to have just as much enjoyment as him. 

"Marcus," you whine.

He’s one of those men who has you praying that he’ll wish for your company again, and you wouldn’t even make him pay if you got another chance to warm his bed. 

The push of his thick digit into your pussy makes your breath hitch at the slight stretch, his thumb pressing to your sensitive bundle of nerves, moving side to side—you know he’s going to make you come, and you silently thank the Gods.

His finger is pushing in and out of you, his thumb continuing its movements, and he lifts his face to look you in the eyes, his own are so black there’s hardly a sliver of brown remaining. "Come for me," he commands, slipping a second digit inside you—you’re so wet you can hear the slick slide of his fingers pumping into you. The muscles in your belly are tightening, and the fire in your core is building. "Come for me, sweet girl." His head dips to lightly bite your nipple before soothing it with his tongue. "Once you come, I'll do as you wish and sheath my cock into this perfect cunt." 

The hot heat of his mouth envelops your pebbled bud, and he sucks—it's your undoing; your eyes close as you fall over the edge, coming with a moan of his name. His digits and mouth continue to extend your ecstasy while your chest heaves with labored breaths and your heart pounds. 

He lets go of your nipple with a wet pop, his hand sliding from your pussy, up your stomach, leaving a trail of your release on your skin. His voice deepens, “You’ve done well for me, and I keep my word—turn over.” 

He helps you to roll onto your front, and you get up onto your hands and knees—a familiar position. He takes a moment to admire you in front of him, his palms feeling the thickness of your thighs and hips. His fingers dig into your plump asscheeks as he spreads them and dips his head, hearing and feeling him spit between them, the hot saliva dripping from your asshole down to your opening. He shuffles up behind you, sliding his cock through the wetness of your come and his spit to lubricate himself, then notches it at your entrance—you both moan as he slowly starts feeding himself into you. 

Gods, he’s big. 

There’s a slight burn with how he’s stretching you, your inner walls having to accommodate his ample girth, and once he’s pressed all the way to the root inside you, a breath leaves you that you hadn't realized you'd been holding in. 

He has a tight grip on your waist and pulls out almost all the way, immediately pushing back into you hard enough there's a clap when his hips hit your ass. This was expected, Marcus setting up a rhythm that punches the air from your lungs each time he thrusts forward—he’s working out what he doesn’t wish to feel, and with how slippery it is between your legs, he's moving easily, and the brutal pace feels amazing. 

Many times, you’ve had to fake your enjoyment to make those employing you think they’re talented lovers—the majority are selfish in bed and care little about your comfort but want their egos stroked. Marcus, on the other hand, earned your favor when he took the time to ready you with his fingers and allowed you to climax. 

He's pounding into you, the collide of his body against yours making your asscheeks shake, and with how his cock is pressing into something truly divine, he’s also earned your screams of his name and whatever incoherent words are babbling from your mouth—he has you dizzy with pleasure, heat coiling in your belly, and there’s no doubting the Goddess of Beauty and Sex has given him her blessing. 

Sounds are spilling unbidden from your lips, Marcus loudly grunting with each stroke, the wet slap of skin hitting skin echoing in the room, and you look over your shoulder—the candlelight around the room shows the glisten of sweat on his golden skin. His head is thrown back, his eyes closed, and his jaw slack. Hair is sticking to his forehead, and a beautiful rosy flush has begun on his chest, rising up his neck to paint his cheeks. You can't think of another you've laid with who looked so breathtaking while taking their pleasure, and you could only imagine how glorious he’d look on the battlefield. You don't know what comes over you, reaching your hand back to touch his hip, and suddenly, he’s looking at you, his eyes glazed with lust. 

It’s as though he’s been in a trance, losing himself in your body, and now he’s come back to be in the moment with you. He falls forward, his hands sinking into the mattress on either side of you, blanketing your back and slowing his pace. His chin is on your shoulder, and he bites the shell of your ear; all of his weight goes onto one arm to free up the other that roughly grabs your breast and plucks at your nipple.

“You take me so well,” he says into your ear, his cock continuing to slide in and out of you. “Your sweet little cunt will milk me dry, and then I’ll have you again and again after that to keep you full of my seed.” 

His words steal a moan from your lips. 

“Does that please you, my sweet girl?” he asks. “You wish for more of me? Has another ever fucked you so good?” He gets his hand between your legs to circle the pearl of your pleasure, and your jaw drops, eyes closing—he’s going to make you come again. “Answer me,” he growls, lightly slapping your clit, and you clench around him. 

It’s challenging to think, but you say, “No,” and push your ass back against him as he thrusts forward, fucking yourself on him to get closer and closer to your end. “I’ve never had such fortune.” 

“You do now—by morning, I’ll have you ruined for any other man, and your cunt won’t soon forget the shape of my cock.” 

He means every word that slips from his tongue, and it sets the fire in your belly ablaze. You’re holding yourself up on shaky limbs, the muscles in your stomach knotting up—you’re close.

“Marcus,” you moan. 

His warm breath tickles your ear as he speaks into it: “I love how my name sounds from your lips. I know you’re close. Give in so I can feel you ascend to the heavens.” 

His words, the fullness of his thick shaft moving in and out of you, and his fingers swirling around your sensitive bundle at the apex of your thighs has you shattering—stars burst behind your eyelids as white-hot pleasure erupts in your center, your pussy clamping down on him hard enough he slows to a stop, and groans in your ear.

You exhale panted breaths, your heart beating rapidly, and the blissful euphoria ripples through your body, slowly ebbing away. 

Somehow, you find your voice, "Allow me to ride you." 

He kisses your shoulder, his beard scratching against your bare skin. "You want to mount me?" he asks. 

"Yes."

"Then you shall." 

He pulls out of you, an achy groan leaving him as he lies beside you on his back, and you get up onto your knees. He draws your attention with how he’s splayed out on the mattress, his long legs slightly spread and arms crossed over his head. His cock is still hard, it shiny with your juices, and resting against his lower belly, cushioned by the tantalizing path of hair that led directly to it—and he’s looking up at you, his eyes dark with want that keep lowering to your bosom, and back up to your eye line, the pink of his tongue wetting his bottom lip, that you suddenly wish to bite. 

There’s the common knowledge about Marcus all of Rome is aware of—the family he comes from and the military achievements that have led to him being the victorious General the Gods have blessed the city with, and now you’re versed in his more private attributes—he likes his women to be sturdy with sizeable breasts, he enjoys the pleasurable pain of his hair pulled, he’s a generous lover, he prefers to be in control unless you can tempt him enough to hand over the reins. It’s quite tempting for him to lie back and watch your tits bounce as you ride him. 

Shuffling in place to face him, taking his hard length in hand—he didn’t ask, and you didn’t offer, yet you want to take care of him like he took care of you, so you scoot back enough that you can bend down at the waist, wrapping your lips around the tip of his cock.

The sound of Marcus’ loud moan and the way his back arches as if it were the string of a bow shoots straight to your cunt—you can taste the mix of your essence and his arousal that’s steadily dribbling from the sensitive head that you lick and suckle; your hand easily stroking up and down the sheath of skin on his shaft. The muscles in his thighs and stomach have tensed like it’s taking everything in him to hold back and not fill your mouth with his come.

“Enough,” he grits the order through his teeth, and his palm lands on the side of your ass with a hard slap that echoes against the walls, the sharp sting getting a moan out of you—your head lifts off of him to see he’s scowling. “I’m not spilling down your throat,” he continues and smacks your ass again. “Ride me, or I’ll have you under me.” 

“Apologies, Marcus,” you reply demurely and sit up on your knees once more. Quickly, you move, throwing a leg over his waist to have your thick thighs hugging his hips. You rise, grabbing his cock, you press to your entrance, and you watch his face as you slowly start to impale yourself on him, relishing in how his mouth falls open and the tight grip he has on the meat of your thighs, his fingers digging into them hard enough it bordered on painful. 

The fullness is incredible when you sit flush against him, and you love how he fills you. Your palms find purchase on his broad chest, and you rise until only the tip of him remains inside of you, and you drop back down—the rhythm you set has you moving in his lap, up and down in quick succession, Marcus groaning, his eyes locked on the jiggle of your breasts. 

Sweat forms on your skin, feeling it on your forehead and a single drop sliding down your spine, your eyes closed as you focus, your moans stuttering each time you sink onto him. 

His hands are resting on your backside, rising and falling with you, his voice rough with pleasure, “That’s it, ride me, bounce on my cock.”

This isn’t about you, and though it feels good riding him, your goal is helping him achieve his own high, and you’re determined to do so—your hands leave him to press your tits together, and you gasp in surprise when he sits up and shoves his face into them. Your pace doesn’t waver, and you look at him to see he’s keeping himself up with an arm braced on the bed behind him, the other hand grabbing a handful of your ass, and you know he’s not going to last much longer. 

Your fingers slide into the unruly curls at the back of his head, and you yank them hard to make him look at you, Marcus hissing while his cock twitches inside you. In this position, you’re taller, and he gazes up to meet your eyes. 

“I want you to come,” you pant, continuing to fuck yourself on him. “I want to feel you flood my cunt with your seed.” The noise he makes sounds like a whine. “Then I want you to do it again, and again after that—I want you to fill me to the point I’m brimming with you, and you’re in me for days.” 

He squeezes his eyes shut as he groans out a long, drawn-out Fuck

With his beautiful neck on display, you duck your head and lick up the taut skin of his throat, wishing you could suck a mark into it to remind him of you for a while after you part ways. His free hand roughly grabs your chin to pull you close enough for him to slot his lips against yours, and you have to slow to a grind as he messily kisses you, shoving his tongue into your mouth. 

He breaks away to fall back onto the mattress, his fingers getting a tight grip on your ass, the muscles in his arms flexing as he lifts you enough to start thrusting up into your soaked pussy rapidly—he’s grunting while baring his teeth to chase his high, and all you can do is press your palms to his chest for balance while keeping yourself raised enough for him to pound into you. 

The slick push and pull of him, moving in and out of you, has you chanting his name, and it sounds wet between your legs, hearing the clap of skin on skin of him plowing into you. Perspiration makes his tan flesh glint under the candle's light, his hair is a mess atop his head, and his expression is wild; it’s no surprise when his strokes get uneven and his eyes close. Marcus tugs your ass down to bury himself as far as possible in you as he gives in, coming with a guttural groan—you feel his cock jerk and the wet pulse as he paints your insides with spurts and spurts of his spend, wringing himself out until his body goes completely lax.

He pulls you forward to lie on top of him, wrapping his arms around your middle, and turns you both onto your sides. There’s a hiss that slips from his lips when he removes his softening length from your cunt, and you smile at Marcus sliding down the bed far enough for his face to nuzzle in your bosom while hugging you tight. Your fingers stroke through his sweat-damp curls, his hums of appreciation sounding like the purr of a cat. 

Minutes pass in silence as your breaths even out and your hearts slow. After some time, he says something you can’t make out.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you,” you reply. 

His head lifts, and he kisses under your chin. “Stay,” he says again. 

“I have no intention of leaving. I’m here until you send me away.” 

“And if I don’t wish to send you away?” 

His lips trail along your jaw. 

Your eyebrows pull together. “As I said, I’m here until you request my leave.” 

“And if I never request your leave?” 

He’s kissing your neck now, the question making your eyes round. “You intend for me to be your mistress?” 

It’s not uncommon for a courtesan to become one’s mistress. Some of you are from families of wealth and do this line of work for the powerful connections, while others are freedwomen who’ve worked their way up to earn their notoriety—either case, courtesans are respected and thought to make great mistresses. 

“That is all I can offer since I have no plans to marry,” he answers. “You can stay here with or without me when I’m ordered away, and whatever is left of my salary and spoils of war after the household debts are paid, you may keep.”

He makes you frown. 

“Why me?”

Marcus gets his arm out from under you and scoots up the mattress to look you in the eyes. 

“You’re everything I desire in a woman with your beauty and intellect, and you can sate my needs in bed—you’re perfect, and I want you all to myself. I do not wish to share you with anyone else.”

It’s in this moment you realize you’re the one in control here—you don’t need him, you’re self-sufficient, and there are many who’d eagerly take his place, but your looks are rare in your profession, and he needs his deal to be enticing enough for you to take it. 

“What if I decline your offer?” 

“Then I pray you’ll allow me to keep your company until I receive my next orders.” 

He seems to be a good, honorable man who wants to please you, and he had you tempted to accept on the merit of his skills in bed alone—there’s just something that won’t leave your mind. 

“Before I make my decision, answer this question: if you believe me to be so perfect, why were the others here?” 

He presses his large palm to your cheek. “It was in your power to deny me your company, and though the other women weren’t of my tastes, they were better than nothing.” 

You see no flaws in his answer. 

“I accept your offer on one condition.”

“And that is?”

You no longer find him intimidating, and you’re now comfortable brushing errant hairs off his forehead and sliding your fingers through the curls above his ears. 

Your eyes lock onto his. “You return home to me,” you tell him. “You fight with the might of Mars, and you always return home to me.” 

That earns you a small smile, and he takes your hand into his, kissing the center of your palm. 

“I will, my Dove.” 

Masterlist

"i don't." mae would answer, saying that she doesn't care what he would look like underneath the mask. saying that as long as he trains her, his identity doesn't matter to her. you understood her with that, she was his acolyte first and it probably dawned upon you that the years of concealing his identity to her she had thrown away the curiosity of what their master looked like.

but on the other hand, you, you somehow couldn't stop wondering.

you had found him or- he had found you when you were escaping your slave captors after your own sister had betrayed you in selling you to them. you were angry, in rage and unaware of the dormant power that had awoken in you with that rage you had felt. and in your fit of rage, you had managed to slaughter two of the captors chasing you, leaving you feeling guilty for your horrendous actions. you decided to escape and flee the planet. that is until by some chance, you had come across the masked stranger in the middle of the night who had told you about the gift you possessed, telling that you shouldn't be ashamed you used it in your self-defense.

and that's when he had took you under his wing, training you as his pupil.

he had taught you what your gift was, what your power is. he trained you, taught you and for the most part, despite him putting this distance between you and mae, he had helped you. and maybe that’s why you’re so curious to know who he is really, you wanted to see the master who had graciously accepted you despite you knowing your connection with the force was not as strong as mae’s.

he was… well, you could not really put a strong opinion on what kind of a man your master was. for the most part, he was always away and in training sessions, he was closed-off and distant. but when he spars with you and mae, that’s when a hint of his personality is peeking through.

rough, aggressive, strict. the way he spared with you had left you with tired sore knees and bruised arms when defending. on the offensive attacks you made he was quick to dodge and maneuver himself with your predictable attacks. he was ruthless in his combat but there was still that fluidity in it. but you knew he still held back with you despite the aggressiveness. you wished he had put more effort in your sparring sessions just like mae’s but you knew he was focusing more on her since she was at the brink of completing her lessons.

“safe travels, mae.” you wish her luck as she nods at you. the master had given her final lesson- to kill a jedi without a weapon. you were proud of your fellow acolyte but it did upset you how much you were falling behind. the waves splash in the background as you watch her walk to her ship. you wave her off as you saw it fly out the cloudy atmosphere then jumped into hyperspace, on the course to euda.

the sea breeze helps you gather your thoughts, and you wonder if the master would train you further today. seeing that mae had to learn this lesson by herself. sensing him, you feel the pull of the force as you turn around to see your master standing a few feet away from you.

the scene makes you remember that night when you found him. for a moment it did frighten you to see him loom over you when you fell to your knees from running. you were injured then and you had momentarily thought he was one of the slave traders that was trying to capture you. it took you a while to get used to him being like this when he appears out of the blue. well, for a random person, it would seem frightening to see a masked stranger dressed in black robes suddenly appear in mid-air. plus the saber tucked in his belt.

“master.” you greet him, anticipation lingering inside you.

“we shall continue your training today, my acolyte.” his modulated voice says. you feel your chest swell with excitement as you nodded. “be prepared.”

“of course, master.” you bowed slightly as he walks off to where the sparring lessons usually are. you smiled to yourself, maybe this time he’d finally put more effort in your training as you walk with a slight spring in your steps.

・゜゜・．

“focus.”

he says as your feet scraped against the rocks at his force push. you huff, your chest heaving, your leather tunic is starting to stick on your glistening sweaty skin, making you feel uncomfortable. you sigh, frustrated how you were not landing a single blow on him. your mind was elsewhere, seeming that you are still focused on wondering what he looks like underneath that mask.

“use that frustration. focus on your emotions.” he commands and you composed yourself, swatting the questions of his unknown face in your head. you ready yourself in a fighting stance, body facing to the side while you wave your arm in front of you. you clenched your fist for a moment as you heed into his words and attack. you use the force to heighten your leap towards him as you land a blow but he dodges again. an uppercut, he doges, a kick you do he dodges again. you feel yourself get even more irritated but in ease that he was finally not holding back when he blocks one of your blows with his arm.

but still, you were still not fighting the way he has to expect you to fight.

“you are too trustful in me, acolyte.” he scolds you, the modulated tone ringing. he backs away from you as you stopped, confused. yes, you indeed trust him, why was it a bad thing?

“i beg your pardon, master?” your breaths are labored and somehow from the close distance, you could hear him sigh underneath the mask.

“you are too trustful.” he says again. “do not trust me that i will not kill you even if i am training you. trust in yourself. we cannot continue this lesson if you do not learn to do that.” a chill runs through your spine at his words. there’s a slight pang of hurt in those words of his that were true. yes, he could kill you. why wouldn’t he if you failed him? you seem to stiffen at his words as he reminds you again, this time he will take the offensive attack.

“trust is a fragile thing. you cannot trust anyone but yourself, my acolyte. even if the person has sworn to trust you, they would eventually betray you. but yourself? you cannot betray yourself.” he explains as you nodded at his words. “when since you had put your whole trust in someone and they betrayed you in the end?”

you look at him, rage starting to boil in you when you remembered your own sister’s betrayal. your chest tightens and your mind is enraged with it. the pain she had put you in, the survival you had to do, the running you had to tire and the people you had to kill just to be free-

“there it is.” he says, proud. feeling your ever glowing rage.

“now, focus.” he suddenly attacks you as you dodged swiftly. both of you move in a tandem, as if it were a dance. the painful realization that even your master, the one who saved you and took you in, would eventually might betray you as well. the rage in you is at its boiling point as you let out a guttural scream when he almost aims for your neck. you push him back with your force then surging to him with heat in your steps as you attacked. he blocks your powerful blow with two of his arms forming an x. you kick him immediately on the stomach and he lurches, caught off guard.

you were too in to your emotions as you attacked and attacked. he tries to doge and block your every hit but he eventually succumbs to your rage when you finally kicked him to the ground. before he could stand, you immediately come on top of him, preventing that. you fist the collar of his robe, clenched hand in the air ready to land a final punch-

“excellent, my acolyte.” he cuts you off as you suddenly blink back into your rational self. you let go of his collar and you let yourself relax but ultimately surprised how close you are to him. you’re on top of him, your legs caging his waist and he seems not to dismiss you to get off. you can see clearly his helmet now, it was full of marks of previous battles. you take your time to admire him beneath you, how his adam’s apple bob and the sheen of sweat covering his bare muscular arms that were bulging with veins.

you blush, realizing you were staring at your master with ill thoughts.

but… the curiosity of what he looks like underneath it makes you wonder. your hand slowly comes up to his helmet and you feel him watch you with every move you make. he observes silently and you hovered your hand above his masked face. but you snap out of it again, realizing you could have offended him. and he could kill you for this. you know he takes great lengths to conceal his identity.

“a-apologies, master, i-“ before you could retract your hand and get off him. his hand suddenly grips your wrist. your eyes widened as he sits up and you adjust, hovering above his lap. he tilts his head to the side inquisitively, as if he was amused to see your curiosity be revealed. you stay quiet, staring at his masked face, waiting for his words. your cheeks are hot and you feel the anticipation grow in you. he places your hand on the side of his mask, the way he brushes your fingers softly makes you feel wobbly now.

“go on.” he merely says. you stutter, not knowing what to say. did he just agreed for you to remove his mask? your thoughts are jumbled but you succumb to your curiosity. you put both of your hands to both sides of his masked face. you slowly remove it inch by inch whilst you stared at the peaking facial features you have longed imagined what he looked like. you remove the helm completely and your heart skips a beat.

your eyes meet with a strangely beautiful dark ones.

his black hair is disheveled, his skin is smooth and his jawline is handsomely well chiseled. your eyes roam his face and it settles to his pink lips. you feel a hum of arousal between your legs when you look into his eyes again. his face is so close to yours that you can feel his hot breath tingle your lips. you put his helmet down to your side as the other brushes the black locks of his concealing his face. his pupils grow dark, your lips are inches to his and you somehow feel in-trance to lock it with yours.

this, this is the face of your master.

he’s beautiful. you think as you let out a noise when his other hand brush against your thigh. the other gently grips your hand that brushed his hair. you wondered why he had hidden his beautiful face from you and mae.

“master…” you plead as he smirks and it makes you blush.

“you did good today.” his low voice with a rasp of approval instead of the modulated one made your stomach churn and your thighs clench. the way his lips are still hovering above yours makes your head dizzy with the anticipation of what he’s doing. his top lip brushes against yours and he leans forward but before you could feel his soft lips lock with yours, you pull back. this is wrong.

“apologies, master.” you place your hands on his chest as you pulled yourself up to your feet. he seems taken aback for a moment with your rejection but composes himself as he eyes you up with a dark glint in his eyes.

“curiosity is normal. don’t be embarrassed.” he chuckles and that rings through your ears. the way he acts now is dissimilar to when he has his mask on and it baffles you how human he now is. you don’t know what to say, fearing that you have failed him in almost every way. you watch him stand up then grabbed his helmet and he looks at you. something in his gaze shines with hunger.

“we’ll continue our lesson another time.” he walks pass you and the brush of his arm against yours makes your heart jump.

“yes, master.” the initial shock of the situation still hasn’t faded when he’s out of your sight. you gulp, sweat dripping down your forehead. was he not upset that you know his face now? would he kill you for it later perhaps? those questions hang in the air. your heart still beats remembering his lips close to yours. you turn back, walking back to the shore, there’s a feeling you can’t seem to place as you let your thoughts linger on your master’s revealed face.

