#ppcu

they're here already but i'm Thinking.... should i make them glittery/holo/rainbow.... you know... for pride.... 😚😚😚

'Cause I'm not old, but I am tired / I'm not strong, I'm very weak / I'm not old, but I am tired / I'm not here, I'm somewhere else / I'm one hundred ninety-six in dog years / I have seen enough / I've seen it all — Halsey, Dog Years.

You haven't lived in the Boston QZ for your entire life, but it certainly feels like it— Your parents came in when you were eight years old, about a year after Outbreak Day, when the Quarantine Zone was still fresh, with FEDRA just starting to take over the country and people still willing to trust their government to keep them safe. It is the only life you know and, while it is not perfect, it's certainly better than facing the dangers outside FEDRA's protection: You grew up hearing stories of raiders and slavers and how the infected outnumbered people at an alarming rate, how it was utterly impossible to survive without the watchful eye of FEDRA and its harsh laws.

Things are comfortable, even though they're not good, and that's more than most people have. You mother died just before your tenth birthday, an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire between FEDRA soldiers and the freedom fighters. Your father, a violent smuggler with a penchant for booze and pills, spends more time outside the QZ's walls than inside the tiny one-bedroom apartment the two of you share.

You're used to being alone by now, working triple shifts at the speakeasy and having to sneak your way back home just as the sun is starting to come up, risking your life for a couple of ration cards — more if you're in pigtails, even more if your shirt is low cut — that barely cover the amount you have to pay to keep a roof over both of your heads.

Everything changes when, for the first time since your mother died, your father is gone for longer than a couple of weeks. Usually his smuggle runs last a week or two at most before he comes home, drinks himself to a stupor over the weekend and then leaves again by Monday morning. This time, when the two weeks are up and he doesn't come back, there's a small part of you that is happy for it. The bruises he's given you are just starting to fade, the cut above your eyebrow finally closing up when the doubt creeps in and you begin to wonder whether or not this is the time your father will not come back home at all.

By the end of the first month he's gone, you know something happened. You're not sure if he simply left you behind or if he's dead or injured somewhere, but you know this isn't normal. So, one early morning, you make your way to the northern district of the QZ, where you know Abe lives— He's the only one with a long-distance radio and no affiliations to FEDRA or the Fireflies, the man your father once said he'd contact if he ever needs to speak to you while he's gone. In over a decade of smuggling your father hasn't tried to reach out to you once, but he also has never been late, and you figure maybe Abe would be able to give you a proper answer.

You stay in line for five and a half hours, a handful of ratios stuffed inside your bra, but your meeting with Abe only lasts a couple of minutes: He eyes you with suspicion, scowling the moment you say your father's name, and then tells that he would require ten ration cards to tell you if there's a message, and then another fifteen to read said message if it does exists— With no refund of the initial ten in case your father hasn't contacted you at all. You know extortion when you see it, has faced it plenty of times — Most men are always eager to take advantage of a young woman with no one to back her up —, and twenty-five ration cards is simply not something you can afford without going hungry or risking loosing your apartment.

For the first time in your life, you're truly alone. There's no one to run to, no one to help you or save you in this situation and that is somehow worse than all of the beatings and offensive words your father has thrown at you for the past two decades, the financial weight of having to provide for yourself in a world that is rigged against your survival brings you the sort of desperation you have never felt before.

It is that desperation that brings you to Joel Miller.

Joel has always been a constant in your life; he had worked alongside your father when you were little, always a solid shadow at the edge of your childhood memories, but they had a rough falling out after your father double crossed him sometime during your teenagehood and had, since then, become competitors inside the QZ. Now he is mostly a looming threat, some dark nefarious figure that might take away your father's livelihood at any moment.

He is not the sort of man you ever want to mess with, especially because you're not sure whether he's the vindictive type— He may as well hold your father's wrongdoings against you and refuse to help or worse: he could rat you out to FEDRA, use the opportunity to usurp the loyal clientele your father has or use his absence to wipe him out entirely. But you hear from Joan that hears from Elizabeth that hears from Eric that Joel Miller is friends with Abe and you figure that, maybe, Joel would be decent enough to bargain with the man for you. So, with an offering of bathtub moonshine you steal from work and tears in your eyes, Joel makes the deal; the bottle is probably worth a lot less than what he could've charged you but he doesn't bargain, instead choosing to grunt, take the bottle and slam his apartment's door in your face. He shows up at your place two days later, just as you start to panic thinking that maybe he's conned you out of some liquor, with a blank face and bad news: There has been no message, and although Joel promises to check in with the radio guy periodically, your father doesn't try to contact you at all in the days after that.

After that, Joel becomes a constant fixture in your life: He walks you home from the speakeasy after your shifts, and he fixes your shower or reinforces your front door or drops by with new shoes or food after a successful run. You find ration cards in your coat pockets or slipped under your door whenever you start working the triple shifts again, though he has never admitted to being the one putting them there: Every act of care comes with stony silence or a scowl, but Joel is always there, solid and within reach whenever you need him. So, you do the stupidest thing you could possibly do: You repay him with stolen alcohol. It starts with the small bottle that you use to bribe him that first time, but you become bolder and bolter as the months crawl on, swiping bigger and more expensive bottles whenever you can.

The owner, a mean-looking man named Bryan, catches you red-handed on a snow-heavy night in December. The beating itself isn't the worst you've ever gotten — someone robbed you when you were fourteen, taking a whole's week worth of rations and your father had always blamed you for that, his punishment even more painful than the shiner the thief had given you — but it's close enough and, as you stumble home through the snow-covered streets in the skimpy clothes you wear for better tips, all you can do is think that you got luck: Bryan could've cut off your fingers, or raped you or killed you or a thousand other horrible things that would wield a lot more damage than what he did and most people wouldn't have batted an eye; Hell, half the people you know probably would've thought you deserved it.

You're halfway home when panic truly sets in, outweighing the pain and the cold as you start to do the math— You're fresh out of a job, with rent looming within the next couple of days and you still don't have enough cards to cover it, let alone all of the other expenses you have; the pantry is almost empty, a single loaf of stale bread that you've been rationing for a few days while you waited for payday, and you still need to pay your neighbor for the winter socks she's knitted for you.

You're so terrified at the knowledge that you'll be homeless within the next week that you don't even notice Joel approach until it's too late, his cracked hands grabbing your shoulders and pushing you away from the main street just in time to miss the FEDRA soldier patrolling the area.

You shriek, your brain taking longer than it usually would to understand what is happening. Joel pins your back to his chest, one hand wrapped around your middle while the other slams over your mouth— The rough touch to your tender face has you whimpering, pain blossoming all over.

"It's me. Calm down." He whispers, holding the position for a moment longer while the soldier walks past the alleyway the two of you are in before he lets you go. You try to keep your head down so your hair fall over the bruises that are already forming but your face is so covered in blood that you can see the red liquid has stained Joel's palm. He looks at it for a second as if he can't comprehend what happened before he's crowding you against the wall, his surprisingly gentle hands tugging your chin towards him.

"I'm fine." You say in the silence that follows, though that's very much not true. Joel takes in a deep breath, his entire face scrunched.

"Who did this to you?"

"Joel, it's—"

"Who?"

You bring a hand up, your fingers wrapping around his wrist; the touch is meant to stop him, your intentions on fully pulling his hand away but you find it grounding instead, as if simply feeling Joel's rapidly beating pulse point beneath your fingertips is enough to melt the anguish away.

"Bryan." You relent, because you know he won't let go otherwise. "I had it coming."

"He'll pay. He ain't got no right to—"

"I stole from him." The admission is small, the words barely coming out of your lips; you didn't mean to tell him, the last thing you want is for him to connect the dots and realize you had been stealing for him. "I'm lucky he didn't do worse."

Joel goes entirely still, his hand still gripping your chin, his dark eyes staring you down so intensely it makes you squirm. A beat, and then another, and you watch in real time as realization washes over him.

Joel drops your chin like you've burned him. "Goddamn it, kid. Are you really that fuckin' stupid? Don't cha think that—"

"Joel, please." You whine, your eyes welling up with tears. "I don't need this right now. I'm cold, and everything hurts, and I'm out of a job. Just… Just don't lecture me right now, okay? I don't need it."

For a second, you think he'll ignore and go on his tirade— He looks like he wants to, but then his jaw locks and his nostrils flare and that's it. Joel swallows his emotions down in such an efficient manner it awes you and you barely have time to register the blankness of his face before he's wrapping his own jacket around you.

"Let's get you home and cleaned up."

Home, as it turns out, is Joel's place. You don't have the energy to argue despite the fact that the only thing you want to do is to crawl under your blanket and cry until you pass out, and you sit by the kitchen table as he cleans your face and neck with a wet rag. The apartment is cold even though Joel does his best to insulate the windows, and you shiver in your wet clothes— both from the remnants of snow that seem ingrained inside your bones and the heatwave that followed from Joel's touch, your body burning up from inside out at every careful touch of his hands. Once you seem clean enough, he brings you a chilled bottle out of the freezer, the clear liquid sloshing inside and you're sure it's probably either moonshine or vodka; Most likely moonshine, illegally made by some of the people brave enough to cook up such a thing within the city's walls.

"Put it over your eye, or it's goin' to swell shut."

You do as he says, but your heart races inside your chest as Joel kneels in front of you, carefully unlacing your boots.

"Joel, what—"

"Need to get'cha out of these wet clothes." He mumbles, not looking at you. Joel helps you out of your shoes and socks, and then turns his back at you and busies himself on the stove while you change from your work clothes to his— boxer shorts, wool socks and a thick sweatshirt that you're sure must've costed him a small fortune. You're still cold by the time Joel sets a steaming mug of tea on the table, but you're more comfortable than you've been in months.

Something changes between the two of you that night, tangled together in Joel's bed, his heartbeat steady under your cheek and his hand in your hair as you cry yourself to sleep. You go back to your apartment the next morning but just to pick up your personal belongings, Joel as a bodyguard as you collect what you can inside his backpack; you don't have much anyway, and you donate all of your father's belongings to the family two apartments down— More out of spite than anything else, you keep his favorite pair of boots as a gift to Joel. He takes the boots with an expression that seems to know exactly what you're doing, presses a kiss to the top of your head as if he's done it a million times, and clears out a drawer for you in his wardrobe.

Bryan goes missing three days after you move into Joel's place, and then they find his body five days after that, his face beaten almost beyond recognition, every single one of his fingers broken. His son takes over the speakeasy and invites you back, probably because he doesn't know what you did— Joel doesn't let you go back, claiming he doesn't trust the son and that you deserve better than being harassed by drunk men all night. You take odd jobs here and there, wanting to contribute with your share of rations but eventually Joel convinces you to quit altogether: Between the smuggling and the temporary jobs he takes from FEDRA he's certain he can provide enough for the two of you, and that you shouldn't be risking and exhausting yourself over nothing. You try to pull your weight around the house then, keeping it cleaner than he ever did, stitching up his socks and jackets and trying to make a meal out of the crappy food FEDRA distributes.

Housewife is the word that Tess uses for you. She says it with a sneer, scoffing whenever Joel tries to deny it; he says you're just a kid, that you're too young to be on your own and that you need him. She says that you're too old to need a daddy, and Joel slams his fist down on the table and they don't see each other for a few weeks. By the time Tess is back, it's as if nothing ever happened— She doesn't apologize and neither does he, or maybe they've exchanged apologies somewhere you weren't privy to, but Tess doesn't quit with the insults. Kept girl, plaything, pet— All names she uses whenever Joel isn't around, and then ignores you completely whenever he is.

Truth is, you find that you don't mind the nicknames. Joel calls you kid, kiddo, sweet girl— Also only when the two of you are alone, using your name whenever there is anyone listening and you've come to understand that there is a lot about Joel that he doesn't show to the world: He's feared inside the QZ, most people crossing the street whenever he's around, doing whatever they could to stay out of his way and only coming to him whenever they needed something no one else could bring but with you he's the sweetest man you've ever dealt with, quiet yet caring in a way that you haven't seen from anyone else.

The first time the two of you kiss, it feels like you've been doing it for all of your life; Joel had been gone for a couple of days, a pill run beyond the QZ's walls that made you sleepless. Tess hadn't gone with him this time around, which only made everything worse— For all the woman hated you, you knew she'd give her life to protect his. He comes home so late it's almost morning, his clothes soaked in blood that isn't his and his knuckles scraped raw.

You're not sure which one of you moves first: He's crowding you the second the door closes, and then his lips are pressing against yours, hungry and desperate. He kisses you until you the both of you are breathless, the still wet blood from his shirt soaking into yours: A bond that no soap or water can wash away even after the proof of your bodies mending together is discarded.

Joel tells you about Sarah in the middle of the night, when his nightmare wakes the both of you and he can't hide the tears. He doesn't tell you exactly how she died, just that it happened on Outbreak Day, and you request stories of happy memories to get his mind off of it. He tells you about the soccer practices and early Saturday matches, about the hikes they used to go on with Tommy and about the time she begged him to paint her room pink and then had him repaint it with purple a couple of weeks later, when she decided she hated pink. Joel talks more than you've ever seen him do, long fully formed sentences rather than the short words and grunts you're used to and it's like you're seeing yet a new side of him— Something soft and sacred that he's been hiding from the entire world, even from those closest to him.

"She would hate the man I became." He says eventually, after a short lull between tales of Sarah's first day in kindergarten. "The monster I became."

You're not certain how to deal with the self-loathing in his voice, especially because you know it's true— Joel's a terrible man, broken and violent and capable of unspeakable things, and you doubt the little girl from his memories would be proud of him for it. You press a kiss to the top of his head much like he seems to enjoy doing to you.

"There's always time." You whisper. "As long as you're alive, you still have time to make her proud."

He leaves before you wake the next morning but greets you with a kiss when he comes home in the evening, his breath smelling of whiskey and pupils dilated from the pills he swears he isn't taking anymore.

The afternoon you run into Robert's goons beating the ever living fuck out of Tess, there is a brief second in which you consider walking away— She's been nothing but horrible to you even when you were at your most vulnerable, and you doubt she'd intervene in your favor if it was the other way around. But your feet move before you can second guess yourself, plucking a large plank of wood from a rubbish pile close to you and hitting the bigger of the men as hard as you can in the back of the head: You miss a little, hitting him in the back of the neck but he falls like a sack of bricks anyway, his skull cracking against the pavement. Tess is on the smaller guy before he can jump you, her knee pressing to his neck until he stops thrashing.

Tess doesn't thank you, but you can tell she looks at you differently after that, staring you in silence for long periods of time. When she calls you by your name rather than an insulting nickname for the first time, you're so stunned that she scoffs and walks away in the few seconds it takes you to respond.

"You should leave him." She tells you once, her eyes glued to the radio as she waits for the message from Frank. Joel's nowhere to be found, but you still feel his presence in the cramped apartment anyway as if his very essence loomed over your shoulder. "This is not healthy for either you."

"I would die without him." You mean it literally, too— Joel is your saving grace, the only person to offer you a hand and keep you warm and fed in this horrifying world.

"That's exactly why you should go." She says. "No man should own your soul like that."

You wonder if she's speaking from experience, and you wonder if it has anything to do with Joel but How Can You Mend a Broken Heart by the Bee Gees starts playing on the radio and then Tess is shuffling through the song book like a madwoman.

"80s?" You ask, worrying your bottom lip. You have yet to meet Bill and Frank, but you know how much they mean to Joel— Even if he would rather die than admit to it.

Tess shakes her head in denial, and the relief in face is clear as day. "1971. They got new supplies coming in."

"Do you think they'll have any yarn? Joel needs new socks."

"You deserve better than this." Disappointment washes over her face. "Better than a man that is using you to replace his dead daughter."

She's wrong and you know it; Joel doesn't treat you like your father ever did, there's nothing paternal about his touches and there is no replacing Sarah. But you'd be lying if you said you never envied her for having Joel as a father, even if she is dead now; the guilt you feel must show on your face because Tess' nose wrinkles.

"Or maybe you do. Maybe the two of you deserve each other."

The tone she uses is somehow more offensive than any petname she's ever used before. But the idea of belonging so deeply to Joel that even Tess can see it warms your inside so comfortably you can't find it in yourself to be offended by the implications of her words.

The first and only time Joel comes inside of you, you've been living with him for well over a year. It's been five months since the two of you shared your first kiss, and while you've both been using your mouths and hands on each other ever since, Joel's been hesitant to be inside of you— Pulling out is risky, and condoms expired for over two decades are probably even worse, so he pushes the idea away, making you come three or four times with his mouth until you're so exhausted you stop begging him to fuck you properly.

You're already two orgasms in, sprawled nude and sweaty on the bed while Joel fucks you slowly with his fingers. He bites and sucks at your neck, a collection of bruises of varying degrees of healing peppered all over your skin. Joel pulls his fingers away from you, rubbing his cock against your cunt.

"I'm going to put just the tip." He says, his voice just a little stern as if he's scolding you before you can even misbehave.

"Yes, daddy." You nod and, although you want to beg him to just fuck you already, you're afraid he might change his mind if you seem too eager.

Joel pulls back, leaning on his haunches, pushing your knee to the side. Your legs fall open and you push yourself on your elbow, wanting to see just exactly what he's going to do— Joel is a sight to behold, his chest flush and his breathing deep, his heavy cock gripped tight in his hand. You'd been intimidated by it at first, long and impossibly thick, but Joel has fucked your mouth so many times by now that you are certain you'd be able to take him anywhere he wanted. He presses the head of his cock against your clit and you moan as it slides to the side, coated in your slick.

"She's always cryin' for her daddy." He chuckles and you clench around nothing, his rough voice hitting you deep inside. "Winkin' at me like that, begging for my cock."

"Just for you." You say, so wet you can feel it sliding down to your ass. "Want you so bad it hurts."

Joel brushes his cock against your entrance, teasing, not yet pushing inside. " 'S okay, babygirl. 'M gon' make the pain go away."

The first stretch as he pushes the fat head inside is almost too painful, your head falling back as you mewl but Joel doesn't let you go very far, the hand not holding himself steady flying to your hair, pulling you up just enough so you can see where he disappears inside of you.

"Look at ya." He commands, thighs shaking from the effort of staying still. "Stretchin' so pretty around daddy's cock."

Joel rolls his hips, pushing just another inch inside before he pulls out, a string of your slick connecting the tip of his cock to your entrance. You clench, fingers digging into the mattress to stop yourself from seeking his hips with yours. He's just as wrecked as you feel, breathing deeply before he pushes inside of you again, just a little bit further this time, but still not nearly enough. You keen and give in, planting your feet on the bed to rock against him— His cock slides halfway in before his hand pushes you back on the bed by the hip. The two of you groan in unison, both from the touch and then the abrupt lack of it. His hand comes down onto your clit, slapping it so hard you almost scream, eyes rolling to the back of its sockets.

"Oh, you like that, naughty girl?" Joel asks, and then he gives your cunt another slap. He hums when you wail, sounding almost curious about this new thing the both of you have just discovered. "If you try that again, we're done for tonight, y'hear me? You'll take what I give you or nothin' at all."

You nod, eager, wanting nothing more than for him to be inside of you again. Joel gives your clit yet another slap and the sting makes your skin warm all over.

"Yes, daddy. I'll be good." You say as he rubs soothing circles to your sensitive clit. Joel brings his cock back to you, sliding in much easier than before; he fucks you slowly, no more than just a couple of inches— Just enough to drive you crazy, your entire body set aflame at the touch that is oh-so-pleasurable but still not enough. You hold your body taut, biting down on your bottom lip to keep yourself from pushing back against him.

"Fuck, she's stranglin' me, babygirl. Never seen a pussy so tight—" Joel grunts, his body flushed red from his thick neck down to his navel, sweat dampening the hairs on his chest. "She's just suckin' me right in, isn't she?"

"She needs you." You bring a hand to your mouth, shoving two fingers between your lips and wetting them before you slide your spit-slicked fingers to your chest, rolling your nipples between them. Joel groans at the sight, loosing control of his hips just long enough to push a third of his cock inside of you. "Please daddy, it's not enough. I need to feel you deep inside of me."

You can see the moment his resolve cracks. He hikes your legs closer to his hips and then slams his entire length inside of you— It makes you wail, your mouth falling open and your back arching. Joel topples over your, pushing his index and middle finger inside of your open mouth much like you'd done just moments before. You wrap your lips around his thick fingers, humming as he shoves them as far as he can; you've learned how to control your gag reflex in the past couple of months, Joel's cock big enough to slide down your throat with a single thrust, but the way his fingers push down onto your tongue make your throat close tight.

"Suck on 'em." He orders, hips pulling back until his cock is almost entirely out before plunging back in. "I wanna see you choke on your daddy's fingers while his big cock fucks you open."

You do as he says, mainly because there isn't much else you can do other than take his commands, giving his digits the same treatment as you would his cock, licking and sucking and taking them as deep as you can. Joel's cock hits the same spot inside of you again and again and you can feel him everywhere; you moan around his fingers until he seems to take pity on you, pulling his hand away from your mouth. He shifts positions, kneeling in front of you and hiking your hips on his thighs; you only miss the weight of his body on top of yours for a second, because then Joel is pushing your knees up to your chest and the new position make you even tighter, the pressure making it seem as if his cock has doubled in size. Joel also changes the pace of his thrusts, going slower now and yet somehow even deeper, making you feel every inch of him.

"I'm gonna come." You say, the pressure building fast.

"No you won't." You blink at him, disoriented by his words. Joel pulls back, slapping your clit just as he plunges back inside. "You're goin' to be my good girl and you won't come until I let ya."

"I can't—" You say, the words cut off by the power of his thrusts. "I don't know how—"

"Yes you do." Joel hums, and he sounds almost mean as he slaps your cunt again. "Fuck, she chokes down my cock when I do that. Sweetest. Fuckin'. Pussy."

The last three words are punctuated by slap after slap, the moans falling out of your mouth becoming more and more desperate; you weren't lying, you don't know how to stop yourself from coming but you do the best you can, trying to focus on the mold spots on the ceiling or the chipped paint near the window or anything that isn't Joel's cock pushing time and time again against that perfect spot inside of you.

"Please let me come." You beg, tears pooling on the corner of your eyes and trickling down to your temples. "I can't hold it in, daddy, please. Please please please, I can't—"

Joel pinches your overstimulated clit and you gush around him, body locking up as you come against your will. It makes you black out for a second, black spots dancing in front of your eyes but Joel isn't done. He slaps your tit this time, the flesh jiggling both from the slap and the power of his thrusts.

"Such a bad girl." He grits out, slapping your breast again but he doesn't sound angry at all. "Should punish you for that. Ground you 'n' everythin'. Gotta learn to listen to your daddy."

