#pedrotober2025

The fire warms you, the stars distantly shining, your cheeks rosey from the amount of wine you have consumed tonight at the banquet. Acacius hosted other generals & high up warriors in his army. A celebration of life before they leave in 3 nights to go & make glory for Rome. A time honoured tradition. The meal was opulent while people outside barely survive on scrap, which you told the staff after they had taken what was left to give it to the needy. You still remember where you came from even if the world around you pretends to ignore it. Your beauty & your brother’s loyalty to court got you out of the world of poverty & into the arms & bed of Acacius.

As you sip your glass of red, in walks Acacius. Still his his white & gold ceremonial armour. Filled with everything the table had to offer. You had left him once the meal was over to discuss politics & strategies with his men. But now that the night has gone quiet & the guests & their wives have returned to their own properties to revel in the night you knew what was coming. He has merely a mouthful of white wine to drink as he leans on the fireplace shelf.

“3 moons” he mumbles before he lifts his head up, the curl at the front misbehaving as usual. His big brown eyes pleading. “There have been at least 3 moons since you became my lady” he says as he then finishes his wine. “& yet you still have a womanly weakness every month, you bleed, your moody & you don’t want to please your husband during this period” he says a little judgingly.

“Marcus” you say softly & look at him. “I have done everything I can to speed this up” your hand rubs on your knee which is covered by your own white dress. “I’ve had baths in herbs & lavender, I’ve not done manual work after you’ve claimed me, hell I’ve even not been to the toilet for 24 hours to make it stick”

“really?” He sounds a little sympathetic now & he sighs. “Well we only have 3 more nights to make sure you are glowing upon my return” he says & rests his wine glass on the mantle & slowly makes his way over to you sitting in the chair, his own Roman skirt wafting as he strides purposefully. He then pulls you out of the chair quickly & you spill a small amount of red wine on your own dress. He tuts. “Well now this dress has to come off” he says scooping you into his big strong arms before rubbing noses with you. “Let’s go to bed my lady, let’s make an heir”

He carries you to bed, his white robes flowing around him like the marble statues of gods you’ve seen in the temples. But there is nothing carved or cold about him, his body is hot, alive, pressed against yours with the weight of a man who knows the hours are slipping away. He eases you back onto the bed, but when you try to lean up to kiss him, his hand is firm on your shoulder. His voice drops, gravelly with command.

“No, my lady. On your knees. On all fours. That’s how we make sure this works.”

Heat coils through you at his bluntness. You obey, turning so your hands sink into the bedding, your skirts falling around your hips. Acacius doesn’t give you time to adjust, not settling here, before he flips the hem of your dress up with one rough sweep of his arm, baring you to him.

Then crack his palm comes down hard on your arse. The sting makes you gasp. A hand print will be left in the morning.

“Acacius!”

He smirks behind you, his hand soothing over the spot he struck. “The gods must hear you cry my name tonight. To deliver us a son.”

You pant, flushed, your hair falling forward. Hands grabbing at the bedding “Still dressed?” you manage, glancing back at him over your shoulder. Usually he likes to see you naked, says it makes him more fertile.

“Damn right,” he growls, already fumbling himself free from the heavy folds of his robes. “No time for softness. Not tonight. Tonight we have a job to do.”

The blunt head of his cock presses against you, & before you can plead or ask what he’d like to do, he thrusts deep. You choke on the sensation, the sheer feral need in the way he moves inside you. His hips snap forward with a pace that feels punishing, desperate, his hands gripping your waist like he’s staking his claim before dawn steals him away.

“Quick, deep & powerful, my lady,” he pants, voice strained with effort. He’s moving faster than the Roman army on approach. “This time the gods will bless us.” The bed groans under the rhythm of his body against yours, & you can only cling to the sheets, moaning as he takes you the way a soldier seizes victory, fast, fierce, & unrelenting.

His thrusts grow harder, deeper, until his breath is ragged & his grip bruising on your hips. You feel the heat coil inside you, the bed shaking under his ferocity. Then with a guttural growl, Acacius buries himself to the hilt, spilling his seed into you with a force that makes you collapse onto your elbows, panting, trembling, his weight pressing you down as he rides out the last jolts of release. He always, even if he doesn’t know it, sets off a pleasure inside you.

For a moment, all you hear is the crackle of the fire in the chambers & his heavy breathing. But he doesn’t soften; instead, he leans over you, still sheathed inside, & nips at your shoulder before sniffing the air.

“No,” he rasps, pulling out abruptly. “Not enough. Not yet.”

