#softpascalito

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wanted to be with you.”

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

He leans down to you, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, mumbling. “It really does not hurt all that much anymore.” His arm sneaks back around you, though his hand is now wandering much lower than it did before.

You bite your lip, trying to give him another stern look but you can feel the way you begin to falter as he smoothes circles into the fabric of your tunic. “Acacius, your servants—”

“They are busy,” he assures you, dragging his lips over your cheek and towards your earlobe. “Besides, if any of them attempted to talk, I’d have their heads.”

You listen into the silence that follows, almost determined to catch a pair of feet approaching or a voice in the distance. But the only sounds that reach your ears are those of the small fountain in the atrium and Acacius’s breath against your skin.

“We won’t be disturbed,” he hums and you sigh in defeat, reaching down to undo his subligaculum, the soft fabric falling away to reveal the trail of dark hair that leads down towards his cock. You’re only mildly surprised to find him already half-hard.

“Let me clean you first at least,” you mutter, leading him further into the room and towards the small bath embedded in the tiled floor. You sit him down at the edge of it, letting him dangle his legs into the warm water. You reach for a cloth, wet it slightly and get to work. You start with his arms, watching as the dirt and blood starts to come off, revealing the tanned skin underneath.

You hear Acacius sigh above you and you feel his eyes on you, the soft gaze he looks at you with so different from the one he carries on the battlefield. His hands begin wandering again, dipping below the thin fabric of your tunic and you are just reaching down to wet the cloth again when he manhandles you into him, placing you comfortably on his lap.

You tense for a split moment before he catches your lips in a kiss—and then you hear yourself sigh as the protest inside you makes space for a fire that’s rapidly building in your lower abdomen. You can smell him, his sweat mixed with a hint of blood, you can feel the dirt rubbing off on you but you don’t care. You just want him.

His voice is a growl. “Merda, get out of that thing already.”

You obey, crawling off him and slipping the tunic off your body, carelessly letting it fall to the dirty floor. You see Acacius’s eyes raking over your body, taking in every curve like he’s seeing you for the first time rather than the hundreth.

“You are as beautiful as the gods, my dulcissima,” he mumbles, pulling you back onto his lap, one hand securely placed on your back to keep you from falling into the water behind you.

He’s careful not to lean on his bad side as he sneaks his free hand between your bodies, dragging it down ever so slowly until he reaches your mound, his index finger drawing a few circles around your bundle of nerves before moving on, a smile spreading over his lips when he finds wetness waiting for him between your legs.

You feel your breath catch in your throat as he inserts a finger without warning, the size of them always taking you slightly by surprise. His moves are shallow, never quite pulling his finger out completely but always keeping you on that delicious edge. When he adds a second one and starts curling them, he has you whimpering almost immediately.

“Marcus, please—”

“I thought I was Acacius to you. Just to make sure you do not—how did you put it—slip up,” he mumbles, a smirk on his face. The groan you intend to sound annoyed comes out much more desperate than you would like.

“You know we have to be careful—” you try to start, but with his fingers inside you, your brain simply does not work the way it usually does.

“One of these days, I’ll make you my wife,” he mumbles into your ear, his voice so low you can barely hear it. Without taking his eyes off yours, his thumb finds the spot that, combined with his words, almost drives you over the edge. “And you’ll live with me and we can make as many babies as you want.”

It catches you off-guard, but not in an unpleasant way. It’s just a fantasy, one that may very well be unattainable, but you like to let your mind drift there regardless. Judging by the twitch his cock gives against your skin, you’re clearly not the only one who does.

At that thought, you manage to hold off a bit longer and reach for him in return, enjoying the way his breath catches in his throat when your hand wraps around his attention-starved cock. His gaze flies down, to your bodies already so intertwined, touching each other impatiently. And you know he craves it as much as you do—to be even closer, to feel the weight of him nestled inside of you.

“You are so dirty,” he whispers, withdrawing his hand and making you whine at the loss. He wipes at some of the dirt on your thigh, mixing it with your own juices.

“And you seem to rather enjoy that,” you mumble back, squeezing him slightly. An affirmative chuckles leaves his throat before he lifts you up and lowers you into the small bath in front of him, the warm water immediately soothing your body.

He follows a moment later, stepping into the blue mass. A few petals swirl around on the surface, stirred by your movements in the water as he pulls you close again, his body seemingly all around you as he wraps you in his arms. Then he lowers his head, trailing kisses over your collarbone and down your skin until he reaches your chest, grazing his teeth over your hardened nipple.

“Marcus—” you whine, impatiently pressing your body into his, attempting to get any friction, a task made even harder by the water around you. “I want you inside, please.”

“Always so polite, Anaticula,” he mumbles into your skin but he does satisfy himself with one more nip at your skin before pulling back. “Is that what you want?”

You nod impatiently and feel him lining himself up below you, gently directing you towards the far edge of the bath, where he immediately braces himself against the wall for support with you in his arms—and just a moment later, you can feel him sink into you.

Your bodies mold together, his cock making you feel so deliciously full and complete. You can hear him grunt as he begins to thrust into you gently, his hands on your hips as he guides you onto him again and again, making you moan into his neck as you cling on, half a mind not to touch his injury.

Acacius groans your name, his movements speeding up slightly. “Come on, I want to see your pretty face, dulcissima.” You pull back enough to see him and press your forehead against his. Your thumb comes up to wipe a spot of dirt off his face and brush over his beard, the hairs of it more gray than dark, like they were when you first met, and for a few moments, you both just stare at each other as the water around you ripples with your movements.

“Let go for me.” It's just a whisper—and one you don’t think you could ignore if you tried. You feel the wave wash over you, your vision going weak as you fall apart—knowing that Acacius will hold you close until you’re put together again. You barely notice that he follows suit, spilling himself inside of you with whispered promises of all the things you’ll have one day.

You stay intertwined in the water like that for a while. Eventually, you begin to gather some in your hand and let it run down Acacius’s scalp, beginning to wash the dried blood out of the gray-streaked hair.

“You are going to let me put a proper bandage on your cut once we get out,” you state, earning a loyal nod from him. His eyes are searching yours again, carrying the soft look you know is reserved for you.