"I'll take it." You say, gasping for air. You blink at him, the tears still blurring your eyesight. "Whatever it is, daddy, I'll take it. Anything for you."

"Maybe I'll fuck that pretty lil' ass of yours next." Joel threatens, and you clench around him. "Or maybe I'll spank you so raw you won't be able to sit. Use a belt to make sure your not comin' from my slappin' you. Naughty lil' thing, bet'cha like that, huh?"

Your heart jumps to your throat at the mention of the belt, a thousand different memories — bad, terrifying memories — of your own father and his leather belt jump to mind and your eyes well with real, uncontrollable tears.

"Anything for you." You parrot yourself, your eyes locking with the place where Joel clutched to your thighs as if you were his lifeline. "I'm yours, daddy. Anything you want, I'll take it. I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"

Joel's thrusts become more erratic, fast and deep and not calculated as they'd been before. He comes deep inside of you, toppling to moan against the crook of your neck, his thighs flush with your ass. It's never ending, his sloppy thrusts slowing down but not stopping as he comes and comes and comes until you feel so full to pushes into your bladder.

"Mine." He says, his voice full of wonder as his aquiline nose traces your jawline. "My precious lil' girl."

It's not an 'I love you', but you're fairly certain it's the closest you'll ever get to one.

You've been nauseated for about three weeks straight by the time Robert steals Joel and Tess' battery. Joel's been toying with the idea of leaving the QZ for good for several months now, quietly planning your escape in the late nights were sleep evades him, trading the pills and the alcohol for something ever more addictive: Hope.

You're sitting cross legged on the bed, a worn copy of a James Patterson book on your lap as Joel cleans the injuries on Tess' face. You'd been jealous of their relationship at first, unsure if they were just smuggling partners or something more but Joel never looked at Tess the way he did you, never touched her with the tenderness he did you. You forget all about the adventure Alex Cross is going through on the pages in front of you as you watch them plan their — your — escape route, the dangerous plan of going after Robert and taking back what is rightfully theirs.

"We'll be back before sundown." Joel tells you, and then he waits for Tess to leave the apartment before he leans in for a kiss. "Get our bags ready, we leave tonight."

You nod, already missing his touch by the time he crosses the threshold after his partner.

It's pouring rain outside by the time they come back, and you've spent most of the day pacing around the cramped apartment. Your backpacks are ready to go, everything of value stuffed inside of it, but you keep checking and rechecking all of the nooks and crannies of the apartment, making sure you've taken everything out of every secret compartment that Joel has hidden around the place. You had been scared the first time Joel brought up the idea of crossing the country after his brother, terrified really, but you'd rather face the monsters — both human and not — outside of the QZ than stay behind without him.

In the months after that, the idea has grown on you, and now you can't wait to see what it is outside; you've seen the top of skyscrapers from the roof of some of the taller buildings inside the walls, and you've heard all of the tales, but seeing it with your own eyes seems like the most exciting thing to ever happen in your sad life.

Joel looks exhausted by the time he comes back, wet from the rain with Tess and a young girl in tow. You frown at her, and she reciprocates the gesture.

"Who are you?" You ask.

"Who are you?" She retorts, dropping her sopping backpack on the ground.

"Joel's wife." You don't even hesitate, the words you've been mulling inside of your head for weeks now falling naturally from your lips. Out of the corner of your eye you see Joel freeze, and Tess' head snaps towards you so harshly you think she might break her neck.

The girl squints. "Aren't you a little yo—"

"We had a change of plans." Joel interrupts the girl, dropping down heavily onto the couch. "Robert fucked us over, his battery was no good. Tess and I are takin' the girl to the Fireflies, and then we'll come back to get you."

"You don't smuggle people." You say, your heart dropping down to your stomach. Joel's able to get in and out of the QZ with relative ease because of the goods he brings for the soldiers, but smuggling a person — a child — out of the zone isn't something the soldier will easily turn a blind eye to.

"We do now." Tess is the one that replies. She exchanges a heavy look with Joel before sneaking out of the apartment, the door slamming in her wake.

"Joel." You say, sitting next to him. You see the girl look at you wearily before she starts roaming around the room, her fingers touching every little thing she could. "This isn't right. What do the Fireflies want with a child?"

"She's some bigwig's daughter or somethin'. Marlene is desperate, she's givin' us all we need to get to Wyoming."

"What's in Wyoming?" The girl asks.

"None of your business." Joel grits out, though his face remains turned to you. "It's too dangerous to take you with me but if Marlene does good on her promise, we're set, baby."

"And if she doesn't?"

"Then I'll come back home and we'll try again." He promises. "The girl is just another cargo, this is the same run I always do. The payout's just a hundred times' better."

You bite the corner of your thumb. This feels too reminiscent of your father's last smuggle run, a goodbye that doesn't seem final but feels like it— Like there's more, like Joel isn't telling you everything or perhaps making things seem less dangerous than they are. You nod, eventually, stomach still in knots.

Joel looks like he wants to reach for you, but one look at the girl makes him retreat; she's not even pretending not to stare, curled on the reclining chair and looking intently at the two of you.

"I'll talk to Abe. He knows how to contact Tommy— If I'm not back in ten days you're goin' to head to Abe's and tell him I sent ya. Hey, kid— Listen to me, this is important."

You nod, trying to focus on what he's saying. He watches you for a moment, making sure he has all of your attention before continuing: "If I'm not back in ten days, you're going to send a message to Tommy and tell him to meet you in Lincoln."

"Joel, how the fuck am I supposed to get to Lincoln on my own?"

"You're goin' to play an 80s song on the radio, and then you'll leave it playin' as you leave. Bill is goin' to meet you halfway there but you need to get out of the city first." He pulls your chin towards him, holding your face so he can look you in the eyes. "You have to get out of the city as fast as you can, y'hear me? You're goin' to follow the path on the map I'ma leave with you, and you're goin' to meet up with Bill. He's gon' keep you until Tommy gets there."

"You've never walked me through a contingency plan like this before, Joel." You try to blink the tears away. "If this is just like any other run, then I don't need this."

"Well, you never called yourself m'wife before, now have you?" Despite the call out, Joel has a small grin on his lips. You feel your face heat up with embarrassment, and you shrug.

"Tess calls me your housewife all the time."

Joel drops his hand, his eyes darting towards the young girl in the room as if he's just recalled her presence. "This is all hypothetical. This run is more dangerous than others, but I've survived worst. I been meanin' to tell you all'a this for a while now. Ain't gon' leave you on your own like your dad did."

Joel leaves an annotated map on the kitchen table— The same one he's been doodling over ever since he heard Tommy was in Wyoming, with escape routes from Boston and the safest and quickest ways to get to Tommy, the margins filled with extensive notes about the unsafe routes and places to avoid in the city; things are numbered and signed and there's a whole paragraph of symbols and codes Joel's come up with, the sort of detailed attention that means he's been working on this for far longer than you've noticed.

"How do I sneak out of the QZ?" You ask, staring at the map as if it's a bomb.

"James."

"The Jesus freak?" You frown. James lives a few doors down from you, a creepy-looking blond man that often has a bible in his hands and a superiority complex that makes you want to barf.

"He's cheap, and he knows his way 'round the place. There are two guns underneath the fourth floorboard by the wardrobe, you'll trade him one and keep one to yourself."

"Hypothetically."

"Yes, darlin'. Hypothetically. Only if I don't come back."

"You'll be here in ten days, won't you?"

"I will. Maybe even sooner than that." Joel promises again, holding your gaze steady. Still, you don't believe him. "I'll be here with a truckload of supplies, and then we'll skip town together."

They leave not long after that, a few hours short of sun up by the time Tess comes back with her pack and a clear exit for the three of them. Joel doesn't give you a prolonged goodbye, simply squeezing your waist and kissing the top of your head like he always does, but the terrible gut feeling that this run is unlike the others doesn't leave with him— If anything, it only seems to worsen in the dark, empty apartment.

You cry yourself to sleep and, distracted by your own anguish and the loud sound of your sobbing, you don't hear the song coming from Tess' radio.

The ten days are an absolute nightmare. You're sick most of the time, sleeping when you're not puking and crying when you're not sleeping or puking— It is Amelia, the young woman that manages the food bank closes to your apartment that brings up the possibility of you being pregnant; she catches you retching one morning outside of her food stall after a particularly strong waft of freshly baked bread, connecting the dots even before you can properly explain your symptoms; you have no proper way of confirming her hypothesis, not unless you want to go to a FEDRA-appointed doctor and alert them to your condition, so Amelia takes you into the backroom of her stall and offers you two different options: A ginger root for morning sickness, or a mugwort and pennyroyal concoction to make your problem go away.

You take the ginger root with shaking fingers, and Amelia simply holds you in silence while you cry.

When the ten days come and go with no sign of Joel, the dread settles so heavy it keeps you awake all night, and not even the bone-deep tiredness you've been feeling can make you get a wink of sleep. You give him some wiggle room, however, deciding to wait just a little longer before you contact Tommy— Joel is coming home any day, you're certain of it, and you'd feel silly to make a fuss just for him to walk through the door safe and sound. So you cry, and you vomit and you don't sleep and you wait.

For all of the despair you felt when you father went missing, you discover now that you never worried much about his safety— You worried that if he wasn't safe you wouldn't be as well, but it takes Joel leaving for you to understand the difference between worrying about someone to worrying about what will happen to you now that they're gone. A thousand different scenarios play through your head, from raiders to slavers to infected hoards to the fact that, maybe, he had simply left you behind: You're not certain which one hurts more, the idea of him being dead somewhere or the idea of him being alive without you.

You hold out hope for as long as you can but, by the fifteenth day, you know you can't pretend nothing happened anymore. You go to Abe early one morning, when the line is just starting to form and tells him exactly as you were instructed to: That you are Joel Miller's wife — which raises eyebrows from everyone in the room — and that you need his help. You give the codeword for Bill and Frank's home, and your estimated arrival there and, by the time Abe is done scribbling all of it down, you feel a little better about yourself; it's scary, and dangerous, but you've lived through scary and dangerous your entire life— And perhaps you haven't faced the outside before, but you've lived in a free-for-all war zone ever since you were a kid.

James isn't an easy man to find, but eventually you manage to track him down to an old building that is being used as a chapel— It's an old coffee shop that's been cleared out at some point, a few mismatching chairs stacked neatly in small rows. James gives you a warm smile when you walk in, your backpack clutched tightly to your chest, but it's visible that he doesn't recognize you.

"Joel sent me." You tell him. "Miller."

The smile slides off of James' face, and he takes a moment to regain his bearings; and despite being used to bad reactions when it comes to dropping Joel's name, the clear dislike on the man's face only increases your worries. James takes you to a backroom behind the church that he's assembled into something that might pass for an office, arms crossed over his chest— He's tall and lanky, non-threatening for most people but there's something about him that keeps you on your toes.

"I need out of the QZ." You explain, plucking the handgun from your backpack before offering it to him. "Joel said you'd help me in exchange of this."

The man squints, but eventually takes the weapon from you, carefully examining it before he puts it on top of the worn Bible on his desk. "Where are you headed?"

"Wyoming." The word slips out, and you wince, unsure if you're supposed to tell him or not— Joel certainly wouldn't have shared anything more than strictly necessary. "That's none of your concern, though. I just need your help to get past the soldiers."

"I got family on the Wyoming border, I've been meaning to head there. What part of Wyoming are you going?"

"I don't have anything else to pay you for chaperoning me. I can get there on my own, I just—"

"I just said I'm headed there anyways." James smiles, his fingers interlaced in front of him. "Do you know how to shoot? It's a rough path, I could use someone to help me."

You hesitate for a long moment, but James doesn't seem to be in any rush. You don't trust him, not one bit, but your mind goes back to the life you might be carrying, to the fact that you had no guarantee that either Tommy or Bill would get your message or even believe you at all; you had someone else to think about now, the fragile little thing you had growing inside of you— You still had no proof you were pregnant, but you knew it to be true. Could feel it deep in your soul, as if your body had been warning you about it before your brain caught up to the possibility of it.

You pluck Joel's map from your backpack, pointing it to the general area Tommy is. "I need to go here. Somewhere."

James hums, and nods. "My community is in Colorado, but it's close enough to that area. A couple of weeks on foot, less if we can get a car."

"Why are you so far away from home?"

He taps two fingers on the Bible. "Spreading the Lord's words."

You have to bite your tongue to keep yourself from snorting. "I don't believe you when you say you don't want anything from me. Nobody does anything without payment."

"The Lord teaches us to be selfless, and help those in need. A young woman like you, crossing the country by yourself? You'll die before you cross state lines."

"Your community. Where is it?"

"Here." James points to the map. "It is close enough to the place you're going, Joel might even be at Silver Lake rather than Wyoming by this point. We're a very welcoming bunch."

You open your mouth to say you're not after Joel, but decide against it; James doesn't need to know why you're going and, maybe if he's scared enough of Joel, he might think twice before bringing you any sort of harm.

"Alright." You say, shoving the map back into your backpack. "Take me to Silver Lake, then."

“Hey Miller!” the guard approaches him.

Joel turns and, to his surprise, finds a rifle pointed at him. Taking the usual shortcut home, a narrow back road that smells of piss and remorse, wasn’t the best idea today.

Joel clenches his jaw as he looks at the guard and then hisses, “Get this rifle out of my face.”

“Those shitty pills you sold me yesterday don’t work”.

Joel shrugs “What the hell do you mean?”

The guard slams the barrel of the rifle into his cheek. “They didn’t get me high and when I tried to fuck my woman I couldn’t cum!”

Joel turns up his nose at the unsolicited information. “It’s not the pills’ fault your dick doesn’t work”

The guard is furious, holding the rifle an inch from Joel’s nose. “My cock is good, you asshole, I know for sure it was those nasty pills. I want a refund.”

“No refunds, it’s your business,” Joel gruffs, but the guard doesn’t seem persuaded at all to let it go.

“Listen, do you want me to report you? I’m sure my boss would love to know how you sneak out of the QZ to get the fucking drugs, don’t you think?” he barks, shoving the rifle into the other man’s flesh. “What do you say, Miller, I have to put a stop to your nice black market, huh?”

Joel shifts the rifle, holding the barrel with two fingers.

“What the fuck do you want? I don't have any more pills.”

He'll break his jaw, a moment's distraction is enough to disarm him. These spineless guards don't scare him.

“I know you have more. Give them to me,” the guard orders. Joel weighs his options. He doesn't feel like breaking his knuckles and disfiguring this guy's face, and after all, he's one of his best customers. And he can't lose his cards. He needs them to get anything in this godforsaken place until he manages to slip back out into the outside world.

Joel has just returned so he should have waited at least a month to avoid drawing too much attention.

He snorts, pulling a plastic bag full of amphetamines out of his pocket - pills he would have preferred to keep for himself.

The guard catches them and threatens Joel, “Try to screw me over one more time and I’ll break your fucking bones. You can keep this crap.”

He tosses the bag of pills at Joel, spits on the ground and walks away.

Joel looks at the pills. They seem fine. The guy who sold them to him is new, he’d never done business with him before. He met him outside Bill’s house after picking up some ammo. Long, curly, graying hair, big round glasses. He looked a bit like a mad scientist, spouting big words and formulas that Joel couldn’t make heads or tails of, but at some point he mentioned Bill’s name, and Joel trusted him. Bill never talked to anyone; if he knew him, he must have some credibility. At least that’s what Joel thought, so he agreed to sell the product the guy was offering. But clearly, he was wrong.

Joel heads home, weighing the packet in the palm of his hand. He thinks back to what the guard told him—that he hadn’t been able to come all evening. He didn’t mention any other problems, so probably everything else had worked, it was just the climax that was missing. Was it some kind of edging? Joel comes to his apartment and sits in the kitchen, wondering what on earth he could do with them and whether he could make use of them in some way.

Joel pours himself a glass of whiskey and sips it while watching the sky grow dark.

What if the guard had told him a lie just to get the amphetamines? He can't stand the thought of being scammed.

So Joel takes one, swallowing it with a sip of whiskey, just to see if that idiot tried to rip him off.

He hops in the shower and goes to sleep.

After tossing and turning in bed for a couple of minutes, he starts to feel strange.

A sudden wave of heat washes over him, his blood seems to be racing through his veins, his cock stirs beneath his boxers and grows hard, without him even touching it, stimulated by nothing more than that stupid pill he swallowed earlier.

His hand slides down into his underwear, trying to jerk off, but after several minutes, all he’s managed to do is get even harder, with no happy ending.

It feels like hell, just like that dude said.

He pulls down his boxers and tries to hump the mattress, rubbing his cock against the crumpled sheet.

No matter how much effort Joel puts into it, no matter how much precum he’s dripping onto the sheets, climax never comes.

Joel is in disbelief, frustrated, and drenched in sweat, his painfully hard cock shows no sign of softening.

He stays awake almost all night, in agony, lying on the mattress and hoping that the drug’s effects will eventually wear off.

By the time dawn breaks, his cock finally begins to soften.

When Joel gets up, he still hasn’t decided what to do with the pills. He hides them under a floorboard where he keeps his contraband, gets dressed, and leaves the house. He is tired, but insomnia often haunts him and he is now used to it, even though he shouldn't be.

A full day of work in the dining hall awaits him. Ever since word got out that you could get extra ration cards by shoveling out the sewers, everyone wanted to do it. The stench didn’t matter, what mattered was the gnawing hunger that gripped everyone.

As soon as he walks into the kitchen, he sees you peeling potatoes in a corner of the long metal counter.

He says hello to you, and you reply in a whisper, barely looking him in the face.

You seem very shy, reserved, and not very talkative. Joel likes that, he has no desire to listen to anyone’s chatter.

You’re gorgeous, and Joel likes that too.

He puts on one of the aprons left on the counter and grabs a knife.

He stands next to you, starting to help you peel the huge pile of potatoes in front of you.

Your hands move quickly, the sharp knife glides effortlessly between the flesh and the skin, your gaze is focused and attentive.

Every time you drop a peeled potato into the large plastic container filled with cold water, you let out a small sigh, so faint it’s barely audible.

The more Joel looks at you, the more delightful you seem to him—your eyes, your lips curled into a slight pout, your hair tied back in a bun, the scent of vanilla filling his nostrils, likely emanating from your skin.

You look exhausted, like everyone else in the QZ, but there is something ethereal and sweet about you that captivates Joel’s gaze and slows him down at work.

The surreal silence in which you are immersed is broken by a rough, boisterous man who bursts into the kitchen introducing himself as the head cook.

Joel doesn’t even listen to what he’s saying, he nods while the man’s mouth moves, babbling about stews and soups—the only bland and utterly unappetizing dishes that have always been served in the QZ dining hall.

For the rest of the day, his eyes are all over you. Kitchen isn’t so bad after all, if it means he can spend his time looking at someone as pretty as you.

He doesn’t care about other people working around him, the heat from the stoves that’s making his face flush, the smell of onions and meat that’s soaking into his shirt, or the rough-mannered man barking orders at everyone. As he’s standing next to you, as you stir the giant pot of soup with a ladle, a thought grows stronger in his mind.

________________________

Joel needs to be careful. He has to earn your trust first, and to do that, he starts showing up in the kitchen more and more often, peeling potatoes, doing the dishes, serving food. Anything to be near you. He greets you as soon as he walks in, when he finds you already there working, and throws a few jokes to which you sometimes answer shyly and other times simply giggle so softly that your laughter sounds like a symphony in his ears.

Day after day, watching you work with your head down as if you were afraid to look people in the eye, so inexperienced and vulnerable, he feels increasingly compelled to win you over.

He starts with simple questions that seem innocent, like how you ended up in the QZ, if you have any living relatives, if you live with anyone. You reply that you ended up there when you were just turned 19, and this explains to Joel your vulnerability and fragility—you didn’t have much experience of the world before, and in this one you realized it’s much better for someone like you not to draw attention.

Abuse by the guards is a daily occurrence, the fireflies are portrayed by the government as subversives and criminals, people are desperate and hungry, and on every street corner you can be robbed of the few ration cards you managed to scrape together—or worse. Much worse.

Your parents died on the day of the outbreak in a car accident while you were trying to escape, you and your brother managed to reach the QZ before he became seriously ill and died due to the lack of medicine and medical care available.

You were left alone in the world, moving like a ghost through the dirty, foul-smelling streets, trying to survive as best you could in a bare, dilapidated apartment that had been assigned to you.

Living there alone was tough, you missed your relatives and had no one who could help. But you grew accustomed to the silence broken only by alarm sirens and the screams of people in the streets.

You're a rare find, and Joel knows it.

He pretends to be genuinely sorry about your loss, praises your strength, and showers you with compliments that seem to make you melt a little more with every passing minute.

You probably haven’t really spoken in depth to anyone in years, and Joel is the first person who’s taken an interest in you in this hell.

It’s easy. He acts like a perfect gentleman, taking the heavy lifting off your hands, helping you get a few extra cards from the gruff head cook, and offering to walk you home after work to keep you safe.

“QZ sucks, I’m glad to help a friend any way I can,” he says and your face brightens so delightfully.

Every now and then he touches you, making it seem casual, a hand brushing against your hip as he passes behind you to pick up a potato peeler, your fingers casually touching as you talk, walking side by side in the street. Just a hint, but it shakes you every time. Joel is amused to see you unconsciously trembling as your lower lip disappears behind your teeth.

Day after day, he notices how you open up to him, how your smile spreads across your face when you see him, how you start the conversation yourself to find out more about him.

One morning, while peeling yet another sack of potatoes, you even venture a joke about how incompetent the head cook is.

Joel smiles smugly, watching your every reaction, metaphorically rubbing his hands together at each of your genuine attempts to get closer to him.

You're so grateful for everything he does, so amazed that he goes out of his way to protect you.

One afternoon, as he’s walking you home, he suggests you go to his place.

Just to chat, he says.

“I’ve got CDs, some tea, and I managed to snag some chocolate I found in the pantry. We could eat it together.”

“I haven't eaten chocolate since... all this started,” you say shyly, your sad eyes dropping, and Joel can't help but notice once again just how attractive you are, without even realizing it.

“Well, you work so hard, you deserve it,” he says, winking at you, and when you reply with a smile, he knows he's got you wrapped around his finger.

“Okay, thanks. I'll come by someday after work.”

When he gets home and steps into the shower, thinking about your breasts nestled in your worn-out T-shirt—which barely manages to hide your bra—about the beads of sweat he sees trickling down between them as you sweat over the stove, how they glisten on your skin, and the delicious scent you give off despite everything, his cock stirs and demands attention.

He can’t wait to have you all to himself, to feel just how tight your inexperienced pussy is, to see how wet he can make you and how you will moan beneath him as he thrusts deep inside you, your completely naked body a toy he can use for his pleasure.