・゜゜・．

you dry your face with a rag then pulled a fresh tunic and bottoms from your pile of fresh clean robes. the dimness of the light inside your room in the cave made it comforting for your wild thoughts. you put on the brown tight bottoms then the grey tunic. but those thoughts soon come alive when you felt a presence near the entrance of your room.

you turn around swiftly, seeing your master standing right by the concave opening of your room. no mask on but just wearing… perfectly normal clothing. he dawned a white tunic and usual black bottoms, his hair is slicked back, damp from his bath you presumed. you stand awkwardly, not knowing what to say or do. you were used to his mysterious persona.

“you did exceptionally well today.” he begins with a praise. “but, i am surprised how focused you are on knowing what i look like.”

“thank you.” you merely say, eyes shying away when he points out your curiosity. “i apologize for that, master.”

“don’t be.” he steps forward and each step he takes has an anticipation behind them. you stay in your place, taking in how comforting he looks. “i’m glad for your curiosity.” he confesses.

“you are?” you are surprised with that.

qimir nods, adoring the way you seemed so surprised. he had his reasons for concealing his identity to you and mae. it was for to create a distance between the master and pupil. he feared attachment might overcome why he took you under his wing. he knows you already saw him as a person who finally cared for you and in truth, he does. you are a gifted woman with the force and over the years despite the distance he placed, you managed to crawl into his cold heart.

“but i fear your curiosity isn’t sated enough.” he points out and the atmosphere in the room changes. you know what he means. when you had almost kissed him but you hesitated, fearing that things might change drastically after that. he was your master after all. he steps closer to you, the distance is just like the one moments ago.

“am i right?” he asks when you stare at his lips. you wondered if mae would be enraged for what you are about to do as your body moved at its own accord.

you surge forward and lock your lips with his.

and that ends up with you sprawled underneath him. your curiosity is sated and he rewards you more with a thrust of his hips with his cock inside you. you clench around him, your hands caressing the width of his broad back. here you are, your naked body pressed against his as you moan in his ear. he groans, suckling the soft flesh of your neck.

“master…” you sigh, legs wrapped around tight on his waist. his hands are holding your thighs in place as he thrusts his cock into your warm heat. he locks eyes with your heavy one and it makes him soar at the feeling of you wrapped around him. he smirks as he kisses you hotly as he grinds his hips down.

Focusing on the shifting sand under your feet, as the rain begins, you speed up. The skies continue to darken; soon, you reach the first rocks of the jetty while the rain comes down in sheets. Looking up, you find yourself at the base of an old lighthouse. The lens swings across the black water as it lights up the dark and stormy night for those lost at sea.

Beach rose thorns tear at your sweater as you race up the slope. Beyond, scrub pines and pin oak trees create a small amount of cover; the wind picks up, but not before you hear the baying of a wolf… no, not a wolf. A coyote, there are no wolves in these parts. But there's something different about the howl; you speed up and bang on the door of the great beacon.

"Hello?" You shout, "please? Is anyone there?"

As if in answer, another howl rings out, making you jump. After a crash of lightning for good measure, you try the latch and push the door open, willing to disregard good manners. Looking for a switch or a lamp, you find only a candle in a heavy brass holder and a black matchbox holder attached to the curved wall. 

Running the wooden match across the strike pad, it sputters to life, and you light the candle. Slipping your finger into the brass ring of the candle holder and carrying it before you, the Gothic horror mood of the whole situation is not lost on you. With a sigh and a shiver, you wind up the spiral stairs.

"Hell-lo? I don't mean to intrude, but…" you call again and then with a chuckle in an undertone, "Our car broke down a few miles up the road. Do you have a phone we might use?"

Shivering in your soaked clothes, you reach the first level, which contains the living quarters. You can't help but rush to the coal stove, which is warming the round room.

You hear a creak below as you take off your shoes and socks. Did you forget to latch the door entirely? Biting your lip in worry, you continue to listen; bracing yourself, you pull a poker from the coal scuttle.

You wait and wait. Time spins out—the only measure is your heart’s tattoo, like a rabbit's. As the adrenaline clears your system, you become exhausted. Swaying where you stand, the iron poker clangs on the pine floor, bringing you back. Deciding it must just be “old house sounds,” you move to the bed and sit, and without so much as a yawn of warning, your eyes slip closed.

In the middle of the night, you feel a weight on your chest, soft and warm. Your eyes flutter open, and blocking the light coming from the woodstove is an enormous shape pressing on you; as your eyes focus, it huffs a breath, and you recognize it as a sleeping dog sound. It's huge, with pointed ears. How did you not see or hear it when you came in? Whether a watchdog or not, wouldn’t it have come to investigate? The trunk of the animal is on you, its muzzle at your collarbone, a front leg on either side of you, fully caging you in. Your hand comes up, fingers sinking into its plush fur, like a wolf’s… you shake your head, not a wolf, of course, but those dogs that look like them. Its steady heartbeat and relaxed breathing lull you back to sleep; elk-hound, that's what the one, you think, as you drift under again.

Waking, you find yourself tucked into a patchwork quilt, your shoes placed under the stove, warm and dry, no dog to be seen. The smell of eggs and bacon draws you up the stairs, halfway up you can hear the food sizzling on the stove. You feel this need to check yourself over, but you seem fine. You fell asleep on the bed of a stranger, who is apparently back- you shake your head at how unbelievably dangerous that was. Then you remember the dangers outside… it's a calculated, if hastily figured, risk.

His back to you, in front of the stove, you presume, is the light-keeper, a cable knit sweater stretched across his broad shoulders. 

"He-hello?"

He turns, soft brown eyes, brown curls standing up as though he’d run his fingers through them just a moment ago, a sharp nose that suits him, with crease of his bottom lip that accentuates his mouth’s natural pout. Not that you had any real expectations on what a lighthouse operator looks like but... maybe like some old-salt sailor type with a beard and pipe. Silly, of course. You remind yourself that you are not a cod fish and close your mouth.

"Morning," came his rich baritone voice.

"I'm so sorry, I- I - the storm-” you stumble as you try to pull yourself together.

"Don't worry about that. I hope you slept alright. "

"I did, thank you, but  I- should get going." You start putting on your shoes, “ I really didn't mean to fall asleep, " ...on your bed.

“'S not problem, really; that was one hell of a storm last night.”

“I should go-”

Well,” he says, bringing breakfast to a simple pine table, “that's the tricky part…” 

“W-why?”

“The roads are impassable and there's more rain on the way.”

“Oh.”

“Nothing to be done about it right now,” he says, “have something to eat.”

You begin to eat, and after a bite or two, you introduce yourself.

“Where are my manners- I’m Frankie. Spending too much time on my own, I guess.”

“Are you kidding, I burst into your house like Goldilocks! Found sleeping in your bed.”

“And was it just right, Goldie?” He smirks.

You fluster a little; he is very handsome after all, and broad and was that flirting… 

“Better to be Goldilocks than Red Riding Hood, I suppose.” He says you get the feeling it wasn’t meant to be out loud. “I guess that depends on who the huntsman turns out to be…” 

He notices your eyes widen and smiles apologetically, brushing his comment aside. “Sorry, like I said, spend a lot of time on my own.”

"S-speaking of Red Riding Hood, where’s your dog? It came and slept with me last night.”

“Hmmm?" Frankie murmurs as he sets the table, "Oh, he’s- around.”

“Well, he kept me very cozy last night. What a cuddle bug; what’s his name?”

“His, um - it’s Cisco. You better dig into those eggs; they're gonna get cold.”

“Right,” you take up a fork of scrambled egg, “I will be able to leave today, though, right?”

“We’ll have to see,” is all he says before digging into his breakfast.

Frankie goes about his light-keeper duties, including hunting for his lost skiff. You aren't sure what to do with your time-

“Is there something I can do to help? I kind of feel weird just sitting around-”

“Well, the weather isn't going to let us do much outside safely, but-”

Frankie pulls off his ball cap, ruffles his hair, and plops it back on his head, thinking, “I mean, you could help clean the lantern glass …”

“Really?” You stand, excited to do a real lighthouse job. 

“Sure, hard to mess up… no offense, and safe.” 

You take no offense; on the contrary, you clap happily to yourself, to which Frankie chuckles.

After showing you the supplies and giving you a quick demonstration, he starts down the stairs to continue with his other duties and then stops and turns-

"Thanks, Goldie," he winks and then descends the stairs.

After a time, you see him out on the rocks despite the wind starting up again from the east. He must be looking for his rowboat. You decide to scout the circumference of the lantern room, looking out the windows to see if you can see the craft. 

To the northwest, you see something red against the rocks. It doesn't look good.

You step out onto the gallery. Luckily, this isn't a particularly tall lighthouse, but it's tall enough, and the iron balcony was small enough that you feel a touch of vertigo looking down. It doesn't help that the wind's really kicking up now, reminding you that this is just a break in the storm. Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath and open them.

"Uh, Frankie!" 

Frankie looks up, hand going to the bill of his cap.

"Is that your skiff?" You point to the red “something” half in the water. 

He hollers his thanks and jogs over to where you are indicating, and you can see his frustrated huff as his hands hitch onto his hips in a disgruntled fashion.

Cleaning all that glass takes time, and your shoulders can feel the real work of it. You stop only when your stomach screams for lunch, and you find a sandwich under plastic wrap for you, but you haven’t seen Frankie, Lighthouse Keeper, the rest of your time working on it, nor Cisco, the Lighthouse Dog. 

He had brought the boat to a shed and disappeared inside it. When and if he came out, you didn't notice. You also realize you haven’t seen any signs of a pet anywhere; no bed or bowls. When you come down the spiral steps, you smell of the concoction used for cleaning the glass and lens; watered-down isopropyl alcohol and Woolight - but mostly the alcohol. 

“You'll want to wash your hands with this,” Frankie hands you a bar of soap at the first landing of the spiral stair. “It'll take care of the rubbing alcohol smell and keep your hands from drying out.” 

Frankie gives a crooked smile of apology at your startled jump. Murmuring your thanks, you take it and smell the bar that looks so small when in his hand. Fresh. Your mind wanders to how this fresh scent might mingle with Frankie's natural one. The bubble of revery is just a millisecond and pops like one the moment your eyes land on Frankie, who looks like he knows exactly what you're thinking.

When you join him in the kitchen, where he is again standing over the stove, the delicious scent of savory soup reminds you of coming home after a long chilly walk from school. The wind is howling now, and you can hear the crash of the waves, as high tide approaches, the pound of them like rumbling thunder. Its only rival is the whip crack of the actual thunder chasing the lighting strikes illuminating the windows. 

“Where’s Cisco?”

“Weather like this he likes to be below,” Frankie says after a beat, back still turned, “I have him set up with his bed down there so he doesn’t get anxious.”

“Oh,” you feel a little more at ease about not seeing neither hide nor hair of the beast of a dog all day.

“It'll be dark early due to the storm, and I’ll have duties up above. I’m going to ask you to stay in the living quarters. I’ll sleep up there, so, um, just - make yourself at home.”  

You do your best, but your mind is on Frankie in a way that makes what you would be doing at home, not at all appropriate, even when told to make yourself at home.  His dark eyes, big hands... him calling you Goldie. How many times your mind has gone back to him asking you if his bed was just right, you dare not admit, even to yourself. You don't know him, you remind yourself.

Suddenly, there's a bang and scuffle. Then you hear a yowl.

“Cisco?” You go to the door, preparing to go down to where you assume he's been set up, but a second sound confirms it's coming from above, not below… where Frankie is.                   

You turn and look up the spiral stairs. “F-Frankie?”

Your foot hesitantly lands on the first step -

“D-did Cisco follow you? 

More shuffling and a loud thunk on the floor bring you up short. Frankie asked you to stay below, but maybe he hurt himself, or Cisco made his way up there and was scared of the storm. Your feet start moving again up the winding steps. 

You pause, your head just above the landing, eyes adjusting to the strange light of the lantern room. Instead of finding a dog, on the floor is a pile of clothes, folded neatly, with Frankie's cap placed atop it. As you look up, you see Frankie from behind, sitting in the one chair the room affords. His skin gleams with a layer of sweat, and he gives a sudden quake.

“Frankie! A-are you alright? I heard-”

His head whips around and then down as you are still only partway up the stairs. 

“I told you to sta—” the lightning flashes, and you see Frankie's eyes have changed. They are no longer warm, sweet brown eyes but glowing amber. 

“Wh- you- you're-” Everything in you screams to run as far away as possible, but when Frankie contorts in a new wave of pain, you scramble up the stairs. He almost wails in despair as you approach the chair. “Frankie, what is happening? How can I - hel -”

“ C-can’t, go G-gold-ie, pleased!” 

“I don’t understand, Frankie. What’s happening?” 

The light-keeper takes a steadying breath as if fighting every molecule of his changing form, Though he knows it’s too late. Too late to shield you. 

“C-come here,” he breathes.

Lighting flashes again, the boom of thunder right on top of it. When your eyes adjust yet again, you go around the chair to face him. Frankie takes your hand; long claw-like nails have sprouted, and you have cottoned on. Frankie is - 

While he has a firm grip, he causes no pain. Your brows knot as he pushes up your sleeve. 

“I will remember,” he says, as much for himself as for you. Then he presses his nose to your wrist, inhaling deeply, and his eyes flick you to yours. The storm rages, the lens does its steady turn, and Frankie continues to smell you. He stands, eyes never breaking contact, his bare skin glistening in the light.

 You had tried not to look down at his body. But he is so close, and when he stands, your resolve breaks. Frankie is strong and somehow more broad across the shoulders than when in the confines of his fisherman’s sweater but has a trim waist. His Adonis belt is so enticing, as is his soft belly. Below that, his uncut cock has an enticing curve. Your eyes travel back up. You find his waiting for yours; he lifts his head away from your wrist and pulls; you stumble a step closer, and his face burrows into your neck. He breathes in your scent.

“Didn't harm you last night, I won't… I’ll remember, promise. You smell so good, Goldie.”

The warmth you feel low in your pelvis is combined with a shiver as you clench on nothing.

“S-so, you-your…” you stammer as his clawed hands wrap around your waist; he tastes your collarbone, licking a long stripe as he finds his way below your ear. Your knees buckle, but Frankie has a firm grip on you. “Cisco?”

“ ‘m ssorry,” he slurs, his nose nestled where your ear and jaw meet. “You taste as good as you smell, Goldie… I wonder-” 

What Frankie is wondering is interrupted by a long canine whine as he pulls back, face contorted in pain as his teeth elongate into fangs.

The blood has surely left your face, and you are shocked as you become aware that it has rushed to lower regions. You can feel the wetness between your legs, and  Frankie, closing his eyes, breathes in how your scent has changed. 

The sinful look he gives sends more heat between your thighs; you know you are soaked by now. You can still see the handsome light-keep though his eyes glow, his ears are now pointed, and his hair is shaggy. A hungry tongue moves over sharp teeth. Teeth made for tearing your throat out.

The next thunderclap shakes the lighthouse, and it's only then that he breaks his grip on you. He cries out as his body continues to transform. It snaps you out of your trance. You run down the iron stairs, passing the kitchen, down to the living quarters, and you're brought up short by a full wolf bay sounding from above. 

“What am I doing? What am I doing!?” you look up the stairs, and almost against your will, you look through the doorway to the bed—the bed where Frankie had lain atop you as the wolf. Then your eyes drift upward again, biting your thumb in indecision. Or perhaps fear at the decision you're apparently making. You slowly undress, leaving the door open; you spread out on the soft bed and wait to see what happens.

How much time before you hear the click of canine claws on the treads of each step, you aren't sure. You only know the twist of arousal you feel arched your back, and Frankie hasn't even touched you. Are you afraid? Not as much as you think you should be. It's there; this danger lights up your brain and sends adrenaline coursing through you. But he didn't hurt you last night, and he said- he-

The wolf growls around the door; he is not on all fours but hunched, one front paw occasionally touching the floor. 

“F-f-” you stammer as his front paws press heavily on the bed. He is enormous, and he hulks over you. His snout investigates every crease and crevice. You close your eyes as he noses at your mound. “-fuck.”

The wolf's tongue dips between your legs, and you gasp as your legs open like an involuntary response, and Frankie seems to seize the opportunity to open you further, pawing at your thighs, opening them, holding them where he wants them. Claws press on your sensitive skin as he laps at you.

“Frankie!” Your fingers dig into the thick, soft fur as the twist in your womb tightens and you pulse. 

How much of the man is still present, you have no idea. You are, of course, banking on it, and you figure praying to every deity that he is there, keeping the beast from tearing you to shreds, can't hurt. 

You can feel the rumble from deep in Frankie's throat, and when his long tongue breaches your pussy, he is immediately rewarded with a gush as lights pop behind your eyelids and the coil in your belly snaps.

You cry out, and he drinks sloppily at your entrance. He doesn't stop until you start to come down from your high, your chest’s rise and fall finally slowing.

Then the beast towers over you, his cock weeping. In one swift move of inhuman strength, he's suddenly flipped you onto your stomach. His large paws holding your hips, he brings your backside up, and in one fast motion, he's sheathed himself to the hilt. 

As ready as his tongue had made you, you still are stretched beyond anything you've ever experienced. He is deep inside, and his snout nuzzles into the juncture of your neck and shoulder, making you feel utterly consumed by him. His brutal pace lifts your knees off the bed when he begins to move. His rhythm takes your breath away, his length hitting that delicious spot inside you that most find elusive, and it isn't long before the telltale swell of another orgasm begins to crest.

When you clamp down around him, he howls, and you know he has come right along with you. His rhythm stutters and slows. Frankie's tongue lazily drags over your shoulder blade, and he whines as his nose nudges at your hair.  As you both float back into your bodies, opening your eyes, the round room is drenched in moonlight. The storm has passed. 

The beast allows you to roll onto your side before covering you again, as he had the night before. He gives a chaste lick to your cheek, and you huff a laugh, wondering if you will even be able to look him in the eye in the morning. But you're too exhausted, drifting to sleep before shame can take its turn feasting on you.

The morning sun blazes as it has a way of doing after a storm; shorebirds herald the day, and again, you wake to the smell of sausage, coffee, and eggs. You're again tucked into the worn but well-cared-for quilt. Your eyes rove the room as you try not to overthink, and just as you reach for your clothes (which are neatly laid out at the end of the bed), Frankie, the man, comes in with a tray heaped with food—the smell of his delicious cooking filling the room.

“ ‘Morning, Goldie.” he smiles shyly. His eyes are not quite meeting yours, and he keeps himself busy with the breakfast tray. You return his smile, somehow his sweet bashfulness making you feel less self-conscious- 

“G’morning, Fran- Fran-cisco!”

Brown eyes sparkling in response to yours becoming like saucers, Frankie's smile widens.

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The camp is close by the beach. As he walks, the sound of the army behind him fades away, drowned out by the sound of the sea. The inviting aroma of the campfires and roasting meat is replaced by the smell of salt. There are sentries out here, somewhere in the night. He pays them no mind; he wishes to be alone. Grass turns to sand underfoot and still Acacius walks on. At the edge of the sea, he pauses briefly.

Across the Great Sea, to the east, stands Rome. It’s veiled by darkness and distance, but he turns to look for it anyway. He misses it the way a loyal son misses a beloved father. Word of a great victory will travel before him, the whispers moving faster than any army can.

When he returns home, he hopes he will be warmly welcomed. Those seeking to ride his skirts into Imperial favour will doubtless fall over themselves to praise him, at least. They will preen and flatter, and he will nod humbly and thank them.

“The Gods were with me.” It is always his answer, when asked of his victories. It is a clean answer. Men praise him for his piety; they do not imagine the lives he has sacrificed, the atrocities he has committed, the horrors of sacking a city. The Gods were with him; he does not have to speak of loosing his men like feral dogs upon innocents, of slaughtering barbarian sons so they cannot grow up to seek their vengeance on Rome.

Acacius turns and walks down the beach, leaving the camp behind him. The silvery light of the stars and moon light his path along the coast. He simply enjoys being away from all others, the crash of the waves and his own footsteps the only noise he can hear. The ground to his right begins to rise, soft grass yielding to rock. He has no sense of how long he has walked for when the beach before him suddenly ends. The shoreline curves sharply inward, creating a rocky inlet.

He has no desire to turn back now. Perhaps the path reemerges on the other side. He follows the curve of the stone inward. Ahead, he can see the path sloping down towards the waterline, leading towards the dark mouth of a cave. The tide is coming in; the water at the entrance to the grotto must be at least knee-deep.

Acacius is turning to leave when he notices her.

The inlet in the rock forms a pool at the entrance to the cave. Even in the silvery moonlight, the water looks beautiful and clear. It should not surprise him that a maiden might come to bathe there, away from prying eyes.

For it is a maiden that stops him in his tracks, fixes his boots to the stone. Her back is turned to him; she is perched atop a rock, her bare feet dangling in the saltwater of the pool. Now that he is aware of her, he thinks he hears her singing over the sounds of the waves, a melody he does not recognise.

An honourable man would depart. Acacius can only see her back, but she must be noble. Her dress is so white it is almost blinding, even in the starlight. Her feet are bare, but he spies a pair of finely-wrought sandals on the rocks beside her. Certainly a noble lady then.

His mind is made up to leave.

And at that very moment, she turns.

***

You had not expected to be discovered. Perhaps you might have toyed with him if you had. You could have disguised yourself as a maiden in need of assistance, a princess cast ashore by a shipwreck. There are endless amusements to be found among the mortals.

Yet he has stumbled upon your grotto quite by accident, and from your first glimpse, he intrigues you.

Marcus Acacius Barcinus.

Something whispers his name to you; you know it as soon as you see him, just as you know he has dark hair threaded with grey. You allow a smile to play on your lips.

To his credit, this man does not move. Confronted with something so nakedly celestial, other men have lost their minds. What is it for a man to look upon the face of the divine? They do not always survive it. This one seems strong. He may yet survive you.

“Hail, noble General,” you start, turning in your seat on the rock so you may face him more directly. He is a handsome one. His lovely dark eyes drink you in from head to toe.

“You know me?” He manages after a moment. Not mad then, not yet anyway. You laugh, and he seems startled by the sound.

“I do.” Sliding off the rock you step into the water, your stola clinging to your skin. “General Marcus Acacius Barcinus, son of Gaius Acacius. Your piety is known.” He is always attentive with his sacrifices. You can smell the burning flesh and spilled wine dedicated to the heavens from here, in honour of his latest victory.