Before you can question what he is on about, his strong hands grip your waist & roll you onto your back. He looms above, his eyes burning, his chest rising & falling like a warrior still on the battlefield. In one swift motion he pulls the stained dress from your body, tossing it aside, then strips his robes from his shoulders so his bronze skin gleams in the firelight.

“I want you glowing, my lady,” he says, voice dark & resolute. “I want you nesting with my heir while I march to glory.”

He presses between your thighs again, & you can feel he’s still hard. He doesn’t tease, there will be no rest tonight or until he leaves, he doesn’t give you time to beg, he thrusts into you with renewed vigor, skin slapping skin as he claims you once again doing everything he can to see his legacy is secured.

This time his hand cups your face, forcing your gaze to meet his as he pounds into you with relentless pace. His mouth captures yours in bruising kisses, a conqueror’s kiss, as if the act of possession must be sealed by both body & soul. For the gods to see your love & desire & want to bless you with a baby under true new moon.

Your nails claw down his back as his hips drive into you, faster, rougher, determined. Every thrust feels like a vow, every groan like a prayer. His words come broken, desperate between gritted teeth:

“Again… again… we go again until the gods give us an heir.”

Your body yields to him, every thrust driving you higher, every drag of his penis stretching you wider until you can barely breathe. His weight presses you into the silks, pinning you down, only able to match his moves, yet his grip on your cheek is tender & worshipful, as if he cannot decide whether to fuck you like a whore he could get for pence or treat you with the respect a lady should have.

“Acacius…” you gasp, but he cuts you off with another bruising kiss, his tongue claiming your mouth as ruthlessly as his body claims your womb. His hips snap forward, relentless, his chest glistening with sweat as his hair falls wild across his brow. The bed creaks with every violent push. His pace is merciless, designed for one purpose only: to breed you, to brand you, to make certain that when he rides to war, you will carry his child in your belly.

“I want Rome to know you are mine,” he growls against your lips, voice breaking with the force of his thrusts. “I want you round with my heir, glowing when I return.” Your back arches, legs trembling as you clutch at his broad shoulders, dragged toward your peak with no escape. His thumb finds your clit, circling harshly, determined to wring your release from you. A new move from him but it does its job.

The fire crackles, your cries fill the chamber, & then the wave breaks, you shatter beneath him, clenching hard around his cock as your orgasm rips through you, a glorious, overwhelming surrender. It’s not often you are the one climaxing first.

Acacius roars, driving deep one final time as he spills again inside you, hot & heavy, filling you until you can feel him leaking down your thighs. His body trembles, muscles taut, before collapsing onto you with the weight of his devotion.

He doesn’t pull out. His arms cage you in, his lips brushing reverently over your temple. “Again,” he whispers raggedly, still inside you, still hardening even as his seed drips out. “We go again. Until the gods are satisfied. Until my lady glows.” You nod softly, you want a child too. You want to bring him glory. This is the only way.

Acacius does not stop. He drives into you again & again, a conqueror refusing surrender, your body taken, claimed, worshipped until you can no longer tell where his skin ends & yours begins. Hours blur into one endless battle of lust devotion & desire. The sheets tangled, sweat dripping, the fire burning low while the moon drifts & the stars fade. Your hoping the gods beyond have hear your cries.

By the time dawn breaks, you are boneless beneath him, your dress torn from your body, his ceremonial robes discarded in a heap on the floor. Sunlight spills across the bed, catching the sheen of sweat still glistening on your skin, the musk of sex, heavy in the room. Acacius is still wrapped around you, hand resting over your stomach as though he could will life into you by touch alone.

Thats when the door creaks, & one of the housekeepers slips in, carrying a jug of water, only to freeze at the sight of the general & his lady tangled naked in the silks, the air thick with passion & the aftermath of warlike love. She lets out a horrified shriek, drops the clay jug smashing it, & bolts from the chamber.

For a beat there’s silence, then Acacius throws back his head & laughs, the sound booming like victory. You cover your face, giggling helplessly into his chest.

“Well,” you murmur breathlessly, cheeks flushed with amusement, “Rome knows now.”

He kisses your temple, still chuckling, eyes burning with pride & possession. “Let them know,” he says, voice low & reverent. “Let the world know my lady is glowing.”

The shriek fades down the hall, leaving only your giggles muffled against Acacius’s chest. His laughter rumbles through you, until he tips your chin up with one strong hand, eyes still blazing.

“Once more for luck,” he ask, voice husky, command wrapped in affection.