Before Joel can stop himself, his cock is already in his hand, he’s jerking off hard, until he comes against the chipped tiles of his shower.

He has to make his move on you as soon as possible, he won't be able to hold out much longer.

He collapses onto the bed, exhausted, with your smile and your innocent eyes burned into his mind, and falls asleep only after coming one more time, soiling his pajamas and the sheet, losing consciousness covered in his own semen.

He doesn’t even care to acknowledge just how depraved he’s become, now that life has stripped him of the last shred of humanity he had left. He must have you, whatever the cost.

Sarah, then Tommy, then Tess. Everyone he cared about was either dead or miles and miles away from him.

He tried to protect them and he failed, every single time.

He tried to be good but life kicked his ass so hard he thought about ending it all.

He's cried enough, he's suffered enough, there are no more tears left to shed.

He’s alone in this filthy world, thoughts screaming in his head, pounding against his temples. They can be dulled with alcohol, sometimes with pills, but the only thing that guaranteed him a full night’s sleep lately was you.

Planning how to play with you is the only thing that stops him from thinking about what he’s lost, what he’s become, and how doomed his fate is.

_____________________

“Are you tired?” he asks you as you two are leaving the dining hall.

“Not much. I slept well last night.”

“Good,” he smiles softly.

As you’re walking, a man approaches you.

He’s dirty, smelly, visibly drunk, his greasy, matted hair hangs around his face.

“Hey, sweetheart, how about giving me some of your honey? Hmm?” he mumbles, his saliva flying in all directions, his arms stretched dangerously forward, reaching out to touch you. He gropes your breast and tries to pull you closer, almost touching your ass.

You pull back, instinctively clinging to Joel’s arm.

At this moment Joel can’t believe his luck, it’s the perfect opportunity to prove you can trust him.

“Get the hell out of here!” Joel growls at the man. “You better stay away!” He backs up the threat with a hard shove that sends the man staggering.

The guy raises his hands in surrender. “Hey, calm down, man. I didn't know she was your wife.”

He walks away, muttering to himself.

When Joel turns to you, your eyes are filled with gratitude, as if he was a knight in shining armor who came to save your life.

“Thanks,” you whisper, and Joel shrugs. “No problem, we’re friends, aren't we?”

You nod, struggling to hold back the wide smile spreading across your face. Your eyes sparkle, your arms are still wrapped around his, your tits pressing against his shirt.

He’s been so smooth with you that by now you’re hanging on his every word.

“Want to come over to my place and try some of that chocolate?”

You agree enthusiastically.

The rest of the walk to his house is fairly quiet. The sun is setting, the streets are slowly emptying, and the soldiers on patrol are urging everyone to go home before curfew.

When you arrive in his apartment, Joel invites you to sit on the couch.

“I'll be right back,” he smiles at you. “I'll make you a cup of tea.”

He goes into the kitchen, grabs an old kettle from the pantry and a few tea bags he picked up at Bill’s house.

Once he’s filled your cup, he dissolves one of the pills he’s been saving in the drink.

_____________________

While you’re drinking tea, he lets you pick the music, flipping through the CDs he’s collected over the years. “I don’t know,” you say, “I’m not really a music expert.” You laugh nervously as you read the names on the spines.

“Okay, let me see... this is perfect.”

He pops it into the dusty CD player, and trip-hop fills the thick air of the room.

“Oh, I know this song.” A smile lingers on your lips as you sit down on Joel’s couch reaching for your cup of tea on the coffee table.

“Yeah? You like it?” Joel is methodically lurking you in, trying to ease your nerves. He can see the tension in your shoulders melt away and your whole body relax.

Just what he always wanted.

“Yeah, I do.”

"I can lend you this CD whenever you want. Massive Attack is a great band,” Joel suggests, sitting down on the couch next to you.

“Unfortunately…,” you look at the mug in your hands, “I don't have anything to listen to it on. Actually, I don't know how long it's been since I listened to music, to be honest.”

“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry,” he touches your arm lightly. “Well, then... you can come over here whenever you want to listen to it.”

And once again, you give him that look. Grateful, almost moved by his thoughtfulness toward you.

“Thanks, Joel, you're the first real friend I've made here.” You smile and he’s quick to respond, “no problem, dear, it’s my pleasure. You should drink up, it’ll get cold.”

You take a long sip, finish the cup, and set it back down on the table in front of you.

Joel waits. He lets you talk, asking you more about your past life, your education, and what career you wanted to pursue, as well as what you liked to do in your free time.

You don’t seem to notice the time passing as you’re talking. You’re spellbound, completely captivated by him—so much so that your hands brush against his forearm more than once as you tell him about your dreams and hopes.

Dreams and hopes that no longer exist.

When Joel tries to kiss you, you pull back for a moment, confused.

“Are you sure? Me?”

And that’s when he pulls out his final move, confessing that he’s always liked you and was just hoping for you to like him back. He tells you he was afraid of ruining your friendship, but at the same time, you’re so beautiful and sweet that he couldn’t help himself.

And you believe him. You fall right into his trap.

You’re the one who kisses him first right after, your hand sliding behind his neck, your fingers playing with his curls.

He reciprocates with a sense of victory spreading in his chest, feeling your body melt for him, all pliant and needy, like he was the man of your dreams.

“Oh baby, you don't know what you're doing to me,” Joel whispers as he moves down your neck, planting little kisses on your soft skin.

And you moan, timidly, as if you can’t believe it.

“Can I keep going?” he asks, looking into your hazy eyes.

“Yes, please.”

“Come here,” he invites you, taking your hands and pulling you to straddle him.

He grabs your hips, pushing you against him, kissing you again, patiently, delicately, without forcing you.

You start to move your hips, likely driven more by drugs than by your own reasoning.

Your clothed pussy brushes against his bulge and you gasps, surprise all over your face.

“It’s so good…,” you whisper and Joel strokes your cheek, so gently.

“I know, baby. Take more…”

He adjusts his position on the couch so that you get more friction. You nod, rolling your hips again, your arms around his neck, Joel’s hands holding you tightly while you’re seeking your pleasure, grinding against him, the seam of your jeans stroking your clit just right.

You're so beautiful like this, completely captivated by him and by your newly awakened desire.

Mouth agape, your body hot, hitting the tent beneath his jeans over and over again until you squeeze your eyes in pleasure so hard Joel thinks you’re about to burst.

But you can’t. You’re on the edge and can't break through it.

Your eyes flutter open, uncertain and burning, and Joel hurries to reassure you. “It's okay, honey. Do you want to go to bed? We'll be more comfortable there.”

You follow him without hesitation.

Joel undresses you, crouches to take off your shoes, lets your clothes fall to the floor—careful, gentle, slow, as if it were truly an important moment for him.

And it is, but not in the way you think.

“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,” Joel whispers to you, his husky, seductive voice runs into your ears and down your spine, your nipples hardening instantly as he drinks in your figure, his eyes gliding over your curves, your breasts, down your hips, until they reach between your legs.

Your tight, delicious pussy throbs for him, and the urge to fuck you hard until he can’t catch his breath hits him like a bolt of lightning.

But no, he has to be careful, you mustn’t notice, you mustn’t know how badly he wants to break your will forever.

He takes your hand, helping you lie down on his bed, and undresses in front of you. He sees longing in your eyes, your desire growing as he reveals every part of his body to you. Your body writhes on the mattress, eager, impatient. “Please, Joel,” your voice pleads, nervously, as if all you feel right now is pure want.

Your mouth twitches as his semi hard cock finally springs free, a loud gasp roaring in the back of your throat.

Joel struggles to hold back a smirk as he lies down next to you, impossibly close but not yet towering over you.

His hand cups one of your breasts, testing its softness and weight, feeling your nipple press against his palm.

You arch your back as if struck by an electric shock, moaning loudly under his touch.

“I’ll go slow, baby,” he promises you.

But you don’t want him to go slow. He can see it in your eyes, in your desperately tense muscles, in your lower lip trembling like a leaf in the wind.

“I...” you try to say, but his fingers twist your nipple and all you can do is let out another helpless moan.

Oh, the drug is working so fine.

“What, sweetie? Use your words, I know you can,” he coos, gently caressing you, his fingers sliding down the valley between your breasts.

“I... I never do things like this. I don't know what's happening to me. I... I need you, Joel, so badly.” Your voice is almost a sob, hoarse and broken.

He reassures you. Of course.

“There's nothing wrong with you, sweetheart.” he says as his hand moves up to your face, cupping your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone. “That’s completely normal, you know.”

“It burns under my skin, it’s so heavy and hot it actually hurts…oh my God, Joel, please, help me!” Your voice is a cry, your eyes are filled with tears, your pupils dilated, you seem to be in turmoil just from a little touch.

Joel stops himself from breaking into yet another wicked grin while his fingers wander over your jaw, down to your neck, whispering, “I’m going to make you feel better, honey.”

Joel kisses you, and the moment your lips meet his, you cling to him as if he were your only salvation, your arms wrapped around his shoulders as tightly as you can pull him toward you with an urgency that makes Joel’s chest swell with pride.

Your tongue immediately seeks his, swirling and chasing his taste and his touch.

You moan into his mouth so eagerly Joel thinks you're about to lose your goddamn mind.

It’s carnal, messy, sloppy and it makes his head spin a little.

He moves on top of you, his hands sliding over your torso and hips, gripping you there, holding you steady as you tremble beneath him and your body arches to seek friction.

Pulling away from his lips, you start begging him again—to touch you, to kiss you, to lick you...again and again.

Joel doesn’t even know how certain things are coming out of your mouth, but he doesn’t need to be told twice. You’re making him rock hard. His lips trail down your neck, pausing at your breasts, eliciting goosebumps all over your skin. He sticks out his tongue and gently licks one of your nipples. To his great surprise, you push it into his mouth so hard that he almost bites you.

“Fuck, honey, I could’ve hurt you,” he warns you but you're as wild as an animal right now, and you cry out, “Bite me, Joel, suck it, please, I need it!”

And he does.

His lips close around your nipple, his teeth gently tug at it before he begins to suck greedily.

Your body trembles, covered in sweat, naked and vulnerable beneath his weight. Joel almost struggles to keep his composure at the stubborn way you demand to be used.

How lucky he was to have discovered that drug—he must remember to thank and give that guard a discount for this revelation.

Your skin is hot, it smells wonderfully, it feels so good under his palms, so soft as he plays with your nipple, making it hard and swell.

“Fuck, you’re so damn sweet,” Joel grumbles against your skin and all you can do is whimper.

His fingers trace a path down your thigh, brushing against it, moving upward toward your center.

He locks eyes with yours—adoring, desperate, pleading,

“May I?” He asks and lingers with just his fingertips on your mound, waiting for your all-too-obvious answer.

“Yes. Please.”

That’s all he needs.

His fingers descend to meet the mess between your legs.

It’s hot, wet, completely enveloping his fingers as he sinks them between your lips, up and down along your slit.

You writhe like a woman in heat at the sensation, your hips bucking, one hand clenching his forearm while the other clutches the sheet.

“Yes! ohmygod just like that!” You cry and it sounds like honey in his ears.

He moves up toward your clit, tracing circles slowly, applying pressure now and then, using your sweet juices as lubrication. It’s swollen and throbbing beneath his fingers, deliciously stiff and demanding attention.

His mouth focuses on your other breast, nipping at the soft skin there, his tongue swirling around your nipple.

“I need more..,” you breathe and he looks into your eyes, searching for a confirmation as he prods, “do you want my fingers, hun?”

You eagerly nod, mouthing a yes, your voice broken and trapped in the back of your throat.

“I’m gonna give you that,” he smiles, as softly as he can because he needs you to think he’s doing it all exclusively for you. He's just fulfilling your wishes.

He lingers on your slit with two fingers, while his thumb keeps working on your clit.

You take his wrist and press his fingers against your opening.

Joel chuckles, feigning surprise. “Easy, baby.”

“It feels so empty, please…I need…”

He doesn't let you finish your sentence, he slips a finger inside and feels your pussy clamp down on it like a vice, before it adjusts to his intrusion and lets him thrust deep inside you. “That's it, good girl...”

He curves the tip of his finger toward your sensitive spot, testing it, pressing there briefly before asking, “think you could take another one?”

Your “please” is barely audible but the grimace of need painted all over your mouth is eloquent enough for him to add his ring finger.

The more he pushes you, the more you beg for it, crying, without realizing there’s no way for you to cross that line.

And Joel relishes it. He relishes seeing you desperate, he relishes hearing your voice break, he relishes watching you strive for that pleasure with all your might while knowing it will never come—and that, at the same time, you’ll never stop asking for it.

“I can't... I can't, Joel,” and he knows exactly what you mean.

He caresses your sweaty face, trying to make his voice as sweet as he can, whispering, “Hey, it's okay, it's all okay, baby.”

You close your eyes, letting out a frustrated moan, and look at him as if asking for help. “No, you… you’re so… God… and I can’t…”

“You’re perfect. You’re perfect, sweetheart, you’ll make it.”

You’re convinced it’s your fault that you can’t come, you can’t even look at him anymore, your gaze drifts to the ceiling, to the bare walls, anywhere but Joel’s face.

He takes your chin between two fingers and draws your gaze back to him.

“Hey, look at me, baby.”

Your pout speaks volumes: discomfort and mortification.

“Maybe it’s me…” he says, working his fingers gently inside your pussy, “maybe I’m not filling you up enough like this… do you want to try with my cock?”

“Yes, please, yes... I... can't”

“Shhhh, it's okay, baby, don't worry, I'll take care of it,” he lies.

Joel pulls his fingers out of your pussy and bites his lip at your protests, he’d burst out laughing if he could. They’re soaking wet with your juices. He uses them to lubricate his cock, mixing your essence with his precum in a few lewd, squelching strokes, before lining up with your opening.

Your eyes are fixed on his cock as you exhale, “God, it’s huge”

Warm tears stream down your cheeks, trailing across your face and glistening on your skin.

“Yeah, baby, I know. It will take some time,” he tells you through this, “you know?”

You shake your head, your hands clinging to his back as you press him against you, “I can’t wait…fill me, Joel, fill me now.”

“Are you sure?”

Holding back this much isn't easy for him either. He just wants to shove his cock into your tight little pussy, ruin your hole, pump his cum inside you, but he doesn't want you to notice. He doesn't want you to think it's his fault or that he's taking advantage of you.

So he plays innocent, praising you,

“You're so good, honey, so good to me. I love that you want me so much, but I need to be careful. I can’t risk hurting this perfect pussy, babe, I want to keep sinking into her for a long, long time, yeah? And to do that, I need her to be okay.”

You give in, a faint, pleased smile playing on your lips as you agree, sobbing, “okay”

He pushes the tip inside—just the tip—while trying with all his might not to come right there, and at that moment, your pussy tightens around him, sucking him in, dripping more juices down his shaft.

“Fuck, you're so tight,” he murmurs, and you look at him with hopeful eyes, hazy with tears, so sweet that for a moment he almost feels bad about what he's doing. But he can't tell you the truth. Not yet.

The deeper he thrusts into you, the more his cock throbs against your walls, its length stretching you out, inch by inch, your body tenses and relaxes, your hips writhe, and your breath grows shorter. And yet, you’re still teetering on the edge, in that limbo he’s put you in, unable to say “enough” and with no hope for a climax.

When he reaches the bottom, your face is distraught, your lips swollen from all the biting you’ve been doing, your body twitching with lust and craving.

And that’s when Joel feels you’re about to break completely, just babbling “please” and “need you to move” and his name like a chant over and over again.

“Damn, baby, m’not gonna last if you keep doin’ this.”

“Just… fuck me, Joel. Fuck me hard.”

And with that, he starts to move, well aware it won’t change a single thing for you.

His cock is sliding in and out of you, pounding harder as you adjust more around him. You’re so wet it’s a fucking river between your legs at this point and he’s able to feel every single flutter of your cunt, sucking him in like you’d like to swallow him whole.

Your hard nipples brush against his chest with every thrust and you whine, you whine so incessantly Joel thinks it’s almost too much. He loves it though, the way you never stop asking for him to split you open.

Two of his fingers move back to your clit, circling and applying pressure over your swollen bundle of nerves.

“Fuck,” he growls. “it’s been a million year since I had a pussy this good, honey. I swear you’re fucking incredible.”

You’re convulsing underneath him, incoherently, sweat drenching your hair, glistening on your eyebrows, running down your neck where his tongue savors it, salt, vanilla and the inherently unique taste of you dancing on his tastebud.

He’s near, he can feel it in his every fiber, his chest burning, his back tensing, his cock pulsing.

His load paints you a few thrusts later, filling your warm wet cunt, sticking to your walls like you asked him to.

Joel collapses down next to you on the bed to catch his breath and hears you moaning softly, now so desperately confused about what’s wrong with you.

He props himself up, resting his cheek on one hand, the other stroking your belly up and down, trying to comfort you.

“You make me feel so good, Joel. No one has ever made me feel this way, but I...”

“Can't you cum?”

Your eyes fixate on a crease in the sheet, your hand trying to smooth it out as a coping mechanism, as if fixing that could fix you.

“I just don't get it...” you say, feeling down, while his hand plays with a strand of your hair.

“You’ve done this before, right?”

“Yeah, a couple of times, with my high school boyfriend, before it all went downhill…he was nothing like you but he made me… you know”

“No need to be worried, babe. We can try again tomorrow,” he suggests “Maybe we should get some sleep.”

“Do you still want me?” you ask hesitantly, meeting his eyes again.

“Of course, I want you, baby.”

Your eyes glisten with tears, and your hand unconsciously clings to his wrist. “Oh, Joel, I'm broken,” you whisper, as if you can't believe it.

“You're not broken, sweetheart. You'll see that you can do it, and I'll help you.”

He takes you in his arms, stroking your back, comforting you, hiding a sly smile as he kisses your forehead. “Sleep, honey, I'm here.”

He can feel your pussy throbbing against his leg, dripping with his cum and your unrelenting arousal, your whole body is still tense and shaken by that limit you’ve never managed to break through.

Finally, you fall asleep, exhausted.

__________________

The next morning, you wake up with Joel’s face pressed against your pussy, his broad shoulders holding your legs apart, his large hands clinging to your thighs.

During the night he thought long and hard, as he struggled to fall asleep, lulled by your breathing finally returning to normal. He looked at your face, finally relaxed, and thought that maybe it was better to make you come once. To give you a little treat before making you swallow another pill.

Wake you up with an orgasm, make you believe you were just nervous, let you reach the peak as you desired, and then deny it to you again without your knowledge.

It could work.

So at the first light of dawn, he moves between your thighs, his legs dangling off the mattress as he looks at your sweet pussy.

It’s still wet, irresistibly swollen, and worn out from the sex the night before.

He starts slowly, using just the tip of his tongue, testing your sensitivity. You stir in your sleep, letting out a moan, a small smile on your lips.

He tries a longer lick and you seem to take it well, so he picks up the pace, tasting you on his tongue, drinking from you greedily, your juices beginning to drip down onto his lips, chin, and beard.

There’s nothing better than going about his day with your taste and scent on him.

When his nose brushes against your clit, you open your eyes.

He looks up at you, smiling, “Good morning, sweetheart.”

Your expression quickly shifts from surprise to delight.

“Is this okay?”

“Yes,” you reply, running a hand through his dark curls, your eyes fixed on his mouth, wet with you.

You’re not annoyed that he’s started touching you while you sleep, quite the opposite. You seem relieved.

The fear of being rejected by him probably overshadows everything else, and that’s exactly what Joel wants.

Bringing you to orgasm this time is very easy, as soon as he closes his lips around your clit and sucks it, your body tenses, your legs wrap around his head, and you moan.

“Oh my God, Joel, I’m so close.”

“Yeah, baby,” he murmurs against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. “Come for me”

And you do. After a few laps he closes his lips on your clit and that's when you explode, wetting his chin, his neck and the sheets beneath you.

The room is filled with your moans, you convulse on the bed, pressing your hips against his face, your hands clenching the sheets, your head back on the pillow and your eyes squeezed shut.

Joel licks eagerly, feeling your pussy clamp around nothing, his fingers dig into the tender flesh of your ass as he holds you in place for him.

“I knew you could do it, you did so good for me, baby,” he whispers, resting his cheek on your thigh.

You two stay in bed a little longer before heading to the kitchen, where Joel offers you a cup of coffee. “Don’t worry about yesterday, I have plenty of pills I can give you.”

You nod, smiling gently, probably thinking about how much he cares and worries about you.

“Thanks, Joel.”

“No problem, sweetie, I’ll get them for you right away.”

He reaches into his stash, pulling out a morning-after pill that he usually sells.

“I’ll give you another one tonight. That’s how this pill works,” he lies. “Go take a shower while I make breakfast, okay?”

You thank him again as you head to the modest bathroom, closing the door behind you.

Joel smirks, putting the morning-after pills back in their place and counting his supply of orgasm-blockers.

A full bag, at least a month’s worth of sex. Just enough to turn you into what he wants. His little pet.

________________________

npt: @milla-frenchy @baronessvonglitter @mcthsman @missadangel @rosharanfiction @sawymredfox @peepawmiller @hauntedinkk @ess-evo @hanahleah @arcane-fox

He knew it was a sin long before it ever felt sweet.

Rome had rules for everything; bloodlines, marriages, women like her. Rules Marcus Acacius had enforced with an iron hand. He had watched men die for breaking lesser ones. He had never questioned them.

Until her.

She belonged to Rome. 

That was the problem. Rome took what it wanted the same way it always had — without asking, without mercy. Her father had bled for the empire. The empire had answered by claiming his daughter, crowning her, binding her to a throne that did not love her back.

Marcus understood that kind of cruelty. He had lived by it. He had survived it.

He did not begin wanting her the way men were taught to want women.

It began as a fracture.

A quiet disruption in discipline — the kind that lingered long after battles were won and orders obeyed. She would enter the hall draped in gold and restraint, crowned and beyond his reach, and something in him would harden with the unbearable certainty that she was misplaced.

An Empress bound to a man who could not see what stood before him.

Marcus told himself it was loyalty that kept his gaze steady, his expression carved from stone. He told himself it was duty that tightened his jaw when her husband failed to claim her as he should have—failed to give Rome what it demanded. The whispers came anyway.

They crept through the streets, through the barracks, through the mouths of men who bled for a ruler they no longer respected. Fools with wine on their breath and laughter too loud, speaking of a marriage left cold, of an emperor young in years but broken where it mattered most.

Rome was patient with madness.

It was not patient with weakness.

Marcus heard the rumors and felt something dark coil in his chest — not because they spoke of her with vulgar curiosity, but because the truth beneath the words rang too clear. She was left unfulfilled. Unmarked. A womb denied its purpose by a man unfit to claim it.