You take a few steps towards him. He’s still atop the rocky crest, almost looking down on you. You near the base of the slope, your skirts drying the moment they leave the water, and halt again. The mouth of the grotto is to your back; you can hear the lap of the waves echoing against the rocky walls.

“And which noble goddess do I have the honour of addressing?” He asks. You have many names, too many to sift through. A mortal wrote you into a poem once; you give him the name the poet gave you.

“I had not thought ever to look upon a nymph before.” There is something in the way he says it; a tone of disbelief colouring his voice. It’s as though he expects to wake up in his tent at any moment. In the dark violet light of twilight, the blood on his skin looks brown and rusty. You can almost taste the iron on the air.

“Are you content merely to look?” You ask him, a sly smile on your lips. You already know he is not. This man is a conqueror, and he is looking at you with all the intensity and desire of a man set upon conquest. He does not speak for a long moment. Perhaps he is afraid of offending you, of saying the wrong thing and finding himself transformed into a pig or sea foam.

You walk a little closer to him, emerging from the water. Closer now, the smell of him drowning out the salt of the sea. He reeks of man, of blood and sweat and such pure vitality you nearly stagger. He’s so breathtakingly alive. If all mortal men are thus, you understand why your sisters seek them out and take them to bed, even bear their children.

“I admire a man who knows how to take what he desires. A conqueror in all things,” you continue, feeling the warmth of his gaze as he watches the sway of your hips. Once you are an arm’s length away from him, you reach out. You cannot help it. He’s such a marvellous specimen of manhood, the kind that ought to be honoured with a kingdom or a divine son or his form traced in the stars.

He does not stop you when you rest your palm against the leather of his cuirass. It’s warm to the touch, whether from the heat of his body or a day of the sun beating down upon it. The black leather has a gilded woman’s face across the front; Minerva perhaps. It gives you pause. If he values Minerva and her strategies above Mars and his frenzy, he may not enjoy your games.

Nevertheless, you will not let the tastes of mortal men unnerve you. He watches you as you undo the knot at one shoulder, and wordlessly reaches to help you. Together, the two of you free him from his heavy armour. As he sets it down gently against the rock, you nearly choke on him. You can hear the thrum of his heart, smell the salt of his sweat, the iron in his blood.

You have never starved. Yet this conqueror of men is like being blessed with a feast and realising for the first time that you have been dying of hunger all your life. Freed from his heavy leathers, you step so closely to him that your glimmering white dress brushes against his filthy red tunic. You reach out to cup his jaw, enjoying the way his skin feels to your touch.

He swallows thickly, his lovely eyes searching your face.

“I want you.” He says it simply, though you know it must have taken courage. Men have died for such insults before. You let a smile curl around your lips.  

“Mars himself had my maidenhead. I do not submit easily to the advances of men.” Standing on tiptoe, you lean in until your lips nearly touch the shell of his ear. “If you want me, you will have to take me.”

It’s all the prompting you give him before you turn and run.

You run down the beach, back the way he came. You have more powerful kin who could outrun him with ease, if they chose. Minerva could be a continent away in moments, if she chose. You do not have their same powers; you might be fleeter of foot than a mortal woman, but you cannot transform yourself into a swan and fly back to the heavens.

Behind you, you hear Acacius’ feet pounding against the sand. The noise blurs with the roar of his heartbeat, thumping harder as he chases you. You run faster, pulling your skirts up with one hand so they cannot tangle around your legs. It has been far too long since you felt this exhilarated. Off in the distance, you can see the lights of his camp, the torches and bonfires burning brightly in the twilight.

You lose yourself to the chase, paying the distance no mind as you race down the beach. Sand flies up beneath your bare feet, gritty under your toes as you run. Something in you wants to turn around, to see if the handsome general is still close behind you. You can hear him well enough to know he is behind you, but not well enough to gauge the distance.

You don’t look. You only run.

Even though you had invited the hunt, desperately hoping to be caught, the hand that catches your waist surprises you. He seizes you by the waist and tackles you into the sand, pinning you beneath his muscular bulk. The feeling of being trapped sends a perverse thrill racing through you, something warm stirring in your belly.

Though he has caught you, you do not give in so easily.

You thrash underneath him, trying to throw him off you. Acacius is unyielding. His large hands grip your arms; his knees squeeze at your sides. You get one arm free and bring it up. You’re not sure what you intend to do; you don’t want to break him. Scratch him, perhaps? You never get the chance to find out.

Before you see him move, he seizes your arm and pins your wrist beneath his foot. One hand flies to your throat; the other draws a dagger from its sheath and holds the point against the swell of your breast.

For a long moment, you cannot breathe. The large hand at your throat squeezes just enough to threaten a loss of air. The foot on your wrist makes the delicate bones there grind together on just the right side of pleasure-pain. And oh, the blade at your heart. The tip pierces your skin and you don’t know whether to scream or cry or vomit from the shock.

You have never been so still in your life.

When has anything mortal ever pierced your skin? When has anything mortal managed to cut through the skin of your kith and kin? You have vague memories; bandaging Mars’ side after the great spearman Diomedes struck him outside Ilium. You watch in horror and awe as a bead of ichor seeps from the pinprick wound. Mars has made you bleed before, but you never thought a mortal might draw your glittering, golden blood.

You look up at him, your conqueror. He is panting hard, but his face shows no exhaustion; only determination. His eyes are nearly black with desire, and his lovely black and grey curls are damp with sweat. Gods, you want him. You want him to hunt you down as he would a deer, to throw you down and take you like some common mortal whore.

Watching you closely, Acacius eases his grip on your throat. A man used to gauging the weakness of his enemies has seen right through you in turn. He knows you do not need air to breathe. He knows he has done something astounding in the knife at your breast. He holds it steady as he reaches beneath the skirts of his tunic, pulling at the strings of his underthings. He pulls it free with a grunt and discards it beside you in the sand.

Free from its confinement, his manhood pushes against the skirt of his tunic. Something low in your belly twists in anticipation, slick coating the insides of your thighs. Your blood feels as though it’s boiling beneath your skin as Acacius grips the fine cloth of your stola in one filthy hand.

“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever laid eyes upon,” he tells you, in all sincerity. You tremble underneath him as he pushes your skirts up around your waist, another bead of ichor welling up around the tip of the blade.

You gasp as the metal shifts, and his eyes flick to your face. Almost lovingly, his hand wraps around your throat again.

“Do you yield?” When no reply is immediately forthcoming, he presses his advantage. The hand at your throat and foot at your wrist push harder; more glittering blood beads at your breast. The surface tension finally breaks, sending the blood dripping down towards your neck.

“I yield.” In an instant, he relaxes his hold. The foot on your wrist disappears, as does the blade. The hand on your throat remains, tipping your head up so he can kiss you. He kisses like his master, Mars; hard and demanding. You return the kiss with bruising intensity, nipping at his lower lip. It seems only fair that you make him bleed a little, in turn.

His beard prickles against your skin, and you answer it by sliding your hand into his curls and pulling roughly. Acacius groans against your mouth, crushing himself closer to you and forcing your legs apart with his knee. His muscular thigh presses against your bare cunt, the pressure sending liquid fire dancing through your body. You rut up against his thigh eagerly, your slick smearing against his skin.

Acacius notices your movements, breaking off the kiss to stare at you. The raw lust in his eyes makes you keep going, rocking your hips desperately against him. His thigh flexes between your legs, and you groan loudly. Without taking his eyes off you, his hand drifts to cup your breast, tantalisingly close to the tiny wound on your unblemished skin.

“Are you going to stab me again, slayer of men?” You ask him, tauntingly. You wouldn’t mind if he did.

“No, dear mistress. I’ll watch you debase yourself on my thigh.” Oh, you want to keep him. Your sisters have kept mortals before; you remember well the fuss around sweet Hylas, cunning Ulysses. Your conqueror finds your nipple through the fine material of your dress, the flesh stiffening beneath his fingers as he toys with you.

Your hips roll easier, faster as you sink deeper into your pleasure. Every glide becomes slicker as you soak his skin. It’s been some time since you’ve so blatantly sought your own pleasure, and you welcome it back eagerly. That familiar tension is coiling tightly in your belly and sends you spiralling higher with every movement.

Acacius watches you with fascination. His own pleasure is forgotten for the moment, though you suppose he is enjoying this. Something divine rubbing against him like a cat in heat; no man alive would believe him if he told them. Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps and you clutch at Acacius’ wrist to ground yourself. He’s so solid and warm to your touch; his vitality is unlike any aphrodisiac you have ever known.

It’s not long before you come with a cry, your nails digging into Acacius’ skin as you shudder against him. The fire in your belly burns through you, the heat of it radiating out to your fingertips. It leaves you boneless beneath your conqueror. He seizes the advantage, pulling your legs wider apart to slot his other leg between them.

You struggle. Why not? It amuses you to make him manhandle you into place. He pulls your legs wider with one hand. With the thumb of the hand at your breast, he presses just below the cut. The burst of pain makes you hiss. Cowed, you let him pull your legs apart, his eyes feasting on your cunt. You must look a mess, swollen and soaked.

Acacius lets go of your leg and pulls up the hem of his tunic. He’s big, unfashionably so for his countrymen. Beads of fluid leak from the reddened tip, and he swipes them away with his thumb. He settles himself between your thighs, and you gasp when he notches the blunt head of his cock against your entrance. Without warning or reprieve, he forces his cock inside you.

You throw your head back against the sand, stars exploding against your closed eyelids as you dance along the knife edge of pleasure and pain. A deep groan rumbles out of Acacius’ throat as he presses deeper, working against your tight muscles to seat himself within you. He’s unrelenting, his length thick and twitching as it fills you.

There’s no other word for it; you wail up at the star-strewn sky, pleasure flooding through you. Your body feels too small to contain the fire being stoked inside you, deep in your core. You pull at Acacius, nails clawing, dragging him down to kiss you. His lips meet yours in a messy crash, all tongues and teeth as he finally seats himself fully within you.

He barely allows you a moment to adjust. He retreats almost fully, his cock nearly leaving you completely, before sliding back in with one fluid stroke of his hips. You’re shaken by how willingly your body accepts him, colouring any pain with so much pleasure you barely notice the discomfort. His hand finds your throat again, squeezing just enough to make you feel lightheaded.

Acacius’ incursions become sharper, harder, as he finds his rhythm. Your hands slide under the hem of his tunic to clutch at his back, your nails leaving behind tiny red crescents in his skin. Every breath you take is shared by him, your mouths so close together you can taste the wine lingering on his tongue. The two of you move together, your moans melting into one another as you fuck like animals in the sand.

It doesn’t take him long to send you over the edge again. Bliss wipes all words from your mind; you can only lie there and let your release crash over you. The ichor in your veins feels like it’s singing. Acacius looks down on you in awe, and it only drives you higher. You want to keep him. The Heroic Age is too far past; the world is lacking for heroes. Perhaps you and Acacius can make a few; handsome, strong boys, half-god children who reflect their father’s divine favour.

“Would you give me sons, Acacius?” You ask, breathless at his onslaught. Your foreheads are pressed together still; you cannot see the look on his face. He groans sharply, his hands clutch tighter at you. Is that a yes? What greater blessing to a pious man than a son born to a goddess.

He certainly shows no signs of stopping. He fucks you with the same vigour he fights with. You feel like you’re floating, high above your own body, lost completely to pleasure. Jupiter himself could command you to stop, and you’d be unable to obey. You grow restless beneath him. His hand has slackened around your throat, so you lean down to lick a line across his neck. The taste of salt and iron explodes across your tongue, so delicious that you have to force yourself not to sink your teeth in.

Acacius grunts above you, forcing you back down against the sand. His hips are stuttering; a sign that he’s close to his own release. You want to cry, want to prolong this as much as possible, but you know he has limits. Your sisters have pushed mortal men too far before; you will not make the same mistake, not with so delicious a playmate.

Instead you spur him on. Your nails dig harder into his back, making him groan sharply. His short, desperate thrusts make your eyes roll back into your skull as he touches something deep and private within you, unknown to anyone else.

“I- I must-” He starts, words failing him as he chases his release. You pepper his face with kisses, nip at his kiss-swollen lips.

“You must,” you agree. “I want you to fill me up.” You’re both breathless, barely any air between your bodies to breathe. One of your hands slides into his curls, pulling at them. You guide his head down until your lips are at his ear again.

“I could give you a son,” you whisper. “But only if you finish inside me. Claim me; mark me as yours. Conquer me.”

He tips over the edge with a loud groan, his hips stuttering as he comes. You can feel his cock twitch inside you as he does, filling you with his seed. Perhaps something might catch; he seems virile enough. You cradle his head against the crook of your neck as he catches his breath, his body heavy as he relaxes on top of you.

“Noble Acacius,” you murmur fondly, stroking his curls. “Marcus. What do you make of your new conquest?” He is quiet for a long moment. The crash of the waves fills the silence, the tide drawing closer. Soon, the two of you will have to move.

“I shall never know another victory like it.”

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The thunderous hooves on the ground pelt with speed, each beat a desperate drum echoing through the fertile plains.

Gritting his teeth, Acacius blazes ahead of his men, driven by a singular, burning need to reach his home.

Located a few miles north of Capua, nestled in the lush expanse of Campania, near the banks of the Volturno River, lies the small village of Pons Agrorum. His village - and it's on fire.

Smoke billows into the sky, black and thick, casting a dark pall over the once serene landscape. The scent of burning wood and crops assaults his senses as he nears, the heat of the flames palpable even from a distance.

Shouts and screams reach his ears, the cries of his people caught in the chaos.

His heart races, a foreboding drumbeat of fear and fury. The flames lick at the thatched roofs, reducing homes to ashes.

Villagers run in all directions, some attempting to douse the fires with buckets of water drawn from the Volturno, others fleeing in terror with what little they can carry.

The livestock, panicked by the inferno, add to the cacophony with their frantic bleating and lowing.

He charges into the heart of the village, his men following closely behind.

"To the wells!" he commands, his voice a deep bark of authority. "Form a chain and get water to the fires! Save who you can!"

Leaping from his horse, he scans the burning village, his eyes searching for familiar faces, particularly one - yours.

"Where is she?!" he roars, grabbing a passing villager by the shoulders, shaking him for answers.

The man, eyes wide with terror and face smeared with soot, stammers incoherently, too shaken to provide a coherent response.

"General," another voice cuts through the chaos. He turns to see his trusted lieutenant, a grim determination etched on his face. "We'll find her. Lead your men. We'll find her."

Acacius nods, reluctantly releasing the terrified villager. His duty to his people and his need to find you pull him in opposing directions, but he knows he must act.

With a last, desperate glance toward the heart of the flames, he joins his men in their frantic efforts to save what remains of Pons Agrorum.

Buckets of water pass hand-to-hand in a desperate bid to quell the fire, the villagers and soldiers working side-by-side. He barks orders, his voice hoarse from the smoke, but his mind is never far from you.

Each time he catches sight of a ghostly figure through the haze, his heart leaps with hope, only to crash into despair when it isn’t you.

Amid the chaos, the village elder approaches, his face etched with cinder and worry.

"General, the fires - they started too suddenly. Too strategically. This was no accident."

Acacius’s blood runs cold at the implication, his fist tightening around the handle of his sword sheathed on his hip until it blisters.

"An attack? Who would dare?"

"Enemies of Rome, or enemies of yours," the elder replies gravely. “We were unprepared.”

“We must save the village." Acacius declares.

"No, General, it’s gone.” The elder affirms ruefully.

He knows the man is right, it's too late. It’s all gone.

“Get to the river, we have men there waiting." Acacius’s voice is firm, unwavering, a command that brooks no argument.

The flames rage around them, consuming everything in their path. The village of Pons Agrorum, once a tranquil, farming haven, is now a hellscape of roaring fire and falling timbers.

The smell of smoke and burning wood fills the air, mixing with the acrid stench of charred flesh from those who couldn’t escape the attack.

"But General!" his lieutenant protests, desperation in his eyes. The younger man looks around at the chaos, the villagers' panicked faces, and the menacing wall of fire advancing on them. "We can't just leave it to burn!"

"I said away!" the General bellows, his voice cutting through the clamour like a blade.

There is no time for sentiment, no time for debate. The village is lost, but its people can still be saved. General Acacius mounts his horse, his face a mask of grim determination.

He spurs his steed into a gallop, heading straight through the flames. His heart pounds in his chest with urgency. The heat is intense, searing his exposed skin on his arms and legs. He leans low over his horse's neck, urging it forward with all the speed it can muster.

The flames leap and dance, a chaotic ballet of destruction. Sparks fly, and the air is thick with choking ash. He navigates the narrow lanes of the village, his eyes scanning for any sign of survivors, for any trace of you.

He has to find you, and he will. One way or another.

His mind is a whirl of thoughts - memories of happier times, fears of what he might find, and the relentless drive to keep moving forward.

A burning beam crashes down ahead, sending a shower of embers into the air. The horse rears, and the General pulls hard on the reins, guiding it harshly around the obstacle.

The animal's hooves strike the ground with a furious rhythm, each beat a testament to its strength and endurance.

As he rides, he shouts to those he passes, "Get to safety! Head to the river! Now!" His chest wheezes from the smoke, but he forces the words out, knowing they’re the villagers' best chance of survival. Some are already moving in that direction, helping the elderly and the children.

He reaches the heart of the village, where the flames are fiercest. His home - or what was once his home - is a blazing pyre just beyond it, the roof collapsing in a shower of sparks. His eyes scan the area desperately.

He yells your name over and over, a relentless howl as he circles, panic sweeping through him that you could be in there.

A figure stumbles from the smoke, a young boy, coughing and covered in ash. The General swings down from his horse, rushing to the child's side.

"Where is she, boy?" he demands, recognising the boy as one of your learned students. Kneeling to his level, Acacius’s eyes are intense and pleading. “Tell me!”

"I-I don't know, General," the boy stammers, tears cutting paths through the grime on his face. "She was here, b-but then... the fire... everyone scattered. They came so quickly."

Acacius’s heart sinks, but he can't afford to give in to despair. He lifts the boy onto the horse.

"Hold on tight," he instructs, his voice gentler now. "Ride to the river, stay with the others. Go!"

He gives the horse a slap on the flank, sending it galloping away with the boy clinging to its mane. Turning back to the inferno, he squares his shoulders, ready to plunge back into the fray.

He cannot rest until he knows your fate, cannot stop until he’s done everything in his power to find you. He won’t stop til death.

The chaos of the burning village surrounds him, a relentless roar of flames and the cries of panicked villagers. In the midst of the smoke, he suddenly hears something piercing through the clamour - the fierce howls and screeches of combat.

The sound is unmistakable, a brutal clash of steel and the raw, guttural noises of a struggle.

His heart skips a beat as he follows the cacophony, pushing through the thick, choking veil that swirls around him. With his sword drawn, every instinct on high alert, he navigates the smoky haze with grim determination.

Through the blur of smog and flame, he catches sight of you, finally. All the tendons in his body unfurl like opening petals welcoming the rain, and for a moment, he can breathe clearly. You stand at the centre of a small clearing, the fire creating an eerie backdrop around you.

The smoke billows and shifts, casting strange, flickering shadows. You wield your sword with a grace and ferocity that seems almost otherworldly, reminiscent of the Goddess Minerva herself.

Your movements are wild and untamed like a jackal, a fierce dance of survival as you battle not one, but two soldiers who are attacking you relentlessly.

He recognizes your stubbornness, your refusal to abandon the village even as it burns around you. It’s exactly like you to stay and fight, to stand against overwhelming odds even if they’re stacked against you.

But you’re lithe in your taunting, your strikes purposeful and determined. He almost pities the men as they face off against your blazing emanation, but then Acacius strides forward, the smoke and heat singeing the hairs on his skin barely registering against the single-minded drive that propels him toward you.

With a powerful thrust, he drives his steel into the nearest soldier, the blade cutting through sticky flesh with a sickening ease. The man crumples to the ground, his own battle ended swiftly. Without hesitation, he grabs you by the arm, swinging you around to face him.

His eyes, fierce and determined, meet yours through the smoky veil.

Your eyes, once glowing with the fire of combat, soften with relief as they lock with his. For a fleeting moment, amidst the chaos and destruction, there is a brief, profound connection.

Your voice is barely a whisper, but it carries a world of emotion.

"Marcus..."

His name on your lips is both a balm and a torment, a reminder of everything that has been lost and everything that still remains.

Without another word, or tearing his eyes from yours, he lunges forward, driving his sword into the abdomen of the remaining soldier coming up behind you, with a swift, decisive motion. The man falls, defeated.

“Took you long enough,” you gasp, unable to comprehend that he’s really here and not an apparition of some madness that’s gripped you.

In the next breath, Marcus pulls you close. His giant hands cradle your face, his touch a mix of desperation and longing.

Time seems to slow as he closes the gap between you, his lips crashing onto yours in a fierce, passionate tussle. The flames around you, the smoke, the cries of the dying village - all fade into the background.

You respond with equal passion, your hands gripping his broad shoulders as if to anchor yourself to this moment, your tongue sliding into his mouth as both your swords clatter to the ground forgotten.

“Did you think me dead, amata?” (Beloved) He husks, mouth sweeping against yours.

“No. You’re far too stubborn for that.” You smirk.

The urgency in his grip is unmistakable, his hand firmly wrapped around yours. The village is a discord of chaos as more enemy soldiers, their armour clanking and boots pounding, charge toward the burning settlement.

The air is stifling now with more smoke of destruction, and the ground beneath your feet seems to tremble with each approaching step.

“Come, we have to go!” He hisses urgently at you.

Scooping up your swords, you flee together, his grip ironclad around your hand. Acacius practically drags you along, your feet barely touching the stone as he hurries you through the tumultuous grounds.

The flames cast a hellish glow, illuminating the desperation in his obsidian eyes and the grim determination etched into his weathered features.

The path to the river is a winding one, filled with the frantic movements of fleeing villagers. You stumble and almost fall several times, but he never loosens his hold.

The escape route is treacherous, fraught with the dangers of both the fire and the encroaching soldiers. Yet, despite the overwhelming circumstances, his focus remains unwavering.

Finally, you reach the riverbank where a small flotilla of boats is waiting. The boats, hastily prepared and overcrowded, bob nervously in the water. The surviving villagers are already aboard, their faces ashen and anxious as they glance nervously over their shoulders.