You groan softly, though your lips are already curving. “Oh, gods… alright then.” He grins like a man who has just conquered an empire & rolls you beneath him again, the sun spilling golden over the bed as Rome wakes to a new day.

Five moons later, your hand rests on the parchment, ink staining your fingertips as you write to him at camp.

My love,

You told me you wished me to glow. Well, I glow so fiercely now that even the doctors smile when I walk past. My belly grows rounder by the day, & i swear I feel the flutter of tiny feet when I think of you.

A time later when Acacius finally strides through the doors of his villa, a month after the war is won, he finds you waiting, dressed in soft linen, your stomach curved & radiant. His eyes go wide, wonder breaking across his proud face.

Benji's faster than the rest of you, hopping off your lap and hurrying toward his uncle. "Yes you are," he teases as he climbs up next to him, the young boy's fingers quickly finding Joel's stomach in an attempt to get him to laugh, too. "You have glasses now, so that makes you old," he continues, and you bite your lower lip as you watch the scene unfold, because you know for a fact that Joel's not ticklish. Or, at least, he's not when you're...

A loud shriek interrupts your train of thought as Joel grabs his nephew and swings him about, engaging in a counterattack. "You take that back," he insists as Benji cries out in a new fit of giggles, and soon you've all joined in, watching as the oldest Miller and the youngest battle it out on the couch.

It's only when the room grows quiet, Benji breathing heavily when Joel tucks him into his side, that the mood begins to shift. "Alright, Kid," Tommy says, his hands pressed against his knees as he stands and crosses the room, "I think it's time for bed."

There's no protest from Benji and you glance at Joel, who presses a quick kiss to his nephew's forehead before locking his gaze with yours. There's something unspoken in the air, something unsaid as Tommy and Benji depart for the night, but Ellie seems to hear you both loud and clear anyway. "I think I'll head out, too."

"To where?" Joel asks roughly, because Ellie's taken to sleeping on a mat she's laid out in the garage instead of in the room across from yours. The teenager looks ready to fight back, an increasingly common occurrence these days, but you save them both from the argument before it can truly begin.

"I'll grab you an extra blanket," you offer, immediately standing from your own spot to head to the linen closet down the hall.

Ellie meets you halfway back, whispering a quick "thank you" before hurrying out the front door and down the porch steps in the direction of the garage. You shake your head as you watch her go and then take a deep breath, readying yourself for the conversation you know you're about to have.

His head is turned down, eyes focused on the book in his lap when you return. You pause for a moment, watching him, observing the way his hair is starting to curl where it meets his shoulder, making you wonder if maybe it's getting a little too long on the ends. Joel doesn't look up at you when you do move closer, and while you're certain he's just doing it to spite you, there's minimal grumbling when you pull the book from his hands. You carefully slide his bookmark in its place before setting it to the side so you can crawl into his lap.

Joel leans back against the couch, looking up at you with what can only be described as exasperation. "She shouldn't be sleeping in the garage," he stresses as though this is the first time you've had this discussion and not the hundredth. "It's freezing out there and..."

"And she has an extra blanket even though it's still 70 degrees," you remind him in turn, settling your knees a bit further into the couch on either side of his hips. "Plus," you add, "do I need to remind you that there are certain benefits to having her a little further away?"

"Hmmm?" he hums in response, and you know he's waiting for you to elaborate, but you take the chance he's presented instead.

"Did you not hear me?" you tease. "I said that there are..."

He cuts you off with a hard kiss, his lips rough against your own as you smile into it. "Shut up," he grumbles when he pulls back just enough to speak.

"What? I thought you might be getting hard of hearing because you're getting..."

"Did you not hear me the first time?" Joel questions, and while neither of you are being particularly serious at the moment, there's still an edge to his voice. "I said shut up."

The silence stretches as you debate whether to land the final blow or to bow out, but it's the smirk growing on his face that goads you into saying it anyway.

"Old," you finish with finality, but the word is barely out of your mouth before you're in the air, his hands tucked beneath your thighs as he carries you toward the stairs. You tighten your legs around his waist and bury your face into the crook of his neck as laughter rumbles through your body, the urge to continue the joke overwhelming you until the words are spilling from your lips. "Careful, baby. Don't want you to throw out your back."

"Jesus Christ," Joel mumbles as he reaches the landing of the second floor. You're still giggling as he pushes through the door to the bedroom and you wait for the weightless feeling of him tossing you onto the bed, but it never comes. Instead, he kicks the door closed and strides across to the old armchair in the corner. He carefully settles you onto the worn leather and shifts the footstool to the side before looking down at you. "You spend all night makin' fun of my new glasses," he admonishes, "actin' like I'm ancient or something."