And of all the places those whispers took root, the barracks were the most dangerous.

Men who lived with blood on their hands and wine on their tongues did not temper their words. They sharpened them. What began as murmurs in the streets turned into laughter among soldiers — crude, fearless, spoken by men who believed steel and loyalty placed them beyond consequence.

It was there, among armor and stone and the stink of sweat, that Rome’s ugliest truths were spoken aloud.

“They say she sleeps alone,” one of the legionaries snorted, leaning back against the stone wall.

“What kind of emperor leaves his own bed cold?”

“They say he doesn’t share his chamber with her at all.”

“Then who does?” another snorted.

A pause. A look exchanged.

“Not women,” someone muttered.

Laughter followed; uneasy, sharp-edged.

“Funny how his concubines see more of him than his own wife.”

“Gods above. Imagine that. An Empress untouched.”

Another scoffed.

“Untouched by her husband, you mean.”

A third voice chimed in, uglier, louder.

“If she were mine,” he said with a grin, “I’d never leave the space between her legs.”

The laughter came first — then the sighs, slow and hungry.

“Maybe he cannot,” someone else scoffed. “All that power, all that gold… and still not man enough.”

“Seems like our Empress deserves a true man’s cock,” he said, grabbing his own balls in a joking gesture.

They laughed harder at that.

Another legionary chimed in, mockingly thoughtful. “You ever see a fruit kept too long out of reach?” He chuckled. “Makes you wonder how sweet she must taste.”

More laughter — low, ugly, unchecked.

That was when the air changed.

Marcus had not spoken.

The men noticed too late — the sudden silence, the way the sound seemed to die in their throats.

“General—” one of them started.

Marcus crossed the space between them in two strides.

His fist struck without warning.

The legionary hit the ground hard, teeth clattering against stone. Someone shouted. Someone tried to pull Marcus back.

It did not help.

He hit him again. And again. And again.

Not in rage.

In correction.

The laughter was gone now. Replaced by screams, by pleading, by the sickening sound of flesh meeting stone.

When Marcus finally stood, his knuckles were red. His breath was steady.

The man on the ground did not move.

Months ago, that same legionary had bled on a battlefield at his general’s command — for Rome, for glory, for discipline.

Now he bled again, not for war, but for forgetting what should never have been spoken aloud.

No one spoke.

Marcus looked at the rest of them — eyes cold, voice low.

“Speak of her again,” he said, calm as a drawn blade, “and I will bury you beside him.”

No one doubted him.

YOU

The palace was quiet, but the quiet offered no comfort. It only gave your thoughts room to breathe — and they were merciless.

They called you Empress, but the word felt hollow when you were alone. A title did not warm the bed. It did not silence the questions. It did not stop the way people looked at you when they thought you weren’t paying attention. You had learned how to read those looks. You knew what they meant.

No one ever said it aloud, but you felt it anyway.

No child. No heir.

You had begun counting time differently. Not in days or seasons, but in glances. In how long silence stretched after certain conversations. In how often your name was spoken with careful restraint. You wondered when concern would turn to calculation. When patience would give way to necessity.

You told yourself not to think about it but the thought lived under your skin. It hummed there, constant and low. What if this was enough to make you disposable? What if love, vows, loyalty, none of it mattered without proof?

The shame was the worst part. It crept in quietly, uninvited. It asked questions you didn’t know how to answer. Is it you? Is your body the failure? You hated yourself for thinking it, but you thought it anyway. Because no one else would ask the question for you. Because if they did, the answer would destroy everything.

You sat in silk and gold, surrounded by guards and slaves, and had never felt more alone. You were not afraid of death, not really. You were afraid of being erased. Of being remembered only as a mistake that didn’t produce a future.

That was why the thought came to you at night. The one you tried to push away. The one that made your chest tighten with guilt and relief all at once. A wrong solution. A dangerous one. But a solution nonetheless.

You told yourself it was survival. You told yourself it was not desire. You told yourself you had no choice.

And the most terrifying part was this: somewhere deep down, you were no longer sure that was a lie.

They had told you duty first. Your father had said it without softness, without pause. Rome’s future rested on your shoulders. Becoming Empress was an honor few women were ever given. 

Do not forget what you owe the city. Do not shame me. Do not stain our name.

He had been a legatus once — a man who understood command. He gave you to the Emperor the same way he had given soldiers to war. No counsel. No comfort. Only orders. 

Stand straight. Obey. Endure.

He never told you how to survive.

Now the one thing he feared most was unfolding.

Your husband could not touch you. Not in any way that mattered. He had taken your virginity on your wedding night with the care of a man fulfilling a task he did not want. Minutes. No tenderness. No heat. Nothing that lingered. Since then, two imperial years had passed — and there was no heir.

The Senate’s concern had become Rome’s favorite whisper. At festivals, eyes lingered too long. Smiles sharpened. Fertility was questioned openly, because in Rome it always was. Men were never at fault. 

Women bore the shame. 

You bore it in silence.

The concubines came and went from his chambers at night. Quietly. Frequently. Everyone knew. No one called it betrayal. You were expected to accept it as part of the crown.

You felt like something set aside. An object waiting to fail.

And you were done waiting.

You decided to do the thing you had never imagined yourself capable of. Not out of desire — not at first — but necessity. You needed an heir. Immediately. Each passing month tightened the noose. You would not be discarded because of his weakness. You had given everything to this marriage. You had earned that title. And if he could not secure your future, you would.

There was nothing wrong with that. You told yourself so until the words felt solid.

You were not like him. Prostitutes and slaves were not an option. You would have to see them again. Remember them. Risk recognition. You needed someone who would disappear the moment it was done.

Gladiators.

Not merely slaves of war, but men forged in blood and survival. Their names did not matter—where they came from mattered even less. What drew you was their strength, their presence, the hunger that lived beneath scarred skin. It unsettled you in ways your husband never had.

You were tired of indifference. Tired of being touched like an obligation, a duty performed for appearances alone. Your body wanted proof it was still alive—that it mattered, that it could still answer to something fierce and undeniable.

If it took one, or many, it would not matter. You would continue until life took hold within you. That was the only measure that counted. It was reckless—perhaps even suicidal—but you knew the truth: to remain as you were was a slower kind of death.

You prepared carefully. Loyal slaves. Silent men and women who owed you more than their lives. You trusted them to guard this secret until the grave, because in Rome, silence was often the most valuable currency of all.

You moved quickly because you had to. Every delay brought you closer to ruin.

You told yourself you deserved this. That there was no sin in protecting what was yours. That Rome had taken enough from you already.

And so, in the darkest hour of the night, you came willingly.

The villa had always been a refuge.

Long before the crown. Before the marriage. Before Rome decided what you were worth. It stood beyond the city’s reach — not abandoned, not forgotten, simply untouched by the noise of power. Stone walls warmed by the sun. Olive trees old enough to remember silence.

It belonged to the only person you had ever trusted without reservation. 

Agrippa.

A friend chosen, not assigned. Someone who had never asked anything of you except honesty. Over the years, it had become the one place where you were not watched. Where you could breathe without measuring every word.

The slaves there were not strangers. They had known you since you were younger, softer, unnamed by titles. They did not call you Empress when no one was listening. They called you by your name. They guarded your secrets with the same loyalty they guarded the house itself.

You trusted them with your life.

That trust was not blind. It had been earned. Years of silence. Years of discretion. They had seen you arrive shaken, leave steadier. Had learned when to ask nothing at all.

This was why you chose this place.

No corridors filled with echoes. No guards who belonged to him. No eyes trained to report every movement.

Here, nothing was expected of you.

The villa did not judge. It did not whisper. It simply opened its doors the way it always had — like it understood why you were here.

Your most-trusted slave, the one who had dressed you since before the crown, who knew when to ask nothing, watched you in the lamplight and did not flinch. Her voice stayed low. Practical. Loyal.

“This is not recklessness, Your Highness,” she said, fastening the last pin with steady hands. “It is survival.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. She had seen Rome sharpen its knives around you for months. Heard the whispers grow bold. Watched concubines pass your door at night while you learned to breathe quietly.

“A gladiator is the cleanest choice,” she continued, as if weighing grain or silver. “His body is not his own. It never was.” A pause. “And the arena will take him soon enough. There will be no witness left to trouble you.”

She met your eyes then — unafraid, certain.

“For a man like that, being chosen by a noblewoman is not shame,” she said softly. “It is reward. A memory he will carry like armor.” Her mouth curved, just barely. “If he survives long enough to remember it.”

Your throat tightened.

“He will not refuse,” she added. “Why would he? One night in a woman’s bed is more than most of them are ever given.” She adjusted your tunic, reverent now. “He will not know who you are,” she said quietly, as if this were the simplest thing in the world. “Only that you are a matron of rank. Nothing more.”

A memory he will carry like armor…

For him, perhaps. But for you? Would it be regret, or the first narrow opening toward something long denied?

You drew a slow breath, the weight of the choice settling not on your shoulders, but deep in your bones. “Very well,” you said at last; the words leaving your lips like an order that would shape the rest of your life. “Bring the gladiator to the chamber at once..”

The slave inclined her head and withdrew in silence. With that small motion, what had been contemplated became inevitable.

MARCUS

The Lupanaria (the roman brothel) was alive with noise, warm and heavy with incense and oil, the faint echo of harp strings winding through the corridors—music reserved only for the victorious General of Rome and his closest commanders. Torches flickered along the walls, casting gold and shadow over the polished floors, over men laughing too loudly, leaning too close to the women who moved with practiced grace — the best courtesans, the youngest and most beautiful, each one a temptation perfectly honed for eyes that lingered.

Some of Marcus’ legates indulged in these women, entwined in fleeting embraces, hands wandering where they ought not, celebrating victory in the indulgent ways Rome allowed. Soft moans and gasps floated through the hall, punctuated by the sharp slap of skin on skin, the subtle catch of breath, the occasional clink of wine cups forgotten in hands that were busy elsewhere.

Marcus observed it all with detached precision. Every glance, every touch, every sly smile noted and catalogued and yet none of it reached him. A goblet of wine rested in his hand, raised and lowered more out of habit than desire. He drank, felt the burn slide down his throat, welcomed it for a moment — anything to quiet the unrest coiled beneath his ribs. Platters were brought, rich with meat and fruit, and he ate just enough to satisfy appearances, chewing without tasting.

But the hunger remained.

Not the kind that gnawed at the stomach.

This one lived deeper, sharp, insistent, impossible to feed.

He was not here. Not in this chaos. Not in the fleeting pleasures of men too easily satisfied. His body sat among them, armored and whole, but his mind was elsewhere.

Because all around him, bodies writhed and cried out in delight, but his attention — the sharp, relentless edge of it; rested on: one thought. One memory. One obsession.

You.

Victory had brought him back to Rome in white, gold and blood. The city had roared his name as if it belonged to it. The legions had marched. The Senate had watched. Jupiter’s temple had waited.

And the Emperor, drunk, as he so often was, had fumbled.

The laurel crown slipped from his grasp, clattering against marble in a sound far too loud for something so sacred. A careless fracture in ceremony. Murmurs rippled through the senators. Courtiers stilled. Rome itself seemed to hold its breath.

And then you moved.

The Empress.

Disapproval had flickered across your face — quick, restrained, unmistakable — before grace took over. You bent without hesitation, silk and gold folding around you as you retrieved the fallen wreath as if correcting a minor inconvenience rather than saving an Emperor from humiliation.

Marcus remembered how he had dropped to one knee at once, bowing his head toward you. Not in submission—never that—but in recognition.

You stepped closer. Too close.

Your fingers brushed the white of his armor as you lifted the laurel, your breath quickening despite yourself. When you placed the crown upon his head without meeting his eyes, a flicker of irritation crossed his features—brief, instinctive. Without thinking, he reached up and caught your hand, stopping you before you could withdraw.

Behind you, the emperor was stirring, being steadied by slaves but neither of you noticed. In that moment, the world had narrowed. There was no crowd, no court, no throne, no witnesses. There was only you.

He leaned down—just enough. Barely. Deliberately.

His lips met your knuckles in the shadow between ceremony and transgression, the kiss lingering longer than protocol demanded, tracing your skin with intent rather than reverence.

He remembered the way you stiffened. The almost imperceptible shiver that betrayed you. The quick swallow of breath. A soft, startled gasp.

Your reaction was written plainly across your face, and that alone drew a dark, knowing smile from him.

He had let his mouth linger a fraction longer, savoring the heat of your reaction, the way your composure fractured beneath the smallest touch. For one suspended instant — amid cheers, laughter, and the thunder of Rome’s approval — there had been nothing but you.

Only the way your body answered him. Only the way your eyes flickered up before snapping away.

The memory curved his mouth now, slow and private.

And then something ugly coiled in his chest.

Because in all the years you had stood within arm’s reach of one another — banquets, ceremonies, the Colosseum, victory feasts — there had never been contact. Not once. No accidental brush. No stolen closeness. Nothing that could be claimed.

That moment had been the first.

And after it, nothing else had ever truly left his mind.

The war had lasted three months. Three months of marching, killing, bleeding. He had been wounded more than once — cut, torn, soaked through — but none of it had tested him the way distance from you had.

Pain had never frightened him. Death had never tempted him to stop.

What had kept him moving was not Rome. Not glory.

It was you.

The thought of your face. Of your figure moving through silk and light. Of your smile — restrained, careful — and the soft sound of your jewelry when you inclined your head.

Of standing close enough to feel your presence.

Of knowing that when the laurel was placed upon his head, it would be you before him — close enough to feel, real, breathing — even if you stood beside the Emperor, even if you were never truly his.

That certainty had carried him through fire and steel. It had sharpened his blade, steadied his hand. He had cut down enemies with your image fixed behind his eyes, every strike a promise to return victorious.

And the truth had been better than anything he had dared to imagine. You had placed the laurel upon his head with your own hands. He had wished it had never happened.

Wished he had bled out on some distant battlefield, lungs filling with blood, vision darkening — anything but that single moment of your touch. Because it had not soothed him. It had not passed.

It had fed the fire.

What already burned inside him had been given breath, and now it raged — uncontrollable, merciless.

He feared himself after that.

Feared the way his thoughts returned to you without permission. Feared how nothing could contain the hunger once it had taken root. Not discipline. Not war. Not distance. Every night since, he had come here, drowning himself in noise and bodies, trying to smother you beneath sensation.

He had taken women — dozens of them. Touched, tasted, indulged. Skin against skin. Heat and sound and need.

And none of it mattered.

Because not one of them felt the way you had.

Not one mouth, one hand, one body had ever carried the same feeling. None of them made his blood tighten the way it had when your fingers brushed his armor, when your breath had stuttered beneath his mouth.

They were distractions. Empty vessels.

He wanted you alone.

There was a dark, unquenchable flame coiled in him now — something ancient and violent, something that could not be reasoned with. No woman in Rome could douse it. No indulgence could blunt its edge.

Only you could.

And that was impossible.

The realization made his jaw tighten.

He was lost in it when a hand brushed against his thigh.

One of the girls leaned closer, eyes bright with practiced hunger, lips curved in a knowing smile. “Allow me to pleasure you, General,” she murmured, fingers teasing at the edge of his tunic, brushing the straps of his armor as if they were an invitation.

His reaction was immediate.

Marcus’s hand shot up, fingers tangling in her hair, yanking her back with brutal efficiency. Not cruel — controlled. Final.

“No,” he growled. “Not tonight.”

His voice cut through the music, sharper than he intended. Movement stilled around them. Some of the dancers froze. Others glanced over, startled, surprised. He did not look at them.

He was already on his feet, rising to his full height, armor still secured to his body. Only then did he realize he had never bothered to remove it. Had come here armored like a man expecting battle.

Instinct had brought him here — not desire. The part of him that sought control. To neutralize the threat.

And it had failed.

Logic had no hold on him now. Only the dark fire dictated his movement.

He crossed the room and pulled aside the curtain, letting the cool night air strike his face. He drew in a breath that did nothing to steady him.

“General, sir.”

He did not turn. “Leave me.”

“Sir — it concerns the Empress.”

He spun so fast the man flinched, stumbling back a step.

Marcus’s gaze was a blade. Cold. Focused. Lethal.

The legionary swallowed hard and leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. The words reached Marcus’s ear; and the world seemed to stop.

His eyes widened.

His heartbeat slammed against his ribs.

Blood no longer coursed through his veins — it roared.

Rage flooded him, pure and absolute, burning away restraint, drowning reason in its wake.

Not the kind of anger that shouted.

The kind that decided.

Anger did not arrive alone.

It came layered — rage, fury, something older and sharper than either. The kind that did not shout. The kind that moved.

Anger makes men do brutal things. Most men break under it. They lose control.

Marcus had never been most men.

When he was angry, bodies fell. Hundreds of them. Sometimes for strategy. Sometimes simply to feel the tension leave his hands. He had never feared what anger could turn him into. Anyone who did was a fool.

They had called him many things over the years — a bull of a man, a monster, a butcher, a lion-slayer, a merciless warrior. All of it true. His name alone silenced rooms, made legions hesitate, forced even senators to measure their words.

Even the Emperor.

The one man Marcus had killed a thousand times in fantasy and never once in reality. The only man he truly wanted dead — and could not touch.

It had not always been this way.

Once, Marcus had been loyal. After victories, he rested. He drank. He took women without attachment and left them without regret. Slaves, courtesans, noble daughters — even his wives. None of them stayed with him, and none were meant to. Desire had been simple then. As easy as breathing. Meaningless.

After becoming a widower for the second time, even pleasure had lost its pull. Women became tools. Distractions. Nothing reached him anymore.

Then the old Emperor died. Then his son ascended the throne. And as if that insult were not enough, the young, inexperienced ruler decided to marry.

The day his bride -you- was brought into Rome, carried in ceremony, displayed in the Colosseum like spoils: Marcus felt something unfamiliar bloom in his chest.

He had seen beauty before. Many times. Women of every station, every nation. Had possessed it. Had forgotten it. Some were prettier. Softer. Easier.

None of them mattered.

You did.

And it had nothing to do with beauty.

It was the way you smiled without knowing who was watching. The way silk moved with you, the way your hair caught the light. Your hands. Your expressions. Your lashes. Your eyes. Your voice. The quiet weight of your presence when you stood still.

Gods help him — it was as if you had been shaped to undo him. A siren placed in his path to dull his reason and sharpen his hunger.

From the moment he truly looked at you, everything in him burned. Not gently. Not slowly.

He imagined you stripped of the gold-embroidered imperial stola, the heavy layers of silk and status peeled away. Not out of tenderness — out of need. Out of obsession. He wanted to know what was beneath the crown, beneath the restraint. Wanted to know what you would do if you understood who stood before you.

If you would reject him.

Or obey.

More than once, he had imagined cutting the Emperor down where he stood — spilling him across the marble, taking you while your husband’s blood was still warm on his hands. The thought had almost made him smile.

But it was not the Emperor this time. Not the distant enemy. Not even the wounds of battle that had stirred him like this.

He had not felt this fury when the Emperor touched you with ceremony but no care. Not when he gripped your arm too tightly. Not even on your wedding night, when duty had forced Marcus to look away.

Not on the Field of Mars. Not when his sword cut men down.

This was different.

This was tonight.

Because of what had been whispered into his ear.

Because of what you had chosen.

Tonight, you had decided. One night. One stranger man. Not for pleasure — but for an heir.

How dare you.

Not because you wanted someone else.

But because you were willing to turn yourself into a function.

Marcus did not yell.

He did not strike. He did not shatter anything.

He mounted his horse.

Hooves rang against stone as he tore through the sleeping streets, iron striking marble, the sound echoing through the dark like a warning. The city blurred around him — torches, walls, shadows — as he drove the animal harder, faster, as if speed itself could outrun the fury boiling in his blood.

The night wind cut against his face. It did nothing to cool him. He rode like a man racing fate. Like a man already too late.

The anger did not consume him.

It focused him.

He turned it into opportunity.

The fire that had burned in him for months, years. The hunger no woman, no conquest, no victory had ever quieted…

Tonight, it had purpose.

And that purpose was you.

With that single, reckless choice, you had dared to decide the fate of both yourself and him.

The villa gates burst open to the sound of hooves.

Four riders cut through the dark, cloaks snapping, armor catching torchlight in sharp flashes of bronze and steel. The courtyard froze — breath held, instincts flaring all at once.

Agrippa Varro, the villa’s owner, stepped forward before sense could stop him. His wife’s fingers clenched around his arm, nails biting through fabric. Panic flickered across both their faces.

Then recognition struck.

Marcus dismounted in a single, fluid motion.

He struck the stone like a verdict, his caligae (sandal) ringing against marble, cloak snapping behind him — rage held in check by iron discipline.

“General,” Agrippa said hoarsely.

So did everyone else.

Marcus did not acknowledge the greeting.

His gaze swept the courtyard with open contempt, as if their very presence offended him. Slaves lowered their eyes. Guards stiffened, unsure whether to move or disappear.

“Where is she?” he asked.

Nothing more.

They knew who he meant.

They did not know how he knew — and none of them dared ask.

Marcus turned slightly, his voice cold and precise. “Seal the villa,” he said. “No one leaves. No one enters. If I see a single unfamiliar face after this moment, I will assume it is an enemy.”

That was enough.

Agrippa stiffened. He exchanged a stunned glance with his wife — a silent, frantic question passing between them. This was not what they had expected. They had thought Marcus would demand explanations, invoke the Emperor’s name, perhaps even insist the Empress be escorted away at once. That he would stop this. That he would restore order.

Instead, he had sealed the villa.

At his signal, a slave stepped forward — the one Marcus chose with a glance alone. The man bowed deeply, fear etched into every movement, and turned to lead the way inside. Through the atrium (the central open area of a villa). Past marble columns and flickering shadows. Toward the inner chambers.

Marcus followed, his dark cloak cutting through the space behind him, his stride sharp, restless, violent in its restraint.

He understood the moment he crossed the threshold.

The preparation.

The hush.

And the man being brought toward the inner rooms.

The gladiator was bare-chested beneath his cloak, skin scarred, muscles tight with readiness. A mask already covered his face — bronze and leather shaped into the visage of Mars, god of war. Not waiting. Being delivered.

Marcus moved. Three steps.That was all it took.

He seized the man by the shoulder and drove him backward, shoving him hard enough to send him staggering out of the passage. Marcus’s hand closed around the mask — not ripping it away, but gripping it firmly, deliberately, asserting ownership with the smallest motion.

“Take him,” Marcus said, voice low and absolute. “Return him to his cell.”

The slaves hesitated, caught between their loyalty to their empress and the fear of the man - the general - standing before them. 

Marcus lifted his gaze. That was it.