Acacius guides you to step on board before helping to push the boat out into the water with his men.

He wades through the shallows and jumps in when the oars pick up the slack.

The sound of splashing and the murmur of worried voices fill the air as the boats begin to glide away faster from the shore, and you take one last look at your home, burnt entirely to the ground.

Later, as night falls and the river’s calm offers a fleeting sense of respite, you find yourselves miles away on the riverbank, isolated from the immediate danger, but far from safe.

Acacius sits hunched over a small fire, its flickering light casting long shadows across his face. A small encampment has been erected, more of his men gathering and tending to the villagers.

Marcus has completed several rounds of the camp, ensuring that his men are attending to the needs of everyone's safety and managing the logistical bedlam that follows such a disaster.

Now, he sits alone, slightly apart from the activity.

His posture is rigid, weighted with the gravity of the night’s events. The once fiery intensity of his gaze has turned to a sombre focus as he stares out at the tiny flames. Thick eyebrows pulled together in a long, contemplative frown.

Your dress is in tatters, dirty and stained with blood, though you’re certain it’s not your own. The blood, dark and drying, mingles with the smoky grime that covers your skin.

You sit beside him, exhausted and bruised. He looks equally worse for wear: filthy, reeking of sweat, blood, and charcoal, the aftermath etched into every line of his face.

He looks at you with a dark, brooding intensity, his eyes catching the firelight as he asks in a low, ominous voice, “Who was it?”

You shift uncomfortably, the weight of the truth heavy on your shoulders.

“Paladias,” you finally admit, the name carrying a sharp edge of pain and fear. “Revenge, for the death of his son, by your sword in Rome.”

The name elicits a visible reaction from him; his nostrils flare, his jaw tightens. Anger and determination flash across his aquiline face.

“I swear by this night, I will kill him. I will end his bloodline,” he vows, the words coming out with a fierce, snarled conviction.

You reach out and place a hand on his sculpted shoulder, trying to calm the storm of rage that seems to be brewing inside him.

“You will,” you agree, your voice soft but firm. “You will make him suffer. It will be slow, legendary. But not tonight. You need to rest, Marcus. Your victory in Rome has exhausted you.”

He looks at you, golden embers reflecting in his weary eyes, and for a moment, the anger is tempered by a flicker of doubt and fatigue. The realisation that revenge will have to wait settles in, if only because survival demands it.

His shoulders slump slightly, and he nods, the anger momentarily giving way to a need for rest, to gather himself - to plot with a clear head.

The fire crackles softly as the night grows darker. The two of you sit in silence, the only sounds from the occasional crackle of the fire and the distant murmurs of the river’s gentle lapping against the boats.

You collect water in a small clay bowl as Marcus heads inside the tent. The water is cool and clear, a stark contrast to the heat and grime of the day.

You tear at the hem of your dress, the fabric giving way easily under your determined fingers. The strip of cloth is rough and uneven, but it will serve its purpose.

You join him inside and you soak the torn fabric in the water, watching as it darkens and absorbs the liquid. The coolness of the water seeps into the cloth, and you wring it out slightly before turning to Marcus.

He sits quietly, his back against the camp bed, his eyes following your movements with a mixture of gratitude and exhaustion.

“Let me see,” you say softly, your voice barely more than a whisper in the hushed silence of the shelter.

He shifts slightly, allowing you better access to the wounds that still mar and weep on his skin, fresh from his fight only a few days ago in the capital.

“You need not fuss. They’ll heal.” He says.

“Let me.” You insist.

Gently, you press the damp cloth against a particularly nasty cut on his bicep. He winces slightly, but doesn’t pull away. The water cleanses the wound, washing away the dirt and dried blood.

You work methodically, moving from one injury to the next, the cool cloth providing some relief from the pain.

When you finally finish, the bowl of water is murky with crimson and dirt, the cloth stained and tattered. You sit back, surveying your work.

The wounds are clean now, and though they still look painful, you know that you’ve done what you can to help them seal over.

Marcus reaches out, his fingers brushing against your cheek.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. His touch is gentle, a stark contrast to the hardness of his warrior exterior.

"Take this off," you say softly, your fingers brushing over the rough surface of his breastplate.

The metal is cool to the touch, juxtaposed to the heat of his bronzed skin beneath. He looks at you, a silent question in his eyes, but he complies without a word. His hands move to the buckles, undoing them with simple ease.

The breastplate comes away with a soft clink, revealing the expanse of his stacked chest.

His skin is dirty, smudged with soot and streaked with dried sweat. The muscles beneath are taut and well-defined, if not a little paunchy around his waist; a testament to the countless battles he’s fought and the rigorous training he endures to stay sharp.

The sheen of sweat catches the dim light, highlighting every ridge and contour.

With the barrier of armour removed, he seems more vulnerable, the weight of the day’s events sinking into the tension in his body.

You reach for the bowl of water again, soaking the cloth anew, and gently press it to his chest, wiping away the grime.

Marcus flinches slightly at the initial contact, the coolness of the water a slight shock to the heat of his skin, yet a welcome reprieve. But he soon relaxes, letting out a slow breath as you work.

Your fingers glide through his hair. Wisps of ash fall from the curls, delicate particles that highlight the toll of the fire and the stress of battle. His hair, usually a rich, commanding chestnut shade, is now streaked with a darker mercury at his temples

He looks tired, a weariness etched deeply into the lines of his face. Despite the fatigue that clings to him, there remains a savage spark in his eyes, a reminder of the undying spirit that drives him.

He fights with the unyielding energy of a young buck, each movement a blend of seasoned skill and determined resolve.

But you notice the subtle signs of his ageing and exhaustion - the slight creaking in his knees as he moves, the faint groans that escape him when he stands or shifts, and the way he clutches his back with a grimace of pain.

These unspoken signals speak volumes about his condition that was once peak. He’s a warrior whose strength and resilience are still formidable, but the relentless pace of battle and the burden of command are taking their toll.

As you continue to tend to him, the weight of these observations brings a poignant clarity. He’s a man who has dedicated his life to the fight, who has borne the brunt and weight of leadership that you’re certain he never sought, even if he never admits it.

Yet, the toll of his experiences are becoming more apparent, underscoring a reality that he cannot escape.

Marcus soon stops your ministrations, your hand captured inside his large palm against his chest. You feel the thrum of his steady heartbeat under your fingertips.

He breaks the stillness with a soft, almost reflective tone. "You stood your ground."

You look at him, the light of the outside fire dancing dreamily in your eyes at him, just as you did wielding that sword earlier in the village.

A small, weary smile tugs at the corners of your lips. "I was taught by the best," you reply, your voice tinged with both pride and mirth. "Til death," you add, your voice firm and resolute.

He holds your gaze, his expression softening with a mixture of admiration and affection.

"Til death," he echoes, the words carrying a deep resonance between you as he squeezes your hand.

You remember the first time he taught you to wield a sword. It was a hot, dusty afternoon, the kind where the sun beat down relentlessly and the air shimmered with heat.

The sword had felt impossibly heavy in your hands, the weight of it pulling your arm down despite your best efforts.

Your laughter had echoed through the training grounds, light and carefree, a jubilant divergence to the seriousness of the task at hand. The sword had clanged to the stone cobble, and you’d laughed even harder, your arm shaking from the effort.

He’d smiled at you, a rare softness in his eyes, before stepping behind you. With his arms on yours, he guided your movements, his presence solid and reassuring.

Pressed up tightly behind you, you twisted your body as you swung it through the air, his voice a steady murmur in your ear, instructing, encouraging - distracting.

It took months of practice for you to move with the sword alone, to glide with it as if it were an extension of your own body. The training was gruelling, each jab and thrust demanding more precision and strength. But under his tutelage, you improved, slowly but surely.

He was patient, yet firm, pushing you to your limits and beyond. Knowing you could take everything he had to impart, for your life depended on it.

The day he took you on in earnest, you knew it was a turning point. Marcus came at you with his sword, his strikes swift and sure. When the blade nicked your arm and drew blood, it was a wake-up call, a sharp reminder of the seriousness of the lessons.

You had to know how to protect yourself from men like him - skilled, determined and relentless.

But you also knew that he was not like all men.

Under the armour and leather, the battle cries and the claret splashed across his face, he was a different man. Soft and pliant, he had a way of moulding himself around you, submitting to your touch.

He had made it clear that his heart was yours, and in return, yours was his. It was this bond that kept him going through the battles, through the gruelling spars in the roaring amphitheatres, and the endless marches to claim territories for gilded leaders he didn’t care much for.

Emerging victorious wasn't just about glory or duty; it was about returning to you.

Each time he went to war, the thought of you waiting for him kept him strong, gave him the resolve to fight with every ounce of his being.

You guided his sword with every swing. You brokered his clever and swift steps, whispered the resolve he needed in his ear to get up off the floor, spit out the blood and to keep fighting.

And each time he returned, it was with the unyielding determination to hold you in his arms again.

He would never stop, never relent, not until death took him. That was his vow to you, then and forever. And even then, he’d promised he would still find you in the afterlife.

Marcus leans in and presses a kiss onto your lips, the taste of dried blood mingling with the salt of grime and dust.

His tongue, warm and wet, fills your mouth as he tastes you, a mixture of urgency and intimacy in each tender caress.

"Touch me," you whimper against his lips, your voice a desperate plea in the stillness of the night.

The words hang in the air between you, laden with emotion and need. His eyes, dark and richly intense, search yours for a moment in the dim glow of the fire, as if seeking permission, assurance - control.

His fingers, roughened by years of wielding a sword, move to cradle your face, his touch gentle and tender despite his hulking frame.

The warmth of his hand sends a shiver down your spine, and you lean into his palm, your eyes closing as you savour the sensation.

His thumb brushes over your cheek, wiping away a smudge of dirt.

"Please," you murmur, your lips barely an inch from his. "I need to feel you."

The proximity, the anticipation, is almost too much to bear as it increasingly throbs heavy and pinching between your legs.

“Here, in the dirt?” he questions, his voice deep and full of a hunger that needs to be satiated. “You want me to fuck you raw into the ground?”

“Yes.” You breathe, your fingers twisting around the roots of his curls.

He bends and breaks arching into the mild pain as you seize him in your grip, your want thudding all over your body that you’re certain he can hear it.

“Fuck me, Marcus,” you urge.

His lips capture yours in a kiss that is both biting and searing in its savagery. His other hand moves to your back, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between your bodies.

The kiss deepens, his tongue seeking yours, and you respond eagerly, swallowing it down.

His hands begin to grapple, pressing down your arms, gripping across your back, feeling the contours of your body. Grabbing and pawing, sending sparks of electricity through you, igniting a fire that’s been smouldering beneath the surface since he returned through the flames to you.

You arch into him, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer still.

The urgency in his movements mirrors your own. His hands travel lower, finding the hem of your dress. With a single, swift motion, he pulls the fabric up, yanking and tearing it from you.

The cool air against your bare flesh is a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his own body. You pull at his subligarium, your fingers trembling as you fumble with the leather straps. The urgency in your movements palpable, each pull and twist driven by desperation to get to him.

The skirt falls away in a rush, exposing his battered body beneath. The weariness and bruises from the recent battle are stark and raw, a visible testament to the cost of his relentless struggle.

You pause to run your fingers over an angry purple contusion on his hip above the fuzz of his pubic bone, and he looks down to follow your trail.

“Marcus…” you whimper at the sight of it.

“I’m okay, amata. I’m here.” He reassures.

Then in a snap, and a growl lodged from between his teeth, he has you beneath him with a force so quick and hard that the smack of the ground against your back winds you.

The breath is knocked from your lungs, but the pain is quickly overtaken by the raw intensity of the moment. His eyes blaze with a primal hunger, and his teeth sink into the skin of your throat, sending a jolt of both pleasure and agony through your body as he sucks the skin there.

You can feel his breath, hot and heavy, against your ear as he speaks, his voice a low growl. "You drive me mad," he whispers, the words a mix of accusation and adoration.

His grip on you is firm, almost bruising, but it's the intensity of his need that leaves you breathless.

His body presses against yours, crushing you with every inch of him, taut with restrained power. The weight of him is both grounding and electrifying, each shift and movement sending shivers of anticipation through you.

His lips find yours again, the kiss demanding, as if he’s trying to consume you, to merge your very being with his own.

You respond with equal fervour, your body arching up to meet him, your legs wrapping around his waist in an effort to bring him closer still.

The ground beneath you rubs hard and unforgiving, but it only adds to the wildness of it all as you feel the dirt stick to your skin in rough clumps. Your senses are overwhelmed - his scent, a mix of sweat and earth; the taste of his lips, salty and urgent - the feel of his muscles rippling under your touch.

His cock is already dripping when you find it, sticky in your hand as you pump the hard, swollen length - each stroke eliciting a soft groan from his lips as they curl over his teeth.

Shudders shooting down his spine as you run over the glistening head. The sensation of his arousal, hot and slick against your palm, sends a thrill through your body, heightening your own need.

His eyes, dark with desire, lock onto yours, the intensity of his gaze making your breath catch.

He leans in, capturing your lips in another searing kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth with a devout desperation. You respond eagerly, your hand continuing its pumping rhythm, feeling him throb with each motion.

With a soft growl, he breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against yours as he takes a moment to catch his breath.

"Take it," he whispers, his voice hoarse with longing.

His hand moves to your hip, gripping you firmly as he positions himself at your entrance, pooling with your own slick.

The anticipation is almost unbearable, the air thick with tension. His other hand guides his cock, aligning himself with a precision born of countless nights together.

You can feel the heat of him, the promise of what’s to come as he slides through your soaked folds.

And then, in one powerful thrust, he enters you, the suddenness and intensity drawing a cry from your lips. The feeling is overwhelming, a perfect blend of ecstasy and pinch as he stretches you wide and fills you completely.

Your body arches instinctively, a raw, visceral reaction to the primal depth of his penetration as he bottoms out.

“Fuck,” he grunts. Marcus pauses for a moment, allowing you both to savour the sensation, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your ear.

His grip on your hip tightens, fingers digging into your bones as he begins to move.

Each stroke is deliberate, powerful, driving deeper and deeper, pushing you closer to the edge with every shunt. He’s relentless, caging - feral. Unable to hold back as he growls, slamming into you.

The urgency of his movements are a wild, untamed energy that leaves no room for hesitation or retreat. You can but cling onto him.

Your hands clutch at his back, nails raking across his skin breaking it, leaving trails of jagged red welts in their wake.

Your tongues clash, the taste of him intoxicating; a reminder of everything you share, everything he takes and gives with heated passion.

His hand moves from your hip to your breast, fingers pinching your nipple, palm groping and kneading, sending jolts of pleasure through you. You scratch deeper making him hiss louder.

You tug at his hair and bite at his shoulder, until he takes your wrists and puts them above your head. His full weight presses down on them as he fucks you deeper into the ground.

His teeth leave marks in your skin, indents in your shoulders, your neck, your cheek. The scruff of his beard burns, the hook of his nose digs in below your eye socket as his hips drill into you mercilessly.

Heavy, wet slaps of his cock inside you ring out around the tent. You can feel yourself gushing around him already as he brushes up against that spot deep inside that pulls your belly tight and makes your clit ache deliciously.

It's almost unbearable the way he pulls you apart like this. How he can rip you open and climb inside your skin, blood running through the same veins that knit you together.

He releases one of your wrists, his hand moving to your waist, gripping you tightly as he positions himself. The rhythm he sets is relentless, each thrust driving you closer to the edge of oblivion.

He laves over the bite marks with his tongue as you gasp out, clutching onto him as you sense the ground shift from beneath you - the oncoming ascension of your orgasm glittering around your vision.

Marcus reaches in between your bodies and swipes his fingers across your clit. You cry out as the sparks shoot up your spine and your legs bow and tremor.

"Squeeze me, like that," he pants into your face as you grunt and mewl, sinking your grip into whatever skin you can find, scratching, biting, drawing blood.

"Fuck this cunt feels so good, amata!” he pants, his breath like warm rain against your face, drowning you.

Guiding you as you hold onto him, feeling every contour and texture of his thick cock ploughing deeper into you. A blend of urgency and need, his touch brings you to the brink of overwhelming pleasure.

“You’re almost there, give it to me!” He commands, sweat dripping down his forehead and pelting onto your chin.

It comes in relentless waves, crashing over you, leaving you dizzy and disoriented. Each surge of sensation pulls you deeper into the frenzy, an almost chaotic dance of need and desire that consumes you entirely.

“Come! Come on this fucking cock!” He growls.

With a final, powerful thrust, he pushes you over the edge fully, your body convulsing in ecstasy.

His name is a ragged cry on your lips, the sound lost in the intensity of the moment.

He follows moments later, his own release a powerful, shuddering wave of heavy, thick pumps into your swollen cunt that leaves him trembling above you.

For a long moment, you remain like that, bodies entwined, breaths mingling, hearts beating in unison as Marcus softens inside you.

The fire casts a gentle glow over you as you stroke through his hair, his cheek pressed to your breast. The warmth shared between you is a stark contrast to the cool night air seeping into the tent.

He presses a tender kiss to your forehead and you look up into his eyes. They hold a fierce, protective fire, tempered with a profound awe that’s reserved solely for you.

The same eyes that command legions and inspire fear in adversaries now soften under the weight of his love for you.

Marcus Acacius is a revered and fierce general in all of Rome, a figure so formidable that even the emperor would hold some hesitation in his presence. His reputation is one of unwavering strength and relentless, brute resolve, a warrior whose name alone can turn the tide of battles.

Yet, with you, he’s transformed - a savage, blood lusty animal tamed by the gentle force of your returned affection.

He’s killed for you and he’ll do it again, just to feel that squeeze of your pussy around his cock as you milk him dry, hear that groan of his name fall from your lips as you beg him for more.

In your presence, his ferocity is subdued, replaced by a docile tenderness that reveals a side of him that few are ever privileged to see.

His once unyielding exterior, hardened by years of conflict and command, now yields to the command of his heart as he gazes at you here beneath him in the dirt.

You're his sanctuary, the calm in the storm of his unpredictable life.

“Til death,” Marcus whispers to you.

His gaze slackens as he looks at you, and you feel the weight of his vow once more.

This man, who has fought so many battles, who has faced countless dangers, has chosen to bind his fate with yours.

You press your forehead against his and repeat it like ink under your skin.

"Til death.”

Thanks so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed this story and I'd appreciate a re-blog so others can enjoy it too. And I'd love to hear your thoughts, as always! Thankies! 🖤

The guards stopped as you arrived at his room and you felt a wave of excitement crawl up your spine the moment they opened the door, waiting for you to enter.

The armored men stepped aside to let you pass, the cobblestones on the ground sounding against your sandals as you made your way inside, looking back at the door just in time to see it being shut close.

It was his breathing you heard first, his heavy breathing coming from where you knew his bed sat on the room's left, and seconds after, the creaks of the wood as he stood up, his feet stalking your way.

You turned to him then, a smile almost making it to your lips as you saw him alive before you once again, granting yourself a second to relish in the fact he still breathed, he was still here.

"You've won again" you spoke softly, your hands slowly finding the string holding your dress together.

He didn't respond. The window behind him caused the moon's soft glow to fall on the stone floor, but not on his beautiful face, that, you had to watch closely to inspect.

A newer cut right above his left eyebrow had appeared, and his right arm was bandaged almost completely, but otherwise, he looked fine.

His eyes remained on yours until you'd undone the dress, until it fell at your feet- then, a low groan rumbled from his chest as he took you in, and took his turn inspecting every inch of your bare figure.

"How do you want m-"

You didn't have time to finish your sentence that he'd picked you up, effortlessly pulling your body up until your legs slung over his shoulders and his face was buried in your cunt.

He hadn't even given you a second to realize what was happening that his tongue was already lapping between your folds, desperately drinking everything your body gave him.

"Oh my g-" you threw your head back, your skull finding the wall behind you being the only reason you realized he'd moved, and you were now caged between him and stone as you forgot how to speak.

The moans you had faked so many times for so many clients were nothing like the ones your mouth was spilling now, these were higher, coarser, feral, and the way you were gripping his hair... there was no way that didn't hurt.

"Y-You only" a whine interrupted your words when you felt his tongue plunge into your hole, when he started fucking you with it just like he would with his cock "You only h-have me for an hour" you breathed, your thighs squeezing tighter around him contradicting the words you were about to speak "d-don't you want me to p-please you?"

His grip on your ass only tightened and his mouth halfheartedly parted from your core to answer you.

"You are"

And just like that, he'd gone back to work. The moment his mouth closed around your clit you knew you were done for, you knew there was no point in fighting what was inevitably going to come, and so you shut your eyes, as he brought you to heaven.

Your moans were getting higher and higher as your back arched to feed more of yourself to him, desperately craving the feel of his touch, of his nouse, of his beard against your thighs, of the lips he so devoutly was using to suck on your most sensitive spot.

"F-fuck- general I-" The fist you had wrapped around his hair tightened as every muscle in your belly did the same "Oh!"

Somehow, through all the chaos, while you were coming all over his face, while your moans reached levels never reached before, the only thing you could feel or hear, besides pure ecstasy of course, were his groans, his groans as he drank up every drop of your juices, as if your orgasm was bringing his as much pleasure as it was to you.

You barely had time to open your eyes that his strong, big hands and even stronger, bigger arms had pulled you down until your legs hugged his waist instead.

You really did weigh nothing for him, and if that wasn't enough to prove it, the next minutes definitely would.

Your heavy breathing was fanning over his mouth as he freed his cock from his pants, but while you were expecting him to kiss you, having been blatantly staring at your mouth since he had any way of seeing it, every thought in your brain turned to dust when with one hard fucking thrust, he drove his cock into you- or the first few inches at least.

You couldn't talk, you could do nothing but throw your head back as your eyes rolled to the back of it, and let him take whatever he wanted to take.

"I'm not a general anymore," he said with another thrust, stretching you out even further, even deeper.

You wanted to laugh at his words. Now? Now he was feeling the need to correct you? When you could barely breathe, let alone think?

But he didn't look interested in hearing a response from you, not when he grabbed your waist, and definitely not when he started moving you up and down on his shaft with just the sheer force of his muscles.