“I did come back,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion and you suddenly feel tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

“I know.”

You kiss him softly and he kisses you back just as softly as you curl into him, inhaling his scent and pulling him close and ever closer, determined to let noone take you from him.

“Fine,” you groan, only reluctantly agreeing to his peace offer. It's not as good as staying in bed with him but you can always take a nap later and enjoy his presence while you have it. You peel the sheets off your body, padding over to the bathroom while you listen to Joel pull on jeans and a shirt that already has so many holes in it you don't bother to count them anymore.

You’ve settled into a comfortable routine during the summer months, even with him leaving early and coming home late. With Sarah at football camp, you have the house all to yourself, a luxury you enjoy more than you’d like to admit. You’ve spent countless days lounging in the backyard or swimming a few laps around the pool, occasionally preparing a fancy dinner for Joel or making yourself useful in any other way. He drinks coffee by his kitchen window every morning, unless he’s running late. Today, you join him, hopping up onto the counter as the sun steadily rises and the first cars are started up outside, bringing people to work.

You remind him to give you a kiss every day, despite knowing that he’d never forget. No matter if you’re in the kitchen with him or still in bed or already nose-deep in a book. Without fail, Joel Miller finds you before he leaves.

“We’re finally getting that delivery today,” Joel hums, swirling the last sips of his coffee around in his mug. “If the load ‘s good, I could get off early.”

“That would be nice,” you agree softly, rubbing the last bit of sleep out of the corners of your eyes. “Think I’ll take a dip in the pool later.”

“Then I better be home to see that,” Joel teases as he turns his back to you, washing his mug out in the sink. Then, he leans over to kiss you again and it only makes you long for him more. You’re certain he feels the same.

“You check your levels?” He hums into your neck and oh, he’s gotten smart, asking when he knows you won’t push him away.

“All good,” you reassure him. Some days, you think he is more occupied with your condition than you are, fussing over you and reminding you to track your sugar and insulin constantly. It’s gotten annoying occasionally, but you know he only does it because he cares. And if you’re being honest with yourself, that is a big part of why he has become your favorite person rather quickly.

You watch as Joel grabs his tool belt and heads out the door, giving you one little last wave. Then, you listen to the truck start up outside and the sound of the engine that slowly fades away into the distance.

“Fine,” you mutter to yourself, jumping off the kitchen counter to reach for your phone. You prefer tracking with the dexcom sensor, the device making it so easy to check your levels at all times. Today, you’re in the clear. The number inside the small circle in the app reads 110.

The blue insulin pen is waiting for you beside the fridge, placed on a small wooden tray that conveniently showed up there the first time you slept over. It holds a few small juice boxes, glucose tablets and your trusted pen.

You stare at it for a few moments, weighing it in your hands as you calculate how much you’ll need for your breakfast. Then, with practiced ease, you poke yourself with the needle, allowing the chosen amount of liquid to flow into your body.

“Ten minute warning…” You hum, putting the pen back into its place and reaching for the kitchen shelf instead. You’ve gotten much better at timing your breakfast properly, making sure that the insulin doesn’t act too fast nor too slow.

Once you’re done eating, you check the number again. 160. All fine, just like you promised Joel. Good.

It’s still early but you don’t feel like going back to bed. Thursday means the farmer’s market is happening at the local community center and for once you may be early enough to have the first pick. The fresh fruits and vegetables have a tendency to bring mouth-watering recipe ideas for dinner to your mind so you lock the front door behind you and head out.

Indeed, the stands are not yet picked over and you take your time, enjoying the nice weather and chatting with a few familiar faces. The short trip turns into a few hours and it’s only when the heat starts to press down on you below the plastic tents that you make your way back. The groceries are unloaded rather quickly and you fetch your current read, a book about a spontaneous summer love in Italy, from upstairs.

It’s been exactly the kind of uneventful day you enjoy in the summer, the one that leaves you feeling warm and tanned and thankful for pools and cool drinks. The way it should be. You have no idea that this is about to change.

The deck at the back of the Miller’s house is shaded so that you don’t feel like you’ll immediately burn up in the sun. A soft groan of relief escapes you as you stretch out on the lounge chair, opening your book to where you left off. You read about cicadas and pine trees and steady waves rolling ashore and slowly but surely, your eyes begin to droop.

***

Something is wrong. The sun is much lower than it was a few minutes ago. The front door opens and closes. Joel can’t be back yet. It’s still lunchtime.

For a moment, you think you are just too sleepy, that you are still in some kind of dream. Then, you think you’ve spent too much time in the sun. It takes a few seconds for you to realize that the way you’re feeling, a bit hazy, a bit like you’re floating– it’s low sugar.

You blindly reach to your right, onto the wooden table beside you but your phone isn’t in reach. When you turn your head, you realize why. You never brought it outside. It’s still on the kitchen counter, where you left it after unloading the groceries.

Slowly, you stand, looking down to see that your legs are trembling slightly. You force them to take one step after another, coaxing your body in an attempt to stay upright. You can already hear the soft beeping noise from inside the house that alerts you to a number outside the safe range. You push past the screen door– but before you can reach the kitchen, and with it your phone, Joel reaches you.

His eyes are wide, the panic clear on his face as he holds your phone in his right hand, the alert on the display blinking in a steady rhythm, displaying a too low 63. “Did you eat?” He presses out, his free hand coming up to rest on your shoulder, steadying you. The worry in his voice is palpable and you shake your head at his question.

“Okay, okay–” The gears are turning in his head and you’re not sure if he’s talking to you or himself. “Okay. We need– Do you need me to get the emergency pen?”

“No,” you quickly decline. “No, it’s okay, it’s not that bad.”

You can see him weighing his options, his eyes raking over your face and your body for a moment, no doubt trying to assess your state. You know you’re shaking and that your face likely looks drained, a thin sheen of sweat covering it. His gaze turns to the kitchen next and you can see him fight with himself. Ultimately, Joel steps forward, wrapping an arm around you and leading you into the living room, his grasp not leaving you until you’re securely seated on the couch. “Can’t have you passing out now. Don’t try and stand, alright? Just … sit tight.”

He puts your phone down and rushes to the kitchen, leaving you alone with the low number on the display that almost seems to laugh at you. What were you thinking, dozing off like that?