Just as they had brought him, they seized the gladiator and pulled him away in silence. Sandals scraped against the stone, the sound thinning as it vanished into the corridors.

Seconds later, he was gone.

Marcus stayed where he was a moment longer than necessary. The mask still rested in his hand—heavy and cold. 

He turned it slowly, then slipped it onto his face with ease. The straps tightened, and the world around him grew narrow. His breath echoed inside the bronze mask, louder than he had anticipated.

Only then did he focus on the slaves lingering at the edges of the room. 

“You,” he said calmly, lifting his hand, waving in a gesture. “Come here. Help me take off my armor.”

YOU

The cup tasted like punishment.

Your slave said it was necessary. The medicus nodded beside her, solemn and useless, murmuring about warmth and balance, about coaxing life where Rome insisted it should exist. You drank because they told you it might help. Because for two years now, everyone had been trying to help you conceive.

As if the problem were that simple. As if herbs and whispered prayers could make up for the truth — that nothing had ever truly been planted there.

You swallowed and winced. Bitter. Sharp. You tipped wine into the cup without hesitation, watching the dark red soften the brew’s sickly color, then drank again. Better. Warmer. Almost convincing.

You set the cup aside and reached for the mask.

Venus.

The choice had made you laugh earlier — quietly, without humor. Love. Fertility. Desire. The goddess Rome pretended ruled women’s bodies. You allowed your slave to tie it carefully, as if silk could hide more than your face. As if you could tuck your unease behind it and borrow courage for one night.

You wore a simple tunic — thin silk that caught the light and gave more than it took. No excess. No titles. No imperial weight. Only a necklace at your throat, earrings brushing your neck when you moved. The back of the tunic lay open, skin exposed down your spine, held together by a delicate chain that traced your waist like a promise.

You looked deliberate. Not innocent. Not ashamed.

Achingly, dangerously compelling — the kind of beauty that demanded attention without begging for it.

With the Venus mask and your bare, unguarded form, you were dizzying. As if the world were witnessing the birth of the goddess all over again. Any man would have gone to his knees.

That was the point.

The mask erased your name. The man who came would not know who you were — only that you were noble, that you had chosen him. To him, you would be no different from the other patrician women who sought a night of secrecy and indulgence. Rome was full of them. Their intentions were usually simple.

Yours were not.

This was not lust. It was necessity. You were the Empress. You commanded armies, bent senators to your will, ruled without question. As long as your husband never learned of this night, what crime was there? What fault?

You could live with that.

You had to.

You drew in a breath — and froze.

Voices. Footsteps.

Too soon.

You hadn’t given the signal.

Your slave’s head snapped toward the door, tension rippling through her body. The room felt suddenly smaller, the air too tight. You hesitated — just long enough to almost stop this. Almost.

Then you lifted your hand and nodded.

It was done.

You turned your back to the door. You did not want to see him enter. Not yet. You wrapped your fingers around the wine cup, grounding yourself in its weight, its cold edge biting into your palm.

The door opened.

Silence followed.

Not the heavy, anticipatory hush you had expected — but something sharper. Wrong. Your slaves shifted behind you. One of them stiffened, breath catching audibly.

That was strange.

You put the cup aside and turned.

The man stood alone.

No escort. No guards. No ceremony. Just him — filling the chamber as if it had been built for his presence. The mask hid his face, but his gaze found you immediately, unflinching, intent.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. Silk. Shadow. Breath.

He wore the mask of Mars, fierce and unyielding, its sharp edges hiding his face but not the fire in his gaze. You met him through your Venus mask, delicate and ethereal, yet your eyes betrayed no hesitation.

Then he stepped forward.

Unhurried. Certain.

Your slave moved at once, placing herself between you, chin lifted in practiced authority.

“You will not approach the lady unless she permits it.”

He did not even look at her.

He shoved her aside with one efficient motion — not violent, not gentle. As if she were simply in the way.

Your breath caught, sharp and instinctive.

“Stop,” you commanded, voice firm despite the tremor beneath it.

He didn’t.

His eyes never left you.

Your slave rushed forward again — and this time, he caught her by the throat. Not crushing. Just enough. Enough to make the room lock in place.

Shock hit you. “Enough!” Your voice cut through the room. “Do you even know what you do? Who you presume yourself to be?” you demanded, anger flaring.

He released her with a shove and straightened.

“Leave,” he said.

The voice came from behind the mask — low, controlled.

Something in it struck you like a memory you hadn’t known you were keeping. You had heard that voice before. Across marble halls. Over the roar of crowds. Calm amid blood and ceremony alike.

“All of you. Leave us. Now.”

Your heart stuttered. “That’s not possible,” you whispered.

He reached up and removed the mask. For a heartbeat, your world narrowed to the sharp outline of his face, suddenly revealed by the flickering torchlight. His brown eyes caught the glow — familiar, burning, unmistakable.

Shock slammed through you, and you instinctively stumbled back, heart hammering. “General Acacius,” you breathed, voice trembling.

The room tilted.

Without taking his eyes off you, he barked, “Out! Now!”

No one argued.

They fled as if chased, sandals slapping stone, silk whispering panic. The door shut with a final, echoing thud.

You were alone with him.

Your pulse thundered. Shame crawled up your spine, tangled with fear, fury — and something far worse. You stood frozen, unable to decide what you felt.

He crossed the remaining distance and stopped. Bare-chested. Powerful. Built like the statues that lined the atrium — only warmer. Breathing. Real. You had never seen him without armor before.

The sight stole the air from your lungs.

His gaze followed yours. Lingered.

“H-how? You shouldn’t be here,” you said hoarsely.

“I could say the same of you, your highness,” he replied evenly.

He reached up and removed your mask, fingers deft as the ties came undone. Your hair fell loose, and you dropped your gaze without thinking, embarrassment burning across your cheeks.

His hand didn’t withdraw.

Instead, his thumb slipped beneath your chin and lifted it, slow and insistent, until you had no choice but to look at him.

He paused there, unmoving. Just for a moment.

Not surprise.

Not softness.

His eyes locked onto yours, dark and unblinking, as if he were stripping you bare with nothing but his gaze. As if he were seeing past flesh and silk and title, down to something exposed and dangerous beneath.

Something tighter settled into his expression.

Like a man realizing the blade he’d been circling was sharper than he remembered.

His jaw locked. His eyes darkened further, tracking every breath, every flicker of hesitation on your face with an intensity that made your skin prickle. As if seeing you fully — unmasked, unguarded — had cost him something he hadn’t meant to give.

Instinctively, he leaned closer.

Not enough to touch.

Enough to threaten it.

His attention dipped — briefly, deliberately — to your mouth. The space between you shrank, heavy with intention. Panic flared in your chest, and you tried to turn your face away, the hunger in his eyes suddenly too much, too ruinous to meet.

“This was a mistake,” you said, the words tight, fragile.

His thumb remained beneath your chin, unyielding.

“It would have been,” he replied quietly, eyes never leaving yours, “if I hadn’t come.”

You tried to pull away. He didn’t let you. “What- Let go of me.”

“You’re tired of being treated like an object,” he growled. “And yet… here you are. Playing with fire, little Empress… do you not understand what you risk?”

How dare he.

“You wouldn’t understand,” you snapped. “If you’re here to lecture me on honor—”

“I understand perfectly,” he said. “I didn’t come here to lecture you or protect your husband’s honor. Or your father’s.”

“Then why?” you demanded.

He released you.

“Because what you desire,” he said slowly, eyes fixed on your face, unblinking, “you shall never receive from one unworthy of you.”

Your breath caught. You could scarcely believe your ears — that he would suggest such a thing.

“I am not letting you give yourself to a man who will forget you before dawn.”

The words landed like a blow.

“Acacius—” Your hand rose to your chest as you stepped back. “How— why—no.”

He surged forward, presence overwhelming, breath warm against your skin. 

Not kind. Not gentle. Predatory.

“You still don’t see it,” he said, voice dark with fury and something far more dangerous beneath it.

“I have burned for you,” he continued, each word forged tight with restraint. “For years. In my thoughts. In my sleep. In every battle, it was your face that kept me standing.” Your eyes widened, disbelief clawing at your mind, your ears betraying you. “And you dare think,” he went on, quiet but vicious, voice like steel coiled around fire, “that I would stand aside while you reduce yourself to a mere vessel? While you let some nameless body be used to bear an heir? As if that were all you were made for?” Your breath shuddered. “And gods help me,” he added, jaw clenched, “as if I would ever allow that.”

Something twisted low in your body at the words. Heat flared where there should have been only fear. Only shame.

You hated yourself for it.

Because beneath the humiliation, beneath the danger of him standing there, claiming space and certainty alike, your body betrayed you — answering his fury with a treacherous spark of want.

And that frightened you more than anything else.

His hands came to your shoulders — firm, unyielding — halting you where you stood. He forced you to look at him.

“How could you lower yourself so?” he asked quietly. Not shouting. Judgment was colder than fury. “How could you make yourself lesser than what you are?”

“What is this insolence—” you began.

“Insolence?” His mouth twisted, humorless. “And what of your audacity?”

Your heart thundered. “You speak as though—” Your voice wavered. “Do you claim an attachment to me beyond duty?” Your eyes searched his. “Is this love, then… General?”

A sound escaped him, not laughter, but close enough to mock it. “Love?” he echoed softly. “A small word. A thin one.”

His grip shifted. One hand rose, pushing your hair back to bare your throat. His palm settled there — possessive, overwhelming by its sheer weight alone. “Do not profane what I bear by naming it love,” he murmured.

You shivered.

His thumb brushed the pulse at your neck, deliberate. He felt its frantic beat. A faint, dangerous curve touched his mouth.

“I have imagined this,” he confessed quietly. “My hands upon you. Your composure breaking. Your will bending.”

“Stop,” you whispered. “Please."

“You tremble,” he observed calmly. “Good.”

His large hand closed around your throat—not in haste, but with intent. Beneath his palm, the fragile give of your neck was unmistakable, a reminder of how easily you could be broken if he wished. The awareness made his clothed manhood twitch.

“Acacius,” you gasped. “You’re hurting me.”

His head tilted, eyes intent, studying you like a creature caught between fear and the instinct to run.

“This,” he said quietly, tightening just enough to make his meaning clear, “is restraint.”

Then — slowly, deliberately — he released you.

“This ends here.” The instant his hold loosened, you turned and moved for the door — swift, desperate, unthinking. 

He caught you with ease from behind. “We haven’t even begun.” He growled, pulling you hard against him, his arms locking around you from the back. You struggled, twisting, trying to break free — but it was impossible.

Gods, this was wrong.

All of it was wrong.

“Y–You…” Your voice faltered. “I… we can’t. my husband trusts you. If this is ever heard—”

He cut you off without raising his voice.

“Curse your husband,” he said. “Abi in infernum. (Let him burn.)"

The vulgarity of his words shocked you — the sheer irreverence of it — and yet, beneath the fear, something else flared, sharp and unwelcome. Through the layers of cloth, you felt his hardness pressing insistently against your arse. Your breath hitched, heart racing, caught between alarm and a thrill you did not want to name.

He buried his face into your hair, pressing his nose along the curve of your ear, nudging the soft lobe aside as he inhaled you like a man tasting something forbidden. His tongue traced your warm, soft skin, slow and deliberate, tasting the faint essence of jasmine that lingered there.

The scrape of his beard brushed your neck — rough, unmistakably male — and the sensation sent an involuntary shiver through you. Your pulse leapt beneath his mouth, traitorous, loud. The heat of him so close made your chest tighten, made your knees feel unsteady, as if your body were responding before your mind could catch up.

A low sound escaped him — not laughter, not quite. Something closer to satisfaction. The kind that lingered beneath the surface, like the hum of a predator savoring its prey.

You struggled again, twisting in his arms, trying to break free.

Again, his arms caught you like iron traps, locking around your waist, pulling you back against him. You struggled, but he didn’t even flinch.

“Let go — Acacius, please—”

His breath grazed your ear, low and steady, but with a sharp edge hidden underneath.

“Resist me once more," he whispered, his voice low and edged with steel,

“and I will drag you into the atrium. I will have you there. Before my men, before Agrippa and his wife, before the slaves.”

You froze completely. “Don’t,” you breathed, the word barely more than air. “Please… do not.”

“Then be still,” he said simply.

Not a plea. Not a warning.

A command.

He pressed closer. You could feel the weight of his threat in every inch of his control.

“This can be something we both enjoy…” he said, voice velvet and venom, “...or it can be just for me. But either way — you’re not getting away. Decide.”

His hand found the back of your tunic, fisting the fabric without hesitation.

The cloth tore from your shoulders in one brutal motion—the gold-chained garment draped across your back giving way all at once. Something snapped—a delicate chain, perhaps—and a rain of jeweled ornaments scattered across the floor, clattering sharply.

“I’ve wanted you for a long time,” he said, his voice thick, deliberate. “You have lived in my thoughts,” he admitted. “In ways the gods would condemn.”

A breath.

“Now... you're mine to cherish.”

Another pause.

“And to ruin, if I choose.”

He pulled the silk from your shivering body slowly — not to savor, but to claim.

The fabric slipped to the floor like a secret undone. He stared.

Not just at your body.

At your skin.

The way it caught the lamplight. The way it rose and fell with every panicked breath. The way it wasn’t meant for anyone else but him.

His hands — calloused from war, scarred from blade and bone — hovered for a moment before finally landing on your waist.

You inhaled sharply.

Not pain.

Not fear.

The sheer weight of his presence.

You still hadn’t turned to face him.

You stood rooted where you were, breath shallow, afraid of what you might see if you did. Afraid of what it would confirm.

His hands moved over your hips, along your sides — slow, deliberate, not wandering but learning, as if committing the shape of you to memory.

“Soft,” he murmured, almost to himself. “As I imagined.”

His touch rose, restrained yet inevitable — tracing your back, your shoulders, his fingers brushing the line of your collarbones with a strange reverence, like a prayer unwrapped rather than spoken.

“He does not deserve this,” he whispered.

He leaned closer, his breath warming your jaw, close enough that you felt it without daring to turn.

“You were never his.”

His fingers went to the knot at his hip.

Unhurried. Deliberate.

The subligaculum (a kind of underwear)  loosened with a soft sound, linen slipping free of its tension. The fabric fell, forgotten, at his feet.

Your breath caught You felt it then — the shift.

Not in the room.

In him.

When he straightened, the space he occupied felt suddenly dangerous, as though the air itself bent around his will. He stood with the stillness of a statue before motion — all potential, all threat.

You turned your face away instinctively, shame and something far worse tightening your chest.

He noticed.

The corner of his mouth curved — not in amusement, but in something colder.

“Tell me,” he said, almost idly, “the man you call husband… does he even touch you now? He can’t give you what you need, can he?”

You stiffened, spine straightening despite yourself.

“Do not speak of him with such disrespect,” you said sharply.

He gave a short, incredulous laugh, sharp as a blade.

“How loyal. So dutiful,” he added, voice dark with contempt. “So Roman.”

His eyes flicked toward you, catching your movement — a glance heavy with anger, with disbelief. You looked away instinctively, heat and shame twisting with a dangerous curiosity deep in your chest.

He noticed.

His mouth curled — not a smile, but something sharper, crueler, predatory.

“Yet here you are,” he continued, voice low, dripping with scorn. “Sneaking off to a borrowed villa. Choosing a gladiator to do what your precious… husband cannot.”

Your chest tightened. “That’s not—”

His tone snapped. “You wanted him to put an heir in you.”

Silence slammed between you.

In a single motion, his hand fisted in your hair and yanked you around to face him. Enough to make your breath catch.

You were too close now.

Too exposed.

Your gaze dropped before you could stop yourself — and your throat went dry.

“Like what you see, my Empress?”

He leaned in, forcing your chin up with two fingers.

“I’m willing to bet,” he said, voice rough with satisfaction, “that whatever you endured in that cold bed of yours never came close to this.”

You swallowed. Hard.

He smiled then — slow, predatory.

“That’s what I thought.”

His grip in your hair tightened just enough to sting.

“Turn not your eyes,” he growled. “There is no retreat now — not that you would want one.”

Your eyes dropped again — and this time, you couldn’t stop the sound that escaped.

“Oh gods…”

Marcus stilled. Then, slowly, deliberately, he tilted your chin up.

His mouth was a breath away from yours when he whispered:

“Forget your gods. They can’t hear you now.”

He caught you by the shoulders again, firm, cruel, and pressed you down so that you sank onto your knees before him.

Your breath left you in a sharp gasp, your eyes widened, your entire body stunned from his hot, throbbing manhood resting against your face. 

It stole your vision. Your thoughts.

You barely registered the general’s face above you, only the way his mouth curved; slow, knowing as he took in your stunned silence.

Dear gods.

He was a lot bigger than you had expected. And the raw scent, that was out in full force, made your head swim from how much it was overwhelming your nostrils. This wasn’t the first time you’d seen a man’s penis…

But this?

Even believing it was real strained the limits of your mind.

Marcus stood before you without shame, without hesitation — a figure carved for war rather than worship. Solid. Towering. Dangerous.

Both his presence and his scent roused something primordial within you, awakening your womanhood as though answering an unspoken mating call, older than reason, deeper than will.

Your husband had never looked like this, and his manhood had never stirred you the way this did.

Marcus was twice his age, and yet somehow felt carved from something far older — something primal. Thick muscle shaped his frame, not the ornamental strength of noblemen, but the hardened body of a man who had fought, bled, and survived.

Scars traced him like history written into flesh.

This body did not ask.

It took.

The comparison came unbidden; cruel and undeniable. Your husband could not stand beside this. Would not dare.

You hated the way your insides clenched at the thought, nipples drewing tight.

Hated the way your mouth went dry.

Hated how something deep and traitorous inside you whispered, slow and reverent:

This is what a true man looks like.

Marcus watched you with something darker than satisfaction. Amusement, maybe. Possession. Victory.

You hadn’t even touched him yet, but your breath had already gone shallow, your lips parting without permission.

You were an Empress.

And yet here you were, kneeling, breath shaky, mouth parted, stunned by the sight in front of you… and even more so by the fact that you wanted it.

A flicker of shame curled in your stomach.

Then—

Fingers in your hair.

Firm.

Unforgiving.

“You’ve made me wait long enough,” Marcus growled. He tilted your face up, the heat in his eyes enough to scorch you from the inside out. “Don’t pretend you don’t want this now.”

Your heart pounded. You should’ve pulled back. Should’ve spoken. Should’ve run.

Instead, you just stared, breath hitched, mind blank, pride forgotten.

And Marcus, with a dark, crooked smile, leaned in just close enough to whisper: “Be a good girl now, regina mea.(my queen)”

His grip turned unforgiving as he guided you forward, stealing your breath as he forced you to take him — relentless, claiming, leaving no room for hesitation. 

Your pupils shrank to the size of mere dots at the abrupt action. Your gag reflex was suddenly suppressed as you found yourself in the middle of deepthroating the man’s cock out of nowhere.

Your entire body trembled, instinctively trying to pull back, desperate to get some air. But the firm grip on your head held you in place. All you could do was focus on steadying your breathing, drawing in air through your nostrils. Hoping that you would be able to satisfy him with your tongue. 

Gods, the taste was even stronger than the smell. Yet not once you get the feeling of wanting to gag or wretch from it. As a matter of fact, a small part of you found the thing to be… actually quite pleasant. 

A low, guttural sound tore from Marcus’s chest; something feral, raw and you didn’t know why it made your own chest tighten the way it did. But it did. 

The sound went straight through you, settling somewhere deep, igniting something you had spent far too long denying. Fervently licking the underside of his shaft to the best of your abilities while he drilled and slammed his massive length to the very back of your throat. Even with all of that, you couldn’t stop yourself from bringing a hand to between your thighs. Slipping two of your fingers into your burning, soaked core, plunging them, knuckles deep, into your wet cunt like a shameless whore. 

This was unreal.

You — the illustrious, proud Empress of Rome. A woman raised on silk and ceremony. A woman who had built her entire existence around dignity, status, and control.

And yet here you were.

Kneeling.

Fingering yourself while the general of Rome used your mouth like it was some type of sexual relief toy.

And the gods help you — you didn’t care.

Not about titles.

Not about appearances.

Not even about the husband who hadn’t touched you in months.

All you could feel was the heat curling low in your belly. The ache. The burning awareness of how long you’d gone without being wanted like this.

You were shaking — not from shame, but from need. From the way your body responded despite everything your mind screamed you should remember.

His fingers loosened suddenly.

Not in kindness — in choice.

He let go of your hair with the same calm a beast might show just before pouncing again.

And just like that, he slipped free from your mouth with a wet sound.

You gasped — at the absence, the shock, the unbearable heat still coiled low in your belly.

Saliva clung to your lips — slick, messy, warm with the unmistakable blend of your spit and his precum — trailing down the corner of your mouth in a slow, shameful line. Your chest heaved, rapid and uneven, rising with every shallow breath you couldn’t quite catch.

“This wet,” he murmured, reaching for your hand, observing your soaked fingers. “Just from sucking my cock?” His thumb circled over the mess, slow and cruel. “So eager,” he mused darkly, “and yet so unfulfilled.” He leaned in, voice brushing your ear like a blade.

“Is this how royalty trembles? From the taste of a man made of war?”

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “You needy little whore.” You opened your mouth to speak — maybe to deny, maybe to beg — but he brought your fingers to his lips first. And sucked. A low growl rumbled in his chest.

“Sweeter than honey,” he muttered against your skin — but there was no reverence in it. Only hunger.

His hand tightened suddenly around your waist, and before you could speak — even breathe — he hoisted you into his arms like you weighed nothing.

Not gentle. Not loving.

Like you were something stolen. You gasped, instinctively grabbing at his shoulders. He didn’t even glance at you.

His voice, when it came, was lower than before. Rougher.

“I’ll carve my legacy into your womb, seed by seed, until there is no part of you untouched by me.”

Then he leaned in, lips brushing your ear, voice a slow venom.

“But first… I want the source.”

A pause. A breath. A cruel smile.

“You think I’d be satisfied with a little taste?”

Another growl — deeper now.

“I want to drown in it.”

And with that, he threw you onto the bed — hard enough to make the mattress protest, the silks twist beneath you.

You barely had time to blink before he was already on top of you, eyes burning like a man gone feral.

“Let’s see,” he rasped, his hungry eyes trailing down your body. “If the rest of you tastes as good as your shame, regina mea.”

It wasn’t just a word — it was a growl, raw.

Your throat grew dry under his ravenous gaze. Your whole body shivered under the weight of it. Every hair on your arms stood on end, your throat went dry, and your pulse raced.

His large, rough hands gripped your thighs, yanking you closer with a force that made your heart pound. The sheer power behind his pull sent your head spinning, every part of your body instantly alert to his dominance. You struggled instinctively, but the iron‑tight grip left you rooted in place, your legs locking in tension.