The moans, the lewd moans that crawled up your throat were filthy, even filthier than the sound of how wet, how unbelievably drenched you were as he plunged into you over and over, as he literally used you as a fucktoy, filling you up more and more, until he was finally sat inside you to the very hilt, until his pubic hairs were grazing your skin and the tip of his cock was touching your cervix.

"Oh my god" you whimpered, feeling tears prick your eyes as your toes curled at the feeling.

You could feel him everywhere, everywhere.

But he didn't pause, he wasn't one to take his time, and perhaps that was because he didn't have much; he resumed his movements again, retracting his hips while he pulled you up his cock, and slamming into you while pushing you down on it, leaving you breathless, a simple doll at his mercy.

His groans and growls were deep and filled with lust, just like the way he bent down to take your left tit into his mouth, just like the way he was fucking you, deep and hard, and God- God it was happening again.

"s-shit" you squeaked, your walls squeezing around him as you bit your lip, so fucked out you could barely remember your name or anything at all that wasn't how good he was making you feel.

"O-Oh my fuck-"

The arms you had intertwined behind his neck tightened with every spasm of your hole, with every flutter of your belly, until you'd come once more.

You opened your eyes, letting them trail downwards, to where his lips parted to suck in ragged breaths, begging him for a kiss.

"again" he said instead, and your eyes widened as you felt him starting to move anew

"I-I can't"

He looked at you now, really looked at you, his sweaty hair sticking to his forehead, his chest heaving as he breathed heavily, and then- then he kissed you. Marcus Acacius kissed you the same way he'd been fucking you for the last hour: like an animal.

It was a mess of teeth and tongues and yet it felt like the best thing on earth, better than wine, better than life, even better than the sex- it was perfect.

"again" he ordered once more, and what could you do, if not comply?

So he started again, he started fucking you again, even more ferociously than the previous time, even if you didn't think it possible.

The way his skin slapped with yours was drowned by both your desperate sounds, your legs started to tremble, beginning to fall from his hips as he moved you up and down his cock like it were nothing, and you- you didn't even know where you were anymore.

"please" you begged, a single tear of pleasure, of overstimulation falling to your cheek as he kissed you again, muting all your cries as he drove himself into you like a madman, like he was possessed.

"Time's up"

Two knocks sounded from the other side of the wall together with the warning, and you thanked Marcus for having rendered you such a mess because otherwise, that would have reminded you of how little time you two ever had, and how miserable everything really was.

His movements sped up at the notice, his dick plunging into you over and over and over until finally, it was happening again.

"give it to me" he said, and you did exactly as he asked- you gave it all to him, screaming and crying you let him have all you had to offer, feeling his eyes on you the whole time.

He came loudly just after you, groaning deeply as he filled you up to the very brim.

Out of all the words you could have said to him then, all the things you wanted to tell him at that moment, you chose none, because none would have said anything he didn't already know from the look in your eyes, from the same exact spark in your irises that ignited his own.

So he helped you to the ground until you stood on shaky legs, walked to where your dress lay on the floor, and dressed yourself again, his eyes never leaving you.

The door opened just as you were done, and you turned to him one last time again, a smile pulling at your lips.

"Win again for me, general"

He looked at you too for one last time again, as he thought about how you didn't know, you didn't know how big of a role you played in his victories, how many times he could only think of the taste of you, smell of you, feel and voice of you as he took his opponent's life, as he fought for another hour with you, another second.

You’re by his side in an instant, attempting to let him prop himself up on you, to use your body to support his. Instead, he wraps his arms around you and pulls you into a hug. You wrap your own arms around him, a hand finding his hair and attempting to brush through it—only to find it matted with blood. He must feel you tense next to him, a sharp breath escaping you as your fingers feel over his scalp, trying to locate the wound.

“Not mine,” he mumbles under his breath. He pauses for a short moment. “I promised I would come back.”

“You always do and yet I dread the day you will break that promise,” you say, a sad smile playing around your lips. You pull back enough to look at him, taking in the small cuts on his face and the deep lines between his brows that you want to smooth out until he looks as peaceful as he does in his sleep.

He does not protest when you try to take some of his weight on you, silently wishing you could take his worries too, and lead him away from the atrium and towards the small bath that is off to the side. You maneuver him through the small archway that is framed by beige columns on either side and into the middle of the room, the scent of the bath salts filling your nostrils as soon as you take a deep breath.

Acacius lifts his right arm—and immediately screws his face up in pain. You send a stern glance his way. “Let me do that.”

You nudge his arm to the side just enough to reach the leather strings that hold his armor together, slowly working your way through them until you can easily slide the dark leather off him, shaking your head weakly when you see how caked with blood and dirt it is. When you’ve placed the armor on one of the stone benches that line the wall, you move on to his braces and his shoes—and finally, the undercloth, taking it off just as carefully and leaving him in just his underwear.

And then, you suddenly see the reason he’s holding himself the way he is.

A nasty cut marks his right side, just below the ribs. You swallow hard, reaching out and tracing the dried blood around it with a motion that comes naturally. You feel Acacius shift under your fingers, bringing his own hands towards yours and wrapping them around it. They fit perfectly, his grip strong despite his injury.

Your gaze is drawn back to his face by the movement and he smiles weakly. “It looks much worse than it is, dulcissima.”

He’s not wrong. He’s definitely had worse injuries, including the time he barely made it to the atrium, instead collapsing into your arms just behind the entrance to the domus. But, quite frankly, it doesn’t mean you don’t worry.

“It stopped bleeding halfway here,” Acacius adds, correctly interpreting your silence.

“Why didn’t you clean yourself at the baths? They would’ve tended to your wound.” You search his face as you speak.

“I wanted to be with you.”

You sigh disapprovingly at his response, though you can’t deny you like to have him close too, especially when he’s injured. Which, with him, feels like it’s every other day.

He leans down to you, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, mumbling. “It really does not hurt all that much anymore.” His arm sneaks back around you, though his hand is now wandering much lower than it did before.

You bite your lip, trying to give him another stern look but you can feel the way you begin to falter as he smoothes circles into the fabric of your tunic. “Acacius, your servants—”

“They are busy,” he assures you, dragging his lips over your cheek and towards your earlobe. “Besides, if any of them attempted to talk, I’d have their heads.”

You listen into the silence that follows, almost determined to catch a pair of feet approaching or a voice in the distance. But the only sounds that reach your ears are those of the small fountain in the atrium and Acacius’s breath against your skin.

“We won’t be disturbed,” he hums and you sigh in defeat, reaching down to undo his subligaculum, the soft fabric falling away to reveal the trail of dark hair that leads down towards his cock. You’re only mildly surprised to find him already half-hard.

“Let me clean you first at least,” you mutter, leading him further into the room and towards the small bath embedded in the tiled floor. You sit him down at the edge of it, letting him dangle his legs into the warm water. You reach for a cloth, wet it slightly and get to work. You start with his arms, watching as the dirt and blood starts to come off, revealing the tanned skin underneath.

You hear Acacius sigh above you and you feel his eyes on you, the soft gaze he looks at you with so different from the one he carries on the battlefield. His hands begin wandering again, dipping below the thin fabric of your tunic and you are just reaching down to wet the cloth again when he manhandles you into him, placing you comfortably on his lap.

You tense for a split moment before he catches your lips in a kiss—and then you hear yourself sigh as the protest inside you makes space for a fire that’s rapidly building in your lower abdomen. You can smell him, his sweat mixed with a hint of blood, you can feel the dirt rubbing off on you but you don’t care. You just want him.

His voice is a growl. “Merda, get out of that thing already.”

You obey, crawling off him and slipping the tunic off your body, carelessly letting it fall to the dirty floor. You see Acacius’s eyes raking over your body, taking in every curve like he’s seeing you for the first time rather than the hundreth.

“You are as beautiful as the gods, my dulcissima,” he mumbles, pulling you back onto his lap, one hand securely placed on your back to keep you from falling into the water behind you.

He’s careful not to lean on his bad side as he sneaks his free hand between your bodies, dragging it down ever so slowly until he reaches your mound, his index finger drawing a few circles around your bundle of nerves before moving on, a smile spreading over his lips when he finds wetness waiting for him between your legs.

You feel your breath catch in your throat as he inserts a finger without warning, the size of them always taking you slightly by surprise. His moves are shallow, never quite pulling his finger out completely but always keeping you on that delicious edge. When he adds a second one and starts curling them, he has you whimpering almost immediately.

“Marcus, please—”

“I thought I was Acacius to you. Just to make sure you do not—how did you put it—slip up,” he mumbles, a smirk on his face. The groan you intend to sound annoyed comes out much more desperate than you would like.

“You know we have to be careful—” you try to start, but with his fingers inside you, your brain simply does not work the way it usually does.

“One of these days, I’ll make you my wife,” he mumbles into your ear, his voice so low you can barely hear it. Without taking his eyes off yours, his thumb finds the spot that, combined with his words, almost drives you over the edge. “And you’ll live with me and we can make as many babies as you want.”

It catches you off-guard, but not in an unpleasant way. It’s just a fantasy, one that may very well be unattainable, but you like to let your mind drift there regardless. Judging by the twitch his cock gives against your skin, you’re clearly not the only one who does.

At that thought, you manage to hold off a bit longer and reach for him in return, enjoying the way his breath catches in his throat when your hand wraps around his attention-starved cock. His gaze flies down, to your bodies already so intertwined, touching each other impatiently. And you know he craves it as much as you do—to be even closer, to feel the weight of him nestled inside of you.

“You are so dirty,” he whispers, withdrawing his hand and making you whine at the loss. He wipes at some of the dirt on your thigh, mixing it with your own juices.

“And you seem to rather enjoy that,” you mumble back, squeezing him slightly. An affirmative chuckles leaves his throat before he lifts you up and lowers you into the small bath in front of him, the warm water immediately soothing your body.

He follows a moment later, stepping into the blue mass. A few petals swirl around on the surface, stirred by your movements in the water as he pulls you close again, his body seemingly all around you as he wraps you in his arms. Then he lowers his head, trailing kisses over your collarbone and down your skin until he reaches your chest, grazing his teeth over your hardened nipple.

“Marcus—” you whine, impatiently pressing your body into his, attempting to get any friction, a task made even harder by the water around you. “I want you inside, please.”

“Always so polite, Anaticula,” he mumbles into your skin but he does satisfy himself with one more nip at your skin before pulling back. “Is that what you want?”

You nod impatiently and feel him lining himself up below you, gently directing you towards the far edge of the bath, where he immediately braces himself against the wall for support with you in his arms—and just a moment later, you can feel him sink into you.

Your bodies mold together, his cock making you feel so deliciously full and complete. You can hear him grunt as he begins to thrust into you gently, his hands on your hips as he guides you onto him again and again, making you moan into his neck as you cling on, half a mind not to touch his injury.

Acacius groans your name, his movements speeding up slightly. “Come on, I want to see your pretty face, dulcissima.” You pull back enough to see him and press your forehead against his. Your thumb comes up to wipe a spot of dirt off his face and brush over his beard, the hairs of it more gray than dark, like they were when you first met, and for a few moments, you both just stare at each other as the water around you ripples with your movements.

“Let go for me.” It's just a whisper—and one you don’t think you could ignore if you tried. You feel the wave wash over you, your vision going weak as you fall apart—knowing that Acacius will hold you close until you’re put together again. You barely notice that he follows suit, spilling himself inside of you with whispered promises of all the things you’ll have one day.

You stay intertwined in the water like that for a while. Eventually, you begin to gather some in your hand and let it run down Acacius’s scalp, beginning to wash the dried blood out of the gray-streaked hair.

“You are going to let me put a proper bandage on your cut once we get out,” you state, earning a loyal nod from him. His eyes are searching yours again, carrying the soft look you know is reserved for you.

“I did come back,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion and you suddenly feel tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

“I know.”

You kiss him softly and he kisses you back just as softly as you curl into him, inhaling his scent and pulling him close and ever closer, determined to let noone take you from him.

The air reeked with the stench of decaying flesh, and your eyes traced the splatters of blood across the floor, too old and hardened to ever come off of the rocks. Forever stained with the memory of the men who once held that blood, forever destined to rest beneath the feet of guardsmen and senate officials.

All of this was new to you.

You had come from a life of frivolity, a life of dancing and pleasure. No more were your purple lined stola’s and gold laced sandals. You were now a prisoner, a slave to the arena.

In twelve hours time you would be placed in the coliseum, the first woman to fight in over a century.

All because you defied your father.

You looked over at the mass of muscle beside you, and your hand gently fell to an aching shoulder, your fingers tracing a line into his tan skin. You counted the lash marks across his spine.

One, two, three, four, five- twenty three lash marks.

Each one dedicated to the months your affair had gone on.

In the humidity of late spring time, they were already festering. A few stray flies buzzed, landing upon the ripples of broken skin, until you swatted them away with your weak fingers.

“You must get up.” You spoke softly. You were pleading with him now. “We have to do something.”

The man beside you, the fabled General Marcus Acacius, shook his head. What was there left to do? He had resigned. His death certificate had already been written up.

In his mind, he wondered about all the things he could have done differently, pondered all the ways he would slaughter your father if he could. Forced to the arena for the death of an Emperor- that was a fitting punishment. But being made to pick up the gladius for love?

He wasn’t sure what his offense was, and the sentence he- the sentence you- had received, was not befitting of the crime.

Each night in this cell, General Acacius dreamt of all the corpses he had slayed on the field, of their stench so rotten it was almost sweet. His dreams turned sour when he saw your lifeless body amongst them, covered in red poppies, bloated with the curse of death, the handle of his sword sticking from the cage of your ribs.

Even in his own mind, Marcus was tormented.

The lashes, the torture, this prison cell, it was nothing. He had far worse done to him. But to see you go through it with him, to see your once beautiful face beaten by the harshness of vitriol, as if you were some backwater thief, that was an entirely different experience.

“I’m half of mind to take my spear and drive it through your father’s heart tomorrow.” The voice was cold, angry, laced with the bitterness of resentment that had been growing deep within his belly for weeks.

“Marcus, carissimus, please.”

“You don’t understand.” He snarled out the words before his face dropped. And then, in the midst of his confusion, he laughed. A deep, guttural laugh, the kind that made his chest shake with glee.

The General sat up, wiping at his cheek with the back of his hand. He turned to you with a wince, his tongue swiping across his lower lip.

“You don’t understand.” Marcus repeated, his syllables much softer, before reaching out and touching your cheekbone. He dragged the pad of his thumb across your skin, shaking his head. “What he’s asking me to do. To you.”

“Dum spiro, spero.” You murmured, crawling towards him until you were pressed against his chest. Your body rose and fall in unison with his breaths, your souls still entwined after everything you had been through.

“While I breathe, I hope.” He spoke the words you had just whispered, resting his cheek against your head. “You have always been wiser than me, my heart.”

You breathed out a quiet laugh, peering up at him through your wet eyelashes. “Tomorrow, I want you to kill me. You must. Quickly. Get it over with, just… however you do it, make sure it is done. That’s all he wants, and then you can go. You can be free of this, free of me.”

“You are my heart, my anima mate. The very thing which keeps me beating. I can’t do it.”

There was a warm breeze on this particular night, a soft, gentle trickle in the summer air. Palatine Hill was awake and lively, full of wine carafes and platters of cheese, fish, honey- the finest of the sort, more delectable than anything the common folk would ever graze upon.

The Emperor only wanted the best, and the best is what he got. Always. As his daughter, that rule applied to you.

Tonight was a celebration. The end of the war, the welcoming home of heroes from the home front. No more Gauls, no more oncoming threats of invasion- tonight, Rome was safe, and within her walls, a party that would last a fortnight was brewing.

You had found yourself stuck in the midst of idle chatter, and the heavy leaf fanning you did little to alleviate the thickness of late July. You looked out through the pillars, watching the glimmer of wind shake at the leaves of the olive trees.

Pushing yourself away from the group of women, you excused yourself, grabbing another serving of mulsum before finding yourself alone, blissfully and happily alone, overlooking the wide stretch of the hills as you drank.

You wished your husband had been killed in battle.

Married off to him too young, you had been groomed from an early age to be a dutiful wife. But as the daughter born from the blood of a strong, wealthy family, you had a wild streak. A taste for the finer things, a longing for adventure, a desire to be free.

You wanted to argue with the senate, be taught how to wield the blade. You wanted to bet on gladiators and talk to the slaves, learn the secrets of the dusty parts of the city that you weren’t allowed in. You wanted to vote, to shout about politics in a room full of men whose families stretched all the way back to Romulus and Remus.

You wanted to be an Empress. The center of the stage. You wanted to have power, authority, a voice.

Oh, would that you could.

But you were trapped.

Stuck.

And you had been, for some time.

A loveless, meaningless life with a man who had yet to give you a child. A strong son, an intelligent daughter- neither of them anywhere to be found. He was thoughtless and impotent, a waste of space fluttering about in your life, taking up every corner of your home.

Enter: General Marcus Acacius.

You remembered him from the days of your youth. He seemed so large then, so domineering and jarring. A man that was more beast than human, bloodied and bruised almost every time you saw him.

Now, well into adulthood, you were irresistibly drawn to him. You wondered what brought you so close to him, like a moth to flame. You knew it was wrong to think of him that way, but you couldn’t help yourself.

He was strong, capable, demanding.

A man after your own heart.

On this particular evening, he was a hero. The General who led his troops to victory, a valiant warrior who fought tooth and nail to protect his beloved city.

When you saw him across the room, the bridge of his nose was yellowing with the kiss of a fresh bruise, and his eyebrow sported a deep gash that you knew was painful. And yet still, he walked proud, sauntering over and shaking hands, making his rounds the way a proper military man should. His paludamenta bellowed behind him, and you weren’t sure when you had seen a man so engaging, so…. captivating.

It made your mouth water. You wondered what he would taste like on your tongue, what it would be like to swallow his-

You turned your back to him to stare across the canvas of green grass, your cup nearly empty. The wind tousled your neatly made hair, a stray tuft falling into your eyes, and you tried to swat away the thoughts which infiltrated through your head before they could get any worse.

“Princess.” You turned to face the voice which had called you, and found the General towering beside you, his arms behind his back as he stared out towards the same valley.

“General Acacius. Congratulations on your victory, it was hard fought.” You hoped you didn’t sound too terribly excited to be speaking to him.

He chuckled a smooth, honeyed chuckle, and looked down at you. In a moment of tenderness you had not expected from the warrior, he gently pushed the stray piece of hair away from your face.

“Marcus, please.” He corrected you, a glimmer of excitement lingering behind the umber depths of his eyes. Like oceans of rich soil, they captivated you, like crystal orbs that held all the secrets of the future. “I’ve not seen you for quite sometime.”

“And I, you. It’s nice to see your face again. I’m a married woman now, my duties have taken me away from the Palatine.” Your voice fell flat. You wanted to add: Unfortunately.

“Your husband is the captain of my guard.” The General didn’t sound too pleased either as he spoke.

“He’s a coward. As fit to be a Captain as I am to be a gladiator.”

Marcus laughed, and you looked up at him with a smile. He nodded in unspoken agreement. A long, gentle, comfortable moment of silence passed over your bodies, before you decided to speak again.

“Do you remember when I was a little girl, and you would watch over me while I ran through the city streets?”

“Oh yes, I do. I was a glorified wet nurse for your father in the days of your youth.”

“A very well armored wet nurse.” You corrected him with a laugh, no longer biting back your smile.

“You were a rowdy little girl.” He reminisced with a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, his lips chapped with his injuries from the recent battle. “Always picking up rats and studying bugs. It was hard, keeping you in line.”

“Have you not heard, Marcus? I’ve turned into a rowdy woman.”

“Is that so?” His voice was soft, deep, and you wondered when your bodies had become so close. Marcus’ fingers lingered against the dip of your waist, his lips slightly parted as he sucked a soft breath of air in.

“Yes.” You whispered, the noise of the party drowned out by the rush of blood beating through your ears.

“Well, isn’t that nice to know?”

“I can show you, my General. Tonight.”

Marcus finally let himself touch you, the warm palm of his hand cupping your waist, moving down until he had a fistful of your draped fabric. It was a welcome respite from the countless months spent around grit and carrion, a welcome touch from a woman as gentle and angelic as you.

“You’re a married woman.” He murmured, the tips of his digits digging in to the suppleness of your sides.

“Barely.”

“Barely?”

You let out a soft breath as he massaged in to the dip right above your ass, pulling you closer until you were flush against him. You felt each ripple of his muscle, the heat of his chest, the bulge behind his tunic.

You excited him. You filled him with a sense of life anew.

He wanted you. He craved you. There was a hunger in his eyes, a primal hunger that not even war could satiate.

“My husband- he’s useless to me. He’s never given me a child, never taken care of me, never brought me any pleasure. For months I prayed to the gods that he wouldn’t make it home, for months I prayed for someone different. Someone like…. Well, someone like you.”

Marcus stepped away, taking two full chalices off a passing servants tray, handing you one. He brought the honeyed liquid to his lips, his eyes stalking you, watching the way your own mouth parted to welcome in the sweet ambrosia.

Tonight, you were immortal.

Tonight, you were divine.

And tonight, you were going to lay with General Marcus Acacius if it was the last thing you did.

Your mind was made, the letter had been writ.

You looked up at him from the brim of your cup, your eyes narrowing with a smile. He nodded back, clearing his throat as he scratched at his jawline, facial hair prickling about his tattered skin.

“If I knew this, I would have made sure he never made it back.” Marcus bit down on his lower lip, his gaze glancing across the expanse of the room, like two trained telescopes making sure no one was watching, making sure that no one could see your fraternization.

“Come back to my villa after the party ends. A goddess as divine as you surely needs to be worshiped. And I am a very capable man, meum corculum.”

His little heart. The newfound term of endearment made your breath catch in the back of your throat.

“Oh, indeed you are General. Indeed you are.” You extended your hand to him, and he pressed a chaste kiss to the inside of your wrist.

When you got home that night, you bathed. A long bath full of oil, until you smelled like rose petals and nectarines, until your skin had soaked away the stench of the day.

The stench of your title, the stench of your husband, the stench of everything. Tonight you would be born again, in the arms of Marcus.

You knew where his villa was like the back of your hand. Childhood evenings spent with your parents, talks of battle plans and feasts for a table of politicians as long as the eye could see.

His home was made of the finest stone from the nicest quarry, and a long line of pomegranate trees led up to the front door, an arched entryway that spat out the golden embers of light that rested within.