Joel is back after mere seconds, holding up a juice box in one hand and the package of glucose tablets in the other, silently letting you choose. You point at the juice and he nods, kneeling in front of you and sticking the thin plastic straw into the pre-punched hole. “One apple juice, coming right up.” You can tell he’s trying to lighten the mood but you can’t bring yourself to give him more than a weak smile in return.

He nudges the box into your hands and then sits patiently as you begin to drink, one of his hands coming to rest on your thigh, his thumb drawing lazy circles into your skin. “15 – 15 rule, right?” Joel asks and at the look of surprise on your face, he adds; “15 grams of carbs, wait for 15 minutes. Then see if it helped?”

“Yeah,” you agree in between small sips. “Yeah, how do you know about 15 – 15?” You watch as a faint blush spreads over his cheeks but he shakes his head, dismissing the question.

“Just do. It doesn’t matter.” His motions on your leg pause as you finish your juice, allowing him to take the empty carton from you and place it on the floor behind him. “You feelin’ any better, darlin’?” You can tell by his voice that he is still anxious, his entire attention zoned in on you. You lean back into the cushions, taking a deep breath, slowly calming down. You’ve been there before, you’ve gone into low numbers. But it never gets less scary.

“It’s fine,” you reassure him because you can still feel his gaze on you. “Not like this hasn’t happened before.” The dry comment is aimed to brush him off but it seems to do the opposite.

“No. I mean, yes, but it shouldn't be happening at all,” Joel shakes his head and ow. You know you messed up but hearing it from him stings more than you thought it would.

“You try tracking every meal every day and living with this– this–” You can feel you working yourself up, anger bubbling inside you, anger more than happy to find an outlet. But then your eyes fall onto Joel's face. And you see the moment his eyes widen in sheer panic.

“No, no, god no, that is not what I meant–” He stumbles over his words in an attempt to get them out. “I wasn't blaming you, I was saying that– that it's not fair. I just hate to see you suffer, that's all.” His brown eyes remind you so much of a kicked puppy that you almost want to cry.

A soft hoot from your phone makes you both turn your heads, the number 107 popping up. Back in range. Joel sighs in relief.

“Good. This is good.” He stretches slightly, one hand pressed against his lower back. “You want a nap?”

“Just had one,” you say quietly, avoiding his eyes.

“Right,” he hums, pinching the bridge of his nose for a few moments and you know he’s thinking again, trying to figure out what to do with you. Because of course you have to make a lovely summer’s day so difficult.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, trying and failing to keep the tears at bay. “I didn’t mean to ruin your evening, I know you had work–”

He cuts you off by squeezing your thigh once, shaking his head as he maneuvers himself onto the couch beside you. “Look at me, baby,” he coaxes you to shift towards him, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “I never ever want to hear you apologizing for this again. It ain’t your fault, darlin’. Never was and never will be. And I’ve told you before, we’re in this together. You don’t have to carry it all by yourself.”

A single tear rolls down your cheek and he catches it with his thumb, tutting quietly. His arms find their way around you and he pulls you into his chest, burying his nose in your hair, whispering sweet nothings into the otherwise silent room.

“How ‘bout we watch one of them movies you like so much?” Joel offers when he pulls back after a few minutes, his hand still intertwined with yours. You have movie night more often than not, but usually, he doesn’t let you pick. Nor you him. It's a middle ground, one that is found after quite a bit of discussion.

“You hate them,” you argue weakly, a small laughter slipping out. You’ve tried introducing Joel to Rom-Coms, the classics, the modern ones, those that he may not at first glance recognize as such. But so far, you haven’t hit his taste.

“Not today,” he hums with a small smile. “Today I promise I’ll love them.” You both chuckle quietly and he does let you pick, not once complaining as he kneels in front of the TV to start the movie. He keeps a watchful eye on you throughout the next roughly 90 minutes, getting you a glass of water and another snack when you need it, his arm comfortably wrapped around your shoulder like he’s not quite willing to let go.

“How did you know?” You ask into the near-silence when the credits are flickering over the screen, some love song quietly playing over them. “About the rule I mean.”

“Uh, let’s see–” Joel makes a face. “Might’ve read a book or two.”

You squeeze him a bit tighter at that. Because you know that people who see Joel in his truck or at the construction site may think he’s gruff and cold. You had similar worries when your eyes first landed on him. But you know how much he cares. About Sarah and about you, about being there in whatever way he can. No matter if it’s stocking up on juice or kissing you every morning or secretly reading books so he can understand you better. He’s here for it all. And so are you. Together.

guys, where do we even start. i can't live with his end so i am rewriting it. enjoy <3

vestal (vigins) - priestesses of vesta, virgin goddess of Rome's sacred flame (details will be explained later in the story) dulcissima - sweetest (fond nickname) domus - a roman house posticum - a servant's entrance cubiculas - roman bedrooms

You didn't think it would lead to this.

A beloved General, a just man, kneeling in front of his opponent in the sand that covers the arena floor, the cloud of its dust settling onto the two men facing each other. The particles glisten in the scorching heat of the relentless sun above you, just as violent as the battle you have just witnessed.

It is not something you have ever truly enjoyed, hearing the last gasp of a dying man, seeing the moment a blade enters his stomach. Watching the winner shout with glee. Watching the dead body be dragged away.

But sitting in the specifically reserved area near the Emperors is good custom. Custom keeps one alive.

Custom is also hard to uphold when the man your heart is set on is fighting to keep his life mere feet below you.

You see Acacius’s lips move, see the pleading look in his eyes.

And then a soft thud echoes through the Colosseum as Lucius drops his sword and falls to his knees across from the General.

You wipe your hands furiously on your white gown, trying to keep your hands from sweating as your heart pumps wildly in your chest. You wonder what would happen to it if the sword would've found Acacius’s torso instead. Or his neck. Maybe it would've just given out, unwilling to beat any longer if his was not doing the same.

“No! Kill him! Soldiers!” The Emperor's cries reach you even through the uproar of the crowd, which is unwilling to accept any match that doesn't end with death. Rome always wants death.

“Archers!” He yells and you hold your breath as they draw their bows in unison, tips pointed right into the middle of the arena where the two men are still kneeling.