He smacked the side of your thigh, hard and sudden. “Would you have me drag you to the atrium?” he thundered, his voice low and commanding, vibrating with fury. You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “Then be still, and resist me not,” he growled, teeth clenched, and you obeyed.

With his strong hands, he spread your knees like splitting a fig in two and buried his head between them. His heated breath reached your wet folds before his mouth did and you bit your lower lip at the sensation. A sound came from his nose, Gods, he was… inhaling the scent of your arousal, a low, satisfied sound escaped him. Looking at him through your spread legs was terrifying, yet strangely intriguing. Your heart was pounding wildly as you thought about what he would do next.

His hands hungrily grabbed at your arse leaving red marks on them while his warm tongue fiddled around inside you. He licked, tasting your juices, nudging your clit with the tip of his tongue. You were wet, but not wet enough to his liking. Marcus wanted you swollen and dripping. Shock and pleasure fused and swept through your entire body, you clawed frantically for something to hold onto, something you could sink your fingers into. But with his grip tight around your hips, his head was just out of reach—far for you to grasp—so you dug your fingers into the sheets instead, your back arching. His hungry mouth found your clitoris and he sucked on it till it grew bigger. You felt your body heating up and your cunt getting even more wet at this forceful stimulation. Relentlessly, his tongue went deeper inside, licking over you with the wide, flat surface of his tongue, exulting in your strangled moan that he felt vibrating against his tongue, lips, and ears.

You hadn’t known that such pleasure-such a sensation-could even be real. You felt as though you were losing your mind from it. You clapped both hands over your mouth, pressing hard, not to stifle a scream, but to keep what remained of your sanity intact. Marcus heard your muffled scream and lifted his head. His tongue, coated with your wetness, traced his lips in a measured, deliberate motion, eyes never leaving you. Then he slapped, struck your hand aside and seized your wrists, yanking your hands away from your mouth.. “Do not dare to silence yourself,” he growled. “Find your voice,” he said. “Let me hear you."

Then he parted you with his thick fingers, swirled his tongue over and over, and you jerked and shook, thighs falling open shamelessly, wantonly, your hips moving instinctively, desperately to urge him closer and deeper. “Ooooohhhh! Please!” You screamed, “Oh gods, oh gods!” 

He growled, pulling your hips closer to his mouth so he could go deeper, his mouth devouring you as you felt curls of his hair brushing against your thighs, his lapping and sucking producing slick, sinful sounds that only served to drive you further wild.

"Gods, please," You reached and yanked his head closer sharply, fingers tangled in his partly gray curls, nails scraping against his scalp. Your thighs were shaking, you felt hot and cold all over. He loved the way you scratched at him, how you shivered against him. His hard cock was dripping, straining so painfully.

Marcus’s grip tightened, followed by a sharp blow on your arse that tore a cry from you, digging his thick fingers deep into your core. 

His beard prickled your folds so deliciously, his nose rubbed against your clit. He pushed his tongue deep into you again and sucked while fucking you with his fingers. You cried out, sobbing, and he felt more slickness leaking from you, felt your swollen flesh pulse under his tongue. He gripped your thigh with one hand and your arse with the other, holding you fast as he lapped up your juices greedily, groaning and growling in pleasure at the taste of your sweet honey. A broken sound slipped from you, caught somewhere between a sob and a cry, and it only seemed to drive him on.  He hummed, sucked ruthlessly, the pleasure wasn’t only yours at the sweet violence of your response, your body bucking and your wetness on his lips and chin. “Rather sweet,” he said against you as he licked and sucked, punctuating his words with the curl of his tongue, with its flicks and flutters. He spoke no more for a long while, dedicating his tongue only to worshiping you and ruining you. It’s enchanting how you squirmed and wriggled, losing all grace and propriety, letting the façade you wore fall away completely in the face of you need for him. Never before had he wanted to ruin a woman the way he wanted you.

No other woman had ever drawn such a response from him, never stirred this depth of feeling or hunger—and the realization unsettled him. It made him wonder how it was possible that you alone could provoke something so fierce, so consuming, that even he had not known it existed.

The wet sounds of his tongue gliding over you filled the chamber now, faintly echoing beyond the door. Anyone outside, if listening carefully, might catch the echoes. Your moans intertwined with his low, throaty grunts and the sharp, wet smacks of his movements, merging into a dark, intoxicating rhythm—a melody of sin, fierce and unbridled, wild and consuming, each sound deliberate, like a man savoring a feast.

You didn't know how many times you came. 

After a while, too much pleasure clouded your brain, and you forgot to count. Your heart beat wildly and you gasped for breath as if your whole body were melting in his arms. But all this time, his hands never loosened its grip, his mouth never left your folds. When he said he wanted to drown, he wasn’t jesting, he really seemed like he wanted to drown in your juices. You felt the sweat trailing down your back, it was as if you were slowly coming back to yourself, drifting down from some distant height. The world settled into focus again. Then you lifted your head and looked at him. But he was not yet finished with you.

Twice you peeked, and twice he drank your pleasure from you, dipping his tongue in to lap at you, avoiding your sensitive spots until you were ready for him again. 

Once again, you peaked, suddenly this time, heat flaring in your belly and rushing under your skin, your cunt fluttering around his tongue and your thighs trembling against his face, your core is pulsing. Your brain had gone numb, your senses had gone numb, you only later noticed the tears streaming down your cheeks. You did not know whether you were crying from rapture, or because another man had given you this incredible intensity, or because such pleasure existed at all and you had been denied it for so long—deprived of it by your husband. You did not know which of these truths had broken you open. All you knew was that what had just been done to you—forced though it was—had filled you with an overwhelming, undeniable delight.

Marcus sit up on the bed and lifted his hand, crooking two fingers in a silent summons. “Rise,” he said. “Come closer.”

You obeyed, even as your knees trembled beneath you, crawling across the bed toward him. Drawn forward against your own will, compelled by the unspoken certainty of his command, you moved on—each measured inch an unacknowledged surrender, felt not in thought but in bone and blood.

His beard and jaw still bore the trace of your arousal, catching the light in a way that made your throat tighten. His lips were swollen now, darkened with heat and breath—and for the first time in your life, a man’s mouth held you spellbound.

You swallowed hard as your eyes lingered on his lips. The desire to kiss him rose sudden and unbidden, startling in its intensity. How had you never seen it before—how dangerously compelling they were, how they promised not tenderness, but conquest?

“Clean it,” he said, fixing you with a piercing stare. You blinked, meeting his gaze. When you hesitated, his hand reached behind your head, fingers closing in your hair. “Use that pretty tongue of yours,” he murmured darkly. “Taste yourself on me."

With a firm pull, he drew you closer, guiding you toward him.

You leaned closer, drawn by something you could no longer name. Slowly, tentatively, you traced the line of his jaw with your tongue, tasting the salt of him there, and your heady essence, then brushed your lips against his mouth. Your breath caught. You wanted to kiss him—no, you needed to—and the realization unfurled inside you, inescapable, undoing you far more than his touch ever had. 

“Acacius,” you murmured, the plea barely a sound.

You wanted to know the taste of him, to feel his breath mingle with yours, to dream of his tongue—eloquent and dangerous, as if it had always known how to take what it desired.

For a heartbeat, he did not move. Then his hand came up, firm, stopping you just short of his lips. His fingers closed around your chin, tilting your face up, not unkindly—but decisively.

“No,” he said quietly, eyes dark and intent. He held you there a moment longer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath, before easing you back—control reasserted without another word.

You fell back against the bed, breath uneven, while he rose to his feet. He crossed the room and poured himself a measure of wine from the decanter. You watched him as he drank, his back to you. The way he had denied you—that single, deliberate refusal—had left a sharp edge of anger beneath your skin. Still, you would not look desperate. You would not look like a supplicant. “You taste better with wine,” he said, dismissing your situation entirely. "Your husband never gave you this kind of pleasure it seems. I can see it in your pretty face.”

You lowered your gaze at once.

“Damn fool,” he snarled. “Such a crime to leave such  ambrosia untasted. Ah, regina mea, I could drink of your cunt forever and never be thirsty,” he said, lifting his cup to you.

He took another slow, deliberate sip, savoring it, while you studied him, trying to pierce the reason behind the refusal of his lips.

You bit your lower lip. “Does the general,” you asked, voice cold, measured, “never kiss the whores he fucks?”

For a single heartbeat, your question struck its mark. The man who had been all hunger and shadow faltered, something unreadable flashing across his face—cornered, exposed. You had reached him where it mattered. But the moment was brief. He mastered himself just as quickly, the mask sliding back into place, control reclaimed as if it had never slipped at all.

“You presume too much.” He laughed—low, unbothered, almost amused. His eyes slid over you slowly before lifting to meet yours, draining the cup in one swallow. “Besides, I haven’t fucked you yet.” As he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes never left you—still sprawled on the bed, exposed to his gaze. There was nothing hidden in the hunger there. He set the cup aside and began to walk back toward you.

Your heart leapt into your throat. Under the weight of his wolfish-stare alone, your pulse betrayed you, every step he took tightening the air between you. 

Your eyes betrayed you, lingering where they should not—on his manhood, veins raised like living marble beneath the skin, carrying a promise of strength that needed no name to be understood, mirroring the same restrained power that defined the rest of his body.

There was an ease to him that had nothing to do with innocence—an assurance born of familiarity, of having learned bodies as thoroughly as battlefields. You wondered if it was merely the discipline of a soldier, or something more intimate. Not strength alone, but experience—the kind earned in shadows and silence, in nights that left their mark. The way he held himself suggested a man who had known desire well, and had never been ruled by it.

Your walls clenched around nothing.

By that time, you were blushing deeply as you watched the him positioned himself before you. Spreading your legs as his erection was looking full and firm with lust and arousal, precum leaking from his tip. If you didn’t know any better, you could’ve sworn that the length actually grew in size from a few mere moments ago. As he looked at you darkly, a sharp mix of excitement and unease tightened in your chest. You knew that in mere moments, you would be fucked by the general of Rome.

You had to admit—you had never imagined that the man who would take you, who would claim you like this, would be him. And yet… perhaps this was better than some nameless gladiator you had never known. Wasn’t it?

“So,” Marcus asked, a slow, taunting curve to his mouth, “you wish to be kissed, do you?” His gaze held yours, dark and knowing. “By the very man you were trying to flee from only moments ago?”

You felt the tip start to poke at your entrance. You bit your bottom lip as you watched the fat bulbous tip, followed by his thick inches slowly slide their way inside of you. A moan slipped from your lips as your eyes fluttered shut, your breath betraying you before words could. Marcus’s hand came up, slapped your cunt, drawing a sharp squeak from you before you could stop it. “Answer me,” he growled.

“Yes—” you cried, the word tearing free before you could stop it. “Yes, I wish you to kiss me,” you breathed, your body arching beneath him, caught between need and surrender.

He grinned, a slow, predatory curve to his lips. “Then,” he said, voice low and sharp, “you’ll have to earn it.”

Your mind swirled, trying to grasp the meaning behind his words. Before you could decide, his hands grabbed at your waist, you glanced up at him and was met with him giving you a playful smile— right before slamming the rest of his length in with one vicious thrust. 

“Oh GODS!” You cried as your whole world went white. Your mind exploded from intense pain, pleasure and fullness, crashing against your entire body. Your mouth agape in a choked cry, nothing coming out at that very moment. 

A sharp, surprised grunt left him, taken aback by just how tight you were. Your grip on him was like a python’s, quivering and quaking all around. Were he a lesser man, he would have likely reached his climax almost immediately, all because of you beneath him. Not even the virgin courtesan from the lupanaria could match the level of tightness you were exuding. It was both impressive and intoxicating—you felt divine. His eyes darkened, pupils dilating, every fiber of him alive with sensation. He had never felt this way with any woman before—not even close. 

For a heartbeat, the predator faltered, undone by the inevitability of your hold. Yet almost instantly, he recovered—lips curling into a dangerous, possessive smile, muscles taut with restrained hunger. Even as he regained his composure, the knowledge lingered: you had claimed him, and it thrilled him in ways no other had.

His first thrust was sudden and merciless, sharp as a tearing bandage. You cried out at the shocking fullness, your body jolting into a haze of overwhelming, mind-numbing pleasure. “Ahhhh...oohhh...Gods!"

His big hand wrapped around your throat, slapping your arse with the other, “Not your gods… you’ll scream my name,” He grunted as he began to move inside you, his grip on your throat not lessening for a second. The slaps on your arse and cunt kept coming, over and over, raw and relentless, as he fucked you too hard, too deep, with no intention of slowing down. Your screams weren’t enough to stop him—if anything, they only seemed to please him, driving him to thrust deeper and deeper until you felt his balls slamming against your arse cheeks.

By the time he found a steady rhythm, you were reduced to breathless moans and sharp cries, the kind that belonged to a woman utterly claimed. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, while your legs jerked and bucked helplessly at his sides under the relentless force of him.

The heavy, rhythmic impact of your bodies colliding echoed through the room, mingling with the sounds spilling from your lips—noises you had never imagined yourself capable of making. Each slam, each gasp, carried a wild, almost shameful intensity, and still, you found yourself utterly unable to stop it.

The more he slammed himself into you, the more your mind fried and your insides churned from his glorious length. 

Marcus treated you more like a shameless filthy whore than a woman—or, hell, even a human at that. Yet the very idea of being fucked this way didn’t feel as shocking or unappealing as you had first imagined.

For a moment, the pleasure threatened to overwhelm you, and you squeezed your eyes shut—but his hand on your neck shook you insistently.

“Look at me,” he commanded, and you obeyed, meeting his dark, unyielding gaze as your bodies moved together.

“Now… scream my name.”

He thrust again, harder, more brutal this time. You gasped, trying to resist, but the sound escaped anyway, “Marcus!”

Every soul in the atrium—and likely throughout the villa—must have heard you. In that instant, you understood exactly what he had meant when he said “earn it.”

He thrust once more. “Louder. Declare me… in full..”

Slapping your arse with both hands, he kept you in place as he pumped into you with great speed. You screamed, almost sobbing, each name rising higher than the last, “Marcus! Justus! Acacius!”

A dark, satisfied laugh escaped him, thick with possession and hunger.

“Well done… let everyone know who claims you. Let them hear who fucks you,” he growled, eyes blazing, every muscle in his body taut with the knowledge that you were his—claimed, shattered, and entirely under his control.

His large hand moved over your bouncing breasts, squeezing with rough insistence, fingers pinching your nipples sharply. The other slid down your stomach, teasing the cleft between your thighs in perfect rhythm with each thrust.

Before you realized it, you found yourself cumming, your body was overtaken, a shattering wave of pleasure ripping through you. A high, desperate cry escaped your lips as your body shuddered, your juices spilled, slicking both of you, toes curling against his back in the intensity of it all.

Marcus grunted, caught off guard by the tightness of your folds gripping him. Squeezing him down as if you were attempting to wring his cock out for his seed. There was something almost… old in it, a dark thrill he hadn’t known he’d missed.

Yet he did not slow, did not relent. Every movement drove deeper, claiming you fully, and still he drew endless satisfaction from your body, unyielding, relentless, and wholly possessed by the sensation of you.

“Marcus! W-Wait!” you cried, eyes wide at his resumed thrusting. “I-I'm still—have mercy, please!”

You couldn’t even finish the sentence. A cry of pleasure tore from your throat as your body shook through another climax, Marcus deliberately dragging it out with long, deep strokes. His hands found your bouncing breasts once more, taking one into his mouth while teasing the other, his tongue hungry and brutal as he suckled, before letting go of your nipple with a loud, wet pop that echoed briefly through the chamber. You could not tell whether he meant to rouse you further, or if he was simply indulging in the pleasure of it himself.

Somehow, your legs had slid up onto the bed without you even noticing; Marcus’s strong arms lifted them higher, wrapping them around his waist, guiding you instinctively while you clutched his head close to him with what little willpower you could muster.

Your screams grew louder, more urgent, every second feeding his predatory hunger.

It didn’t take long before another wave overtook you, leaving your legs trembling, breath broken, the world narrowing to sensation alone.

Then he paused.

For a fleeting moment, you thought it was mercy.

It wasn’t.

You were still trembling, utterly sated and almost dazed, struggling to open your eyes. You felt him lift you slightly, and beneath your hips he placed something soft—perhaps a pillow—so that your hips were raised, your rear arched. Ah… you realized, even in the haze of pleasure, that this was the method used to increase the chance of conception, a knowledge that sent a shiver through you in spite of yourself.

After adjusting your position, he resumed his relentless thrusting, one arm sliding under you to wrap firmly around your waist. His movements grew harder, faster, each stroke a brutal claim on your body.

You were utterly lost in your storm of delight, unable to notice how deeply trapped you were in his dominating mating press. His chest pressed flush against your voluptuous frame, every motion scorching, possessive, unyielding.

His hips began to snap faster, a clear, primal signal that he was nearing his own climax, and you could feel the heat radiating from him through every curve of your body. The intensity was overwhelming, your senses consumed by him—by the force, the control, and the fierce, inescapable pleasure he was giving you.

By the gods.

Your form was exquisite, a decadence beyond reckoning. He had not foreseen this, not even in himself — the way desire sank its hooks so deep it threatened to consume him whole. You knew nothing of the divinity of your own flesh, nor of how completely it ensnared him, he simply couldn’t get enough of you.

Marcus pressed his lips fiercely against your neck, lingering there with brutal intent. You felt the force of his mouth, the demanding pull, then the sharp pressure of his teeth sinking just enough to make you gasp. A raw moan tore from your throat, unbidden, as his hold on you tightened. You were crushed under the weight of his thick form—yet you did not care in the slightest.

With a sudden, powerful downward thrust, he poured every ounce of force into his hips, movements primal and unrelenting. A seasoned military man, far older than your husband yet giving you pleasures he never could, he grunted low in satisfaction, each sound vibrating against your neck as he reached his climax in one brutal sweep. You felt every guttural murmur, every shiver of release, his essence filling you so well. Your eyes rolled back, and a shameless cry of pure bliss tore from your lips as you were filled with the general’s thick seed. He pressed your body down against the pillow beneath your hips, lifting your rear high, angling you perfectly—as if to ensure every last drop of his breeding was swallowed by your womb.

You both remained still, his lingering warmth and the last aftershocks of ecstasy circulating within you. Your eyes met as Marcus inclined his face toward yours; his features were damp with sweat, dark curls clinging to his brow and catching the lamplight with a faint sheen. His brown eyes glinted like polished bronze in the low glow of the chamber, steady and intent. You were locked there together, wrapped in the haze of post-climax heat, and even now he remained hard, filling you completely—an exquisite fullness.

“I know why you didn’t want to kiss me,” you breathed, chest rising and falling beneath his arms as he held you tightly. His eyes, still misted from climax, sharpened on you. “Because there’s a saying,” you breathed, voice trembling, “that the bond of love is sealed on the lips—osculum vinculum amoris est. You fear realizing you’re in love with me, and prefer to surrender to desire instead… don’t you, General?"

He smirked. “Ah… clever little empress. Speaking of lips and love—daring to have me confess to something that does not exist, testing me, even while you lie beneath me.”

As if to prove his own words true, as if to demonstrate that no such feeling held power over him, his finger traced the line of your jaw. His eyes burned as his lips brushed yours, barely there, a calculated tease rather than a claim. His thumb followed, skimming your lower lip, coaxing it apart in silent invitation, controlled and measured.

For a fleeting moment, hesitation crossed his face. You felt it—knew it instinctively—as though a single kiss would cost him something he was not yet willing to surrender. And gods, how you wanted it. You wanted his mouth on yours, wanted to taste him, craved his lips with a hunger sharper than anything you had ever known.

But he did not give in. His jaw tightened, that familiar hard line returning as his posture straightened, discipline snapping back into place. He withdrew, composure intact, leaving the space between you charged and aching—while your lips still burned with the memory of what he had almost allowed.

You remained pressed together, the heat between you slowly ebbing as he finally softened within you. He held you steady as he withdrew, still warm, leaving behind only the faintest trace of his seed as it slid down your arse and soaked into the sheets below.

His grip stayed firm beneath your hips as he pressed you back against the bed, his palm settling briefly between your breasts, grounding you there. “Do not move,” he said, already rising.

You could not have moved even if you wished to—your legs and pelvis numb, every muscle aching, as though the great columns of the temple of Jupiter had collapsed upon you and left you buried beneath their weight. And yet… you were happy. Grateful. Still, as his body lifted away, a quiet ache settled in your chest. You already missed the crushing warmth of him, the way his solid, muscled body, had held you down.

Marcus adjusted you with practiced ease, one arm steady at your hips while his gaze lingered on the marks already blooming across your skin—faint now, darker by morning. His fingers brushed your lips, slow and deliberate, tracing them as if committing their shape to memory… and then, just as slowly, he withdrew his hand. Your eyes met.

He turned away first. Whatever thought had crossed his mind, he abandoned it.

You gathered yourself on one elbow, breath unsteady. “If you do not kiss me now,” you said quietly, unable to hide the hope in your voice, “you may never have another chance, General.”

He was already reaching for his garment, the distance returning with every movement. The moment he left the chamber, he would be unreachable again—so you pressed on, hopeful and daring all at once.

Despite your exhaustion, you smiled, a quiet challenge in your eyes. “Even if you were to seize the chance,” you said softly, testing him, “do not imagine I would make it easy for you.”

He paused at the door, glancing back with a slow, knowing smile. As if you weren’t already mine,” he drawled. “Tell me, my lady. Where does this confidence come from? Or is it simply defiance you wear so prettily? If I choose to take what I desire, there is no wall in Rome, no name, no vow that could bar my way."

He turned and left the chamber, the door closing behind him and sealing you in silence. Alone at last, you drew a slow, unsteady breath, his seed floating deep within your insides, his scent clinging to your skin—while his final words seemed to echo in the quiet, lingering as insistently as he did.

You knew you would see him again—at every ceremony, every banquet, every festival where Rome displayed its splendor. From across marble halls and torchlit courts, your gazes would meet, a silent acknowledgment, a greeting meant for no one else. At each triumphant return from war, he would stand before the city as its conqueror, and you would stand beside another man as his wife—an ornament of Rome, a symbol, a possession.

Yet your body, your longing, even your heart, belonged elsewhere. They belonged to him—quietly, secretly, like a truth spoken only in whispers. And they would remain so, hidden beneath silk and ceremony, until the seeds he had sown within you took root and blossomed into a son, an heir growing silently in the shadows of empire.

thank you for reading 💋

Seven full days since Joel was in your bed. And like a coward, you avoided going outside whenever his crew was working next door. But even if you wanted to, they didn't give you much of a reason. His crew was respectful and quieter, mostly because they began working indoors now. But you still caught glimpses of Joel frequently going in and out of the house to grab something from the trucks.