Marcus opened the door as soon as you stepped up to it, taking your hand and welcoming you inside. He ditched his battle attire for a white tunic wrapped tightly around his waist, his chest bare and glistening beneath the candlelight of his foyer.

You reached out, touching a deep gash that had ripped across the tract of his pectoral. “You’ve been hurt.”

“I always am.” He explained with a raised eyebrow, taking your palm in his hands and bringing it to his mouth. He kissed the tips of your fingers, resting it upon his cheek.

The General was right.

He was littered with scars, some nearly faded, others fresh and bandaged. You brushed your thumb across the height of his cheekbone, closing the door behind you.

“I know of some things that could cure your ailments.” You said with a grin, walking around his house, taking in the scene around you.

The hide of a lion stretched across the tricinium, three couches before tables adorned with bowls of fruit and jugs of wine resting inside. Outside the pillars there was a fountain, a statue of Mars spitting water in the middle of it all. Flower beds, stones, intricately carved pathways- anything coin could buy, Marcus had it.

His voice snapped you away from your observations.“Do you now?”

“Yes. Haven’t you heard? I’m the greatest nurse in all of Rome.”

“Pray tell, my darling nurse, how you would fix me?” He walked towards the stair case, and you followed suit, a giggle tumbling from your mouth.

You reached his bedroom, and he sat at the edge, watching and waiting for what you would have to say next.

“Oh, well…. let’s see. A soldier as bloodied as you? I would have to take extra good care of you, pay extra close attention.” You explained, a finger tracing down the expanse of his collarbone.

Marcus quirked an eyebrow. “Intriguing. Much better care than the nurses on the battlefield.”

“For you? Only the best care at my hands. You won’t even know you’re injured. Pain free when I’m done with you.”

“You must be very good with your hands then, to be so skilled in the ways of…. pleasure.”

“Oh yes, most definitely.”

“I think I need some of your curing.”

“Then my curing you shall get.”

Marcus stood, bringing you up with him. He grasped your chin tightly, edging your face upwards so you were peering up at him. His lips were pursed with desire, eyes swirling dark with arousal.

“Get on your knees.” He commanded, his chin tilting upwards in dominance. “For your general.”

You sucked in a sharp breath of air, falling down before him.

“Your hands.” Marcus grabbed ahold of your small palms once you extended them, moving them to hem of his tunic. “Undress me.”

“Yes sir.” You breathed out softly, and he groaned ever so slightly at the new title you had bestowed upon him.

Untying his tunic, it dropped to the floor, revealing his hard, throbbing cock. You wet your lips, memorizing every detail of his body. The small mole on his hip bone, the thick grin that was painted alongside his twitching length.

“You see what you do to me, meum corculum? How I yearn for you?”

All you could do was nod.

Marcus grabbed ahold of your face, forcing you to look at him. “Use your words, darling girl.”

“Yes, sir.” You moaned out, your wrists tight in the grasp of his other hand. “I do.”

A smirk danced across his mouth. “Do as your general orders, and fix it.”

You squeaked out a yes sir as his heavy hand rested gingerly upon the back of your head, slowly guiding you towards his cock.

You opened your mouth, allowing the length of him to slide against your tongue, a gentle gag at the sheer size of him eliciting a moan from the man that stood mighty before you.

His fingers tangled themselves within your hair, and he watched the tip of dick disappear behind your lips, heavy eyes aflame with adoration for the woman that knelt before him.

Marcus kept one of your hands in his, occasionally resting it on his stomach to hold you closer.

The General was a man of infinite composure, and his resolve was legendary. He didn’t buck his hips, he didn’t pull your hair, he didn’t push your head- he allowed you to do as you pleased, allowed you to pleasure him how you saw fit.

You could feel your core ache with need, and it only fueled your desire to make Marcus cum. You wanted to taste him. You wanted him to fill you up until you had no room left within you.

His thumb tenderly brushed across your brow, his gaze intent on your bobbing head. You let out a soft whimper at the sound of a stray grunt, and your eyes fluttered shut as your swirled your tongue around the head of his cock, tasting the saltiness of his arousal.

“Just like that, my darling girl. Just like that.”

You sucked harder, took him as deep as you could, your nails gently pressing crescent moons into his abdomen.

“Look at you.” He cooed through gritted teeth. You swore his eyes had gone soft, full of a tenderness you had rarely seen from him before.

You could recall him being rather soft with the stray dogs, you could recall him smiling at babies that waved towards him on the streets- but in his day to day life, General Acacius was hardened, tough, determined.

And to be looked at like that, by him, to be gazed down upon so gently by a man that had shed so much blood, well, it was better than being blessed by the gods. It was a promise. A love. Something you had never known before, something you would never know again.

His cock twitched against your tongue, and you knew he was close. His nails gently dragged alongside your scalp, and your name fell so beautifully off his tongue as his orgasm washed shook through his body.

You swallowed his spend, his taste forever imprinted upon your tongue, and licked him dry.

Marcus extended his hand towards you, helping you off the ground.

“Marcus, I-”

He pressed his lips to yours, your tongues tangling together as he lowered you upon the bed, his fingers working at the knots of your stola, his mouth moving in perfect unison with yours.

You had never been kissed like this before. So hungrily, so passionately. He kissed you like he wanted you, like he needed you, like you were the very breath that filled his lungs, like you were the pollen that fed the flowers, like you were the moon that pulled the tides.

Like you were the only thing that mattered to him.

Marcus pushed you back onto the bed, his lips never moving from yours. Skillfully, he derobed you, until you were as naked as the day you were born, spread open for his eyes, and his eyes only.

He was tender with you, his fingertips light across the length of your body as he felt you, his touch delicate- as though you were a statue that could break at any moment. He was going to take his time with you. He was going to devote himself to the religion that was your weeping cunt.

At the end of the night, his name would be the only name you ever remembered. The only name you ever wanted. The only name you ever needed.

Marcus pulled away, dipping his head down to take one of your hardened nipples in to his mouth, his tongue tracing across the bud of flesh, suckling gently as you moaned his name. His title sounded like a prayer on your mouth, a secret whispered only for him.

And it was.

He peeled your legs apart, his kisses peppering down the length of your body until he reached your cunt, aching with your desire. He could smell your need, the sweet scent of your body.

Marcus peeled open your pussy, revealing your glistening slit to his hungry eyes. He watched the way your arousal pooled at the tight hole of your cunt, the way your clit hardened at the feeling of the cold air. Your hands snaked down to his head, and you dragged your fingers through his hair, his name falling from your tongue as your eyes met.

“Let me take care of you.” He whispered, leaning forward to kiss your swelling clit.

“Yes sir.” You smiled playfully, and he gently bit into your soft thigh with a chuckle.

The General swirled his tongue around your clit, lapping up your wetness before pushing into your tight folds, fucking you slowly with his mouth. You moaned for him, your back arching so high off the bed he had to anchor your hips closer to his face.

You never wanted to leave this bed.

His fingers dragged down your body until he pulled his mouth away from your aching core, and you both watched him sink his middle finger deep within you, until the tip of his digit pressed into that soft sponge that made you cry out in pleasure.

“That’s it. Sing for me, my heart.” His voice was laced with arrogance, but you didn’t care. He fucked your clit between his lips, rolling it gently before tracing numerals into the throbbing bud.

“Oh. Oh! Carissimus, my beloved, please.” You cried out for him, nails digging deeper into his head of hair as you drew him closer, grinding your hips into his face until it glistened with your arousal.

His chuckle vibrated through your core, a second finger pressing into your pussy as he fucked your with his fingers, hooking them each time he thrusted in. Your clit was still in his mouth, his tongue unrelenting with its gentle strokes.

Your legs were already shaking with an oncoming orgasm, and his name ripped from your mouth like a guttural cry to the gods as your flood gates finally broke. Your climax hit you like a thunderstorm, and Marcus lapped up every drop of your sweet cum until you were clean.

He climbed on top of you, his cock already throbbing with a second wave of arousal, and met your mouth with his. You tasted yourself on his tongue, the thought making you moan. Marcus pulled you up, your chests pressed together from where he sat, and you wrapped your legs around his waist.

The length of his dick rubbed into your swollen folds, making you ache for him again, and you both watched the leaking tip of his member slowly sink inside of you, your moans in perfect unison as he filled you up. Your body melded in to his, two puzzle pieces cut from the same slab of stone.

“Do you feel that, my heart? What you’ve done to me?”

You nodded through a gasp of pleasure, the sting of being stretched by him the most wonderful sensation you had ever felt before.

“I do. Oh, I do.”

He leaned forward, gently biting down on your neck as he fucked himself into you, his hands steady on your hips.

“I could give you a baby. I could you fill you up until you were swollen with my child, beautiful and radiant with the promise of a new life.” You gasped out as his words, his lips marking a bruise upon your skin. His voice was heated, quiet, right against your ear as he thrust deeper.

“Is that what you want? I could give you the world. A son, a daughter- whatever you wanted.”

You whimpered, grasping ahold of his broad shoulders. Marcus groaned against you, nuzzling his face closer into the crook of your neck.

“Yes, General. Please. Fill me.”

“I will. Again and again. Until the only cock you ever crave is mine. I’ll fuck you so good you’ll ache with the ghost of me for years to come.”

You threw your head back, pulling him closer against you- as close as another person could be. He was panting like a dog, and your mouth was full of drool as he pounded into you, the sound of his skin slapping against skin bouncing off the walls.

“Just like that, Marcus. Oh, gods. Fuck me.”

He growled out your name, so deep it almost sounded threatening, and pushed you down onto your back, your legs pressed to the sides of your head as he rutted in to you. You reached your hand down to circle your sensitive clit, a tiny whine leaking from your mouth.

“You feel divine.” He groaned, his forehead pressing in to yours as he fucked you so deep you were almost folded in half.

“And you do, too. You stretch me so good. Fill me so…. oh. So nicely.”

The General chuckled, gently biting your jaw. You giggled at the feeling of his facial hair tickling your skin, and he nipped at your ear lobe, hoping to illicit the same sweet sound of laughter. He did.

Rubbing at your own clit had your second orgasm approaching much faster, and Marcus felt you tightening against him.

“That’s it. Cum for me, soak me.” He was almost begging if you didn’t know any better.

You came at the sound of his voice, and after a few more thrusts, Marcus was filling you up, groaning out a series of profanities you had never heard from him before. He rode you through your orgasm, finishing with a shudder before collapsing beside you.

Part of you wondered if it was all a façade.

If he would turn his back to you and fall asleep, if he would kick you out and never make eye contact with you again. You wondered if it was all a front he had put on in the hopes of getting some, if this was his way of celebrating a victory without attaching any strings to someone.

But, after he caught his breath, he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you so close to him you were practically resting atop his chest. You could hear his heart beat, the way it slightly sped up at the feeling your hands on his thick biceps.

He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“Marcus?”

“Yes?”

“Can I stay with you tonight?”

“You can stay with me for however long you want. I am yours, until your desire for me burns out.”

You kissed his chest, placing your cheek on his shoulder until your faces were closer, the top of his nose pressing into yours. “I would be a fool to let that happen.”

“And I would be a fool to cause it.”

You smiled, kissing his mouth once more, before the sweet hand of sleep guided you into dreams of him. Marriage, children, a home.

When you awoke, he was right there, and he greeted you with a gentle kiss.

For months, you kept your affair a secret, until your love became so much to bear you had to do something about it.

You escaped for a weekend to the hills up north, and he gave you a necklace to wear around your neck- a testament of his love, proof of his devotion, a sign that you were his, and his alone. You gave him a ring in return, a ring he wore on his pinky.

A ring he never took off.

No one knew of your love. That’s what made it so special. A secret shared onto between the two of you, a love which ran so deep, not even societal conventions could stop it.

What mattered showed itself at the end of a long day, when you would always manage to find one another, laying together and discussing every little thing you could think of. It showed itself in the way you would always manage to return home to each other, if only for a small moment of time.

It was the following winter when you found out you were pregnant with his child.

Your pregnancy didn’t last long. You never got to see your stomach swell with the pride of carrying the General Marcus Acacius’ baby.

When your husband, your actual, lawful husband, found out you were pregnant by the touch of another man, he hit you so hard you bled for days, your thighs slick with a coat of crimson, your stomach bruised in the shape of his knuckles.

The night Marcus found out, he broke into your home under the cover of dark, and beat your husband until his eyes fell from his skull. You couldn’t scrub the blood away, it was soaked through the floorboards, splattered across the walls- a reminder of what happens when you mess with the one Acacius loved.

When the news broke that your husband had been murdered, Marcus was the first to be taken to prison- no trial to clear his name.

The senate was out for blood.

But you were a different story. You were delivered to your father first.

“You have besmirched my good name.” He spoke, his nose pointed away from where you knelt on your knees. The man could hardly look at you.

A woman’s adultery, conspiring to murder the one whom you were entangled with- that was the greatest crime of all. And you, one half of the whole criminal.

“He hit me, father. Marcus was protecting me. That’s what a good General does-”

“Do not proceed to tell me what a good General does. A good General does his duty. He does not fornicate with the children of Emperors.”

Your eyes widened with the realization of what your father knew. “What are you-”

“You think me a fool, child? Your husband was many things, but virile was not one of them. Why do you think I married you off to him? Because he was not a threat to my power. For too long had Rome had her emperor stabbed down, like common cows off to slaughter. I was protecting myself, protecting you, when I gave you that man. Now you stand before me, saying there was once life within you- and the only culprit I can see is General Acacius. Would you like to convince me that I am wrong?”

You took a long moment to process what he was saying, but you couldn’t lie. Not to him. Not to your father.

Not to the man who once walked through fields of flowers with you, braiding together daisy chains to place atop your head. Not the man who helped you how argue in the mock senate trials he would create for you in the dining room, not the man who helped you sneak fresh honeycomb from the kitchen late at night.

Not the man who had raised you, the man who had once loved you.

You just couldn’t lie to him.

Slowly, you shook your head, hoping your honesty would win you his favor.

It did not.

“So it is true. The bed has been made, child. You both will be sent to the cells. And come next week, you will fight.”

“You’re killing me? Your only daughter?”

He stood angrily, turning to leave. “I’m not killing you. But he will. You will know fear when you step into that arena. And when the man you loves slays you- perhaps that will teach you your lesson.”

“And what is my lesson, father?” You shouted after him, attempting to stand to your feet. Two guards forced you back done. “What’s my lesson?” You screamed, watching as he left the room.

Again, you shouted. “What’s my lesson, you coward?”

But he never answered. Instead, he turned the corner, and the final thing you saw was his purple toga bellowing behind him.

You were left without answers, another criminal in his eyes, stripped of your title, your inheritance, your livelihood.

Almost everything had been taken from you. And one day soon- everything would be taken.

That was the last time you saw the Emperor.

The pain of your father’s betrayal stung like a wasp for the days to come.

When you were reunited with Marcus, he was more bloodied than you had ever seen him. Still, despite this, his eyes ignited with the brilliance of one thousand suns at the sight of you.

“Omnia vincit amor: et nos cedamus amori.” Marcus whispered to you, gently grabbing your chin.

Love conquers all: let us, too, surrender to love.

He took you on the floor of the prison that night, holding you tightly to him. Like so many nights before, he filled you to the brim, covered you in marks, made you his own. He embraced you all through the evening, whispered softly to you when you awoke with a jolt from a nightmare, kissed your tenderly when you began to cry about what was yet to come.

No matter what, he made sure you felt safe.

If you closed your eyes, everything felt normal for a brief moment of time. Thanks to him.

When you opened them, when you came to, you were exactly where you had been, a prisoner to this cage, another notch in the belt of Rome’s many victims.

You knew the days would drag by slowly, but you were not prepared for the conversations that had yet to come, for the realizations you would soon have.

“-You are my heart, my anima mate. The very thing which keeps me beating. I can’t do it.”

“You must, Marcus. You must. I know my father better than anyone. He loves the dramatics, he wants to see me die. I betrayed him. Just… just do what is needed to be done, and kill me. Quickly.” You were half begging with him now, tears pricking the corner of your eyes as you held tightly to his arms. You felt your nails digging into his skin, and winced with guilt.

Marcus shook his head. “I will not.”

“Carissimus, what is there left to do?”

The General thought for a moment, before finally speaking.

“Tomorrow, when the time comes, we will walk into that arena and lay down our swords. I will not fight you, I will not kill you. If the Emperor sends out the lions, I will slay them. If they send in the Secutor, I will end him. If they send in an army of armed slaves, I will cut them down one by one. The Heavens above could part, and Mars himself could come down, and I would banish him to the Realm of Pluto for the rest of eternity.”

“Oh, Marcus. Why? Just… you could go free. I heard the guards say that was the plan all along. All you need to do is kill me-”

“I will not!” He raised his voice, his guttural bark reverberating off the walls of the prison. Quickly, his face softened, and he took your face in the roughness of his calloused palms. “My heart, don’t you understand? For you, I would rip this world in half if I knew you would remain unscathed. I would fight basilisks, minotaurs, hunt down nymphs- whatever was needed of me to keep you safe. Anything.”

There was a short moment of silence before Marcus spoke again.

“What point is there in going free, if I cannot share my freedom with you?”

You fell into him gently, your arms slithering around his waist. For a moment, you listened to his heart beat, allowed the thunderous thump lull you into thoughts of sweet nights shared naked between sheets, and morning kisses stolen between juicy bites of apples.

“Okay.” You finally whispered, nodding against him.

“You trust me. Don’t you?”

“With my life, General.”

He hummed out in approval. “That’s my girl. My brave little heart.”

Marcus pressed a kiss to your forehead, standing up slowly as he tenderly placed you off his lap.

You stared at the wall, before looking up at him with a hint of playfulness on your face. “What if they release two lions?”

Despite it all, Marcus smiled ever so slightly. “Then you, meum , would have to learn to wield the sword.” He joked, gently judging you with his foot.

“I jest.” He finally murmured, leaning down to kiss you softly. You kissed him back, and it felt like the very first time. It always did. Passion surging through you, electricity jolting your every bone. He kissed you with the fervor of a hundred lovers, and each time he made you feel so warm, wrapped up tightly in the embrace of his desire.

You pulled away, and at the sigh of his beautiful eyes staring in to you’re, you understood what your father wanted from you, what the lesson he thought you were about to be taught was.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s the matter?” Marcus asked softly, crouching in front of you to gently grasp ahold of your face.

“My father told me that you would teach me a lesson when you killed me. I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner. He…. he doesn’t think you love me. He wants to see me die because he wants his point to be proven, that my love for you is nothing in the face of war. You’re right, you’re…. when we get there, we must put our weapons down. You were absolutely correct!”

Marcus kissed the corner of your eye. “Then we shall. And whatever happens next, we will go through it together.”

“Together.” Your murmured.

The day of was sickening.

Everyone had filled the coliseum, long before the show was due to start.

The Emperor’s beloved daughter and his blood thirsty war dog- what a delicious show it would be. To see the offspring of their ruler’s blood spilled at the hands of the esteemed General. Who wouldn’t want to see that?

You watched slaves fit Marcus into his armor, and you nervously chewed on your cheek as they did the same for you.

“This armor is for men. It’s too tight.” You snarled, elbowing someone who was getting too handsy on your chest.

“This is all we have, Princess.” Someone said meekly, and you groaned out.

“Fine! Then I’ll go with no armor!” You shrugged off the piece of metal, scowling at the group of people who had surrounded you.

“Without armor? But that’s practically suicide.”

“I’d rather die on my own volition than that of my father’s. Suicide it is then.“ After a few hasty bows, they ran off, disappearing into the shadows as you leaned against the wall.

Your eyes caught sight of Marcus, and he shot you a subtle wink as a slave fitted him into his chest plate. He wore a mask of confidence- there was not an inch of him that was unsure, not a glimmer in his eye that would show he was nervous.

“Omnia vincit amor: et nos cedamus amori.” He spoke to you softly, and a smile graced your lips.

“My carissimus.”

The roaring outside the tunnel was deafening, and if you were actually a fighter, it would have scared you half to death. How odd it was, for people to grow so excited by the show of death. You had understood the appeal in your youth, but now…. oh, it was barbaric. Wasn’t it? Just a show of power by the wealthy overlords who threw these fights together, an unfair trial executed by a panel of men who never cared about the value of one’s soul.

It must have been fifty thousand spectators, piled high onto the stone seats of the arena, if you were judging by the sheer noise which echoed through the walls.

“Come.” Marcus extended his hand, and you gently grabbed hold of it. “Don’t be afraid.”

You took in a deep breath. “I’m not.”

He dragged his thumb across your cheek, a chaste kiss soon following. “That’s my girl.”

You felt the tip of a spear on your back, two guards pushing you down the hall, towards the bright shimmer of light that awaited you at the end.

The thrum of war drums and the scream of chants filled your ears, coursing through your veins as though it were the blood surging through your heart.

“Cursed dogs!” You could heard a group screaming.

“Spill blood!” Another crowd roared.

Marcus took your hand, lacing your shaking fingers into his hand, and the words of those shouting outside fell short. It was just you and Marcus. Against the world, maybe, but together nonetheless.

He stood, durable and steadfast, his jaw tight as he walked into the stadium with you by his side. You had never seen an image of confidence so astounding before.

As you stepped into the dusty Coliseum, your father stood, raising his hands. The whole crowd stopped, simmering down to a hush so quiet it was hardly there.

As the world grew silent you could hear the chirping of the birds, the gentle breeze rushing through the leaves of the trees. When you closed your eyes, it felt like that fateful night, it seemed as though you were right back on Palatine Hill, flirting with the bloodied General who had just come back from war.

When you came to, Marcus looked down at you and nodded. You both dropped your swords.

You could see the anger course through your father’s face, you could practically feel the anger beating upon his ears. He snapped his fingers, and across the sandy arena, the iron gates arose, a lion stalking towards you.

Marcus pushed you behind his back, and raised his sword.

“Like I told you,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving the lion. “I would do anything for you.”

He pushed you back as the lion lunged, and as you fell to the ground , you watched the beast tackle him, and the splatter of blood across your face left you unsure who was slain.

When you opened your eyes, dripping with crimson blood, the sun glimmered into your eye, and you saw the shine of light reflected off of Marcus’ sword. He pulled it from the lion’s neck, stumbling towards you. Deep gashes were imprinted upon his chest, and as you caught him in your arms, you took the sword from his shaking hand.