“Move,” you whisper under your breath, almost as if you believe Acacius can hear you. But he doesn't. He stays on his knees, upright, seemingly waiting for the arrows to hit. An archer to your left releases his arrow with a slight tremor in his arm–and misses by inches. It hits the sand behind Lucius instead, a small cloud of dust rising around it. But your eyes are drawn to the gentle movement of the General as he raises his arm.

“Hold.”

He doesn't have to scream the command. But his deep voice still travels throughout the Colosseum with urgency. The voice of a man who knows how to instruct his soldiers, how to make himself heard even on the battlefield, in the face of death. Even if it's his own that is imminent.

His reminder rings out in your head.

“How many of them will be loyal to you?” – “All of them.”

The archers hold their fire, no arrows following the first one. You turn your head to catch a glimpse of the twin Emperors, both practically jumping up and down with fury as they yell at the archers, at the guards, at anyone who will listen. “We'll have his head! We'll have the General's head for this! How dare he defy us–”

The bows are lowered as soldiers march into the arena, roughly placing cuffs around both men's hands. Acacius doesn't try to intervene with their orders this time, slowly rising to his feet and letting them lead him back towards the gate, though you don't miss the small stagger in his step. It makes a wave of worry wash over you.

“We’ll have your head, General! You will not live to see another battle! You will not even live to see another sunrise!”

Your blood runs cold at that and you stand up abruptly, your head bowed as your feet carry you back into the outer corridor of the Colosseum, a light breeze greeting you as the angry yells and curses from inside the arena grow more quiet.

You have given everything for Rome. Your vows, your service. You will not give him.

***

The moon is hiding away behind a large cloud when you slip out of the house and onto Via Nova, the sounds of cicadas and the occasional bark of a dog filling the night. Having fulfilled your duties for the evening and claimed that the scene at the Colosseum gave you a dull headache, you retired early. When the sounds of the other women in the house died down, you took your chance.

It isn't far to the domus Acacius and Lucilla reside in, your own quarters located just below Palatine Hill. On a clear day, you can see the stone walls of his house from the garden you use to grow herbs.

After about fifty feet, you turn, following down a more narrow path that allows you to travel in the shadows. A few minutes later, it leads you to the posticum of the noble home, an entrance off to the side, used mainly by the servants–or visitors unwilling to be seen. Acacius has taken to keeping it unlocked whenever he knows you are coming. You pray that it still is.

A light push against the wooden door is all it needs to swing open with a small creak, making you hold your breath as you place one careful foot in front of the other. The last thing you need is to alert any guards to your nightly visit.

But you’ve learned how to walk in the shadows and which streets to avoid. You know that the second step from the bottom creaks if you put too much weight on it. It feels like the stone walls of his house are silent witnesses to the amount of time you have spent tip-toeing to his quarters after everyone else has retired for the night.

You distantly wonder if they have allowed him the comfort of his own bed as you enter the atrium, already turning right towards the cubiculas–and pause when your gaze flickers around the open space.

Acacius is hunched over on a chair, a thick metal cuff sneaking around his ankle, the chain fastened securely around one of the columns that line each side of the open room. Your breath catches in your throat as you notice that he is wearing nothing but his red tunic, the gold details on the edges already worn and fading. He shivers in the cold night air, his arms wrapped protectively around himself. He looks so different from how he did in the arena just mere hours earlier. Smaller, somehow.

When you step forward, his head turns, eyes widening as you step into the dim light and recognition flickers over his face. “Dulcissima.”

You try to give him a smile but you're sure it fails miserably. Instead, you lessen the distance between you, passing the fountain in the center. “Acacius–”

“By the gods, what are you doing here?” He whispers, his soft brown eyes looking up at you. He sounds scared, his voice quiet but rough. Up close, you find that not only have they left him chained up in his own atrium but they have also not tended to his wounds. Caked blood and dirt decorate his skin, a part of his hair matted down with something that you hope is the latter.

You ignore his question. “They sentenced you to death.” No matter how hard you try, you can't keep your voice from shaking.

“They sentenced me to death the moment they learned about the plot,” Acacius mumbles quietly. “You know this. It was always going to end this way.”

“Where is Lucilla?” You ask quietly, casting a quick glance around yourself, almost expecting her to step forward from behind one of the columns. Even if you know you have nothing to fear from her. In fact, she may be the only person who understands what you are currently feeling.

“She is with two of the men. On their way to Lucius,” he admits, turning his body a bit more into your direction, which immediately forces a small grunt out of him. You suck in a sharp breath, though you're not sure whether it's in response to his injury or to what you just learned.

“He may already be dead.”

Acacius glances up at you with a look you can't quite place. Then he nods. “He may be.” He shakes his head ever so slightly. “But he has friends in the Colosseum. You forget whose son he is.” The General pauses again, his eyes searching your face as his whisper becomes more urgent. “Why are you here?”

A small sigh escapes you as you take two more steps towards Acacius. “Because you forgot who I am.”

It takes a few moments before recognition flickers in his eyes–and he understands. That as a Vestal, you may pardon with a touch of your hand. Even slaves. Even those sentenced to death.

He has seen you do it, once or twice. When prisoners called out to you as you passed by them with the jug of holy water. Begged you to place your palm on their head, to allow them to live. And they did. But this? This is different.

“No.”

“Marcus,” you say softly. “It’s the power they have given me, the role they have cursed me with. I may as well use it for good.”

“Dulcissima, they will know,” he protests, wincing slightly as he shifts his weight onto his legs and stands up. “They will know about us. They do not even need proof to put you on trial.”

“I do not care if they put me on trial,” you blurt out, taking a step forward just as he takes two back.

“Do not lay your hand on me,” he warns, raising his hand not unlike the way he did in the Colosseum earlier.

“Marcus. Please.” You’re begging more than asking. You don't think you could take it. A Rome without him.

His back hits the marble column and he curses under his breath just as you reach him. The chains meant to keep him from escaping turn into chains that make sure you can save him. Even if he does not want saving.

The tremor that has been a constant in your hands since seeing Acacius fall to his knees in the arena has disappeared, your fingers stretching slightly as you stand on tiptoes to reach for his head.