You hadn't spoken. It was like it never happened. But it did. You know it did, because his name and number are still scribbled at the bottom of the white board you have on your fridge, right underneath the list of items you need to grab from the grocery store next time you go. It glares at you every time you get milk for your coffee. Your gaze naturally drifts to the digits scrawled in his unique handwriting, like a beacon scanning the sea.

You never called him. You're not even sure what you would say if you did. Yet you can't bring yourself to erase his script from the board.

Around Thursday, your mind starts playing tricks on you. Right on schedule. You overanalyze everything and the further away you get from the last time you spoke to him, the more fuzzy the memory grows. What was his mood when he left? Did he regret it? Was he ashamed or feeling guilty? Is that why he never gave your house so much as a glance all week? Was he trying to forget?

It doesn't matter, you keep telling yourself. You didn't want anything more from him, you made that abundantly clear. So why are you still obsessing over it? Why are you even thinking about it now, a full week later, while you watch his crew eat lunch together in the shade on your neighbor's front lawn? Why are you scanning the group for those familiar broad shoulders and warm eyes and feeling disappointed when you can't find him?

Your computer monitor goes black from being left unattended for so long while you continue to look. You don't even notice.

He's avoiding you.

Well, you're avoiding him, aren't you?

You try to shake the invasive thoughts loose but they don't budge. Doubt begins to fester in the corners of your mind.

You set the parameters, you remind yourself. You're the one who didn't call him.

You pinch the bridge of your nose as the wave of insecurity washes over you.

It's easier this way. You don't get hurt this way.

You breathe slowly—in, then out. Then do it again, repeating your mantra to yourself until the tightness in your throat eases and you can feel again.

"Jesus," you mutter to yourself. How pathetic. You had sex with the man once. You hardly know him and yet you still have the same issues you always have when it comes to men you've dated.

Slowly, your gaze lifts to look out your window again. Finally, you spot him. He's under a tree with two other workers with a cooler open in front of him. He's holding a half eaten sub in one hand and a clear gallon jug of water in the other. They're laughing about something and even from this distance, you can see that dimple appear next to the corner of his mouth. His eyes soften and crinkle a little bit when he smiles and says something back, making his crew laugh even harder.

Without realizing it, the tension in your shoulders loosens. Your pulse slows and your mind is no longer clouded with insecurities. You feel steady again.

Suddenly struck with what you think is a fabulous idea, you stand up, nearly knocking over your chair in the process.

"Cookies."

Some demon possesses you to hurry to your kitchen and whip open your fridge for a roll of chocolate chip cookie dough you bought a few weeks ago and you get to work. Your eyes only settle twice on his number scrawled with black ink on the board while you preheat your oven and slice up the roll.

When you slide the baking sheet onto the top shelf and close the oven with a soft, satisfying thud, you dust your hands and smile to yourself. You're far from a domestic goddess, but baking some premade cookies is certainly a skill you possess.

They work hard, right? There's no harm in bringing them cookies. It's not weird.

There's a tall, narrow cupboard next to the fridge where you store most of your dry goods, including the baking spray you're looking to return to its spot on the bottom shelf, but when you open the door and notice the mess of items scattered on all four shelves, you frown.

Glancing at the clock to confirm you have a full hour before your next meeting, you decide it's the perfect time to reorganize your pantry. It's definitely not because you're fighting the urge to pretty yourself up with a touch of makeup and a spritz of perfume at the thought of being close to Joel again soon.

Ten minutes later you have two shelves of items scattered around your kitchen floor. It feels good to clean and organize. It helps ground you when your anxiety flares up, like a gentle reminder you do have control. After disinfecting the shelves themselves, you carefully place all the items back, turning the labels forward and lining up cans in a perfectly straight line.

You stand to admire your work with a pleased smile. Halfway done. Just as you lean forward to empty the last two shelves, you smell it. Burning.

You forgot to set a timer. Shit.

With a panic, you straighten up way too quickly, cracking your head on the top shelf of your pantry in the process. You cry out and stumble back, rubbing the sore spot just in time to watch in horror as the wood snaps from its place against the wall and shifts forward.

"No!" you yell, but it's hopeless. A bag of flour explodes on the ground. A glass jar of something pickled comes next. Salad dressing that is thankfully in a plastic bottle follows, along with a half opened bag of cookies and some stale cereal. You close your eyes so you don't have to watch the rest but you can hear it, your tidy little world giving into a chaotic mess at your feet.

If you were a crier, now would be the time. Instead, the usual wave of panic surges through your veins, your pulse speeds up, and your throat starts to close.

"It's f-fine," you whisper to yourself, forcing your eyes open. "It's just... I can fix this." But it's not helping. And the cookies are still burning. And your life is still crumbling. And you're still not good en—

Stop. Your eyes squeeze shut again.

One, two, three, breathe. One, two, three, out.

Your jaw is clenched hard but you force yourself to go through the motions to calm your body.

Triage. It's what you do best. You do it at work all the time.

Your eyes fly open and you look around.

Oven first. A fire is worse.

You grab a mitt and yank the burned cookies out of the oven, only to take the tray and put it immediately on your back porch so the smoke doesn't set off your smoke detector because you're fairly certain that high pitched squeal will actually be the last straw right now.

Second. The mess on the floor. Liquid traveling under appliances is bad. That means more work. So you set yourself on stopping the slow moving trail of vinegar and god knows what else.

Once that is cleaned up, you begin to feel calmer. Actually seeing progress being made helps, it always does. Cleaning up the flour and cereal and all the other dry goods is easier. Your throat relaxes and your pulse returns to normal.

Your floors needed to be mopped anyway, you think after all the shattered pieces of glass are swept up. Not to be deterred, you grab a new baking pan, put in another batch of cookies, and actually set the fucking timer before you get a mop and clean up the floors from any sticky residue.

Once the batch is finished in the oven—looking perfect, actually—your kitchen smells clean and your life is back in order. Just the way you like it.

"Alright," you breathe, flicking some hair out of your eyes. You find a cheap plate made for outdoor entertaining and place the cookies on it, trying to make them look as aesthetically pleasing as possible, but at the end of the day they're just... cookies from a tube. Whatever.

You peer out your window, readying yourself to take them over to the crew. That's when it hits you: what the hell do you even say? 'Here's some cookies, you're working so hard on a house that isn't even mine'?

You could give them just to Joel, but you know that'll look even worse. At that point you might as well just get a shirt that says we had sex on it.

This was a stupid idea. What were you thinking?

And what's worse is, if you don't give these cookies away, you'll end up eating them all by yourself in two days.

From your spot in your living room, you can see some of the men beginning to stand. Their break is coming to an end, along with your window.

Apology cookies. That's it!

You'll take these cookies over as an apology for being annoyed with them the last few weeks.

There's only time to rake your fingers through your hair once or twice. That's good. You don't want to look like you're trying too hard.

Yeah, like bringing them fresh baked cookies doesn't look like you're trying hard.

After wrapping the plate tightly with plastic wrap, you head out your front door with what you hope is a casual look on your face and an energetic pep in your step. Gravel crunches under your sneakers as you walk across your driveway, alerting a couple of the men to your presence. You try to ignore the kick in your chest the closer each step brings you to Joel.

"Well, look who it is," one of the older workers says wearily when you're within earshot. You smile sweetly at him, closing the distance between you and the crew. It's impossible not to notice the way they all stop laughing and talking as you approach, making you feel like you're about to give a presentation in front of an audience or something. It's certainly not helping your nerves, but you power through as if you were leading a meeting at work.

"Gentlemen," you greet them, coming to a stop. Joel is the last to turn but something tells you he knew it was you that was approaching. He doesn't look surprised to see you. In fact, you think he looks pleased. At least, based on the way he lets his gaze slowly take you in tells you he's pleased.

You ignore the way your stomach flutters.

"Oh," you say lightly with a smirk when you lock eyes with him. "Gentlemen... and Joel," you correct yourself, making some of the guys chuckle. Joel included.

"Somethin' you need, darlin'?" he asks. That familiar southern twang has your pulse skipping in your throat.

"Need? No. Want? Yes." You lift the plate of wrapped cookies for them to see. Instantly, their eyes light up as they all look at the plate. All except Joel, who keeps his gaze directly on you. "I wanted to come over and give all of you these cookies. As an apology."

"I'll take those, thank you," a scrawny looking younger guy with a terrible sunburn says, snatching the plate from your hands. You smile as he takes it over to the crew.

"Apology for what?" Joel presses, still not showing the least bit interest in the snacks. The rest of the men have started tearing into the plastic, your conversation no doubt fading into the background.

"Apology for being... rigid these last few weeks." You clasp your hands in front of you, addressing solely Joel now that the crew has forgotten you existed.

Joel steps closer so he can lower his voice. "Feelin' rigid again today, sweetheart?"

You bristle but your face gives you away. He can read how flustered you are at the vaguest hint of your last encounter and it only encourages him.

"No!" you choke, "Jesus, Joel. I'm just trying to be nice."

"That so?"

Your eyes flicker to his crew. Not a single soul is paying either of you any attention.

"Of course. What else would it be?"

A deep, thoughtful hum rumbles in his chest as he inches a little closer. The heat of his gaze sets your skin on fire. Every spot of your body he lingers on comes alive.

"Could be you were lookin' for my attention," he says rather boldly. You scoff even though your cheeks flush almost immediately.

"Don't flatter yourself. Actually—" You turn to face him head on, arms crossed defiantly across your chest. You tilt your chin up to pin him with your most confident glare. "I was hoping to borrow a drill. So, yeah, you could say I have an ulterior motive. Not the one you wish, though."

"A... drill?" he repeats, voice filled with doubt. His brown eyes sparkle with amusement as he looks down at you, his shadow shielding you from the powerful Texas sun. "What do you need a drill for?"

You jut a thumb casually over your shoulder, back towards the direction of your house. "I broke a shelf in my pantry. I need to fix it."

His mouth twitches as he thinks over what you said, like he's trying to decide if you're lying or not. You can see the gears in his head working, no doubt trying to come up with something to say that will make you squirm.

"Sure. I'll let you borrow a drill. You know how to use one?"

You shrug. "How hard can it be?"

Joel rolls his eyes with a sigh before motioning you towards the lawn. "C'mon, Handy Ma'am."

You laugh at the lame joke and follow him to his truck. Now that his back is to you, you allow yourself a few moments to admire his strong shoulders and easy gait. It's exciting, knowing what this man is capable of behind closed doors, surrounded by people who wouldn't suspect a thing.

Joel opens the back of his cab and reaches forward with a grunt. You bite your lower lip and try not to stare too long at the way his shirt rides up, revealing just the slightest hint of his boxers. Suddenly, your mouth feels dry.

"Think this one'll do the job," he says, emerging with a yellow cordless drill. He holds it up and presses the trigger a few times in rapid succession, making sure the battery is charged before handing it over to you.

"Thank you," you say, eyes widening briefly when you feel the weight of it in your hand. It's heavier than you expect.

Joel must see your uncertainty and quirks an eyebrow at you. "You need help?"

"No," you shake your head quickly. "I can do it."

You can't, but he doesn't have to know. You can pretend you fixed it when you return it to him later.

A slightly awkward moment of silence settles between you, like you're both trying to find a reason to keep the conversation going without looking like you're desperate. You pretend to inspect the drill while Joel casually studies the sky.

"Wondered if I scared you off," he finally says, chin still tilted upwards. "Didn't wanna pester you or nothin' but... I was thinkin' 'bout you."

The softness in his voice catches you off guard. "Oh, uh..." you stammer, surprised. "No. Not scared. Just... busy."

"Yeah. Good. That's good." He drops his gaze to look at you once before staring at something on the ground. His jaw rocks from side to side and he clears his throat. It occurs to you then that he's... uneasy? Nervous?

It shouldn't, but it relaxes you for some reason.

"I thought about you, too," you admit quietly. His face lights up with a cocky grin and you immediately regret it.

"Yeah? You thought 'bout me?"

"Oh, shut up."

"No, tell me. What were you thinkin' 'bout?"

"I take it back."

"Can't. It's already out there."

"You're impossible!" You aim the drill at him and press the trigger. The gentle whir acts as a soundtrack to his laughter, which only makes you scowl.

"Just got one question for you," he says, still laughing. Despite yourself, you can feel the corners of your mouth tug upwards at the way he looks at you like you're the only thing worth looking at in that moment.

"What?" you reply dryly.

He leans in then and you forget to breathe, nearly dropping the drill in your hand from the way he smells like the earth and coffee and some spicy undertone. Probably deodorant or shampoo—

Stop it.

"Wanna screw?"

You gasp, face hot as you quickly scan your surroundings. Luckily, no one overheard him. At least, you don't think they did. Still, you're about to rip into him when you turn back around only to find him smugly standing there holding up a... well, an actual screw.

"Excuse me?" you hiss.

"Said... do—you—want—a—screw?"

"That is not what you said."

"You're hearin' what you wanna hear, darlin'."

You make a frustrated noise and turn on your heel, back towards your house. "Thanks for the drill!"

"Hey, wait!"

"No, Joel, I don't want a screw!"

Some of the men in his crew chuckle as you march past but you don't care.

"I was just jokin'," Joel says after catching up with you. "Gimme that, I'll do it," he adds, reaching for the drill.

"I can do it."

"No, you can't. You ain't ever touched a drill before in your life, have you?"

Your pace slows and your grip on the drill loosens. "Well, no, not technically—"

"Then lemme help you. It'll take ten minutes, I don't mind." Joel turns and walks backwards next to you so he can address his men. "Imma help her fix her shelf, get back to workin' on that framin', need it done 'fore the concrete guys come next week."

You hear an amused murmur behind you and you stiffen. You don't need to hear what they said. You already know.

"They're gonna think something's going on," you scold him, embarrassed as you stomp up your porch steps.

"Well, somethin' is goin' on," he argues. You stop dead in your tracks and turn on him, making him stumble.

"This is not like last time," you warn him, pointing a finger at his chest. His wide, tanned, sweaty, gorgeous chest.

"I know, I know," he says, palms in the air. You stare at him for another moment, making sure he understood and was being serious before lowering your hand and offering him the drill.

"Good. Follow me."

You miss his sly grin when you turn to open your door.

***

"How the hell'd you do this?"

"Huh?"

Joel gestures to the splintered wood. "This. You take a hammer to it?"

"No, I—my head, I knocked into it when I was cleaning."

Joel gives you an incredulous look before focusing back on the shelf. "Goddamn. You alright?"

You huff, brushing off his concern. "Of course. Can you fix it?"

Joel clicked his tongue as he examines the wood further before peeking inside your pantry. "Gonna need a new piece of wood. I got some scrap in the back of my truck, gimme a second, be right back."

"Oh, forget it. It's too much trouble. I'll figure someth—"

"It ain't too much trouble," Joel says firmly, cutting you off. He gives you a sincere look, like he wants to make sure you understand. "It'll take a minute. You're doin' me the favor, anyway. Less wood I gotta unload later."

Before you can argue further, he disappears down your hallway and back out the front door. Your screen swings shut and you hear the dull thud of his boots hitting your porch, then the sound fades and you're left all alone in your kitchen, struggling yet again with your inner demons.

You're a burden.

You never even called him, you don't deserve his help.

He doesn't care about that. He doesn't care about you like that. He got laid, he got what he wanted and left his number because he thought it was the right thing to do.

It didn't mean anything.

"Oh, my god. What is wrong with me?" you mutter, rubbing your eyes in frustration. You shake it off, straighten your shoulders and smooth out your shirt just in time because a moment later, you hear Joel jog up your front steps and open the door.

You take a deep breath and force a smile when he triumphantly enters your kitchen, holding up a piece of wood.

"This should do it."

"Great."

Joel kneels down with a heavy grunt and gets to work, but something caught your eye: he returned wearing a tool belt.

It looks good on him.

Snap out of it.

"Do you want something to drink?" You're already moving towards a cupboard, pulling down two glasses before he answers.

"Sure."

You have half a pitcher of lemonade you made a few days ago—the powdered kind, obviously. Your culinary prowess only extends to cookie dough logs, not reaming citrus.

There's a high pitched squeal from the drill and the grating sound of wood being punctured and twisted by metal. You wince and set his lemonade down on the counter behind him, then take yours a few feet away to your small kitchen island. With a little jump, you hoist yourself up to sit on the edge of the counter, bare legs dangling over the sides as you sip your lemonade and watch Joel work.

He unclips a flashlight from his belt and pops it between his teeth so he can see what he's doing. He's all business, focused entirely on doing the job and nothing else. There's no awkward air, no sexually charged quips. When Joel Miller is working, he's putting his entire focus on doing a good job.

It's kind of hot, when you think about it. His head must be an encyclopedia of manual labor. He knows the exact right screw to use, the right wood... he knows to avoid the back panel because there's likely electrical running back there for your refrigerator. He knows to install the shelf a little lower than before because you're shorter than the pantry.

He's smart. A different kind of smart than you're used to. Watching him work gives you a new found appreciation for him.

You don't realize you're staring until he pockets the flashlight and peers out from inside the pantry with a knowing smirk.

"See somethin' you like?"

Normally, you'd bite back with some sarcastic remark to cut him off at the knees, but this time, you're flustered and you can't shake it off in time to think of anything clever.

"Uh—" You clear your throat and take a sip from your glass, hoping he can't see the way you're breathing a little faster. But he does see it. He sees everything. The smile slips from his face and his gaze darkens fractionally when you rub the back of your neck and take a deep breath before responding. "How long have you, uh—how long have you done this?"

Joel pauses a moment, still leaning halfway inside your pantry with the drill poised against the wood. He can see the way you fidget on your counter, the way your thighs press together and your teeth dig into your lower lip.

"What? Construction?" he eventually asks. You nod. "All my life. Started out at a landscaping company right outta high school, then went to U Tech to be a welder. Took some classes here 'n there 'bout different things. Hopped around a bit to find what suited me best."

"And what was that?"

He frowns. "What?"

"What suited you best?" you clarify. Joel smiles and drags his gaze back to your shelf. Before pressing the trigger for the drill, he answers.

"None of it. Liked it all, so I started this business. Little bit of everythin' that way."

The sound of the drill drowned out the space left for you to reply.

He makes it sound so simple. Like of course he just started a business from the ground up because that's what he knew he wanted to do. And he seems to be good at it. And enjoy it. You wonder if he knows how rare that is.

You're too lost in your own musings to realize he had been talking. You blink and refocus on him, standing next to your pantry with the drill at his side and his tool belt slung comfortably around his waist, looking at you expectantly.

"Huh?"

"I said, how long you been doin' your job?"

"Oh. Uh, almost ten years. Started as an intern during my final semester of college and accepted a job after graduating. Never really considered anywhere else."

"Why?"

You swing your legs and shrug. "Easier than starting over, I guess."

"Do you like it?"

You think about his question. Do you? You want to say yes, but you're not even sure anymore. You're pretty sure you used to, right?

"I'm good at it," you finally say. But Joel sees through it. Of course he does.

"Didn't really answer the question."

You laugh and look down at your freshly mopped floors. "I like that I'm good at it, how about that?"

Joel hums to himself and slowly turns to examine your shelf. He gives it a little shake, taps the top to make sure it's steady, then tests the door before making a satisfied noise and stepping back.

"You're all set here."

You lean forward a bit to look inside the pantry, impressed with how quickly and neatly he was able to fix it. There's no question you wouldn't have been able to do the job half as good.

"Thank you."

Joel grins, giving you a flash of that dimple, before picking up a few loose screws from the ground and pocketing them somewhere in his belt. You catch a glimpse of his stomach and you swallow hard. Your gaze shifts briefly to the clock—you still have twenty minutes before your next meeting.

"Anythin' else?" he asks, glancing around the kitchen. He picks up the lemonade and leans a hip against your counter while he drinks. His eyes settle on the whiteboard on your fridge, where his writing is still scrawled with his name and number, and guilt blooms in your chest.

"Yeah," you say softly, pulling his attention from the board. Slowly, he sets down the empty glass where he found it. He raises his brows, waiting, then you lift your hand and curl your finger, beckoning him forward. His expression softens and he does as you wish, closing the space between you until he's standing between your knees, inches apart. You drop your hand and hook your finger around his tool belt, giving him a playful smirk. That's all he needs to see. He presses both palms flat against the countertops on either side of your hips and tips his face down, brushing his lips gently over your own.

He's testing. Wondering if he's reading the room right. You respond with a little more pressure and he relaxes into the kiss with a sigh. Your arms loosely circle around his neck and you part your lips, inviting his tongue to dance with your own. He's so warm and smells so good, you almost forgot. Your mind goes hazy as you give in, letting your fingers thread gently through the hair at the nape of his neck. He practically purrs into your mouth, clearly enjoying the affection.

"I have twenty minutes," you breathe, pulling back just enough to whisper the offer.

"I can work with that," he replies just as softly. Then his mouth is pressing eagerly to yours, sealing the deal.

His hands slide up your shirt, mapping the skin underneath. He makes a pleased sound and kisses you a little harder when you shift forward, pressing yourself closer.

Joel flattens his palm against your spine, drawing you in. You welcome it by wrapping your legs around his waist and deepening the kiss with a soft sound.

He's so good at this, you think. He's good at making you feel good, at turning your brain off. All the static in your head leading up to this moment vanishes under his touch.

You break the kiss when your leg slides down and collides with a tape measure strapped to his hip. You glare at it like it offended you but Joel doesn't notice—his mouth trails down your jaw, pausing at your throat to graze his teeth gently over your pulse point. A shiver rolls down your spine.

"As much as I like this," you murmur, unlocking your legs from his waist, "it's gotta go."

You tug hopelessly at the tool belt and Joel chuckles, low and deep next to your ear.

"Oh, you like it, huh?" he teases while simultaneously dropping his hands to his belt. You roll your eyes.

"Don't start."

"You got a little fantasy? That what this is?" He unfastens the tool belt and leaves it in a heap on the floor.

"No, it is not a fant—"

"I can dress up like all the village people if that's what you're into."

"Oh, my god, shut up," you groan before yanking him forward, covering your mouth over his. But you're smiling. He can tell.

His hands fly up to cup your face, his fingertips dig into your cheeks, and he kisses you so carefully that it catches you off guard. You lean into it and let him set the pace. You don't mind so much. His lips massage your mouth open and then his tongue dips past your teeth, searching for its mate. He tastes like lemon, sharp and sweet against your tongue, which undoubtably tastes the same, yet you think it tastes better on him.

He's a great kisser, but you'll never give him the satisfaction of admitting it.