“Rest, carissimus.”

From the corner of your eye, you saw the Secutor barreling towards you, his egg-shaped helmet sparkling beneath the light of the afternoon sun. At the sight of the man barreling towards you, Marcus found a surge of strength, rising up once more and grabbing his sword.

“Behind me.” He ordered, and you would have been a fool to disobey.

The Secutor raised his spear, a throw that Marcus dodged easily, but grazed you across the arm. His face flashed with a moment of worry, but he had no time to care for you. Marcus brought his sword down about the fellow gladiator’s arm, a cry so animalistic you could have sworn he were a goat, ringing through the air as he fell to his knees.

Marcus made quick work of the Secutor.

And the group of slaves, after him.

And the second blood thirsty lion.

And then the third.

And by the time the sun was setting, Marcus could hardly stand. The arena was on pins and needles, and you both were covered in blood, standing back to back with raised blades. You both had killed, far more than either of you had planned to today.

You had never ached so bad. You had never craved a soft bed and the gentle touch of your lover so bad.

“Carissimus?”

“My heart?”

“I don’t know how much more I can take of this.”

“Then I will carry that burden for you.” He promised, reaching around to grasp at your waist.

Your father stood from his seat, slowly walking towards the edge of the balcony. He raised his fist, and your feet gave way beneath you. Marcus turned in record speed, catching you quickly and holding your body to his chest, his glare never leaving your fathers.

You curled into the dark corners of the arena hall, having been here since dawn with your own father, a high military commander who struck down Marcus as punishment for such things even he wouldn’t tell you about. You knew nothing, heard nothing—you weren’t allowed such privilege. 

It has been days since you last saw him—Marcus. General Acacius to many, another esteemed leader amongst the masses, and a once great friend to your father. Though, that was no longer.

You often called him sir, finding that General Acacius was quite the mouthful. Or often just General, but his endearment toward you was blatant and he insists, almost pleading that you drop the formality when alone. Which was easier, as your fondness of him grew.

It started at a celebration, one of the many grand parties thrown in celebration of fight won or any reason for the men to drink, but Marcus liked to linger. Often tucked away in a corner watching the madness unfold, you were too curious to stay locked up in your room.

The first night he caught your eye, it was a smile around the edge of his silver goblet drowning in red wine, a hand crossed over his chest as he watched you slip away in fear that he may say something to your father.

But, he never did.

For weeks after, it progresses. From a smile, to a lingering gaze, eventually he finds himself inching closer to you, week by week. Until one night he finally finds the courage in himself to be waiting by the corner you often sneak around, watching curiously.

“You are pushing it, dove.” He speaks softly, his eyes downturned to look at you from the step he was on above you, slowly inching down until he was level, “if he catches you—”

“He hasn’t,” You tell him in a clipped, hushed tone, “and you haven’t said anything. You won’t….will you?”

He bypasses the question, “Why do you come here?” Marcus curiously asks, “These men, they are—animals, if they see you dressed like that, they would not hesitate to—”

You had on a pale nightgown, thin and barely enough to cover your modesty but it was enough. The sticky, summer heat prickled your skin, formed a line of sweat across your brow and you huffed out at his words, “My father would murder them. Besides, you are not like them. So, why do you linger here?”

He was much more than a friend, closer and akin to family. 

But, he had his own troubles. Stepson, a wife, he should be away caring for them. Yet, he was there with a disgruntled scowl and eyes only set on you.

“Why not?” He shrugs, “It is…quite entertaining. Isn’t that why you sneak around here to watch?”

You mimic his shrug, shying away slightly as you pull away to leave, but his hand catches your wrist, his cup placed in the gap of pillars separating you both. His facial expressions show an internal battle of thought, like he’s fighting against the bad and hoping the good would win out.

Unfortunately, the bad prevails.

“Let us walk,” He tells you, nodding toward the exit a few feet away, “if you would accompany me?”

You nod eagerly, switching the grip on your wrist to curl around his bicep, muscular and hard from years of fight training. He flexes slightly at the touch, covering his free hand over yours in a comforting gesture. 

He made you feel safe. And that was all that mattered to you.

—

The walk was the first mistake.

It wasn’t more than a few minutes before you found yourself tucked away by a nearby tent, unbuckling and unfastening Marcus out of his gear hastily before he fucked you under your nightgown—gentle but firm. He was the first man, the first ever to have you in such a way. You’d told him so as your hands shook under the weight of his gaze, the taste of bitter wine on his lips. He’d kissed you as he pushed his cock inside of you and didn’t stop until you were tipping over the edge.

Over time, you grow bolder. Sneaking him back into your home was easy, knowing the guards weren’t as watchful in the late, late hours of the night. It was dangerous, reckless, but as you tug him down into the cellar and sink to your knees, it all fades away quickly.

His little dove, he often calls you. Sweet dove, so pure and innocent. His hand caresses your chin as you swallow him down, eyes locked on his half-lidded gaze before he comes down your throat, nose scrunching up slightly and his brow furrowing, biting at the back of his other hand to muffle the groan that escapes him.

It was always like this—hurried and quick fucks that didn’t diminish the feeling, but reminded you how easily you could both be caught. It continues for months…and months, until suddenly he stops coming around.

No parties, no visits—Marcus had become a ghost.

But, enough digging had led you here, tucked away in the shadows again—but watching as he fought for his life. The other man was much older, weaker, and Marcus struck him down within a matter of minutes, blood splattering across his face as he stuck again and again, bashing the poor man’s skull in until it was nothing, teeth gritting as his body surged with adrenaline.

Gladiator fighting wasn’t a new thing—and you knew he wasn’t the only one, but why?

He’s making his way down the arena toward the pillar you are tucked behind unknowingly, alone and battered as the guards run off to dispose of the body. You aren’t sure where Marcus is going now or when you would see him again, but you take the chance when you know no one is watching, grabbing him by the armor plate on his chest and pulling him away and into a dusty closet, knocking into a stack of buckets in the process.

You gasp as his hand wraps around your neck, fist cocked back in preparation of an attack.

But, then his eyes land on you.

“Dove, what are you—”

You shush him quickly, hands molding against his face and the dried blood, his breathing quick and short as you attempt to calm him.

“I had to see you—I thought…I thought you had—”

“I might as well be,” Marcus replies somberly, “we cannot meet like this. We cannot meet at all.”

“It’s fine, It’s fine–” You assure him, reaching forward to press your lips against his.

Marcus pulls away hesitantly, grabbing your face roughly until you look at him, eyes widening.

“They will kill you. I cannot see you again. I should not even be here with you.”

Your eyes well with tears, forcing yourself forward again to capture his lips and this time he allows it, opening his mouth slightly as your tongue dips inside, working silently at the buckles to his chest plate.

“No talking. Let us…enjoy this. If it is the last time.”

You were both well aware—he would fight for his life or die, that was it. And he would fight until that point came. He was no longer a General, completely stripped of his power. But, he was still Marcus. And you would hold onto that for as long as you could.

He’s shaking, the adrenaline raking his body and making him restless as you kissed him, tongue dipping into his mouth again as his hands roamed, squeezed, caressed. 

“I will not break,” You whisper into his mouth, “take what you need, Marcus.”

It was all he needed to hear, turning you around swiftly and forcing your down with a hand against your back, arms pressing into the shelf in front of you as he pushed up the silk, carefully woven and intricate fabric of your dress—so pristine and perfect. He wanted to rip it off you, be he refrains, squeezing at your hips while he kneels behind you.

“Marcus, you need not—”

“Quiet, little dove. Let me have this,” He licks against your cunt hungrily, noisy slurps as he lapped you up, squeezing less than gentle at the inside of your thighs as they shook, his tongue swiping over your clit, a broken moan slipping past your lips, “beautiful—let me hear you.”

“Marcus,” You plea, his fingers joining his tongue as they breached you and drag against the soft, but incredibly sensitive spot inside of you, your hand reaching for his wrist tucked between your legs as you whined out his name once more, twice, until your legs gave out, feelings his strong, broad shoulders flexing as he used his brute strength to keep you upright, licking up the gush of fluids that leak out of you, rising with haste and untucking himself from his garments, wrapping a gentle hand around the back of your neck before he’s pulling you upright harshly.

“Want to leave you something,” He whispers against the shell of your ear, “something to remember me, if I shall never leave here. Something of me for you to carry on. Alright, sweet dove?”

You nod knowingly, as Marcus had always been careful to pull himself out before breaching that point. He was always careful, hesitant—but being on the brink of death, he found himself careless and desperate. He couldn’t let you go.

He slips inside of you with a hand tucked around your throat, pulling your back to his chest as he snapped his hips into you firmly, groaning lewdly into the side of your neck as he bit down, squeezing at your throat with every soft sound you made and you want it just as bad, forcing your hips back into every push of his cock—you were positive this pain would last you into next week, but you needed that reminder. His fingers dip into your skin, hard and uncaring and sure to leave marks, but that was what you wanted.

And his groans quickly turn needy, more high-pitched than you’ve ever heard them

He’s holding back, restraining himself. You turn your head, catching his heated gaze as he pants, your thumb tracing over his lip. His hand drags over your stomach, rests, curious of how beautiful you would look swollen and carrying his child. 

It is a hopeful and distant dream, one that he will never foresee.

“Give it to me, Marcus,” You beg him, “I want it.”

It so easily undoes him, “Take it, my dove,” He growls, coming deep inside of you with a shaky thrust of his hips, squeezing you tight against him, “I think of you, always. You must know—know that.” 

It pulls at your heart, tugs in a way that makes your entire body ache. He pulls out with a low grunt, silently tucking himself away as you adjust your dress.

“And I love you,” You admit, watching as his gaze pulls up quickly, “even if you cannot say it back. I know. I know you do.”

Marcus breathes harshly through his nose, crowding you once more but it is soothed by a gentle kiss, “You need to leave—do not come back here.”

“Marcus,” You counter, sadness lacing your tone.

“If, by some miracle, I make it out of here,” He drags his thumb along your jawline, pausing on his words as he looks you over, memorizes you, “I will find you.”

You nod jerkily, eyes never breaking from his, “Just like you always have.”

divider creds: @/cafekitsune

   Thump. Thump. Thump. 

   You can basically feel your heart trying to break free of your insides that pound uncontrollably as you watch Marcus take out another large fighter from his right with only one jab of his shiny sword that catches sunlight and reflects in your wide eyes.

   Come on, Marcus. Win, stay alive!

   You swallow back a trembling whine as you sit on the edge of your seat, fingernails digging into the tough stone as you watch the man you yearn for take another blow to the back. You gasp as you watch Marcus flip the fighter over and finish him off with one slice of his silver sword, barely any sign of pain or fear in his vision that’s focused on taking out every single enemy that stands in his way of freedom.

   You sigh out in relief, fear flooding your veins as your eyes stay glued to every careful move he makes in the arena of death. 

   He stands in the middle of the expansive, gruesome arena, dodging left and right, taking out man after man, completely pulverizing anything and anyone that gets in his way. He’s the best in the game, the most experienced fighter, the champion that never falters, never loses. So why are you a complete mess when he’s in that pit of death?

   You’re not lovers, not exactly. You’re his plaything, the woman he calls to his bedchamber after every battle, every night that suits his needs. He doesn’t care if you’re asleep, doesn’t care if you’re in the middle of other pressing matters, doesn’t give a fuck because you’re his property that he can do whatever he wants with. And you have to admit you find that sort of… hot. You’ll do anything for that man. He can use you all he wants, as long as that means you have him.

   Your pulse thrums in your neck as you watch him completely dominate the arena. The blazing sun rains down on his broad body, leaving him in damp, silver armor, sweat glistening down his tanned skin, greying curls sticking to his forehead, dirt covering every inch of his muscular arms, his sculpted legs, his large hands. 

   You so badly wish you could be every speck of that dirt right now so you could lick up and down every inch of him until you were completely consumed in him, until you could see nothing but him for all eternity, until he melded his own skin with yours as you fused into one. 

   When the crowd chants and the last man falls to his death, the only man left standing is him, General Acacius, the man you’re completely wrapped up in. You have to pull yourself back together as your core burns hot, slick collecting just thinking of what he’ll do to you later tonight. You know he’ll take you, hard. 

   His golden flecked chocolate eyes find yours in the crowd in a heartbeat, a celebratory smirk curling against his plush mouth as darkness and trouble swirl through those beautiful eyes. You know what that means. He’s won you, and he wants you, now.

   When your eyes leave his, you see the emperor’s daughter, Mina, looking over his broad body with those bright blue eyes, her ashy blonde hair flowing down her back, and she’s nearly drooling over his victory, thinking that she can get him with her daddy’s command.

   You flare hot with jealousy at the thought of Marcus and Mina tangling together, their skin caressing over each other’s in his large bed draped with gold sheets that swallow their bodies whole till they’re nothing but shadows dancing in the midst of the night.  

   You see it now. The long walks they take in the gardens, the secret slurs in each other’s ears over dinners with the entire court, an arranged marriage as he fights for her love each time he’s in the arena. 

   It’s only in your head, only a sick mirage your jealous mind has conjured up. He barely glances her way half the time, his heated gaze only locked on you each time you’re in the same vicinity. It’s stupid really, the hate you feel for her because you could never measure up to a rich, beautiful goddess like herself. You don’t come from royalty, barely have a cent to your name, and that is why he could never love you, you think. 

   Mina has it all, and you’re just… you. 

   You swallow the lump in your throat as the audience still shouts and whistles from every direction as Marcus is called out and awarded as the winner of today’s events. You want to stay, but you get up quietly and leave, knowing he’ll want you waiting in his chambers when he’s finished. 

   He’s safe. That’s all that matters. 

   You quickly leave behind the bellowing noise of the arena, trading it for a quiet walk through the rose garden, past the trickles of clear blue fountains, entering into a quiet overlay of towering architecture that’s trimmed in carved stone and marble pathways. A place you could never even dream of setting foot in on a regular basis. You’re just a commoner, not royalty, not wealthy, not anything but his to take. And that will have to be enough. For now. 

   You slip past some guards, heading straight for his bedroom, his sanctuary so to speak. He calls it that because you are what he worships night after night in those sheets, inside those marble walls, against his broad body that makes every vibration buzz through your nerve endings. He is what makes this city even tolerable. 

   You throw the double doors open wide and slam them shut, letting the glow of the sunlight fade through the cascading window overlooking the city. The room smells of spice and aroma, the golden curtains sparkle as the sun kisses the see-through fabric and dips against the silky sheets that are bathed in a majestic golden hue. The king sized bed sits front and center as his grand bathing chambers lay to the right, just inside the hand crafted door that’s threaded with gold.

   This room, this place is exquisite, and you can’t believe the emperor is letting Marcus stay here after their falling out that happened just weeks ago. But the best fighter gets to stay in these living quarters. They get money, a title, a chance at freedom from the arena if they’re lucky. That’s what Marcus is fighting for. To be free from this hellish prison, and you just pray to the gods that no one will take him from you. You’ll surely wither and fade away the moment something goes wrong in those walls of torture and murder because he’s all you know anymore here in Ancient Rome. 

   Before you can delve into anymore feelings, you hear the crash of doors being opened behind you, and then you hear the disposal of swords and shields being tossed in a heap on the floor, then you hear the deep, ragged breaths of the one you’ve been waiting for. Marcus.

   You try to twist around, but strong arms envelop you from behind, and a warm breath blows huskily down the shell of your ear. “Enjoy the show?” he smirks as his meaty hands find the back of your long gown and rip, tugging it free as it falls to the floor around your ankles. 

   Your mouth drops open as warmth blooms in your core, hot and heavy like the room begins to feel. “Marcus! I liked that dress,” you pout.

   He grabs the back of your hair and tugs playfully while one hand snakes around your waist and pulls you flush to his silver armor, making you gasp as he cups your bare breasts and starts kneading them together, like he needs you right this very second and can’t wait any longer to get his experienced fingers on your burning skin. 

   “I’ll buy you another one. Not like I don’t already have one hanging in my closet,” he teases, pinching your pebbling nipples together as a slight moan leaves your lips. 

   “Needy thing, aren’t you?” he chuckles, pulling you closer as one hand slips down and ghosts over the sheer panties, the only thing left on your bare body. 

   “For you, yes,” you whine, stifling a moan as his calloused thumb glides over your clit, sending a shiver down your spine as you fight to keep standing upright. 

   “Greedy thing I see, wanting to come already?” he teases as he tugs his hand away from your slick center and rips your ruined panties in half, leaving you completely bare and absolutely wet with desire and famished for his touch. 

   “Turn around,” he instructs with a bite as he assesses you from head to toe, licking his bottom lip in anticipation the moment he sees how drenched you are for him.

   Your gaze drops over him, still clad in silver armor, his leather wristbands splattered in dried blood, his Caliga boots biting into his toned shins, the leather kissing his muscular thighs. He quickly loses the wristbands and stalks toward you, backing you up till your back is pressed into the corner of the bed, chest heaving as the possibilities swarm your hazy mind.

   “My armor, unthread it,” he demands as his dark brown eyes pierce into yours as sweat glistens across his tanned forehead, dirt still caking his dark skin as he stands fresh from a win of a long day in the arena. “Now,” he growls as he loses his patience while you stand there staring like a lovesick puppy.

   “Yes, sir,” you nod as your fingers get to work unlacing the gold threads of his armor, making sure your movements are swift and cordial, knowing he doesn't like waiting too long to have you. 

   His eyes follow you with every turn, every move, like he’s some kind of wild animal that’s stalking his prey, ready to pounce and devour at any minute. You have to keep your eyes off his as you unfasten his belt, the silver armor falling to the floor as you tug it off his broad body until he’s standing only in the leather material that covers his upper thighs and the boots that shine against his banged up ankles. 

   You stand there a minute and admire the gorgeous fighter that stands in front of you. Tall, extremely handsome, greying curls slicked back with the sweat from the sweltering sun in the arena, dirt etched across sculpted, tanned skin, eyes the color of bright sunlight and charcoal mixed together to make the prettiest honey-glazed eyes you’ve ever seen in your life. This man is like a god, and you’d happily get down on your knees and worship him at his beck and call. 

   His blazing eyes slide down your bare body and end at what’s left on his, nodding for you to finish the job. “Well, don’t just stand there. Finish undressing me,” he bites out with scalding irritation, clearly ready to forget his long day in an arena where hyenas bark at him day after day. He wants a release, and that release is you.

   You quickly tug the leather material down his legs, taking his underwear to the floor as his hard cock stands at attention against his sculpted abs, his coarse, wiry, dark hair trailing down the base of him as you gulp with wide-eyes.

   He’s so big, so thick, so very… god-like. 

   He sits down on the wooden chest that’s sprawled at the end of his bed, spreading his muscular legs wide as he points to his dusty battle boots. “Knees on the ground, Starlight,” he instructs firmly with a gravelly tone that makes you clench your thighs together.

   “Yes. Of course, Marcus.”

   “Sir,” he corrects as you bend down and start to unlatch the straps of his fighting boots, slowly stripping them off as you toss them to the side. 

   You idly sit there on your knees, one arm twisting around the back of his thigh as you spread him wider, almost drooling at the sight of his thick cock dripping precum around the angry red tip. Your mouth parts open, and you lose all train of thought. The only thing you want is to choke on that beautiful cock till he tells you to stop.

   He strips you from your fantasies as he grabs a fistful of your hair, leaning down as he bites out slow, deliberate words. “Are you just going to sit there, or are you going to be a good girl and wrap that pretty little mouth around my cock?” His eyes twinkle with a seductive glare, and his dirty words melt all the way down to your heated core until you can actually feel them around your aching clit.

   “Yes, sir. Wanna be your good girl,” you pant as you lick your bottom lip in anticipation.

   He smirks and sits back as his rough hand guides you forward. “Then get to work,” he growls, tugging you forward with his hand wrapped around your hair until your lips meet his dripping tip.

   You take your tongue and run it flat up the base of him, following along the bulging vein as you lick up the salty precum that gushes around his swollen tip. 

   Gods, he tastes so good, even after a long day in battle without a bath. You actually prefer to go down on him like this when his musk is drenched around the coarse hairs at his base, sweat pooling down his glorious body as you bathe in the aroma of him. Battle and all, this is when you like him most, when he completely takes charge and dominates you around his chambers, instructing you with filthy words and crude actions. This is how you like it. All hot and sweaty and desperate and messy.

   He groans as you take him deeper, hollowing out your cheeks as you fill your throat with his thick cock, gagging around his massive size as he starts to bob his hips, fucking your throat in steady strides as his large fingers wrap around your soft waves. 

   “That’s it, right there, atta fucking girl,” he moans, tipping his head down to yours as he watches you through the black pits that consume his wide eyes.

    “Look at me,” he demands as he pulls you back up to breathe, letting a bead of saliva connect to your plump lips from the tip of him as you suck in a deep breath, feeding your lungs as you look up into eyes that could eat you alive. 

   “There she is, my good little Starlight. Sucking my cock just the way I like it, yeah?” he coos, threading his fingers through your hair and stroking the back of your neck like you’re a well trained dog on a leash just waiting for their master to give you orders.

   “Mhm. You just taste so good, all hot and sweaty,” you purr as your hand slides down the base of his shaft, squeezing his balls as he grunts in pleasure, tightening his grip on your neck as he pushes you back down. 

   “Yeah? Put those pretty lips to action then, gorgeous,” he growls. 

   He takes you to your limits, cock throbbing as you choke and gag around his thick length, drool dousing him as he fucks you hard and deep, taking exactly what he needs after going through hell and back himself in one day.

   You groan, tears licking your eyes as you swallow the salty taste of him, letting him move you at his leisure, making your body do exactly as he pleases. Before you can get another good taste of his deliciousness, he pulls you off and throws you on your back in the silky sheets, watching him grab some of the gold cords from his armor. 

   Your breath escapes you as he crawls over your body, the dirt caking his broad arms as his hungry eyes nearly devour you whole as he carefully binds your wrists to the headboard, stilling your writhing legs as he starts to slowly spread them. 

   Your heart is beating wildly like ocean tides collide with your body, and your core is humming for Marcus to touch you in every single place he can get his filthy hands on you.

   He takes the tips of his fingers and melodically strokes them down your neckline, skating between your peaked breasts, teasing along your inner thighs until you’re a writhing mess beneath him. “Marcus, please,” you beg, nearly panting his name raggedly as you beg for his touch. 