Soft, dark curls greet the tips of your fingers and you sigh in relief, mumbling a prayer as your hand comes to rest on his head like a crown. A shuddering breath leaves him, his eyes cast downward. Tension bleeds from his body, his shoulders sagging. A softness his soldiers never get to see.

It is a reminder of the nights you’ve spent together, always hidden and always too short. With whispered promises and silent prayers to Vesta to forgive you for loving him. You do not know how not to. And you don't ever want to find out.

But the way you bend upward, lips meeting his forehead–it simply comes more naturally than it should.

notes: thank you for reading! feel free to follow me on here or twitter/ao3 for updates on the next chapters! also, i would love to hear yalls thoughts so feel very free to leave a comment <3

You ignored your father’s muttered comments about your outfit as you returned to the kitchen a few minutes later and busied yourself with the last few preparations.

“It’s what all the girls at college wear.” He shook his head but stayed quiet.

Joel and Sarah arrived a little later than the other guests, greeting your father as they stepped into the backyard and you caught something about a mess-up at the construction site as the two men embraced. You turned your attention towards Sarah, who excitedly asked your opinion about her new sneakers and didn’t run off to join the other kids playing football at the far end of the backyard until you reassured her that they were indeed very cool, throwing in a comment about how you’d seen someone at University wear them—making her positively beam.

You turned towards the house just in time to see Joel’s eyes land on you. Oh boy.

His gaze trailed down your body, tracing your curves, no doubt taking in the shape of your body. It took him a few moments to snap out of it, shifting as his gaze returned to your face before he hesitantly crossed the space between you. The polite, strained expression on his face told you exactly how hard he was trying to keep his eyes from wandering.

“Back from college then?” he asked, clearly keeping the conversation light. Though you did like to think, unlike many others, that he actually wanted to know. That he cared.

“For the summer,” you responded, smiling up at him innocently, still aware of his eyes on you.

“How d’you like it?” Joel placed a hand on his hip, looking at you expectantly.

“It's good. A little exhausting sometimes. Lots of studying.” You grinned as you saw him raise a brow.

“Studying, eh?” There was something twinkling in his eyes, a certain sense of mischief you hadn't seen in him before. “That what all the kids do up there these days?”

“That and a few parties,” you admitted with a small smirk. “You know, finding the balance of life. But college boys are—”

Both your heads flew around as you heard your dad call your name and for a second, your heart felt like it stopped. You'd wanted to tease Joel by talking about college boys, not reveal your love life to your father. But clearly, he hadn't heard. “Get Joel a beer, will you?”

Joel opened his mouth—but then he shook his head. His voice sounded strained as he spoke. “Beer sounds good.”

You led him towards the cooler, reaching down to grab two bottles, handing one to him. A bemused smile played around his lips as he nodded towards the bottle still clutched in your hand. “Your old man letting you sneak beers?”

“He doesn't have to,” you said with a satisfied smirk, grabbing the bottle opener and handing it to him. “Turned twenty-one this spring.”

You could see Joel's hand shaking slightly as he opened his beer before motioning for you to give him yours and doing the same for you. “Quite the gentleman,” you mumbled, taking in the way his green flannel sat a bit too tight around his broad chest.

“You don't know half of it.”

During the afternoon, the light blue sky seemed to be celebrating the holiday as much as the people below it. The barbecue was fired up by your father, the other fathers gathering around as he explained the new, improved features, making you roll your eyes. You drifted back and forth between the adults and the children, joining the latter for a few rounds of football until the sun began to set.

Joel kept his distance and, with a slightly heavy heart, you followed his lead. He was rather quiet but still, you could see his eyes flying towards you occasionally. You began to wonder if you had miscalculated.

When the salad bowl ran low for the second time, you volunteered yourself to head inside to refill it. You had barely placed it on the kitchen counter when you felt him standing in the doorway, leaning casually against the dark wood. His eyes trailed down your form more slowly than before, leaving no doubt in your mind that the outfit had fulfilled its purpose of getting his attention.

“Quite a party.” His gaze was still not meeting yours, lingering on your chest.

“Wait until they bring out the fireworks. My dad bought enough to light up the whole street.” Your voice shook slightly as you spoke.

Joel shook his head, a tiny smile forming on his face as he stepped forward. “Ain’t what I meant.” His hand brushed over your thigh and you sent an anxious glimpse out the window, making sure that you weren't in anyone's line of sight.

“It's a pretty bikini,” Joel mumbled, lowering his voice. His thumb was brushing over the checkered fabric where it peeked out from under your shorts. “Shame you aren't taking a swim in it.”

An involuntary breath left your throat as you felt his free hand coming up to your face, nudging your chin up slightly. You couldn't remember ever being so close to him, your brain going into overdrive as it tried to figure out which part of his face to commit to memory first. Desire burned in your core brighter than ever and between that and the beer possibly clouding your judgment, you bit your lip, sending the man in front of you a shy smile and yet abandoning all care. You'd be back to college in a few weeks. If this went wrong, you'd never have to speak to him again.

“Is that an offer?”

“Damn sure is, darling,” Joel mused, his hand squeezing your hip and you let out a small breath of relief.

You thanked all your lucky stars for the architect who had built your house some 50 years ago—and had clearly taken into account that you would one day need to sneak out the back door with your dads best friend—preferably without being seen. It faced towards the high fence that separated your yard from the Miller’s, making it feel almost too easy for the two of you to sneak off.

You hadn’t even reached the pool when you dropped your shirt and pants to the floor, making Joel whistle lowly behind you. “I was right. It is a fucking pretty bikini.” You felt your cheeks flush at the compliment, his eyes still raking over your body as his clothes joined yours on the floor, leaving him in only his boxers.

You’d seen him shirtless a few times. When you'd brought over something you had borrowed and he was in the pool or the one time you'd been over to help Sarah with some homework and he'd just gotten out of the shower, a beige towel wrapped around his waist. You’d felt like some fucking creep when you had recalled the sight of his naked chest, and the trail of hair leading further down, at night and slipped a hand between your own thighs, thinking that you stood no chance with the man who was frequently whispered about by the single ladies of the neighbourhood, despite rarely showing interest in them.