"Fifteen minutes," you warn him, already breathless when you whisper against his lips. He smiles and his eyes crinkle in that way that makes your heart stutter so you push that silly feeling down before sliding off the counter and dropping to your knees.

You have to stifle a laugh when his eyes grow wide. His button is already undone and you have his zipper halfway down before he finds his voice.

"Y-you—we don't g-gotta—"

"I want to," you tell him, hooking your fingers over the waistband of his jeans and pulling them down his legs.

"Darlin'—"

"Joel," you say firmly. You stare up at him from your spot on the kitchen floor. He just continues to flounder and grow red in the face, but at least he stopped talking. "Let me do this. Please?"

His eyelids flutter shut and he groans. "C'mon, that ain't fair."

"What?"

"Sayin' please like that."

"How'd I say it?" you tease as you pull his boxers down to his ankles. His cock bobs to attention and you shimmy forward, pressing your thighs together to quell the ache burning between your legs. When your hand gently wraps around the base, he gasps and his eyes fly open. You start to stroke him, admiring how thick and hard he is for you already.

"Joel? You didn't answer me."

"Huh?" His voice is about two octaves higher.

"I said—" You lean forward, making sure to hold eye contact when you stick your tongue out and slowly drag a thick stripe up the underside of his cock. His arms fly forward to brace himself on the counter behind you. "How'd I say it?"

You flick the tip of your tongue over the head, licking up a small drop of arousal that rests there. Joel swallows hard and takes a deep breath, steadying himself. When he's ready, he drops his voice so it's rough and deep above you.

"Said it like you might die if I don't stuff my cock in that pretty little mouth of yours."

You grin right before wrapping your lips around him with an exaggerated moan. His eyes roll to the back of his head and his jaw slowly drops the further you take him, inch by inch, only stopping once he tickles the back of your throat.

"Oh, fu—goddamn—"

One hand finds the back of your head and his fingers splay wide. He's not pressing you forward or tugging on your hair like other men before him had done. It's just a steady, grounding weight as you begin to move, slowly at first, savoring the way his breath hitches every time you swallow him again.

"You're good at that," he gasps, watching you bob up and down. Your fist covers the rest of him you can't take, twisting and pumping in rhythm. He groans again and a fresh wave of wetness pools between your thighs. "S-so good. That's it. Tha-a-t's it, oh, shit—look so pretty like this, honey. Shoulda known that smart m-mouth has many talents."

It shouldn't, but the praise warms your chest like the soft glow from hazy sunbeams. You don't think he even realizes it, that's the worst part. He's not saying it to get what he wants. He genuinely means it when he compliments you.

It propels you, making you suck harder, moan louder, and even though tears sting the backs of your eyes from how badly your jaw burns, you don't stop because Joel just keeps telling you over and over and over again in that warm, deep drawl what a good girl you are and you make him feel so good and you drive him fuckin' crazy.

"Slow down—wait—"

His voice is pained. It's the only thing that pulls you out of it. You slow down but you keep him in your mouth, sucking gently on the tip as you gaze up at him curiously with watery eyes.

And Joel? Joel looks like a complete wreck.

His face is flushed. Neck, too. He's panting and a little sweaty at the temples just from the few minutes you've been on your knees. It has you brimming with pride, and from the looks of it, forcing him to hold eye contact with his cock filling your mouth is just making him crumble even more.

"Jesus Christ, I'm gonna come if you don't stop," he whines. Your tongue slowly swirls around his girth and you just tip your head to the side, giving him a look that says, well, that's the point.

He receives your wordless message and shakes his head.

"Wanna fuck you. Wanna feel that tight pussy again." Your eyes dart to the clock on the wall—ten minutes. The hand on the back of your head tightens and you focus back on his face. His throat bobs before he speaks. "Gonna let me, sweetheart? Gonna let me make you come?"

You make a frustrated noise before releasing him from your mouth and stand up. His dick twitches from the cool air of your kitchen, wet and angry looking from being left unattended. Without thinking, you turn around so your back is to Joel and begin to unbutton your shorts, but he swivels you back around to face him.

"Nuh-uh. Wanna see you."

You open your mouth to protest—you're pressed for time as it is, pausing and picking this up in your bedroom is a mood killer at this point—but he just scoops you up and somehow, with his jeans and underwear bunched around his ankles—carries you a few feet away to your kitchen table.

"Jesus," you murmur when your back hits the firm wood. But then his mouth is on you and his hands are pushing down your shorts and you forget what you were annoyed about in the first place.

He pulls away only briefly, just to bend down to fish a condom from his wallet while you work on removing your panties. With eight minutes left, the thick tip of his cock is finally pressing into you and like a puppet on a string, your spine arches and your jaw drops at the stretch.

"Shit," you whisper, breathing deep as he settles inside you.

"Yeah, miss me, sweetheart?"

You scrunch your nose with your eyes pinched shut as you adjust to the heavy feeling of him prying you open.

"Don't... get cocky," you breathe, thighs relaxing around his hips with a sigh.

"Don't get what?" Joel pushes in deeper and you gasp.

"Asshole," you mutter, but when your eyelids flutter open, he can see the traces of amusement you're desperately trying to hide. "You're the one begging for my pussy a minute ago," you clip back, and Joel smirks before he shifts his hips.

"Got me there," he says, slowly thrusting back inside you. A traitorous soft moan slips past your lips and his gaze darkens, like a predator honing in on its prey. He continues to work you open with slow, deep thrusts, lost in the way you respond to each one and wishing more than ever he could have dragged you to your bed, stripped you naked, and taken his time with you.

"Five... minutes..." you remind him when you start to roll your hips in sync with his movements. Joel's eyes dart to the clock and he groans before falling forward, caging you in on your table. He buries his face against your throat and begins to move faster. The table legs scrape against the floor each time your hips collide and you roll your head backwards as the heat builds low in your stomach.

"Right there," you gasp. He grunts and fucks you harder, the head of his cock kissing a soft spot deep inside that is slowly making you come undone. His lips messily suck at your throat, the sharp scratch from his beard sending chills down your spine.

Your fingers get lost in his hair, desperate for something to hold onto as he pushes you closer and closer to the edge. It's so easy to fall back into this with him. Dangerously so. After the first time, you thought you got it out of your system. Unfortunately for your work hard now and play later mindset, the hot, annoying, funny construction worker next door has figured out how to read you like a book. He's gotten under your skin and burrowed into your brain, taking up space where once you held plans on advancing in your company, ideas for the latest projects, and innovative ways to acquire new business.

Case in point, you never take a lunch break, and yet here you are, baking cookies like June fucking Cleaver and getting railed on your kitchen table two minutes before your next call.

"Joel," you pant, vision going blurry at the edges, "m'close."

He lifts his head from your throat so he can study your face, just like he said he wanted to do. He grunts, hooking one of your legs over his forearm to widen your hips. You cry out and tug on his hair. His eyes roll back for a moment before he blinks hard and snaps out of it.

"Let go," he says, teeth clenched like he's fighting off his orgasm, "give it to me. C'mon, know you can do it. Lemme feel you."

You writhe and whimper, arching your back to deepen the angle. You're so close that it burns the back of your throat. But the ticking clock on the wall is adding too much pressure and you feel yourself starting to lose what he so expertly built up.

"I—fuck—"

You squeeze your eyes shut and make a frustrated noise. Joel senses it: the way your muscles give up, the exasperated furrow of your brow, and he quickly grabs your chin.

"Look at me."

His voice is so deep and commanding that your eyes snap open in shock. He's inches away from your face, forcing you to stare deep into his eyes. His hips never stop. He never loses rhythm, still hitting that sensitive spot that holds you right at the edge.

He doesn't say anything else. Just makes you hold his gaze so you can see the fire in his eyes and the desperation on his face.

Don't think about the time. Don't you dare think about work. Stay with him. Focus on him. On this.

Another sharp snap of his hips sends you soaring. Relief rolls down your spine and through your limbs. An embarrassing sound rips from your throat and your cheeks burn but you don't look away. He stays locked on you, watching the way your face melts with pleasure. He growls low and fucks you harder, chasing his own high. Your table knocks loudly against the wall but you're too lost in a hazy bubble to notice.

"Good job," he breathes, and your heart stutters. "Feels better, don't it? You deserve to feel good, baby."

Your eyes roll back and you let out a weak moan from the praise. The words hit you just right and he knows it. Joel smiles to himself before feverishly capturing your lips with his and letting go with a heavy groan.

Your chest tightens when his hips slow and you wonder what it would feel like to have him dripping out of you during your call. You wonder if the people on the other end would be able to tell what he just did to you.

Your phone pings brightly on the counter and you both freeze, mouths still pressed together but unmoving now. With a sigh, you tilt your head away to look for it, but Joel pushes himself up and grabs it himself, handing it over while still buried deep inside you.

"Hope you don't gotta be on camera," he grins.

You tap in your passcode on your phone and laugh softly. "I think I'll make up some technical issue."

Joel makes a pleased noise before settling back down on top of you to catch his breath. You join the call and pray no one asks you any questions for at least ten more minutes because he seems so content to just wrap his arms around you and quietly bury his face against the side of your neck.

This is nice, you think, closing your eyes while the familiar sound of boring higher-ups chirps from the speaker of your phone. Your heart rates slow in tandem and the sweat cools on your skin as the next few minutes tick by. Your fingers drift unwillingly to his hair and you play idly with the soft curls there. You swear you feel him relax even further into your hold from your gentle touch.

It's peaceful but you know it needs to end. He needs to get back to work. So do you. But for once, you don't want to be the one to push someone away first.

The choice gets taken from you anyway when you suddenly hear your name from the phone and your eyes snap open. You reach to unmute and Joel pushes himself up on his hands, careful not to make any noise.

"Yes, I believe that's correct at this juncture, but I do have a follow up meeting on the books with the client next week where I'll confirm."

The robotic voice thanks you and you mute yourself again before your gaze slides to Joel.

"Guess that's my cue," he says with a lopsided grin, then he winces when he pulls his half hard cock from between your legs.

You watch lazily as he rolls off the condom and tosses it in your trash. What do you say now? This isn't something you regularly do. Joel doesn't make it awkward and you both have to get back to work, so there's no reason to linger, yet you still feel like you need to say something.

You push yourself up and rub the back of your neck before hunting for your panties and shorts on the floor.

"Uh, thanks," you say, buttoning your shorts. Joel is picking up his tool belt and when you speak, he glances up.

"For the sex or for the shelf?"

You laugh. "Both. But mostly the shelf."

Joel gives you a teasing look and sets the belt on your counter so his hands are free when he crosses the room to join you.

"Y'know," he begins, rubbing his chin, "next time you wanna see me, you don't gotta go through all the trouble of burnin' cookies and breakin' shelves. Left my number right there."

He juts his thumb over his shoulder towards your fridge and your gaze follows. Your stomach twists with guilt again. You didn't expect him to bring that up, but you suppose you'd want an answer if it was you putting yourself out there.

Then you blink and look up at him in surprise. "Burned cookies?"

He grins and his head tilts towards your back deck, where the charred baking sheet of cookies still remains, solidified like a goddamn fossil.

Your face flares with heat. "Oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

Your phone is in your hand, executives are yapping away. You should be listening. You want to get ahead, right? Every meeting is a chance to make a splash. Make your mark. And yet... it's the last thing on your mind.

"Listen," you sigh, and Joel folds his arms across his chest. You drop your gaze so you don't get distracted by the muscles straining against his worn, soft shirt. And you definitely stop thinking about what it would feel like to wear that very same shirt on your own body. Because those thoughts don't have a place here. Not with you. Not anymore.

"I'm listenin'," he urges, lifting one eyebrow.

"I don't do..." Your hands flail as you search for the right word. Joel just waits, amused. "I tend to stay away from... relationships," you say, instantly feeling raw and exposed. You don't need to explain why. You don't owe him anything. Just leave it at that.

"Honey," Joel smiles, "I ain't lookin' to buy you a ring, I just wanna buy you a beer."

You chew your bottom lip, avoiding his gaze. He gives you a minute to think it over, but when it becomes clear you don't have a response, he shrugs and turns to pick up his belt.

"Ain't that serious," he adds, masking his hurt by clearing his throat. "Just thought it'd be nice to talk to you when neither of us gotta run back to work."

"Why?"

His hands still and he slowly turns around. "Huh?"

You shift uncomfortably from foot to foot, looking a little timid. It's not a look he's used to seeing on you.

"Why... do you want to talk to me?" you finally whisper, gaze glued to the ground. It hits him then that whatever walls you built up must be for a reason, something that cuts much deeper than his initial assessment of you being the overachiever, workaholic type.

He makes sure to straighten his spine and take a deep breath, facing you full on so you know what he's about to say means something.

"'Cause I like you, sweetheart. And I wanna get to know you better."

The softness in his voice makes you flinch. He lets you sit with it for a few more minutes, not rushing you, not saying anything more. He waits patiently while your brain turns over what he's said until you finally blink and meet his eye.

The walls are back up, but it's gentler now.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"I'll think about it."

"Is the answer okay, or you'll think 'bout it?"

You roll your eyes. "Same thing."

"It ain't. See—okay implies: yes, Joel, I'll give you a call tonight. I'll tell you my favorite bar and when I'm free, and I'll even let you pick me up in your beautiful, shiny truck—"

"Your truck is not beautiful."

He raises a finger in warning. "Don't talk bad 'bout her again. Hurt her feelin's last time."

When you crack a smile, Joel does the same. His chest lifts to see you happy and out of whatever dark place you disappeared to inside your head a moment ago. He doesn't like that, and he makes a note to be extra careful with you until you're willing to tell him more.

The voices coming from your speakerphone grow louder as a few different men talk over one another, drawing your attention down to your hand. Joel decides not to push you further and heads towards the door, tool belt slung over his shoulder.

"You know where to find me," he calls when he opens your front door. You look up but stay where you are in your kitchen. "I'll be waitin'," he adds after a pause, then quietly shuts the door behind him.

Your heart thuds loudly in your chest when you're left all alone once again. The conversation happening in your hand should be your primary focus, but it's not. The men are loud, but the numbers scrawled on your fridge are louder.

That familiar, creeping fear claws its way up your throat. That swell of panic and a fresh wave of uncertainty follows.

It's just a beer. It's not serious. It's not like—

With a determination you haven't felt outside of work in a long while, you stomp to your fridge and stare at his name scrawled in black ink. He's got blocky writing. But his numbers are sharp.

You smirk.

Of course the numbers are sharp. He's a contractor. He lives and breathes numbers, just like you, but in a very different way.

Don't overthink it.

You punch the numbers into your phone and stare blankly at the empty text message. You swallow tightly, ignoring the pang in your chest and the voices arguing over projections or referrals or something that seems incredibly insignificant now.

It's a big leap. Something you swore you'd never do again. Yet here you are, about to do it, because something about Joel just feels... different. And you're really interested in finding out if you're right.

What's the worst that could happen?

You wince.

Okay, bad question. You know the worst that could happen. You've lived it. Barely.

Stop it.

You take a deep breath and quickly tap out one word. Four letters. And hit send.

You: Okay

***

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@bewitched-tales @theskyis-opalite @margauxdclsblog @westgasper @isabellaboo2025

And now he had to deal with the consequences of his actions. He’d been railing you all night till the first lights glittered in his room—your beautiful body bouncing on his cock while the light reflected off the sweaty drops kissing your skin. But unlike him, you were spent and in much need of some rest.

Joel, on the other hand, had not been able to go back to sleep. As soon as he heard your soft, cute snores, his veiny cock had hardened again. Unconsciously his eyes darted to the sweet nook between your thighs. He really had the best view from here, eagerly watching his spent dripping down your slick slit.

The chair rocked under him, his big hand palming the growing erection, his eyes roving over every delicious curve of your body. And then something caught his eye—the cum leaking from your pussy was no longer white, but a shade of pink.

Joel sat on the verge of the rocking chair, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose to have a better look. No, his old man’s sight wasn’t betraying him—you really were bleeding.

His cock had a mind of its own, reacting to the call of nature in the most primal way. Joel tugged at his shaft, squeezing himself tight while a pearl of precum adorned his flushed cockhead. Your period couldn’t have come at a better time. Joel thoroughly enjoyed himself when that time of the month arrived—a reminder of how breedable you were.

Joel stood up, throbbing cock on hand and his cracking knees betraying his moves. He couldn’t just stay put any longer—surely, you’d understand that he was compelled to do this. That he just couldn’t stop himself, not when you were freely bleeding on his white bedsheets.

You stirred a bit when the wooden floor creaked beneath his weight, but your eyes stayed shut. Joel tiptoed to the foot of the bed and carefully sat on the mattress. Up close, he inspected your cunt with diligence. Your pussy was still gushing out his pinkish cum, but he needed to see red.

Bunching the bedsheets on his fist, Joel swiped your seam clean, his thumb stroking your entrance through the fabric to ensure no remnants were left behind. Once he was satisfied, he laid on his tummy and moved your legs, so the back of your knees rested on his shoulders. Now he could really see your slick cunt up close.

Joel spread your pussy lips, coaxing them apart to stretch your crying hole. A few seconds later, he was gifted with a glob of blood. He thumbed your clit softly, coaching your cunt to leak some more period blood for him, and you quietly squirmed. Another red bubble dripped down your fold, smearing your sweet puffy lips, staining his sheets. His eyes locked in on your beating bud, and he just knew what he had to do.

Hypnotised by the sensuality of it all, Joel leaned in and kissed your begging clit. The fingers that were stretching your lips open for him travelled down your glistening seam until they reached your bloodied opening. Without even doubting himself, Joel shoved his middle and ring ringers in your wet warmth, the squelching of your blood almost making him feel dizzy with lust.

Joel suckled on your clit, your thighs trembling against his ears, and then his mouth dropped. He removed his fingers from your tight hole and coated the skin of your inner thigh with your own blood while his tongue dived in.

Your pussy tasted divine. Metallic, fertile, slightly bitter. His favourite flavour, that was for sure. When Joel lapped your whole seam, from your seeping entrance, through your clit, to your mound, he felt your hand fisting his salt-and-pepper curls.

“Joel… What are you…” you trailed off sleepily, moaning as your back arched off the mattress.

Joel looked up at you, smirking like the devil he was.

“Just let me have this,” he almost implored, pecking the bloody fingerprints he’d left behind on your inner thigh.

“Are you… are you still hard?” you managed to croak out, eyes fluttering shut when Joel latched on your clit again.

“Mhm,” he mumbled, mouth full of you.

Joel alternated between fingering you and prodding your hole with the tip of his tongue, drunk with your iron-like tang, thumb pressing tight circles on your clit. And he truly didn’t stop until your legs were shaking uncontrollably around him and you were mewling your pleasure, your wails echoing in his bedroom.

With a bit more of encouragement, you finally came in his mouth. Joel didn’t hesitate to drink everything your cunt oozed out—the period blood mixing with your cream was his personal nectar. His favourite breakfast. He shamelessly licked your folds and hole clean, revelling in how your entrance quivered around the tip of his tongue when he poked at it.

Your mind was still hazy with the ghost memory of your wet dream, but Joel eating your bloody pussy out definitely had you delirious. This old man of yours knew no shame, no hard limits. And you loved him for it.

When Joel emerged from between your thighs, you gasped, and your pussy gushed. His beard was covered in your period blood, even his cheeks were smudged. And Joel just… looked so chuffed about it all, it made you smile back at him.

You glanced down at his lap when he knelt between your legs, his broad hands resting on your knees to part your thighs for him. His stiff cock greeted you, swaying and throbbing. He was about to fucking explode, so red and swollen, leaking precum everywhere—you truly feared for his wellbeing.

“Fuck, Joel…” You bit down your plump bottom lip, eyes focused on his dick. “How many pills did you take?”

“Two. I wasn’t sure if one was enough, needed to make sure I could fuck you all night long,” he admitted, tapping your clit a few times with his warm, tacky cockhead. “And then you fucking bail on me, falling asleep and leaving me hanging.”

Before you could defend yourself, Joel buried himself in you down to the fucking hilt in one smooth thrust. You braced yourself and grabbed at his forearms, back arched so much that your nipples were kissing his naked chest.

Without exchanging another word, Joel began railing you hard, his throbbing cock growing inside you, impossibly so. He filled your entire pussy, the tip of his dick kissing your cervix every time he hammered in. No thoughts formed in your brain, you could only moan and sob and scream his name so everyone in Jackson would know you were getting your guts fucked.

Joel imposed a punishing pace, anchoring his hands to the headboard while his hips slammed against yours, the clapping of skin on skin competing with your loud groans. His mushroom head dragged alongside your anterior wall every time he ploughed you, rubbing that precise spongey spot inside you that made your pussy hug him tighter.

You just managed to open your eyes and glance up at him. He was gorgeous, the most handsome man you’d ever had the pleasure to meet. And he was all yours.

With every plunge, his old man’s glasses slipped further down the bridge of his aquiline nose, until they caught on the tip of his nose. The glass was all foggy now, and you were almost sure Joel couldn’t see shit right now. The picture made you smirk, but his incessant shoves forced your mouth to shape a perfect O before you began moaning his full name again.

Joel was fucking you so hard into the mattress, the precarious balance of his glasses gave way, and the frames fell onto your chest. Without thinking, you snatched them to put them on back on his nose but then you thought better of it. Instead, you put them on and looked up at him with a sly grin—it was all blurry, but could still make out his face and feral eyes.

“Fucking beautiful,” he husked out.

You felt the pulse emitted by his girthy cock, and the threat of his orgasm called to yours. When the first ropes hit your cervix, you came with him, your pussy milking him dry of every single drop he fed you. Joel filled you up to the brim with his cum and not satisfied with it, he fucked his spent into you for a couple of minutes while your used cunt spasmed around him.

You were truly spent, laboriously breathing, your heart racing wild in your chest. Joel was heaving too, and his greying brows furrowed when his cock left your entrails.

You couldn’t help but look down—you had left pink creamy rings on his hard cock, a mixture of your juices, his cum and your period blood. And when you peeked over at your pussy, you sighed. Yes, your pussy was smeared red, your inner thighs too, and you were still bleeding onto his sheets.

You should have felt slightly embarrassed, but knowing how much Joel enjoyed you on your period, well... there was literally nothing to be shy about. As a matter of fact, you had been waiting for this time of the month to come, because you just knew that Joel would be feral about you.

Letting your head fall back for a breather, you felt Joel pet your overstimulated clit. You whimpered a little, your nerve endings flaring alive, almost painfully, and your brows bunching together in concentration.

You managed to open your eyes again, and then you realised. He was still hard. Very much so.

“You ain’t falling asleep again,” he groaned, pointing an accusatory bloody finger at you. “‘M not done with you yet, sweetheart.”