   “Sir,” he corrects sternly as he stares at you with dark eyes in warning.

   “Sir,” you apologize with a meek voice.

   He chuckles and drags his finger higher, teasing around your drenched folds as he hikes one leg over his shoulder, your other folding around his back. 

   “Now, I want you to look up and watch, can you do that?” he asks as you tilt your head and swallow a gasp as you stare into the reflection of you and Marcus in between the sheets that will soon be soaked.

   “Want you to see what belongs to me, what I own,” he growls dominantly as he sinks down to his elbows and breathes in your musk deeply as your pussy shutters at just the feel of his hot breath.

   You groan in waiting, and then his mouth is on you in a flash. He licks a thick stripe up your center as your wrists tug at the golden clasps, your fingernails digging into your skin as you moan in pure ecstasy when his tongue circles meticulously around your puffy clit. 

   “Oh, yeah,” you whine as the feel of his thick fingers curl up inside you, reaching that sweet spongy spot that makes you dizzy every single time.

   He chuckles as he pulls you down further, your bound wrists biting into the cords as he swirls his tongue exceptionally fast, groaning at the taste of you as his messy curls fall against your thighs. You want to reach down and lace your fingers into those beautiful locks, want to hear him groan as your nails dig deep into his scalp as you moan his name around the spacious chambers of his living quarters, but you’ll work with this for now, until he says otherwise. 

   He pulls your bundle of nerves into his warm mouth, sucking and teasing as he looks up from under hooded eyes and stares at you playfully with his pupils expanding into dark pits the more he feasts on you. 

   You buck into his mouth as his fingers plunge in and out of you, creating the most obscene wet noises that reverberate off the marble walls. He releases your buzzing clit with a pop, licking the slick from his lips as he groans at the sweet taste of you.

   “This is exactly what I needed, Starlight. Needed to drink you down, taste the savory flavor of this sweet pussy, needed to drown in you,” he pants as he dives back in, licking and sucking and fucking two thick fingers inside your dripping hole until you start to see black dots flick across your vision.

   “Yes, come for me, Starlight,” he purrs, his gravelly voice melting your insides into warm lava as you snap and let the white hot heat take control.

   You throw your head back into the plush pillow and let your moans fill the room as you clench around his thick fingers and release everything you have to give him.

   “Just like that, Starlight. Fuck, yes,” he growls as he licks you clean, lapping up all the slick until you’re completely spent off the way he just demolished you.

   You feel his broad body climb over yours, carefully untying you from the headboard as your arms fall slack to your sides. You feel as if every wave of ecstasy just crashed into you, the high tides pulling you out to sea as you agreeably follow the darkness. Marcus pulls you out of the lapping waves and carries you back to shore where it’s safe and warm by his side.

   “Come here, Starlight. Just lay back and take the pleasure,” he purrs as he glides his massive cock into your slippery folds, spreading you wide as he starts to rock his hips back and forth, feeding himself inside you as your walls clench up around him. 

   You lay back into the dampening sheets as his body presses you deeper into the mattress, his hands tangled in your hair, your own legs wrapped tight around his broad back as you moan with every stroke of his cock. You feel the pressure inside you coiling tight, feeling as if you’ll come undone again at any second. This is what you love, what you revel in, what you need most in this world. It’s him. 

   You lay sprawled in the damp sheets, bodies tangled together like magnets colliding as you stare up into the wide mirror, the motions of his broad body reflecting in your wide eyes as you take the pleasure again and again.

   “Marcus,” you cry out, pleading for him, begging him not to stop as you watch him take you harder, your nails dragging down his back with every deep thrust he gives you as he kisses the back of your cervix repeatedly. 

   “Yeah, feels good, doesn’t it, Starlight?” he coos against the shell of your ear as he traces his lips up up up until he’s hovering straight over your lips, his mouth teasing as he nips at your bottom lip.

   “Marcus,” you repeat, your heart straining for him to kiss you.

   Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me. It’s all you want, all you need. Like air to fill your lungs, he’s all it takes.

   It takes him less than two seconds to collapse his lips onto yours like he’s as desperate for air as you, like he might die if he doesn’t fill the space between the two of you. You moan into his mouth, tasting salt and sunlight crash against your taste buds as his tongue licks inside your panting mouth. He groans into the kiss, tangling his large tongue with yours as you chase him and let him swallow you down like it’s his last night to live.

    He deepens the kiss, pulling you flush to his chest as he turns you around while still inside you, landing on his back as he laces his fingers through your locks, moaning your name with every lick and every taste he takes from you. It’s like the gods have blessed you, bringing you this man, this mountain of a man that feeds your every need. And gods, you don’t think you will ever get enough of him.

   He disconnects from your swollen lips, resting his sweat covered forehead on yours as he concentrates on his swift strokes inside you, planting his hands firmly on your hips as he takes you for the ride of your life. “Yeah, that’s it, Starlight, You’re almost there, I can feel how much you’re squeezing. Let it out, let me feel it,” he growls through clenched teeth, trying not to fall apart before you do.

   He speeds up his thrusts, filling you fuller than anyone else has before, rutting into you at just the right angle where you can feel him start to uncoil all your tethered connections as your body slackens against his hold on you. 

   One more hard, long thrust and you’re done. “Marcusssss,” you moan, feeling the heat slide down and spill over his entirety as you fall flush into his strong chest. He takes initiative and thrusts deeper, much harder than before, desperate to chase his own release.

   He threads his brows together and groans your name quietly, his lips lingering over the shell of your ear as he takes three more breaths and then spills ropes of hot white cum inside your sticky core. 

   You moan together in ecstasy, bodies entwined as he empties his seed inside you, chests heaving with exhaustion as he carefully pulls out from inside you and collapses on the bed with a thud, your body slack against his as the damp, dirty sheets shift around your naked bodies. 

   After a few seconds of ragged breaths, he pulls your back flush against his sweaty chest and drapes an arm around you, holding you close as you let the sun slowly slip behind dark clouds that paint the sky violet colors.

   “You need a bath,” you giggle as you lace your fingers through his.

   “So do you,” he chuckles, nuzzling into the crook of your neck with a huff. “Just let me lay here a few more minutes. I’m exhausted,” he murmurs as he pulls you as close as humanly possible to his warm chest. You cozy up to him and sigh, relaxing into his warm touch, reveling in this soft moment that seems more rare than nights you get him all to yourself. 

   The room is sweltering, his scent clinging to every part of your body as you bathe in the smell of sweat, dirt, spice, and something that smells a lot just like him. He’s like your very own glass of fine wine, the perfect combination of class and just downright filth. He’s just… perfect. Perfect for you, the only man you truly want. And maybe that’s because you’re in love with him. Maybe that’s why you cling to him as much as you can, afraid he’ll be taken from you at a moment’s notice.

   You can’t lie to yourself, you’re absolutely terrified each time he steps into that arena, knowing the emperor wouldn’t even bat an eyelash if a man slaughtered him to shreds. You fidget against the damp sheets, cringing at the thought of blood filling his lungs, his body parts pulled apart by barbarians as he takes his last breath and slips into the dark abyss. 

   You clamp your eyes shut, thinking of Mina dragging him off to get married, thinking of him choosing another woman over you once he’s offered to cut ties in the arena if he marries someone with a higher title. You tremble at the thought of him leaving you all alone, like you never meant anything to him, like you were just a ragdoll for him to control whenever he wanted, like you don’t mean a damn thing other than knowing you’ll always be there at his command when he wants to blow some steam off from the arena. 

   You fight the uncontrollable tears that lick the backs of your eyes, plead to not break down in front of him, beg the gods to have some mercy on your soul if you were about to lose this man. You can’t lose him; you won’t lose him, unless he walks away and tells you to stay like a helpless dog losing their only person they know will take care of them.

   You can’t stand it, can’t hold in the emotions any longer, so you let them flow, feeling the tears like icy shards spilling down your burning cheeks.

   “Hey, hey, hey. Are you crying?” he asks with alarm in his deep, gravelly voice.

   “No,” you croak out as another tear falls like raindrops on the bed. 

   “Hey now, talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong,” he pushes softly, turning you around till you’re facing his direction, concern laced in his soft brown eyes.

   You stare at him with sad eyes, nervously twisting your fingers in the silky sheets that are now covered in grime and sweat. You can’t tell him you’re scared to lose him, you just… can’t.

   “Starlight, talk to me. Tell me what it is.” His fingertips brush off a falling tear, and you shake your head slowly. 

   “It’s nothing…”

   He cups your chin and tilts your head up to where your eyes are aligned with his, and in those eyes swims the most sincere gaze he’s ever given you in his entire life. “It’s not nothing if it’s making you cry. Now talk to me. I’m right here.”

   His fingertips feel like velvet dragging across your cheek, soft brown eyes weighing into yours as he gives you his full attention. And it’s no use now hiding your feelings; you need to just clear the air and get it off your chest.

   You take a deep breath and focus before you choke your words out. “I’m scared, Marcus.”

   “Scared of what?” he asks, furrowing his eyebrows as he hears you out.

   “Of losing you…”

   He sighs and runs his thumb gently down your jawline, stroking it up and down as the soothing feeling seems to settle your nerves. “Oh, Starlight. You’re never going to lose me.”

   You swallow the thick lump in your throat, holding back tears as you shake your head. “I could lose you any day in that arena. The things they put you through, the people you have to kill, the absolute horror you have to go through just to stay alive!” 

   His eyes go wide, but he lets you continue. “I don’t want to watch you die, Marcus! I don’t want them to keep feeding you to the wolves like you’re some kind of mindless entertainment for the city of Rome!”

   He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, slowly opening them back up as he cups the back of your neck. “I know, baby. I know…”

   Baby? That’s new….

   “Just trust me that I know what I’m doing, and that I’ll fight like hell to win my freedom back,” he sighs, his eyes glistening with a look like pain etched in the crevices of those golden brown irises.  

   “What if your freedom meant taking a wife, marrying someone with a title…” you whisper, barely able to lock eyes as he scrunches his forehead together.

   “What?” he asks with lines mapped against his tanned skin, considering your ridiculous question. “What do you mean take a wife with a title?”

   “Someone like Mina,” you murmur quietly.

   “Mina?” he asks with wide eyes.

   “She’s been obsessed with you ever since you first stepped into that arena. The way she looks at you… she could have you with a snap of her fingers if only she asked her father. And Marcus, I don’t want…”

   “Whoa there, slow down. Mina? Where is all this coming from? I have no interest in Mina.”

   You gulp, eyes dropping to the twisted sheets as you feel your heart stutter in your chest. “I overhear her all the time. The way she swoons over you, the way she dreams that one day you’ll notice her in the arena. And then… and what if you want to get married? Not even to her, but to someone with money, a title, someone royal, maybe someone that’ll get you out of here quicker? What if you…”

   You close your eyes tight, afraid you’ve spoken too much, afraid you’ve ruined everything as you lay in a heap with your heart pounding in your chest like a ticking time bomb. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did that, if you saved yourself from the brink of death. But I… I don’t know what I would do if I lost you, too. If you were to choose someone else…”

   You let the tears collect in your eyes, feel them slipping down your face as you try your best not to throw anything else frantic and chaotic into the stormy clouds above Rome. You’ve already said too much, too fast. You weren’t supposed to say anything.

   He lifts his head and stares at you, wordlessly assessing your fragile features as his eyes turn a soft brown, eyebrows knitting together as his eyes become glossy like yours. “Starlight, no. I don’t want Mina, I never did. And I would never ever leave you for someone else, even if it got me out of that pit faster. The only woman I want to see is you. If I haven’t made that clear before, I’m sorry. But… baby, you belong to me. You’re mine.”

   “I’m… yours?” you ask carefully, your tears spilling over the edges uncontrollably as you cling to his chest.

   “Of course you’re mine, Starlight. You’ve been mine since the first day I locked eyes on your beautiful face,” he whispers, curling a lock of hair behind your ear as you breathe in deep, surrounding yourself in the very essence of him as he tells you exactly how he’s felt the whole time this has been going on. “I’ve been yours longer than you know.”

   You whimper out a sigh, threading your fingers through his tousled hair as you stare into starry brown eyes that you’d really like to slip in and stay for all eternity. “Really?” you ask with wonder in your eyes.

   “Really,” he nods. “Do you know why I call you Starlight?”

   “No,” you whisper quietly, shaking your head as a fresh tear streams down your skin. He catches it with his thumb and caresses your cheek gently as his calloused fingers soothe your cloudy thoughts. 

   “Because you’re the brightest thing I see every single time I step into that arena. The only thing that keeps me fighting week after week in that bloodbath is you, so I can get back to you.”

   His answer leaves you completely breathless as you suck in warm air, your body still as you look longingly at the man that starts devastating wildfires in your heart.

   “Me?” you ask in a shaky breath.

   “You,” he nods with a smile. “The very first time I stepped into the arena, the first thing that crossed my vision was your eyes. Those beautiful, sparkling eyes were the only thing I focused on, the only thing that kept me from losing myself on that battlefield was you.”

   You gasp, his deep words taking the breath from your lungs as he confesses about the first time he noticed you, saw you, really, truly saw you. You weren’t invisible to him. You were never invisible. “Marcus…” you say shakily as he strokes your jawline lovingly. “But… I… I’m just a simple woman. I have no titles, no money to my name, no prospects. I’m just… me,” you state slowly.

   He sighs, cupping his hand around the back of your head as his fingers lazily stroke through your strands gently. “I don’t care, Starlight. I don’t care about money or titles or really anything about an important name. What's life of riches and freedom if I can’t have you?” 

   You swear your heart blooms like lush roses in your chest as you hear those words repeat again and again in your mind. He wants you, he wants you.

   “I want you,” he repeats, as if he can hear the sounds of doubt play in your mind like a music box that won’t stop spinning. 

   He cups both sides of your face and looks at you with pure intent in his glossy brown eyes. “I want you every day, every minute, every second, and I burn for you in that arena,” he promises as his lips graze over yours delicately. “I’ve wanted you from the moment I saw you sitting in the audience all wide-eyed and beautiful. And I want you even more now that I have you, want you by my side every minute of every day because I can’t stand the thought of losing you. And I’ll fight like hell to earn my freedom back because I love you.”

   He loves you.

   “Marcus, I…” 

   He crashes his lips against yours, a hot, needy, yearning kiss that nearly sends you soaring into the night sky as his lips surge like fire through your very veins. It’s soft like snow, kissing at your eyelashes as you let him pull you flush to his chest, needing to be as close as possible as love burns through your bodies, connecting them together as if this is the very first time you both ache to collide together. 

   “I love you, Marcus,” you whisper against his lips.

   He pulls you on top of his chest and sinks his mouth down on yours, slowly slotting his tongue in your mouth, drawing lazily circles as he drinks you down as you allow him to take all of you. Whatever he wants, whatever he needs from you he has. He tastes like the stars that shimmer in the sky, and you’ll be his entire galaxy, his Starlight that’ll guide him off the battlefield of the arena and back into your arms where he’s safe from harm.

   When he disconnects from your mouth, he stares at you, his soft brown eyes shimmering up at you as he runs his calloused fingers tenderly through your hair. “You’re mine, Starlight.”

   “I’m yours,” you repeat, smiling down at him as he brushes his lips against your forehead, kissing you with love written all over his touch as he pulls you up from the bed. 

   “Come on, my love. Let’s go take a bath,” he says softly as he picks you up and carries you to the bathing chamber, his strong arms cradling you against his warm chest as he places a lasting kiss to your forehead. 

   All your worries are shed, all false pretenses are gone, everything you were mourning over is suddenly lifted off your shoulders as they fly away into the night sky. This man is yours, and he’s never ever planning on letting you go. 

You rush to pour the water you’ve kept hot at his fire into the basin he uses to wash, eyes scanning quickly for the clean linens he uses to cleanse himself of the gore of battle, and making yourself scarce once the basin is full.

He says nothing, but he has no need to. 

You watch from your place at the edge of his vision, every nerve and receptor in your body honed to anticipate his needs. 

His armor needs to be cleaned before first light, thank the Gods I didn’t fall asleep. I will need to mend the tear in his tunic as well–

His hand shot out, face up towards you, interrupting your mental tally of his state but your body responds quicker than your mind and you’re there in an instant, placing the clean linen into his dampened hand. Still, he says nothing. 

You move towards his table while he finishes, shuffling his maps and well laid battle plans with great care in order to set out the olives and cheese he likes, the crusty bread and the dark wine he prefers. 

“General.” The gruff voice at the tent flap scares you half to death, but you don’t cry out. You’re too well-trained for that. A few of his soldiers stand at the threshold. “We wish to share a cup, a toast to your victory.” They are eager, the red glint of blood still fresh in their eyes. 

He grunts in response, but gestures to his table before giving you a pointed look. You rush to fetch more cups, setting them down at the extra places at his table. They are all seated by the time you finish pouring for them, and with another glance from Marcus–your general–you move to fetch more food from his stores. 

They’re raucous, the heat of the battle still coursing through their veins. Where Marcus is focused on calming the blood, they are eager to stoke the fire. They are either oblivious to his dark mood, or unbothered by it. 

“More wine!” One of them cries out, despite the way the General’s jaw clenches. You hurry to comply, pouring into the younger man's cup without spilling. “You are lucky General Acacius, a pretty, young, thing like this waiting to warm your bed of a night,” he leers up at you, his gaze slipping across your body like eels in a bowl, “would you share your wealth, I wonder.” His other hand slides up the back of your thigh causing you to gasp, his touch wholly unwelcome. 

“If you would like to keep your hands, I suggest you keep them to yourself.” His voice cuts through the air, “Come girl, take my cup away. I have no taste for wine just now.” You move away from the unwanted touch and towards Marcus, avoiding his eyes to complete the task at hand. “Go now, all of you. I will see you in the morning.” He moves from his place at the table, and if the others are unwilling to comply, they make no mention of it. The table is clear by the time he comes back, absent unwanted company. 

He says nothing while removing his armor, but you rush to his side to assist anyway, carefully putting the pieces aside to clean. 

The mood shifts, and his gaze now bores into you, and your heart races to feel it. Where the other man's eyes made your skin crawl, Marcus’ eyes feel like a caress. You feel them on the slit in your tunic, where your thigh is exposed. You feel them on your chest when you turn towards him to help take his chest plate off. 

Goose flesh spreads like a stain across your skin, and your cunt weeps for him, betraying any thoughts that you might not want what he quite obviously wants to give you. The proof of it tenting his tunic when the leather Pteruges are removed.

Those brutal hands, the ones that’d been covered in blood and grime not an hour past, now grab onto your hips, the grip hard enough to bruise. The thin linen shift does nothing to insulate you from his heat, does nothing to dull the press of his want against your belly. Any doubts swimming in your mind about crossing this line with him–again–are silenced when the linen is all but ripped off, leaving you almost shivering in his arms. 

The arousal is something fierce, an entity all in its own and it responds to his brusque movements with a perverse glee. It sets your nerves alight, drips down onto your thighs as he herds you towards his bed mat. His intensity infects you, it strengthens your grip, you’d swear it sharpened your nails by the way you rip at the very tunic you’re going to have to mend.

You land on your back amongst his linens and he’s quick to follow you there. It takes less than a breath for him to shrug everything off, both of you as nude as the day you were born. 

“Open your legs.” His voice is gruff, and thick with want, the same want that smears fat pearly drops against the skin of your thigh. 

Your nipples harden, drawing both his eye, and his mouth as you hurry to comply. He bites, pulling a gasp from your lips. His tongue quickly soothes it though, this is his pattern, an addictive balance of pain and pleasure. First one breast, then the other gets his attention, but only briefly, his desire burns too brightly. 

You only manage to pull his face up to yours before his cock finally slips into your wet heat, feeding a gasp directly into his mouth when you take his kiss with a force to rival his own. 

The size of him always shocks you into silence. He isn’t the first man to have you this way, your chastity had been gone long before you came into his service; you were glad of it to feel the way he molded you to accept him though. Now, and every time he’s been inside you. 

His stroke is brutal, it’s hard, and rough and all but moves you higher onto his mat. It’s perfect.

Your knees hitch high onto his hips, just as he raises one knee to press against the back of your thigh for purchase and it pays off because he finds the spot that makes you keen. 

He lets out a breathy laugh, relishing the state of you and the euphoria of your climax is far too close to feel any shame. Instead your cunt floods him, the slip of him moving so noisy and vulgar and welcome and blissful it pushes you closer still.

“More, please—“ you moan out the words, the first words you’ve spoken to him since he’d returned from a day of violence and he corrects you even now. 

“More what,” he grunts, anger and ecstasy shining on his visage, “speak correctly, girl.” His voice is clipped, his movements faltering and you know he’s close.

“More please, Dominus.” They’re a whimper, and he responds to them just how you hoped he might. He moves quickly and for a moment you can see how he’s earned his reputation, agile and smooth and within a moment he sits back on his haunches, pulling your hips up to meet his thrusts. 

You don’t know whether to scream, or weep, either way you thank the Gods for putting you in this man’s way. The pleasure is peppered with pain where his fingers dig into the meat of your thighs, and you know you will feel the ache of holding them open tomorrow, but it’s so hard to care when it feels so good.

The precipice looms, the shadow of the climax clouding anything and everything and when you reach down towards where you’re spread wide, it only takes a couple of quick, wet circles at your clit to float away.

He groans, hips stuttering and you know you’ve taken him over the edge with you, you can feel the evidence of it painting your insides. His eyes glaze over as he watches himself fill you to the brim, slack-jaw and drunk on his orgasm and your flesh on display for him. 

“I expect you to remain full of my gift-“ his tone is filthy, lust and victory of a different kind on his features as he grinds himself deeper, “until I take you again.” He hisses the last few words out, pulling his softening cock out to inspect his mess. “Am I understood?”

“Yes Dominus.” The words are sweet as summer fruit on your tongue, eager to please him.

He smiles, but it’s predatory and it makes you clench around nothing, your body betraying your words when you feel his spend dripping out in front of his eyes.

He tsks, pushing it back in with thick fingers.

“You are well aware I don’t tolerate such insolence.” His eyes narrow, but his mood is still playful, removing his fingers from your cunt, only to stick them in your mouth. “Now, get some rest. I expect you up at first light.” He speaks with absolute authority as you suck his fingers clean, and nod.

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