"Well, you are almost sixt..."

Joel puts a finger to your lips with one hand, silencing you as he reaches for his glasses with the other. He slides them off his nose slowly and carefully places them on the shelf behind the chair. You're aware that it only takes him a moment to do so, but it feels like an eternity, one that stretches further as you watch him slide down to kneel in front of you. "You call me old one more time and I swear to God I'm gonna leave you to deal with this yourself."

You debate trying to call his bluff, mostly because you know that he's too worked up to actually make good on that promise, and as you glance over to where his glasses are now delicately perched on the shelf, you realize that it's all too easy to finish what you started.

So you do.

"Don't you need those to see, Old Man?"

He breathes deeply, once, then twice, before standing again. Time passes at a snail's pace once more as he shifts to sit on the footstool he moved just moments before, neither of you commenting on the sound his knee makes when he does.

"Joel?" you question, sitting a little straighter in the chair, already prepared to apologize, but he puts a hand up to stop you.

"Deal with it yourself."

There's no hiding the genuine shock on your face. No way to disguise the way your eyes go round as you whisper back. "What?"

"You heard me. You wanted to call me old? Deal. With. It. Yourself."

He smirks and, as you weigh your options, you realize that there's only one real way out of this. You have to beat him at his own game, so without another moment of hesitation you shift in the chair, relaxing back into it as you ease your hips forward. You keep your gaze fixed on his as you bring a hand up to cup the weight of your breast over your shirt, the other automatically fingering the waistline of the sweatpants you'd put on when you'd gotten home. The same sweatpants he'd loaned you the first time you'd slept over. The sweatpants that, you hope, will soon follow their familiar path to the bedroom floor.

The tension is already evident in his posture as you slip your fingers beneath the elastic, and you can tell that he's trying to hold steady. His arms are crossed in front of him, eyes dark as he focuses them on yours, but you know as well as he does that it's impossible for his gaze not to follow to where your hand has settled between your thighs, right where the fabric obscures his view.

A soft gasp leaves your lips when you find your center, one finger slowly circling before you slide it lower. Your other hand squeezes your breast tighter and you tilt your head back to show him the expanse of your throat, trying your best to focus on the tingling between your legs when you finally let your eyes fall shut.

You whisper his name, hopeful that it'll do something to spur him on, and you know it works when you hear him shift in his place on the footstool. At first it's just the soft squeak of the leather as he tries to adjust his posture to accommodate for his hardening length. Then it's the sound of a zipper, slow and steady, before finally you hear him release a heavy breath.

When you open your eyes again he has his cock in his hand, his thumb gently grazing over the tip with each stroke. He's focused on your center, still out of his view as you begin to rock into your hand. He picks up the pace and you match him, circling faster and filling the room with the soft sound of your whimpers. You catch the way his grip tightens, his cock pulsing as he works himself higher, and you ease another finger into your folds despite the fact that you both know it's not what you want. That this isn't what you both need.

The thought seems to hit him at the same moment because his eyes snap up to meet yours, his pace slowing for just a second before he's moving. He's back on his knees in front of you in one seamless motion, the blanket he keeps draped over the back of the chair sliding down along with your body when he tugs at your sweatpants.

His mouth is on you before they even hit the floor.

Joel drapes your legs over his shoulders before guiding your hands to his hair in a silent command and you find yourself all too eager to comply. You guide his motions as his fingers join his tongue, parting your folds to allow him better access. He works quickly, nose brushing your clit as he trails his way down in a well-rehearsed dance that has you tightening your grip on his head. Pleasure swirls through your veins when the rough skin of a fingertip eases into you, and you barely manage to let out a warning before your orgasm washes over you in surprise.

He holds you tight as you rut against his face, continuing his motions until you calm and it's only then that he slowly lowers your legs back to the ground, your body slumping in the chair.

There's the sensation of a final kiss pressed to your center before he begins to work his way up, pausing at the edge of your t-shirt before he trails higher, slowly removing the offending garment as he works his way toward your breasts. He takes a moment to attend to each, his tongue swirling around one nipple and then the other before he pulls back completely to tug your shirt over your head, leaving you bare before him.

And, as you look up at him, you can't help but smile.

"Gonna take back what you said earlier, sweetheart?" he questions roughly as he pulls his own shirt over his head and tosses it to the growing pile of clothes on the floor. There's a hint of teasing in his tone as he leans back over you, but it's betrayed by the love you can so clearly see in his eyes.