You lowered yourself into the water and felt it ripple around you as Joel followed. The next moment, he was beside you, pushing you towards the other edge of the pool, strong arms caging you in on either side. You could still hear the party going on behind the fence, voices and music, the smell of barbecue drifting through the air. And a few lights—tiny holes in the fence allowing them to travel through, the warm glow reflecting on the surface of the pool.

Joel growled as he nipped at your skin, hard enough that you already knew it'd leave marks. Good.

“Can't let you go back to college without something to remind you of me,” he muttered and you sucked in a breath in response, the words going straight to your core. His teeth scraped over the notch between your collarbones and you felt a moan begin to travel up your throat. Before it could escape however, Joel's hand clasped firmly over your mouth, forcing you to breathe through your nose as your eyes widened slightly.

“Don't want your dad hearing us, do you?” Joel muttered and indeed you could hear the voice of your father booming through the night air as he delivered some punchline to a no doubt stupid joke. You shook your head softly and that seemed to satisfy Joel because the next moment, his hand left your mouth and began to slide down your body, trailing over it the same way his eyes had earlier tonight. Your breath hitched in your throat as you felt his index finger circle drawing shapes on your hip before slipping under your bikini, brushing past your clit and settling between your folds.

“Hard to tell in here but feels like you’re wet for me,” Joel muttered with a grin and you bit your lip, voice hoarse as you tried to keep quiet.

“Took you long enough to notice,” you teased—and the reaction was immediate. He pushed you further against the side of the pool, trapping you with his broad body.

“Watch it.” His index finger moved upwards—and the next moment, your walls were clenching around it, already begging for more. You felt a second finger drawing large circles around your clit again—when a noise on the other side of the fence made both of you pause, heads swiveling around just in time to see a football land on the lawn.

He cursed under his breath, pushing himself off you and dragging you to the end of the pool least visibly from the house. The deck was raised high enough above the water that if you squeezed yourself against the wall, you just may not be seen—especially in the dark. Once he had pushed you into the corner, he was about to follow when your eyes widened. “Joel, the clothes,” you whispered in a panicked voice.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath and crossed the pool in a few strokes, climbing back onto the porch. You watched, holding your breath, as he looked around, finally locating two towels and throwing one over the mixed pile of clothes and wrapping the other around his waist. No second too late, because the next moment one of the men who had marveled at your dads new barbecue earlier strode over the lawn. “Miller, hey! What’re you doing out here?”

Even in the water, you felt your knees go weak. Joel was dripping wet, his cheeks flushed—your only hope was that the other man was either too drunk or too stupid to realize what was happening.

“Heard something thud against the wall.” You heard Joel respond. “Was just taking a shower, Tony spilled his beer all over my shirt earlier.”

The other man let out a small laugh. “Yeah, he’s wasted.” You couldn't see him from where you were standing but you heard him pick up the ball as an idea popped into your head. You shifted slightly, knowing your movement would be visible to Joel, who was still in your sight—and after a moment, you held up your bikini bottoms, smiling innocently. Joel's eyes flickered towards you for a split second—and even in the dark you could see his body tense, adjusting the towel around his waist as the veins on his neck bulged with restraint.

Footsteps told you the other man was leaving, until they paused again. His voice rang through the yard once more. To your horror, it was your name that filled the air. “Do you know where she went? Her father was looking for her I think.”

Joel's face twitched before he forced himself to smile. “No clue. Maybe calling a secret college boyfriend.”

He waited until the man's laughter had drifted away and joined with the noises of the party again before he dropped the towel, his cock straining at the fabric of his boxers.

As soon as he was back in the pool, he was upon you, cowering over you with a hard expression on his face, snatching the small piece of fabric from your hand. “Think it’s fucking funny?” He muttered, his eyes flying over your face. 

The alcohol was definitely having an effect on you because you grinned, nodding weakly. “A little bit.”

Joel actually fucking growled at that.

He made short work of your bikini top, yanking it off to gather your breasts in his large hands, squeezing slightly. “That fucking mouth of yours, darling.”

“Should shut me up,” you muttered back and his eyes briefly searched yours before his mouth was on yours. Neither of you were gentle, much too impatient for soft kisses. His tongue slipped into your mouth, his teeth grazed over your lip and you could feel the vibrations of his groans traveling right from his throat into yours.

When he broke the kiss, you whined in protest, wrapping your own arms around him to pull him closer, making him groan as his still covered cock brushed against your stomach. “Goddamn, baby, you gonna let me fuck you?”

Joel didn't even flinch when you softly bit down on his earlobe. “Like you have to ask, Miller.”

His last name seemed to do as much to him as it did to you because his hands briefly left your sides to yank his boxers down, throwing them carelessly onto the lawn behind you. “Get your ass up here,” he commanded as he hoisted you up and you automatically wrapped your legs around his waist, feeling his cock nudge at your entrance.

Joel swallowed and you could see him struggling to restrain himself. “Do you want me to go and get-”

“Got it covered,” you said impatiently before he could even finish the sentence.

“You sure?” He asked again and you nodded impatiently. And then he was finally pushing his hips upwards, his cockhead parting your lips, requesting entrance. You let your body fall into his rhythm, sinking down on him, forcing a whimper from your throat.

You barely heard the shuffling behind the fence and the voices getting more muted as the party seemed to be moved towards the street, further away from you.

“It ain’t your first time, is it, sweetheart?” Joel suddenly piped up, watching your expression carefully and you could distinctly hear the note of concern in his voice. But you shook your head.

“Told you,” you breathed out. “College boys.”

“This gonna be better than any damn college boy,” Joel mumbled, a grunt leaving his throat as he began to thrust up into you properly, driving any worry out of your mind.

“You knew what you were doing to me tonight?” He muttered, causing you to shake your head despite the fact that you knew exactly, even planned, to do it to him. You wanted to give a snarky response, something smart, but you could barely think straight with his cock nestled so deep inside of you.

“Made me hard all throughout dinner, thinking about all the things i could do with you,” Joel answered his own question before changing his angle slightly, his arms wrapped tightly around you. “Fuck, doing so good for me, darling.”

“Joel—” you choked out, feeling the orgasm that had been lingering for what felt like forever now approaching rapidly. “Want you to come inside, please—”

His eyes darkened as he nodded. And then, suddenly a sparkling light reflected in his eyes—followed by a loud bang far above you. The fireworks had started.

It only took a few more thrusts and Joel's finger returning to your clit to send you rushing towards your orgasm, your fingernails scratching over his back so hard that you were certain you were not going to be the only one with something to remember tomorrow.

“Come on,” Joel edged you on. “Show me how pretty you look coming on my cock, baby.”

And you did, groaning as your body tensed, the feeling inside your stomach so similar to the exploding fireworks above, with Joel following suit, obeying your wish and spilling himself deep inside of you as you clung on to him, so content to finally, finally carry him so deep inside, the thought traveling right to your core again as he gathered you in his arms, both of you tilting your heads back enough to watch the sky above sparkle in different colors.

“Happy fourth, Joel.”

He pressed a kiss to your cheek. “Happy fucking fourth, darling.”

He gathered the clothes in his arms, whispering promises and praise as he led you up the stairs to his bathroom, having insisted to at least get you clean before letting you sneak back home. His hands brushed over your naked skin, causing you to raise a brow. “I thought we were gonna take a shower?” “Oh, I'm not nearly done with you,” Joel muttered in your ear, causing you to smirk. You reached for your clothes but Joel only gave a small tut. “You’ll get them back. Just not—” He raised the checkered bikini bottom. “This. I’m keeping that.”

The February air that greets him outside is cold and he shivers in his suit, letting the door fall shut behind him. The balcony stretches along the back of the house, overlooking a forest behind it. It probably makes a nice addition to the venue in the summer, when the weather allows it. But today, it is empty.

He smells him before he sees him. Matt doesn't smoke, unless he counts the two times he tried it in college. He doesn't know shit about cigarettes. But he'd recognize the scent of American Spirits mixed with him anywhere.

The sounds of Renaldo's footsteps echo around the terrasse as he comes closer, like a wolf stalking its prey. “I was waiting for you.”

“Renaldo.” Matt is surprised to hear that his voice comes out shaking. “I didn't know you were here.” He’s not sure why he sounds so hostile. Renaldo hasn't done a thing to him. Except be the very thing he can't have.

“Any yet here I was, still waiting.” He has that fucking smirk on his face.

“How is Santiago?” Matt asks quietly, leaning back against the bannister because he wants to keep as much distance between them as possible and hoping that the topic of Renaldo’s hot brother will provide distraction. But it's like he's back on that golf course where they first met.

“Good. He's good.” Renaldo hums, taking another step towards him. “But that's not the question you really want to ask, is it?” It's like he's challenging him, brown eyes focused on his face, searching for the hint of emotion that will betray his desire and make him an open book. “It's been a very long time, hasn't it? A whole year.”

Matt can feel the man entering his space, his scent even more protruding now. “I told you it wasn't like that, Renaldo. I'm not like that.”

“I don’t remember you complaining,” he muses and fuck, Matt doesnt have it in himself to deny that. “In fact, I think you were doing quite the opposite.” Renaldo’s hand comes to rest on the banister beside his and he towers over him, his voice dropping to a whisper against his ear. “You were begging for it.”

His reaction is immediate. Matt lets out a soft noise that is somewhere between outrage and a moan and he feels his dress pants getting tighter, a shiver running over his body. He takes in Renaldo’s face for a few split seconds, the small goatee, the fine lines that serve as a visual reminder of their age difference and brown eyes filled with lust. Then, Matt pushes himself off the banister and right into Renaldo’s arms, his lips finding those of his illicit lover.

Renaldo’s tongue pushes against his mouth until he gives in and opens for him, their mouths catching his moans when the other man begins to explore his mouth, all restraint forgotten.

Matthew is panting when they break apart. “Not out here. Kelsey's parents are–” He takes a shuddering breath. “Everyone is here. Come on.”

He takes Renaldo’s hand, prompting the other man to follow him without hesitation. They squeeze through the door again, taking a left to get further away from the ceremony hall, when an idea pops into Matthew’s head. The room is small and windowless, almost too full with two chairs, a vanity and clothes rail. It's where he got ready with his best man half an hour earlier. Now, it has turned into the perfect hiding spot.

He doesn't even have a chance to lock the door behind them when Renaldo pushes him further into the room, pinning him against the nearest wall with an audible thud. Matt doesn't know the layout of the house, doesn't know if Kelsey is getting ready behind this very wall. But just the thought of it makes him whimper.

Renaldo’s hands are wandering down his body, his broad form trapping Matt in the most delicious way. He can feel his legs on either side of his right one, already feeling the hard cock pressing into his thigh. By the way his own pants are stretching, he can tell he's not far behind either. One hand finds Matt's back, the other trailing over his neck and somehow Renaldo still knows exactly where to touch him to draw those breathless little moans from his throat.

“You fuck her?” Renaldo grunts and it takes a moment for Matt to remember who he is talking about. His own voice comes out breathless.

“She’s my girlfriend–” He feels Renaldo press into him more at that. “No, she’s your fucking wife,” he growls. “But she was your fiancé last time and you still let me fuck you. So I assume that hasn't changed?”

“I’m not bi,” Matt chokes out, not because he believes it but simply because he's so used to saying it, even when he knows that Renaldo of all people does not give a damn what label he puts on his sex life.

“You want me to stop?” He grunts, searching Matt's eyes for a few seconds. Renaldo can watch as they soften and the younger man shakes his head.

“No,” he whispers and Renaldos smirk returns at that, tugging at the groom's belt.

“Then lose those fucking pants.”

He is eager to obey, fumbling with his belt with shaking hands and then practically ripping his pants down, not even bothering to step out of them properly. Just enough to allow Renaldo access. He hisses as the other man hooks his thumb into his briefs and pulls them down in one quick motion, his cock already hard and leaking. “Should’ve come earlier–” Matthew mutters and the next moment, Renaldo’s hand comes down onto his bare ass, grumbling an empty threat.

His large, callused hand stays there, kneading the flesh and it's like he remembers the exact motions still, both of them no doubt taken back to that night in Scottsdale. Renaldo slips his index finger inside and Matt immediately feels his muscles clench down on him. “Relax.” Renaldos voice is a bit softer now, low against his ear as he begins working his finger further inside, though with a bit of a struggle. The squeezes of his ass turn into soft caresses. “You got any lube on you?”

Matt shakes his head, already trying to mentally prepare himself for a more painful experience than he’d like. But to his surprise, Renaldo just nods and withdraws his finger. “Don't move. I'll be just a second.”

***

His steps through the hallway are hurried, partly because he doesn't want to leave Matt waiting and partly because he doesn't want to be caught sneaking around with a more than obvious boner in his pants. Renaldo nods to himself in relief when he finds the kitchen empty, the staff nowhere to be seen. He eyes the white two-tier cake with a small shake of his head, not paying it too much attention. Instead, he opens one cabinet after another until he finds what he’s looking for. “Bingo.”

He slips back into the dressing room with the bottle of olive oil and laughs as he watches Matt's eyes go wide. “That's the expensive stuff–” He breathes out because of course that's what Matthew would be worried about right now.

“Good,” Renaldo comments dryly. “Then maybe it’ll be nearly as good as real lube.” He carelessly throws the cap into a corner and places the open bottle onto the vanity beside them. As soon as he’s back beside him, Matt's hands reach for him, fingers clawing at the golden chain around his neck, pressing his half naked form against him. It's like now that he has him, he doesn't want to let him go again.

“Do you need to lie down or are you good to stand?” Unless Renaldo is very much mistaken, he doesn't believe that Matt has been with another guy since their fleeting romance and he remembers the whispered confession about being his first.

“I can stand if you can, old man.”

Oh. He knows exactly how to push his fucking buttons. Two can play that game. In one quick motion, Renaldo uses his size to his advantage, turning Matt on the spot and bending him over, the younger man's hands flat against the wall, his ass stuck out and on display. Renaldo brings his palm down on each side, feeling his own desire skyrocket at the sight of his hand imprinted on the cheeks for a few moments.

The soft moans from Matt's mouth mix with the distinct jingle of Renaldo opening his belt, followed by that of a zipper opening. He kicks his pants off and reaches for the bottle, his cock already aching to be touched. The cool sensation of the olive oil sends shivers through his body and Renaldo fists himself a few times, coating his length in the makeshift-lube.

“Who the fuck are you calling an old man, huh?” He grunts as he lines his tip up with Matt's hole and begins to bury himself inside, looking down to watch inch after inch disappear, the younger man's body already so tight around him that he feels like he could shoot his load right away.

“Fuck–” Matt chokes out, curling his fingers as he holds himself up against the wall and Renaldo watches him closely. He knows exactly what he needs. So he leans forward, reaching around to hurriedly undo the buttons of Matt's dress shirt and carelessly sends it to the floor. He runs his tongue over Matt's shoulder as he bottoms out, teeth scraping over his neck. Distracting from the pain that they both know will turn into their favorite pleasure in a few seconds.

“You good?” He hums quietly, giving the other man a moment to check in with him. He watches him nod weakly and Renaldo tuts softly. “Words, baby,” he reminds him.

“Good. It's so good, Jesus–” Matt presses out, rolling his shoulders back slightly. “Please move.”

Renaldo obeys, beginning with shallow thrusts, working his way in and out. His free hand wanders down Matt's chest, fingernails scratching his skin just enough to make him shiver. Then, he finds his lover's middle and wraps his hand around the leaking cock that has been so starved of attention until now. He loves how the other man feels in his hand, heavy and slick with precum.

“You're gonna ruin those pretty dress pants,” Renaldo mutters into his ear, punctuating each of his sentences with a deep thrust. “Did your little wife buy them for you?”

For a split second, he thinks he’s gone too far, feeling Matt tense under him. But then, his dick twitches in his hand, making Renaldo smirk as Matt groans. “I want them ruined.”

He doesn't have to ask twice. Renaldo sets a faster pace, making both of them pant with effort as Matt bounces himself back on his cock. The sound of skin slapping on skin fills the room and judging by its weight, Renaldo is certain that the wooden door of the dressing room is in no way soundproof. Good.

“Renaldo–” Matt doesn't even have to say it. They both know what he’s asking and the older man nods weakly, burying his nose against his neck as a groan leaves him. “Yes.”

He lets his thumb flick over Matthews tip, making him whimper and his body shudder below him. His muscles quiver around his own cock in a way that lets him know he’s close. His grip around Matt's cock tightens and he strokes him right up to that delicious edge. Then, he drops his hand, prompting a weak string of curses from below him.

“I want you to come from just feeling me,” Renaldo rasps and is met with eager nods. “Think you can do that?”

“Yes, fuck–please–” He’s begging the same way he was that night, falling apart below Renaldo’s hands so beautifully. “Renaldo–” He chokes out. “Tell me to leave her.”

He hesitates for a moment, knowing that those words hold more weight than any of their actions tonight. But eventually, he nods, driving himself deep into the man below him. “Leave her.”

Matt moans, his name on his lips and shoots his load without further warning, the sticky fluid ruining his pants the way that Renaldo promised it would. He brings his hand back to stroke his lover through his orgasm, drawing it out and a few moments later, Renaldo follows suit, spilling himself deep inside of Matthew, exactly where he is meant to be, their bodies melting together and he finally, finally marks what is his.

He pulls out with a grunt eventually, watching his cum drip from Matt's hole for a moment, ruining any slight chance of salvaging those black pants, now stained with white. Renaldo lets himself fall onto one of the chairs at the back of the room, beckoning Matt to follow him and pulling him onto his lap, one strong thigh serving as his seat. He closes his eyes for a moment as he feels Matt tracing his gold chain again, his touch now so delicate.

“I'm gonna have to see her at the family functions, won't I? If she gets with Domingo.” Renaldo can tell that he's trying to hide the anxiety in his voice but he's not doing a very good job of it. He sighs, opening his eyes again and nods.

A smirk spreads over Renaldo’s face as he nudges Matt's chin, prompting them to lock eyes. Then, without blinking, he brings his right hand up to his own mouth and licks a stripe along its side, catching a few drops of Matt’s cum on his lips.

“You’ll have to. But I promise there’ll always be a dressing room to fuck in.”